#tony stark and peter parker | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

deathbyathousandspiders · 2 years ago

Note

Hi elle! I was wondering if you could do some angst in where reader is tony's daughter but shes the forgotten one and tony shows a lot of affection to peter and one day she just loses it. Its ok if you don't want to.

Stay safe and drink water!

i’ve never felt so motivated to write something–

content warnings (18+) — immense swearing, mentions of insecurity and negative outlook, yelling, author possibly projecting?, maybe too many italicized words/phrases.

✨masterlist✨.

3.5k.

You knew your dad loved you. He had to. He said it to you a million times before, and made it a point to remind you of it once a day. However, there were moments nowadays where you began to question it. You didn’t really question whether he loved you or not, but rather, whether he loved Peter Parker more than you.

Tony had referred to Peter as the son he’d never had. He’d taken Peter on retreats and to expos when he hadn’t taken you out on a trip since you were nine years old. He’d bought things for Peter, and fixed things for Peter, and every meme or video or cat picture you found on the internet to show to your father would automatically get the response: “send that to me, i want to show it to Peter.”

Peter this and Peter that. It sent you into a spiral of insecurity that you’d never known existed. You truly felt like Tony was trying to tell you something subliminally. You tried to drown yourself in coursework, go to engineering camps, and help out with the Avengers just to try and gain a better understanding of their bond. Of what you lacked. Nothing seemed to help. It jabbed at your feelings like a knife to the back, presumably left by Peter Parker himself.

And the worst part? You’d never even met the guy. You’d never been introduced to Peter Parker, despite how many times Tony mentioned the fact that he’d “love for you two to meet,” and “you two would get along great.” Yeah, sure. And he’s probably some gross ass dude with an untamed beard in his mid–twenties that your father took pity on. So much pity, in fact, that he’d invited Peter to stay over for the weekend in your penthouse apartment.

Fantastic.

It was such a sudden proposition, and a last second invite, but it happened. And Tony insisted, despite every protest you attempted to give, that you’d both greet him in the lobby.

So when you were face to face with a surprisingly attractive boy your age who had the deepest brown eyes you’d ever seen and barely packed a duffel bag, you were thrown off your rocker. You hardly had the composure to speak. Thus, your father did for you, smiling wider than you’d ever seen him smile before.

He was barely showing teeth, but you hadn’t seen your father this excited about something in a while. “Kid, this is my daughter, Y/N.” He stated proudly, grasping Peter’s shoulder as he started introductions. “And sweetheart,” Tony addressed you, turning his full focus to you as he gave Peter’s introduction. “This is Peter Parker.”

There was something about him that caused for you to detest him. It wasn’t seen on his clothes, or in his eyes. It wasn’t dangling in the tension between you, or whispered through his silent stares, but it was there. Perhaps, it came from the depths of your subconscious, and the land of your imagination. You shoved that proposition deeper into your subconscious, too.

Because you were certain that you had a hatred for Peter Parker, and his little staycation with the Stark’s would prove it.

The first night was fine. Your dad didn’t make you do any activities together, thank God, but he did surprise you with the news that he had to leave the next morning for a last second Avengers emergency. He didn’t know when he’d be back, but Tony assigned you and Peter with the task of rewiring a circuit board in his lab before he returned.

Being the daughter of Tony Stark, you’d taken the initiative to finish the project yourself. It was your house, anyways. It was a request that your father had made to you, so you intended to do it. You just hated the fact that Peter persisted in being with you in the room while you finished it. You hated the silence he left in the room, and the way he kept checking over your shoulder. God, you just hated him. You were sure of it.

You could feel his presence watching over your hands as they worked. You could feel the weight of his judgment, his breath catching in hesitation. You could smell the fumes of his cologne, and the aroma of his hair products. It was infuriating. It was pressuring. It felt mocking, taunting.

He stepped closer, hands reaching over to where yours were tinkering, yet they didn’t dare to touch your project. “A–actually, you should move the circuit focus closer to the–”

The audacity he had to question you. The nerve he struck with his comment, it filled you with rage.

Wrench and wire were thrown to the table, clanking and clamoring as they caved to gravity’s pull. Their sound was the only thing keeping you and Peter from shared silence. The shared silence of your anger. You turned your head to look at him, hoping that you weren’t physically exhaling flames like you imagined you were.

“Can you just.. not?” The question almost came out as a laugh. You nearly laughed, in disbelief that Peter Parker thought he had any say in how you built a robotic contraption. “Can you just fucking not?”

Walls had been building up inside you, livid and rageful feelings clouding your judgment as you glared at him. You couldn’t see just how shocked he was, thrown off at your irritation. You couldn’t see how puzzled he was, or panicked that he’d done something to upset you so much. You just stared into the eyes of what felt like your replacement. You felt empty, worthless, as your figure reflected back at you through the glistening of his eyes.

“Can I not what? Did I– Did I upset you?” Just the sound of his voice crawled beneath your skin. It felt worse than the sleek of humidity, or nails on a chalkboard. It sounded teasing, coy.

It was the final straw.

Nails dug into your palm as your hands formed fists. One fist pressed to your forehead, almost speaking as a warning to tell you to keep composure, but you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t fucking stand it anymore. “Can you stop being so fucking perfect all the time?” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

There were several things that you’d been wanting to say to Peter Parker. You’d wanted to tell him off for a long time, but you’d never gotten the chance. Now, you’d given yourself the opportunity to let the floodgates open and your tongue run wild.

“You’re always making shit competitive and iT’S NOT OKAY. It’s not my fault that my own father loves yOU MORE THAN ME! Doesn’t mean you have to fucking rub it in my face every gODDAMN FUCKING HOUR!!” God, this felt good. “You can just do my job for me!! Fucking move into my rOOM at this point, Tony won’t know the difference!!” You scoffed, “In fact, he’d probably be tHRILLED that you FINALLY REPLACED ME!!”

Peter Parker blinked a few times at you. His mouth hung agape, too scared to say anything and interrupt what looked like things you had been needing to say. The look infuriated you.

“Build the circuit board by your goddamn fucking self and leave me the fuck alone!!” And as you made the final statement, you turned to make your leave. The subtle breeze caught your face, and you felt the air hit your cheeks cold; you hadn’t noticed that you’d started crying.

