#Spider Queen called him junior or something???? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

honeybunpeter · 3 years

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I saw this post from @starker-secrets and had to write something.

"I need more of Tony spying on Peter thru his suit"

Hope you enjoy :)

“Sir, Mr. Parker’s suit is transmitting audio that the Baby Monitor Protocol has flagged as potentially distressed. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yeah, give it to me FRI.”

Gasps sounded through the suit’s speakers as Tony flew from the partially built upstate facility back to Avengers tower. It sounded at first like Peter was in pain, and Tony’s heart dropped to his stomach as he sped up. But then a soft moan filtered through, and Tony’s heart dropped even further. Faintly, he could hear slick noises, softly squelching in the rhythm a fist would make over an approximately 5.4 inch long object. Peter wasn’t in distress. Quite the opposite in fact.

Tony’s dick got hard so fast it made him dizzy. He faltered slightly in his flight, overcorrecting when he tilted.

Peter was apparently done with his patrol for the day, if this audio was anything to go by.

A student at NYU, Peter had refused Tony’s offer of a fully paid tuition, and was instead paying for his schooling himself. Because of the whole Neighborhood Spider-Man deal, he couldn’t work enough jobs to pay for both an apartment and the tuition, and have enough time to be Spider-Man and a normal student, so he had accepted Tony’s offer of an apartment. He had initially refused that as well, but after Tony cited his endless supply of wealth, as well as Peter’s need for privacy due to his costumed alter-ego, Peter reluctantly accepted.

That privacy was now being used to its full advantage. The moans currently caressing Tony’s ears were increasing in both volume and frequency.

Feeling guilty and more and more like the creepy old man he pretended not to be, Tony was about to open his mouth to tell FRIDAY to cut the sound, when the slick noises suddenly sped up.

Peter, alone in his apartment that Tony bought for him, jerking off while wearing the suit Tony made for him, was about to come, and Tony was going to hear the whole thing. Fumbling, Tony put the suit in FRIDAY’s control, not trusting his unfocused eyes and racing heart to steer him home. Breathing hard, he turned his full attention to the delicious noises echoing in his helmet.

“Unh, fuck. Ah— ah— ah—“

Peter cut off with a gasp, before he stopped breathing entirely. After a silent, expectant moment, his voice broke on a loud moan as he presumably came, all over his multi-million dollar suit.

Tony’s dick was currently trying to poke a hole through the hard metal casing of his own suit. He was aching, literally aching, to get home and peel it off, and finally indulge in the thoughts he hadn’t let himself think for the past year.

Listening to Peter’s heavy breathing as he recovered, Tony thought back to when he first met Peter.

Freshly eighteen and a new freshman in college, Peter was understandably scared when Tony dropped into his dorm room to accuse him of vigilante-ing, and to ask him to help in Germany. Tony knew Peter had an aunt in Queens, and he was considering using her as leverage, when Peter agreed to fly to Leipzig and miss a week of classes. He had done well, had helped Tony try to keep the Avengers together (which actually did nothing but tear them further apart, but that was in no way Peter’s fault), and had gone back to his dorm room with Tony’s promise of a call.

Of course Tony had found Peter attractive. With big eyes framed by thick lashes, a strong and muscular body hidden under large hoodies and sweatpants, with a bright and easy smile, he was charming in his excitement and naïveté. He was almost too pure, his rosy cheeks and soft skin so obviously a metaphor for an angel it could hardly be called a metaphor anymore.

Peter was legally an adult, yes, but Tony was his mentor, and Peter was almost thirty years Tony’s junior. He didn’t have the weight of thousands of lives and a failed marriage and a broken team dragging down his shoulders like Tony had, either. That shit aged you.

So Tony had locked his impure thoughts away in a little box in his brain, only taking it out sometimes to look at it, but never to open it.

But now, the little box had been blown wide open, and all the thoughts Tony had smothered were back in full force. Thoughts like how Peter would look with tears of pleasure beading at the corners of his eyes, how he would look with cum splattered on his cheeks, how he would moan high and pretty when Tony licked him just so, how his lithe back would arch, how his mouth would drop open when Tony first pushed inside him, how he would look up at Tony in rapture, with love in his eyes— No. That was too far. Tony couldn’t afford to think like that.

When Peter’s breathing finally evened out, Tony cleared his throat and said, “Cut the sound, FRI.”

Taking control of his suit back once he reached Manhattan, Tony angled his way down to the landing pad of the tower. Once he landed the suit opened up, letting him stumble his way out on trembling legs. His slacks were uncomfortably tight. Finally making it back to his room and collapsing on his bed, he shoved his hand down his pants, closed his eyes, and let his hind brain take over. Trying to ignore the guilt settling like acid in his stomach.

—

Peter had known for weeks about the Baby Monitor Protocol. He didn’t know if it was just tracking his location, or sending information, or even recording, so he did a little hunting. Finding in the code and his suit only a tracker and an outgoing connection to the microphone in his mask, he figured that Karen was constantly transmitting audio and general location information to FRIDAY.

Swinging between buildings on his way home one afternoon after patrol, he thought about what that meant. It made him a little hot under the collar knowing that Mr. Stark could hear everything he was doing when he was wearing the suit, could be listening at all times. Listening to Peter helping old ladies across the street, saving a man from a mugging, panting with exertion— would he think his heavy breathing was from something else?

The thought made Peter miss his next web shot and he had to scramble to make sure he didn’t smash into a street lamp. Warmth bloomed into his cheeks and down his neck. His suit was starting to feel uncomfortably tight, and he swung faster.

Making it to his living room window, he dropped in on silent feet. He stumbled his way to his couch, slumping down until his head was resting on the back of it. Opening the secret seam at his waist Mr. Stark made when Peter complained about needing to pee when he was patrolling (and God what Mr. Stark would say if he knew what it was being used for now—) he slipped his hand in to palm at his aching cock. Groaning in relief, he closed his eyes and gave in to the pleasure.

What if Mr. Stark were listening? Would he be disgusted? Would he turn off the audio as soon as he knew what Peter was doing? Or would he be intrigued, aroused, at the thought of Peter defiling his multi-million dollar gift?

Peter did just that when the thought popped into his head, sending streaks up his chest almost to his masked chin. Body still jolting in the aftershocks, what he just did finally registered in his head.

Gasping in panic this time, rather than pleasure, he ripped his mask off and flung it across the room, peeling his suit off next. What was he thinking? There was no way Mr. Stark would he anything other than disgusted with what he heard, if he heard it at all. Not to mention, Peter had violated Mr. Stark. Guilt and panic started to clog his throat, and he resolved to never do it again.

—

A few weeks later, Peter relaxed back on his bed and pulled his mask off. He wiped his sweaty hair off of his forehead and grinned. Fuck. That was good.

He wasn’t sure if Mr. Stark was listening, but honestly it didn’t matter, because that was one of the best orgasms he’d ever had. He’d imagined that Mr. Stark was teasing him, was keeping him balanced on the edge, whispering how Peter’s pleasure was his, his to create and control.

After the last time he jerked off in the suit, he had resolved to never do it again. But that was only until Peter saw the way Mr. Stark watched him. Peter wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, imagining something he only wished was there, but he could almost feel the heated gaze Mr. Stark sent him tingling down his spine. When they worked in Mr. Stark’s workshop side by side, Peter modifying his web shooters and Mr. Stark tinkering on his cars, or making an entirely new Iron Man suit, or just generally flitting between projects, Peter felt that Mr. Stark was doing a lot more tripping over his feet and burning his fingers than actually paying attention to what he was doing. Peter liked to imagine that this distraction was because of him, and not because of something else.

So Peter decided to do what Peter does best; solve the shit out of this problem. After class he changed into the tightest shirt he owned, and some gym shorts with a 5-inch inseam, ones he only bought because MJ slipped it into his basket at Target when he wasn’t looking. He felt distinctly uncomfortable on the subway to Stark Tower, but the thought of Mr. Stark’s (hopefully) flustered face was enough to steel his resolve.

He wasn’t disappointed. Mr. Stark practically did a spit-take when Peter walked out of the elevator into the workshop, eyes tracing up and down his body.

“Hey Mr. Stark,” Peter said, dropping his backpack off at his work station and sitting down, projecting a casual air.

“H-hey, Peter.”

Peter grinned down at the desk top. Mr. Stark never stuttered. That was almost a written confirmation of his hypothesis in Peter’s eyes.

The next night before his patrol, Peter settled down onto his bed, wearing his mask but no suit, preparing to have a fantastic next hour.

Which he definitely did.

—

In the weeks that followed the first time, Tony felt unbearably dirty, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it. How Peter’s moans sounded. How he might look, wracked with pleasure, his face slack and pink mouth open, eyes rolled back. Peter’s moans and pretty gasps haunted his every waking moment, and most of his sleeping moments too. He’d often wake up with sticky boxers, something that hadn’t happened to him since he was a teenager. A teenager like Peter, oh god.

He’d taken to wearing an earpiece, not visible of course, that connected directly to FRIDAY in case he was out of the tower or away from his suit when Peter next indulged in, ahem. Some personal time.

But it hadn’t happened again since the first time. Unfortunately. Or maybe fortunately. Maybe if Tony didn’t hear it again he would stop thinking about it. Maybe then he could go back to pretending he wasn’t that creepy old man. Who was he kidding, he still was. Peter had walked into the workshop the previous day wearing very short shorts and a tight shirt, his tan legs and leanly muscled chest taunting Tony as they worked. But he could at least try to not creep on Peter electronically.

“Sir, Mr. Parker’s suit is transmi—“

There goes that.

Tony looked around the hallway he was in in the upstate facility, and snuck into an empty conference room. He quickly locked the doors and asked FRIDAY to black out the windows.

“Let me hear it.”

Moans filled his ear again, closer this time, more intimate. It sounded also as if the audio was clearer. Tony could hear more things now. Like how Peter’s breath would hitch on a moan right after the slick noises of his fist slowed down or stopped entirely— was he teasing himself? would he like to be teased for hours if Tony were there? Tony could bring him to the edge over and over, watch the flush move down Peter’s cheeks to his chest, watch his cock twitch every time Tony let go, watch tears of frustration start to fall down his pretty face—

—and how there was also the dry rasping sound of skin on skin, followed by a sharp gasp— was he caressing his chest, running his fingers over his nipples, pinching them? twisting them? did Peter like pain? would he like it if Tony sucked dark bruises all over his body, biting them deeper, leaving his mark—

(—it didn’t occur to Tony to wonder why Peter’s chest was bare but the suit was transmitting audio, meaning Peter was wearing the mask and only the mask—)

—and this time when Peter was about to come Tony heard that the sound of his fist moving over his cock stopped, and instead there was a softer sound, quick and frantic but still gentle and wet— like Peter was rubbing his first two fingers on the spot right under the head of his cock, the most sensitive part, like he was letting the heat build and build rather than letting it take over immediately, letting the warm ache spread out into his pelvis and thighs and lower back, building and building, until the pleasure became too hot and he had to wrap his fist back around the head and squeeze gently, gasping through the waves and waves of pleasure—

Tony gasped through his own orgasm, not realizing that he’d snuck his hand down his slacks while he was listening. He shivered as he came back down.

“Shit. Fuck. Shit fuck. Fuck.” Tony cursed quietly under his breath as he carefully pulled his hand from out of his boxers. “Cut the sound, FRI.”

He looked down at his dirty hand, wondering how he was going to get out of this room and hallway undetected.

“What the hell am I doing?”

—

Peter jerks off in the suit several more times over the next few weeks, each time so full of mind-melting pleasure it leaves him gasping for minutes after. His guard is starting to drop, the idea of Mr. Stark hearing him, and his fantasies of Mr. Stark being there, have made him reckless.

It all comes to a head one Thursday night. Peter had just received an A on one of his midterms, and wanted to reward himself (not that there was any chance he wouldn’t do well on the midterm, but it’s the thought that counts), so he settled in for a long, luxurious jerk-off session.

“Uh— uh— yeah—“

Fuck it felt good. If only Mr. Stark were here. He’d trace his fingers up and down Peter’s flanks, nip possessively at his neck, cover Peter’s fingers on his cock with his own. He’d wring the pleasure out of Peter so skillfully and thoroughly that Peter would be able to do nothing more than shiver and cry under his calloused hands.

Forgetting himself, and who could be listening, Peter gasped out “Mr. Stark—“

“Calling Mr. Stark now,” came Karen’s cool voice.

Eyes popping open Peter yelped, frantically shouting “No! Wait—“

With a gentle bing, the phone call connected. Fast and heavy breathing followed by Mr. Stark’s unusually rough and breathless voice filled Peter’s ears.

“…Peter?”

#starker #Tony/peter #Tony x peter #ironspider #nff

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vegalocity · 3 years

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Secret kisses and Touching 2, 14, 22, 23, and 44. Secret Silktea relationship, except both spider fam and Monkey fam actually know! Half of them don’t care enough to say anything (Pigsy,Tang,Spider Queen,Wukong,Syntax) while the other half wants them to reveal it when they’re ready (Min Yi,MK,Mei,Goliath,Sis) - Pixel Anon

Affection meme

49. secret kisses

2. running fingers through hair

14.putting an arm around the other’s waist

22.falling asleep on the other’s shoulder

23. carrying the other one in their arms

44.sitting on the other’s lap

this took me forever to put together because for some ungodly reason i couldn't figure out the scenario

so i decided on a little vignette compilation of sorts

They knew what they were doing.

Of course they knew what they were doing. It was in either of their best interests to keep this a secret. Just because the clan had stopped their crusade to take over the city and their queen had dialed down the ‘revenge’ ideas, didn’t mean there wasn’t still bad blood between his clan and Sandy’s family.

And it wasn’t too difficult, it just meant that when they were all working together for some greater threat or whatever that they’d have to be sneaky. It was easy stealth was one of Huntsman’s greatest Attributes and suspecting Blue of anything was like suspecting a small dog of knocking over a bulldozer.

It wasn’t too hard to simply keep their hands to themselves. Or at least, it wasn’t hard for Sandy, Huntsman was quickly finding his self control lacking in regard to being in such a situation with his… well, with him. But could anyone blame him? Blue was more or less the hottest guy he’d ever ran into before and he was kinda-sorta DATING him! How could he not want to climb that like a tree at all times?

Especially when he was always being so stupidly fucking charming. Sure the ‘needlessly nice’ stuff wasn’t something he particularly appreciated, but it was starting to grow on him, if only on the amount of restraint he must have to keep it up all the time.

Soooo yeah maybe he was purposefully pushing their luck a little, but in his defense he wanted to see how much desire based frustration it would take before ol’ Blue would just pin him against a wall and make him regret wondering.

Syntax had shooed him away from being a nuisance at his worktable, so naturally, Huntsman had to go be a nuisance at someone else’s worktable. Thankfully Sandy was far more agreeable to the company, and thankfully the bid of ‘Bugging Syntax first’ kept his alibi solid. He wasn’t just going over to see Blue he just wanted to be a louse and his normal target had already locked him out of his room. And so nobody really suspected anything when he started to peer over Sandy’s side to watch him tighten this or that thing on this or that device.

And it was pretty damn fun to see just how much of a ‘nuisance’ he could be. This particular bout resulting ih Huntsman being pressed against the car engine Blue had been working on, feeling the orange hair slide between his claws and messing up the stylized mohawk and shuddering when he felt those huge hands almost entirely encompass either of his thighs while keeping him aloft. He hissed through his teeth as he felt Blue give one of his legs a testing squeeze and rolled his hips forward a bit-

“Fish Demon? I need to get another set of eyes on these schematics or I'll actually go insane.” By the time Syntax looked up from his clipboard Sandy was working on the engine again and Huntsman was leaning against his work area and had barely had the opening to whip out one of his knives and his portable sharpener.

Though Sandy’s hair was unable to be fixed and fell to a side as he smiled at Syntax and took the offered blueprints from him.

He wasn’t a big fan of those domestic snatches of time, he wasn’t.

It was mostly an instinctual response, Spiders were pack bonders, so of course when his internal senses started categorizing Sandy as ‘pack’ then he’d relax without intending to while being pulled in with a hand on his waist.

Which was definitely the reason why he was curled up to Sandy’s side, the cool slick feeling of his scales strange against his more leather-like skin. That stupid instinct was the only real reason why he felt so comfortable and like he could practically fall asleep like this.

He felt Blue’s hand gently start running up and down his side and dammit that wasn’t playing fair, it wasn’t his fault that he had been having sleeping problems lately and was rapidly getting drowsy.

He could feel Blue’s hum as the world started to drift away-

“Hey Sandy what do you think- Uhhhh”

“Oh, hello Xiaotian.”

“You know you’ve got a spider on you, right?”

“Oh yeah, Looked like he was having some paranoia problems, took a bit of wheedling to get out but Huntsman here was up for like four days straight ‘till now!”

“Did… Did you slip him your sleepy tea?”

“Of course not! That would be super unethical! Also I'm pretty sure he’s still semi conscious and passively listening without any critical thought right now since he only just dozed off and would probably wake up angry if he overheard anything like that!”

“....right… so anyway-”

The brat knew.

Dammit he knew the brat knew. She definitely fucking knew.

He should have known better than to try anything with that Professional Snoop underfoot. But He’d had plans with Blue before having to get stuck with the brat tonight because the Queen needed Syntax’s expertise and the Sister was on shift at work and Goliath already had plans doing who knows what, and he was stuck with Minyi since he ‘didn’t have any plans’

He’d dragged his feet on the idea of cancelling with Blue, but he’d fucking done it so nobody could say he didn’t contribute to the upkeep of their clan’s youngest. It was just his luck that Sandy had been fine with coming over instead, and the brat had overheard some of the conversation and got excited about ‘Mr Sandy’ coming over to visit. The brat had insisted on stringing some of her fake flowers into his hair before he arrived, after dubbing him ‘suitably pretty’ (her words) she’d done up her own hair as similarly as she could because he certainly wasn’t helping her with her weird pre-’company is coming’ rituals.

And… Blue was a hit with the brat. He had an infinite amount of patience for the inane childish babbling, stooped low so she could string the remaining fake flowers in her possession (why did she have so many fake flowers?) into his beard, and offered to fix dinner for the lot of them (which was for the best since the brat was such a picky eater she could barely stomach some of his specialties)

And… he was not jealous of a six year old for how she was able to crawl into Blue’s lap while the lot of them watched some inane mystery show for the character drama alone since the brat called and explained the mystery within the first three minutes.

Blue was a bit awkward on the sofa, it made sense, Goliath would normally sit on the floor for how the height and width of the couch was not designed with bigger demons in mind, and Blue was considerably bigger than Goliath. So while the brat was cozy as could be in the place of honor, Huntsman was stuck perched on the arm of the couch as to not be crushed into it trying to squeeze in beside Blue.

Not that that would be a wholly unpleasant experience, but the presence of the brat made it go from tempting to awkward. Nonetheless, part of Sandy trying to get comfortable had included one of his arms resting on the back of the couch, and while it seemed the brat wasn’t paying attention, it slid down to wrap around his shoulders.

When the time came Minyi didn’t need to be told it was bed time for her, she loudly announced it herself, changed into her pajamas, and after saying goodnight to the both of them went on with a

“I am going to sleep now! And I will not be out of my room until morning so if anything were to be happening I certainly won’t know it, because I will be asleep.”

She smiled widely at Huntsman and closed her door.

Nosey little brat.

Tang huffed a quiet laugh as Sandy gingerly began to lift Huntsman into the air, his broken leg not quite able to be splinted just yet, let alone looked at properly. It seemed the lot of them had suffered some pretty nasty injuries from this last threat (and no doubt it would have been worse if their team and the Spider Clan hadn’t joined forces) including Tang himself despite being on the sidelines for most of it, he was pretty sure his shoulder was dislocated, and the cut on his forehead was still sluggishly bleeding all over the right side of his face, but compared to some of the others he was basically fine.

So once He was able to pop his arm back into place (Ouch) he took to handling cleanup with the only other ‘perfectly normal person’ here, a woman maybe a few years his junior, he’d seen her every so often with the Spider Clan (or rather, with Syntax) but he didn’t know her name.

“Do you think they actually think they’re being subtle?” Her words caught his attention and he turned to glance at the woman. She was in the middle of splinting Xiaojiao’s broken wrist and at Tang’s questioning glance, she nodded at Sandy and Huntsman. Oh!

“I’m sure Sandy thinks he’s the pinnacle of subtlety” Tang responded. He was pretty sure the ‘thing’ that had developed between their friend and the most brutal of the Spider Clan was the worst kept secret on the team since Red Son had started hanging out with Xiaotian and Xiaojiao on the weekends.

“They are so cute when you just walk in on them.” Xiaojiao said around a snicker. “Like how they jump apart like when you flip a magnet over to the matching side.”

“Does your team have a betting pool? My brother organized one for the clan, and if they do anything damning within the next month i win the pot.”

“No! Ohh man we should get one started up! Hey Pigsy! You wanna make a betting Pool for Sandy and Huntsman’s secret romance?”

“Why the hell would i want to do that?”

“Finally have dirt on Sandy after decades of him never being embarrassed about anything ever?” Tang offered with a shrug.

Pigsy thought for a moment and shrugged back before going back to fussing over Xiaotian. “Sure. Who’s bettin’ what?”

send me stuff!

#Silktea #Silkteashipping #Affection meme #vega writes stories too #letters to vega #Spider Queen wins the Spider Clan pot though she denies ever betting anything #but Minyi put in three sticker packs and a yoyo for her bet and she could have SWORN she saw them in the lair by Spider Queen's stuff

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popculturebuffet · 3 years

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Ducktales: Terror of the Terra-Firmians! (Lena Retrospective) (Commission by WeirdKev27): Launchpad Looses his Last Brain Cell and I Loose My Patience

Welcome back Weblena Warriors to the second part of my look at everyone’s favorite Emo Teen Shadow Lesbian Duck... and probably the only one but hey, semantics, Shadow Into Light, which was made possible by viewers like you, the ultra humanite and a commission from WeirdKev27. Picking up where we left off, we have our first episode that has a different intended order than airing order.

As most of you probably remember, but some of you who joined later might not be aware of the broadcast order for the first half of season one is, in the academic sense, pretty fucked. It’s not Darkwing Duck’s entirely fucked by a web of badger spiders and a queen snake on top to make it some sort of train situation, but by just sorta airing whatever episodes they wanted to, Disney messed with the character balance so Huey got less focus, not that he got a ton of focus this season but still, as well as leaning into the episodes focusing more on the kids with less involvement from the adults which gave the wrong impression about the series. While it IS very focused on the triplets and webby, the show isn’t entirely about them, but as Frank has mentioned a few times, Disney Channel apparently has this WEIRD thing where they assume kids won’t like stories starring the adult characters.

Yeah I’ve been wanting to talk about this for a while. Mostly how it’s so dumb I could swear Pauly Shore was an exec at Disney Channel. And he might be I don’t know what he’s doing these days and i’d like to keep it that way. For starters, the Scooge comics, while barely published in the US these days, are still popular globally and have appealed to kids and adults for generations and are mostly focused on him, with the kids in a supporting role and Ducktales, you know the thing your directly remaking here, was also mostly about him with the triplets supporting, if a bit less than the comics. Most of the Disney Afternoon was about adult characters, with any kids in side roles in the main cast. And it comes off entirely hypocritical of them to say this when the MCU is easily marvel’s biggest cash cow at the moment, and marvel properties have appealed to both kids and adults, like the duck comics, for decades. And if it’s because the marvel cartoons weren’t doing well , I’ll let you in on a little secret: Those didn’t do well because they looked bland and from what I’ve seen of them felt kind of bland, though I haven’t seen enough to fully judge. Kids LIKE adult characters as much as kid characters, and also like teen characters despite not being teens. Focusing on either is valid and while I LIKED Disney’s youth starring shows I also want another X-Men cartoon before I turn 50, and I bet kids would like that too, with the last one only failing because you bailed on it because you were throwing a hissy fit over fox having the movie rights, and do not get me started on that. Point is this argument is horse shit and should stay in the stables.

So yeah I do think this episode came too soon and it’s placement effected it at the time and as such it dosen’t have the best rep with the fandom aside from the Lena bits and that includes me. The fact it was very early in the series and the characterizations hadn’t yet sunk in really hurt this episode in places but is it really that bad? Join me under the cut to find out

We open at the movies! Which scrooge apparently hasn’t been too since the 1930′s or seen any on video despite Della existing and being really stubborn.

A rant for another episode. But the kids just got out of a Mole Monster movie, along with Lena, Beakly and Launchpad. Their reactions are as follows: Lena, Webby and Dewey really enjoyed it, Huey found it unrealistic... says the boy whose uncle fought a dragon made of gold a month or two back but we’ll get to that, and Louie was bored and felt it didn’t have enough of the ultra violence, kids these days it’s not about the gore it’s about the tension. And Beakly.. is just pissed Lena tricked them into seeing this and said it was educational. And the more I think about it the more this sounds like BEAKLYS fault than Lena’s. BEAKLY is the one who likely bought the tickets, who saw it was likely an r or pg-13 and who as we’ve seen HAS A PHONE, and ulnike scrooge probably isn’t so stingy she wouldn’t spring for a smart phone, so she could’ve just googled it, or whatever bird related pun is in this version.. gandered it.. yeah let’s go with that, gandered it, and SEEEN it wasn’t appropriate or walked htem out of the theater and ate the cost if she was that bothered by it. Sitting through a Horror Movie you didn’t research, didn’t pull the kids out of and dind’t bother to even check the poster for or use basic common sense is YOUR fault. And this could’ve worked fine, had Lena talk the kids into begging for it or had launchpad take them and have Beakly find out after, having driven to pick them up as she didn’t trust launchpad to take them home. Instead it makes the former super spy look REALLY stupid and feels really out of character for a SPY to not to do research. And it wasn’t like they decided on this later, Bentina being a spy was part of the character’s backstory from day one and its made clear as early as episode 2 in both airing orders. This is just lazy writing to justify the episode and I expect better from this crew.

But an argument errupts between Huey and Webby over the Terra-Firmians, a hidden race of rock people living in Duckburg’s discontinued sewer system, allegedlys. So Lena suggest simply going down which gets a disapproving look from Beakly, despite you know this being their bread and butter, and the fact that if she had a problem with Scrooge not being involved.. she could just call him. Exploring fabled rock people is something he’d be into. I mean there’s a low profit margin but it also costs him almost nothing to walk to the theater or have launchpad swing around and pick him up. Just gas which given how much he pays for jet fuel isn’t a big ask. But Beakly soon gets distracted by Launchpad whose convinced the film is real and is attacking the poster a grim sign of things to come as while Beakly annoyed me in this one on rewatch, especially after realizing the above... Launchpad annoyed me both times and for VERY good reason we’ll get into. This provides a distraction and allows the trio to escape. Cue titles.

After the title sequence, our heroes head deeper underground, there’s too much panic in this town... I mean props to Donald for trying something new but he really needs to rethink his cologne choices. Sex Panther is just.. not a good smell on.. anyone.

So our heroes journey through the depths of the subway system, and we find out part of why Huey’s so skeptical, as he finds anything that isn’t in the Junior Woodchuck Guidebook to not exist, though the cracks in this already show as he’s added anything that does. We’ll get back to this later but as you can tell the basic dynamic for 24 minutes is Webby being a wholehearted True Believer and Huey being a Skeptical Sally. And Lena is just sorta “Eh gives me an excuse for shenanigans” about it. We also get a peak into webby’s mind as we see her notes .. which really just come off as Terra-Firmian fanfiction involving a war of succession between two sides, the terra’s and the firmies, something based on previous media, and also some doodles of a fictional candy called webby-dings and herself as a superhero, both things I want to see.

But yeah the first third of the episode is pretty simple, just them journeying, the occasional shift in the firmament, and it’s not bad, and there are a few great bits: Huey nerds out about rocks, and finds them way more interesting than a possible rock monster.

Which leads to the best gag of the episode as when Huey tries to pick up a big sample Webby, annoyed at his hyperfixation on the JWG, asks him to ask his book for help.. which he does by reading it and actually manages to pick the large rock up. This is halted though when Lena screams.. though she really just did it to draw them to an abandoned subway car full of glomgold posters for glomgold products because of course a failed subway project has his name plastered over it. You can’t spell glomgold without failure.. the failure is silent. Glomgold is not.

