Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11962188.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Spider-Man:_Homecoming_(2017), Iron_Man_(Movies), The_Avengers_(Marvel
      Movies), Doctor_Strange_(2016), Spider-Man_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      Peter_Parker/Tony_Stark, Peter_Parker_&_Stephen_Strange_as_sciences_bros
  Character:
      Stephen_Strange, May_Parker_(Spider-Man), Ned_Leeds, Clint_Barton, Friday
      (Marvel), Tony_Stark, Peter_Parker, Michelle_Jones, Natasha_Romanov_
      (Marvel)
  Additional Tags:
      Post-Spider-Man:_Homecoming, Morning_After, Temporary_Amnesia, Secret
      Crush, Accidental_Pregnancy, Mpreg, pregnant!Peter, Peter_Needs_a_Hug,
      Panic, Possibly_Unrequited_Love, Fluff_and_Humor, Drama, peter_is_16,
      Friendship/Love, Age_Difference, friendly_spiders, Sweet_Tony_Stark,
      Cute, Tony_is_Clueless, Peter_Is_Clueless, Epic_cluelessness, Sugar_Daddy
      Tony_Stark, Jealous_Tony, Tony_is_48, sugar_daddy_tony, Kissing, Oral
      Sex, Anal_Sex, Rimming, Pregnancy_Kink, Slow_Burn
  Series:
      Part 3 of Iron_Webs_to_Covet
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-08-31 Updated: 2018-03-26 Chapters: 5/? Words: 12478
****** The Missing Hours ******
by Sparcina
Summary
     Peter wakes up after Tony Stark’s welcoming party severely ill and
     confused. Soft smiles, warm eyes and caresses are all he can remember
     from the night prior. The problem, he soon discovers, is that he’s
     not merely hangover: his current state is infinitely more
     frightening... and the most precious gift life has to offer.
Notes
     My heartfelt hanks to my friend and co-artist AL (we sometimes draw
     Frostiron together) for helping me out with this plot bunny. You
     rock, AL.
     Also, this fandom really needed a pregnant!Peter story. Especially a
     secretly pregnant Peter. Oh, is that angst?
     Tags added as the story progresses.
***** The Morning After *****
Chapter Summary
     Peter wakes up with a little surprise from last night's party.
Peter didn’t remember much, but his body remembered all right.
“May?” His voice came out as a pitiful croak. Squeezing his eyes shut against
the danger of a spinning room, he rolled onto his back, trying not to upset his
stomach further.
Two seconds later, he was spilling his guts on the floor, chest heaving
frantically as his hazed mind tried to process what was happening, and why. He
couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so sick. It was definitively before
he’d gotten bit by that spider.
“Damn.” He wiped his mouth clean with the back of a trembling hand. It felt
cold against his face, most likely because he was burning up with a fever. He
knew he should get up and take care of the unwelcome decoration on his floor,
but his body jerked in protest, so he curled up on his side instead and waited
for the nausea to pass. And to say he’d planned on a lazy morning sleeping off
the terrific party Mr. Stark had thrown to welcome him to the team… There would
be no sleeping in for him today. Not with his back and legs aching, and those
impressive bruises on his arms and neck (was that a lovebite?), and most
importantly, the distinct sensation that his body was shifting in sizes every
few seconds. He felt as if his skin was trying to melt back behind his muscles,
and his bones were in the process of turning into jelly.
Plus, he had school. He could call in sick (which he was), but he had a kickass
immune system. He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of one hand. This was no big
deal, he tried to reassure himself. The nausea would go away. Those awful
sensations would fade. They had to.
God, what had he drunk to black out like that, and how much? He remembered bits
and pieces, like Captain America directing him to the non alcoholic section of
the bar (which hadn’t worked out so well apparently), and Barton’s jokes and
taunts. He remembered the secret smile on Widow's face as he’d taken a shot
of something later in the evening, and a hand on his shoulder (Banner’s,
perhaps?) as the room dissolved into a surreal painting.
He also remembered Mr. Stark. Of course he remembered him. After years of
fantasizing about the man, first as a scientist, and later as a wet-dream he
wouldn’t mind doing a few things with (and being done a few other things by),
Peter was at last working with him. For him. Whatever. He now met with the man
on a regular basis, and he liked to think they were friends.
With a strange sense of leaving his own body (his skin was still trying to go
into places it had no right to be), he palmed his cock through his briefs and
swore at how sensitive he was from that simple a touch. His hole, too, felt
well used. Peter shivered for at least twenty reasons as a warm, heady laugh
filled his mind. For a fleeting instant, he could swear that a thick cock was
still sheathed in his ass, and that a voice praised him, telling him what a
good boyhe was, but the rest of the words eluded him, and too soon the memory
was over, and refused to play back no matter how hard he tried to remember.
Another question to add to the list of problematic mysteries: who had he let
fuck him last night? Even at the young age of sixteen, Peter had fooled around
a little, and if he hadn’t gone through every base with a guy, he still knew
what to expect once it happened.
Apparently, last night was when it had. Peter cursed against the back of one
hand, even more nauseous than before. He would be damned if he couldn’t
remember his first time, but hell, the only thing which had deigned to stick to
his memory was the heat of a rough, thorough love-making. It wasn’t rape, of
that he was sure. He couldn’t say how, but he knew. Too bad there was no face
to go with the bruises coloring his skin, and no name to think of later on.
There was a knock to the door.
“Peter?” May sounded worried. “Are you ok?”
She must be concerned that he’d turned into a party animal last night and was
now suffering the after effects of teenager experimentation. Peter cleared his
throat, and barely kept up the next wave of bile rising in his throat.
“I’m all right,” he croaked. “’ust need sleep.”
He had exactly one hour left before he needed to leave for school. 
                                       *
Ned and Michelle were waiting for him at his locker. Well, Ned was waiting,
arms crossed as he scanned the hall; Michelle was reading something on her
cellphone on the floor close by, seemingly unaware of the chaos of students
running and shouting at each other in the vicinity. Peter rubbed at his
temples, trying to convince himself that, no, his hangover wasn’t bad enough
for him to stay home, and knowing it wasn’t the main reason by far that he’d
decided to go to school. After all, he never expected to wake up after his
first night of penetration without the vivid memory of it. At least, the
unexpected strong symptoms of his hanger had receded some.
“So, how was the party last night?” Ned asked as soon as he spotted him.
Peter slung his backpack to the floor and went for the most practical answer
that would get his friend off his back. He loved Ned, but he still felt like
rolling up into a ball and sleeping for at least a week.
“Amazing.”
"Are you hangover?” His friend clapped his hands with a delighted grin, making
Peter wince. “Hey, Michelle, our Peter has finally got a taste of sin!”
You have no idea, Peter thought darkly as Michelle replied: “He’s not my Peter,
Ned. Stop interrupting my reading. Hi, Peter, you look like hell.”
It was so like her to just jump from one subject to the next that a wave of
relief immediately surged through him. This, here, was normal.
His memories would come back eventually.
The sick feeling in his gut would disappear.
He might even stop fantasizing about Mr. Stark, but that was not likely. The
man might be his mentor, and their relationship based on friendship only, but
Peter was only human, with eyes to see. And he saw what they could be together.
He sighed.
“Come on, Ned. What have we got in first period?”
“French.”
Peter was so happy it wasn’t gym class he  didn’t even complain when the
teacher dropped a test on his desk. He would go through this day. He would.
                                       *
“You’ve reached Dr. Strange. Don’t bother leaving a message.”
Peter leaned back against the wall and took a deep breath. His stomach was
trying to crawl back into his throat, even if there wasn't anything left in it
to justify the dizziness. He must have drunk at least half of the alcohol at
the party to feel that bad, but an overdose would have made him pass out, not
given him a strange fever accompanied by the weirder sensation of a second
heart beating in his head. He’d tried to get rid of the fever by taking a very
cold bath, complete with ice cubes, as soon as he was back from school, but as
soon as he’d stepped out the strange heat had returned with a vengeance. Sweat
rolled down his brow as he fumbled with his phone, hanging up and punching the
number labeled ‘Emergency’ for the fourth time in a row.