You also hadn’t noticed the fact that your dad entered the room. You froze dead in your tracks at the sight of him, tears brimming your eyes again when you saw how upset he looked.

Shit.

It wasn’t your intention for him to hear all of that, but you couldn’t take back the truth once it’d gotten out. You took a staggered breath, choking back a sob as you rushed out. You didn’t know which hurt more: to hear your father’s footsteps tread further from you, or to hear him ask Peter about what was happening rather than you directly.

Either way, it was an added punch right to the gut.

It felt like ten minutes of sobbing in your room went by before a knock was placed on your door. You were about to answer, but you weren’t given the chance; your father opened the door as soon as he’d placed the knock, a solemn look coating his face as he looked at you from the doorframe. It was a solemn look that resembled disappointment.

He was disappointed in you.

Your dad was disappointed that you’d blown a fuse in front of your house guest. Disappointed that you’d ruined your chance at a good first impression. Disappointed that you’d shown such weakness. He was disappointed that you didn’t meet his expectations. He was disappointed in you for not making his honorary son feel more welcomed. Your father was disappointed in you for fucking it all up. You could tell.

Tony took careful steps towards your bed, sitting next to you as you stifled your sobs down a bit. “Do.. You want to talk about what happened back there?” His tone was softer than you’d anticipated for someone who was disappointed in you. It almost sounded apologetic, sympathetic; you were certain that your mind was reaching for a false reality.

A sniffle caught your breath as you looked at him, fresh tears framing your face. “How much of that did you hear?” You were almost too scared to ask, but you needed to know. You had to know which bit of air to clear first.

“All of it.” Tony started, “From the part where you asked Peter not to be so fucking perfect all the time..” His tone got a little sharper, almost witty. It sounded like he was trying to make humor of your meltdown. As though he were trying to find a way to cheer you up, or tell you to grow up and get over yourself. You couldn’t tell.

You averted eye contact for a moment, trying not to blow up again. Luckily, most of the anger in your system was boiling down to melancholia. Your tears ran rivers down your face as you tried to find the words to say. “I just don’t understand..” You started, keeping your voice from breaking.

Every speck of humor fled from his face at how upset you were getting. Tony’s brows pressed together, graveness and concern bleeding through his tone of voice. “Don’t understand what, honey?” The gentleness of his tone reminded you of when he’d comfort you in childhood. It took you back to when he’d snapped at you and wanted to apologize, or when you’d scraped your knee and he rushed to patch you up. It started to ease the narrative in your head that Tony was angry with you for your little tantrum.

“I, uh.. I don’t—” A shaky breath cut you off. You weren’t sure how to communicate this feeling lightly. It’d been bottled up and growing inside you for a couple months now. You knew you’d have to tell him at some point, you just despised how raw it was. It was pure vulnerability. “I don’t understand what I did to not be good enough–” You couldn’t even get through the sentence before your lip quivered.

That was when Tony looked at you like the entire world shattered. His entire world shattered. The disappointment flooded his expression once again, but it hit you that it was never directed at you — Tony was disappointed in himself. His eyes held the weight of failing as a father, of making you feel this rejected. He failed by making you feel rejected in the first place. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a suffocating hug; you weren’t sure if he’d ever actually be able to let go of it, yet it was the kind of hug you didn’t want to part from. A hug that shielded you from the entire world.

His lips pressed to your temple, along with a few stray tears he couldn’t catch beforehand. It was rare to catch your father tearful, yet you seemed to lower that guard when you started the conversation. He held you close, letting you cry out the feelings you’d locked away for so long.

“Y/N, you’re more than enough..” He lulled, voice breaking ever so slightly, “It’s my fault you ever felt like you weren’t..” His words were everything you’d hoped to hear. You’d began to believe the possibility that actually hearing them wasn’t actuality. This insecurity had driven you beyond wild, to the point where you believed that your father’s intentions were pinned against you.

They never were.

Tony held you in his arms for the next hour, letting you talk out your growing anxiety. You talked about everything from your fomo towards their retreats and trips, to how thrown off you were that Peter was your age.

“I actually think you two would make a cute couple.” Tony started, laughing at how quick you were to throw a punch at his bicep. The melancholy had worn off both of you, and the room started to fill with laughter. “I’m serious!” Tony threw his arms up to mock defeat before changing the topic a little. “But really, I think he wants to apologize to you for what happened.”

Your face drew a blank, mixing shock and confusion as you blinked at your father a few times. “Parker wants to apologize to me? For my meltdown?”

A shrug caught in your father’s posture. “You two are more similar than you think, hon.” His tone was light and sincere as he chuckled, quietly, “You both put the weight of other people’s mistakes on your shoulders.” His words draped a blanket of guilt over your body. Your own words from said meltdown began to replay through your brain like a broken record; the blame you’d thrown at Peter was wrongfully served.

You knew you needed to apologize.

After rebuilding trust with your father, and mentally rehearsing how to apologize to Peter, you made your way across the apartment to the guest room.

The door was already open, and gave you the perfect view of Peter seated on the edge of the bed. He was reading, fidgeting fingers at the edge of his pages, and chocolate curls shadowing his focused expression.

Now that you’d been able to release the steam of your self–consciousness, you realized that hatred wasn’t the actual feeling you had towards Peter; it was envy. And once you had talked things out with your father, the clouds of your judgment cleared from your vision and you could finally see Peter Parker for who he really was: a boy. A boy your age who needed a place to crash for the weekend.

You felt guilty for interrupting his reading, but at this point, the feeling was a tiny speck to add to your growing pile of culpability. The knock was gentle, and immediately pulled his eyes to meet yours.

“Mind if I come in for a minute?” You had to croak the words out, but still managed to keep a softness to your tone. You didn’t want to yell at him again, or come across like you were about to.

The look he gave you wasn’t one you weren’t expecting; he eyed you like he’d committed an unforgivable crime, or like you’d break if he didn’t hold you together. It gave you reassurance that this apology definitely needed to come out sooner than later.

Peter book–marked his place without looking, keeping his stare fixed on you while he nodded. “Please,” He gestured to the foot of the bed beside him, “Sit. I– uh, I was planning to find you and see if you were alright, but I didn’t want to interrupt your space.”