The fun is interuptted though by a livid Beakly who had realized they were missing in an earlier scene, after telling the Manager that McDuck Industries would pay for the poster.. and then found out Launchpad also destroyed the toilets “They come up thorugh the sewers!”. Launchpad that’s CHUDS, Ninja Turtles and Rats who raised Ninja Turtles like their own sons, mole people dig or use old mineshafts. It’s basic mole science. Also Beakly really shouldn’t sweat it, I just assumed the city has had a runnig bill witht he company for “McDuck Family and Employee Related Accidents, Mayhem and Shenanigans”. I mean he’s had Gyro on his payroll for at least a decade and a half by the series start, Gyro has leveled whole sections of city in an afternoon more than most giant monsters. Of which several have destroyed Duckburg. It got better.

Point is she’s livid about them sneaking off with Lena pointing out their some sort of adventure family and Beakly.. saying she won’t see them again, or at least implying it hard. I’ll put a pin in this, as the train buckles and a bit of seismic, or rock men, activity means their stuck. So they divide into teams: Beakly will go try and unhook the train car from the busted cars so they can ride out, Launchpad will go try and fix it, and we get this lovely exxchange as a result

Launchpad: Cool never crashed a train before Beakly: Can’t you try driving it without crashing it? Launchpad: Wha?

His face in that scene is priceless. He takes Dewey along. More on that in a second. Webby, Huey and Louie are told to stay put with Beakly only bringing Lena along because she dosen’t trust her. So since we have three split plots for a second... let’s split up gang, starting with the most aggrivating, middling with what you all came here for and why this is part of the retrsopective, and ending with the plot that directly heads into the final part of the episode.

Launchpad and Dewey: GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Okay starting with the most infamous plot and easily the worst part of this episode, probably the worst plot in any Ducktales 2017 episode. That’s not hyperbole it’s really that bad and really pissed people off, as fans of the original launchpad felt they made him overly stupid. This is where the airing order’s a problem as putting an episode with a subplot where one of your characters is obnoxiously dumb right up front means they assume this is his charcter and not just one poorly written chapter in a very dumb but very loveable characters life, likely because the writers hadn’t figured out how to properly scale his stupidity with comptience.

So as a result we get a good 3-4 mintutes if not agonizingly more of Launchpad assuming something he saw in a fucking movie film was real. That.. that’s his actual plot. Need I remind you, he’s in his late 20′s early 30′s. He’s not much older than me. While other episodes have him as dim this one claims he CAN’T TELL FACT FROM FICTION.

There are lines you have to keep with your characters to keep the audience from hating them. They crossed it about 80 times with this plot and make Launchpad into a gibbering dunderhead who can’t do anything right versus a regular dunderhead whose good at one or two things and loveable enough for us to like him and not care about his numerous safey violations and child endagerment charges. Thankfully this is the ONLY episode that gets this bad and they clearly learned from this, but it dosen’t make it any less of a tough sit.

Dewey spends most of the subplot with a look on his face that just screams that he’s as done with this bullshit as we are, as Launchpad assumes he’s a mole person and brought along a pipe to presumibly bludgeon him, because wanting to cave his best friends skull in over stupidity is a GREAT look> Thankfuly he does not. And when the lights come back on Launchpad.. assumes he’s a monster because of bright light, GAH, and locks him out before they end up outside and the plto resolves itself by Dewey pointing out by Launchpad’s utterly baffling logic that he could be a mole monster, so Launchpad.. assumes he is.

The subplot’s later buttoned up as he claims “I love being a mole monster”, again diffrent subteranian creature launchpad, she says he’s not and my suffering is thankfully at an end. This plot just sucks, it’s bad, overly stupid and dosen’t work with an adult character. Someone like say Ed from Ed, Edd N Eddy, or someone who belivies in weird conspiracy stuff like Dale Gribble or Stan Pines. with either of them this plot would’ve been fucking great. I could buy it from Dale and it just comes off as his normal paranoid weirdness. With Launchpad it comes off like he seriously needs help because the episode frames it as if he can’t tell ficton from reality, and his splotlight episode later would directly contridct this and make this episode even more aggrivating, as he’s a fan of Darkwing Duck, and KNOWS it’s acted out by an actor, so why wouldn’t he get this? It’s just....

It sucks, it sucks and I thankfully get to move on to a better subplot

Beakly and Lena: What You Are in the Dark

Beakly tells Lena she’ll never see Webby again after this.. then chastises her when she won’t help despite you know having just said she’s going to force their friendship apart, which Lena points out. She then gets mad at Lena making a sarcastic comment at her. Okay she’s lived with Louie for at least a week in airing order and a month or two in actual order. She has to be used to this by now. She’s insolent.. because you show her no respect, blame her for something that while sure she talked you into, you should’ve known better, and top it off by saying you want to keep her from the kids because they have bright futures and come from good familes and asks who rasied her and her face.. well.

Yeah wheras Launchpad and Huey, more on that in a second, were hurt by this being some of their earliest big roles, Bentina wasn’t.. until later when we found out just HOW bad Magica is to Lena and how much she dosen’t care about her other than as a tool to use. At this point we didn’t know just how much Lena was playing webby, how much she was only manipulating her, and even with her heroic act here we didn’t know if she only saw Webby as her way to break free. The next episode makes it clear she dosen’t and genuinely does care, 100%, so in hindsight it makes Bentina come off as ghoulsih for horribly asssuming about a girl she dosen’t know, and even if she did know about Magica wouldn’t know the full story, just like us, and then BERATING her after already saying she’s going to rip her away from Webby, which itself is PRETTY bad as she’s the only friend the girl has and sh’es doing so on... talking them into a horror movie, which as I outlined was more Bentina’s fault than Lena’s, and leading the kids into a dangerous place whicha gain, Lena pointed out is something she lets Scrooge do. And trust me i know that she actually knows Scrooge, and we later find out, as we’ll cover next month, that she isn’t ware HOW dangerous things are with Scrooge. It dosen’t change the fact she knows they do dangerous stuff to a point and that Lena may just be acting out. It also dosen’t change the fact she drove three children, yes including launchpad, down here with her instead of sending them home with Launchpad.. granted that option isn’t the safest but it’s safer than taking her with them thena cting like it’s ALL lena’s fault when three of the children, again including launchpad, are down there because of HER. Not Lena, HER. I’m harder on her because she’s older, wiser and was “raised properly” apparently. Though given the way she treats a random teen off the street she again knows nothing about and dind’t bother to ask... it begs the question.

IT’s a good question. I could see the classism coming from being raised in 40′s and 50′s britain, judging by the timeline.. but even then she’s seen the world, and while her nature is supscious, the classit bullshit makes no sense after presumibly working with, and later spymastering for, various agents of various backgrounds. How has she not dropped this in decades. Scrooge very clearly dropped the racisim and homophobia of his time, so it still stands on her for not dropping this. And Lena’s hurt shows under hte mask for the first time, that beneath the snark and secrecy.. is just an abused teenager with nowhere else to go and no way out being bullied by an older woman whose cutting off the only light at the end of the tunnel nto for good reason but out of classist, overprotective mallice. My issues, which to be fair probably were intentional in the episode but sitll are a bit overblown, aside we do get an absoluttley tremendous moment later as a car falls on top of Beakly.. and Magica, speaking once more urges Lena to leave her, let her die and let their plans progress. And while that iself is.. dumb, what if someone finds her or her corpse later, especially since Scrooge would likely perosnally want to retrive the body to give her a proper burial as she’s his only friend at this point, or the rest of the family questoin the story?, it fits Magica’s lack of foresight we see throughout the season. But Lena... saves her. While she later gives an explination, and a valid one at that, it’s clear from her expressoin, her actoins and how she does it... that this is her. Part of it is defiance, as she glares at Magica before doing it, her own stubborn nature mixed with her hatred of her “aunt”, meaning Magica just made it all too easy for her to do this. But the real reason is clear: It’s the right thing to do. While pissing off her aunt and getting away with it is the cherry on top.. the real reason is that unlike Magica.. Lena is not a killer, not a monster, and not a heartless vacum ofa person. Even if she doesn’t like Beakly, for good reason.. she can’t, she WON’T leave her to die and leave Webby an orphan again. She loves Webby too much to do that to her and while she may deny it.. she’s too good a person to leave someone to die for something so petty. Even if she never sees webby again and the plans ruined. It’s better than the weight of knowing she let someone who wasn’t trying to harm her and whose actions, while terrible, were out of misguided protection of her granddaughter, die like this. She saves her. And as we’ll see it pays off.. but before that.

Huey, Webby and Louie: Into the Unknown This plot’s a bit shorter, as Webby and Huey continue their argument, with Louie eventually making it clear, and not even hiding it when directly asked by Huey, that he’s playing both sides with a delighted expression on his face as the movie was boring but this, this is interesting. Which it is. But it’s interupted by dings on the roof and while Huey assumes i’ts just a regular rock, it moves while their not lookiung.. and soon red eyed, horrifying beasts look out at them and the kids flee back to the car. This dosen’t pan out as the car starts to shake and is clearly going to collapse.. and while Webby and Louie are prepared to flee, rock monsters or no, Huey, in an utterly heart shattering image.. stays in place, terrified of moving.

This is where this plot goes from mildly aggrivating, as Huey’s Skeptic shenanigans can get on the nerves.. to BRILLIANT. See at the time this was more annoying because it was assumed the skepticsim would be a part of Huey’s character and we’d get more episodes of him being annoying only to be proven wrong, as he semeingly dosen’t learn his lesson at this point, looging the terrafrimians in the guide book. But on rewatch.. this plot is amazing. For starters the plot subtly introduced the defening characteristic of Huey’s personality, one that’s become more prounounced in Season 3: His need for Order. He needs things to make sense: He solves stuff because he likes there to be order in the world and something he can understand, he can put in a box in his head. Like a lot of neurotypical people, myself included, he struggles horribly when the clearly defined boxes of his life and things he undestand have wrinkles or complexities he can’t get. I for instnace easily got it when I was introduced to the concept of trans people or being non binary.. they just make sense in hindsight: given how our brains are messya nd complicated it makes sense some people would be born in the wrong ones, and tht with all the science and medicine we have to correct that, should be allowed to transition if they so choose. It makes equal sense that some people just don’t have a gender or are gender fluid, being both or neither. Despite struggling with non binary prounouns due to force of habit.. I get the concept with no real difficulty. But when it comes to accepting I don’t have to apologize for everything and that everyone is not angry or that anger is natural and people sometimes get mad and you can’t and shouldnt’ fix it.. it’s something I STRUGGLE with even knowing it’s not right, because my brain is just wired that way.

That’s how Huey’s struggle comes off here.. he reveals he’s willing to stay and die.. because he’s SO scared of the unknown, that the idea of dying from something he at least knows what it is versus something he dosen’t.., so paralizyed by his own brain he can’t figure out the obvious.. it takes Webby reaching out to him figuratively and literally, to show him that sometimes you have to face the unknown. The unknown is fucking terrifying.. but it can be good and it’s better than sitting there, scared and unable to move. You have to try, to grow and take that risk that things may not go well to really LIVE.

So he does.. and they reunite with the rest of the group.. and soon find the terrafirmains.. who as it turns out once we get some light on them... are actually just goofy looking, brightly colored, each one matching one of the kids, kids themselves, and Huey reaches out and touches one, which by ET logic means their friends now, and the terrafirmians help them get out. And this lesson sticks. While sure Huey catalogues it and it seems it didn’t.. he’s never this skeptical again. This douchey skepticsim was only for one episode, his fear of the uknown replcaed with boundless curosity and from here on he’s CURIOUS about new stuff as long as it’s not trying to kill him. He loves taking in new experinces, maybe not to webby levels but he does actually try them and study them instead of just fearing them.

Before we wrap things up, obviously we need to talk about the JWG not having entries on a lot of stuff. This would be corrected next season as it returns to being a big book of everything, but dosen’t completely contridct this as Timephoon! shows there’s stillcgaps.. which i’m fine with. While it knowing EVERYTHING was fine for the original series here, with things being slightly more groudned, it’d just be an obvious plothole if Huey didn’t use it every single time they ran into something and that’d get boring. Instead it’s simply that it dosen’t know everything, and really in the comics at times it didn’t and the triplets found out new things. It knew almost everything mind you, but having some gaps for dramatic tnesion is fine with me and Seasons 2 and 3 decided on that instead of just having it being a scouting manual which wa sfor the best. And even by later in the season hit has guides to getting a small buisness loan, so they already course corrected.

So everything’s wrapped up and while Magica berates Lena for disobeying her.. Beakly interputps, thankfully not seeing magica and admits she was wrong and invites Lena for pancakes, even taking a crack about if their actually pancakes or english muffins with syrup, which sounds like my own living hell, in stride, having clearly grown. And Lena explains to Magica that this was the better approach: now she’s got the in theyw anted, and is above suspcison for now. Still not so much that an obvious act won’t be detected but enough that she dosen’t ahve to work actively around her anymore. Magica scoffs.. and while part of it is probably rage.. part of it is deep down both of them know she did it out of defiance.. and only Lena knows that she did it for the right reasons... she just dosen’t get why. She probably justifies it as playing the long game.. but deep down she knows something’s changing about her.. and she’s not sure if that’s a godo thing or not.

Final Thoughts: This episode is as you can tell a mixed bag. It’s 2/3 of a good episode, with the Lena plot, my issues aside, being excellent and the Terra-Firmian plot likewise fun, even if Huey can get grating the payoff is worth it, and the jokes are really high quality. It’s just bogged down by that fucking launchpad plot that just crushed my soul in it’s palms every time it came back. I went on at length why i hated that one but boy oh boy was the hate of that subplot warranted and I stand by calling it the worst plot of the series. It is: it’s not funny, it makes no goddamn sense, and it drags down what’s otherwise a pretty solid epsiode.

Next Time on Lena: Jaws the shark, lurking in the dark, in the depths of the bin one day of a lark decides to get rowdy, get real violent takes a vacay out to Duckburg er.. Island.. also Scrooge faces his greatest Nemesis.. a PR Tour to clean up his image after an unfortunate giant Beanstalk Incident. Be there and be hip to be square.

Next Time on This Blog: I Tackle a DCOM for the first time for another commissioned review as we take a look at racisim, specifically Apartheid and breaking indoctrination, with The Color of Friendship. See you next Rainbow.

#ducktales #ducktales 2017 #lena sabrewing #webby vanderquack #weblena #bentina beakly #launchpad mcquack #huey duck #louie duck #dewey duck #terror of the terra-firmians!#disney channel #disney xd #disney plus #disney #disney ducks #comissions

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mauesartetc · 3 years

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Do you have any favorite books?

I had a long, hard think about this one. It's difficult for me to pick specific "favorite" books; it's more like there are certain memorable ones that impacted me at different points in my life. For example:

Charlotte's Web by E.B. White- I credit this book with curing any fear of spiders I may have had in childhood. Charlotte was a queen.

The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster- My fifth-grade teacher picked out a different book to give each student at the end of the year, and she gave me this one. By this point I was fairly well known as the artsy, creative kid in class, so I think she chose The Phantom Tollbooth due to its imaginative story and characters. It's a road trip story filled with whimsical creatures and fantastic happenings, much like Alice in Wonderland. But (spicy take incoming) I think I like this book even better, just because the plot has some direction and the protagonist actually learns something at the end. Sadly, Tollbooth's author passed away earlier this year, so I think I'll revisit it in the spirit of pouring one out for him. Rest easy, Norton.

Sister Wendy's 1000 Masterpieces by Sister Wendy Beckett- This one's a coffee table book that never rested on a coffee table. My mom leaned it against a magazine holder next to the Lay-Z-Boy in the living room. It remains there to this day, in a place that's convenient to reach from a sitting position. Arranged alphabetically, each page features works from a different painter, with Sister Wendy's insightful analysis. In middle school I sat in that chair and pored through this massive, inspiring tome, absorbing wisdom from artists past (and when I say "past", I mean as far back as 15,000 BC. There are cave paintings in this thing). Even today I enjoy randomly flipping through it when I'm at my mom's house, wondering which masterful burst of color I'll land on.

Life of Pi by Yann Martel- Proud to say I was on this train way before the movie. Picked this one up in a bookshop in Victoria, British Columbia (the one and only time I've traveled outside the US, unfortunately), before I'd ever heard anything about it. Gotta say, the intensity of the Canadian cover drew me to it more effectively than perhaps the US version would have. Boy, am I so glad it did. The descriptions in this book are so vivid, they make you feel like you're right there in a lifeboat on the Pacific, parched from thirst, ravaged by sea salt on your skin, and trying to keep a hungry tiger from eating you. For months. Naturally, it became a tradition for me to reread Life of Pi every summer. So, y'know, I laughed when I realized my class was assigned to read it in the fall of my junior year. No complaints whatsoever.

Lord of the Flies by William Golding- I fondly remember this book as the one I insisted on taking to my senior class's beach trip at the end of the year. Let's just say my sense of humor skews dark.

The Animator's Survival Kit by Richard Williams- Another bigass chonker of a book, which I recommend to everyone going into animation. Williams accrued detailed, invaluable knowledge of the craft throughout his decades-long career (which included projects such as Who Framed Roger Rabbit, A Christmas Carol, The Thief and the Cobbler, and his final short film, Prologue), and it’s all here in what those in the biz frequently call “the animation bible”. Sometimes I still refer to it if I’m struggling on a project of my own. If you’re an animator and you don’t have this book in some form, what the hell are you doing with your life?

Misery by Stephen King- This isn’t the first Stephen King book I ever read, nor is it even my favorite (that honor would go to either The Shining or The Green Mile). But it’s one I desperately needed after escaping an emotionally abusive “friendship”.

My copy is a small paperback with even smaller type that was a chore to read at times, but my aching desire to find out if Paul got out of his prison alive drove me forward through the pages. More than anything, I needed to know if he’d be alright in the end, just like how I needed to know if I would eventually be alright as well. Ending the relationship had been a big hurdle, but I still had to address the damage it caused. I’m no psychologist, so I don’t know the exact term for this kind of coping mechanism. But woof, this book helped me through some hard times.

The Disaster Artist by Greg Sistero and Tom Bissel- Speaking of hard times, how’d you like to sit in summer traffic for five hours (in an area where jams like this hardly ever happen)? What? “That sounds mind-numbing and tedious as fuck?” Welcome to my life in August of 2017. This was when a total solar eclipse was due to pass over the continental US, and since this had been one of my bucket list items since forever (and my mom wanted to see it, too), we were traveling to a spot where totality was visible. Little did we know the exodus would be so massive.

In the first leg of our journey (when we were actually moving), my mom had put on an audiobook which... ehh. Wasn’t that great. We didn’t feel like listening to more of it in the traffic jam, so I pulled out The Disaster Artist and read aloud from it to alleviate the boredom (For those wondering: Yes, I did Tommy Wiseau’s voice). We’ll always remember it as the book that saved our butts. If you ever find yourself in a situation where reading any book to an audience is a major source of entertainment, I highly recommend this bonkers true story about the man who made one of the worst movies of all time.

That’s the short list. I was a voracious reader from childhood through high school, but sadly experienced a dearth of reading for pleasure from college onward. I’m still in the process of rediscovering that love. “Dune” is the next book I plan to read (I’ve put it off for years for no good reason and now it’s time, dammit), and I hope to get into some Neil Gaiman, Ursula LeGuin, Terry Pratchett, and N.K. Jemisin. The novels I’ve read recently and really liked are as follows:

The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood

The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov

The Parable of the Sower by Octavia E. Butler (emotionally very hard to read in the first half, but it’s worth it)

Warbreaker by Brandon Sanderson

I’m interested in the books that have impacted y’all as well!

#ask #anon ask #anonymous #about me #personal faves #books

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lyssismagical · 4 years

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you drive me crazy, crazy for you

Parkner Week Day Two: “And I said ‘no’, you know, like a liar”/ identity shenanigans / iron lad

Peter had been talking to Harley Keener online. They’d met through Twitter, being two of the five people Tony followed, and the casual liking and commenting turned into texting and calling and skyping every chance they got.

They hadn’t told Tony, worried how he’d react to finding out they’d become friends behind his back, and Peter had decided early on that he’d wait to tell Harley about being Spider-Man. He didn’t want secrets to get in the way of their close friendship, but he needed to put his family first and if Harley ever turned on him, not that Peter thought he would, he didn’t want Harley to have that kind of knowledge.

And then, six months into their friendship, Harley admits to having a crush on Peter. They were talking on the phone, quiet and sleepy, late at night, when Harley had murmured how he needed Peter to know. That he couldn’t keep pretending he didn’t want them to be something more.

It was hard for their relationship to change from the way it was. Harley lived in Tennessee, Peter in New York, neither of them capable of taking time off to see each other, nor were they able to afford plane tickets. But it felt real anyways.

And then Iron Lad shows up in Manhattan.

“I know you’re here to help, but this is my city,” Peter says, Karen filtering his voice to sound lower. “I don’t team up with just anybody.”

“I know!” Iron Lad exclaims, sounding surprised more than anything. “I don’t want to get in your way or be a problem, but if you need backup, I’m always available.”

Peter frowns, rolling his eyes when Karen sends him another alert of crime. He loves being Spider-Man, he loves patrolling, he loves helping people, but his window of time to call Harley is shrinking every time he goes to stop another crime. It’s been three days since he’s gotten the chance to talk to his boyfriend.

But Iron Lad is standing across from him, suit built strong and colored the same reds and golds as Iron Man’s, and Peter knows it would take half as much time if he let the new hero help him.

“Fine,” he says, trying his best to come off as nonchalant and flippant. “Let’s go then. Prove yourself, and then we’ll see about a team-up, okay?”

Iron Lad nods quickly, muttering a few things to himself and his own AI, and then his comms are linked to Peter’s.

“Perfect. Lead the way, Spider-Man.”

He was right, it does go a lot quicker to have Iron Lad at his side, they manage to detain the criminals, call the police, and save everybody from the robbery within ten minutes. And even when Karen alerts him to another crime on the other side of the city, he doesn’t feel too guilty passing it off to Iron Lad.

“You’ll let me know if you need back-up?” Peter asks before he lets Iron Lad go.

“I’ve got it, Spidey. Have some faith in me.”

Peter smiles behind the mask. He’s never had somebody look out for Queens, he’s never been given the option to go home early, he’s never had the opportunity to choose himself over the city.

When he gets home, tugging off the suit and grabbing his phone, immediately hitting Harley’s contact and preparing to ramble about the school day he had, it’s still before midnight. He rarely ever makes it home before midnight despite it being his curfew.

He’s disappointed though when Harley doesn’t pick up.

He tries again, hoping maybe he just didn’t get to his phone in time, but again, nothing.

“Hey, sorry I couldn’t call earlier, I got caught up at the Lab with Tony,” Peter starts when the phone dings to signal his voicemail. “I hope you’re okay… I’m sorry we keep missing each other lately. It’s like we’re just a little out of sync. Only another year, right? And then Boston together? Just like we promised?”

He takes a deep breath, suddenly finding himself choked up. Long-distance relationships are hard. They always are. Online, long-distance, wanting nothing more than to be with him in the flesh, but not being able. It’s hard. There’s so much longing, so much desire, so much he wants to say and do.

“I’m waiting for that hug, you hear me? Next year, when we get to Boston, you better give me one of those dramatic, running hugs in the airport. Anyways, yeah, call me when you can, okay? I miss you.”

Out the window, he can hear the sound of Iron Lad’s repulsors, going after the sound of echoing gunshots. And next door, May’s sleeping soundly. But Peter’s chest feels carved open, missing so desperately and longing for his boyfriend to just be here. He wants to be held, wants to feel whole, wants to feel loved, but he wants all of that from somebody who lives a thousand miles away.

He curls up on his side, phone still clutched in one of his hands like Harley will call him at any second, and cries into his pillow, wishing so badly for something he knows can’t happen.

* “Peter! I’m so sorry I didn’t answer your calls. I was busy last night and I forgot to text you. I’m so sorry. Text me and let me know when you’ve got a chance to call though, I probably can’t talk late tonight either. I’ve got news coming in a little bit, but I don’t know how soon I can tell you… I know what you mean about being out of sync lately, but it’ll be okay. Text me? I miss you.”

The voicemail ends, the third time Peter’s listened to it without replying or trying to call Harley. He knows Harley would be on his way to school by now, without data, so there’s no point in trying.

Harley’s voice helps soothe the ache in Peter’s chest just a little bit, but it doesn’t help knowing that the end to this lapse of communication might take weeks, months to sort out. With exams coming up, junior prom, the need to get a summer job, and whatever Harley’s doing in Tennessee, they’re just going to get busier.

“You okay?” May peeks her head into the room, somehow able to sense his misery as quick as if he were still crying.

“Me and Harley haven’t spoken in four days,” Peter admits, staring down at the seemingly harmless text message. Morning darling! Sorry I missed your call. We still on for the Skype session on Sunday?

May’s face softens, slipping into the room to sit next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “That happens. Things happen. It’ll get easier.”

“I want it to be easier now.” He sounds pathetic, whiny, desperate. “I don’t want to wait another year for him, for us.”

Boston feels like a lifetime away, like an untouchable dream. MIT, the two of them together. He’s scared it won’t work out, that going from this long-distance relationship to living together in Boston, going to University together, won’t work out and they’ll have to kiss their relationship goodbye.

“Oh I know you do, honey. I know this is hard, but I know how much you care about Harley and how much he cares about you. You’ll figure this out, I promise.”

The way that she says it makes it sound like letting go is still an option. She says it likes it’s possible for Peter to say goodbye to Harley and move on, take a different path. She says it like Peter could ever break up with Harley.

“I just really wish he were here.”

May kisses the top of his head comfortingly, and Peter loves her, he does, but he wishes nothing more that it was Harley instead.

* MJ and Ned both comment on how strange he’s acting. Daydreaming the time away because his relationship feels like it’s on thin ice, like one wrong move will make the Jenga tower crumble, so he thinks about Boston, about a future, and nothing else. He stares at his phone, at the text messages he doesn’t bother answering, at the voicemails that he knows by heart. It’s been two weeks since he last properly spoke to Harley.

Tony notices it too. “What’s up, kid? Tough day at school? Iron Lad giving you trouble?”

“I’m okay, not a big deal,” he says. Tony doesn’t know and Peter doesn’t want to tell him, not before he talks to Harley first, not that he really thinks telling Tony about a crumbling relationship is a good idea.

His phone rings before Tony can argue with him.

It’s Harley. His silly picture, one he got from his sister, appearing on the screen.

He wants to talk to Harley, he wants nothing more than to ask him to please come to New York, drop everything because Peter’s never wanted to see him more than he does now. But he knows Harley can’t. That’s just the way it is.

So he lets it go to voicemail. He tries not to let the pit in his chest grow anymore than it already has, but it does, longing and cold. It’s hard for him to feel much beyond the longing these days. Harley’s the only thing on his mind, the only one that could help him.

“I think I’m going to go out if that’s okay,” Peter says, voice breaking. He turns his phone on Do Not Disturb and pockets it. “I’ll text you if I need any help.”

Tony doesn’t bother trying to stop him, quickly telling him to be home by curfew and to be safe, before Peter disappears out the door.

He changes in his bedroom, slips out his window, and scales the side of the building to get to the roof.

Iron Lad lands beside him only moments later.

“Hiya, Spidey!” he chirps. “You want backup today?”

“I’m good, thanks.” Peter knows he’s missing the enthusiasm he normally has whenever he talks to Iron Lad. They’ve teamed up frequently over the past couple weeks, and Peter’s been enjoying the nights of solitude when he can leave the safety of Queens up to Iron Lad.

Iron Lad’s tone immediately changes to one of worry and confusion. “Everything okay, Spidey?”

“I miss my boyfriend,” he admits quietly. He hates that he can barely function when he isn’t talking to Harley, that he relies so deeply on their relationship. He sits down on the edge of the roof, feet kicking absentmindedly, and Iron Lad joins him a second later.

The superhero laughs, not unkindly, and nods. “Yeah, I know how you feel. Hey, I know this might be a longshot, but have you ever helped a Peter Parker? He lives around here, works with Tony, goes to Midtown.”

“No!” Peter blurts quickly. How Iron Lad knows him, Peter doesn’t know. He doesn’t recognize the voice, not that he really puts it past him to use a voice modulator, Peter does too. “Why? You know him?”

“He’s my boyfriend.”

It feels like the floor falls out from under him, heart hammering in his chest. His fingers hook under the edge of his mask, prepared to throw everything on the line.

“Harley?” His voice is shaking and high, wanting so desperately for it to be him. He doesn’t care about logic or hidden identities or the possibility of Iron Lad being a liar, he doesn’t care because he wants it to be true so badly.

Iron Lad’s faceplate pops open, revealing-

“Oh my god, Harley!”

