Archive of Our Own

“Petey-pie!”

The squeal cut through the noise before Peter could even properly process the room around him.

Then he was airborne.

A pair of strong arms wrapped around him, solid chest crushing against his own as Deadpool lifted him clean off the floor like Peter weighed nothing at all.

Peter snorted despite himself, face half-buried against tactical gear and expensive cologne mixed with gunpowder.

“There he is,” Wade crooned dramatically. “The prettiest omega east of Manhattan.”

“You say that to every omega.”

“Yes. But with you I mean it.”

Peter rolled his eyes, but his shoulders had already loosened. The knot twisting in his stomach since arriving finally eased as he hugged the mercenary back automatically.
God.

He hated places like this.

Everything about the Stark Gala felt too large. Too bright. Too expensive.

Like one wrong step and he’d stain something worth more than his apartment’s yearly rent.

When Wade first invited him, Peter refused instantly.

Absolutely not.

No amount of begging could drag Peter Parker willingly into a nest of billionaires, politicians, enhanced operatives, and alphas with teeth hidden behind champagne smiles.

Then Wade mentioned unlimited chimichangas.

Peter was only human.

And unfortunately easy to bribe with food.

Which was how he ended up here.

Dressed like this.

Wade had practically kidnapped him into a luxury boutique three days ago and ignored every single protest Peter made afterward.

The resulting outfit felt almost criminal on Peter’s body.

Soft crimson fabric hugged his waist and hips far too well, elegant enough to make him feel vaguely endangered. The gold-lined half coat resting around his shoulders added warmth and glamour in equal measure, fluffy enough to soften the sharper lines of the dress.

And the heels—

Peter still thought the heels counted as attempted murder.

“You clean up so good,” Wade said proudly, setting him down but keeping his hands on Peter’s waist. “Like a very anxious sugar cookie.”

“I look ridiculous.”

“You look like the kind of omega old money families would commit crimes over.”

“That is not comforting.”

“Nothing about me is comforting.”

Peter sighed.

Then quietly: “…Thanks.”

Because beneath all the dramatics and insanity, Wade had somehow known exactly what to do.

The dress didn’t make Peter feel small.

It made him visible.

Not in the vulnerable way omegas were usually displayed at these things either. Not decorative. Not submissive.

Dangerous.

Like a flame pretending to be silk.

“So,” Peter asked as Wade finally put him back onto his dangerously tall heels, “what’s the catch?”

“The catch, Pete—” Wade paused theatrically, placing a hand over where his heart should probably be. “—is to clock out gossip. Wet, dirty gossip. The kind worthy of being dragged into daylight and published.”

Peter blinked.

“The goal,” Wade continued grandly, spinning Peter toward the ballroom, “is looking absolutely ravishing while extracting information from rich people like it’s the elixir of life.”

Peter tilted his head slightly.

“Oh.”

Which.

Actually made sense.

J. Jonah Jameson had been on a warpath lately, demanding exclusives Peter physically could not provide without violating at least twelve laws and several laws of physics.

According to Jameson: “Parker, rich people are evil. Go prove it.”

Peter had complained exactly once to Wade over late-night takeout.

Apparently that had been a mistake.

“And,” Wade added casually, “I have a request for you too.”

Peter looked back at him immediately.

“There’s a scumbag here I need information on.”

Peter nodded without hesitation.

Wade stilled for half a second behind his mask.

See, that was the problem with Peter.

The kid trusted like a wounded stray cat: rarely, carefully, but completely once earned.

No suspicion. No bargaining. No “what kind of information?”

Just immediate acceptance because Wade asked.

It was equal parts flattering and deeply concerning.

“You didn’t even ask who.”

Peter shrugged one shoulder.

“You wouldn’t ask me to hurt someone innocent.”

Wade stared at him.

Then pointed accusingly.

“And people say I’m mentally unstable.”

Peter snorted.

The music swelled around them — strings and bass humming beneath the endless chatter of New York’s elite. Alphas in tailored suits prowled the room like wolves wrapped in silk. Omegas and women glittered beside them in diamonds and practiced smiles.

Peter immediately wanted a chimichanga.

Preferably six.

Wade leaned down conspiratorially.

“Target’s somewhere near the west balcony. Smarmy. Blond. Smells like tax fraud and divorce settlements.”

“That narrows it down exactly zero percent.”

“You’re learning.”

Peter rolled his eyes and adjusted the gold-lined coat around his shoulders.

“Walk with me, sweetheart.”

Wade guided Peter gently into the current of the ballroom crowd, one gloved hand settling carefully against his shoulder. Casual. Affectionate. Unthreatening.

The exact posture of an alpha escorting a favored omega.

Which meant nobody paid attention.

Peter almost smiled at the tactic.

Almost.

Wade bent slightly, voice lowering beneath the music so only Peter could hear.