It went straight to voicemail. Again.
“You’ve reached Dr. Strange. Don’t bother leaving a...”
“Fuck.” Peter let his phone drop to the floor. His knees felt week, as if he’d
run for hours on end, and he felt thirsty and nauseous and god, every limb in
his body ached. He collapsed on the floor and picked up his phone, clutching it
to his chest. He could always try to call Bruce. If it got any worse, he would.
For now, though, he would wait and see. He had no intention of thanking Mr.
Stark for his kindness (the man was busy as hell and still have found the time
to throw him a party he’d attended himself) by making him worry about his guest
of honor’s hangover.
Except that it wasn’t just a hangover, now, was it? Peter whimpered pitifully.
He didn’t consider himself weak, but he wished he could roll into a ball and
black out again. Time always fixed everything. It had helped with Uncle Ben,
and it would help (eventually) with his crush. There was no reason it couldn’t
fix his current predicament as well.
He stared at his phone. So, no Bruce yet. The man was competent, and a good
listener, but Peter knew that news of his situation would travel up the
Avengers’ grapevine straight to Mr. Stark. Tony.
His left leg spasmed. He would be all right. He would be fine. He would not
call Dr. Strange a fifth time, because while the man wasn’t a close friend of
Mr. Stark (Peter didn’t know if they even considered themselves friends), the
sorcerer would not hesitate to call the man if he decided Peter impinged on his
time alone. Dr. Strange was that kind of asshole. Too bad he was his best shot
at figuring out what was wrong with him…
His phone chimed with a text. Peter almost dropped it in relief.
It’d better be important, Parker. – SS.
Peter took his time typing his reply. It was either that, or sending an
unintelligible message.
I need your help. I think I’m seriously sick. – Peter
I’m not a doctor. – SS.
Peter sighed in frustration.
I know, Master Strange. I will owe you one. – Peter
The reply came in five minute later. One word, but it was almost worth the
wait.
Hurry.
“I’ll do my best,” Peter growled to himself.
Dr. Strange’s temporary residence in New York was a fifteen minute dance over
the roofs.
In his current state, it took almost an hour of public transportation. By the
time the taxi pulled in the driveway to the two-story house, Peter felt so
close to pass out he took a moment to simply sit on the asphalt and breathe. He
would get help. He would be fine.
He didn’t have any problem ‘owing Strange one’. He’d already served as a guinea
pig for the sorcerer, and didn’t mind the strange experimentations. Mr. Stark
had argued that Peter shouldn’t be so helpful, lest Strange actually damage
him, but Peter knew Dr. Strange considered him too interesting to be clumsy in
the way he handled him. Knowing that Mr. Stark worried a little felt nice,
though.
The door opened on its own as Peter reached it. Familiar with the house, Peter
gripped the handrail and slowly the stairs. He found Dr. Strange standing in
front of his desk in a dark room that looked more like a cavern, lips moving
silently as he read from an book so hold it was a wonder the pages still held
together. Peter used to find the presence of locks and chains around the man's
books slightly disturbing, but right now even the naked evil twin of Dr.
Strange dancing over a pentagram on fire would not have held his attention for
long.
His knees wobbled as he let go of the handrail. Sweat trickled down his brow.
His lungs couldn't seem to hold on air long enough for his brain to work, but
somehow, his mouth still accomplished its purpose.
“I need your h-help.”
The man didn’t move. Peter knew he’d been heard, and also that Dr. Strange
wouldn’t offer an immediate reply, as he was reluctant to abandon any
experiment or study he'd started prior to an interruption. He was very much
like Tony Stark in that respect.
No, not thinking about that now. Or should he, to distract himself from the
searing pain?
A commanding voice jerked him from the nightmare that was living. “What
happened?”
Peter tried to look up as Dr. Strange left his desk, but his neck ached too
much. The man's cape might or might have not waved at him in greeting; an
impatient hand put it back in place with a flourish. “Parker, you with me?”
He hadn’t even noticed he was slowly falling. Dr. Strange caught his elbow.
“Wow, you look like hell, kid.”
“Not a hangover,” Peter mumbled. “Even if…”
“This is definitively not a hangover,” Dr. Strange snapped back in reply,
dragging him to the cluster of machines covering the entirety of one wall.
Screen and strings, even organic-looking devices, coexisted in an attempt to
bridge the chasm between science and magic. There were a lot of locks as well,
and twice as many keys. “What happened to you, Parker?”
“Not… sure.”
Dr. Strange pulled out a chair and gestured for him to sit down. “Before you
collapse,” he explained, not unkindly, when Peter hesitated. “It will be better
for me to examine you anyway.”
Peter cleared his throat. “I thought you weren’t that kind of doctor anymore.”
“Well, neither is Mr. Banner, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have the
experience, or the skills, to help someone in need. Now be quiet and let me do
my job.”
The man moved about the room too fast for Peter to see. He sensed hands on him,
and then a light was shoved in his eyes. Tears rolled down his cheeks as pain
reached a new level.
“High fever,” he heard. The hand on his brow was so, so cold. “But it doesn’t
make any sense. What if...”
A computer screen next to them showed a series of lines and numbers Peter was
too ill to try and decipher. Dr. Strange cursed as he fumbled into a nearby
cabinet. Peter's chin dipped a little.
“Here." Electrods were placed close to his neck; one was even shoved down his
shirt, over his fast-beating heart. “Don't take them out. Stay there," Dr.
Strange instructed. "I will be back in a second.”
Two minutes later, the computer let a tone indicating success. Dr. Strange had
yet to return, so Peter scrambled to his feet... fell, swore, and pushed
himself on the chair to get back to his feet. Dark spots flashed in his
vision as tremors coursed through his body. He tasted blood in his mouth, mixed
with bile. He could barely stand, but he had to see, had to know... One step at
a time, he dragged his feverish body to the screen.
No.
No.
It took him a long time to make sense of the information, and even more time to
believe it might be real. He managed to type in a command to crash the system
and collapse back into his chair before Dr. Strange stormed back into the room.
“Sorry it took so long, but I had to check some… What the hell?”
“I think the system… crash... ed...
“Parker, stay with me!”
His last thought before he lost consciousness was that the universe must have a
pretty twisted sense of humor, for him to forget last night, and the man who’d
gotten him pregnant.
***** Nothing Can Change *****
Chapter Summary
     He's always been good at keeping secrets, but there's a problem with
     this one.
Chapter Notes
     I know that 'I didn't have time' sounds a bit lame, but I really
     didn't. I've just finished writing my thirteenth novel (or is it the
     fourteenth?) this week, and I have four different multi-chaptered
     fics to update.
     *Yawns* Hope you like it!
Pregnant.
Pregnant.
P-R-E-G-N-A-N-T.
Peter had never been so grateful for Dr. Strange’s casual dismissal of other
human beings. As soon as he came back to himself, he claimed a migraine, and
when that failed to grant him a quick exit, he spun some story about a girl and
feelings, effectively encouraging Strange to teleport him back, discreetly and
promptly, to his apartment.
“Get some sleep while I get someone to fix that crash.”
Peter knew that one day the not-quite-animosity between Mr. Stark and Dr.
Strange would come in handy. He may be good with computers, and a decent
hacker, but he stood no chance if Strange decided to call on the head of SI…
which he wouldn’t do, because of his ginormous pride.
Peter tried to entertain himself with the memory of his last patrol with Iron
Man, which had involved thugs wrapped up in spider webs and a lot of
gymnastics, but his body, and what it held, kept distracting him, and not in
the good way. He rolled into a ball, feeling like death warmed over, wishing
for time to start flowing in the other direction, when rage hit him without
warming. Angry tears streamed down his face as the memory broke into a thousand
questions pertaining to another night.
Peter muffled whatever pitiful sounds escaping his lips with a trembling fist.
He shook and panted and sweated, all the while wondering what he'd ever done
wrong in his life to deserve this.
He was so angry at it. The creature. The thing. The fetus. The... baby. The
tiny bundle of life that had taken root in his belly, proving science wrong on
so many accounts. If he was pregnant, a boy who'd developed superpowers after
being bitten by a spider, shouldn't Captain America be able to? Or the Hulk?