Peter doesn’t wait another moment, yanking his mask off, curls bouncing around his ears, smile widening until it almost hurts, and tosses his arms around Harley’s shoulders. They nearly fall off the edge of the roof at Peter’s excitement, but Harley rights them, arms winding around Peter’s waist tightly and mouth pressing against his temple.

“Holy fuck, oh my god, I can’t believe this is real,” Harley breathes, mouth brushing against Peter’s skin as he speaks. “You’re real and oh god you smell so good, so much better than I imagined, and I can’t believe you never told me you’re Spider-Man, oh my god.”

The longing, the cold gaping hole in his chest, the pure misery that had settled when the insecurities had crept into his head, it all soothes. Harley’s here, in New York, in Queens, in Peter’s arms. He’s here and he’s real and he’s murmuring his excitement against Peter’s forehead, arms tight and chest warm.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I’m sorry we were so out of sync. I’m so sorry-”

“I’m sorry,” Harley says, pulling away enough to look at Peter. The younger boy nearly starts crying at just how real Harley is, freckles splashed out across his tanned skin, eyes wide and so blue in a way that Peter could never really see over Skype. “I wanted to surprise you. Mom got transferred to the New York branch of her job. I was going to tell you, but between moving here, taking over as the new Iron Man, enrolling in school, and babysitting my sister, I didn’t have the time to surprise you how I wanted to. The dramatic airport scene you wanted. I’m sorry.”

Peter shakes his head, vision blurry with tears and hands trembling as he cups Harley’s face gently. “You’re staying? Like forever?”

“Forever,” Harley promises, smiling through his own tears. “And I know this is soon and crazy and out of euphoria and shock, but I love you, Peter. I love you so much and I couldn’t survive another year without you, you mean too much to me to lose.”

“I love you too. God, I’ve missed you, I’ve been craving this since we got together. I’ve never wanted anything more.”

He finally lets himself kiss Harley, slow and sweet, letting himself memorize everything, soothing the last of the ache in his chest. This is all he’s ever wanted.

Peter refuses to let go of Harley, linking their fingers together and sticking without meaning to.

“This is real,” he says, voice thick with emotion, staring unashamedly at Harley and his blue eyes and his freckles and his jawline and his fluffy hair, unable to stop crying no matter how hard he tries.

Harley’s real and here.

Harley grins, boyish and so unbelievably happy, and kisses his breath away.

“It’s real, darlin’.”

Taglist: @littlemissagrafina @spideygirl2003 @romeoandjulietyouwish @c-artara @shadedrose01 @likeaphoenix13 @pj-hermes-tonystark-obsessed @you-get-killed-walk-it-off @kitkatwinchester @emo-girl10 @justme--emily @hold-our-destiny @imalivebecauseirondad @spiderman-peterman @dykeragee @maryserrao @heeeyitskay {Let me know if you wanna be added or removed}

#lyss writes #parkner week 2020 #parkner #peter parker #harley keener #iron lad #spiderman #I wrote most of this after an 8hr shift w no sleep so don't judge this lmao #Me?? Writing more online dating AU's?? Pffft

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blossom-hwa · 4 years

Text

Arc [Coming Home] - MARK |Swing!|

Again, this part contains many events in Spiderman: Homecoming, so spoiler alert! The timeline has also been changed so Civil War happens after Homecoming. Thanks again to @deathbykpopboys for inspiring this series :)

Pairing: Mark x fem!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, Spiderman!au

Triggers: a lot of cursing, violence (esp. in this chapter), PANIC ATTACKS IN FUTURE CHAPTERS (I in no way meant to romanticize these triggers. If you feel I did, please let me know and I will fix it.)

Word Count: 7.8k

A school dance takes a backseat to bringing down an illegal weapons trade.

Attach >> Arc { 1 - Drifting Apart | 2 - Coming Home } >> Fall { 1 - Spiral | 2 - Rise }

NCT Masterlist | Swing!

If things were chilly before, they’re freezing now. You and Mark won’t even talk to each other.

Surprisingly, not a lot of people ask about what’s going on between you two. Maybe it’s because they can already sense that you don’t want to talk about it. Maybe it’s because you already told enough people off last year after they decided to pry into your nonexistent love life.

Anyway, even if they did ask, what would you say? Oh, Mark didn’t want to find the root cause behind the group dealing illegal fucking weapons made from alien material, and I did.

You’d get placed in a mental institution.

Patrols aren’t peaceful anymore. You go earlier now since the university labs need to be fixed up, which just means more hours of strained silence as you help people with directions and beat up muggers. The two of you still patrol on the same schedule, but you watch completely different sides of Queens.

You rarely, if ever, call on him for help anymore. It’s not like there’s that much going on anyway.

One week passes like this, then two. You skulk around the university every day after school, trying to find out literally anything about the weapons dealers, but the explosion blew everything up. You come to realize just how lucky you and Mark were to have made it out alive.

Still doesn’t mean you think he’s right.

You head home from the university one evening, ready to go out and patrol for a bit. Normally, you keep your suit at school now – it’s easier to just pick it up to change right after visiting university. Today, though, you wanted a snack, so you came home first.

To your surprise, just as you’ve pulled out your suit, you hear Johnny walk through the apartment door.

“Hey, Johnny.” You walk out of your room and give him a tired smile. “Did you get out early?”

“No, right on time.” Your brother gives you a quick hug. “There wasn’t any extra work to get done today, so we all left on the clock. I was just going to go out and get some food for us – give me half an hour?”

No patrolling tonight, then. That’s fine. “Sure.” You smile.

“Are you all right?” Johnny frowns slightly, leaning in slightly. “You look a little sick.”

You force a laugh. “Not sick. Just tired.”

Johnny still looks unconvinced. “You’ve been like this for a while,” he says carefully. “I know school’s stressful, but you didn’t used to be this tired.” He looks closer, eyes narrowing. “Have you been getting into fights? You look a little beat up.”

“Johnny, what?” You heave a sigh of (faked) disbelief. “I can’t even beat anyone in an arm-wrestling match. How do you expect me to get into fights? I yell a lot, but I’m not stupid. I just get bruises from moving around when I sleep.”

Your brother acquiesces. “Well, if anything’s going on, tell me, all right?” He smiles.

“Seriously, dude.” You smile back. “It’s just a little drama at school, that’s all. If you get me my favorite Chinese, I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine again.”

“If you say so.” Johnny starts turning around, then pauses. “How come Mark hasn’t been around in some time?”

Right. That.

“He’s, um, working on a project for Tuan,” you say quickly. “It’s taking up a lot of his time. Tuan wants a paper and presentation done before next month is over.”

“Shit.” Johnny whistles. “You kids just keep getting smarter and smarter.”

“As if you aren’t smart enough,” you scoff.

“You flatter me.” Your brother laughs, ruffling your hair. “Be back soon.” With a quick kiss on your head, he leaves the apartment and you throw yourself onto the couch.

And not two minutes later, there’s a knock on the door.

“Johnny? Did you forget some –”

It’s not Johnny.

It’s Haechan.

“Oh, hi, Haechan.” You smile. “Why’re you here?”

“Hi Y/N! I just wanted to ask you some stuff.” He smiles blindingly. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, sure. Leave your shoes here.” You close the door behind your friend. “My brother’s out for a bit, but he’ll be back soon. You can come into my room.”

Haechan follows behind as you walk across the small apartment to your bedroom. You open the door.

And you realize your mistake.

“Fuck, wait –” you panic, trying to close the door again. “Um –”

Too late. Haechan’s already seen the black hoodie and pale mask sitting on your bed.

Utter silence reigns in the apartment.

“You’re Spiderwoman?” Haechan finally shrieks, grabbing your shoulders and shaking you. “What the fuck, Y/N?”

You wince, lurching out of his grip. “Don’t call me that,” you groan, sinking to the floor. “Not Spiderwoman. I don’t like that.”

Haechan doesn’t even hear you. “How the fuck did that even happen?”

“God, okay, please just shut up and calm down before the entire neighborhood hears you.” You shove Haechan into your room and close the door. “Do not interrupt me while I explain.”

So you tell him everything – OsCorp, the spider bite, deciding to fight crime. You pause a little after talking about the alien weaponry, unsure whether to go into the details of your fight with Mark.

Haechan looks blindsided. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “So on top of school and lab work and AcaDec, you’re patrolling Queens until, like, two a.m.?”

You shrug. “Yeah.”

“Man, what the fuck.” He flops down on your bed. “That’s just…”

Silence comes over the room once more.

“Okay, I’m just going to file away all this information for processing later, I’m too sleep-deprived for this. Keep your phone on, I’m going to send you so many texts later. Anyway, I’m just here because I wanted to ask you what your and Mark’s deal is.” Haechan sits up again. “Because Mark’s being a little bitch and won’t say anything. You know he asked Lia to homecoming?”

Something stings in your stomach at the mention of Lia. “Yeah, I know.” You heard the news last week. “Well, I guess it’s easier to tell, now that you know.”

By the time you’ve finished talking about all of your fucked-up adventures with alien weapons and the vulture man, you think Haechan is going to have an aneurysm.

“So you’re pissed at Mark because he doesn’t want to fight alien guns, and he’s pissed at you because he thinks you have a death wish,” he eventually summarizes.

You nod.

“That’s a mess.”

You snort. “You think?”

More silence.

“So, are you going to homecoming?” Haechan asks, randomly changing the subject.

“The fuck kinda topic change –” You sigh. “I don’t know.”

You have a dress, bought on sale at a department store with Jihyo, Yeri, and Lia. The whole time, you wanted to just curl in on yourself and disappear because you’d already known Lia was going to the dance with Mark, but you somehow survived. It’s relatively cheap, but according to the other girls – even Lia, who seemed very uncomfortable every time she looked at you – it looks great.

So you have a dress. You also have shoes, a pair of low heels that Jihyo lent you. Yeri has also promised to do your hair. You could definitely go to homecoming.

Whether or not you want to is another question.

“Hey, just go.” Haechan flops onto your bed again, jostling your blankets. “You don’t have to talk to Mark. Just go with Jihyo and Yeri. It’s junior year, might as well celebrate before the year goes to shit.”

“Are you going?” you ask.

“Duh.”

You picture the dress hanging in your closet. You imagine putting on Jihyo’s heels, Yeri’s smooth hands tying back your hair. You imagine laughing in a way you haven’t in weeks as you watch people whirl around stupidly on the dance floor.

With a sigh, you nod. “I’ll go.”

. . . . .

Mark hasn’t felt this nervous in what feels like forever. It’s not the terrifying kind of nervous, the kind that he feels when he’s breaking and entering secure university labs. This is a good kind of nervous – heart pounding not in terror, but with anticipation.

Aunt Mei drives him to Lia’s house after cooing over how handsome he looks in the suit they rented. It isn’t anything special, really, but Mark thinks he looks good. With a last reminder to “have fun!”, Mei drives to her night shift at the hospital, leaving him to ring the doorbell.

Lia’s mom opens the door. She’s a beautiful woman with a wide smile, and she immediately makes Mark feel welcome. “Come in, come in,” she says, waving him into the house. “You can wait for Lia in the kitchen, she’ll be down in just a minute.”

So there he stands, fiddling around with the corsage box in his hands. The house is a lot bigger than he thought – at the party, with the rooms so full of people, it seemed much smaller. He likes this change.

“Oh, hello. You must be Marcus!”

Mark turns around so fast it feels like he got whiplash.

Standing in front of him is who he thinks is Lia’s dad.

Which is bad, because Mark knows him as the vulture dude.

Belatedly, he realizes the vulture man – Lia’s dad? Jesus Christ, now he’s shaking – is holding out a hand. Gingerly, Mark reaches around and shakes it with fingers clammy with sweat, hoping his smile doesn’t look too fake. “M-Mark, actually,” he stutters.

“Well, it’s very good to meet you, Mark. Lia’s talked about you a lot. I’m Adrian Toomes.” That’s all he gets out before Lia comes down the stairs.

Mark is sure she looks beautiful. Her dress sparkles and she’s smiling widely as she takes the corsage and he takes her hand like he’s supposed to. But on the inside, he’s freaking out.

What do I do what do I do what do I do what do I do what the fuck do I do –

“I’ll drive you two there.” Mr. Toomes’s voice breaks through Mark’s swirling thoughts, turning them into a pool of existential dread. “I’ve got a flight in two hours, but I think I can spare the time to send my daughter off.”

“W-where’s your flight, sir?” Mark asks, hoping he sounds politely interested and not deathly afraid.

“New Jersey.” Mr. Toomes smiles at him. “I’m a parts collector, see, so I’m going off to inspect a new shipment.”

Alarm bells start ringing in Mark’s head. “I see,” he says faintly.

He’s pretty sure he’s sweating as he enters the car. Lia goes on her phone, still holding his hand, and smiles at him. He tries to smile back.

“So, Mark, Lia tells me you’re pretty smart.” Mr. Toomes smiles into the rearview mirror. “Considering you go to Midtown, that must be a pretty big compliment, huh?”

“He’s seriously smart, Dad.” Lia smiles back. “He’s probably going to be valedictorian.”

Mark laughs nervously. “Well, there’s still some competition…”

“Oh, hush.” She squeezes his hand. “He’s the best at physics on the AcaDec team, and he works in Professor Tuan’s lab after school! You know, the lab at… was it NYU?”

Mark’s eyes go wide. He knows he spoke during the confrontation at the university, but until now, vulture man hasn’t connected the dots yet. Maybe he just didn’t recognize Mark’s voice.

“This is the vulture dude?”

He winces.

Please don’t make the connection, please don’t make the connection, please…

His stomach plummets as Mr. Toomes’s eyes narrow. “Really? NYU? What do you do?”

“Oh, um, I help Professor Tuan build things, test material strength, write some simulation programs…” he trails off. “Not much.”

“Oh, shut up!” Lia starts talking again, but Mark can’t even think properly. Terror blurs his vision and fills his mind.

What should he do?

He told you he was going to give all of this up. He told you he didn’t want to die because of this mess. But there’s a clear lead right in front of him, the guy definitely recognizes him, and if he doesn’t do something tonight, this new shipment of whatever it is will probably escalate things to a whole new level.

Dimly, he registers the fact that Mr. Toomes has pulled up in front of the school. “Lia, darling, you go on first. I want to have a little talk with Mark here before I let him go.”

Mark feels sick.

Lia just rolls her eyes, oblivious to the turmoil occurring in his mind. “Don’t roast my date, Dad,” she warns playfully.

“I won’t.” He laughs, letting her kiss his cheek. “Now run along.”

Lia’s dad’s eyes turn blank immediately after the car door slams closed. Slowly, he turns around to face Mark.

The coldness radiating off his expression freezes Mark in place.

“Does she know?”

Mark almost squeaks. “Know… what?”

“So she doesn’t.” Mr. Toomes nods. “That’s good. Good boy.”

That shakes him to the core.

“I thought I knew your voice.” The man smirks slightly. “It’s all right. I’ve got a few secrets of my own. And I’ll tell you one thing – everything I’ve ever done was for my family. Every. Single. Thing.”

Outwardly, Mark doesn’t change his expression. Internally, he finds his resolve hardening.

How is selling illegal weapons something to do for your family? How is making crime even more prevalent something to do for your family? How is threatening to kill two sixteen-year-old kids something to do for your family?

If Toomes wasn’t the leader of this operation, Mark might back down. But his fancy house? His clear wealth?

That doesn’t give him much in Mark’s book.

“Lia likes you a lot. Likes Spiderman and Spiderwoman too, or whatever you and your little friend call yourselves.” He smirks again. “She’s my daughter. I love her. So for that, I’ll cut you a deal.”

Mark stays silent.

“You walk through those doors. You forget all of this ever happened. You and your buddy Spiderwoman never interfere with my business ever again.” His eyes narrow. “Or I will find every single person you hold dear and kill them in front of you.”

Silence.

“That’s how far I’ll go to protect my family.” Mr. Toomes smiles again, but it’s not a pleasant one.

More silence.

“Hey. I just saved your life.” His voice takes on a sharper edge. “What do you say?”

Mark swallows. “Thank you,” he mutters.

“You’re welcome.” The smile comes back, wolfish this time. “Now you go in there and show my daughter a good time.” He chuckles slightly. “Just not too good of a time.”

Mark nods. He opens the door, steps outside, and closes it.

He leaves his phone in the backseat.

. . . . .

You’re in the corner with Yeri, waiting for Jihyo and Daniel, when Lia walks through the door. Your eyes narrow.

“Where’s Mark?” Yeri expresses your question for you.

A barbed insult rises on your tongue, but you swallow it. Mark, whatever he said to you and you said to him, isn’t a bad person. He wouldn’t leave his date hanging. And sure enough, a few minutes later, he walks in too.

Only he doesn’t head for Lia.

His eyes search the room, clearly looking for someone else even though Lia’s almost directly in front of him. They settle on you, and he immediately starts walking – almost running – over.

“Why’s he coming here?” Yeri mutters. Annoyance starts building up in your chest as well, until Mark gets close enough for you to see the panicked but resolute expression on his face.

“Y/N,” he breathes once he reaches you. “Y/N, please, can we talk?”

The petty part of you wants to say no, but the rational part of you pushes it back. Mark looks like he’s about to have a heart attack. You’ve only ever seen him like this before when he’s full-on panicking.

Like that first anniversary of his uncle’s death.

You nod. “Yeah, sure. Let’s go. Now.”

Yeri makes a noise of concern in her throat, but you flash her a quick smile. “It’s fine, Yeri. Have fun with Jihyo and Daniel, all right? I’ll find you.”

You have a feeling you won’t.

Mark all but drags you out of the decorated cafeteria and into an empty, dark hallway. “Mark?” You grab his wrist, forcing him to turn around. “Mark, what’s wrong?”

“Lia’s dad is vulture man.”

Your knees go weak. “Run that by me one more time.”

“Lia’s dad is vulture man,” Mark says again, looking more and more panicked by the second. “He drove us here and when Lia mentioned I work with Tuan, he made the connection. He heard me talk that night with the explosions, remember?”

You do. All too well.

“He let me go if I promised not to say anything and now he’s going to pick up a fucking shipment somewhere in New Jersey and I left my phone in his backseat so one of us could stay behind and track it –”

You cut Mark off before he starts hyperventilating. “Haechan.”

“What? What does Haechan –”

“He came over one day and accidentally saw my outfit,” you explain. “He knows, Mark.”

Mark just takes it without further explanation. That’s how you know how frazzled he is. “Okay, so –”

You’re already calling him. Haechan picks up after two rings. “Y/N?”

“Come to the hallway just behind the cafeteria.” You hang up.

Haechan appears a minute later, looking extremely ruffled. “What’s going on?”

“Go to the library. Disable the cameras. Track Mark’s phone. We’re going after vulture man.”

“Wait, what –”

“Go!” you snap.

He goes.

“You keep your suit at school, right?” You don’t wait for an answer, just start sprinting down the halls. “Go get it and meet me at the back exit.”

Five minutes later, you’ve stripped out of your dress and are pulling on your mask as you race outside. Mark’s already there. You call Haechan. “Where’s Mark’s phone?”

“On 116th, heading north.” A keyboard clacks in the background. “If you go now, you can catch him. Traffic’s a bitch.”

Mark looks at you. You look at him.

Together, you swing onto the school rooftop and start running.

. . .

After fifteen minutes of nonstop sprinting and swinging and cursing when Haechan tells you to change directions, Mark finally spots the tail of the car. “There!” he yells, pointing to the streets as it takes a sharp turn and disappears.

Something doesn’t feel right. That road doesn’t go to the airport.

In fact, now that you think of it, you’ve been going in the complete opposite direction this entire time.

“The fuck?” you yell, leaping onto a streetlight. “That’s not the way to the airport! Haechan! Where’s he headed?”

“Don’t fucking know!” Haechan hisses into the phone. “Just keep going or you’ll lose him!”

You lose the car five minutes later. Haechan gets you back on track after five more. Fifteen excruciating minutes pass before Haechan finally says the car’s stopped.

“He’s at the old industrial park! You know, the one with the building that’s abandoned and shit? The one that everyone thinks is haunted?”

“Mark!” you screech above the noise of traffic. “I thought you said he was going to New Jersey!”

“I don’t fucking know! That’s what he told me! Obviously he lied!” Mark yells, still sprinting. Cursing under your breath, you follow.

Finally, you can see the park up ahead. The last few steps you take are more like stumbling than running. You almost collapse onto the ground right then and there.

“Okay,” Mark gasps, picking up the phone you’ve dropped. “We’re good, Haechan. Thanks. Just –” he wheezes – “be ready in case we call again.”

“Got it.” Haechan coughs slightly. “Be careful.”

The line goes dead.

The abandoned building looms ahead, dark and foreboding. You swallow.

“Let’s go.”

. . . . .

There’s a very clear reason why everyone thinks this industrial park is haunted. One: it looks haunted. Two: it used to house a very dangerous, non-law-abiding factory, and multiple people died in it. Three: it fucking looks haunted.

When Mark was younger, someone once dared him to come here and stay in the building alone for ten minutes. He didn’t take it, because he was a coward, but he also wasn’t stupid.

Now he’s just as much of a coward, but he’s obtained the stupid. Which is why he’s about to walk into the building that no one willingly goes into because they’re not stupid.

“I’ll go first,” he whispers. “It’ll be better if he thinks I’m alone.”

You nod. “I’ll be on the ceiling.”

Mark steps into the abandoned factory without you by his side. He can hear you stepping quietly above, which comforts him slightly, but it’s still strange to be walking through the empty halls all on his own. Your outline is barely visible to him in the dark.

The inside actually looks clean. Clearly, Lia’s dad has been using this place for some time. Parts and pieces of machinery litter tables spread out between several rooms. Some of them glow.

Mark moves faster. Hopefully he hasn’t left yet, hopefully he’s still here…

He rounds one more corner and turns into a humongous empty room. At the other end, Toomes stands, back to Mark, tinkering with something on another table.

Web strands streak out of the shooter on Mark’s wrist, pinning Toomes’s leg to the floor. The man looks around, barely fazed, and sighs. “Hey, Mark. Didn’t hear you come in.”

“It’s over,” Mark calls, stepping forward. “I’ve got you.”

Despite his words, though, he feels he couldn’t be further from the truth.

“You know, Mark, I really do admire your grit and perseverance.” Toomes turns fully, leaning against the table. “I see why Lia likes you. Gotta admit, at first, I kind of thought, ‘really?’ But I see it now.”

“Why would you do this to her?” Mark presses.

Toomes chuckles. “To her? On the contrary, young man, I’ve done all of this for her.”

Sure.

He must sense the nonplussed look on Mark’s face, even behind the mask, because he just sighs. “Mark. Listen. You’re too young. You don’t know how the world works.”

“Yeah, but I do understand that selling high-powered weapons made of alien materials that could potentially do more harm to citizens than a crate of machine guns combined is wrong,” Mark snaps.

“How do you think people like Stark paid for their shit? Their toys?” Toomes gestures broadly with one hand. “Those people up there, they don’t care about the underdogs like you and me. We clean their messes, fight their wars, and what do they do? They’re powerful. They just do whatever they want. They don’t care about us.” He sighs again. “That’s just how it is.”

Real anger starts to boil in Mark’s stomach. “Do not lump me with you,” he snarls. “On the contrary, I do know what you’re talking about. My uncle died when someone shot him in the stomach, and no one could find the shooter to bring him to justice. Just closed the investigation and let it rot. My best friend’s parents died after some drunk rich kid crashed their car. Daddy just paid off the courts, let the kid go free on probation. You think I don’t know how the world works?” He heaves in a breath. “The difference is, we – ” he catches himself before revealing he isn’t alone – “I’m trying to make it a better place. You’re so rotten that you think making the world worse is setting things right.”

Silence.

Mark sighs. “Why are you telling me all of this, anyway?”

“Because I want you to understand.” His eyes flicker upwards, and he smirks. “Oh, and I needed a bit of time to get her airborne.”

Her?

There’s a whizzing noise, and then you yell. A loud crunch sounds before Mark can even blink, and then you’re landing on the floor amidst a cloud of concrete dust.

“Should call her Raid, huh?” Toomes pats the flying metal device affectionately. “Pretty good at flushing out the roaches.”

“The only roach here is you,” you spit, standing up. “And the difference is that Raid kills.”

Toomes just lets the thing go.

The next few seconds are a blur. The device moves faster than he ever imagined anything could. Pillars crunch as it zooms through concrete. React or die – there’s no time to even think.

“I’m sorry, Mark.” Toomes’s voice carries through the room.

“The fuck are you talking about?” Mark yells. “It hasn’t even touched us!”

“True.” Toomes shrugs. “Then again, it wasn’t really trying to.”

Several more pillars crunch. Mark’s danger sense goes off like nuts.

Concrete blocks start crashing down all around him.

“If you get out of here, tell Mr. Stark I said hello,” Toomes laughs.

The last thing Mark hears is his voice screaming your name.

. . . . .

Trapped under several chunks of concrete, the first coherent thought that runs through your mind is where is Mark.

Then: how do I get out of here.

Panic bubbles in your chest when you finally register that concrete blocks have you encased on all sides. One pins your legs down. Two more flank your sides. Another rests on top of the others, giving you just enough air to breath but not nearly enough to move. A last block pretty much locks your head in.

You’re fully trapped.

Hysteria builds in your throat. You breathe faster. “Mark?” you yell as loud as you can. “Mark?” Your words turn to dry, choked sobs as you struggle underneath the blocks. “Anyone! Someone, help – Mark? MARK!”

There’s no reply.

You lie there for an untold amount of time, trying to calm your breathing. A few seconds? A few minutes? An hour? You don’t know. All you can think of is that you need to get out of here.

Come hell or high water, you’re finding Mark.

And then you’re going to hunt a vulture down.

Another deep breath. And then another. Your legs are pinned to the ground, not hard enough to break them – another block must be in the path of the more immediate one – but not enough for any movement at all. There’s a little space between your chest and the block above it, though.

You push.

The block shifts.

You push harder.

It shifts some more.

You scream as you shove your hands upward with all of your remaining energy. There’s a loud crumbling noise, a rush of dust that makes you cough and sneeze, and then your torso is free.

Moving the block on your legs is easier, though you’re far more drained than before. Throwing off the other concrete chunks, you stand up and start screaming Mark’s name again.

Time passes far too quickly and far too slowly as you stumble through the mess of rubble, hoarsely shouting for Mark. At some point, the shouts devolve into loud sobs and pleas and prayers to whatever god is listening to please, please help me find my best friend, I can’t live without him, I’m sorry for everything I thought about him these past few weeks, I love him and I want him back, please –

“Mark!” you scream, ready to sink to your knees with exhaustion. “Mark, please!”

You can’t live without him. You can’t. He pulls you from the earth when you get too jaded, softens your rough edges, smooths you into something beautiful that you wouldn’t be without him.

He can’t die.

“Y/N?”

It’s faint, but it’s there. You whip around in that direction, stepping lightly around the rubble to not bring more blocks down on him. “Mark?” you call.

“Here!”

You zero in on a pile of slightly moving blocks. With a chest nearly bursting with relief, you race over and start shoving them away. Slowly, Mark’s face becomes visible beneath a cloud of dust.

The sound of coughing never sounded more like a blessing in your entire life.

“Mark,” you sob, pulling your friend out of the mess. “Mark, holy fuck, I’m so sorry – I shouldn’t have yelled at you about pursuing this – I’m so fucking stupid, I thought you died –”

“Y/N,” he whispers hoarsely, wrapping his trembling arms around you. “Y/N, you’re here.”

He sounds so disbelieving, like he thought you were dead or dying. Maybe he still thinks that. It breaks your heart. “I’m here, Mark.” You bury your face in his shoulder. “I’m here.”

For several seconds, the two of you just sit there, exhausted, crying into each other’s necks. “I’m sorry,” Mark finally mumbles into your skin. “I shouldn’t have lied. I shouldn’t have pushed you away. I’m so sorry.”

You let out a choked laugh. “I’m sorry for overreacting. Sorry for yelling about you not wanting to continue – just fucking look where this got us.”

Mark pulls away. “No, don’t apologize for that.” He wipes his eyes, looking determined. “We’re alive. We’ve got Toomes.” You follow his gaze to an empty billboard just beyond the rubble. Metal wings, pressed together like a vulture’s, glimmer in the city lights. “We’re going to finish this.”

“You sure?” Not that you don’t want to. You’re itching to push that stupid scavenger off of a cliff, but you worry about Mark’s injuries. “You’re not hurt or anything?”

“No more than you.” Mark sets his jaw. “Let’s do this.”

You nod. “What was the last thing Toomes said? Something about Stark?”

Mark bites his lip. “Yeah. Something about telling Stark hello…” His eyes widen. “Isn’t Stark Industries moving a lot of stuff to the Avengers compound?”