“You see, the scumbag ain’t a target I would usually choose,” he murmured. “That’s why I’m roaming freely here as yours truly, Deadpool alter ego. Welcome.”

One white eye on the mask winked.

Peter huffed out a laugh despite himself.

God, Wade was ridiculous.

Then the mercenary’s tone sharpened.

“He’s a benefactor of a sex trafficking ring.”

The words hit like cold water.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Worse because Wade said it plainly.

“Not the big guy,” Wade continued, steering Peter past a cluster of laughing socialites, “but still a key player.”

Peter’s expression lost its earlier amusement immediately.

He nodded once.

Serious now.

"There are three things I need you to discover."

Peter nodded.

Wade opened his mouth.

Then stopped.

"Actually, forget that."

"What?"

"The important part isn't the information.”

That stopped him.

Because Wade sounded genuinely dangerous. Not playful-dangerous. Not theatrical-dangerous. The kind that reminded people SHIELD employed him for reasons beyond insanity.

“If the guy offers you a drink,” Wade said quietly, “make up an excuse.”

Peter frowned slightly.

Wade continued before he could ask.

“I’m serious.”

The hand on Peter’s shoulder squeezed once.

“Don’t eat anything he personally hands you either. Don’t let him isolate you. And if at any point your instincts start screaming?” Wade tilted his head toward the exits. “You leave. I don’t care about the information anymore.”

Peter looked up at him properly then.

Beneath the jokes and absurdity and constant noise, Wade was worried.Actually worried.

Which meant this man was bad.

Not billionaire-bad. Not tax-evasion bad. Not “funds private military nonsense” bad.

Monster bad.

Peter’s jaw tightened subtly.

“Got it,” he said softly.

Wade studied him for another second.

Then immediately ruined the tension.

“Excellent! Now remember: subtlety. Seduction. Psychological warfare.”

“I’m literally just asking questions.”

“That’s omega espionage, baby.”

“That’s called journalism.”

“Same thing with better shoes.”

Peter rolled his eyes again, but his attention had sharpened now. His anxiety remained — all those alpha scents pressing against his senses, the overwhelming luxury, the awareness of eyes occasionally lingering too long on him — but it had settled into something usable.

Focus.

The photographer persona slipped naturally over him after years of practice.

Observe. Smile politely. Notice details. Let people underestimate him.

It worked frighteningly well on rich men.

Especially rich men who saw omegas as decoration.

Wade slowed near the west side of the ballroom.

“There,” he muttered.

Peter followed his gaze discreetly.

Blond. Expensive suit. Overconfident posture. A hand resting too familiarly on the waist of a visibly uncomfortable omega.

Peter’s stomach turned instantly.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

Yeah.

Monster.

It had been insultingly easy.

One soft laugh. One careful tilt of Peter’s head. One moment of pretending to be charmed instead of disgusted.

And the man folded.

Rich men like him always did.

Especially around omegas they considered harmless.

Peter learned years ago that people heard what they wanted to hear. A pretty omega smiling up at them wasn’t perceived as dangerous. He became background decoration in their minds. Something soft. Something ornamental.

Which made extracting information horrifyingly simple.

Names. Locations. Shipping routes disguised as “private transportation.” A mention of offshore accounts. A date.

Enough for Wade to tear the operation apart later.

Peter should’ve left then.

Mission complete.

Except—

The omega on the blond man’s arm looked at Peter once.

And ruined everything.

Pretty blue eyes. Wide. Glossy with fear carefully disguised as politeness.

The kind of expression Peter recognized immediately because he’d seen it before on subway platforms and cramped shelters and alleyways at three in the morning.

Please notice. Please help. Please don’t leave me here.

Peter stayed.

The trafficker was too busy talking now, drunk on his own voice and importance, leaning closer and closer into Peter’s space while Peter fought the urge to bite him.

Then—

A hand settled against Peter’s shoulder.

Warm.

Solid.

And before Peter even turned, scent hit him first.

Agarwood. Honey. Expensive whiskey smoke and something distinctly alpha beneath it all.

Peter blinked.

Tony Stark smiled easily beside him, greeting the blond man like they were old acquaintances.

The trafficker lit up instantly, attention shifting away from Peter with greedy eagerness.

Peter moved without thinking.

Opportunity.

His fingers slipped around the omega’s wrist gently.

“Hey,” Peter said softly. “Come with me.”

The omega startled.

Then obeyed immediately.

Too immediately.

Peter’s chest tightened.

They slipped into the moving crowd before anyone noticed, Peter guiding him through clusters of guests and servers and glittering conversation until the ballroom noise dulled into something distant.

A quieter hallway. Dimmer lights. Less scent congestion.

Only then did Peter stop.

The omega’s hand was still clutching his tightly.

Shaking.

Violently.