As you sat down beside him, a smile touched your lips at how thoughtful he was. “I appreciate that, but I–I owe you an apology, Peter..” You never broke your eye contact, but the look in your eyes grew more urgent, pleading. “I am so sorry for speaking to you that way, and–”

You cut yourself off at the sight of Peter waving his hands in dismissal. He mirrored the look in your eyes, “No, Y/N, I’m sorry. I never meant to make you feel that way. I don’t want you to feel like I’m here to replace you.” His words held a direness that yours should have. Your dad was right, Peter really was putting the gravity of this into his hands.

To stop his spiral, you touched his arm for a minute, “Peter, that wasn’t your fault. It was mine for assuming and unloading all of that shit onto you. And I’m sorry for that.”

His eyes alone begged you to let him win the argument. “I still could have–”

You cut him off, “Peter, it’s not your fault.” You tried to emphasize your point, noticing the way he read your expression. His eyes scanned every inch of your face, searching for what looked like a sign of your uncertainty. His lips parted to contribute his side of the argument, but one look from you shut his trap pretty quickly.

Peter’s shoulder’s eased, but his eyes still glistened with ambition. He wanted you to understand his perspective a little. “Did your dad tell you how nervous I was to meet you?”

That wasn’t what you were expecting. Your eyes widened a little, shaking your head in response. Peter Parker? Nervous to meet you? The way your dad talked about him didn’t set him up to be that way. Of course, seeing him in front of you changed your perception a little. “No, he didn’t.” You were honest.

He wet his lips, parting them with the warmest smile you’d ever set your eyes on. The laugh that spilt from them was melodic, laced with a bit of nerves. He rubbed a muscle on the back of his neck, suddenly choking up. “Yeah, I was pretty nervous.” His brow arched slightly, complimenting his grin photogenically. “I was nervous ‘cause Mister Stark’s always talking the world to me about his amazing daughter.” Peter’s smile grew in your direction, stirring a hurricane of butterflies through your stomach.

It felt like the two of you were in the midst of a staring contest; though, instead of the intense anticipation glistening in each other’s eyes, you mutually stared at each other in security. You’d both had the immense pressure of making good impressions toward the other on your shoulders.

Peter repositioned himself on the bed, now seated facing you. His legs were crossed beneath him, his knee a hair from touching yours. “You, Y/N, are not only his greatest accomplishment, but you’re his best friend.” His words spread like butter over every worry you’d had, melting away that crippling insecurity with it. “I think he wants to be you when he grows up.”

The laughs that bubbled up your throat brought attention to the tears brimming your eyes. You blinked them away, mirroring Peter’s earnest expression. “I can tell why my dad’s always talking about you.” You told him, “And here I was thinking you’d be some old ass dude living in his mother’s basement, but here we are.”

“And here I was thinking you wouldn’t be drop–dead gorgeous.” His cheeks were ablaze with crimson, sending a pink glow of your own to your complexion. “But, here we are.”

Your smile grew, rolling your eyes playfully at him. “Alright, casanova. Save it for the love letters.” It felt nice to share laughter like this with Peter. You were glad that you gave him a second chance. Not breaking eye contact, you slid off the bed and rose to your feet. “I’ll let you get back to your reading”

Peter watched you get up to go, looking a little disappointed. You were almost surprised, but likewise, both you and Peter hid the honesty of your feelings behind the curtains of a smile.

“You don’t have to. You could stay if you want.” He started, but a look flashed behind his eyes that was rather telling; he seemed to panic over his eagerness for your company. “Unless you don’t want to–”

Biting the inside of your cheek hurt, but it was the only way to hide how wide your smile grew. “I’d love to, but I need to finish that circuit board.” And thus, the idea struck you. “You doing anything later though?”

His brows pressed together in a curious way. “Not really. You planning something?”

“Yeah. My dad and I usually have movie nights tonight.” You took paces backwards towards the door, but stalled from the moment you’d have to part ways. “You should join us! It’s my turn to pick.”

The sight of his dimples made you realize just how much you’d grown fond of his smile. It was already getting difficult to leave his presence; you knew if you didn’t leave now, you probably never would.

“Well, then you better pick a good one, just for me.” He challenged. You’d make it your goal to satisfy his request.

If even possible, it felt like your grin grew. “I plan to.”

And that said, the three of you met in the home–theater and watched Jurassic Park together. You had Tony on your left geeking out over the CGI technology from the 80s, and Peter on his left geeking out about how accurate the movie was from the book. It made your film decision that much better. It also was the best movie night you’d had in a long while.

Perhaps your dad was right: you and Peter Parker really would get along great.

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eccentricgrace · 8 months ago

Text

We Got Peter! (I Wish He Were My Kid) || IronDad

summary: five times the avengers meet peter parker, and the one time they realize who’s training him

tags: fluff, domestic, pov avengers, tony stark is peter parker's parental figure, peter can wield mjolnir, tired parent clint barton, hulk loves jokes <3

wc: 6,187

cross-posted on ao3 under the same name!

1. clint barton

Clint Barton is the first one to meet him.

His hands were blistered beyond belief from a foolhardy training session with the new girl, and with broken blisters brought blood. He just needed to get some bandaids, and one would think that an item as such would be easy to find in a compound designed top to bottom to cater to a superhero's every whim, but no.

He's in the only place someone can apparently find bandaids, when suddenly this curly brown-haired kid stumbled in looking the age of his eldest son. The kid wore pyjamas, a faded NASA tee and flannel pants, and he was walking while still hooked up to an IV, of which he held the stand beside him.

He froze when Clint was very obviously staring him down, and had the audacity to look caught.

Clint's getting real tired of picking up random kiddos that get themselves into trouble, so he cocked his head at the teen. "Who are you?"

"Peter," Peter answered with wide eyes. He had a healing shiner on his cheek, bruised a light yellow.

"What are you in here for, Peter?"

Peter opened his mouth, and then closed it. He awkwardly lifted the hem of his shirt up to reveal his entire torso heavily bandaged. Then he grimaced and dropped his shirt back down. "I wanted to go to the bathroom. Didn't want to call anyone for help."