Your heart stops. It’s all the news has been talking about for the past few weeks, how Stark is moving business to the Avengers headquarters. Stark Industries stock has been going nuts, apparently. You never remembered the exact date because you didn’t care, but…

“Today’s moving day,” you say grimly. You pat the pocket of your pants, surprised to see that your phone is still there in one piece. A quick text to Haechan tells him to track your phone, if he can.

Mark swallows, looking at the vulture glinting on the billboard. “Let’s go.”

. . . . .

The two of you stumble out of all the rubble just as the vulture is getting ready for takeoff.

A desperate shot of fluid and a leap gets Mark onto the billboard. Another string of webbing attaches him to one of the vulture wings. You stick yourself to the other.

Only pure instinct keeps Mark holding tight to the webbing, praying to the heavens that your synthetic webs will stay strong. He prays that you can hold on. He prays that Toomes won’t notice the two of you dragging along behind him as the webbing torturously swings him around. He forces himself not to look down, even as Toomes flies up higher and higher past skyscrapers and low-hanging clouds.

Mark looks over slightly, just to check on how you’re doing. Even in the dark, he can tell your eyes are squeezed completely shut, fingers gripping your string of webs as tightly as possible. Your lips are pressed together. Probably so you don’t scream.

Good idea. Mark shuts his mouth and looks ahead.

Then he sees the thing that Toomes is aiming for.

A huge jet looms ahead. To anyone down below, it would look like just like the passing clouds – there’s a sort of camouflage on it. But Mark’s close enough to see the outline of the plane, to notice the clear Stark seal on one wing.

His heart plummets even lower, if possible.

Then there’s no time to think because the vulture is landing and Mark is being bumped against the side of the plane and ow, this fucking hurts, this is such a mess –

A purple rectangle glows farther ahead on the belly of the jet. Mark registers you lashing out another string of webbing onto the plane as Toomes disappears into the glowing patch.

He’s inside the plane.

Mark starts sliding backward before he can fully process that thought. He thinks he hears you scream his name but he doesn’t have time to register it. His heart races as he scrabbles awkwardly on the underside of the plane until a lucky shot from his web shooter latches him into place.

And he doesn’t even have the time to take a fucking breath because Toomes is inside the plane and now he has to find a way to fuck around with the plane to take it down. The two of you are going to have to try to get the vulture’s attention.

Somehow, Mark finds himself splayed upside down on the bottom of plane. His palms stick to the jet – he’s never going to take being sticky for granted now – but his feet are scrambling. He finds a foothold in a tile or a bar or something and sighs in relief.

You yell something that’s garbled by the wind. “What?” Mark shouts.

“KICK!”

Without bothering to question you, he does.

His foothold disappears. Mark screams, curses, then steadies himself again. Why did you…?

Toomes climbs out of the purple patch, spitting mad.

Oh, fuck. Whatever his foothold was, it must have disappeared through the purple opening when he kicked it.

Well, it got the vulture’s attention, all right.

Wings shoot past Mark with blinding speed, nearly taking his scalp off. He ducks just in time, but when he lifts his head again, the vulture’s picked you up and is speeding off.

“NO!”

Mark raises an arm, not caring how precarious his position is, and shoots a web into the vulture’s wings.

It stops Toomes, especially after you shoot your own web onto one of the plane’s engines, causing his momentum to slam him backward into the plane right next to said engine.

And then you fly into the engine itself.

. . . . .

You can feel the engine literally trying to tear your clothes apart. One web keeps the engine far enough away that it stops trying to eat your skin, but you can still feel the pure heat and energy radiating off of it.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck –

With a loud cracking noise that you can hear above the whipping wind, the engine begins splitting off from the rest of the plane, nearly taking you with it.

Your anxious scrabbling rewards you with one hand on the edge of the plane, but the engine’s still trailing behind.

An idea springs into your mind. A plane is more likely to go down without an engine, and most of Stark’s planes don’t have human pilots.

If you can get the plane to crash…

Your legs slam down once, twice, three times, breaking the engine off completely. You haul yourself into a more stable position, ducking just in time for Toomes to come racing over your head.

Mark shouts something unintelligible. Vulture wings race over to attack him instead. You shoot webs wildly, trying to immobilize the wings, to hold you to the plane, to do something, anything.

One of the vulture wings sinks into the top of the plane.

“Those things were sharp?” you yell, unable to contain your thoughts anymore.

“The plane’s heading –” wind whistles as Mark shouts – “city!”

With wide eyes, you catch on. The plane is literally on course to crash into the buildings just off the beach.

Fuck fuck fuck how do we get it to land on the beach instead –

You lash out with another shot of web fluid, latching onto one of the plane’s wings. “PULL!” you shriek, motioning wildly for Mark to do the same.

Turn turn fucking turn PLEASE turn –

And somehow, as the jet plummets down so fast you can feel it scraping the tops of the roller coasters and buildings lining the beach’s pier, the two of you pull it off course enough to crash land on the empty beach.

You slam onto the sand. Your head throbs. Webbing is still attaching you to the plane.

Everything’s on fire. You can’t breathe. Slowly, with trembling fingers, you pull off your mask, beyond caring if Toomes sees who you are. He already knows Mark. At least he doesn’t know your name.

Air comes a bit easier then, even if the smoke finds a quicker path to your lungs too. Coughs rack your body and you turn to your side, trembling.

“God, what the fuck,” you mumble. Everything sounds muffled, like you’re underwater. Your sit up slowly. A small, dark lump swims into your vision.

Mark.

Something gets you to stand fully and start wobbling towards your best friend. By some fucking miracle, he starts to stir, sitting up just as you fall to the sand next to him.

There’s a second of silence.

Then vulture wings snap out and toss the two of you back into the air.

Toomes stands as you slam back into the sand, barely fazed, with a manic smile on his face. “Hey, Marcus and friends,” he sneers.

“Friends shouldn’t be plural,” you mumble. “I’m only one friend.”

Fast. He moves too fast. You barely lurch out of the way of his leap in time.

Toomes flies out of reach. Mark cries out, snapping out a string of webbing to bring him back to earth.

Mistake. Toomes lets the momentum bring him down.

And starts punching Mark in the face.

A guttural scream rips from your throat – literally rips, it feels like your throat has been torn apart and remade with blood and smoke and ash – and you launch into the air with some fucking hidden reservoir of strength fueled by pure rage to knock the metal-winged man over. Mark groans, rolling out of the way, only for the wings to pick him up again and take him to the sky.

And then he drops.

“MARK!”

You scramble under your best friend’s path, hands up as though you’re saying a prayer. Mark lands on you hard and maybe something snaps, but you don’t care because he’s breathing, his eyes are open, and he’s not dead.

But vulture man decides to play with you next. Before you can even blink, you’re being tossed up, landing hard between the sharp metal wings. He plucks you out of the air as you begin to fall and slams you back onto the earth.

Sharp pain claws through your chest and you just want to give up and lie down forever. But Mark is rolling away, somehow keeping out of reach of the winged man, and you pick yourself up so he doesn’t have to do it alone.

Two claw-like contraptions jet out from the engine on Toomes’s back, snagging both of you by your hoods. The neck of your hoodie digs into your throat.

Is this it?

Is he just gonna fuckin – you wheeze – fuckin watch us choke to death on fumes?

Apparently, he isn’t. He lets you go. You and Mark drop like stones.

“Pathetic.” Toomes stands over your bodies. You can’t see his face between his helmet and your blurred vision, but you know it must be twisted in that terrifying smirk. He takes off the helmet, laughs, and takes off, snatching up one of the less-battered boxes from the plane along the way.

That’s it.

You’ve failed.

You were too late.

You open your mouth to scream some fucking obscenities, but your voice dies when you hear the crackling. It’s not a good sort of crackling, like popcorn.

Electricity.

Mark raises his head and points. “He…” He coughs. “Going to explode.”

Blue sparks rise from the engine pack and shower off the metal wings, like a bizarre show of fireworks. And Mark, lovely selfless wonderful Mark, drags himself up and starts screaming.

“Wings!” he yells. “Your wing suit! Wing suit’s gonna explode!”

A jet of web fluid streaks from his shooter, pulling Toomes down. As Mark starts stumbling, Toomes pulling him along, you send out your own line of webbing. The two of you stand your ground with the last remnants of your strength.

“Time to go home, Marcus!” Toomes laughs wildly.

“I’M TRYING TO FUCKING SAVE YOU!” Mark screams. Tears streak down his face.

A sharp wingtip slices through your strings of webbing. You fall to the ground. From the sand, you can’t do anything but watch the disaster about to unfold.

It’s bizarrely beautiful. Purple-blue sparks rain down onto the beach, illuminating the sand and bits of the still ocean. Lightning arcs along the wings like a miniature, destructive storm.

Next to you, Mark tries to throw out more webbing. You can’t even find the energy to lift your arms. But his webbing misfires, lands on something else, flails in the air. It can’t reach Toomes, who’s now cackling wildly.

There’s an explosion. You’re thrown back further into the sand.

And then the vulture falls.

. . . . .

Mark knows how badly Toomes has hurt him. He knows how badly Toomes has hurt you. Cuts line his arms and face, there are bruises all over his body, and his head aches like it’s been smashed against a solid surface, which it has. You’re in at least the same condition, if not worse.

But he can’t just let the man die. He can stand trial, get life behind bars, but he can’t just die.

So from somewhere, he drags out a final burst of strength, and starts running through the fires to where the vulture fell. His feet fall unsteadily on the sand, but he keeps forcing them on.

Coughing sounds nearby. Mark looks over to see you following, head twisted to the side as you hack out cough after cough. He wants to tell you to go back and rest, but he knows you won’t.

Instead, he slows down for a second and takes your hand before forging on.

The wings have encased Toomes in a sort of shell. With your help, Mark shoves them off to get at the battered man lying beneath them. He grabs his chest. You grab his legs. Together, you carry him off to another part of the beach.

The three of you collapse, groaning and coughing and wheezing on the sand. Mark stares at the black night, stars invisible from light pollution.

Nothing feels real. The sand under his hands glitters ominously in the firelight. The ocean shimmers like a threat. Toomes hacks and coughs, each sound scarier than the last.

And then something warm, something dirty and rough and soft, lands on his hand. Your fingers curl around his palm and squeeze lightly.

Oh.

That feels real.

Your touch grounds him, keeps his thoughts from floating away and disappearing into the void of the sky. He wants more of it. He wants to pull you close, feel your body against his, real, solid, whole, keeping him planted on the earth. But he doesn’t have the strength to, so he just takes what he can from your warm touch.

Mark doesn’t know how long the three of you just lie on the sand. He does know that at some point, you and him gain enough strength to sit up and then stand. You look at Toomes, who stares back, unseeing.

“It’s over,” you mumble, almost staggering into Mark’s side. “We’re done.”

He nods. “Just one more thing.”

. . . . .

Pictures in newspaper articles show up the next day of Toomes, webbed up and immobilized against a still-standing box from the wreckage of Tony Stark’s plane. In most, the photographer has taken great care to keep the ragged note, stuck on Toomes’s forehead, clear in the frame.

The note is messy, written in trembling handwriting on the back of what looks like an inventory sheet. Black soot stains the page, but the writing is still visible.

FOUND: flying vulture dude trying to steal alien weapons and stuff

- Spiderman and Silk (sorry about the plane)

You don’t care much for it. The day after homecoming is Saturday, which you spend curled up in your bed. At some point, after you’ve finally gained the strength to shower off all the grime and blood and sweat, Johnny makes a joke about how hard you must’ve gone that night. Thankfully, you don’t have many cuts on your face. They’re all hidden under layers of clothing. His eyes don’t linger too long on anything, so you feel a bit safer.

But, Jesus Christ, if only he knew.

By Monday, you feel refreshed enough to head back to school. Johnny doesn’t have an abnormally late shift that day, so you give him a hug before you leave. If it’s a little tighter than normal, he doesn’t say anything, just kisses your head and hugs you back.

You spot Lia in the hallway, pulling stuff out of her locker. Her eyes are puffy and red. Guilt rises in your stomach and threatens to swallow you whole.

Even though Toomes tried to kill you, he was still her father. And now that she knows what he’s done…

That can’t be easy.

“Lia,” you call, walking over cautiously. She turns her head and gives you a weak smile.

“Hey.”

“I…” You shuffle your feet. “I heard what happened. I’m really so sorry. I can’t imagine how you’re feeling right now.”

You are sorry. But Lia won’t take it in the way you mean. After all, she doesn’t know that you’re one of the two vigilantes who took her father down.

Lia’s smile turns bitter. “Yeah. Well, we’re moving to Oregon. Mom says it’s nice.” She rolls her eyes. “I think –” she chokes – “I think Dad doesn’t want us here during the trial.”

More guilt washes over your entire body. You can’t think of what to say.

“Look, I know we don’t know each other very well.” You swallow. “But if there’s ever anything I can do to help, please just know that you can reach out.”

Lia looks at you. Scrutinizes you through puffy, narrowed eyes. “You know, I really did think that the night of homecoming, you and Mark snuck off together.”

What?

“Oh my god, no.” You shake your head wildly. “No, no, no. That didn’t happen, I swear –”

Well, it kind of did. Just not in the way she thinks.

“Yeah, I know.” Lia smiles half-heartedly. “Mark already told me. He called, after. His aunt had an emergency, you were the only one he could reach out to in the moment…” She trails off.

It’s a lie. Obviously. You just nod, heart sinking.

“But yeah.” Lia looks at you steadily. “He’s a good guy.”

You nod, throat tight. “Yeah.”

“I thought he might’ve actually liked me, but…” She wipes her eyes. “It’s pretty clear who he really does.”

At that, your eyebrows furrow. “Lia, I promise you that he really did like you.”

“Maybe. Just not as much as he or I thought.” She gives you one last smile. “Take care of him.”

You really don’t have the mental energy to process everything behind that statement, so you just smile slightly. “I will.”

Lia reaches out for a hug. You accept. It isn’t super awkward, like you would’ve thought. She trembles slightly in your hold and you pat her back.

“Good luck,” you whisper.

She pulls away. “Thanks.”

66 notes · View notes

imanativeofswlondondahling · 4 years

Text

Becoming A Stark? (13) Peter Parker x Stark! femReader

Word Count: 2881

Warning: Swearing, because it’s me lol

Author’s Note: Let me know if you want to be tagged on future chapters of this:) Enjoy!

Chapter One || Previous Chapter || Master List

Pepper promised not to show your dad the permission slip. You didn’t want him to appear out of nowhere during the field trip and ruin everything. The fact that your name on the building wasn’t enough of a permission slip alone apparently, so that was where Pepper came into everything. You had her sign the slip and then turned it into Mr. Shah.

“So the Avengers won’t be there when we visit?” Betty asks you as you and Astrid walk towards the bus with her.

“If you’re asking if Bruce will be there, the answer is no. I haven’t seen him since basically you guys came over for dinner that first time. He’s off world or something.” You file into the back of the bus, before you see that it’s not only your class getting on the bus. “Who’s the other class that’s joining us?”

“Mr. Harrington- Teaches junior sciences and decathlon. I think it’s the decathlon team that’s coming with though. Yeah, has to be. Look there’s Liz!” Betty waves to Liz through the window. Decathlon, that means…

“Fancy meeting you here Y/N.” Peter’s voice comes from the seat in front of you. “Stark Industries? Didn’t think you would even be interested in visiting.”

“I thought it would be an enrichment opportunity. See what the public sees Parker.” You smirk at him. “What about you? You going to give the tour?” Before he can respond, a voice from a few seats in front of him calls towards him.

“Penis Parker, you harassing Y/N Stark? Just wait until we get to the SI and her dad sees that you follow her around like a lost puppy. He won’t want trash near her. He’ll want people of his own caliber near her.”

“Just ignore him.” Peter pleads softly. He should have guessed that a Stark doesn’t walk away from a problem though.

“Eugine right?” You ignore the fact that everyone calls him Flash. He looks up at being addressed by a Stark. “I don’t think my dad would appreciate you calling his personal intern Penis. But I can check with him. In the meanwhile, I’d like to keep garbage away from me. And by that, I mean you.” Flash goes quiet and turns around in his seat.

“That probably will just make him worse.” Peter says, looking over his seat as he talks to you.

“And if it does, I’ll call a few Avengers to deal with him. Maybe I’ll get Dad to call Spider-Man. I hear Eugine is a huge fan. Wouldn’t it be great to see him get a talking to from him?”

“Sure, but I don’t think Spider-Man does that kind of thing.” The kid sitting next to Peter glances at him, trying to get an answer from him that you don’t understand.

“I’m Y/N.” You offer a hand to him, trying to figure out who this other kid is.

“Ned. I know who you are. You’re like all Peter talks about. Well like besides Mr. Stark and like-” Peter’s hand goes over Ned’s mouth.

“That’s not at all true. And I think you’ve said enough Ned.”

“I’d love to hear more.” You say with a smirk. Peter talks about you? “What else does he say?” Peter shakes his head at Ned.

“Is it true that you know the Avengers?” Ned changes the subject.

“Yeah? They lived at the tower with us for a while. Then they didn’t. Now we don’t live at the tower.�� You explain with a shrug.

“So who’s the best Avenger?”

“Don’t I have to say Iron Man by default?”

“No. You could say anyone. Like Black Widow, or Spider-Man, or even Falcon.”

“Spider-Man isn’t an Avenger. He works on his own?” You say, the question in your voice.

“Really? I thought he joined the Avengers from time to time, but maybe I heard wrong. You know news can be made up. Who’s to say what’s true and what’s not these days?” Peter elbows Ned to try and get him to shut up.

“I haven’t heard anything from the Avengers about him joining. I teased my dad that Spider-Man would yeet him off a building. Spider-Man is probably too cool to be an Avenger anyway.”

“I think Spider-Man would join the Avengers if given the chance.” Peter throws out quickly.

“I’ll tell my dad you think so.”

“Is your dad going to join the tour?” Astrid asks from across the aisle.

“God I hope not. I had Pepper sign the permission slip so that I wouldn’t have to tell him I was coming.”

“Why would him knowing you’re coming to the tower be a bad thing?” Betty asks.

“Because, you know how bad he can be when you guys just come over for dinner? Well imagine him doing that in front of our entire class plus the decathlon team. It would be awful.” You turn to look Peter in the eyes. “If you text him and tell him we’re coming I swear I will end our Snapchat streak.”

Peter throws his hands up. “I didn’t mention it. I honestly was more worried about him embarrassing me if he knew I was coming and I’m not even his kid.”

“Good.” Your bus pulls up in front of the building you had called home until you had moved into the brownstone in Queens. As you file off the bus, a very familiar voice gives instructions.

“Everyone will need to wear their visitor badges at all times. At the end of the tour you will return them. So do not lose them. Also you will go through the scanners before you are able to enter the upper floors.” Happy hasn’t spotted you or Peter near the back of the group after getting off the bus in front of the tower.

“Do you think I get a visitor badge?” You whisper to Peter.

“I hope so. Or else Happy might have to kick you from the building.” Peter whispers back.

“That would be the best thing for the paparazzi to see. Head of Security kicks Tony Stark’s child out of SI.” You say with a laugh. “Pepper would never get home tonight having to deal with that press.”

“Ok, who are our two trouble makers in the back who aren’t paying attention?” Happy’s voice raises and you and Peter are suddenly the center of attention. “Should have guessed it. You two better have your badges, I only have visitor badges for non staff and family.”

“Damn Happy I thought I’d get to be a visitor.”

“Your name is on the building kid. You don’t get to be a visitor.” Happy kids with a smile then returns to his no nonsense face. “Just like airport security. Bags and anything in your pockets go through the scanners. Then you pass through the metal detectors. Peter, Y/N- go through your normal entrance.” There is a separate scanner for those who have special clearance, limited to the Avengers, Pepper, Happy, you, and a few others that you don’t know of off the top of your head. It’s a quick body scanner done by FRIDAY as you enter through a door. Just to appease Happy you clip the badge that you never really need to wear since you are never really at the tower onto the bottom of your forest green cardigan. Peter has pulled his out too and clips it to his decathlon blazer.

“Y/N, Peter. Shouldn’t you be at school?” FRIDAY’s voice speaks as you both walk through the scanner.

“Field trip FRI.” You use your dad’s nickname for FRIDAY, not even realizing you did. You walk over to meet back with the group, hoping that this field trip goes off without a hitch.

Up on the sixty seventh floor, Tony is jamming out to Shoot to Thrill by AC/DC as it plays off of your playlist that he’s grown to just ignore the name of it. He’s learned that Tony Stark Can Rot is your upbeat playlist while I Hate My Life is your more slow music. But both have good music on them, ignoring the couple of Taylor Swift songs that shuffle on every now and then. And it makes him feel closer to you, so he’s grown used to playing one of the two while he works, especially when you’re at school. On his datapad, he’s running the numbers for a new attempt at the closed loop system. He wants to nail this for you. But a couple of the components just aren’t working.

“Boss, Y/N is 75 and dropping.”

“Text her and see if she’s correcting.” When you’re at school, there’s not too much he can do but wait for a response.

“She’s on the 34th floor. Should I have someone take her a snack?”

“Y/N is here? At the tower? But it’s a school day?”

“She and Peter are on a field trip.” Both his kids are here and no one told him? Well, maybe a break would be better right now.

“I’ll take her a snack.”

“Here we have…” You can’t fully focus on the voice speaking in front of you. You know you should check your blood sugar. The lack of focus usually means you’re either dropping low or running really high. With all the walking around the tower, your bet is dropping.

“You ok?” Peter asks from next to you. Though he can’t tell anyone, his spider sense is on high alert. And you’re not looking too good. Your face is pale and your eyes don’t seem to be focusing. Plus your hands seem to be shaking ever so slightly. You almost seem to be shifting in your spot and he wants to reach out and grab you.

“I got this one kid.” A very familiar voice speaks from behind the two of you, but you don’t even react to it.

“Mr. Stark I think she’s low.” Peter starts to say but Tony wraps an arm around you and starts to lead you to a chair.

“I know. FRIDAY told me.” Betty hears Tony’s voice from the middle of the group and pulls Astrid towards it.

“Is Y/N ok?”

“‘M fine.” You slur ever so slight. Tony screws the cap off the apple juice he grabbed from the kitchen on his way down here.

“She’s just low. She’ll be fine as soon as she has some sugar.” He offers you the open juice. Your hand reaches to take it, but he even notices the shaking as you try to take it. “Bambina, you’re ok. You just need to drink.” You take a couple hesitant sips. “Why didn’t you treat already?”

“Didn’t feel it.”

“I know you don’t feel your lows. That's why you have Wallace.” Your hypo-unawareness was nothing of a secret.

“Didn’t feel Wallace.” You shrug as you drink some more juice.

“Is that Tony Stark?” A voice from the other side of the room says. Peter notes that it’s Flash, but says nothing, more worried about you. Tony and you don’t even hear it. However, Mr. Shah notices you sitting in the chair with Tony basically holding you.

“Is everything alright Y/N?” He asks, trying to not act like being around Tony Stark is as big of a deal as it is.

“‘M low.” You say.

“Drink some more. You’ll feel better if you do bambina.” Tony doesn’t even look up at Mr. Shah. He’s too focused in on you.

“Don’t want it.” Your stubbornness with your lows sneaks in.

“I know, but it’s either this or we head over to the medbay and Dr. Cho can give you an IV.”

“Fineeeeeeeee.” You draw out the last syllable as you force some more juice down.

“Mr. Stark, I’m Flash Thompson-”

“If you don’t get out of my face, Happy will escort you out of the tower before you can say Avengers.” Tony snaps, not caring who this kid is. Right now his only thought is getting your numbers high enough for you to be back to his normally sarcastic but loving kid. “FRI what’s Y/N’s number?”

“68 and dropping still.”

“Pete, run down the hall and grab something with carbs. Cookies, chips, soda, candy. Anything.”

“Of course M-Tony.” Peter would normally just call him Mr. Stark, but since Flash was just shut down, he wants to show him how close they are. Then he remembers what he was just asked and basically sprints down the hall to where SI keeps a bunch of snacks on hand. He grabs the first things he sees that are high carb- some chocolate chip cookies and a packet of Skittles. He also grabs a soda at the last second to be safe. Making his way back to where you sit, leaning against Tony’s shoulder he offers the snacks to you. “Which sounds better, cookies, skittles, or soda?”

“Death.” You mumble.

“Not an option on the table kiddo. So how about you take one of the three Pete offered?” You fling a hand out and snatch one of the three not really caring. “Mr. Shah, I’ll keep Peter here in case I need him to grab more things for Y/N, but I don’t want the rest of the group to lose out on their tour. We can catch up with you when Y/N is back up in range.”

“If you’re sure Mr. Stark.”

“It’s not the first time we’ve had to deal with stubborn blood sugars.” Tony says before turning his attention to the group as you munch on the cookies you don’t really want to eat. “Lilly, keep going with the tour. I’ll keep Peter and Y/N. They’ll catch up.”

“Sure Mr. Stark. Let’s continue on this way.” The actual intern leads the group on as Mr. Harrington, Mr. Shah and the rest of the students follow. Astrid and Betty’s eyes trail behind, watching Y/N, but they know your dad won’t let anything happen to you. After the group is out of the room, Tony’s attention stays on you, but his question turns to Peter.

“So I’m Tony now?”

“Uh not if you don’t want to be Mr. Stark.”

“No take backs. I heard it. The group heard it. Happy probably heard it down on the first floor. I just was wondering what changed.”

“Eugine.” You mumble over a mouthful of cookies.

“Who’s Eugine?” Tony asks you.

“Flash. Thompson. That kid that tried to introduce himself while Y/N was crashing.” Peter clarifies as you open the soda that your dad doesn’t allow in the house. Will he buy it if you’re in the city and crashing, sure. But will he stock it in the house? Never. However, after growing up around the sticky drink, you’ve missed the taste. “He doesn’t want to believe that I actually intern with you.”

“So calling me Tony?”

“You called me Pete. It felt right.”

“Well if it feels right, keep doing it.” Tony’s attention goes back to you. “How you feeling kiddo?”

“Like death microwaved over.”

“FRI what’s her number?”

“68 and stable.”

“Well that’s better than dropping still.” Tony says. He looks at the soda in your hand. “I think that’s probably not needed.” You hold it away from his outstretched hand.

“I’m still low.”

“That is full of crap. Let me get you a green juice or something?” You scrunch your face.

“I’ll pass. You already make me drink one at breakfast. I only get these when I’m low.” You say before taking another sip. Peter should be surprised, but the part of him that pays attention isn’t that surprised. He’s never seen soda around the Tower when you lived there or at the brownstone when he’s at the labs. “Do I really have to catch back up with the tour group? It’s actually kind of boring.” You ask.

“I can see if you can sit in with Pep. It would make more sense for you than going on the public tour anyway.”

“Why with Pepper? Can’t I just go chill out upstairs or something?”

“You’re supposed to take over the company one day. If I’m pulling you from the field trip, I’m going to make sure you’re still getting an educational day. At least if I leave you with Pepper, you’re still learning stuff.” You’re hesitant. Sure it’s years away from the day you have to make an actual decision, but you have no real plans to take over the company. But a day spent with Pepper sounds more fun than going on a tour that’s 100% science based anyway. “Or,” Your dad adds sensing some hesitation, “You can come work with me on some stuff.”

“Like in the lab?” You and Peter ask at the same time.

“That is where I work on stuff.”

“I would mess everything up.” You reply honestly.

“Can I come work?” Peter asks, hoping to get out of the tour he doesn’t need either.

“And take you away from learning about what SI is working on? No. Kid, I want to see what you think of what we’re working on. So let’s get you back with the group. Y/N, I’ll let Mr. what’s his name-”

“Mr. Shah.”

“Mr. Shah, know that I’m pulling you for official Stark business and then take you to Pep.”

Becoming A Stark Tag list: @persephonehemingway @iamaunicorn4704 @furiouspockettoad @daughter-of-stark @eternalharry @huntective-kyeo @riiis-stuff @sunnyoongles @cosmicqueenieb @sovereignparker @bbarnestan @teenwishes08 @iamthescarlettwitch

Permanent tag list: @wormonastringonastick

#peter parker #peter parker x stark!reader #peter parker x reader #peter parker fan fiction #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker fan fic #peter parker fanfic #Tony Stark #tony stark can't be dead if you just don't let yourself believe it #tony stark daughter #tony stark x daughter!reader #tony stark x daughter!you #Pepper Potts #mr harrington #betty brant #astrid #flash thompson #imanativeofswlondondahling #becoming a stark?