Peter looked down fully now and realized with sudden fury that there were bruises half-hidden beneath concealer near the omega’s wrist.

Oh.

Oh, Peter was going to kill someone.

“You’re okay,” Peter said immediately, voice dropping into something instinctively gentle. “Hey. You’re alright.”

The omega inhaled sharply like the reassurance itself hurt.

Peter guided him carefully toward a velvet bench tucked beside one of the quieter gallery corridors, far from the ballroom noise and alpha scents choking the air.

“You don’t have to go back there tonight,” Peter continued softly. “Okay? You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Blue eyes snapped toward him.

Disbelieving.

Like freedom sounded fictional.

Peter’s stomach twisted violently.

There was risk in what he was about to do. Socially. Biologically. Instinctively.

He did not care.

Slowly, carefully, Peter reached for the scent suppression patches hidden along his neck and wrists.

Peeling them off felt like taking a full breath after hours underwater.

Warmth immediately unfurled into the air.

Honey. Rain-soaked amber. Something achingly soft beneath it all.

The omega made a tiny sound.

Peter’s heart cracked.

“Hey,” Peter whispered again.

Very gently, he guided the omega closer until his face rested near the junction of Peter’s neck.

The omega inhaled.

Deep.

Full.

Then shuddered violently.

Like his body had finally realized safety existed.

The poor thing practically collapsed against Peter afterward, trembling hands gripping desperately at the crimson fabric of Peter’s dress while instinct dragged him closer and closer still.

Trying to burrow. Trying to stay.

Peter wrapped both arms around him immediately.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, beginning to purr without even thinking about it.

The sound vibrated low in his chest, soft and steady.

Comfort.

Home.

The omega let out the smallest wounded whine Peter had ever heard.

Rage bloomed hot and immediate beneath Peter’s ribs.

No.

No, Wade was not handling this alone.

Peter was going to help dismantle every single person involved in this ring with his own hands if necessary.

He kept speaking softly anyway.

Sweet reassurances. Gentle nonsense. Half-finished comforts murmured into pale hair while the omega slowly stopped shaking.

Minutes passed.

Eventually exhaustion overtook terror.

The omega fell asleep tucked tightly against Peter’s chest.

Only then did Peter allow himself to breathe properly.

And then—

“Quite the omega charmer, aren’t you?”

The voice was deep enough to vibrate through the quiet hallway.

Peter’s entire body tensed instantly.

His grip around the sleeping omega tightened protectively before he even looked up.

Whiskey-colored eyes met his own.

Tony Stark leaned casually against the doorway, suit immaculate, expression unreadable beneath faint amusement.

But his gaze—

His gaze was fixed on Peter with unsettling intensity.

Not on the dress. Not on the exposed scent glands. Not even on the omega sleeping against him.

Peter.

Just Peter.

For one bizarre heartbeat, Peter became painfully aware of himself.

The missing suppression patches. The honey-thick scent now filling the corridor. The way he was still purring faintly without realizing it.

Tony’s eyes darkened almost imperceptibly at the sound.

Peter narrowed his own immediately.

“Were you spying on me?”

Tony huffed a laugh.

“I was making sure you didn’t get murdered.”

“That’s surprisingly responsible behavior from you.”

“Ouch.”

Peter shifted slightly, careful not to wake the omega curled against him.

Only now did he notice Tony wasn’t approaching any closer.

Interesting.

Most alphas would’ve.

Especially powerful ones.

Tony stayed deliberately near the doorway instead, giving Peter space without making it obvious.

Like he understood instinctively that cornering an omega protecting another omega was a fantastic way to lose a hand.

Smart.

“Relax,” Tony said after a moment, voice quieter now. “I’m not here to drag him back.”

Peter’s stare sharpened.

“I know exactly who that man is,” Tony continued, gaze flicking briefly toward the sleeping omega. “And I know what kind of parties he attends.”

There it was.

Steel beneath charisma.

Peter studied him carefully.

This close, Tony Stark smelled dangerous too.

Not rotten-dangerous like the trafficker.

Different.

Like wildfire. Like sleepless nights. Like someone who carried too much responsibility and hid it beneath expensive suits and sarcasm.

Peter found himself abruptly irritated that the scent suited him so well.

Tony’s eyes flicked once toward Peter’s bare neck.

Then back to his face with visible effort.

“Well,” Tony drawled lightly, “this explains why Wilson looked ready to stab someone for staring at you too long.”

Peter blinked.

“…What?”

Tony smiled slowly.

“Oh, honey.”

He looked downright delighted.

Not mocking-delighted.

Interested.

Like Peter had just unknowingly handed him a fascinating new puzzle piece.

“Be careful, sweetheart,” Tony murmured. “Your unorthodoxity is going to be your downfall one day.”

Peter’s scent shifted sharply.

Not fear.