Why him? Why this? He was too young to even consider having kids. He might like
them, might enjoy protecting them, so they could continue playing in a park and
smiling at their mothers, but to have one of his own, so soon?
He rolled on his back, trying to relax, but the fever and the nausea insisted
on teaming up against him. With a weak snarl, he reached for the half-empty
bear bottle on the bedside table. He would have dropped it if not for his
reflexes. Did it matter if he got wasted? Surely he could drink until he forgot
his own name at least once in his life? He didn't even remember the man with
whom he'd spent the night at the party, the man who’d told him what a good
boyhe was. The ache between his legs spoke of pleasure, and god, how could he
forget getting that bitter-sweet deal? Peter Parker was not in the habit of
getting drunk, but alone in his small bedroom, he thought about exceptions.
About a small reward for all he had one for himself and others. He might have
gone as far as take the first swig...
... but then he spat the foul liquid on the floor, appalled at his behavior. He
was pregnant. He was pregnant. No matter how much he hated the fact, no matter
how much he wished to get rid of a life that should never have existed, he
couldn't harm it. He could never harm an innocent; that was a lesson he’d
learned from his uncle, back when he’d been naïve enough to believe the person
he would fall in love with would have no choice but to love him back.
When May was finally asleep (he’d feigned to sleep when she’d checked up on
him), he tiptoed, obeyed the weird impulse to down the bottle of milk, and then
emptied two glasses of water for good measure. He exited the apartment through
the bathroom's window and only managed not to break his neck because of his
abilities.
With every gush of fresh wind, he expected his precarious balance to break, and
his shivery frame to collapse on concrete. The drugstore was not far off, but
walking could easily become a new Olympic discipline as far as he was
concerned. By the time he pushed the door open, he was positive he was going to
throw up again. At least the green complexion he spotted in a mirror was
balanced with the redness of fever.
The clerk at the counter, a tall emo barely older than himself, eyed him
suspiciously.
"Are you going to be sick? You don't look so good, pal."
Peter tried to keep his breaths slow and steady. Breathe in. Breathe out. He'd
done harder things before.
Right.
"Pregnancy test," he chocked out, hands knuckle-white on the counter.
The guy became much more sympathetic afterwards. Of course, he didn't know
that Peter was the one needing the test, or else he might have been a tad more
judgmental.
Peter left the drugstore and entered a random restaurant. The chatter was loud,
the smells too strong, and wrong; he hurried to the bathroom, locked himself in
the only unoccupied stall and dropped down his pants, staring at the package as
if it was going to rip his face off, eat it, digest it and spit it back out on
the piss-stained floor.
It took him seconds to empty his full bladder. The test only needed a couple
minutes to show the result, but Peter sat down on the toilet and ignored his
fate hanging at his fingertips for a good half an hour. When someone pounded on
the stall, he pretended not to notice.
Of course, there were two lines.
                                       *
For a whole week afterward, he bought a pregnancy test. Every single day, he
went to the drugstore (always a different one), requested a pregnancy test and
peed on the damn thing in the relative privacy of a stall in a public bathroom
(never the same either). It was all in vain: no matter long he stared at the
not glowing stick of destiny, no matter how much he squinted, it always showed
the same result: two pink lines.
Pregnant. Peter Park, sixteen years old, male, was pregnant.
Eventually, he ran out of tears.
                                       *
He was sick all the time. He could tell no one, not even Michelle and Ned, not
even May, and especially not the Avengers. Had he been a girl, maybe... Shame
and anger warred inside him at every new dawn that saw him bent over a bucket,
throwing up and shivering. The first two days, he'd used the toilet, but Aunt
May asked too many questions, and even though she couldn't begin to guess at
the truth, even though nobody could possibly suspect the change in his body, he
couldn't risk it.
Once that first week drew to an end, Peter stopped pretending he was fine and
pulled his head out of the sand.
He was Spider-Man. Even learning of his own pregnancy couldn't keep him off the
field for long. He craved the action. Yearned for the privilege to defend and
protect. Furthermore, he missed Mr. Stark and the other Avengers. Mostly Mr.
Stark, but he couldn't really well tell him that, not seriously anyway; he’d
been told too many times that he wore his heart on his sleeve.
He announced to Michelle, Ned and May that he was a bit down because of an
unrequited crush. Considering that none of them knew that he’d been suffering
from an actual unrequited crush for months, no embarrassing questions were
asked. His aunt gave him breathing space, and organized movie nights with
popcorn. Michelle and Ned tried to distract him, each in their own special way.
At school and at home, he could wince and curse in relative peace. Throwing up
was still complicated to explain, but he came up with various excuses,
including food poisoning and the flu.
Next he dealt with Dr. Strange.
"What do you mean, you can't come tomorrow? The system is back online, even if
your results are irremediably lost."
Thanks every deity in existence for that, Peter thought. In the background, he
heard Strange moving around, probably working on one of those awfully complex
spells he'd told Peter about with fancy words. There was the thud of a book
being set down on a table. Peter did his best to focus on that. To ignore the
aroma of fish coming from the kitchen. Fish. He used to like fish... in another
lifetime, perhaps. Tonight one tiny molecule of it, even with the fan working
at full speed to repel it, had already sent him running to the bathroom twice,
and threatened to have him dry heave in one minute top.
"Parker?" Strange barked.
Peter almost fell from the bed. He'd just found the perfect lying down
position, and was entertaining the ridiculous notion that last week had been a
nightmare. Even the physical memory of what ought to have been a very
enthusiastic fuck, the first worth mentioning in his sixteen years of life.
What good did it do for the body to retain, but not the mind?
Besides, he felt like he'd cheated on Mr. Stark, and how could he cry again? He
tied to muffle his sobs, but it was too late.
"Are you crying?"
Strange's voice was not exactly concerned; more like curious, as in I-would-
like-very-much-to-run-more-tests-on-you curious. Peter sniffed, rubbing one
cheek into his pillow.
"Of course not." His voice gained more assurance with each word forced out. "I
just have a lot of exams coming up, and a full plate with Avengers duty."
"I see."
Actually, it was a good thing Strange could not see, Peter thought. Or maybe he
did, being a mage? Peter quieted the oncoming panic attack by telling himself
that if Strange knew about his pregnancy, he would have teleported into his
room a long time ago.  
"Take care of yourself, Parker."
Strange hung up without waiting for an answer. For the rest of the night, Peter
stared at the ceiling, applying stars on the peeling white paint, and wondering
about Mr. Stark's whereabouts. It hurt to think about the man, and his growing
crush, but at least it distracted him from the physical pain of pregnancy.
                                       *
"Good evening, Peter."
"Hey, Friday.”
He stumbled over his own feet on the doorstep. The AI’s voice held an
inquisitive note when she spoke next. "Are you feeling well, Peter?"
Could you lie to an AI? Peter felt bad even as he spoke out loud the rehearsed
lie. “Yes. Just tired.”
"I'm pleased you had fun at your party."
Peter froze. Considered throwing a fit, and decided against it. Low profile,
Peter, he told himself. You can do this. "I... did." And then it struck him;
wouldn’t Friday know about everything that had taken place that night? If
somebody knew about his mysterious lover, it would be her. And once he knew
about the lover, he would know about the other (he gulped) father.
Except that Friday couldn’t know about his pregnancy, because the news would be
passed along to Mr. Stark, and Peter didn’t need his crush to know that he
could get knocked up, much less by some stranger whose face he couldn’t even
remember.
Damn it.
“Friday…” He trailed off, waiting for the door to click shut behind him. “Did
something, uh, unusual took place that night?”
The AI didn’t hesitate. “Nothing that I would deem such, Peter. But perhaps if
you formulated your question in such a way that-”
Peter licked his lips. “Did I… I don’t know… have-” Sex? No, he couldn’t finish
that thought, because once again, Mr. Stark could access this conversation.
He was well and truly fucked as far as recovering his memories went.
“Peter?”
“I’m running late for the meeting,” was his only reply. “But thanks anyway!” he
added with overdone cheerfulness.