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i-lovethatforme · 3 years

Text

20 First Lines

Guidelines: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have fewer than 20, just list them all.) Choose your favourite opening line, tag some friends!

Thanks for tagging me! @hanuko, @forasecondtherewedwon & @machiavelien

My favourite opener is:

i mixed up telling you i love you

So the thing is - he’s in love.

Because let’s be real that is my brand.

I’m getting around to this really late so if you want to do it, please tag me!

Full list under the cut - loveyoubyex

1. i’m nothing but bad luck, baby

“Fuck.” Felicia grunts, her thighs burning with exertion - but Spider-Man is so close, his panting getting louder and louder, so she can’t stop.

2. anytime, anyplace, anywhere (call me)

Michelle doesn’t like being woken up in the middle of the night unless someone has food or they want to give her an orgasm - and the latter only works 60% of the time.

3. there’s no escape from death’s embrace

“Gwen - hey… I’m here okay.”

4. just a little bit of your heart

Felicia strolls along the floor of her penthouse apartment in her favourite outfit - nothing.

5. it smells like infidelity

Felicia sits in the chair, back straight, eyes falsely wide waiting for the interview to start.

6. to have and to fold

“I know, May… yeah, I will ask her for her number this time… no I won’t buy another pack of socks because I chickened out,” Peter grumbles into his phone.

7. what in carnation?

Michelle locks the door to her flower shop and pulls the shutters down with a smile on her face.

8. my (he)art is yours for the taking

“Eurgh,” Michelle groans out in frustration.

9. my love don’t cost a thing

He’s running up the stairs - praying that his appointment isn’t early so he can throw some more deodorant on and run a hand through his hair.

10. the years start coming and they don’t stop

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful young girl, the daughter of politicians.

11. i must be a snowflake, because i’ve fallen for you

“Thank you for doing this, Em.“

12. would you choose me if you had another choice?

Michelle walks in front of him slightly as they trail along the cold dark sidewalks of Queens - animatedly talking about how they need to wrap each other's stockings before Christmas eve.

13. just love me, love me

“What?!”

14. all i want for christmas is the end to the exploitation of the working class

“Maddie come on baby - there are only two more blocks and then you can sit down.”

15. i mixed up telling you i love you

So the thing is - he’s in love.

16. single and not prepared to mingle

Ned has been her best friend since junior year of high school so she doesn’t mind entertaining his various monthly parties.

17. call your name two, three times in a row

She’s not ecstatic at her find for the night.

18. about how the sun loved the moon

“Hey, Em.”

19. i’ll love you in my peaceful nights

She’s not sure how she was woken up by his heavy breathing knowing that usually, she’s a heavy sleeper - something in her body knew that he needed someone.

20. i’m surprised you’ve never been told before

Peter walks into the coffee shop late, obviously.

#me shortening my own titles #more likely than you think #jess shut the fuck up #if you see a comma out of place no you don't #it's an artistic style and i stand BY it #i wrote this out while on a video call who is surprised x

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lokissweater · 5 years

Text

Flower Boy

Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: At the end of every week, you find a different set of flowers resting on your windowsill, and you’re determined to find out who it is.

Warnings: fluff fluff fluff and like one curse word hehehe <3

Authors Note: thanks for all the feedback on Sticky Notes and Disneyland With Peter !! y’all really made my day LMAO

Word Count: 2,110

They were lilies this time, placed neatly on your open windowsill.

You couldn’t really remember exactly when you started to receive flowers, but it’s safe to say that it’s been going on for about a month, and you have no idea who it could be. You’ve received all kinds: lilac’s, carnation’s, poppy’s, sunflowers, and the list goes on.

At first you were creeped out. How did this person know where you live? And why was it only during the night? You lived in a two story apartment in Queens, the only way to reach your window is through climbing the fire escapes..

But as time went on, you grew to love the gesture instead of loathing it. You were a sweet person, and concluded that whoever was doing this must’ve been someone you knew.

You picked up the lilies and carefully placed them in a vase with water, swapping them out with the once beautiful roses you received last week. Like always, you walked to your window and leaned out to see if you could spot any source of movement, anything to pin point who it was.

But there was nothing, just the buzzing of cars and the chilly winter air hitting your skin.

Shivering, you rubbed your arms before leaning back. You’ll find out soon who it was, you were determined to. But for now, you smiled thinking about the sweet gesture and went to bed.

Monday soon rolled around, and as you sat in your seat waiting for the bell to ring, you wondered what breed of flowers you’d get this week.

“Don’t forget to submit your essays tonight!” Your teacher’s voice boomed over the bell as it rang, piles of kids ready to leave the classroom. As you reached the door, you bumped into someone accidentally and looked up.

It was Peter Parker.

“I’m sorry y/n!” He spluttered out quickly, squatting down to pick up the book you dropped off the floor. “I-I should’ve looked where I was going.”

His cheeks flushed as he peered up at you, shyly giving the item back. You smiled sweetly.

“It’s okay Pete, I wasn’t paying much attention either.”

His heart rate quickened at the little nickname you had for him.

“I’ll see you around?” You said, patting his rosy cheek gently before walking off, your touch sent him into a frenzy as he watched you walk away.

“Y-Yeah!” He called out, and you turned around to wave before disappearing from his view.

“That was hard to watch.”

“Shut up.” Peter grumbled, turning to look at his best friend.

“I don’t see why you don’t just tell her you like her,” Ned sighed. “You guys talk everyday, and have known each other since junior high.”

“Because she’ll reject me and never talk to me ever again.”

“But you don’t know that!”

“Yes I do!” Peter countered. He spotted you talking to someone from across the hall and sighed, “She’s too good for me.”

“You still giving her flowers?” Ned asked, hiking his backpack up as they walked.

“Yeah.”

“Oh god-”

As the week went on, Friday finally arrived. You were at home helping your parents prepare dinner, when you realized you forgot to take some dishes from your room back down to the kitchen. Quietly, you trudged up the stairs and upon entering your room, you stopped dead in your tracks.

It was Spider-man, looking at you through his mask with wide eyes, hand midway into placing a small bouquet of daisy’s on your windowsill.

You couldn’t believe it. Never in your wildest dreams did you think Spider-man was the one leaving you flowers.

Peter on the other hand, was about to have a heart attack.

“Y-You-”

Instantly, he stood and leaped up the fire escape, and you quickly ran to your window.

“Stop!” He froze and turned to look at you. “It’s okay! You’re fine! I just want to talk!”

He was this close to shooting a web to the building across from yours to leave, but when he looked at your pleading eyes, he sighed and climbed back down.

You led him into your room and sat him down on your desk chair; unsure why he seemed so nervous and stiff. It was only you.

You puffed your cheeks out, avoiding eye contact until he spoke up.

“I-I’m sorry for-”

“Do you know who I am?”

He hesitated, then nodded.

“How?”

“I’ve seen you.” He said vaguely. His voice sounded extremely familiar, but you couldn’t quite pin point where you’d heard it.

“You’ve... seen me,” You trailed off. “Where?”

“Listen I have to go-”

“Wait! I’m sorry I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” You said guiltily.

Peter’s eyes softened.

“It’s just- this doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“I’ll come back tomorrow.” He promised. “But for right now, I have to go.”

“Okay.” You smiled nonetheless and watched him stand and climb out through your window. Just when you were about to leave your room, you heard him clear his throat.

“I-I hope you like them.” He said, referring to the daisy’s.

You turned around, cheeks rosy. “They’re my favorite actually, thank you.”

Peter beamed at that, and with the blink of an eye, he was gone.

You then gently picked up the daisy’s and like you’d done before, swapped them with the lilies.

The next day, Peter avoided you completely. Whenever he’d see you approach him, he’d either make a beeline for the restroom or just completely turn the other way, and you noticed. How could you not?

Peter Parker, the sweetest boy you knew and secretly but not so secretly had a crush on, was avoiding you. You figured he was just having an off day, but it became apparent when you straight up walked towards him to say hello and he turned his back to you.

When you came home and waited in your room for Spider-man, you couldn’t help but feel a little hurt. What did you do? Surely there must’ve been some type of misunderstanding.

Or did he find out you have feelings for him?

Your eyes widened and you began to panic. To you, that explained everything. The avoidance, the look of discomfort he’d give whenever he saw you, all of it. You felt like crying, but your episode was cut short when you heard a soft thud to your left.

“Hey,” He greeted. As he sat down on your windowsill, he noticed the daisy’s he gave you in a vase with a cute little red bow wrapped around, and his heart warmed.

“Hey,” You responded with a smile. “Do you need anything? Water? Snacks? The need to tell me who you are?”

Peter laughed at the last part. “I-I’m okay. Thank you though.”

He had to admit, Peter missed you, even though it had only been a day since you guys have spoken. He missed your voice, or the way you’d always beam when you saw him, he really did. He felt so bad avoiding you today, but he couldn’t bring himself to face you. A part of him thought you secretly already knew it was him, and he didn’t know how to talk to you now without stumbling over his words or excessively sweating, not like he wasn’t before though.

As he sat there, he knew the right thing to do was to tell you who he was. But it was nerve wracking to think that not only would you know he was the one responsible for the flowers, but that he’s also Spider-man. Not a good situation if you ask him.

“Do you put all the flowers I give you in vases?” He asked you.

“Yup!” You pushed your desk chair back to reveal the little trash can you had, and tilted it. Its contents inside were a bunch of dead stems and flower pedals, accompanied by the occasional ball of line paper. “They all last exactly a week, so when you give me new ones, I just take the dried ones out. It makes me feel bad, but where else do I put them without making a mess?” You laughed nervously.

Peter nodded understandingly, and he envisioned your cute self putting his flowers in a vase. He found it quite sentimental, and it made him happy because he thought you’d might throw them away.

“Why do you leave me flowers?”

Peter cleared his throat.

“B-Because I like you.”

“You what?”

He only nodded and you looked at him uncertainly then, “Do I know you?”

He didn’t answer, but the fiddling of his fingers and the way he kept looking at everything in the room but you, was enough.

Gently, you scooted your desk chair right by your windowsill in front of him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry Spidey, but you need to tell me who you are.”

Another nickname you made, just for him, that made Peter swoon.

“I know.” He sighed, taking your hand that was on his shoulder and fiddled with your fingers now instead of his, “I know.”

Your warm hand gave him a sense of security, a sense of comfort, and he intertwined your fingers together. “J-Just promise me, that whatever happens, you won’t hate me o-or think I’m weird.”

“I’d never!” You exclaimed. “You gave me flowers, there’s no harm in that.”

He looked at you and squeezed your intertwined hands, as if to make sure you wouldn’t leave once he revealed who he was. Your reassuring smile sent a shiver down his spine and he slowly raised the hand that wasn’t occupied by yours, and tugged off his mask.

Even though it was dark in your room, the moonlight that shone through your window illuminated his face perfectly, and you sat up straight in alarm.

“Pete?”

He dropped his mask and placed that hand over your already tangled ones, looking at you with pleading eyes.

“I-I know what you’re thinking, but please just hear me out,” Peter scooted a bit closer to you. “I understand if you don’t feel the same way, but I just- I really like you y/n. You’re so sweet and nice to everyone no matter what they do, and you’re so beautiful that sometimes it makes me want to scream.”

You laughed, and he took it as a good sign to keep going.

“If you’d just give me a chance, I won’t let you down. And if you don’t want to then that’s totally okay I’m not going to force you into doing something you don’t want to do-”

“Pete.”

“-I mean what kind of person would that make me-”

“Spidey.”

“-That’s just horrible I know a couple people who-”

“Peter Parker!”

The boy jumped and instantly looked at you. “Yeah?”

“I like you too.”

He laughed, “No you don’t. You don’t have to pretend-”

“I’m not pretending!” You whined. “I really do.”

Peter looked at you, heart pumping and eyes wide. “You mean it?”

“Mhm! I do,” You said cheekily.

He looked at you skeptically. “You’re not.. freaked out that i’m Spider-man?”

“Nope.”

“Or the fact that I climbed your fire escape every week?”

“Nuh uh.”

“Or the fact that I want to kiss you right now?”

“No-”

Before you could register what he said, Peter cupped your rosy cheeks and kissed you with so much longing it drove him crazy, and you tugged at his suit to get him down from the windowsill as you stood up, arms wrapping around his neck to deepen the kiss.

You pulled away breathless, and Peter started to lean in again until his phone buzzed.

“Sorry-” He said quickly as he looked at his screen.“Shit, sorry flower, I have to get going. My aunt hates it when I’m out late on a school night.”

Flower.

Your legs felt like jelly at the pet name he gave you, and you felt dazed as he pecked your lips and tugged his mask back on. “I’ll see you tomorrow at school?”

“That you will.” You said happily, and just as he was about to climb up your fire escape, you realized something.

“Oh wait, Pete?”

“Yes?” He said, turning to look at you.

“Can you still bring me flowers?”

Peter’s eyes softened. It was a simple question, and yet he found himself again like he was when he first saw you, happy.

He’d take care of you, with every fiber of his being. You were innocent, sweet and radiant, and he’d rather die than let someone take those traits away from you. Now that you knew who he was, he wanted to be your own personal hero and keep you safe, no matter what.

“Of course I will, flower.”

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ochard-fics · 4 years

Text

Bad Ideas - A Spider-man Story

Chapter Index: 1, 2

Pronouns used: they/them

Genre: Enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, fluff, young love

Warnings: None

Word count: 6.5k+

Summary: Though you moved across the country about half a year ago, you are still trying to find your footing in the strange streets of New York. On top of that, you are desperately trying to balance your demanding school life at Midtown School of Science and Technology, where you like everyone but you was much more talented and smarter than you could ever imagine to be. Among those students is the one whom you loathe the most: Peter Benjamin Parker, the boy who’s success both in school and in Stark Industries is constantly shoved in your face. The only person who helps you escape those troubles is Spider-man, the hero of Queens and your crush.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading this! Likes, retweets, and feedback is appreciated~

-----

Chapter 1 - Spider-man’s Sandwich Seller

When your mom excitedly told you that you’d start attending Midtown School of Science and Technology (MSST for short) in August you didn’t think much about it. As far as you knew, it was probably like any other public high school in America that was located in a “nice” part of a major city in America. Yet again you’d spent the last 16 years in Southern California, so your knowledge of schools outside of the area was very limited. Still, you felt no joy or resentment of the idea of being an MSST student. You assumed the title of “Science and Technology” was just to play it up as something cool.

But oh boy, how wrong you were.

It’s been four months into your junior year at MSST and you learned the hard way that the “Science and Technology” part of the school’s title was not played up for show. If the school was a cell, it’s STEM* program was the mitochondria of the institution. Everyone around you was excelling somewhere within the programs’ four disciplines, and you could not escape it’s presence no matter what. You would think that your mom would have warned you about this before she enrolled you, someone who was not savvy in the STEM disciplines AT ALL, into this foreign environment.

It had been a couple of weeks since the new semester of junior year started back up and here you were, trapped within the cold walls of the chemistry lab, staring down at your second quiz of the new semester. A pop quiz, no less. One of your worst enemy.

You glanced up at the clock to see how much time you had left. Three minutes. Crap. The first three questions on chemical bonds had you stuck, and you could feel your brain reach its thinking capacity.

Looking over the questions again, you went over your work to see if you had done something wrong. However, you weren’t even sure if the work you were doing was correct. Furrowing your brows, you desperately tried to remember something from your lecture that could make sense of this equation, but the anxiety only left your brain cloudy.

The loud ring of the school bell snapped you out of your thoughts and made you jump in shock, earning you a surprised look from your deskmate, MJ.

“You okay?” She asked, a brow raised by your sudden movement.

“I…” You sputtered, feeling your face flush in embarrassment, and looked down at your quiz to avoid eye contact with her. A heavy and defeated sigh left your body, as you immediately accepted your failure on this exam. “Yeah, the bell just startled me,” you replied, giving her a weak smile. She furrowed her brows at you, but luckily she decided not to press further.

The sound of zippers being pulled and the excited chatter of students almost drowned Mr. Cobwell’s request to hand him the quizzes as they exited the class. MJ went ahead of you as you begrudgingly shoved your pencil pack into your backpack and slung the red canvas sack over your shoulder. Guilt and shame began to press upon your chest as you walked up to Mr. Cobwell, who was trying to organize the load of papers in his arms. He notices your hunched figure as you approached, and his expression turns to that of concern. Averting your gaze from him, you hand over your barely done quiz, to which Mr. Cobwell gazes over it in dismay. He lets out a disappointed sigh, making the pressure on your chest worse.

“(Y/N),” He begins, shaking his head, “We’re half-way into the school year, this is really troubling.” Your eyes look down at your black and white canvas shoes, the embarrassment making it difficult to make eye contact with your superior. Cobwell waits for a response from you, but seems to notice your current emotions so he continues.

“You know, if you are struggling with the lessons, you can always tell me,” he says in a concerned voice, “I understand that chemistry is a very difficult subject for those who struggle with subjects like math. After class you can ask me questions about the lesson if you don’t feel comfortable doing that during the lesson.”

For some reason Cobwell’s genuine concern made you feel even more guilty. What teacher would want to waste time explaining everything to a student who didn’t even understand in the first place? Wouldn’t he think you’re dumb for not getting it? And what if you still needed him to explain because you just couldn’t get it? Wouldn’t he get frustrated and snap at you? You looked up for a moment to meet eyes with Mr. Cobwell, who was waiting for your response. Instead, you headed towards the door, head hung low, and wished him a good evening.

Squeezing through the school of teenagers flooding the hallway, you catch up to MJ, who was leaning by the club bulletin watching the crowd. You called out for her and she turned toward you, giving you a small ‘Sup with her head and leaned off of the walls as you approached her.

“Hey,” she said, nodding her head towards the chemistry classroom, “Everything good?” The last thing you wanted was to bring down the mood to your only friend at MSST, so you shrugged and replied, “Yeah, it was just about the quiz.”

MJ furrowed her brows in concern, saying, “You know, if you need any help, I’m down to do it.” Great, more guilt came from those words. You know MJ meant well, but you couldn’t help the feeling make home in your heart.

“It’s fine, MJ,” you replied, gently shooting down her offer, “Really. You’re already busy with the academic decathlon and art club. Those are more important.” MJ gives you a look, one of ‘Are you sure?’.

She lets out a short defeated sigh and shrugs, replying, “Whatever, it’s your life. Let’s just get to your locker already.” You nod and begin walking with her against the current of students. Four months ago you didn’t really think that your short interaction with MJ would lead you to being pals with her, yet here you both are. Granted, you both were similar in several ways. For one, both of you were the more introverted type, and tended to dress how you liked rather than how others expected you to dress. Both of you were pursuing artists, both having joined the new and improved art club at MSST. Plus, you both liked things that most would consider to be a bit eccentric, such as morbid things like true crime or controversial stuff like surrealist art and history. Flash Thompson, the residential rich idiot of MSST, liked to call the both of you freaks. Though MJ would usually be able to shut his ass up with a comeback that made Thompson look like a dumbass.

However, a friendship wouldn’t be such if there weren’t any differences between the two, and you both had quite striking ones. While MJ tended to be much more blunt, you tended to keep your feelings to yourself. She was also much more observant than you could ever be, since you are more intuitive, though you thought that was mostly your anxiety. Additionally, you tended to be a bit more hot-headed, which has gotten you in a few verbal spats with Flash. The most obvious difference between the two of you, was that MJ was incredibly smart, while you...well, you already know where you were several lacking in the academic intelligence department.

It’s funny, neither you nor MJ verbally agreed to be friends. Both of you just naturally gravitated towards the other whenever you were around each other. MJ insists that she’s a lone wolf, but she considers you her friend, and you the same with her.

The two of you headed towards your locker, where you noticed it was being blocked but a familiar lanky figure in a blue MSST zipper hoodie. Disgruntled, you paced faster toward the figure until you were behind it. The person leaning hadn’t noticed you yet since their back was facing toward you, so to your (and MJ’s) amusement you thought about slamming your hand on the locker next to yours to give the pasty blockade a scare. However, just as you were about to reel your hand in, the figure turns around and faces you.

“Oh! (Y/N)!” Peter Parker, the golden loser as you like to call him, chimes with a crack. You groaned mentally. Damn it, of all the people you wanted to see right now he had to be here.

Let’s get one thing perfectly clear: you despised, no, loathed Peter Benjamin Parker. He was in the same grade as you, and was, unfortunately, in all of your classes. The guy was infamous in MSST for having scored an internship at Stark Industries, where your dad currently works and the main reason you moved from Los Angeles to Queens in the first place. Admittingly, he was incredibly gifted. He, along with MJ and a handful of other students in MSST, was one of the top students at the school. Whenever you watched him in class, you could see how easily everything came to him. He just...got it.

And you hated him for it.

Parker leans off your locker quickly and steps aside, motioning you towards it.

“S-sorry! I didn’t mean to block your way!” he stutters, something he tended to do frequently. You said nothing and gave him an emotionless eyebrow raise, then looked over to see Ned Leeds, who looked like he was trying to hold laughing at his friend’s awkward expression. He was your locker neighbor and Peter Parker’s best friend, so unfortunately you would see Parker too often. You didn’t necessarily mind him, he’s a well-meaning guy, but at times you did find him pretty annoying.

You rolled your eyes at the boys and opened your locker, shoving your Chemistry textbook into it like it was a ragdoll. If it didn’t cost $150 you would’ve loved to lunge it across the halls instead (where it could possibly hit Flash Thompson in the head), but you knew that probably would’ve given you a temporary high of satisfaction. The boys look at you surprised but resume their previous conversation, which seemed to be about a Lord of the Rings lego set. MJ gives her signature judgemental look and, noticing your aggressive behavior, attempts to make you feel better.

“Hey,” she began as you unzipped your backpack and shuffled through the contents inside, “There’s a new episode of the Left for Dead podcast out today. You want to get paletas** and take a listen?”

“I can’t today,” you replied, not looking at MJ and you traded books to and from your locker, “I asked Delmar to give me more hours so I’m going to do part-time on Monday now.” MJ clicks her tongue in disappointment, but shrugs the decline off.

“Dang that sucks,” she says in her monotone voice, “This episode was supposed to be about Black Dahlia, too.” You were disappointed too, so you turned to her.

“We can listen to it over Zoom when I get home,” you assured her, “I’ll be back by 8.”

“Hey MJ!” Ned called out, catching the attention of both you and your friend, “If you’re free, Pete and I were thinking of going to Shawarma Palace right now! Care to join?” MJ declines the offer, saying that she’s just going to go home. Before she heads out, she bids you and the boys a farewell. You then watched as she turned around and walked towards the school entrance, disappearing into the sea of students.

Listening to the new podcast sounds much more fun than work, you thought sadly to yourself. A sad sigh left your body, which caught the attention of Parker.

“Hey (Y/N),” he started, “Are...you okay?” Despite the genuine concern coming from his tone, you felt your fight responses kick it.

“Why do you care?” you ask spitefully, shooting a look at him. The brunette is taken aback by your response, and so was Ned.

“I-I-I just…” Parker stammers, fiddling with his hands nervously, “I saw you talking to Cobwell and you looked pretty upset.” For some reason, this sets you off. Angry, you slam your locker shut, alarming the boys and everyone else around you three.

“Mind your own damn business, Parker.” You say bitterly, giving the already shocked boy an intense glare. Looking at him was only making you more angry, so you slung your red canvas backpack over your shoulder and turned your heel towards the school entrance, leaving Parker and Leeds to wonder what in the hell just happened.

It has been three hours into your shift at Delmar’s Deli and Grill, you tried to keep yourself busy in order to beat the feeling of anger that had lingered on you ever since you left school. Even the soundtracks of your surroundings like the small hum of the heater, the blissful purrs of Murph the bodega cat, the occasion honks from the cars outside, and the every-so-often flipping of pages from the paper Delmar was reading couldn’t distract you from your annoyance towards Parker.

Damn Parker, thinks he could eavesdrop into my personal life, you bitterly thought, aggressively sweeping at the murky tiled floors of the bodega, I’ll kick his ass if I ever catch him-

The small television above the newspaper racks interrupted your internal monologue. You looked up from sweeping to see it playing today’s news. Delmar and you listened in to the report:

“...was hospitalized. According to Queens police, they believe that the attackers are purposely targeting small businesses as this is the fourth one to be robbed these past two weeks,” You watched the pristine-looking woman with a sculpted hairstyle announce as footage was being shown beside her, “From security footage it can be determined that the attackers are a duo, both male, about five foot eight...”

“Jeez, I just reopened this place too,” you heard Delmar grumble, who was looking up at the TV, “Why can’t they rob a Whole Foods or something? Assholes like them, taking advantage of the working man...you must be rotten to go after family businesses. Isn’t Spider-man going to do anything about this?”

“Local police have reported that Spider-man has been informed of the current situation and will be looking into the robberies,” the reporter answered, “For now, authorities are asking that store-owners remain alert and take extra measures to secure their businesses.” Delmar let out a disgruntled grunt and turned to look at you.

“Hey kid,” he called, and you turned to look at him, “Can you keep a look out for customers? I need to make a call to the chips suppliers in the back.”

“Yes sir,” you replied with a nod, “Wait, what if they ask for cigarettes?”

“Give me a shout to ring them up, then.” He called back, already descending to the back of the store. A small huff left your body and you shoved the collected dirt from the floor into the streets of Queens. The skyline began to darken as the sun set, and you watched as the sky looked like a rainbow sorbet. Memories of late night drives with your older friends in California emerged from your memory, where you would sleep in the car to watch the sunset dip into the Pacific ocean waters. Even though you were on the other side of the country, the sunsets were still the same. Yet, for some reason, this one didn’t feel as homey as the ones back in California did.

Suddenly, a figure in a red mask covers your line of sight, and it makes you stumble back while letting out an embarrassing yelp.

“HEY THERE!” the red and blue clad figure announces excitingly, hanging upside down from the store’s awning, “Oh shoot! S-sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you!” Once you recognized who it was, your lips broke out into a smile. Finally, someone you actually wanted to see today.

“Well, you did,” You said with a cheeky grin, “I thought you only sneak up on criminals, Spider-Man.”

“H-hey, I said I’m sorry,” he said apologetically, coming down right-side up, “I just thought you would’ve enjoyed it.”

“I’m messing with you,” You replied with a playful punch to his arm, “But next time, maybe a heads up before you greet someone bat-style. Do that to Delmar and the dude might get a heart attack.”

“Will do,” he replied, then looked over your shoulder, “Hey, where’s Delmar?”

“Out back making a call to a supplier,” You replied, ushering him inside the bodega, “You want a number five? Pickles and smushed really flat, right?”

“O-oh! Actually,I already had dinner,” Spider-man replied, his angular white lenses widening in surprise by your offer.

“Really?” You said, shrugging your shoulders, “You usually get that during this time. Are you cheating on Delmar’s place?”

“I could never!” He said motioning his arms into an x-sign, “If I ever betray the best sandwich shop in the world then throw me into jail.”

“I’ll remember that when I have to testify in court,” you teased, making your way to the counter. Murph, Delmar’s cat, sat next to the cashier upon his favorite cushion, purring loudly as the two approached him.

“Heya Murph!” Spider-man said, scratching behind the feline’s ears, “You doing good? Keeping Spider-man’s sandwich seller company?”

“Is that what you call me?” You asked, an amused smile spreading across your face, “I feel pretty honored by that title.” The masked hero of Queens let out a chuckle, and somehow hearing it made your ears turn pink. Then, a thought came to you that you expressed out loud.

“You know,” you began, still watching Spider-man give Murph some butt scratches, “You have the exact same order as someone I know.”

“R-really?” Spider-man stammered, retreating his hand from Murph in surprise. You looked at him, brows raised, “Aha...who is it?”

“Peter Parker,” You replied, deciding to rearrange the misplaced chips from the rack beside the counter, “‘Goes to my school.”

“Y-yeah, I remember you mentioning him a few times,” He said, his voice raising, which you noticed he does when he gets nervous, “He’s the one you don’t like?”

“Right,” You replied, not looking up from the rack, “Is it true that he works at Stark Industries?”

“Yeah, yeah! Of course he does!,” He replied, his voice going higher and cracking, “W-why do you ask?” He began to fiddle with his hands anxiously.

“Well,” You started, brushing your hands on your forest green apron, “My dad works there, but he never sees him.” Your dad was the head of International Affairs at Stark Industries. He mainly handled communication between Stark and companies they were planning on selling to. You didn’t know much about his job and you didn’t plan on it. You blamed the job from taking you away from your home, and your dad...well, you already had a complicated relationship with him. The move just made it much worse.