Annoyance.

Warm honey deepened into something darker, sharper at the edges — burnt sugar and storm rain gathering beneath summer heat.

Tony inhaled before he could stop himself.

And immediately regretted nothing.

God.

This one smelled honest.

No social engineering layered into it. No practiced omega sweetness designed to soothe alphas into complacency. Every emotional shift moved through his scent openly, vividly, like weather patterns crossing open sky.

It hit Tony harder than it should have.

Peter noticed instantly.

Those brown eyes narrowed.

Then, before Tony could recover, Peter asked quietly:

“Are you advising based on your own experience?”

The question landed cleanly.

Too cleanly.

Tony barked out a startled laugh.

There it was again.

That terrifying habit Peter had of aiming directly for the center of people.

Most people circled Tony Stark carefully. They flirted around him. Performed around him. Wanted things from him.

Peter Parker simply looked at him and accidentally found the fractures.

Tony tilted his head slightly.

“Depends,” he said lightly. “Are we talking about the engineering disasters or the emotional ones?”

Peter snorted softly before he could help it.

The sleeping omega shifted against him with a tiny sound, and Peter’s entire attention snapped downward instantly, hand rubbing soothing circles along the omega’s back until he settled again.

Tony watched the motion carefully.

Effortless instinct.

Protective. Gentle. Certain.

No hesitation whatsoever.

“You do that naturally,” Tony said before thinking better of it.

Peter glanced back up.

“The purring?”

“The caretaking.”

Something flickered briefly across Peter’s face then.

Sadness maybe.

Or exhaustion.

“Omegas look after each other,” Peter replied simply. “At least someone should.”

Tony went still.

Because that sentence sounded practiced.

Learned young.

The kind of belief built from repeatedly witnessing people fail each other.

And suddenly this Omega made horrible sense to Tony.

The avoidance of powerful people. The distrust. The immediate defense response. The way he moved through danger like someone accustomed to surviving it.

Not fragile.

Never fragile.

Just aware.

Tony folded his arms loosely against his chest.

“You know,” he mused, “most people at this gala are currently trying to seduce me, blackmail me, manipulate me, or pitch me terrible investments.”

Peter deadpanned immediately: “Multitasking is important.”

Tony laughed again.

Actually laughed.

Warm, sudden — like it slipped past every layer he usually kept in place and didn’t quite know where to land once it escaped.

Not Iron Man. Not the billionaire. Not the polished disaster wrapped in charisma and headlines.

Just a tired alpha, briefly disarmed by an omega who kept saying the wrong thing to be predictable.

Peter hated that the sound suited him.

That realization irritated him on principle.

The sleeping omega shifted with a small, distressed sound, fingers tightening in the fabric of Peter’s dress.

Peter immediately resumed the low, steady purring under his breath.

Tony watched the instinctive response for a beat too long.

There was something almost unfair about him.

The contradiction was constant.

Beautiful enough to stall a room mid-conversation, yet moving through it like he’d forgotten he had any effect at all. Soft-spoken, but sharp enough to cut without raising his voice. Uneasy in a space like this, and still willing — without hesitation — to put himself between danger and someone more vulnerable.

Tony had met very few people whose instincts moved toward vulnerability instead of away from it.

Peter noticed the silence stretch.

“What?” he asked, suspicious.

Tony blinked once, pulled back into the moment.

“You realize,” he said slowly, “you’re sitting in a hallway at my gala scenting another omega to sleep while ignoring roughly half the social protocol in this building.”

Peter stared at him.

“Rich coming from the man whose entire reputation is ignoring social protocol.”

Tony let out another laugh.

God. He really was impossible.

Most omegas learned performance as survival — every expression calibrated, every scent carefully managed, every reaction shaped to be acceptable.

This one didn’t seem built for it.

Even when he tried, it didn’t quite stick.

Emotion moved through him too clearly, slipping into his scent despite his efforts to contain it — irritation and embarrassment threading through warm honeyed amber in the air.

Tony inhaled before he could stop himself.

Again.

Peter noticed immediately.

“Are alphas always this weird about scenting?”

“Are omegas usually this unguarded?”

“…Fair point.”

Tony’s grin returned, faint but real.

Then his attention drifted, briefly, to the omega asleep against Peter’s chest.

The bruises.

The exhaustion.

The way he flinched even in rest.

Tony’s expression cooled.

“Wilson’s right, by the way,” he said quietly.

Peter looked up.

“That man is dangerous.”

“I noticed.”

“No,” Tony corrected, voice lower. “I mean politically dangerous.”

That sharpened Peter’s focus.

Tony shifted slightly against the doorway, tone dropping further.

“He donates to senators. Funds private security firms. Shows up at charity galas like this one. And somehow, every time someone starts digging too close, records go missing or conclusions dissolve.”

Peter’s jaw tightened.