He made his way to the elevator, before remembering that it might be a better
idea to take the stairs. Apparently, fish wasn't the only thing that didn't
agree with his queasy stomach these days. God, how did women do? He'd always
considered pregnant women strong for giving birth (don't think about that,
don't think about that, DON'T THINK ABOUT THAT), but now his respect extended
to their everyday life. How could someone go through a full semester, or in
some cases nine months of pure biological torture? He'd never been fat to start
with, and now that he had trouble to keep down anything beside very specific
fruits and yogurt, he was losing weight at an alarming pace. There would come a
time when 'heartbreak' and 'flu' would sound like the excuses they were, and…
"Hey, Parker!"
Peter almost jumped out of his skin at the sensation of a rough hand patting
him on the shoulder. His lovesick and masochistic self spent half a second
hoping it was Mr. Stark welcoming him back after a sick leave, but the voice
didn't match all of his treasured memories, and neither did the appellation.
After all, Mr. Stark called him kid. Peter hated it as much as he loved it.
"Clint!"
The archer, who had just come back from another mission, if the heavy bags
under his eyes and the manila folder under his arm were any indication, stopped
jogging towards the living room of the common floor. "Everything all right,
Parker? Don't tell me you're still hangover from your wonderful party?"
Peter gulped. If Strange had swallowed the lie easily enough, many of
the Avengers would not be so gullible; they'd known him longer, and they cared
in a way Peter suspected Strange was not able to. Of course, he couldn't tell
Mr. Stark anything, not even the stupid half-lie he'd come up with. Strange
would not pass the word of his sickness around in the grapevine, because he was
too busy being amazing and was immune to the temptation of gossip. Widow was
too damn perceptive, Banner was somewhere on vacations ... which left Barton,
who was, Peter hoped, at least a little gullible.
"I'm... well.” Peter cleared his throat, genuinely nervous. “I don't want to
bother you with... it's kind of stupid... and complicated..."
"Oh." Barton turned to where Widow was beckoning at him from her self-appointed
sofa, from which even Mr. Stark never tried to dislodge her. He made a
complicated gesture at her intention before turning back to Peter with a
knowing grin. "The meeting's about to start, but I'm sure I can spare a couple
minutes, if you want to talk." He sobered in a blink. "Unless you want me to
get Stark? After all, he's your mentor, and you guys get along like a house on
fire, so..."
Peter's heart almost stopped beating. He forced himself to keep up the act.
"No, it's ok. It's really nothing." He tried to make his face show it, and
hoped it worked. "'m just... there was this gu- girl..." The following sigh
wasn't fake at all. "I guess I didn't expect the rejection."
"Oh." Barton said again, eyes widening. He patted Peter's shoulder, out of
sympathy this time. "That's never easy for sure. I could tell the others you
don't feel way, if you'd like?" A wink. "It could be just between us. If you
don’t mind a piece of advice- hey, the man we were all not waiting for!”
“I’m glad you could make it, kid.” Mr. Stark exclaimed with his usual energy,
breezing past him.
Under any other circumstances (i.e.: had he not been pregnant and going crazy
because of it), he would have smiled, a little sadly perhaps, as a tanned,
calloused hand ran through his hair. The affection in the man’s voice was
clear, and Peter was grateful for any demonstration he could get.
Under the actual circumstances, he jumped out of the man’s way, almost elbowing
Barton in the process. He didn’t yell, but it was a close call; he’s so nervous
all the time now, and every inch of his body still protested the whole standing
up, getting busy part of the day. He saw Mr. Stark’s eyes widen, and alarm
darkening Barton’s face. The conversations in the living room stopped.
“Kid?” Mr. Stark lowered his sunglasses, puzzlement written all over his
handsome face. “Are you ok?”
“S-sure.” With horror, he realized that he’d reflexively put a protective hand
on his belly. Stupid, he thought. The thing was not a month old. Someone could
probably beat the crap out of him that it would still be fine, thanks to his
enhanced metabolism. Fortunately, his public didn’t seem to notice something
was off. Offer.
“Kid, are you sure-”
Peter’s stomach lurched. By sheer force of will, he managed a smile.
“I’ll be back in a sec.”
Walking was a torture. As soon as he reached a bathroom, he yanked the door
open and rushed to the toilet, emptying his already empty stomach. Fuck, what
did that daily nausea had to hit its peak right when the Avengers meeting was
starting? He couldn’t afford this.
“Friday,” he whimpered. “Please don’t tell anybody.”
“If your sickness doesn’t threaten your life or the life of others, I will keep
it secret,” the AI promised.
Peter heaved a sigh, leaning his brow against the ceramic of the toilet. He was
going to stay in that uncomfortable position for thirty more seconds before
going to the sink, splashing some cold water on his face, and ordering his
reflection to behave.
It'd been exactly nine days since the party, and eight days since he'd learnt
of his pregnancy. He had absolutely no idea how he would go through the next
week without going mad, and it scared him.
Life, for the first time in sixteen years, terrified him.
***** All Spiders Need a Hug *****
Chapter Summary
     Peter has only begun to accept his pregnancy when he discovers that
     others around him now about his secret. Others he has not expected,
     in many shapes and forms.
     And damn, but why can't he remember what happened at the party?
Chapter Notes
     Soooo life is still a thing, and so are all the books I'm writing,
     the walls I'm climbing, my side-job, etc. I'm seriously amazed I
     still get to update any of my four fics at all. Happy belated New
     Year!
     Oh, and by the way... a special thanks to Thalya and J, who gave me
     ideas for this chapter.
In a relatively good mood for once, Peter refused to spend any more time
thinking about the way Mr. Stark had hovered around him a week ago when he’d
attended the Avengers meeting. Mr. Stark had been worried, and so nice to him,
texting him short and sweet texts such as Are you ok?and You sure you can
handle this boring meeting? every time Peter’s façade cracked. Peter had both
been grateful and close to tears when Mr. Stark had hugged him at the end of
the meeting. 
“Hey, Peter!”
Ned bumped their shoulders together. Peter discovered that his smile was
genuine, and immediately hugged Ned within an inch of his life. Wallowing in
misery and being angry 24/7 wasn’t his default mode. He’d much rather smile,
and picture a parallel universe where he woke up beside Mr. Stark, Tony, every
morning. 
“Good to see you in a better mood,” Ned told him a little breathlessly. “If
they can’t return your affection, they don’t deserve you.”
Peter didn’t quite wince, but it was a close call. “What about you, Ned? Fancy
anyone around here?”
To his surprise, Ned blushed. Peter let out a happy laugh and proceeded to
interrogate the hell out of his friend until the first bell rang.
                                       *
For the first half of the school day, Peter acted like a sixteen-year-old who
had nothing better to do than listen to their teachers with one ear, and to
their friends with the other. During lunch break, he sat with Ned and Michelle
outside and ate the sandwich May had prepared for him last night. Not wanting
to push his luck, he gave Ned the meat that was threatening to make him
nauseous and munched on the lettuce and the bread.
“You’re so weird, Peter.”
He shrugged. It wasn’t like he was going to explain that.
“Tell us something we don’t know,” Michelle chimed in. She was sitting a little
above them on the edge of a large and tall cross-shaped sculpture made of
concrete. On his more comfortable wooden bench shadowed by a pine tree, Peter
grinned.
“And this, Ned, is the voice of reason.”
He finished his sandwich and even risked an apple while Ned told them about the
awful cardio tests the physical education teacher had devised for the class.
Peter stared at the blue, cloudless sky, and found himself laughing as Ned
parodied their teacher’s harsh tone. Even Michelle, who couldn’t be bothered to
appreciate their jokes most of the time, let slip a smile every now and then.
It took Peter a little while to notice all the small spiders that had begun to
creep on the bench around him. The bushes at his and Ned’s back were alive with
insects and birds, and the bench covered in leaves, ants and discarded snack
bits. A spider or two was to be expected; two dozen, not so much, even if they
were small and inconspicuously brown.
Tuning out the voice his friend, Peter caught one spider in his palm and gently
but firmly put it back in the bushes. The arachnid waved its eight legs in
something that almost resembled protestation. Peter blinked twice, but no, the
spider was not getting away; instead, it tried to climb back into his hand.
