send me a made-up fic title and i'll tell you what i would write to go with it

– one per ask please :)

– anons welcome!

Tony and Peter would be the kind of couple to make silly bets: as they fuck, the first one to make a sound has to do the dishes.

Tony, horny and breathless: what? Why would we bet that? We have a dishwasher, Pete

Peter, who has waited mid-handjob to spring the idea on Tony: you know it doesn’t get the residue off the ceramic dishes though. And the crystal glasses can’t go in the dishwasher at all. Not to mention the cast iron—

Tony: can we talk about this another time?

Peter: sure but if you try to talk about it after I say go, you’ll be doing the dishes

I need to continue this, holy shit it’s my jam

-robot boy-

The decision doesn’t come as easily as any of his previous team members might think. The mistake that was Ultron is still fresh in his mind (along with all his other failures, so, so many failures, collecting over him like dust he can’t shake away, dust in his hands, slipping through his fingers). But Tony does some of his best work out of desperation - time spent in a cave in the Middle East taught him that - and he can’t help but think that the universe is encouraging him in its fathomless, apathetic way. All the pieces come together.

With Helen gone, the Cradle gathers dust, begging to be used.

There are DNA samples in Bruce’s lab marked P. Parker from Bruce’s curiosity about the kid’s genetically modified blood.

FRIDAY has enough documentation of Peter to assimilate his personality, his notable memories, everything from the way he walks to the way he laughs.

Tony decides he has nothing to lose. Everything has already been lost, hasn’t it? Lost in space, dissolving in his desperate grip. And if it doesn’t work, then no one needs to know (he has no plans to tell anyone as it is, not when he knows how grief stricken he is, how insane the idea is, knows that word might get around to the wrong people).

Watching the Cradle work, eyeing the screen as it replicates stem cells, strings together molecules, prints tissues, he knows that he isn’t creating another Ultron. This is Peter Parker. His purpose will not be peace. It will be… happiness.

Any other motive Tony has beyond that, he buries deep.

When the Cradle finally opens, there is no dramatic moment of pause: two thin hands reach out to grab the edges and hoist himself up from its depths like a coffin in reverse, and it’s Peter. It’s Peter. It looks exactly like him, hair shorter than the last time Tony had seen him, but otherwise identical, and when he spots Tony, the kid lights up like it’s Christmas.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter cries. With one lithe movement, he slips from the Cradle. He’s completely naked. Tony gets one brief glimpse (a searing, permanent image) of the line of the kid’s abs, his narrow hips, his cock soft between his legs before he turns away. When Peter speaks, Tony can hear the frazzled embarrassment in his tone, “Oh, sorry. Is my bag still here? The one with the extra set of clothes?”

It is. Because Tony hasn’t had the heart to touch it, to move a single thing that Peter had touched down in the lab, lest it drive away his memory. As if that’s possible.

“God,” Peter breathes while he dresses. “I can’t believe you created me. This is, like, the greatest scientific achievement of our time, Mr. Stark. I’m flesh and blood, right? 100%?”

Tony clears his throat. Even if it’s a little jarring to discuss so blatantly, giving Peter self-awareness was absolutely the right move. This isn’t a replacement for the kid he lost, and he doesn’t want it to be. He just, just wants - “Yeah, Pete. You’re real.”

Then thin arms are slipping around his waist, Peter’s face pressed into the hollow between Tony’s shoulder blades while he presses them flush together. The wound that Tony carries, the skin of his soul split wide open - it heals a fraction. Blood clots. A scab forms. He thinks that maybe this can be enough, until he figures out a way to bring everyone back. To bring Peter back.

“It’s okay to cry, Mr. Stark,” Peter says.

Tony figures that’s as close to permission as he’ll ever get.

Prompt #46

Peter Park is sweet. He helps little old ladies cross the street. He rescues cats from trees. He has those big, brown eyes that say “I’m an angel”. And Tony Stark is the only one that sees through it.

@cagestark hey could you do this prompt???

Thank you for boosting my friend’s work! I hope this is satisfactory. 

Warnings: dark!Peter, no underage but power imbalance considering Tony is a high school teacher and Peter is his student. Gaslighting. Blackmail. 

-

Tony doesn’t buy it, not for one goddamn second.