Tony caught the shift immediately.

Not anger spilling outward.

Something worse.

Contained. Directed.

“You knew?” Peter asked.

Tony met his gaze.

“I suspected.”

The answer hung between them.

Not enough proof. Not enough reach. Not enough time.

Peter understood that kind of paralysis more than he liked to admit.

Tony saw it register.

“You think I should’ve done more.”

It wasn’t a question.

Peter hesitated.

“…I think people in your position underestimate what ‘trying’ looks like to everyone else.”

No edge. No accusation. Just fact.

Tony went still.

And Peter — already drained, overstimulated, holding a sleeping omega and still faintly scent-drenched — realized a fraction too late he’d hit something precise.

The silence tightened.

Then Tony exhaled through his nose.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You really do say whatever crosses your mind.”

Peter frowned slightly.

“…Was I wrong?”

No performance. No calculation. Just direct uncertainty.

Tony studied him for a long moment.

Then, finally:

“No,” he said.

A subtle shift ran through Peter — relief, immediate and unguarded.

Tony felt it land like a physical pressure he couldn’t quite name.

He looked at Peter a second longer than necessary.

That was going to be a problem.

Not immediately.

But soon.

“I have never asked for your name,” Tony said, like the thought had only just now caught up with him.

“Peter Parker.”

“Just that?” Tony tilted his head slightly, feigning offense. “Come on. You could tell a poor man more about yourself.”

Peter gave him a flat look.

“You’ve got a name. That’s usually enough for you to do your thing—search anything about me.”

Because that was what Stark was famous for. One name, and the world’s skeletons politely fell out of the closet.

Tony’s smile sharpened, all easy charm and faint teeth behind it.

“I prefer you tell me yourself.”

Peter huffed.

“Oh? Tony Stark is showing respect for boundaries. That’s new.”

The words landed lightly, but they weren’t soft.

Tony didn’t react defensively. If anything, the amusement in his expression deepened — like Peter had just confirmed something interesting rather than challenged him.

Whiskey-colored eyes caught the dim light as he looked at Peter properly for a second longer than necessary.

“I contain multitudes,” Tony said mildly.

Peter made a sound that might’ve been a laugh if he weren’t tired.

“Uh-huh.”

Tony’s gaze flicked briefly down — not to the omega in Peter’s arms, but to Peter himself again, as if recalibrating.

“I asked,” he continued, tone a touch quieter, “because people tend to become… less honest when I already know the answer.”

Peter blinked once.

That wasn’t what he expected.

Tony let the pause sit between them, unhurried.

Then, with a faint tilt of his head:

“So. Peter Parker.”

A beat.

“What do you do when you’re not rescuing people in hallways at gala events you didn’t want to attend?”

It was casual.

Almost playful.

But his attention stayed fixed on Peter like the question mattered more than it should have.

“What makes you think I didn’t want to attend this gala?”

Peter’s voice stayed even, but something in his posture tightened—subtle, instinctive.

Tony snorted.

“Oh, please.” He tipped his head, amused. “You looked like you were planning an exit strategy the second you crossed the threshold. Skittish fawn energy. Very tragic. Very fast.”

A pause.

Peter’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Tony, for once, didn’t rush to fill the silence.

He let it sit—measured, deliberate.

Then, more quietly:

“And you don’t belong in these systems.”

Peter blinked once.

Tony continued, gaze steady now, no teasing edge to soften it.

“Fake ones. Ornamental ones. Whatever you want to call this.” A small tilt of his hand indicated the ballroom beyond the corridor. “People here are… curated. Even when they’re honest, it’s still a performance.”

His eyes flicked briefly to Peter’s face again.

“You’re not.”

That landed differently.

Peter’s expression shifted, wary now in a way that had nothing to do with danger and everything to do with being seen too clearly.

Tony noticed—and adjusted, not pressing further, just refining.

“You’re too direct,” he added after a beat. “Too unguarded. It reads like you don’t think you need armor.”

A faint, almost self-deprecating smile touched his mouth.

“Which, historically speaking, is usually when people find out they’ve needed it for a while.”

Peter gave him a flat look.

“That sounded like advice.”

“It was observation,” Tony corrected easily. Then, after a pause: “With a side of concern. I’m complex like that.”

Peter let out a short breath that might’ve been a laugh if he allowed it to fully form.

From his arms, the sleeping omega shifted again, quieter now—settling.

Tony’s attention flicked to the movement for half a second, then back to Peter, like he was deliberately refusing to let the moment fragment.

“I’m not saying leave,” he added, softer now. “I’m saying… you don’t look like someone built for rooms like this.”

A beat.

“And rooms like this tend to notice that sort of thing.”

“So, I’ve got your attention,” Peter said slowly. “Is that what you’re saying?”

Tony didn’t answer immediately.