Well, he’d be damned.
Pretending to lie down on the bench, Peter placed the enthusiastic spider
farther away, so that it couldn’t possibly come back up. Of course, as soon as
that spider had been dealt with, another started to approach him, as if he was
some kind of giant, appetizing mosquito. Or the mother of all spiders, at whose
feet they gathered to await his orders. Peter stifled a hysteric laugh and
looked hard at all those little creatures so similar to him, in a way. Hadn’t
his body been designed by chance to bridge an impossible gap between species
that had diverged so long ago they had hardly anything in common now?
Propped on one elbow with his neck twisted to the side, still trying to appear
nonchalant, Peter made a shoo motion with his hand, surveying the school
ground.
There was only Michelle looking at him, with that amused expression she usually
saved for Ned.
“I’ve never seen spiders act like that,” she remarked, flipping pages in her
drawing book.
Thankfully, Ned had just taken off, ostensibly to get dessert.
“Me neither,” Peter admitted, waving frantically at the small mob of spiders,
hoping they would get his pheromones, if not the gesture. The back of his neck
prickled, and because things weren’t already embarrassing enough, nausea hit
him out of the blue. Thankfully, he had practice dealing with a queasy stomach.
Michelle studied him with even more focus than before. Peter cringed as she
leaped from her resting place and sat at his side, eyes darting between the
spiders and him.
“Do you absolutely have to look at me like that?”
“Like what?”
Peter stole a glance behind his shoulder and sighed in relief; the spiders had
retreated to their lair, wherever that was.
“Like you know something you shouldn’t,” he mumbled.
“And what is it I should know?”
His eyes widened a little. Was she actually psychoanalyzing him? Ever since
he’d started throwing up and explained that he was going through a rough patch
(the broken heart excuse, which was only half a lie), she seemed intent to ask
him the oddest questions at the worst time. He had to hand it to her; she would
make a terrific psychologist.
“Nothing. There’s nothing you should know.”
She hummed. “Well, I don’t believe spiders would merely tag along because
you’re Spiderman.”
Peter’s jaw dropped open. He hadsaid ‘nothing’, hadn’t he? Damn, Ned was sure
taking his sweet time getting those brownies at the cafeteria. “W-What?”
“What I mean to say is,” Michelle went on without commenting his eyes bulging
out, “that this spider phenomenon would have started a while ago if your
moonshining as Spiderman was the reason for it, which means that something else
has happened since then, arachnid-wise.” She finally let go of her drawing book
and offered him something that could pass for a friendly smile if he’d been
farsighed. “Are you, I don’t know, pregnant or something?”
Peter was still trying to reboot his brain when he caught Ned coming their way.
His alarm, and the cause for it, must have shown, because Michelle walked to
their friend and told him something that sent him right back into the main
school building.
“Peter?” Michelle stood beside him, one hand hovering over his face. “You’re a
bit pale.”
Peter stared at the lonely spider, a beautiful orange and black specimen he
hadn’t seen before, which was poking his pinkie. He fought the first sob with
all his might, but within three seconds he was crying in Michelle’s slightly
awkward embrace. Damn, but he hated that side effect of pregnancy.
“Is it because you’re gonna have to make a nest for it?”
“Uh?”
Michelle patted his back and shifted, clearly not knowing what to do with a lap
of crying Peter.
“The child. It is because it’s gonna be a half-human, half-spider hybrid and-”
Peter cut her off right there, because hormones or no hormones, shock or no
shock, this was nota conversation he was ever going to have. Mainly because
that (albeit very remote, not to say inexistent) possibility scared him
witless. Some people were afraid of flying; well, he was terrified of giving
birth to an hybrid. When he stopped to think about it, he was also pretty
scared at the prospect of giving birth, period; he very obviously didn’t have
the necessary parts.
“No,” he mumbled. “I’m not afraid of that.”
“Then what are you afraid of?”
Peter counted down to ten. “Of everything else about this,” he gritted through
his teeth, jerking his chin at his belly.
“Oh.” She held him at arm’s length, watching the shift from desperation to
anger, right back to helplessness. “It’s a gift, Peter,” she said, almost
chidingly. “Don’t you feel privileged?”
“Absolutely not,” Peter snapped.
Not taking offence, she picked up her drawing book and resumed her sketch of
that girl on the other side of the basketball field. Peter thought that she
looked like Ned, with longer hair and bigger breasts. “Don’t worry, Peter.”
Just like that, she had entered her bubble again. “I won’t tell anyone, not
even Ned.”
“Especially not Ned.”
He tried to relax, to feel gratitude at the now open possibility to share that
burden with someone else, a person his own age who didn’t judge, but the fear
and panic sat heavy in his stomach.
“Hey, guys.” Back from his adventure in Sweetland, Ned put a brownie on Peter’s
knees. “Those are the best, seriously. Still warm. Just a bite and-”
Scrambling to his feet, Peter promptly returned the brownie to Ned and made a
beeline for the bathroom, elbowing a couple of students on the way, to lock
himself in a stall. He should be used to kneel at least twice a day by now, but
the position ever failed to annoy him; kneeling would be much more enjoyable if
he could get his mouth on something, not throw up. Of course, that particular
fantasy was a dead end, especially now that he had some stranger’s baby playing
around in his body as if it was an amusement park.
At least, he would be able to attend his afternoon classes: possessing
abilities and a physical resistance that regular humans could only dream of
totally rocked.
Being pregnant because of said abilities, less so.
                                       *
On Thursday evening, Peter found himself in the Avengers headquarters, sipping
a glass of water. It was movie night, and Peter had missed enough of those to
experience the first tinge of guilt. Mr. Stark’s texts, ranging from ‘I’m so
sad you’re not here’ to ‘You would have loved this one, there was a dog and
plenty of explosions’were wreaking havoc with his mind. While Mr. Stark had
always been friendly and considerate, he’d never been so… awareof him before.
For a moment yesterday, Peter had panicked, thinking that perhaps Friday had
let her master into Peter’s secret. A quick chat with the AI, though, had
reassured him. Of course, Friday could lie to him if Mr. Stark asked her to,
but that just wasn’t how Mr. Stark acted. If he knew…
As if thoughts of the unrequited love of his life and his pregnancy weren’t
enough burdens to shoulder, he still couldn’t remember much of the party night.
Heat, pleasure, a warm laugh the likes of which still raised goosebumps all
over his body. Good boy.Those words, at least, should have offered some
insight, but no, Peter was just that unlucky. 'Parent' sounded frightening
enough already without the word 'single' added to it.
His cell chimed with an incoming text. Peter laughed quietly when he saw the
name flashing on the screen.
All data on your illness had been lost. I will visit soon. - SS
“Now who’s bothering with messages?”
It doesn’t matter, I’m feeling well now. - Peter
You can't keep avoiding me forever, Parker. - SS
Peter was going to give in the childish urge to type ‘of course I can, come get
me if you can’, because he was tired of living a triple life, and wanted
nothing more than to lash out at somebody who could engage him in a healthy
banter, when the elevator doors opened on Barton, Widow… and Mr. Stark.
He pocketed his phone and got to his feet.
“No need to get all official on us, Peter,” Barton drawled. “Do sit down, loyal
subject.”
Peter stuck out his tongue while Mr. Stark rolled his eyes, elbowing Barton in
his stead. There was more than one reason Peter was in love with the man.
“I’m only getting something to eat, you know. Not everything is about you.”
Mr. Stark gave him an approving wink as Barton turned to Widow for support.
Whatever she whispered in his ear, it didn’t stop him from pouting.
“I’m so wounded, Peter. Am I not supposed to be your confidant?”
“I thought Iwas your confidant?” Mr. Stark protested. “What do you wanna eat,
kid?”
Peter glared at Barton, trying to sound casual. “Pasta… with some veggies, I
suppose.”
“And that’s what you all should eat instead of that scrap you keep ordering,”
Widow commented, perching on Peter’s vacated barstool. “And Clint, stop
pestering Peter about his crush, or I’m going to start reminding you of yours.”