Clint pulled a face. He looked around the medical wing for anyone else in sight, but the place was dim. He looked back at Peter. "Is someone supposed to be watching you?"

Peter shook his head. "I'm supposed to just rest. Everyone else is asleep."

Clint grunted. He looked back down at his hands and quickly peeled the bandaids out of their packaging, wrapping them expertly around his fingertips. "Well, get back in your bed, then."

Peter complied easily, settling back into a rumpled bed just across from the cabinets of medical supplies. He pulled the comforters back up, and Clint watched as his nose twitched and his teeth clenched from the movement.

Clint internally sighed. He closed the cabinet. "So, what's a kid doing with an injury like that? You someone's responsibility around here? Is it Steve?"

Peter shook his head tiredly and tilted his head back on the pillow. "No, not Steve. And the injury isn't... that bad, it's just— It stings, a little."

Clint walked over to the IV and narrowed his eyes at it. "This is strong stuff. Looks like it's running a little low, though."

"Yeah," Peter frowned. "It was dripping really fast, and it's almost been twenty four hours. The doctor lady, um, Dr. Cho said it should be switched out then."

"And where is she?"

"Got called away on a mission," Peter explained. "Something went wrong with some agents in Helsinki, they needed emergency medical attention."

Clint resigned. Guess he was taking care of this one, too. He walked over to the medical supplies and took a new bag of IV fluid before returning to Peter. "I'm gonna switch it out for you, hopefully that'll fix it up, okay?"

Peter nodded.

"So," Clint tore the opening. "How'd you get the stab wound?"

"How did you—"

Clint leveled him with a look. "You think I made it this far without recognizing a stab wound, kid?"

Peter furrowed his eyebrows. "Wrong place, wrong time."

Clint didn't believe that for a second. He narrowed his eyes at Peter and then went back to the IV, closing the clamp below the drip chamber. "And who's supposed to be watching you? The one who's asleep?"

"Mr. Stark," Peter answered quietly. "But he was worried sick ever since I got here, and I finally got him to leave and go to sleep, so I couldn't just call him back down here."

Clint studied Peter carefully. He stuck the IV spike into the port and then hung the bag back onto the stand. "Yeah, that checks out. Tony never can take care of himself."

Peter hummed noncommittally. "Thanks for drugging me."

Clint snorted. "Yeah, no problem."

He sat down beside the teen's bed. Peter tilted his head at him questioningly.

"I'll stick around til those meds kick in," Clint shrugged off. He hesitated. "How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

Clint smiled knowingly and nodded. "My son— The oldest one, he's fifteen. I thought you two looked around the same age."

"What's his name?" Peter asked politely, looking quietly grateful for the company. "Your son."

"Cooper," Clint answered gruffly. "Lila's my daughter, she's the middle kid. Youngest is Nathaniel, Nathan for short."

He nodded firmly. "They're good kids. They look out for each other, I'm grateful for them."

Peter smiled softly. "Tell me about them. If you want."

Clint scratched at his chin and leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up. "Why don't you tell me about yourself first? You're kind of the anomaly in this scenario, kid."

"Heh," Peter grinned. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Uh... What do you want to know?"

Clint had kids. He knew the best things to talk about with them, because they were his.

Nathan was the easiest, he was still a little itty bitty thing that barely reached his waist in height, and his favourite topics were the talking trains on his television shows and bargaining for more bologna on his sandwich at lunch.

Lila was second easiest, because she loved archery—she's gonna grow up to be a real class act like him, it's in the genes— so he'd bring her to the range and they'd talk about techniques.

Cooper was trickier, getting into that independent mindset and all, and it was hard to get a sentence or two out of him if he wanted to figure something out by himself. Clint always got him to spill though, props of working as a spy with background designed to persuade information.

But again: those were his kids. Clint Barton wasn't exactly the easiest guy to talk to, either. He decided to settle for a middle ground if he wanted conversation.

"What's your favourite subject in school?"

"Chemistry." Peter shrugged. "It's really easy, though."

"Well, there are AP classes for chemistry, aren't there?" Clint tilted his head. "You ever tried out for those? Heard they're great for colleges. Where you trying to go, New York University? Yale? What are the other big ones..."

"Uh, MIT." Peter nodded his head. "I'm trying to get into MIT. And I'm already taking the AP classes."

Clint blinked. "Oh. Well, alright then. You're set."

Peter smiled. "Guess so."

"So..." Clint drummed his thumb tiredly against his knee. "Tony, huh? Didn't know he had a... you."

"I'm interning," Peter rattled off quickly. A practiced excuse. He maintained direct eye contact, his chin jutted out with pride from his own lie. It did not go unnoticed to Clint.

"Oh, interning for Stark, eh?" Clint said. "I didn't know he had an internship program. Even more shocked a kid would sign up for said program. Sounds really boring."

"It can be sometimes," Peter shrugged. He glanced down at his own wound and broke into a sheepish grin. "You wouldn't want it to get too exciting though, otherwise you end up here. You know what I mean?"

"Tony's got a problem with employee health insurance?" Clint replied dryly, just trying to draw more information out of this teenager.

He still couldn't crack whether or not the kid was interning as an Avenger or if he was interning for Stark Industries and just got caught up in something he shouldn't have been around. ('Wrong place, wrong time' is a clever excuse, but not telling enough.)

"Oh, no!" Peter furrowed his eyebrows and backtracked. "No. That's not what I meant. I meant more like, exciting like when Avengers stuff is happening and like, sometimes that makes me a target for bad guys— working here, I mean. Not like, as an actually Avenger. Definitely not that, ha. I'm just a kid."

He sniffed in finality as he ended his sentence.

Clint studied him nonchalantly. "Sure."

"I feel really chatty all of the sudden."

"It's the drugs."

"That actually makes a lot of sense."

"Yeah, you get chatty, and then you totally conk out."

"Oh."

Clint tilted his head, studying the kid with narrowed eyes. He was all fidgety, restless as he looked down at his dripping IV and then the folds of his bedsheets and then everywhere else. Clint cleared his throat. "I really don't think Tony'd mind being woke up, you know. If it's his responsibility to babysit."

He knew if his kids were in hospice, you wouldn't be able to pull him out of the room, and he wouldn't give a damn how tired he was. That's just parenting.