Maybe he just knows too much about the nature of man, taught to him at an early age from Howard. No man is perfect, no matter how good he appears in the public eye. Even if he donates to charity, funds research on terminal illnesses, rolls up his sleeves to do humanitarian work—when the cameras aren’t around, the man ignores his wife, beats his son and teaches him: no man is truly good.

Not even Peter Parker, star Senior at the high school that Tony transfers to teach advanced placement classes in the science department. He’s only known the boy—turned freshly eighteen just before the fall semester started—for four months, but Tony doesn’t understand how the rest of the school (his colleagues included) are so fucking blind.

The kid has charm; Tony will give him that. Even more in his favor is his appearance: small and unassuming; fit, though not overly so; with guileless eyes and a bright smile and curls any cherub might die for. His voice is a frail little thing, soft and precious. He arrives at Midtown every morning with a bounce in his step and a smile and a Hi Mr. Stark, how are you? And Tony doesn’t buy it.

“He’s an angel,” Steve says, adding way too much fucking creamer to his coffee in the teacher’s lounge. “Always looking for a way to help me or his fellow students. Did you know he’s an orphan? Poor thing.”

“Everyone is an orphan eventually,” Tony mutters. Hungover, hiding behind his sunglasses.

When Tony had transferred from a private school upstate, Peter had been one of the first students to welcome him. With the dorky slogan t-shirt and the well-styled hair, Tony had given him one glance up and down before categorizing and dismissing him—goody two-shoes, probably gay, probably cries in the closest bathroom stall after receiving criticism.

“Thanks, Mr. Parker,” Tony had said, wiping his board clean as the next class shuffled in. “See you tomorrow. Do that homework I assigned.”

If people hadn’t made such a big deal about the kid, that might have been the end of it. In Tony’s class, Peter was mostly quiet in his seat towards the back. He answered when called on but didn’t offer much, and the work was correct but the bare minimum. So why did all of his colleagues constantly sing the kid’s praises, in choral fashion?

So Tony started watching closer. On Peter’s next assignment, he grades a little harder, a little harsher, and that’s when the kid finally comes alive. Greeting Tony in the morning, smiling at him in the hallway between classes. Peter starts to flatter him. Starts to press—gently, so, so gently—for information. Hey Mr. Stark, any plans this weekend? Hey Mr. Stark, are you related to Maria Carbonell?

A crush? Tony wondered at first. Desperate to please authority figures? On any other student, Tony might have thought so. The rest is just a feeling, just the way that Peter’s face rests when he thinks there’s no one looking at him, the way his eyes—there’s nothing there, nothing behind them. Tony doesn’t trust him, and he never will.

And surely that eats at Peter.

-

The wallet is the last straw.

Tony’s wallet—a genuine black leather billfold—goes missing somewhere between second and third periods. After his Bio II class, he runs to the teachers lounge and uses a wrinkled dollar bill from it to buy a coke. He has the vaguest memory of tucking it in his back pocket, but then when he’s trying to pay for his lunch, it’s gone. The woman charges it to his account, and Tony walks away thinking one name: Peter Parker.

But he didn’t even have class with Parker, not until next period. He hadn’t caught sight of the kid all day; Tony wasn’t even sure he was present at school. So he brushes the thought away, searches the teacher’s lounge and his classroom and leaves notice with the secretaries. Going through a mental inventory in his head, he knows that it will be a bitch to replace everything. His credit cards, his driver’s license.

The worry gets swept under the rug. As much as he dislikes kids (kids are fine, actually, it’s teenagers who are menaces), he loves teaching. He loves science, and he likes to think that his passion for the subject shows through to his students. Even Peter Parker’s class is a decent one. The boy is present, but he studiously takes notes and doesn’t disrupt class. It’s almost easy to pretend he isn’t there.

Until after the bell rings, when Tony looks up and Peter is standing there on the other side of his desk. Today he is wearing a long sleeve button up, though thank God it isn’t tucked into his jeans, which are tight and cling to his legs.

“Parker,” Tony says, his guard rising. “What do you need?”

“Oh, nothing sir,” Peter says, a flush rising in his cheeks. He places his backpack on Tony’s desk and opens it up, and there could be anything in there, Tony thinks. The kid could be capable of anything, Tony genuinely believes it, a gun or a bomb or a balloon animal, nothing could surprise him—

Except it’s his wallet.