Peter froze on the spot as three pairs of eyes turned his way. The awful noise
his glass of water made shattering on the floor barely registered. He could
only hear the blood roaring in his ears. It was ok, he told himself, trying to
smile, and failing. As long as they didn’t know whoit was, he would be fine, he
would be fine, he would be fi-
“Pastas with veggies, got it,” Mr. Stark said with his usual enthusiasm,
breaking the silence. “Friday, you heard that?”
“Already on it, Sir.”
Peter sank to the floor to gather the broken pieces of glass, barely paying
attention to what he was doing. He was notpanicking. He was not-
“Stop, kid.” A warm hand closed on his wrist. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“It’s fine, Mr. Stark.”
“Are you annoyed with Clint? I can force him to stay still while you punch him
if you’d like. Spilling secrets isn’t very friendly,” he said a little louder,
before whispering, “even if I feel a bit put out that you would tell him about
whoever’s on your mind, and not me. I thought I was your best friend. Beside
Ned and Michelle, I mean.”
Peter bit down his lip. He wanted to tell him. Everything. The need tore at
him, like a giant fist crushing his ribs. He couldn’t breathe right, and God,
but he wanted…
“It’s… I don’t…” Did Mr. Stark really have to keep touching his wrist like
that? He snatched his hand back, and immediately regretted it, because Mr.
Stark wouldn’t understand the rejection. How could he? Peter was only trying to
protect himself, and preserve their friendship. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I
am. It just wasn’t… It’s not important.”
“Hey, look at me.”
Peter couldn’t look away, even if the hand on his chin burnt.
“Leave the mess on the floor to my bots, will you? And let’s make two things
clear: whatever you want to tell me, tell me, kid. You’re important to me.”
Peter shivered as a calloused thumb brushed his lip. It lasted but a fraction
of a second, and Peter was 100% sure it was unconscious, because Mr. Stark was
the most tactile person he knew, but his body reacted with a flush that left
him uncomfortably aware of the tightness of his pants.
“What’s the s-second thing?”
Mr. Stark helped him to his feet, which might have been necessary considering
how bad he was  shaking, and trying to hide it.
“My name’s Tony, not Mr. Stark, kid.”
***** A Welcome Getaway *****
Chapter Summary
     Peter and Tony spend an evening together in a small bistro.
Chapter Notes
     Enjoy this update, as I will be pretty busy over the next (few) week
     (s) working on my detective novel that will get published in Spring.
     Also, fluff ahead! <3
Mr. Stark,Tony, was being unreasonable. 
"You really don't have to do this, Tony."
"And you, kid, really should learn to be grateful."
Peter rolled his eyes as he munched on his steak. It was well cooked, but still
tender, and melt in his mouth in a way the meat he bought at the grocery store
never did. He let out a groan of appreciation when he got to the best part,
only to hide his face behind his glass of water at the realization that the man
sitting in front of him was watching him intently. Watching as he flushed the
brightest red in the known universe.
He coughed and took a few sips. By the time he wasn’t feeling like everything
that went through his mind (and groin) showed on his face, he addressed Mr. St-
no, Tony’s kind yet sharp reply.
"I am grateful, very, very grateful, trust me, but I don't see what I did to
deserve all… this.” Smiling shyly, he jerked his chin at the very fine food on
the table, and the splendid landscape outside: a tranquil lake and a thick
forest bathed in the warm, red light of dusk.
It was Tony’s turn to roll his eyes.
"You're my friend, kid, ok? I like to spend time with my friends, and I feel
like I've neglected you since the party." He lifted his wine glass to his lips,
and Peter tried not to stare as his Adam’s apple bob up and down his throat.
He’d always had a thing for Tony’s throat. It just seemed so… enticing. “To be
perfectly honest with you, I don’t remember much of that night,” Tony added
sheepishly, cutting his fantasy short. “I meant to pace myself, because I’m not
going to give a bad example to- never mind.”
He set his glass down and picked a broccoli by the stem, made a face as his
brain registered what exactly he’d just put into his mouth, and let go of it
with clear disdain. Peter chuckled.
The bistro belonged to an old friend of Tony, from the time when he’d attended
MIT. According to Tony, and the various reviews Peter had spotted upon entering
the place, it was usually crowded right until closing time around eleven pm,
but the owner owed Tony a favor and had let him have the place all to himself,
and Peter, for the evening.
Peter was both grateful and embarrassed by the preferential treatment. He’d
dreamt so often of having Mr. Stark (Tony, his mind supplied in a chiding tone)
all for himself. Of course, those fantasies always implied NSFW material, such
as straddling Tony’s lap and kissing him for all he was worth, or Tony on his
knees with dark, hungry eyes, mouthing at his cock through his pants, and then…
Peter shook his head. He should stop torturing himself. Tony was a wonderful
friend, to have treated him to such a cozy evening. Peter hadn’t eaten so much
andkept it down in ages, and Tony kept making him laugh. He was so kind, so
considerate, so…
Loveable.
Peter bit down his lip, averting Tony’s gaze. Their friendship was precious to
him; he didn’t want to threaten it. Shouldn’t even think about it.
“To be perfectly honest in turn,” he said slowly, staring at the last piece of
his steak, “I must have drunk too much as well, probably of Romanov’s vodka,
and…”
Tony cocked his head to the side. “And…?”
“I probably slept it off somewhere.”
“That’s good,” Tony approved with a nod. “I would have been worried of losing
track of you if Friday had not told me that you’ve had a wonderful time.”
Peter froze. Fortunately, Tony was busy pushing all the yummy-looking
vegetables to the side of his plate, and consequently too busy to notice the
effect of his words.
“This is just plain disgusting,” he mumbled, knifing through a roasted pepper
as if it’d personally insulted his mother. “Why do people like you, Bruce and
Pepper insist I eat this?”
Peter heaved out a sight of relief. Reassured that Tony didn’t know about
hiswhereabouts the night of the party, he found himself reaching for the
broccoli so casually dismissed. Feeling daring for all of two seconds, he
shoved it into his mouth and mentally squealed in delight at tasting Tony… even
if it was only by vegetable proxy.
“I’m glad your aunt didn’t mind you going on a little trip with little ol' me.”
“You’re not old,” Peter replied automatically.
Tony snorted. “I sure look good for forty-eight, but I amgetting old. I know
it, and my body knows it, even though my mind is as sharp as ever.”
“I don’t think you’re old,” Peter mumbled under his breath.
“What was that?” Tony asked in a playful tone.
Peter turned crimson for what ought to be the tenth time in the last ten
minutes. At least the lights were dim, and Tony’s attention divided between
Peter and his hatred for vegetables.
“More wine?” the head waiter asked, a quiet and serious man as large as he was
tall.
Tony gave him his glass. Peter shook his head, and the waiter poured more water
into his glass. He had to keep hydrated, and if he was being perfectly
responsible, he’d better start eating healthier stuff as well. He took all the
peppers from Tony’s plate, and a carrot for good measure. He was responsible of
two people's well-being these days.
Tony held his glass in his right hand, his elbow propped on the table, so
casual in his elegance that Peter felt a surge of shame, in his threadbare
clothes. But Tony didn’t judge, so he tried not to either.
“… about Strange?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Tony smiled.
“What about Strange? I hope he’s not being unduly harsh in his treatment of
you. I know you consider your arrangement beneficial for both of you, but I-”
“Tony,” Peter cut in with clear exasperation. “You know he’s interested in my
powers, and I am, too. We’re doing science together, that’s all. He’s not
coercing me into anything. He's a sorcerer, for crying out loud; he could teach
me things about myself I could never hope to learn otherwise.”
“I thought Iwas your science buddy,” Tony complained.
“You’re my favorite, so stop acting like a kid.”
Tony stuck his tongue out at him. Peter was sure he wasn’t supposed to find
that attractive, but he was a little helpless where Tony was concerned. Under
the table, he reached for his belly, caressing the very, very discrete bump of
a life growing.