"It's not babysitting," Peter argued, his nose scrunching up. "I'm entirely capable, like, practically an adult. Besides, Mr. Stark hardly sleeps, so like, waking him up isn't exactly on my weekend itinerary."

Clint grunted. "Alright, well, try not to keep yapping. Try and sleep, will you?"

"Yessir," Peter chirped.

Clint leaned his head back and closed his eyes, listening to the hum of lights and the aircon. Silence for a few seconds, and then—

"...Are you just gonna sit there? You can— You can go, if you want. I can get to sleep on my own, dude."

Clint exhaled stiffly through his nose. Unfortunately, his conscience won't allow him to leave til he knew this teenager was sound asleep. He couldn't just tell him that, though.

"I'm making sure you actually sleep and don't crawl your scrawny dumbass out of bed," Clint said simply, keeping his eyes closed.

"Can't wait to tell Ned that Hawkeye kept me hostage in the med bay," Peter joked, his eyes starting to droop and his tone beginning to lull. (Bingo. One step closer to knock-out town.)

"Yeah, yeah," Clint crossed his arms and went back to being quiet.

A few minutes later, he tilted his head up to peek— Peter was totally out cold, his mouth wide open while drool ran down his chin. Clint snorted softly and stood up to leave.

He could have sworn on the way there he heard Tony down another corridor, bickering with F.R.I.D.A.Y. about getting out of bed to check on "the kid."

Clint's mouth pulled up at the corner and he disappeared into the elevator.

2. thor

Thor was wandering from the kitchen when he saw the smaller Midgardian standing on the lawn outside, his arm stretched out with a strange device on his wrist.

He lazily swerved his axe back and forth and watched the child with interest, and finally decided to go out and investigate himself.

He swallowed the mouthful he had of bread. "I've never seen you before."

The child in question practically jumped out of his skin. He whipped around, his eyes wide, his jaw dropped— the device on his wrist dropped and shot a strand of string out uselessly to the field.

Thor raised an eyebrow.

"Oh," the child gasped. "Oh my god. Oh my god. Holy— It's— You're just— You're on Earth!"

"Yes, I'm visiting," Thor smiled wryly. "Did they begin to hire new Avengers while I was gone? Little ones, specifically?"

"Sorta," he blurted, looking upwards with awe. Then he quickly shook his head. "Not because you were gone! Just— I'm in training. No, I'm not. I'm not an Avenger. I'm just— I make the— Wow, you have — Really big muscles—"

Thor nodded sagely. "What's your name again?"

"Peter," the human said quickly, face going red. "Peter Parker."

Peter's eyes drift down to the axe hanging limp from Thor's hands, and then they widened all over again. He smiled shyly. "Can— Can I try it?"

Thor chuckled with amusement, holding the axe out. He flexed it out a few times. "Ah, this beauty. You can sure try, but it requires a very powerful heart, and you are ... very small. Like a splinter of the Yggdrasill. Itty-bitty."

He shoved the axe down in the soil with ease and continued talking as Peter put his hands firmly around the handle. "You see, it was forged by the power of a star—"

Peter used all his strength to yank the axe off, but not even a portion of it was needed. The thing flew upwards, flinging grass and bits of dirt everywhere. It pulled itself over Peter's shoulder from the force of his strength and he fell backwards into the lawn.

Thor stopped, words simply evaporating from his mouth.

"Oh my god," Peter repeated again. He slowly sat up, pulling the axe back over he shoulder with a lot more ease and simply holding it out in front of him with his... puny, twig arms.

Thor closed his mouth. Opened it again. Closed it again. This child— no. This man was now worth of his respect. He smiled nervously, shifting around on his feet.

"Uh. Oh," Thor stumbled. He clicked his tongue. "Um... Huh."

"This is so cool," Peter huffed, grin breaking out on his face. He turned the axe over in his hands. Then he held it back out to Thor. "That means I'm worthy, right?"

Thor made a cringing noise— a so-so motion with his hand. He scratched the back of his neck. "What's your father's name, Peter Parker?"

Peter made a face of discomfort.

"Your guardian," Thor corrected easily.

"May Parker?"

"Son of May Parker, I must admit, I underestimated you," Thor sighed. "...At least Stark can't wield it."

Thor stood there for a moment, looking down at Stormbreaker with a thoughtful frown on his face. He rolled his eyes and looked back to Peter. "Do you know where Banner is?"

Peter shrugged, looking caught between bewilderment and shock.

Thor nodded simply. "Well. It was an experience to meet you, Peter Parker."

He left without a second thought, leaving nothing behind him except a teenager stuck in an existential crisis.

(As you do.)

3. natasha romanov

Natasha met Peter for the first time in the Gym, the second floor of the Avengers Compound, West Wing.

"You up for some combat training?" Tony had asked her, looking up lamely from his mug of steaming black coffee. He had bags under his eyes, dark circles heavily visible.

"Why?" Natasha mused. "You feeling rusty, Tony?"

"Har har. No, not for me, for some new blood. Avengers recruit. He spent the other night in the med bay, I'm not exactly anxious to have that happen again," Tony sighed. "He's got some basics down, and he's strong, but figured he could do with some spider-hero tips."

That was all she was told. (What she inferred was her own business.)

She sat on the mat of the gym, waiting patiently for the new recruit to come in. She heard the gently swishing of the glass doors, and footsteps that stalled.

Natasha turned to meet him. She's greeted with the sight of a teenager, complete with a backpack, a shy smile, and a nervous wave. He wore sweats, a t-shirt, and faded out shoes that looked a step away from a shoebox coffin.

"Black Widow?" He asked. He shuffled on his feet. "Or should— Do I say Natasha? Ms— Ms. Romanoff?"

Needless to say, she was wary. She had her own morals on whether children should be able to fight, but she tried to keep in mind the circumstances. Whoever this kid was, he'd already spent time receiving medical attention from the other end of a fight, and if Tony was looking that exhausted over him then he must be one stubborn mule.

He'd benefit more from training than a scold to stay away from danger. Hero type, just like Steve. She'll give it a shot.

"Natasha's fine," she said simply. She stood up and crossed her arms. "Are you gonna tell me your name?"