“R-really? Isn’t that weird,” Spider-man replies, rubbing his hand behind his neck, “W-well, I--Peter, doesn’t work with International Affairs. He works more with superhero stuff.”

“Like what?” You asked him, somewhat intrigued. You knew you were never going to find out from Peter personally, so might as well get the inside scoop from Spider-man himself.

“U-um…” His aperture-like eyes shift narrowly, seemingly unable to answer your question. Before you could press him further, you heard Delmar call out from the back of the store

“Hey kid! Your shift’s over!” Your Dominican boss announced. You look over to the counter to see him emerge from the back of the store.

“Best you go now since the streets are-” Delmar notices who is beside you and his eyes light up with glee.

“Ey, Hombre Araña!” Delmar exclaimed, smiling like he’s seeing an old friend, “Are you here for your usual? It’s on the house!”

“Hey Delmar,” Spider-man replies as he turns to him, waving to him, “N-no thanks, I just ate.”

“Hey, you better not cheat on me with Sub Heaven,” the middle-aged man jokes, waving his index finger at him, “I would know if you are.”

“Hey don’t worry, I’m loyal!” Spider-man replies with a laugh. Delmar chuckles then looks over to you, where you were looking at your favorite hero with a smile. He then turns back to look at Spider-man.

“Hey Spider-man,” He began, “Can I ask you for a favor?”

“Y-yeah?” the hero says, straightening himself up, “What’s up?”

“Can you give the kid a walk to the bus stop?” He asked, motioning his head towards you“It’s getting dark and with the recent news, I want to make sure they get to their stop safely.” You shot your head at Delmar, your smile falling as your eyes widened in shock. “D-Delmar! I-it’s fine!” You began, waving your hands frantically, “It’s just a ten minute walk to the stop-”

“Of course!” He replied almost too keenly, interrupting you,”I-I’d love to!” You looked back at Spider-man, surprised. Was he saying that just to be polite? You thought as your blush began creeping down to your cheeks.

Delmar gave him a hearty thanks and motioned you to come to the back to clock out. You did so in a haste, your thoughts going into key mash mode. This wasn’t the first time you’ve ever been alone with him---you’ve had several run-ins with the masked hero. Any person who was enamored by superheroes would be stoked to have him be their walking buddy.

However, he wasn’t just any superhero. To you, Spider-man meant so much more. This may or may not have something to do with you having a major crush on him ever since you met him in the summer of last year. After almost five months of seeing him practically weekly, you liked the feeling that you knew Spider-man. Yet, you were still unaware of who was behind the mask. With your crush developing harder and harder, the curiosity began to nip at you aggressively.

You clocked out from work and hung up your apron, then wished Delmar and Murph a buenas noches, as you headed towards the deli’s entrance door. You slung your backpack over your shoulders and noticed that Spider-man was waiting in the front of the store, waving hello to an excited child passing by across from the bodega. You brushed some of Murph’s cat hair off of you (your dad would throw a fit if he found cat hair in the house again) and straightened up, mentally calming yourself. You practically skipped up to Spider-man and told him that you were ready to go. He turns to you and gives you an eye (lense?) smile, and you two begin your way towards your stop.

During the first couple of minutes into the walk, you were in an argument with your thoughts on what you should talk about with Spider-man. It would’ve killed you if this ten minute walk was in silence! Thankfully, he began speaking.

“So,” He started, “Anything exciting happened to you today?” This. You thought, but obviously you would sucker punch yourself in the face if you said that out loud.

“Eh, not much,” you responded with a shrug, “Had a chemistry quiz today.”

“How’d it go?” he asked as he looked out, resting the back of his head atop his hands.

“Wonderfully,” you said sarcastically, looking down at your shoes, “Only completed three questions out of the ten on the quiz. At this rate I’m going to be the top student!” He looked over at you, watching as you kicked a piece of gravel with your foot. You let out a sad sigh.

“It’s my fault,” you continued, “I should’ve studied harder. But I just get so overwhelmed by the material I freak out and then when I freak out I get anxious and then when I get anxious I just can’t focus and when I can’t focus I don’t study!” You exhaled.

“Whoa, whoa, easy,” Spider-man says, motioning you to calm down, “Why don’t you ask someone for help on the subject? Like your teacher or a tutor?” You let out a dry laugh, remembering what Mr. Cobwell had said earlier.

“No teacher wants to deal with a student like me,” you replied, not looking up at him, “I don’t blame them, I would get frustrated when I have to repeat the same god damn thing a thousand times to someone who still can’t get it.”

“But it’s a teacher’s job to help students understand what they’re learning,” Spider-man said, “That’s the whole point!”

“I know,” you hang your head lower. God, you hated that he was right. “I just...it feels embarrassing,” you admitted, “Even asking help from a friend.” You began to pick at your fingernails, remembering MJ’s offer from earlier.

“And a tutor...well, I used to have one back home,” you said, and Spider-man watched you closely, “But my dad saw them as a waste of money so he took over. But he’s not the best tutor.” The memories of your dad trying to “help” you made you tense, and the emotions from earlier today started to creep back.

“I get where you’re coming from, in a way,” Spider-man replied, and you looked up at him, “When I first started out as Spider-man I insisted that I didn’t need anyone’s help. I felt guilty asking for help because I wanted to assume responsibility for something I felt was my problem.” His arms fell to his sides as he looked up, reminiscing.

“I didn’t want to drag the people I cared about the most into my problems,” he continued, “I didn’t want them to get hurt. But then it ended up...hurting someone I cared about the most.” You felt the weight of his words as he looked down.

“I couldn’t look at Ma-,” he stopped himself, “I mean my closest peers without feeling like it was all my fault. If I had only been honest about my feelings, I thought maybe things would’ve been different. ”

You watched the masked man, and you could tell that this anecdote was hard to bring up. People put super-heroes on such a high pedestal, seeing them as invincible people with nothing to lose. How forgetful they are that they have lives too, that they have dealt with hardships and flaws. From the tone and inflections of his voice, Spider-man sounded fairly young to you. Maybe he was your age, or maybe slightly older. You didn’t know if he was human or not, but you could imagine that getting these powers came at a price.

Everything comes at a price, you remembered your parents telling you. Nothing comes without consequence.

“Then things began to change when Mr. Stark recruited me,” he went on, “It was the best moment of my life. Finally, I thought, I could do something more and still protect those I care about. I felt like I was finally doing more.” He let out a dry chuckle.

“I became so confident that I could do more, and I even disobeyed Stark because I thought I didn’t need help,” you continued to listen in intently, “And it blew up in my face.”

“The point is,” He looks up at you, “Asking for help doesn’t mean you’re dumb or weak, it means that you’re strong enough to know when you need it. The words weighed on you, and you looked out, thoughtfully. Maybe he’s right, your consciousness spoke, But it still seems so...terrifying. You noticed that you were at your stop, but your bus was running a bit late.

“We’re here,” You spoke, pointing your thumb towards the green bench that was next to a bus stop pole.

“Ah,” Spider-man noticed this, and you both stopped walking. You both turned to each other.

“Thank you for walking me here,” you said, giving him a smile, “I appreciate it.” The masked boy rubbed the back of his neck again, seemingly bashful by your gratitude.

“H-hey, no problem,” he said shyly, “Got to look after civilians, after all.”

“Right,” you responded with a chuckle, tilting your head to the side with a raised brow.“‘The little guys’ Are we the munchkins of Oz and you’re Dorothy Gale?”

“Wh-what?!” Spider-man exclaimed, shaking his head, “N-no! That’s not what I-”

“I mean, you guys almost have the same color scheme,” You pressed on, amused by his reaction, “You just need the ruby slippers and you’re good to go.”

“H-hey,” he whined, shuffling his feet all embarrassed.

“Gosh,” you laughed, “For a diligent super-hero, you’re way too easy to tease.”

“A-am not,” He pouts as he crosses his arms, looking down at his shoes shyly.

“Oh my god,” you said, stifling a laugh, “You’re acting like my seven year old neighbor now.”

He looks up and gives you a glare, but then lets out a chuckle; a sound that warmed up your heart and your cheeks. The sound of the bus honking made you both look over to see it pulling into your stop. Darn it, you were having such a good time with him! You thought with a scowl. A disappointed sigh let your lips and you turned to look at your crush.

“Thanks again,” you said, giving him a shy smile, “Hopefully I’ll see you soon?”

“Y-yeah,” he said, almost sounding enamored by your smile, “G-get back home safely.”

“W-will do,” you stuttered back, forcing yourself to look at him even though you wanted to desperately hide the blush that was growing on your face.

“And (Y/N),” you looked up at him as he continued, “I-if you need me to walk with you again, d-don’t hesitate to holler at me.”

“O-oh n-no it’s okay!” You exclaimed, waving your hands dismissively, “I-I don’t want to take up your time!” Then, you watched as Spider-man took a step toward you, making your heart beat widely. Gently, he placed his arm atop your shoulder, and your body froze in shock.

“You,” he began, looking at you sincerely (or as sincerely as his lenses could make him look), “You never take up my time. I enjoy being with you.”

And at that moment, you felt your soul ready to rocket itself into the clouds from pure joy.

You wished you could stay like this, but the screeching of the bus’s brakes broke both of you out of the moment, and Spider-man retreated his hand from your shoulder.

“I-I, um,” he rubbed the back of his neck yet again, while you were still processing what just happened, “You better go.”

“Y-yeah,” you stuttered, then forced your body to turn it’s heel and head toward the bus. You turned and gave Spider-man a small wave, to which he returned. You adjusted your backpack and headed inside, tapping your bus card and then quickly taking the nearest available seat. As the bus doors closed and began your hour long ride, you watched as Spider-man shot a web toward the nearest building, then swung into the night.

Wow, you thought as you placed your backpack atop your lap. That was all you could think. Wow.

The bus ride had been long and tedious, but soon you were walking up the footsteps towards your house in the quaint area of Maspeth, Queens. You opened the door and upon entering your two-story brick house you could hear the television from the living room. You glanced over and saw your mom and dad sitting in their designated lounge chairs across from the wide monitor that was displayed on the wall. It seems that they were watching one of those night time talk show hosts from New York.

“I’m home,” You announced, kicking your sneakers off of your feet as you shut the door behind you. Mom looked up and saw you.

“Welcome back, dear!” Your mom greeted you with a cheerful yet tired smile, “How was work?” You told her the same old thing you’ve said to her before (“It was okay, I’m just tired.”), though you opted to leave the bit about Spider-man out.

“Well, I’m glad you got home safely,” She says, “If you’re hungry I made some dinner.”

“Nah, I ate at Delmar’s,” You replied, quickly reminiscing on your number two sandwich from earlier. It wasn’t your usual, but you were going to lose it if Delmar nagged at you for having a number five every single night you worked. Upon hearing this, mom furrows her brows in disappointment.

“Eating all of those sandwiches isn’t healthy for you,” she comments, turning back to the television, “I don’t know how well sanitized that small place is, who knows what kind of chemicals are in those ingredients.” You bit back the urge to snap at her, because this isn’t the first time she made this dumbass claim.

“Did you have an exam today?” You heard your father’s low but stern voice come from the living room. He didn’t turn to look towards you.

“N-no,” you replied sheepishly, playing with your fingernails nervously, “Just a chemistry quiz.”

“I better see an A on that,” He coldly replied, and even from the house entrance you can feel his annoyance, “You have all this time to work on your damn art projects and working in that junkyard so I better see the same effort in your STEM classes.”

Your teeth clenched, feeling the ball of emotions form in your throat. Without saying a word, you headed upstairs, where you entered your bedroom and crashed head first into your unmade bed. A long breath you didn’t even realize you were holding escaped your body, muffled by your bed sheet. You got up and slipped off your backpack, then turned to take a look around your very messy room.

It’s been a while since you last cleaned up your space. The art table was littered with your current gouache paint project of a plant study, your art board was discarded near the end of your bed, the books on your shelves were completely disorganized, your desk had your biology notes scattered upon it, and you still had a unfinished sketched canvas of an ocean sunfish lying next to it. The sound of your mom nagging at you to keep it clean knocked at your brain, immediately making you annoyed.

Dreading the scolding that could be, you let out an exaggerated huff and began to organize your art table. Mid-way through putting your gouache tubes in their designated container, you remembered your mom passively commenting about how Peter Parker probably keeps his desk very tidy, and that’s why he’s doing so well in school.

The memory had you clenching your fists, annoyance from the memory returning. Even at home, you couldn't escape Peter Parker's presence, and that ticked you off more than anything in the world. Why couldn’t he just be a dumbass and leave it at that? No, he had to be a smart dumbass. How fucking annoying.

“Stupid Parker and his stupid perfection,” you mumbled angrily to yourself as you shoved the rest of your gouache tubs into the containers, “I hope I don’t have to deal with your stupid face forever.”

Tuesday had been an arguably much better day, and it was made better by the fact that you had art club after school.

You arrived at the art club meeting room, which was just the school’s art studio. Easel stands were climbed together at one end of the room, while several artworks of students were sprinkled across the room. You could smell the wet ceramic clay from the other side of the room, where several to-be finished artworks were bagged up to keep their wet form.

The wooden drawing horses were arranged in a semicircle, where they had already been occupied by your fellow art club members. In no time you were able to spot MJ, who was waving at you to notice her. Smiling, you scuttled on over to the unoccupied wooden seat next to her, place your backpack underneath. The both of you said your greeting even though you just had chemistry together.

“What do you think we’ll be doing today?” You asked her curiously.

“Dunno,” She responded, leaning back and crossing her arms, “This is my first time joining the school’s art club. This time last year I’d be in one of the rooms where they held detention and draw the sad people in there.” You looked off and nodded, seeming to get it.

“But,” she started, and you looked back at her, “If I had to guess, I think we’ll probably talk about the spring show. The arts department needs money anyways so auctioning off student work is usually a good way to bring in the dough.”

As if on cue, Ms. Narvaez, the newest art teacher at MSST and the club’s advisor, entered the studio. Everyone turned to greet her and she returned the greeting with a gentle yet tired smile.

“Afternoon, guys,” she greeted, placing her bag of materials on her desk at the corner of the room, “I’m glad to see that everyone came today because we have something really important to discuss.” She rummaged through her bag then pulled out her trusty yellow acrylic clipboard.

“In about a month we’ll be holding our annual spring art show,” she announced, heading to the front of the semi-circle so that everyone could see her, “We need to think of a theme for this show today, so we can print the fliers out as soon as possible and encourage the students at this school to participate. Last year we had a whopping fourteen people submit work, but it was all from you guys.” Everyone looked at each upon hearing this information.

“So,” she continued, “We need a good theme so we can bring in more submissions. More submissions could mean more auctioned-off art, which will lead to more funding for our department.” Everyone began to whisper to each other, though not very enthusiastically.

“Please take out a sheet of paper and write down any themes you have in mind, no matter the number,” said Ms. Narvaez, and everyone began to unzip their bags and grab their notebooks. MJ and you did the same, grabbing a notebook that you specifically had for ideas for art. You turned to the next blank page and began jotting down anything that came up in your mind.

Camouflage

Growth

Becoming

Home

Serenity

You were about to list another word when a knock alerted you and the rest of the art club. Everyone turned and you saw your guidance counselor, Ms. Lee, peeking from the entrance of the studio.

Uh oh. You thought. Guidance counselors making unannounced appearances was never a good sign in high school.

“Oh, Florence!” Ms. Narvaez smiles upon seeing her wife, “Do you need to speak to me?”

Ms. Lee smiled. “Hi dear,” she turned to meet your eyes, “Actually, I’m here for (Y/N).”

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Annotations

* = STEM stands for Science Technology Engineering and Math

**= paletas are Mexican popsicles that you can get from men on the street pushing a ice cream cart full of them

Ms. Narvaez is based off of American actress Lauren Velez

Ms. Lee is based off of actress Sandra Oh

#bad ideas fic #spider-man x reader #peter parker x reader #mcu fanfiction #reader insert #spider-man reader insert #spiderman fics #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman x reader

31 notes · View notes

starkerforlife6969 · 5 years

Text

Con Artist Tony x Art Forger Peter

Summary: Tony’s only got one more heist. He does this, he can be retired on an island in the Mediterranean in a month. All he needs is a world-class art forger. (White Collar inspired)

Word count: 10k, complete.

Read here, or on ao3.

The final heist.

That’s what it’s called.

That mystical thing, that last risk, the only thing left to do before you retire. It hangs, almost out of reach, just beyond the cusp of the horizon. It waves your happy ending in front of your face, luring you across stormy seas on a water-logged boat, beckoning you towards bliss while leading you to destruction.

Lesser men have failed, but Tony Stark is not a lesser man.

He’s going to pull off that final heist. He’s going to retire at the ripe old age of twenty-four. He’s going to buy an island, maybe two, and spend the rest of his days basking under the sun, reading Descartes and enjoying fine wine. Mostly Chateau Latour, but he’s partial to Grand cru from time to time.

This’ll be it. He’ll disappear. The FBI will give up after realising he’s not committing any more crimes, like they always do when a case goes stale. There’s no joy in capturing old bread, after all. A plucky young junior in a few years time may look into him, but they won’t be able to find him.

Besides, he doesn’t mind stepping out of the spotlight. He’s been basking in it for a decade now, after all. When he was fifteen years old and on their radar, he considers it quite the conversation starter.

With the right audience, of course.

(That’s key, you know. Knowing your audience. The only way to con someone is to read them first).

From three card monty on the LA boardwalks to diamond heists, Tony Stark has done it all.

Allegedly, of course.

Never been caught. Well, once, partially, if you count Rogers rolling over on him to the police, which Tony does not count.

He was twenty-one years old, and they’d had to try him with attempted burglarly, since they had no proof he actually had the Wittelsbach Diamond, nor any proof that he’d actually even been in the country at the time of the theft.

He’d been found innocent, acting as his own lawyer.

What can he say? He’s charming.

It comes with the territory. Conman is a word too small for everything he is. Fluent in fifteen languages, a connoisseur of wine, an expert appraiser, a diamond forger, an investment banker for a while (numbers are easy, which is why he’s banned from a lot of casinos) an art thief, a fixer, a trickster and, if he does say so himself: incredibly handsome.

It’s the lean muscle and the dark hair and the dark eyes.

Makes him irresistible to some, charming to others, and respectable to the ones left.

There’s something honest in his smile, his mother always use to say.

A conman smiles for a living so, Tony supposes, it all worked out.

A smile and a wink, a little sophistication, a little flirting, a little money in all the right hands, and he’d walked out the door of the courtroom, grinned at the FBI agent and basked in the sunshine.

Sure, it had felt like a win. But for $22 million dollars worth of diamond, he only got to keep around half. That’s what happens when someone you trust betrays you. Rogers telling the feds that the diamond he’d put in its place was a forgery had tipped them off to the crime, and now the damn thing is too hot to move.

It’s safe, somewhere. He has a lot of secret locations. He has a lot of different names.

He’ll sell it one day, farther down the line. Just for fun, maybe.

But for now, the final heist.

* “You know, it’s not as stupid as I thought it would be.” Natasha says thoughtfully, perusing over his plans with an impressed look on her face. Tony grins at her across the table, but as she’s always been, she’s impervious to charm of his smile. “But I can’t help you with this.”

He pours her some more wine. (Everyone’s more amiable with wine). Nat’s an old friend, they’ve known each other since they were eighteen and new to New York. She was in illegal acquisitions then, but she’s found her speciality. She’s the best damn fence Tony’s ever met. “I’ll give you fifteen percent.” He offers, placing hand over his heart. “Very generous, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

She half-smiles at that, and sips the wine. Her hair’s red now. He likes it this way. She’s been white-blonde for a long time. He knows Interpol’s on her back, but he doesn’t offer his help. Nat can handle herself. Now, if the Russian’s were after her, it would be a different story… “Tony,” she says softly, setting down his papers. The candle-light flickers warmly over her face, casting shadows across her cheekbones. “Even if I want to be your fence on this-“ (that means she does. She doesn’t just think the plan is not stupid, she thinks it’s good. Good enough to work) “-you’d need a world-class art forger.”

He nods, half-shrugging. “I assumed you’d have the contacts.”

She frowns thoughtfully, and takes another sip of wine. Dinner is steak and braised potatoes in an private little restaurant uptown. The nightlife of New York bustles and honks in the streets below, and Tony had preened on the way up. He likes exclusive, and he loves showing off, so his Tom Ford suit has been accessorised with only the finest cufflinks and satin tie.

He’s wearing more than what the people who work here earn in a year.

Nat doesn’t have his penchant for the spotlight. Her dress is beautiful, but cheap. Only cheap, however, to the trained eye (and to be a conman, you must have a trained eye) but she classes it up. A beautiful body always will.

“Maybe we should keep the plan the same,” she muses, “but swap the painting for a diamond. That way you could do the forgery yourself.”

He carefully doesn’t wince. “Diamonds are a little hot for me right now,” he confesses, “had a little…mix-up. Got a little close for comfort. The Feds are watching me and diamonds, so the painting is the way to go.”

She meets his eyes and looks a little smug. “A little close for comfort?” She repeats, “you’re not telling me the great Tony Stark almost got-“

“A jury of my peers found me innocent.” He corrects, taking a large bite of steak.

She laughs at that. “What I would have paid to be in that courtroom.”

He taps the paper to refocus her. “An art forger, you know anyone? I won’t go higher than twenty percent.”

Natasha tips her head consideringly. “There is…someone.” She says carefully. “He’s the best.”

Say it. Tony thinks. There’s one name she has to say. It’s the reason she’s here after all. Wanda is a good fence too, but she isn’t rumoured to have known-

“The Spider.”

Yes. Tony tries not to smile too hard, he hides it into his wine glass. “You know him?” He acts surprised, “I thought no one knew him.”

“Know is a grandiose term for a muffled voice on a phone.” She corrects, but Tony isn’t disappointed. It’s a lead.

“He’s the best.” Tony breathes; excited. He’s familiar with The Spider’s work- and the police are not. And that’s how you know someone’s the best.

Excluding Tony of course, the police know about his stuff- because Tony lets them. He likes to sign his own forged bonds, or leave a Queen of Hearts at crime scenes, but that’s because he’s a performer.

The Spider is the best damn art forger in the world. His forgeries are almost impossible to detect- they’ve been circling around the black market for about two years. He’s new to the game, but not lacking in talent. The only people who even know the paintings he makes are forgeries are a handful of sellers and Tony.

And that’s only because Strange- Tony’s NY Mafia connection- had confided in him that he suspected perhaps, that his Van Gogh wasn’t real. Stephen’s suspicions are enough to warrant truth, so Tony had looked himself.

He’d been impressed.

And a little aroused.

Of course, the owners- if they ever do suspect- or the seller, if they ever do guess- won’t report it. Why would they? It ruins their own credibility, their own intelligence, knowing they were duped.

Art can be a pretentious field, and no one likes looking a fool.

“Can you put me into contact with him?” Tony asks eagerly, and Natasha nods slowly.  

“It’ll be hard. I’ll try, though, Tony. For you. For our final heist. This is it. Then we’re out of the game.”

“Exactly.” Tony agrees, “you take your money, I’ll take mine. Any ideas on where you’ll go?”

“Australia, maybe,” Natasha muses, “or a cabin in New Zealand by a lake.”

“To your new life,” Tony grins, holding up his wine glass.

As all people do when they’re tipsy, she falls victim to his smile.

* If Natasha were a smarter person, she’d have used Tony’s plan herself. Got into contact with the Spider, commissioned the forgery, swapped the painting, collected a huge percentage all for herself and cut Tony out completely.

The problem with Natasha is sentiment. It’s a common problem. Just because they’ve known each other for so long, she has a soft spot for Tony.

It’s a soft spot Wanda doesn’t have for him, which is another reason Tony isn’t using her.

Nat needs about two weeks to shake through the web of her contacts, but Tony isn’t in a rush.

The Final heist should never be rushed.

Besides, he has a few things to do. He goes to the New York Museum of Art, and donates $15 dollars to their support programme.

It’s nice to give back, every now and then.

The Degas is exactly where the floor plans said it would be, hanging neatly in the seventh room. The overhead light makes the Dancers in Blue even more beautiful than Tony remembers. 1895, 500 million dollars.

That’ll do, he thinks, looking up at the painting with a grin, that’ll do nicely.

He thinks sometimes, about retiring with someone.

He’s met a lot of people in his life. People he could read and see through. Beautiful, talented people.

Clint was good, an assassin, which Tony finds a little unsavoury, but the two of them had gotten on pretty well.

Harley the pickpocket, Pepper the weapons dealer, Maria the scam artist.

But in the end, all the flames had fizzled out. Friendships faded, relationships drifting away.

He’ll retire alone on an island, but he’ll be okay. He’s Tony Stark, (or at least, he’s Tony Stark today. Sometimes he’s Howard Potts, other times he’s Don Jarvis, or a thousand and one other aliases that he can keep perfect track of). He’ll have an island, and he’ll find a friend there. A native, beautiful and-

Someone who will most likely never know the real him.

But that’s fine.

He’s fine.

He spends the two weeks planning how he’ll get in, how he’ll disable the alarms, how he’ll transport the painting without it being recognised or damaged. He comes up with fifteen different escape routes and failsafes for just in case scenarios, and he practises hot wiring a few cars for a speedy getaway just in case the alarms are set off.

Knowledge of electrics and engineering go a very long way in the world of conning.

He thinks about what Natasha said, about how much easier this might all be if he could replicate his chosen object himself.

But he can forge bank notes, currency, one time a search warrant, diamonds and a hundred other things, but a painting.

It’s just always escaped him. Making fake bottles of wine- sculpting with glass, he can do that. Using heavy machinery to make fine diamonds and crystal, or laser printers for the holographic seals on money- he can do that.

But painting? That art escapes him.

He’s overheard police detectives calling him the Master of All Trades, and he supposes in some respects it’s true. It’s unheard of to be able to con as well as him, but also appraise diamonds, read lips, swan dive off of forty-story high buildings-

But painting is a different sort of art.

Softer and more beautiful, and so delicate a process that Tony’s never quite been able to get the hang of it.

Don’t get him wrong, he can paint. Enough to get by- enough to do a lazy enough imitation if he had to- he’d get a degree in it (according to his resumé, he actually has four degrees, two phDs and a couple of Masters courses he threw on there) but not enough raw talent to eyeball a forgery anywhere near getting past detection.

Besides, he’s curious about The Spider.

He’s always been curious; thirsting for knowledge, knowing things he shouldn’t know (boy the things he knows) and he’s not gonna pass up the chance.

So, when Nat gets back to him in two weeks with a place and a date, Tony salutes her and memorises it, before tearing it up and tossing it into a bin.

“Don’t get too excited,” she warns, not making eye contact as she sits across the busy mall from him on an opposing bench. She’s holding the burner phone to her cheek, and he has his own in his hand, listening intently. “You’re meeting his hacker.”

“Hacker?” Tony repeats with surprise, “I thought he was a painter-“

“The Spider’s security is air-tight, Tony. You’ll meet with his hacker, and they’ll look into you completely. They’ll know everything. And then The Spider decides if he wants to meet you.”

Tony half scoffs, “no one could know everything-“

“They’ll know enough.” She promises. “If this is part of a bigger con, Tony, I’d watch your back. Deal honestly with him.”

“I’m planning on it,” he mutters, a little offended by the notion that he takes everyone for a ride. “I am capable of being honest.”

“Then you should be fine.”

“How should I dress? What’s the hacker like?”

“How should I know?”

“I need something, Nat, come on! Are they geek-chic, or more ‘I live in my parent’s basement’ and-“

She hangs up, and amidst a crowd of people, she disappears.

Tony goes for geek-chic, just because he doesn’t want to pass up the chance to wear his new navy blue blazer.

* The girl standing in Central Park on Tuesday the 17th reminds him of the Statue of Liberty. She holds herself beautifully, slightly intimidating, and despite the fact he’s taller than her, she towers over him with a dignity he wasn’t expecting.

He was right about Geek Chic though, sort of.

The girl has dark skin and bright eyes, and she’s wearing Nikes and denim shorts and a long-sleeved crop-top that says Lakers on it.

She looks like a millennial, and the clearly jail-broken iphone in her hand and the silver memory-stick necklace hanging down her front, is a clear sign that says hacker.

He’s a little grateful for it. On first glance, he might have thought she was a regular teenager.

Might. He can read people. And her smile is more of a smirk, and it’s very knowledgable. He saunters up anyway, and flashes her his best smile.

She has perfectly shaped eyebrows, and she takes his hand firmly. “I’m Shuri,” she greets, and she waits a beat. He doesn’t speak, waiting for more, and she laughs. “And that’s your cue to give me whichever name you’d like to use. You have many. Or should I just pick my favourite? Mr Potts?”