They talked of Peter’s work at school, Avengers business and the new cool stuff
in the realm of science, as Tony put it. The waiter cleared their table while
they were in the middle of a debate on superconductors, and by the time Peter
became aware that their desserts had arrived, the ice cream was already
melting. Still, he did his best to win the current argument before diving into
the paradise of his strawberry ice cream topped with chocolate and caramel.
Tony was only having a coffee and staring at his bowl with faked superiority.
Peter took an extra big spoonful of ice cream to aggravate him. It was beyond
delicious; even the word 'decadent' didn't come close to describe the bliss his
taste buds experienced. He grinned at Tony, who returned his toothy smile with
ease. Peter was distracted by the tiny wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, one
of the few discreet pointers that Tony was older, decades older than him. He
wished to lean into his mentor's personal space and kiss those lines of time,
trace every one of them with the tip of his tongue in a show of worship.
He shook the thought loose before it could evolve into something that would
make him feel even more awkward.
"You wanna tell me about you know what?" Tony asked after a few minutes of
quiet contemplation.
“What what?”
"I should say 'who',” Tony amended with a pensive look, pulling at his goatee,
still smiling, still too beautiful for words. "You know, whoever you've had on
your mind up till now? I can tell when you're distracted," he quickly added
when Peter frowned and opened his mouth. "It's ok. I know what it is to be so
utterly taken by someone the whole world seems to fade in comparison. I don't
blame you." He chuckled, but it sounded forced. His smile remained genuine,
too. He lifted his napkin to his lips, and Peter couldn't help but think that
Tony was hiding something from him.
Not that Peter could hold it against him.
"I need a distraction, actually, I-" He inhaled deeply, focusing on the tiny
speck of life within his belly. Soon enough, he would have someone on whom to
bestow all the love bubbling in his chest, haunting memories and dreams,
fantasies mixed up with reality. The pang of sadness and disappointment he was
feeling right now, sitting so close to Tony, but with leagues of obstacles
between them, would subside in time.
And, maybe, he would love again. Perhaps he would find the man who'd knocked
him up, and then... Peter remembered dark eyes staring at him, drinking him in,
but their color eluded him. Those eyes were warm, though, and the caresses his
body still remembered hotter than coals, and Tony’s eyes spoke of such warmth,
and his hands always burnt him, so why couldn’t it be Tony? In a parallel
universe, it would be Tony who'd made love to him that night and filled his
belly with fertile seed. It would be Tony’s baby growing within him, a teeny-
tiny Tony whom they could both care for, when they weren’t caring for each
other…
Peter let go of his spoon and rubbed at his eyes.
"I trust you," he said without looking up. "I trust you with life, Mr- Tony,
but- it's-"
"You need a distraction."
The tone was so gentle, the understanding so obvious, so strong, that Peter
almost admitted to everything right here and then. Damn, those hormones could
tear down his barriers like nothing else; he had to remain strong, for the sake
of their friendship. He couldn't very well ask for Tony to his future kid's
godfather if the man was busy avoiding him because Peter couldn't keep his
stupid crush to himself.
He steered his thoughts to a safer path. It took a great deal of effort on his
part, but when he met Tony's gaze next, he felt confident that he could handle
the rest of the evening, and truly appreciate the gift he'd been given.
"Tell me about the Mark 52." There was a light of something fierce flashing in
Tony’s eyes. Peter couldn't put a name to it. "You told me that you've made
modifications to the helmet, and that the flight was smoother, but when you
began to tell me about it last week, we were interrupted, so... I'd very much
like you to dazzle me again," he said without thinking.
That light flashed again, and Peter felt the weight of Tony's gaze in his
belly, like a caress beneath his skin that he could taste on his tongue in an
impossible kiss.
"Everything for you, kid."
Soon enough, Tony and Peter were speaking in their own language again, using so
many technical terms and referring to advances patterns in physics that would
have even an expert in the field confused. Peter thrived in their shared
passion, and the ease they could share everything.
He could have gone for the whole night, talking of Tony’s creations, and shyly
offering his inputs at Tony’s invitation, if not for the small fact that the
baby was apparently not happy with him sitting there.
The cramp had Peter’s right hand leap mid-sentence to his belly in an automatic
gesture. He would have to stop doing that, he told himself. Would also have to
figure out what to say, when he began to show.
One problem at a time.
“The food didn’t agree with you?” Tony asked worriedly.
“Something like that.”
With the kind of calm authority that Peter had come to associate with his role
in the Avengers, Tony coaxed him to his feet and led him to the bedroom on the
second floor. Peter found it both endearing and annoying that Tony would make
such a fuss over what he thought was an indigestion. He didn’t say anything and
let Tony order him around. The shower did make him feel better, and he even got
to choose his bed for the night. Since he couldn't very well ask Tony to share
his, he opted for the one closest to the window. At least the night sky could
distract him while his thoughts ran wild.
                                       *
“Kid?”
Peter's restless twisting and turning came to an abrupt halt. In the
background, the crash of thunder could be heard. Peter felt too warm, and so
cold in the annoying paradox of his solitary bed. His watch red three fifty in
the morning. He wished for Tony’s arms like he’d never wished for anything in
his life. It wasn’t even about sex anymore, even if his desire for the man had
not abated at all. He couldn’t sleep, he just couldn’t, and the baby playing
dominos with his innards wasn’t even the main cause for his insomnia.
“Peter?” Tony sounded worried now.
Peter rolled to his other side. He couldn’t quite see Tony’s face in the dark,
but the outline of his figure was like a beacon in the midst of a storm. A sob
left his throat, a pitiful quiet noise that he hoped would be drowned by the
elements outside.
He wasn’t so lucky. Or perhaps he was? Tony had just left his own bed on the
other side of the nightstand and was presently sitting beside him, so close
that Peter could touch his thigh if he uncurled his fingers. Another small
noise escaped his throat, and the thunder rumbled further.
“Are you afraid of thunder?”
“No.”
“Lightning, then?”
Peter hid his face in the pillow.
“If it has something to do with Strange’s experiments-”
“Tony, please stop talking like Strange’s the enemy. He’s just a little weird.”
“A little weird?” Tony huffed in disbelief. “That’s not how I would put- Peter,
are you shaking?”
And before Peter could think of a reply, or convince his body to stop acting as
if he had a fever, Tony was lying down behind him and seeking his hand.
“Fuck, kid, your hands are colder than the ice cream you’ve had earlier. You
sick?”
“Just…” Peter was too worn out to think straight anymore. “Just stay there for
a while?”
He sensed Tony tense, and had already an apology ready on the tip of his
tongue, when Tony spoke again.
“Perhaps I will get some sleep too this way. You’re a bit cold for a pillow,
but I will manage.”
Struck by the knowledge that Tony, too, had been lying awake in his own bed all
this time, Peter didn’t react when a warm, calloused hand slid up his forearm
and elbow, brushing against his hip.
“Good night, kid. And don’t be afraid of a little lightning; little ol' me is
right here protecting you.”
Peter felt so good with his back to Tony’s chest, and the man’s hand on his
arm, that he didn’t even elbow him for that comment.
He fell asleep to Tony’s heartbeat.
***** Lovemaking *****
Chapter Summary
     It's everything Peter has ever wanted.
Chapter Notes
     I guess... don't hate me? <3
Peter lay on his back, his distended belly shiny with sweat. His taut nipples
were so sensitive at this stage of pregnancy that he didn’t dare touch them,
especially not after the sweet torture Tony had put him through, licking and
sucking the small buds with a devotion better fit for religion.  
“Ah, Tony…”
He could not see his own cock beyond his round belly, but he could certainly
feel Tony’s mouth between his legs, licking complicated paths on one inner
thigh, then the other, the small wet circles progressively closer to his
throbbing erection. His goatee left he most delicious burning sensation as it
rubbed against his flushed skin, and his tongue, his tongue… Peter really ought
to be the one building an altar here. He had absolutely zero problem
worshipping Tony until he came sobbing his name, and for half a second, he
actually considered flipping his lover on his back to give him a taste of his
own wonderful, teasing, loving medicine.
God, but he loved Tony. He couldn’t remember a time his chest wasn’t full to
bursting with that delicious feeling, couldn’t imagine a future where that love
would run out. Tony was so easy to love, and his smile was gorgeous, and Peter
wanted it to light his face forever.