"Peter Parker," he said, setting his backpack to the side. He kicked his shoes off and stepped onto the mat, holding his hand out for Natasha to shake.

Rookie mistake.

Natasha shook his hand, smiling pleasantly. She gave the handshake a second and a half before attempting her first move.

It was supposed to go like this: Natasha yanks him forward, shoves him to the ground, and pins him with one of his arms held backward. Easy. Something she was taught when she was six.

Instead, in the millisecond before she was about to move, Peter yanked his hand back. She saw a fleeting blur of Peter jumping over her.

She swung around, raising an eyebrow and her mouth opened in surprise. She pursed her lips, impressed. "Alright, then. You're full of surprises, aren't you, Peter?"

"I didn't realize we started," Peter said, exhaling through his mouth. He squared his hips and held up his fists with a focused dip in his brow.

"Gimme your best shot," Natasha grinned.

Natasha kept a close eye on him, watching as he stepped side to side, not making a move. Interesting.

She took a step forward, he took a step back.

She took a step backward, he—

He again jumped over her, dipped down, and swung his foot under Nat's legs. She fell on her back, looking up at the white vaulted ceiling.

"Oh, crap," Peter said quickly. He lowered his fists. "Are you okay? That was a little ha—"

She rolled to the side, grabbing Peter's knee and swinging upwards so their positions were switched. She caught her breath, now standing on both feet, and watched with curiosity as the kid started doing something... odd.

He started talking, seriously chattering up a storm, scrambling himself up in an unpracticed manner and matching her move for move. He wasn't refined in the slightest, and he pulled his punches hard. Natasha had no idea how much strength he wasn't even using.

His fighting was all slapstick, clumsy— he fought purely through instinct and with what Tony had properly summarized to her as "the basics." Simple punches. Kicks. He also seemed to rely heavily on his agility and flexibility, which Nat could respect.

He grunted after being shoved into the ground and tilted his head to the floor tiredly, his chest heaving with breath. "Oh man. I gotta say, I'm real glad I wasn't fighting against you back in Germany."

Natasha froze. She made a face and narrowed her eyes. "You're Spider-Man, aren't you?"

Peter furrowed his brows up at her and wrinkled his nose. "Um, yeah? I thought Mr. Stark told you that."

She pulled back fully, clearly signaling the training was over. She caught her breath again and analyzed his expression, the details in his face— youthful, stubborn confusion. She could see closer now some things she hadn't thought about before.

This teenager had been fighting toe-to-toe with Captain America that day, a little over two years ago.

"Tony wanted me to train you because you're going up against people you match your strength," she said bluntly, understanding now from all angles. "Because you don't know how to fight."

She thought back to the dark circles under Tony's eyes. The exasperation twinged with desperation in his voice when he asked.

Peter nodded slightly, looking sheepish. He was just a kid. He didn't ask for these powers, and yet, he was chomping at the bit to learn, to help.

Natasha held her hand out to help him up. "Alright, kid."

He looked down at her hand warily. "You're not gonna try to judo throw me again, are you?"

She smirked. "Not this time. I'm gonna teach you the basics on how to use that strength of yours. When I'm done with you, you'll be able to knock a guy unconscious with your pinky finger."

He huffed with amusement and took her hand, allowing himself to be helped up. "Awesome."

So that's how Natasha got another nephew.

4. bruce banner

It's four in the morning on a Saturday when Bruce Banner met him.

He had just woken up from a nightmare and felt... green around the gills. Deep breaths were calming, but not enough in the darkness of his bedroom, sweat dripping down his forehead as he carded his hands messily back and forth through his hair. After about five minutes where the underside of his skin still burned and pulled where it wanted to transform, he finally swung himself off the bed.

He took a cold shower, talking himself down the entire time the freezing droplets pelted his back.

"This bathroom is too small for you, Big Guy," Bruce seethed his teeth, vigorously rubbing shampoo into his scalp. "I'm not hulking out. We're not doing this tonight."

His heart lunged uncomfortably and Bruce scrubbed soap on the green-turning skin on his wrists. "Stop that, I'm not kidding around with you. Just forget the nightmare and go to bed."

His stomach turned, his skin stretching out as Hulk morphed the half of his face with an angry desperation. Hulk's voice came out of his throat, gruff and monstrous. "NO."

"This isn't a discussion," Bruce hissed back. He yanked the shower off, the handle breaking in his hands. He froze, inhaled deeply, and very calmly set the handle down. His eyes twitched.

"We're going to go get a nice, calming, cup of green tea," Bruce replied. "Then, we're going back to bed."

His stomach turned again. "JASMINE."

"Okay, fine," Bruce threw his hands up and stepped out of the shower, wiping the water off with his towel. "Jasmine. Fine. Whatever makes you happy."

Five minutes later, and he's stepping out of the elevator in a new set of pajamas, his hair wet and dripping down the back of his neck. He walked into the kitchen and clicked the electric kettle on. He picked up a mug from the cabinet, put the tea bag in, and waited with a tight frown on his face.

His eyes caught a light from the other room, coming from the ceiling. He looked up, and then subsequently froze.

A gangly teenager, sitting quietly on the living room ceiling, entirely razor-focused on a laptop that he held tightly on his lap.

Bruce blinked.

He blinked again.

The kid didn't disappear.

Bruce isn't sure what to do. The teenager didn't even seem to notice the predicament he was in, a stranger in a high-security compound who was also, you know, breaking the laws of gravity. Surely he had to belong to somebody. Someone had to have been mentoring him, maybe Steve or Nat.

(He hoped for his sake that it was not Natasha's mentee, because then he'd probably get his ass kicked for staring.)

Bruce scratched his head and turned the kettle off before it could scream, then poured the steaming water into his mug. He sat down and watched the kid curiously as he sipped his tea.

There was a lot to process. Luckily, he's a scientist, so he's had some practice at processing.

Bruce guessed that the teenager had conscious control over what he stuck to, begging by how tightly he gripped the laptop in his hands and how he fidgeted once, resettling himself where he sat, and still didn't fall.

What Bruce thought was even more interesting was how the teenager's face was of normal colour. Not a hint of purple, not even red. He wasn't breathing in a laboured way, either. Bruce had been watching him for two minutes now and he looked entirely normal, when any normal person would start showing signs of blood pooling. With this kind of biological capability, Bruce's best guess is that this ability is tied directly to his genes.