“Tony is fine.” He bites out, reluctantly impressed, she must have an FBI-level hacking system. She turns on her trainer-clad heel and heads towards an ice-cream truck parked just beside the park.

He has no choice but to follow and wait in the sunshine as she pays for a 99c with two flakes, and munches on them happily. She’s in no rush, and she’s remarkably unstressed, and Tony tries to learn everything he can about her.

She’s not too spoilt for cash, that much is evident. She’s got good tech on her hands, and she’s been eating well- her skin and her hair have a healthy sort of glow- and her breath had smelt of the expensive coffee you can only get from the cafe down on fifth.

Plus, the shoes and shirt are brand names and very new.

And if she’s this age, then The Spider must be young too. (People don’t like contacts too much younger than they are). That just makes Tony even more curious.

“How old are you?” He asks, when she reaches the cone and still hasn’t spoken.

She grins at him, enjoying her power. “Why does that matter?”

“Because I’m being interviewed by a child.”

She flips the bird at him and it’s so out of the blue that he can’t help but laugh. “A child? You’re only twenty-five. I’m twenty. Five years makes you better than me?”

Fair point. “Well, how does this work? You know about me, now what?”

“I just wanted to see you,” she says mysteriously, devouring the cone in three bites. She smacks her lips together happily. “Get the vibe, you know? Put a remote tracker into your bloodstream.”

Tony jerks his hand to his face and examines his wrist.

Her firm hand shape has left a little syringe-mark.

“It’s only nanotech.” She remarks, unperturbed, as Tony tries his best not to pout and rub his arm. “It’ll stay in your blood for about a week. I’ll be monitoring where you go.”

“This is a lot of security.” Tony murmurs, feeling excited again. It’s not often he’s allowed to operate on this high a level with people so clearly able. “The Spider must not want anything to happen. Why’s he so paranoid?”

“You can ask him yourself.” Shuri nods, and Tony grins widely. “I’m gonna text you a link to an app. Download it onto your phone. When you’ve got the piece, write P on the app. I’ll respond with an address. You’ll have five seconds to memorise it before it deletes. Go there, meet the Spider, give him the painting, and in three days, send a friend with a clean record to come back and collect.”

The words roll off her tongue quickly, fluently, but not rehearsed, More like she’s said this before, quite a few times to other conmen.

Tony tries to wrap his head around all the information. One, she already has his number, which is…well, fine. Two, that apparently the Spider can reproduce a Degas in three days, Three, Tony has to leave the painting alone with him for three days, and four, the issue of payment.

“I want security on the piece.” He says, and Shuri half-shrugs.

“He’s not going to steal it.”

“I’m sure you can understand why I don’t take your word for it.”

She casts her steely gaze over him. “We have 100% customer satisfaction.”

“Security.”

“Trust me, after you meet him, you won’t worry about security. But, if you must, you can put a tracker on the piece, or you can have a person of your choice standing by the piece for the whole three days. If this person interferers in the Spider’s process in anyway, we reserve the right to seek compensation. And when I say seek, we mean take.”

He wants to ask if she’s ever studied law, because she could make a brilliant lawyer. And they need a few more lawyers on their side. Instead, he nods. He has a few favours he could call in, but he doesn’t want to trust anyone. He’ll stand by the painting himself. “And payment?”

“We trust that you’ll pay.” She hums lightly, wiping her hands on her thighs. “I know everything about you, Tony, it won’t be hard to make your life difficult if you decide to con us.”

He’s escaped the mafia, the FBI, MI5, Interpol and some of the most dangerous criminals and highest ranking investigators in the world, but this twenty year old in Nike trainers makes him feel like he probably couldn’t pull the wool over her eyes.

If this is the new face of crime, Tony’s a little glad he’s about to retire.

Tony tries not to expect or predict things from people he doesn’t know.

He makes educated guesses, informed and calculated risks sometimes, when he has to, but of all the things and of all the places he would have guessed the Spider lived, this is not where.

He stands at the foot of The Ansonia building on the Upper West Side of New York, and hovers there slightly in awe. 74th street is embedded with quaint shops and luxury department stores, antique cars and designer bred-dogs and even the trash cans look like they’re made of crystal.

The Spider lives here- in this building, in this luxury building, on the top floor- the 18th floor, and Tony just shakes his head and doesn’t know what to expect.

The doorman is wearing a green coat with gold buttons and nods at him with an old face that does not look surprised. “Good evening, Sir,” he says politely into the night air, as he opens the door for Tony to get in.

Tony smiles as charmingly as he can. “Nice night, isn’t it?”

“Very mild, Sir.”

“Exactly.” Tony nods, pressing the button on the elevator and slipping right in.

Everything in this building is finished with gold trim and bronze accents. He admires his own reflection on the ride up- the tuxedo makes him look very dapper indeed, complete with bow tie, he looks well-groomed and exceptionally attractive.

He’s robbed a state of the art museum tonight, and no one would ever know.

You never suspect the guy in a tuxedo, the one who’s having slightly too good a time, a little tipsy as he staggers over to his car.

Of course, Tony wasn’t drunk. And it wasn’t his car. But it was a very nice car, and it had done the job, and now here he is, with the painting, on the way up to meet The Spider.

He hasn’t been this excited in a while.

The robbery had gone off without a hitch, and now he has a week before the museum re-opens. But The Spider only needs three days, so Tony should be able to get back in, put the forgery in place, and leave the country with his happy ending.

Bliss is in sight, and the seas look calm.

He holds the canvas bag tightly, even as he fixes his collar. It’s a fairly big canvas, and it can be difficult to distract from it, but the porter had barely looked at him, and he’d made sure to smile and wink at people on the street.

A little bit of flattery and a handsome jawline can make people a little fuzzy on the details.

He steps off the elevator onto marble tiles, and he has to resist the urge to wolf-whistle.

He’d wolf-whistled a lot, back when he was eighteen and fresh to the city. He’d been trained out of it quickly, but there’s some of that boy still left inside him. Mischievous and looking for a good time.

He reaches the heavy oak door with gold lettering 2001 above it and knocks, taking a deep breath, and preparing himself for absolutely anything.

He gets the wind punched right out of him when the door swings open.

Framed by the doorway, and the soft gold light from inside the apartment spilling out all around him, is quite easily the most beautiful boy Tony has ever seen in his entire life.

And he lives in New York. He’s been here during fashion week- Tony has seen his fair share of gorgeous people-

“It’s been a while,” the boy beams- Jesus- his eyes are like honey- like the sunlight as it spills onto warm brown roots in the middle of an enchanted forest- “I’ve missed you,”

Tony has to be lurched into gear, when he notices another resident entering their apartment across the hall. He nods, finding his throat clogged, and lets out a strangled: “I’ve missed you too.”

The boy smiles, and gestures him in.

Tony can’t look away. He can’t pull his eyes away enough to scan the apartment like he knows he should. He can’t look anywhere but the boy. He’s got fluffy chestnut curls toppling into his forehead, each lock absolutely perfect, and he’s wearing silk black sleep shorts that hug his thighs just- just brilliantly, and an over-sized lavender sweater that hangs over one shoulder.

He’s got freckles and dimples and a twinkle in his eye and-

“Can I offer you anything?” The boy asks, and Tony shakes his head and tries to get himself together. “Tea? Shuri told me you enjoyed wine, I think I have a few bottles, but you should probably browse them yourself,” he giggles, and it’s a beautiful sound Tony wants to wrap himself up in. “They’re mostly gifts, but I’m sure there are a few good bottles.” He stage whispers: “I don’t know anything about wine.”

Tony’s in love.

That snaps him out of it. The thought wrenches him right out of his daydream and sends him careening back into reality. “Tea would be much appreciated,” he manages, (wine does not clear your head) and follows the boy into the kitchen.

This is the Spider. He’s- he’s- well, he looks about Shuri’s age, like Tony thought, but…nothing else.

He’s absolutely sublime. And the apartment- it’s huge, a huge penthouse surely over 5000 square feet. It has a balcony that looks out over New York, it’s decorated with accents of rose gold and pastels, and it’s luxury if Tony’s ever seen it. There are designer throw cushions and rare fur rugs and from what he spies of the living room- a bookcase absolutely teeming with first editions.

In the kitchen, the wine rack is nothing to sniff at. A good, niche collection. Though there aren’t many bottles, each one is worth at least $10,000. And they were gifts. Tony wonders who the hell this boy has as friends. He must be forging paintings at a hell of a rate, to be twenty years old and already here.

“I’m Peter, by the way, Tony.” the boy says warmly, and Tony takes a seat at the kitchen counter, watching as Peter moves a teapot onto the stove. Warm is a good word for him. He seems very warm. He looks comforting and homey and his eyes are inviting and his hair looks impossibly soft to the touch. “I didn’t realise you’d get the painting tonight, so my apologies for…” he gestures to the way he’s dressed, and smiles bashfully. “I was taking a nap.”

“Please don’t apologise,” Tony whispers, eyes dragging without his consent over Peter’s delicate frame. “You look beautiful.” So beautiful and he’s only just woken up. Tony thinks he might faint if he saw the boy when he was making an effort.

Peter’s skin, cream as a canvas, starts to blossom pink.

“That’s very- thank you,” he blushes, busying himself with two mugs. “You look- very handsome too, I like the tux-“ he breaks out into more blushing when Tony winks and hurriedly looks away.

Tony looks around again (though he does take a moment to appreciate that gorgeous, gorgeous ass fuck, two perfect handfuls) to glean as much as he can. He still has the painting in it’s canvas bag sitting by his feet, but he sees a shopping list on the fridge with cosy looking fridge magnets, and-

His eye is drawn back to Peter, at the bare skin of his shoulder, where he can see stained pink; a tattoo, of a rose, he thinks.

Goddamn, this is unreal.

“I didn’t expect you to have…” he shakes his head, smiling when Peter sets the tea down in front fo him and joins him. “This apartment is just very…”

Peter ducks his head bashfully. “Art restoration does pay almost obscenely well when you work privately. Plus, I come from old money, so don’t be impressed,” he insists softly, and Tony can’t look away from those eyes.

He can’t help but laugh, though. “Art restoration?” He lets out, “that’s what you call your line of work?”

Peter looks confused. “I’m an art restorer,” he says, and Tony can tell that every inch of the boy is telling the truth.

“You’re an art restorer- and you can afford this place,” Tony gapes, “then why are you even-“

“Oh,” Peter laughs, taking a sip of his tea. It smells of honey and lemon. “I just do that for fun, really. I think art should be shared, so I don’t mind making copies. It’s fun, it’s really good training.”

“And the money…”

“I give that all the charity.” Peter cocks his head a little, “Shuri was supposed to tell you all of this. Didn’t she explain?”

Tony shakes his head in amazement. “I think she’s a lot more protective of you than you think, Peter. So, you’re telling me you copy the paintings for fun?”

Peter stands from the table and rolls his eyes. “Not just fun. Also training. More importantly though, art should be worshipped. I want everyone to have a Van Gogh to hang in their dining room, to see every day! I want people to talk about paintings again, it shouldn’t have to be something you go and see once on a school trip, it should be a part of your everyday life,” he beckons for Tony to follow. “I’ll show you my gallery, bring your painting, you’ll see.”

Tony does, gulping his tea down in one go. It burns his throat on the way down, and it just reminds him that no, he’s not dreaming.

Peter’s apartment is huge and beautiful, and when they walk through to his workshop, Tony’s breath is taken away.

There are easels everywhere, all with paintings at different forms of life. Finished ones are on the wall, and there are pots of paintbrushes everywhere, chalk and charcoal and an entire wall with an intricate shelf system of paints. There have to be over a thousand bottles.

Peter motions to a fresh easel, and Tony hurries over, unzipping the bag and setting the Degas on the stand.

Peter makes a sound that’s pure sex. “It’s beautiful,” he murmurs, reaching out a finger like he wants to touch before quickly pulling back. “Blue Dancers. You see these pastels? It looks like a traditional sketch, like a character study as she moves- every figure is her, you know? At different stages, just…” he shakes his head helplessly, “it’s beautiful.”

Tony can only see Peter. The painting pales in comparison. “Yeah,” he agrees hoarsely, “it really is.”

He can’t believe this is happening. Of all the things, of all the ways he’s expected his night to go, this isn’t how he talks to people. Not people in his line of work. They speak in code, they vaguely threaten and intimidate, but they don’t share their passion of art, or donate all the money to charity, or have a heart so pure that all they want to do is to make sure everyone has art in their life.

“You know what I do, right?” He croaks, and Peter pulls his eyes away from the painting reluctantly, to nod.

“Shuri told me, Tony, don’t worry. I have no interest in turning you in. I thought what you did with the diamond was really very clever. Shuri tells me that it’s almost impossible to make a synthetic pink of that size.”

“I had to use a radiation machine,” he murmurs, puffing out his chest a little, and Peter grins.

“See? That’s a kind of art there. Same with the forged bank notes, it’s all just art and finesse.”

Tony looks at the other paintings. He can see a few other forgeries in the making- can see one or two that are probably being restored for legitimate, private owners.

“I have to admit,” Tony whispers, wandering around the studio, “this is a perfect set up. A legitimate job, a legitimate salary- having Shuri check everyone out- not using the money for yourself- you’ve got it figured out.”

“I’m quite the criminal,” Peter teases, rolling his eyes.

“I’m serious,” Tony insists, “the crimes that are the hardest to solve are the ones that don’t have a motive. No FBI agent would ever think your motive was sharing art.” He’s a little jealous, if he’s honest. But then again, he’s never had a legitimate job. Or at least one he acquired legitimately.

“Why do you commit your crimes?” The bambi-eyed boy asks, as he studies the painting. He pulls a mobile light from overhead and shines it at the canvas at different angles.

Tony sits on one of the stools, watching him, and lets out a breath. “I don’t know.” He begins, raking his fingers through his hair, “To prove I can. Money. This is my final heist.”

“The perfect score,” Peter nods, “I get it. I hope I don’t let you down.”

Tony looks at the calibre of the other paintings that surrounds him and shakes his head. “I doubt that’s possible.”

Peter blushes again, the light making his lashes look even longer as they cast shadows against his cheek. “The problem with Degas is that he was losing his eye-sight towards this period, so he only painted during certain hours- that’ll affect the way the paint sits. And of course, prussian blue didn’t exist as a shade, so I’ll have to make my own. I have an oven at the studio at work I can use to crack the paint- make it consistent with the period,” he stops to explain, and even though Tony already knows, he doesn’t want Peter to stop talking. “Paint starts to crack as it ages, and this is over a century old, we’ll need to induce it. If I use pure pigment and follow the light schedule, I…” he shakes his head, looking awed, “it’s amazing to copy from the original like this. I don’t always have the chance, a lot of the time, I have to work from a photo, but that loses texture so…” he gives Tony a grateful look and Tony thinks he’d do anything to keep that gaze on him just like that. “I should be able to get you one that fooled even Degas himself.”

“You are a saint,” Tony whispers, and he knows now, what Shuri meant. He doesn’t think the painting could be safer with anyone else.

And unless Peter’s the best liar he’s ever seen before, he trusts him. There’s an earnest transparency, a warmth, that Tony’s never seen. Not on someone so talented. So wealthy.

After another cup of tea, and watching Peter outline a few drafts, Tony finds himself talking. Once he starts, he can’t seem to stop. (Tip for conmen, get them to talk about themselves. Deflect. Always deflect) But Peter’s sweet and non-judgemental and Tony feels something inside him unfurl as he confesses over darjeeling that he’s worried about being lonely on an island in the Mediterranean.

Peter’s fingers get stained with pencil, and he rubs his chin and accidentally leaves marks all over his face that Tony wants to kiss. Peter never looks shocked or frowns at any of Tony’s stories- at how the friends he’s made have drifted, at the crimes he’s committed- Peter just nods and sketches and then, after a long while, when it’s nearing three am, and Tony’s eyelids are starting to droop, Peter gets up and puts his pencils away.

“You know why you’re lonely, don’t you, Tony?” Peter asks, washing his hands.

“Why’s that, sweetheart?” Tony drawls, fingers curled around the mug. It says follow your dreams in swirly pink script on a cloud on the side.

“Because you’ve been putting on a front for so long, you’re all front. You can’t just be charm and charisma, you need some substance. A little bit of human. Messy and wrong, sometimes, but human.” Peter looks thoughtful, and he comes to stand before Tony, and takes the mug from his hands gently. This close, Tony can smell the floral scent of Peter’s laundry detergent. Peter looks up at him through his lovely eyelashes and says barely above a whisper: “I think I’d find your human side kinda lovely.”

Tony wants to lean down and kiss, and he does move, just a little, before Peter’s lets out a little surprised hitch and Tony thinks no.

Because he can read people, and he can read situations. And he knows a kiss now will just ruin things for the long run.

And Tony wants a long run.

So he clears his throat, and Peter pulls away with dazed-eyes, “I’ll um- leave you to it.” Tony murmurs, and Peter nods- curls bouncing.

New York is never silent, not even in the dead of night, but as Tony hot wires a different car and thinks of Peter, he doesn’t hear a thing.

He does smile though, a lot. Not to win anyone over, but just because he’s happy.

He goes back the next day with flowers.

It’s the most expensive bouquet he could find, but that’s not why he picked it. It’s because it’s filled with pink roses, like the one on Peter’s shoulder, and wildflowers and lavender just like his sweater. Because there are dandelions and foxgloves spilling over the white paper and even when Tony sniffs it, it doesn’t smell as good as Peter.

The doorman nods at him when he opens the door. “Good choice, Sir.” He says quietly, and Tony grins and pats him on the back.

When Peter opens the door, he looks surprised- then delighted- and Tony holds out the bouquet for him.

“As a thank you,” he explains, and watches as Peter buries his face in the flowers and inhales.

“It’s lovely,” Peter beams, gesturing him in.

It’s clear Peter’s been painting. He’s a vision of beauty again, in floral shorts that cut off tantalisingly high on his thigh, and an over-sized dress shirt. It’s undone at the collar and rolled up at the sleeves and completely covered in paint. Everything he owns is such quality- 100% cotton and silk and no doubt expensive. There are hues of blue all across his forearms.

“I was working on your piece, go through and have a look! I’ll just go put these in a vase.”

Tony nods, even though there’s a little smudge of yellow paint on Peter’s cheek and all he wants to do is brush his thumb across it.

He goes through to the studio, and there on the easel, is his canvas.

Or rather, Peter’s copy. The canvas is 3/4s of the way filled, and he shakes his head in amazement as he comes closer and looks between Peter’s and the original. The boy’s a genius. The three ballerinas are exactly the same- and Peter’s palette is laid on the table- a dozen shades of periwinkle, and paintbrushes galore all handpicked and to the ready.

Sunlight is streaming in through the window and Tony inhales the sharp smell of paint and knows he’ll always associate the two things with Peter.

“It’s rare to find dandelions in a bouquet,” Peter beams, coming in with a gorgeous vase and the flowers bursting within it. He sets it on a table in the sunshine, and turns his warm gaze on Tony. “You really didn’t have to buy me anything, but it’s so sweet you did.”

“Let me take you out to dinner,” Tony blurts, because he’s all torn up inside. He wants to reform for Peter, but he also wants to rob the highest security bank in the world to impress him. He wants to spend time picking him dandelions, but also wants to put a necklace worth more than this apartment around his dainty neck.

Peter blushes and his eyes slide away. “Tony,” he begins apologetically, and Tony’s heart sinks, “you seem…too good to be true, and Shuri told me that’s how you always seem. You lie for a living, and- I’m not sure what you want from me. If I’m part of a con. I don’t know you, Tony. I’m not sure anyone does.”

“You can trust me,” Tony insists, a touch desperately, “i would never hurt you.”

Peter gives him sad half-smile, “Tony, it’s your job to be convincing.”

Peter’s right, of course. Lying is second nature, but Tony hasn’t lied with him. Not once. He’s been more open than he’s been with anyone, but Peter doesn’t know that. They feel like opposites here, in this moment, Peter in his white, paint-stained cotton shirt, honesty in every earnest word and gentle touch, and Tony in his black t-shirt and dark tailored pants, his front bolted into place, his mask on his face even as he tries to remove it.

“Please don’t look so sad,” Peter whimpers, coming over and kissing Tony’s cheek. “I’m not saying no, I’m saying not now.”

If not now, when? Tony thinks, but he nods. “Tell me about yourself, Peter.” He says, as Peter settles back in front of the canvas. “I did all the talking last night.”

“Yes, but you have a very nice voice.” Peter teases, “you could do audiobooks.”

“An honest profession indeed,” Tony chuckles.

Peter was raised in France, in Toulouse, and is self-trained in art. His parents died when he was young, but he loves his Aunt more than anything. He’s bought her a villa in Paris where she makes her own wine (that explains the eclectic mix in Peter’s wine rack). He’d moved to New York four years ago, when he was sixteen, and life has treated him kindly. “I think it’s more luck than anything else,” Peter confesses, using his fan brush to shape the tutus in a burgundy-blue. “Things just fell into place.”

“Yeah they do that,” Tony grins, “especially around people who are hard-working, talented and kind.”

Peter laughs, shaking his head. “It’s not all great. This building doesn’t allow cats, so…”

“A complete travesty.”

“Exactly. I knew you’d understand.”

They have brunch out on the deck. Peter, as it turns out, can’t cook to save his life, but Tony’s been a chef in a few Michelin star restaurants over his life, so he whips them up a Spanish omelette and they drink it with coffee while looking out over New York.

“How’d you even get into this business?” He asks, staring at the enigma that is Peter Parker.

“Accidentally, really.” He admits. “I was so silly. I was painting a Hoefnagels for class, it’s a lovely 1598 piece- and I was doing some finishing touches in the park before it was due, and a guy offered me money for it.” Peter shakes his head in amazement, like he still can’t believe someone was willing to pay for his work.

Tony wants to wrap him up and shower him with praise.

“And I was so flattered, that i jut gave it to him. Little did I know, of course, that he was planning on selling it on as the original. It was a spider painting, and then I was just known as The Spider. It got so out of hand, people started approaching me out of the blue with a terrible amount of money, and I couldn’t refuse it, because Shuri runs this amazing charity to help fund educational services in countries without the proper school-structure, so I started giving it to her. Of course, she asked where I was getting it and then she insisted I be more protected, and she’s always been good with computers so-“

“Amazing,” Tony breathes, staring at Peter as the New York skyline frames him. “Wherever you go, Peter Parker, amazement follows.”

“Well,” Peter teases, “I’m certainly not as suave as you. Put me in a three piece suit, and I become a stammering mess, that’s for sure. I like it much better here, with my books and my paints and Netflix. Have you ever seen the Good Witch?”

Tony shakes his head, and listens to Peter talk about it. It sounds ludicrously wholesome, just like him.

It’s weird, a creeping sort of feeling, knowing that here over omelettes and black coffee, on an old New York terrace on a bright and sunny morning, with this boy here, feels like more of a happy ending than any island in the Mediterranean could ever feel.

The final heist, the last con, the only crime left- it pales in comparison to Peter’s warm eyes and the way he talks with his hands and looks at Tony like there’s something there.

Something to be loved.

* Tony’s admiring himself in a mirror of a department store when Agent Peggy Carter taps him on the shoulder. He turns, winks at her, and shows off the shirt. “What do you think?” He asks smoothly, “too garish? I’m trying to impress a sweet young thing.”

She doesn’t smile, but her lips do twitch a little. “Stark.” She warns, before pulling a notepad out of her grey blazer. She pulls off the pantsuit very well. “Where were you last night?”

“Why?” He winks, “did you miss me? You know you can always call.” He gestures to one of the attendants and pats his shirt affectionately. “I’ll take it. I want to wear it out of the store.”

“Not a problem!” The attendant chirps, flitting away, and Tony turns to Peggy with a smile.

“I was at a restaurant. Dining alone, I’m afraid. But I’m sure the restaurant staff will vouch for me,” he shrugs, flashing her a winning smile, “I’m pretty hard to forget. It’s this gorgeous face. A curse and a blessing.”

Peggy rolls her eyes. “You were there the whole night? What restaurant?”

“Oh, I can’t remember. One down near that lovely bakery on fourth.” (When you’re telling the truth, make it sounds like a lie.) He was at a restaurant last night- he was alone, and there are people who will vouch for him. The Restaurant was the Dorsia, and he’d gone for some time to think- and show off his newest suit- but she doesn’t need to know that it definitely wasn’t him. Feds like investigating and moving on by their own accord. Besides, Tony doesn’t know what the crime was yet. If it was something tasty, it might do well for a few other street criminals to think he’s the one that’s done it.

It’s very good for business.

Or- it was. It doesn’t need to be anymore. Since there’s only one more heist. One more crime.

“I’ll check it out.” She promises, though it sounds like a threat, flipping her notebook closed and tucking it away. “And while I do that- I don’t suppose you’ve come across the Wittelsbach Diamond in your travels?”

He gives her a blank look.

She snorts. “C’mon, Stark, cut the crap. It’s a diamond about yea-big,” she holds open her hand, “-vibrant pink. You were accused of stealing it just a few-“

“I think you’ll find that I was innocent, Peggy darling,”

She shakes her head. “I know you took it. Just like the Handberg Manuscripts.”

“Hm,” Tony nods, “that’s fine. I have a hard time admitting when I’m wrong too. We have that in common.”

She sighs. “Stay on the straight and narrow, Stark. At least for a while.”

He gives her a two-fingered salute and a wave. “Will do, Peggy-sue.”

Her laugh feels like success.

(Is it because he pulled one over on her? Or because he likes making people happy? Does he care too much? More than he thought?)

* Peter’s forgery is the best Tony’s ever seen. Which, of course, is exactly why he wanted him.

It passes the microscopic analysis, the craquelure is perfection. The frame and the wood light show up brilliantly, the infra-red shows the underlying grid and the IR spectroscopic analysis shows the pigments as pure, and coming from the right time. The cracks are consistent with the time period- the fading towards the bottom consistent with Degas’ decreasing eyesight, and Tony can only pull away, setting down his microscopic lens, and whistle in amazement.

“Jesus, Peter,” he breathes, “this is…” he doesn’t have the words. “It’s the best damn forgery I’ve ever seen. An imitation from the gods.”

Peter’s eyes are smiling, but he bristles a little. “Not an imitation, Tony, a pastiche. To copy is to flatter. That’s all I want to do to these paintings.”

He nods, feeling giddy with triumph. “You are a treasure, Peter Parker. The seedy underworld does not deserve you.”

The boy laughs at that. He’s come from work today, and it’s the first time Tony’s seen him in non-casual. The button up shirt is dark purple- silk- and is tucked neatly into tight black jeans. Designer. Tony wants to ravish him.

But it’s over. Their business is complete.

He reaches for his canvas bag and Peter’s painting, before a lily-white hand clutches his wrist.

“Tony,” Peter says, eyes wide, “if mine and the original are so indistinguishable- even to experts and scientists- then why not just sell the forgery? Return the original, and sell mine. That way- if by some miracle critics manage to catch the forgery- it’s less of a crime than stealing a Degas.”

The two paintings are identical. Practically identical.

But science is always improving, Peter’s right. New equipment is always being made and methods always being tested.

But with replacing the painting- it’ll avoid a genuine test for years. And Tony will have successfully stolen and sold a genuine Degas. And who knows how long it would be before anyone even caught Peter’s forgery?

He shakes his head. “I’m sticking with my plan.”

Peter releases him, and nods. “I was only suggesting. Either way, art is being appreciated so…” he smiles with his dimples, “whatever makes you happy.”

Happy is the bliss beyond the horizon, after he makes the switch and Nat sells the painting.

Happy is-

“Come with me,” he pleads, swallowing hard, “to wherever I go. I know- you met me three days ago- but- I’ll buy us an island, Peter, you could paint and read and we could…”

“Retire at twenty,” Peter muses around a teary laugh, “oh Tony. That’s not what I want. I want a wedding, and friends, and to skirt the line of the law, but mostly be on it’s good side. Not running from something forever. I like my job, I like New York, I don’t have anything to run away from.”

“No, no,” Tony frowns, shaking his head insistently, “I’m not running away from anything, this is just my final heist.”

“You’re running away from something, Tony,” Peter murmurs, going onto his tiptoes to kiss the corner fo Tony’s mouth. He smells of dandelions. “One day maybe you’ll stop. If you do, I’ll be here. Probably still trying to convince the building to let me have a cat.”

Tony leaves the Ansonia, but leaves an important part of himself behind.

* He’s sitting in his storage unit at the edge of the city, drinking a stolen bottle of wine, surrounded by all his treasure.

He feels like a very lonely dragon. Eons old.