“You look good enough to it,” hissed Tony, lifting himself on his elbows to
rest his chin on top of Peter’s pregnant belly. His eyes were dark pools of
desire, and part of Peter wished he had a gift for drawing, so that he could
paint the hunger splashed there, with his name burning in them. “Spread your
legs further, baby. Can you do that for me?”
Peter bit down his lip, and Tony’s eyes flew to it like a moth to a flame. That
request from Tony ever meant one thing, one layer of pleasure they both
enjoyed, but that still embarrassed Peter to this day.
“O-Ok,” he stammered, parting his legs further, way more than was necessary,
just because it would get Tony to groan in wonder at his flexibility. “Just for
you.”
Tony did groan, and bent lower to lick Peter’s erection from root to tip. He
lapped at the leaking slit for a moment, and Peter knew he just wanted to
heighten the anticipation, but still his body fell prey to Tony’s mouth and the
trap so sweetly designed for him.
“There you go, love.” Tony placed a kiss on each of Peter’s balls, before
slowly parting his ass cheeks to expose his hole. “Just like that. Perfect.”
He licked a long stipe on each side of his hole. Peter whined in spite of
himself, and he felt Tony grin. Before he could brace himself for what was to
come, a wet tongue circled his hole, the pressure exactly what he needed,
craved from his lover. Screwing his eyes shut to better enjoy it, he took a
hold of the silken sheets (shouldn’t they be cotton? wondered a small voice in
the back of his mind) and let out a strangled moan as Tony dipped his tongue
inside of him, humming approvingly. The first thrust was gentle, slow and
unhurried, but the next one was deeper, almost urgent, and Peter soon found
himself shaking as Tony tongue-fucked him in long, powerful strokes of tongue.
He wouldn’t last if Tony kept at it, so Peter sought the room for a
distraction. Their bedroom was strangely… fuzzy, the colors somehow unstable,
shifting, and the sensation was not unlike that one time when Ned and Michelle
had convinced him to try drugs. Still, he was able to make out some of the
details in the bedroom: the size of their bed, big and soft and covered in
pillows of all kinds and shapes; a huge mirror on the ceiling; a smaller mirror
beside the door leading to their walk-in closet; the plethora of spider-shaped
candles alit on every surface available (didn’t he find spiders weird? what
were those candles doing here?).
“Tony, Tony, Tony,” he chanted. The room might be interesting to look at
because it was theirs, a few aspects might be weird, but none of those things
could hold his attention for long with Tony going to town. The sensation of a
tongue pumping in him was like no other. As for an enthusiastictongue… Peter
didn’t even understand the words of praise that left his lips, it was just so
good, and he was going to come from Tony’s clever tongue, from the burnt of his
goatee catching at the rim, from his strong hands massaging his buttocks, and
the hungry noises he made as he sheathed himself inside him, wet and agile and
perfect…
Just when he thought he would combust along with the sweat-soaked sheets under
him, Peter felt Tony’s tongue leave him. He might have let out a small noise of
protest, because Tony’s rich, warm laugh reached his ears.
“I’m so fucking hard from eating you,” Tony growled in the decadent voice only
Peter got to hear. “I want to fill you up, baby, fuck you good, spend myself
inside of your lovely ass.”
“Then fucking do it!”
Still laughing, albeit a little breathless now, Tony put his legs on his
shoulders and rubbed the hot head of his cock against his wet entrance. Peter
lifted his hips, causing his lover’s hands to spasms on his thighs. All of a
sudden, Tony’s mouth was on his, demanding and giving and everything’s Peter
wanted.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, one hand moving to Peter’s belly as he
inched his way inside his fluttering ass. “I love watching your grow heavy with
my child, and I love you, both of you, so fucking much, Peter Stark.”
Tears of joy streamed down Peter’s cheek (but they were not yet, and the room
was spinning now, everything in shades of grey and it waswrong, but Peter held
on to the truth of this love, of the feeling threatening to choke him)
“I love you more,” he replied, voice thick and watery.
“So you think,” crooned Tony.
Just as he bottomed out, the baby gave out a powerful kick. Peter half-winced,
half-smiled, and licked his lips at the sight of the father caressing his belly
with adoration (Tony’s body was flickering in and out of existence, so this,
here, couldn’t be real,the little voice from before told him; Peter shut it up
and pretended it had never spoken, even if he couldn’t see Tony anymore, and
could hardly feel him at all).
“Are you ok, Peter?”
Peter linked their hands, but his went right through Tony’s. The spider candles
were still very solid and tangible in the room, more so than his lover had ever
been since they'd started kissing, and Peter screamed in anguish, tearing the
almost transparent sheets. The baby gave another strong, violent kick, and to
Peter’s utmost horror, his belly burst, splashing the torn sheets with blood
and darker things. He couldn’t feel the baby anymore, couldn’t even feel his
own body, and surely he would die here, out of his mind and bloodless, with
only memories to light his way to the other side…
“Peter, wake up!”
                                       *
“Kid?”
Peter’s eyes snapped open.
The high canopy bed, the spider candles, the walk-in closet; it was all gone.
Tony remained, but he was fully dressed, and if concern could be found in his
expression, it was a far cry from the smitten-looking man who’d kissed him...
Weeks of wearing masks allowed Peter not to burst into tears just here and
then. He bit his cheek hard enough to taste blood, though, and quickly averted
his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to see Tony, who didn’t desire or love him,
watching over his pathetic form with friendly concern.
“Kid, you don’t look so well.”
Peter snorted. His heart beat too fast, and his chest felt too tight, but at
least he could pretend he was fine.
“I’m ok. Just a… nightmare,” he whispered.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tony shifting from one foot to the other.
He looked awkward. Tony Stark didn’t do awkward much.
“Still feel sick?”
Peter frowned.
“No, why?”
“Your hand-”
Peter let go of his belly just a little too fast for the gesture to be natural,
but Tony didn’t comment on it. Peter inhaled deeply; he wasn’t thatpregnant
yet. Tony couldn’t possibly suspect what was really going on in his body.
He rubbed his eyes and shuffled to a sitting position. ‘Weariness’ and
‘morning’ didn’t go well together, but his hormones seemed intent to turn his
body against itself.
“Anything you want me to do?” asked Tony, still looking unsure. Peter had never
managed to pull off 'sexy' when he felt like that, but Tony made it look
completely effortless.
“Breakfast sounds good.” Peter forced a smile and dropped his hands into his
lap. “If we have the time, that is. You probably have work to go back to…”
Apparently, Peter had become good at the whole pretending business, because
Tony brightened and left the room in a rush after telling him to take the time
he needed to ‘get ready’.
Peter stared hard at the pile of clothes on the chair by his single bed. For
all of two minutes, he allowed himself the luxury of crying silently while
caressing his belly. He wished he had a nightmare like Tony had thought. In a
way, this blissful dream had been one, because it wasn’t real.
Tony’s love for him wasn’t real either. As Peter wiped his cheeks angrily in
the shower, he wondered if the time they’d spend together yesterday, and their
proximity last night, was responsible for the dream. Probably. And not caring
if he got hurt in the process, his subconscious had connected Tony’s platonic
presence in his bed with his adventure with the father of his child.
Good boy, fuck, you’re so tight.
Peter dug his nails into his arms and snarled at the drain. He’d never wanted
to have powers, and while helping people had always been important to him, he
would give up his special abilities in a heartbeat if it meant gaining Tony’s
interest. He would do a great deal to get there, even get rid of-
He found himself reluctant to finish that thought, and started to cry all over
again. Damn hormones. The first semester couldn't end soon enough.
He stepped out of the shower on shaky legs and hid his flushed face in the
plush towel Tony, or the bistro’s owner, had left there. He neverwanted a dream
like that again, no matter how blissful he thought it made him feel for a
while. He didn’t need a reminder that he would never get what he wanted, would
never share intimacy with the man he desperately loved.
When he left the bedroom, he had his walls up again, and a small if genuine
smile on his lips. Spending time with Tony, being his friend, was still
infinitely better than being a stranger to him.
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