The kid narrowed his eyes. "X squared minus a hundred... divided by... But if I use the limit theorem then— Oh, my bad. I get it."

The teenager huffed with slight amusement and then went back into a silent concentration, his eyebrows furrowing as he read along the screen.

Differential calculus. Either a college student or an advanced high schooler.

Ten minutes passed, and Bruce had finished his scalding hot tea with little issue, much to Hulk's dismay. He kept his eyes on the teenager, waiting to gain more interesting details about the abilities he had.

Then his stomach turned again. Bruce immediately glared.

"Don't you do it," Bruce whispered.

His blood burned and his heart pounded angrily in his chest.

Hulk growled under his breath.

"Stop it," Bruce grumbled back. "Cut it out."

His fists clenched with a crack of his knuckles. "I'm DONE with watching," Hulk said defiantly.

"I don't give a shit! Hulk—"

"NO," Hulk roared, and his whole arm expanded and burned radioactive green. He reached out and shattered the mug, droplets of tea splattering across the kitchen. "DUMB SCIENCE STUFF."

And the illusion of being hidden disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Bruce quickly looked back at the ceiling and found the teenager to be gone, as if he had never even been there.

Bruce glared at the empty space. "I hate when you do this! You scare away perfectly nice people, and you're never compliant with what I want to do—"

His chest expanded with anger. Hulk's eyes burned with rage, and he pounded a fist down on the counter. "YOU ARE DUMB. NOT COMPLIANT. BANNER STINKS, HULK STRONG."

He could feel himself slipping away, and his skin shifted mossy green. Hulk roared again and swung his arm powerfully across the kitchen counter, the wood splintering in chunks while cabinet doors flung across the room.

Hulk turned to throw a punch at the counters behind him but his whole arm was halted by an arm unmistakably by... something. Hulk grunted and looked over his bulky fist, and made eye contact with the scrawny teenager from before.

"Oh shit," the kid breathed. "Uh... Hey, Mr. Hulk."

Hulk narrowed his eyes and curled a lip to show his barred teeth. "MOVE. HULK, SMASH KITCHEN."

"How about I tell you a joke instead?" The teenager said quickly. "You like jokes? I know a lot of jokes!"

"JOKE?"

"Oh, yeah," the teen nodded. "I bet I can make you laugh. It makes all the superheroes laugh, and you're— You're a superhero."

"HULK, SUPERHERO?"

"Yeah!" The kid smiled and slowly let Hulk's hand go. "Of course, dude. You're an Avenger."

Hulk stared.

"So do you want to hear the joke?"

Hulk jerked a tight nod.

"Okay, awesome!" The teenager sniffed. "What's a superhero's favourite drink?"

"WHAT?" Hulk asked.

"Fruit punch," he said with a grin.

Hulk paused, then he grinned and let out a boisterous laugh. "GOOD JOKE. HULK LIKE PUNCHING. HULK, SMASH."

And Hulk laughed, and laughed, and laughed— Until Bruce Banner leaned tiredly against the unbroken kitchen counter with the remains of his shirt draping around his neck. He looked up at the teenager with confusion. He furrowed his eyebrows. "You... You just stopped the Hulk."

The kid smiled back at him, eyebags under red eyes. "I think that if was like, even one percent more awake right now, I would be freaking out."

"Yeah," Bruce huffed. "Yeah, Hulk isn't pretty, I wouldn't blame you."

"No, I mean— Meeting you," he gestured up and down. "I was you for Halloween when I was a kid. I had like, a lab coat, and I carried around a printed out copy of your papers on Gamma Radiation."

Bruce blinked several times in shock and disbelief. He stumbled a bit. "You dressed up as Bruce Banner for Halloween? When— When you were a kid?"

"Yeah," the kid smiled nervously. He held out his hand. "Um, Peter. Peter Parker."

Bruce stared down at his hand and then finally shook it, his movements stunted and lazily from his surprise. "It's nice to meet you, Peter."

"Well, I really need to get to sleep," Peter said with a huffed laugh, looking up at the clock above the fridge. "But uh, it was nice meeting you too. I'll see you around, Dr. Banner."

Peter Parker was already well on a different floor before Bruce's mind finally caught up with him, and he realized he had forgotten to ask Peter about his powers.

(Not to worry, because it was only the next morning that Tony stalked into his lab with a proud grin on his face, and introduced him to Peter Parker for the second time, praising and prattling about how he had found a brainiac teenager smarter than the both of them combined.)

5. steve rogers

The first time Steve met him, it was completely and entirely by chance.

He was standing in the elevator, hands tucked loosely in the pockets of his hoodie. The floors flickered down from five, to four, three, two, and then they stopped. The doors opened and the kid bumbled inwards, backpack strung over his shoulder and earbuds in his ears— he's staring down at his phone.

"This bucket of bolts is never going to get us past that blockade," he murmured quietly, then smiled cockily. "This baby's got a few surprises left in her, sweetheart."

Steve's eyebrows furrowed in a curious amusement. Part of him wanted to speak up, tell the kid it wasn't safe to walk around without hearing or seeing your surroundings— if he had done that when he was Peter's age, he woulda found himself beat up in an alleyway behind the old theatre.

The other part of him didn't want to seem old and lame, so instead he jerked his chin up. "What are you watching?"

The teenager looked up quickly. His mouth opened in shock as he suddenly realized the company he was with— a look Steve was regularly given. He pulled an earbud out. "Uh, Star Wars."

"Oh," Steve nodded vaguely. "I've meant to watch that, at some point..."

"It's really good," the teen smiled earnestly. "I started watching this in the car on the way here, so I'll have to finish it after I see Mr. Stark, but—"

Steve raised an eyebrow with interest at the mention of Tony. He cleared his throat politely, shifting on his feet to look at him better. "You know, I don't think I've ever seen you before. What's your name, kid?"

"My name's Peter," he replied awkwardly and fidgeted with the cracks in his phone's screen protector. "Do I call you, uh— Mr— Captain? Captain, uh... Rogers? Er—"

"Steve is fine," Steve smiled teasingly. "Nice to meet you, Peter. Are you an intern? You look young. Not that I can judge, I was working at eight, passing newspapers to neighbors for a penny."