He just looked at him.

Steady. Focused.

Peter knew that look.

Not lust.

Worse.

Curiosity sharpened into appetite.

The kind that wanted to take things apart carefully just to understand how they worked.

How odd.

Peter was pulled from the thought by sudden warmth against his neck.

Wet.

He startled slightly and looked down.

The omega in his arms had shifted upward sometime during the conversation, pale lips pressed against the exposed scent gland near Peter’s throat.

Licking.

Peter froze.

Then gently tried to put some distance between them.

The omega immediately whined.

Soft. Distressed.

Watery blue eyes lifted toward Peter, wide with alarm at the separation.

“Hey, hey,” Peter said quickly, voice instinctively softening again. “Sweetheart, no need for that.”

The scent hitting the air changed sharply.

Rejected omega.

Peter’s eyes widened slightly.

“You… don’t want me?”

The words were quiet.

Small.

And Peter abruptly found himself mentally blue-screening.

“Oh.”

Excellent. Fantastic. This was definitely a situation he was emotionally equipped to handle.

Tony’s voice cut through the panic beside them.

Amused.

Openly amused, the asshole.

“Exposure to unguarded pheromones tends to do that,” Tony drawled. “Take this as professional advice, honey: if you want to avoid situations like this, maybe don’t remove your scent suppressants in the middle of a gala.”

Peter shot him a look sharp enough to qualify as attempted murder.

Then he refocused immediately on the omega.

Carefully, Peter took hold of the omega’s shoulders.

“Sweetie,” he said gently, “I don’t know what those bastards taught you, but you do not need to do this.”

The omega stared at him blankly.

Like the sentence itself didn’t make sense.

Peter’s chest ached.

He softened his scent deliberately, letting warm honey and amber settle around them again. The omega visibly melted beneath the touch, shoulders lowering fractionally.

“There’s a guy I know,” Peter continued softly. “He’s a lawyer. A really good one. And he’s got a soft spot for people who need help.”

The omega blinked up at him.

“You need help,” Peter said simply. “And I obviously can’t give you everything you need right now.”

A small hand tightened nervously in the fabric of their own sleeve.

“What’s his name?”

Peter brightened immediately.

“Matthew Murdock.”

Then, leaning slightly closer, he glanced around theatrically before whispering:

“And between us? He’s Daredevil.”

The omega gasped.

Actually gasped.

Hope flickered through the air so suddenly Peter almost laughed from relief.

Then uncertainty returned just as quickly.

“…Will I ever see you again?”

Peter hesitated only a second before pulling a folded piece of paper from the hidden pocket of his coat.

His address.

“You can find me here.”

The omega took it carefully, like it might disappear.

Peter leaned closer again.

“Go to the left wing of the building,” he murmured. “Blind guy with ridiculous red glasses. You’ll find him.”

A pause.

“Tell him Parker sends his regards. He’ll understand.”

The omega nodded shakily and slowly rose to unsteady feet.

Peter watched carefully until he was sure they could stand properly on their own.

Then, suddenly, the omega leaned down and pressed a soft kiss against Peter’s cheek.

“Thank you, omega.”

Peter flushed instantly.

“No need to thank me,” he muttered quickly. “Just go.”

The omega disappeared down the corridor exactly as instructed.

And just like that, Peter was alone again.

Well.

Alone with one deeply irritating alpha.

Peter inhaled slowly before looking back toward Tony.

Whiskey-colored eyes met his immediately.

Half-lidded now.

Intent.

And unmistakably entertained.

“He was clearly interested.”

Tony said it casually, but the words settled into the corridor air with deliberate weight.

Then he stepped closer.

Just one step.

Still enough to make Peter suddenly, acutely aware of the fact that Tony Stark was an alpha in a confined space and looking at him like that.

Half-lidded whiskey eyes. Relaxed posture. Predatory patience hidden beneath practiced ease.

Peter swallowed.

Instinct screamed at him to run.

Not because Tony had done anything threatening.

Because some ancient animal part of his brain understood exactly what attention from an interested alpha could become if mishandled.

Peter stayed seated anyway.

Running would trigger pursuit instincts older than language itself, and Peter was not about to accidentally activate billionaire alpha hunting behaviors in the middle of a hallway.

Besides—

The alpha was interested in him.

And Peter didn’t entirely hate that realization.

Which was probably the more concerning issue here.

Tony seemed to notice the exact moment Peter consciously chose not to retreat.

Something warm flickered through his expression.

Approval maybe.

Or interest sharpening further.

Then, without hurry, Tony sat beside him on the velvet bench.

Close enough for heat.

Not close enough to crowd.

Calculated.

“So,” Tony mused lightly, “why reject a poor heart?”

Peter stared at him flatly.

“He needs help,” he said. “Not a mate.”

Tony hummed softly at that.

Thoughtful.