“I found this on the floor in the hallway. I figured you wouldn’t get far without it,” Peter says.

Tony barely hears him. Adrenalin makes his heart pound. It was Parker—Parker had stolen Tony’s wallet. He reaches out and takes it, opens it, and everything is in it’s place, all the cash, all the cards.

“I only opened it to see who it belonged to,” Peter promises. “I didn’t take anything.”

“Of course not,” Tony says. His mouth feels numb. “Because you got what you wanted without taking anything, didn’t you?”

Peter’s face blanches. His eyebrows draw together. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t want my money or my credit cards, did you, you little psychopath?” Tony says. His hands are shaking. “You wanted my address.”

Peter’s face goes flat. “Mr. Stark, you’re scaring me. Why would I want your address? Look—I returned the wallet. I’ve got to go.”

“No you don’t—” Tony reaches out and grabs the collar of the kid’s dress shirt. One firm tug brings them nose-to-nose, two sets of wide brown eyes staring into each other. Tony throws a frantic glance to the door but no one is there, no one is even walking by, not when all the lockers are on the other side of the building.

“What are you doing?” Peter gasps. “Let me go.”

“No,” Tony says. He grabs on tighter and draws the kid up until he’s standing on his toes to keep his shirt from tearing. The kid’s pupils are huge. “I don’t know what kind of fucking spell you have all these other idiots under, but I’m not falling for it. You leave me the fuck alone, from now on. No staying after class. No following me in the hallways. No watching me in the cafeteria. And I swear to God, if I ever catch you on my property, I’ll—”

Tony cuts himself off. Because to be honest, he isn’t really sure what he’ll do. He just knows that there’s something about this kid that fills him with terror, something that makes him irrational with fear. He might do something drastic.

Letting the boy go, Peter stumbles away, one hand coming up to rub at his neck where the shirt collar had been cutting against him. His face is white, eyes misty. His lips even tremble, but then he turns tail and runs, disappearing out the door in a flash. And Tony should feel better, because he thinks he genuinely frightened the kid. But—he doesn’t feel better.

He doesn’t.

-

Next morning, he realizes why. When he pulls up into the parking lot, there are police cruisers. This early, no students are present, the student lot empty. Tony knows right away that he has made a mistake. A grave mistake.

They arrest him on sight, reading him his Miranda rights. The next hours are a miserable blur of being booked, spending time in a cell until Rhodey comes to bail him out. Even then, he is on administrative leave (unpaid) and not allowed within one hundred feet of Peter or the high school until the charges are proven one way or another. As they questioned him, they laid a picture on the table: a terrible purpling bruise around Peter’s neck from where Tony had pulled him by the collar. When his eyes close, it’s all he can see.

It isn’t until he’s in the car on the way home explaining it to Rhodey that the doubt begins to set in. It sounds fucking crazy—like Tony is the fucking crazy one. In all senses, Peter comes off as a perfect student, a genial teenager. Tony has no ‘evidence’, nothing but the gut feeling he gets whenever the kid is around.

What if Tony is wrong? What if Peter B. Parker is just a normal fucking teenager, albeit, a decent one? What if Tony is nothing but his father, teaching a young man that there are no good men in the world, especially not him, just wait until you grow up kid and see what you’ll become—

But no. Tony isn’t Howard, and Peter isn’t innocent.

Rhodey parts from him with words of warning, his lips set with disappointment that Tony hadn’t felt aimed at himself in many, many years. Letting down his one and only friend hurts somehow, more than it ever did when he let down Howard. Maybe because Rhodey is someone Tony actually respects.

Tony drags his feet, already dreading the empty house that awaits, dreading laying awake in bed until he falls asleep (and maybe he’ll find help, maybe he’ll find a nice bottle of pills and just sleep and sleep and sleep), dreading—

Dreading Peter, who is sitting on Tony’s couch, reclining in the corner with one leg up and the other on the floor, looking for an intents and purposes like he owns it himself. The kid’s been sitting in the dark, but when Tony turns the light on, he doesn’t blink or flinch away from it. His face is slack and eyes empty, the expression that gives Tony the chills, the one he was beginning to think he’d just imagined.

“Hi, Mr. Stark,” Peter says.

Tony reaches into his pocket for the cellphone he received back after he made bail. “Get out, before I call the police.”