"...Yeah, I'm an intern," Peter explained, chuckling slightly. He cleared his throat. "Still in highschool though. You know— It's really funny, actually, because I had to watch one of your videos for class yesterday."

Steve grimaced. "Oh no."

Peter's smile widened. "I think I have your whole like, script, memorized. Hearing your voice saying completely different things is throwing me off."

Steve felt his ears go hot. He was crawling in his own skin, hiding his face behind his hand and smiling tiredly. "Those are a long story—"

"So," Peter continued seriously over him, doing what Steve could only assume was his best 'Captain America' impression. "You got detention—"

"No," Steve laughed hard, hand on his chest. "Why do they still use those? God—"

After what seemed like an eternity, the elevator door finally dinged. Peter smiled at him. "Well, uh, it was nice talking with you. Especially while not like, fighting."

Steve took a breath, confused and recovering from the previous bout of laughter. "Hm?"

Peter simply walked out of the elevator and saluted him with a grin. "Bye, Brooklyn."

The elevator door closed. Steve is left alone with his jaw dropped.

Who said the youth weren't surprising?

+1: tony stark

Rhodey wandered into the second floor living room of the Compound with the distinctive clicking noise of the prosthetics. He rapped his knuckles on the wall. "Anybody know where Tony is?"

Natasha, lounged on the white loveseat against the window, looked up from her book. "Is he even here?"

"Well, yeah," Rhodey huffed. "Where else would he be? Has nobody seen him even dig up here for coffee, like the star-nosed caffeine mole he is?"

"Nope," Clint said, sitting against the floor and scrolling aimlessly through his phone with an expression of eternal boredom. "Is he with his kid?"

Steve froze from his spot at the stovetop, looking up with alarm. The wooden spoon in his hand hovered above the boiling water pot.

Bruce furrowed his eyebrows and put the chess piece he was holding back on the board. He looked over to Thor, who was so ferociously concentrated on winning that he didn't even seem to hear the conversation around him.

Bruce kicked him lightly in the shin. "Tony's got a kid?"

Thor widened his eyes, looked up and around like a startled animal. "I wasn't aware Stark had offspring?"

"He has an intern," Natasha corrected with amusement, giving Tony, and the confused company, the benefit of the doubt. "Not quite his."

"Oh, that's his kid," Rhodey sighed heavily. "He's a scrawny little punk. Definitely Stark blood. I'll go check the lab."

"Hold it," Clint looked up in sarcastic awe. "You mean to say someone other than Bruce was let into the precious lab?"

"It's just a safety precaution," Bruce explained in embarrassed stuttered mumbles. "There's a lot of dangerous stuff in there—"

"But he lets a kid—"

"Intern—"

The elevator chimed. The doors opened and the two fools in question meandered out into the hallway. As they walked down to the living room, all the Avengers could hear a familiar voice all of which had been acquainted to ramble off.

"I'm just saying, I would've had more time to fix the calculations myself but I got caught up on everything with this huge guy who was totally tearing up Times Square," Peter rounded the corner, smears of oil and general mechanic schmutz on his cheek. He trailed closely next to Tony, who was grinning down at a holographic tablet and moving around parts of a digital suit rendering.

Tony wandered into the kitchen. "Yeah, I heard your report. I also heard, via May, that you forgot to do your homework again though, huh? What's your excuse for that one, kiddie?"

Peter hopped up on the kitchen counter, taking the tablet from Tony's hand. He started doing his own work on the render as Tony stepped around Steve to get to the fridge.

"Apple juice?" Tony called out, swinging the fridge door open. "We're out of the, uh... the Capri suns, but I put more on the grocery list for next time."

"Apple juice is fine, thanks," Peter chirped. He tilted his head and zoomed in on the Iron Man chest plate. "Mr. Stark, what if we changed the layering of the arc reactor to fit the nano-particles, instead of reworking the whole thing?"

Tony hummed, tossed back a bottle of apple juice (which Peter caught without looking) and closed the fridge. He took a seat next to Peter, but actually on a barstool rather than on the counter, and looked over at the tablet.

"Show me," he said blankly.

Peter moved some things on the screen, wrote down some numbers and letters, and looked up at him. Tony scratched his goatee in thought, and then nodded. He ruffled Peter's hair. "Yeah. Looks good, kid. I'll get the prototypes 3D-printed for next time and we'll put it all together."

"Awesome," Peter grinned. He cracked open the apple juice and sipped at it. He looked up at the rest of the living room. "Oh, hey, guys."

The Avengers at this moment were all suddenly on the exact same page, albeit with varying reactions. Clint, who was smirking, an eyebrow raised, knowing and maybe even a little impressed. Bruce, who had now put together the pieces he had and was pleasantly surprised, beside Thor who was only surprised. Steve, the most shocked, and Nat, the least shocked.

Meanwhile, Tony, finally looking up only when Peter said hello, recognized the people in the room. He nodded in acknowledgment. "Ah. Avengers, this is Peter."

"We know," Clint said smugly. "Pretty sure we've all met him."

"Sorry?" Tony furrowed his eyebrows. He looked between Peter, and then the rest of the Avengers. "When did you meet each other? Other than Romanoff and Banner, I haven't told anyone else about the kid—"

"I met them," Peter spoke up. He put his finished bottle of apple juice on the counter and smiled. "I met Hawkeye in the medbay one night, Steve in the elevator, and Thor on the lawn— that was really cool, by the way."

Tony hesitated, and then shrugged. "Alright, then. Anyways, nobody can steal him. You guys can get your own Avenger intern prodigies, this one is mine. Looking at you, Rogers."

Peter covered his face with one hand and stifled a laugh. "Mr. Stark—"

Steve put his hands up defensively, giving a kind smile. "No worries, Tony."

(Everybody knew it would be impossible to separate the two, anyways. But anybody would be lucky to have Peter as a kid-intern-thing...

Just ask Tony Stark.)

#irondad and spiderson #irondad fanfiction #tumblr fanfiction #peter parker fanfiction #avengers fanfiction #tony stark #tony stark and peter parker #fluff #domestic avengers

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