Then he lifted one hand slowly.

Toward Peter’s exposed scent gland.

And stopped.

Waiting.

Permission.

The gesture startled Peter more than if Tony had touched him outright.

Most alphas didn’t ask.

Especially not ones like Tony Stark, men accustomed to the world yielding around them naturally.

Peter didn’t move away.

Didn’t lean closer either.

He just watched the alpha in front of him carefully.

Tony held the stillness easily, gaze fixed on Peter’s face instead of his throat now, like the offer itself mattered more than the outcome.

Interesting.

Tony Stark, Peter realized, was not embarrassed by interest.

He wore it openly. Comfortably. Like another expensive thing he’d decided belonged to him.

That didn’t mean Peter intended to make this easy.

Now that they sat this close, Peter could pick apart details impossible to notice from across crowded rooms and magazine covers.

Olive skin warmed by dim gold lighting. Dark hair threaded faintly with silver near the temples. Sharp goatee framing a mouth seemingly built for smirking.

And the eyes.

God.

Peter had thought whiskey-brown from a distance.

Up close there were flecks of green caught beneath the amber, shifting whenever the light hit differently.

Observant eyes.

Dangerous eyes.

The kind that looked at people too directly.

Tony’s hand remained suspended patiently between them.

Still waiting for an answer.

Peter was saved by an angel.

A red-and-black-spandex-wearing, clinically concerning angel.

“Petey-pie~”

Wade appeared in the hallway like he’d been summoned by bad decisions and unresolved sexual tension.

“Daddy’s here to collect you— oh.”

Deadpool stopped mid-step.

His masked head turned slowly between Peter and Tony.

Then back again.

“Oh,” he repeated, this time with significantly more understanding and significantly worse intentions.

Before Peter could react, Wade swooped in and physically hauled him off the bench.

Peter made a deeply offended noise as the mercenary deposited him safely behind his own body like a hostage being rescued from diplomatic negotiations.

“Peter,” Wade declared solemnly, “my dearest, loveliest, emotionally vulnerable bestie. Stay away from bad bad men like Stark here if you want to keep your v-card safe and intact.”

Tony looked entirely unrepentant.

“Hey to you too, Wilson.”

“I leave him alone for twenty minutes and suddenly he’s sitting scent-drunk in a dim hallway with New York’s most divorced alpha.”

“I’m not divorced.”

“Emotionally you are.”

Peter made the mistake of snorting.

Wade pointed at him immediately.

“No encouraging him.”

Tony leaned back slightly against the bench, infuriatingly relaxed.

“For the record,” he said mildly, “I asked permission before trying anything.”

Wade gasped theatrically.

“Oh my God. Peter, he’s already adapting his behavior to appeal to you specifically. This is how billionaires hunt.”

“I wasn’t hunting anyone.”

“That sentence alone increased your danger level.”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose.

Wade jabbed an accusing finger toward Tony.

“You leave my emotionally repressed omega journalist alone.”

Tony’s eyebrows lifted.

“Journalist?”

Peter went still for half a second.

Wade did not.

“Yes,” Wade continued proudly, oblivious or pretending to be, “investigative journalism’s prettiest little cryptid.”

Tony’s gaze flicked immediately toward Peter.

Interested again.

God damn it.

Peter pointed at Wade flatly. “You are the reason bad things happen to me.”

“A burden I carry with grace.”

Tony’s mouth twitched.

Wade noticed instantly and gasped louder.

“Oh, absolutely not. Don’t you smirk at him. That’s how rich alphas lure omegas into penthouses and emotionally devastating slowburns.”

Tony looked genuinely thoughtful.

“…Emotionally devastating slowburns?”

Peter groaned softly into his hands.

“Please stop talking.”

Long story short, Peter and Wade left the gala before Peter could either: A) commit homicide, or B) accidentally acquire a billionaire alpha.

Both outcomes felt equally exhausting.

Peter demanded emotional stability from the red menace.

Wade, naturally, responded with: “Best I can do is tacos and aggressive emotional enabling.”

Which was how they ended up in a twenty-four-hour Mexican place three boroughs away from the gala, still dressed obscenely out of place.

Peter sat curled into the cracked vinyl booth wearing crimson silk and enough exhaustion to qualify as a medical condition while Wade demolished his third basket of chips like a man preparing for war.

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead.

The scent of grease, spices, and fried food settled warmly into Peter’s senses, grounding in a way the gala never could.

Safe.

Ordinary.

No curated smiles. No predatory networking. No billionaires with whiskey-colored eyes looking at him like an unsolved equation.

Peter stabbed viciously at a chimichanga.

Wade watched him for a moment.

Then:

“So. You and Stark.”

“There is no me and Stark.”

“Mhm.”

“There isn’t.”

“Your scent says otherwise.”

Peter nearly choked.