“Call them. You forced me to come here. You said you wanted to apologize to me, wouldn’t stop calling me, and when I came over, you attacked me, didn’t you?” Peter’s lips tremble. He’s swearing a shirt with a low collar, so the bruise on his neck stands vivid, a dark necklace around his slender throat. Tears fill the kid’s eyes. “I-I was so s-scared. I tried t-to get away, but God, Mr. Stark, you’re just so, so strong—”

Tony goes for the gun he keeps up on the shelf in the coat closet—but when he opens the case, it is empty.

“I’ve been here all day,” Peter calls. Tony shuts the door to see Peter wiping at the tears that he’d produced, face empty once more. “I’ve found all your little spots. The closet. Under the bed. Under the sink—that’s a good one. I almost didn’t check there.”

“What do you want?” Tony asks. One hand still clutches the cellphone. “To blackmail me, or something?”

“Blackmail you for what? No—I want to know how you knew about me. Everyone else—they only see what I want them to see, but you… Where did I go wrong, with you? How did you know that it was all an act? I did everything for you. Bought you that dumb gift on teacher’s appreciation day, sang your praises in front of the other teachers so that word would get back to you. I was a perfect student, a perfect kid, and you never fucking bought it, did you? Not from the start. I want to know why.”

“Maybe you just aren’t as good as you think you are,” says Tony. He begins to dial.

Peter groans. “Why are you going to call them? I thought we were having fun, here.”

“Not going to lie, kid,” Tony says. “Our definitions of fun are very, very fucking different.”

“They’re just going to lock you up again.”

“Good. That cell sounds great right about now. Far away from you.”

Peter laughs, outright laughs. It’s a precious, joyous sound. Tony’s stomach clenches, surely from anxiety and not butterflies. Peter says at length: “You know what I think? How you knew that I was faking?”

“Regale me,” Tony snarks, thumb ready to press the call button.

“I think it’s because you’re just like me,” Peter says. His voice is soft, his eyes flickering all over Tony from the bloodshot eyes to the dress shirt he’d been about to wear to teach in, the dress slacks and shoes. But Tony feels like the kid is seeing through him, seeing right down to the bones of him. When Peter stands, Tony feels frozen like a deer in the headlights as the kid approaches, his head drifting to one side like a man looking at a perplexing work of art. When he continues speaking, he’s so close that Tony can smell the peppermint from the candy dish he helped himself to while waiting for Tony’s arrival home. “I think you’re a faker, Mr. Stark. I think you fake it all day, every day. And maybe it scares you to know that finally, in the presence of one person…you wouldn’t have to fake it.”

Tony takes in an even breath. He counts, so that it is no longer nor shorter than usual, because the kid is close enough to hear it, to see it, those flat brown eyes fixated on Tony’s mouth.

“Well?” Peter asks. He licks his lips. “Are you going to make that call?”

Tony presses forward the last few inches between them. Their kiss is borderline brutal, open mouths and gnashing teeth. There is no touching between them except for their mouth and—at the end—Peter’s hips when they cant forward to rub both of their erections together. Tony’s eyes want to flutter shut because fuck, it feels good. It’s been so long. When they part, Peter looks fucked out, lips swollen and red, eyes drunk. Tony recognizes the eyes now, the way the kid’s pupils grew when Tony grabbed a hold of him in the classroom. Then, he’d thought that maybe it was fear, but now he knows better.

Peter is getting off on it.

Tony holds up the phone pointedly.

He presses call.

“First rule, kid,” he says. “Never let anyone get the upper hand on you. I’ve got nanny cams all over this house that have been recording your every move. On my way here in my buddy’s car, I was watching you sit on my goddamn couch eating my peppermints—you’re paying for those by the way. You go ahead and try to spin that story to the cops about how I forced you over here and forced myself on you.”

Peter looks stricken. He huffs a laugh, stumbling away from Tony back towards the couch where he collapses heavily back into his seat. He’s still hard—maybe harder now than he was when their kiss ended. The younger man sits for a long moment with his eyes closed. When they open, they’re blank and calm. He reaches out and takes a peppermint from the dish. “I guess I have a lot to learn,” he says.

Tony holds the phone up to his ear. The 911 dispatcher is babbling away, asking prodding questions thanks to the prolonged silence. Tony shuts her up quick, saying, “Yes, I’d like to report a break-in.”

Fuck. I wrote that