He’s surrounded by paintings, and goblets and treasures from museums. Diamonds and bonds and counterfeit money and deeds. Stolen u-boat treasure and Nazi-claimed portraits, and historical artefacts that he had to do some pretty shady things to get.

There’s a clatter on the roof, but Tony doesn’t flinch, he just sips at the wine and watches as Natasha makes her way in.

She gasps at all the treasure. She looks around, eyes wide, practically vibrating with excitement as much as she tries to hide it. “You have the Handburg manuscripts?” She whispers, reaching out to touch a scroll, “I thought that was a rumour…”

He shrugs, hoping the tears on his cheeks have dried. “Yeah, i got them a few years back.”

“How..?”

“Carrier pigeons.”

“Jesus, Tony, you’re…you’re the best. There’s gotta be millions of dollars worth of stuff here.” She stops when her eyes land on the two Degas. “Wow. The Spider is…wow.” She looks at both of them, squinting hard, “which one is…?”

“The one on the left is real,” he lies, just to see if she can catch it.

“Wow.” She murmurs, “it’s-“ she turns to him sharply, as if she’s taking in him and not the treasure for the first time since she got here. “Oh god.” She whispers, and he lifts the glass to her in a mock toast. “You’re going to turn yourself in.”

He knows, but hearing her say it is pretty awful.

“Tony, why?”

“There are two endings for someone who’s running, Nat, do you know what they are?”

She says nothing.

“Either they get caught, or they keep running. Running forever.” He downs the rest of the wine. It’s disgusting. “But I can give myself a third option. Turn myself in.”

“They won’t catch you,” she pleads, “they’d never be able to catch you, Tony.”

“You’ve been a good friend to me, Nat,” he murmurs, mind made up. He gestures to the two paintings. “Pick whichever one you want. it’s yours. Free of charge.”

Her jaw drops, but she’s smarter than to try and change his mind when it’s so in her favour.

Like he thought, she picks the “real” one. She tucks Peter’s copy into her bag and heads for the door- pausing only once to look at him.

“You were the best.” She says; pityingly. “But I’ll have your back, Tony.”

In the morning, he takes the Degas into the FBI headquarters, and confesses to stealing it.

* Tony Stark, the FBI’s newest criminal consultant. Exchanging prison time for expert help on White Collar crimes.

Peggy’s the one who makes it all happen. She’s also his handler. She’s the one who puts the un-tamperable tracking anklet on his leg, and looks at him like she’s proud. “Working for the FBI is gonna change you,” she says; pleased, and Tony laughs and fixes his suit. “Remember, this thing’ll go off if you step outside your two mile radius.”

“Fine by me,” Tony assures, because there’s only one place he cares about going.

* It’s weird to think about the fact that retirement is a 9 to 5 job working for the FBI.

But it’s bliss if Tony ever dreamed of it.

Breakfast and lazy morning sex with Peter on the balcony, giving their neighbours a bit of a show, then into work with Peggy to catch jewel thieves and forgers (his criminal alliases come in very, very handy). He comes home to see Peter painting, and he sweeps him off his feet and makes him dinner.

He and Peter work on some of the cases after hours, and if Tony ever comes across a forged painting and Peter blushes-

He always assures Peggy that it’s an original.

And he still gets to dress up. Whenever he goes undercover, or whenever an art gallery opens. He feels much more dapper, with Peter at his side. Everyone comments on what a beautiful couple they are, and Peter goes all pink, but Tony just smirks and slides an arm around his waist and agrees.

He buys Peter a bouquet every week, and Peter reacts just the same every time.

Shuri helps Tony whenever a case needs a tech-whiz, and whenever Peggy asks how he managed to get it done, Tony just wiggles his fingers and says: “I’m a man with many talents.”

He still has his storage unit of treasure, moved of course, because Natasha can’t be fully trusted-

And sometimes Peggy looks at him, like she’s still not totally convinced he won’t disappear off the face of the earth, but then other times- more often lately, she looks at him like he’s her friend.

He likes that look more.

Over cheap take out on a stake out, she asks him point blank: “Do you have the Handberg manuscripts? I could never figure than one out.”

“Hypothetically,” he grins, because he’s still the kid from LA with a pack of cards, “if I did have it, I might have used carrier pigeons.”

She exhales and smiles wryly. “I’ll never be able prove you have them, will I? Or the Wittelsbach Diamond, or the dozens of other things I’m sure you’ve stolen.”

“The only thing I’ve ever stolen,” he recites, “is a Degas, which I promptly returned after being consumed with guilt. A judge can only be forgiving in a situation like that.”

“Whatever,” she rolls her eyes and steals a spring roll, “we still caught you.”

“Actually, I turned myself in.” He says, the beginning line of a familiar argument.

* On a sunny afternoon in June, at an art museum that he and Peter have broken into in the dead of night (though New York is never really dead) Tony gets down on one knee.

Peter starts crying, and Tony just kisses his fingers and slides the ring onto it.

And that’s when Peter sees the diamond.

It’s pink and-

“Tony no,” Peter gasps, staring at it, “you haven’t. You haven’t cut off a piece of the Wittelsba-“

“I finally found something to do with it,” he grins, kissing his fiancé on the nose.

Peter shakes his head, still crying tears of joy, but looking aghast all the same. “But that- damaging it lowers the price, Tony! That was worth millions and-“

“And now,” he rubs his thumb over the ring on Peter’s finger, “it’s absolutely priceless.”

Peter has sex with him right then and there, rides him under a Van Gogh and an Afremov.

Shuri has to go in and delete the footage, and Tony treats her to dinner to say thank you.

* The storage unit of treasure- treasure too hot to sell, that Tony stole to prove he could steal, hoarding in the promise that one day he’d use it all for his happy ending-

He has his happy ending, and the treasure has a purpose now.

He gives it away.

He gives Peter’s Aunt May a bottle of wine for Christmas. She’ll never know how much it’s really worth, but she’ll enjoy it, and that’s what matters. He and Peter donate a few pieces to museums and charity shops.

He sends Clint a diamond necklace, Harley a chest full of antique gold coins, Pepper an original set of Mongolian daggers and Maria some newly minted holographic strips for the Canadian hundred dollar bill.

He also leaves the Handberg Manuscripts on Peggy’s desk one morning, and she stares at them, and starts to cry.

“That’s weird,” Tony comments, offering her some tissue, “maybe whoever took them decided that you should finally get to close the case.”

“You’re an idiot, Tony,” she hiccups, hugging him tight.

He doesn’t miss any of it.

The treasure that matters most, after all, is the one he comes home to every night. Speckled with paint and cat hair (Tony is an excellent persuasive speaker) and always ready with a kiss.

“Want to know the best thing I ever stole?” Tony asks, over waffles in bed as they watch The Good Witch on Netflix.

“Ooh, what’s that?” Peter says excitedly, chocolate all around his mouth.

“Your heart,” Tony grins, reaching over to kiss his husband on the lips.

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loveissupernatural · 4 years

Photo

“The Man Behind the Mask”

Pt 6

Peter Parker x reader

Warnings: None

Summary: You’ve recently moved to Queens, New York after your father finds a new job with the U.S. government handling alien affairs in the city. You’ve grown up in a small town, and it’s your junior year of high school; culture shock takes a whole new meaning when you’re saved by the famed new web-slinging Avenger - and when you meet a new group of friends at Midtown High that seem to always be hiding something. But things quickly get personal.

Masterlist / Pt 1 – Pt 2 – Pt 3 – Pt 4 – Pt 5

You gave Peter one hell of a farewell after school that day. The buses were lining up to take students home, and you gave Ned a quick hug before turning to Peter with endless emotion in your eyes. You couldn’t put into words how thankful you were to him for his promise to request Spider-Man’s help, but it wasn’t from lack of trying. The burning questions, the ache of the unknown, could finally end for you and your mother – or, at least, the possibility was there.

You gave him a watery smile before wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing your cheek against his unscratched one. His arms welcomed you, and soothed your worry like a balm. For the millionth time that day, you whispered, “Thank you, Peter. So much.”

The faint scent of some sort of cologne (or did he just naturally smell like that?) made you melt against him. Your hand barely brushed the chocolate curls at the base of his neck. He had to know how much this meant to you.

You could’ve sworn his arms tightened when your fingers barely touched the nape of his neck, but you tried not to read too much into it. Your heart was heavy enough already with your father’s situation, so you didn’t need to start looking too deeply into Peter’s feelings about you, in case they weren’t reciprocated. You weren’t sure if you could handle it right now if they weren’t.

“Anything you need,” he whispered back, “let me know, okay?”

Peter Parker was a saint.

You regrettably pulled apart from him, frustrated that you had to end the intimate moment. You pushed down the flurry of butterflies that spread from your stomach to your throat at the way he was looking at you. How could someone be so handsome, yet simultaneously look so puppy-like?

You could’ve sworn you heard Ned mutter something along the lines of “whipped”, but you decided that you’d imagined it.

The sunglasses-donning gorilla dropped you off at your apartment that afternoon instead of at the facility. Your mother insisted that you needed to go sleep in your own bed and escape the stale environment of the prison masquerading as a hospital. She’d looked at your sleep-deprived face that morning and refused to let you argue with her – after all, you had school. You only stopped disagreeing when she promised to text you at least twice a day with updates on your father’s condition.

You wanted with every fiber of your being to be by your father’s side, but you couldn’t ignore the joy of the thought of sleeping on a mattress instead of a much too small, lumpy loveseat. Your back couldn’t take it much longer.

When arriving to your apartment, it felt strangely empty with just you. The sparse furniture and cold grey of the granite countertop reminded you how alone you were. Almost two weeks had passed since you and your family had moved in, but with your mugging scare and your father’s “accident”, not much unpacking was done. You threw your backpack half-hazardly on a living room chair and practically power walked to your bedroom. The memory foam mattress was calling your name.

You pulled out your phone and your thumb hovered over your group text with Peter and Ned. You’d exchanged phone numbers with the two at lunch as soon as it was clear that you all were taking part in a government conspiracy theory. It was obvious to you three at this point that you were lifelong friends.

“I’ll talk to Spider-Man tonight,” Peter had told you quietly after lunch, walking you to your next class. “I’m sure he’ll want to help. He’s dealt with alien-related issues before.”

“Of course he has,” you laughed, joy spreading through your entire body like a sunny day. “Peter, I really appreciate this. I – I realize that this is sensitive information… please let him know that I can be trusted.”

Peter gave you a half-smile, stuffing his hands in the pocket of his jeans. A rogue curl fell to his forehead as he looked at his sneakers. “I think he knows.”

You resisted the urge to hug him again. Your face was still cooling down from the hug at lunch.

You looked up to see that you were at your next class already, and you inwardly cursed. Peter’s presence was like a breath of fresh air, and you hated that you were already parting ways, even if it was only for an hour and a half.

Peter smiled at you, crinkles forming underneath his chocolate eyes. You had an uncanny feeling that he knew exactly how you were feeling.

“I’ll see you later, okay?” he said gently. His voice was like honey.

“Okay,” you nodded, trying to control your urge to smile like an idiot. He nodded and started backing away, maintaining eye contact with you until he had to turn, nearly knocking into someone again. He put his head down in embarrassment at his repeated clumsiness, but you laughed. It was funny how he knew exactly how to make you feel better without even trying.

You bit your lip and clicked on your group text with your friends, sighing. You decided to start the conversation with a gif of Forrest Gump waving “Hi!”. You needed a little humor in your life right about now.

Ned was the first to answer, replying with his own gif of a chubby toddler waving enthusiastically. You giggled. Peter quickly followed with a gif of Jim Carrey’s face covered in tape, waving demurely. You snorted.

So, I’m not at the hospital tonight, you texted. Mom said that I needed to get out of there for a bit. Can’t disagree with her…

That’s good, Peter replied. Hospitals can be the worst.

You wondered about Peter’s experiences with hospitals, but you decided that was a conversation for another day.

What’re you doing for dinner? Peter suddenly asked, and dots appeared by Ned’s name as he was typing.

I don’t know, figured I’d order take out again, you replied. You honestly hadn’t thought about it.

Mom’s insisting on “family dinner”, Ned replied. She won’t let me out of it. Especially since I skipped last week’s to work on our robotics project.

Bummer, Ned, Peter typed. Y/N? Do you want to come over for dinner? Aunt May says that carbs are the best medicine.

Dude, is she making spaghetti? Ned asked almost immediately. He followed with a gif of a sad-looking puppy.

Yeah lol, Peter replied.

DAMN IT! Ned cried.

You pressed your phone to your chest and took deep breaths, your heart racing. Was Peter inviting you over to meet his family? Surely you were reading too much into this. You were a friend in need and Peter was doing what he did best, comforting you.

Sure! I love Italian, you replied with shaky fingers.

Peter replied at the speed of lightening, like he had it typed out already.

7:00, 20 Ingram Street in Forrest Hills, Queens, he sent. You liked the message.

Should I take the subway? You asked. You’d be lying if you said the thought of riding the subway for your first time alone didn’t scare you. Spider-Man was right about you being a magnet for trouble.

Cab, he answered immediately. May says she’ll pay you back for fare.

You insisted that she didn’t need to, that dinner was certainly payment enough. Peter warned you that she would shove money in your hand anyway.

You launched off of your bed, invigorated by the thought of not only not spending dinner alone, but spending it with Peter. You rifled through your closet and instantly hated everything you had to wear. If you were meeting his Aunt, you had to make a good impression, right? You vaguely wondered about the whereabouts of his parents, but decided that was also a conversation for another time. He’d tell you if he wanted to.

You settled on skinny jeans, black booties, and a vintage tee. The last thing you wanted was to seem like you were trying too hard. You made sure that your hair and makeup was done, though – you didn’t want to look like you weren’t trying at all.

You went downstairs and power walked through the lobby, almost out the spinning doors before registering that the man at the front desk asked if you’d like for him to hail you a cab. You nodded shyly.

You read the cab driver Peter’s address from your phone, pleased when he nodded and made a comment that it wasn’t far. You pushed down the joy at the thought of your proximity, and how easy it would be to visit Peter if you wished. But you were getting ahead of yourself.

Your phone dinged with a jokingly sour text from Ned, telling you two to have fun without him, that he’d be miserably stuck listening to his dad’s ramblings about his newest hobby. He insisted that you call an ambulance if you hadn’t heard from him again by midnight, that he’d died of boredom.

In fifteen short minutes, the cab driver stopped in front of a quaint apartment building. You paid him and gave him a decent tip, appreciating the kind conversation he’d made on the way. He was by far the kindest stranger you’d met outside of Midtown High.

Peter texted you an apartment number shortly before you’d arrived. You looked down at your phone, then up the outside staircase. A little exercise never hurt anyone, right?

Wrong, you decided once you’d reached Peter’s floor. You leaned against the stair railing and took a moment to calm yourself and your racing heart. You weren’t sure if it was nerves making your heart thump, or the fact that you’d just climbed four flights of stairs. You decided that it was both.

You checked your reflection using your phone camera one last time, rubbing off a bit of rogue lipstick that had made its way onto your front teeth. You slipped your phone into your purse and approached the numbered door, taking one more deep breath. You could do this.

You raised your fist to knock, but before you could, you heard what sounded like a struggle and heated whispers behind the door.

“Mayyy,” you heard a voice whine, assuming it was Peter’s. He sounded quite put out.

The door flung open to a beautiful middle-aged woman with a full smile. Her brunette hair was tied up in a messy bun that should’ve looked messier, but was just flattering. She wore circular tortoise-shell glasses and loose-fitting patterned pants that you desperately wanted to borrow. She had an effortless beauty about her, and you found yourself wishing that you would age that gracefully.

“Hiii,” she grinned, and her voice was sweet. “You must be the Y/N that I’m hearing so much about.”

You heard a groan and it was at that moment that you noticed Peter a few feet behind her, running his hands over his face and looking completely and thoroughly humiliated.

She seemed to backtrack at his reaction. “Oh – I mean, not that I’ve heard a lot about you. Because then that would mean Peter talks about you all the time and that – that would be weird, right?” She looked back at him as if for approval, but his face was stoic.

You couldn’t fight your amusement at May’s candor, and reached out your hand. “Hi, yeah, that’s me. You’re Aunt May, right?”

“Just call me May,” she smiled, shaking your hand so enthusiastically that her messy bun was flopping. She stepped back and opened the door further to let you in. You liked her already.

The apartment was smaller than yours, but it was warmer and radiated comfort. You much preferred it to the cold, sterile feel of your home. It had echoes of fond memories and laughter. Your nose was greeted by the delectable smell of cooking spaghetti sauce. And to top it all off, there stood Peter, in jeans and a fitted white t-shirt, trying his hardest to smile at you through the embarrassment still etched in his features.

“I love your apartment,” you told May, looking around. You decided to give Peter a moment to regain himself. “It’s so homey.”

“Why, thank you.” She swatted her hand in an ‘it’s nothing’ matter. “It’s not much but it’s treated us well through the years, huh, Pete?”

“Uh, yeah,” he answered lamely, scratching the back of his neck. The movement caught your eye.

May walked by Peter and lightly punched him in the arm, whispering something along the lines of “chill out”; you couldn’t catch the whole thing.

Peter suddenly cleared his throat, as if trying to gather courage. “Thanks for coming, Y/N.” His smile was starting to seem more like the Peter you knew and less totally humiliated.

“Thanks for inviting me,” you quipped, walking toward him and opening your arms for a hug. He gladly accepted, but you kept the hug short since May was watching. The quickness of it didn’t stop the racing of your heart, though.

“So, I heard from a little birdie named Ned that you were making spaghetti?” you asked, turning toward May who was stirring a pot in the kitchen. She looked over her shoulder at you with raised eyebrows.

“That kid can eat more spaghetti than anyone I’ve ever seen, and that’s saying something,” she said with amusement. “Even more than Ben.” She paused, then kept stirring. “Uncle Ben,” she explained, “my late husband.”

You frowned, Peter’s comment about hospitals coming back to you. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, it’s fine,” May shrugged, setting down the sauce spoon and turning to another pot that was full of noodles. “It was a few years ago.”

You turned to look at Peter, but he was looking at the floor, an expression on his face that broke your heart. The loss was obviously still fresh for him.

“Is – is it homemade?” you ask quickly, eager to change the subject to anything that would erase that expression from Peter’s face.

“Oh, of course!” May answered cheerily, a smirk on her face that implied gossip was coming. “You can’t move to New York and have Italian food that isn’t homemade – I’d be a disgrace.”

“Too bad spaghetti is the only thing she knows how to cook,” Peter fake-whispered conspiratorially, settling beside you with a playful smirk. You laughed with him, happy that he was out of whatever state of mind he’d been in moments before.

“Hey, I heard that,” May deadpanned, turning off the stove burners and shooting Peter a playful look that feigned offense. You laughed again. You enjoyed Peter and his aunt’s dynamic.

Dinner was lovely, peppered with pleasant conversation. You quickly understood why Ned couldn’t keep his hands away from the stuff. As soon as you took your first bite, you were famished. Lunches of Midtown High’s questionable menu and dinners of the hospital’s goop quickly caught up with you.

“Sorry,” you apologized as soon as you realized how quickly you were eating, patting your mouth with a napkin. You were embarrassed by May’s surprised expression. “I haven’t had a homecooked meal in… well, honestly I can’t remember the last time.”

May’s surprise was replaced by a kind and understanding smile. Peter looked like he couldn’t be happier.

“Well, at least someone likes my food,” she muttered playfully at Peter.

“Oh, c’mon,” he laughed, rolling his eyes.

“So,” May announced after a moment, putting down her fork and wiping her mouth. “Peter says that you’ve met Spider-Man.”

Peter suddenly coughed, choking on his mouthful of pasta.

“You okay, Peter?” you asked, placing a concerned hand on his shoulder. He nodded at you with watering eyes.

“Just w-went down the wrong way,” he said hoarsely, then shot a glare at May that you didn’t understand. You hastily removed your hand from his shoulder.

“I mean,” May said, ignoring Peter’s stare, “he told me what happened on your first night here and all. And then that something happened with your dad. You’ve had a rough go of it, huh?”

You sighed and nodded, swallowing your mouthful of food. “It’s definitely been a whirlwind of drama since I got here, I can’t lie,” you tried to laugh. “But I met Ned and Peter, and they’ve honestly kept me from going crazy. I’ve barely been here any time at all and they’ve supported me like they’ve known me their whole lives.”

Peter watched you, his expression soft. You tried to avoid further eye contact with him, fearing a fiery blush would betray you.

“I’ve got a good one here,” May agreed, squeezing Peter’s arm. He looked down at his plate humbly. A curl fell to his forehead. “Ned and Peter have been best friends since they were kids. And they’re definitely the best kids I’ve ever met.”

“I can agree with you there,” you said, and you didn’t avoid Peter’s gaze this time. Despite the incessant butterflies, you tried to express to him through your eyes how thankful you were to him – for dinner, for going to bat for you with Spider-Man, for his friendship, for everything.

The moment was tender, and you were embarrassed that it took May clearing her throat to knock you out of it.

“You’re welcome here anytime, Y/N, I hope that you know that,” she said, and when you met her eyes, they were knowing. You realized in that moment that she had you pegged – she knew how you felt about Peter, which made you wonder if Peter knew. Were you that obvious? You really wished that you had a better poker face.

“Thank you so much,” you told her, truly thankful.

“I’m always here if you want a homecooked meal,” she added.

“Just the spaghetti though, I’m warning you now,” Peter whispered to you.

She swatted at him. “You know what? I’d appreciate it if you stopped dogging my cooking in front of our guest.” She turned back to you. “Seriously, I don’t like the thought of you holed up in that apartment all by yourself with everything that’s going on. It’s, I don’t know –”

“Lonely?” you finished for her. She nodded.

“Having a support system is the most important thing when dealing with tragedy,” she said, placing a soft hand on Peter’s shoulder. She looked at him with emotion in her eyes. “No one knows that better than Peter and I do.” She squeezed his shoulder and blinked a few times before looking back at you. “So you’re welcome here any time. Really, I mean it.”

You couldn’t put into words how much that meant to you. No wonder Peter was such a giving person, living with a parental figure like May. These people had barely known you for any time at all, and they were opening their home and their hearts to you.

You fought back tears, refusing to cry at Peter’s dinner table. “Thank you,” you managed to say.

May reached out and briefly held your hand. She sniffled, then suddenly clapped, light in her eyes.

“Y/N, did Peter ever tell you about that time he gave himself a wedgie trying to climb over a fence?”

Peter went pale.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“We really need to work on our Chemistry project, May,” Peter begged, shooing you out of the kitchen with desperation. May was on her fourth embarrassing childhood story of the night, and poor Peter was about to combust with embarrassment.

You looked at him with amused question, because you were thoroughly enjoying May’s stories. “We have a Chemistry project?” you whispered. Peter was the genius – it was perfectly possible that you’d missed the fact that you two had a project to turn in.

He gave you a pointed look and you suddenly understood why he was trying to get you away from May.

Your mouth formed an ‘O’ and you quickly started nodding. “Uh, yeah, yeah, it’s due next week, and we’re already behind. We – we should really get started. Right, Peter?”

He nodded to his aunt enthusiastically, grabbing his backpack from the floor. “We’re gonna go to my room, okay?”

“Oh,” she deflated, obviously disappointed that story time was over. She put a hand on her hip and shooed you toward the hall. “Go, get started!”

Peter sighed in relief and motioned for you to follow him.

“Hey, and keep the door open!” May called after you two, making Peter furiously blush and run a frustrated hand through his messy hair.

“Duh, May!” he called back, voice cracking. He mouthed an “I’m sorry” to you. You giggled quietly at his pink cheeks.

Peter darted every which way, muttering apologies about the mess, grabbing clothes and papers and shoving them under his bed.

“It’s really no big deal, you should see my room,” you insisted. “It’s a total wreck.”

Peter suddenly grabbed something small and vial-like off of his desk and shoved it into his pocket. He turned to you nervously, and it was obvious that it was something you weren’t meant to notice. You looked at his pocket curiously but decided to shrug it off, respecting his privacy.

“So, tell me about this Chemistry project we’re so desperate to get started on,” you smirked, crossing your arms. Peter coughed out a laugh.

“Sue me for wanting to stop that endless torture,” he breathed. He pulled the chair from his desk and motioned for you to sit, always the gentleman. You obliged. Peter sat on the end of his bed, resting his elbows on his knees. You tried not to look at how wonderfully lean his arms were. For a guy that didn’t play any sports and had a prestigious internship with a famous tech giant, he was surprisingly toned.

Your eyes darted to the ground, hoping against hope that he hadn’t noticed your staring.

“So…” he said slowly, wringing his hands. You decided to look at him, forcing down the blush that was threatening to creep up your neck. “I, uh, talked to him.”

You instantly sat up straighter, watching Peter with rapt attention. “Spider-Man?” you asked hopefully. He nodded, running a hand through his distressed curls. “And? What did he say?”

Peter looked at you cautiously. “He – he told me that he doesn’t think talking to you in person would be a good idea. I mean, since they know it was him who broke in, they’ll probably be looking for him, and since they’re already keeping an eye on you—”

You sighed and nodded in understanding. Spider-Man was right, but you couldn’t help but feel the disappointment in your gut at the thought of not having another early morning visit from the hero.

“He doesn’t want to get caught talking to me,” you finished for him.

“Yeah,” Peter sighed, noticing the disappointment in your tone. “But – but he does want to help, and he, uh, said that he can give you information through me.”

Your eyes lit up, hope returning where it had just vanished. “Really? He said that?”

Peter smiled at your obvious glee, happy to be the cause of it. “Yeah. I, you know, told him how important this was to you. I kind of had to convince him, but he came around.” Peter stretched his arms behind his head proudly, and you couldn’t stop your squeal of excitement.

At Peter’s wide eyes, you quickly quieted down, whispering “sorry!”.

“Haha, yeah, you’re understanding it now!” Peter said loudly, turning his head toward the door. “Good job!” It was evident this was for May’s benefit.

“Oh, man, I owe you one, Peter,” you insisted, your hands cupping your cheeks in sheer disbelief. “I – I don’t know how in the world I’ll repay you..”

Peter had the grace to look humble, but you didn’t miss the slight tint of pink around his ears. “Nah, don’t worry about it. You’ve been covering for me in Chemistry, so…”

You resisted the urge to go hug him again. Honestly, this was such great news that you could kiss him, but the last thing you needed was an excuse to do that, because you’d been wanting to anyway since the moment you’d met.

“Did Spider-Man tell you anything about what was in those files?” you asked quietly, noticing how hot your cheeks had become at the thought of thanking Peter in the way that you wanted to. You tried to change the subject.

“Actually…” Peter rose from his bed and came toward you, kneeling a few inches from you. Your heart fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings at his proximity, unsure of what he was doing. You let out a breath that you didn’t realize you were holding when he reached toward a desk drawer, opening it and gingerly pulling out a thick yellow envelope labeled TOP SECRET in thick red font. “He gave this to me.”

“Wow, he gave you that?” You couldn’t hide the awe in your voice. “He must really trust you.”

Peter was still kneeling with the file, staring thoughtfully at the words of warning on the front. At this distance, you could really see the cut on his cheek more clearly, and you were amazed to see how much it had healed since lunch today. In fact, it was almost gone.

Peter looked up at you, and as his gaze always did, it made your heart rate quicken. “Well, you know, Spider-Man trusts Mr. Stark, and Mr. Stark trusts me, so…”

You smiled at the pride shining in Peter’s eyes. It was obvious that Mr. Stark’s trust meant the absolute world to him.

“Well, good,” you affirmed, holding his gaze. “I think he’d be an idiot not to trust you.”

Peter’s ears turned a darker shade of pink, and the fact that you were the cause gave you a deep sense of satisfaction.

Peter suddenly held the envelope up in front of his face, so that you could clearly read the bright print. Whether it was for dramatic effect, or because he wanted to hide his blush, you couldn’t be sure.

“Ready to go through it?” he asked, tone almost playful.

You lowered the file from in front of his face and leaned forward in your chair. Your face had never been this close to his before. You could smell that addictive cologne-like scent again, Peter’s scent; a mix of men’s body wash and the slightest hint of sandalwood. He swallowed loudly, and his tongue darted out to lick his lips. Your eyes followed the action.

It took all the strength you could muster not to kiss him right then. Oh, how badly you wanted to. But not now, not when May could walk in any minute and revoke her “our door is always open” policy. Not to mention, you had no idea how Peter felt about you, and the last thing you wanted was to ruin a friendship with someone as wonderful as him.

You settled for giving him a soft smile, one full of adoration. “Let’s do this, Parker.”

Pt 7

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