“My scent needs to shut the hell up.”

Wade cackled loud enough that a nearby customer glanced over nervously.

Peter dragged both hands down his face.

This was exactly why omegas weren’t supposed to remove scent suppressants around alphas.

Everything became humiliating.

Instincts louder. Emotions sharper. Attraction harder to hide.

And Tony Stark—

Peter paused mid-thought immediately.

No.

Absolutely not.

He refused.

Anthony Edward Stark was attractive in the same way wildfires and catastrophic structural failures were attractive: dangerously. From a distance. Preferably while evacuating the area.

Peter was not doing this to himself.

Not with an alpha like that.

Too perceptive. Too charismatic. Too interested.

Peter had spent enough of his life around powerful men to recognize danger when he saw it.

And Tony Stark was dangerous in the worst possible way:

he paid attention.

Wade hummed from across the table.

“Oh, you’re doomed doomed.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

Peter sighed heavily and stole one of Wade’s churros in retaliation.

The mercenary gasped in betrayal.

“You thief.”

“Emotional compensation.”

“You can’t charge me emotional damages!”

“I absolutely can.”

Wade narrowed his eyes behind the mask.

Then pointed dramatically with a half-eaten churro.

“He’s gonna flirt with you again.”

Peter scoffed instantly.

“He probably forgot I exist already.”

Two days later, Peter woke to the violent sound of someone knocking at his apartment door like they were being pursued by demons, debt collectors, or both.

Peter groaned into his pillow.

The clock glared back at him.

Six in the morning.

Which, in Peter’s opinion, was not a real hour and should’ve been legally abolished.

Half-asleep and deeply offended by consciousness itself, Peter dragged himself out of bed and shuffled toward the door, rubbing furiously at one eye.

His brain hadn’t even fully booted by the time he unlocked it.

The second the door opened—

Someone crashed into him.

Peter stumbled backward with a startled noise as arms wrapped tightly around his waist and a face buried itself against his neck.

A shaky sob escaped the omega clinging to him.

Then scent hit.

Relief. Happiness. Warmth so overwhelming it practically glowed through the air.

Peter blinked blearily downward.

Oh.

Oh.

It was the omega from the gala.

The pretty one with wide blue eyes and bruises hidden beneath concealer.

Peter had never gotten their name.

Said omega looked up at him now with watery eyes and an expression so openly fond it immediately dissolved the last scraps of Peter’s exhaustion.

Peter melted on the spot.

“There’s my angel,” the omega whispered emotionally before nuzzling directly into Peter’s neck again.

Peter made a soft, flustered sound.

“Well,” another voice said dryly from the hallway, “this is already significantly more affectionate than most of my mornings.”

Peter looked up.

And immediately spotted the second presence leaning casually against the apartment corridor wall.

Matt Murdock.

Matt stood there with a coffee cup in one hand and unmistakable amusement curling at the corner of his mouth despite the dark glasses hiding his eyes.

Which was impressive considering he technically wasn’t supposed to be able to see anything.

Peter narrowed his eyes immediately.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

The omega finally pulled back enough for Peter to breathe properly again, though their hands still clung tightly to the front of his sleep shirt like Peter might disappear if released.

“He helped me,” the omega said quickly, turning slightly toward Matt before looking back at Peter again. “Really helped me.”

Peter’s chest loosened.

Good.

Good.

Matt tilted his head slightly toward Peter.

“You dropped an omega with severe trauma into my lap at two in the morning with nothing but ‘Parker sends his regards’ and vanished.”

Peter winced.

“In my defense—”

“You don’t have a defense.”

“—I was under emotional distress.”

Matt snorted softly.

The omega beside Peter brightened suddenly.

“Oh!” They straightened immediately, almost bouncing in place. “I brought pastries.”

Peter blinked.

“…You brought pastries?”

The omega nodded earnestly.

“As thanks.”

Peter stared at them for a long moment.

Then looked at Matt.

Then back at the omega.

And very seriously said:

“You can both come inside immediately.”

Peter finally had a name to attach to the omega from the gala.

Sapphire Black.

Honestly?

It suited him absurdly well.

Maybe because of the eyes.

Those impossible blue eyes looked almost unreal in morning light — deep and clear like polished gemstones beneath water. The kind of eyes artists ruined themselves trying to recreate accurately.

Peter liked the name immediately.

Sapphire, meanwhile, seemed delighted by the fact Peter liked anything about him at all.

Which was… emotionally dangerous territory.

Especially before coffee.

The pastries helped.

A lot.

Because apparently Sapphire made them by hand.

Peter discovered this after biting into one and briefly experiencing what could only be described as a religious event.

“You made these?” Peter demanded, horrified.

Sapphire brightened instantly beneath the praise.

“Yes!”

Peter looked personally betrayed.

“That’s not fair.”

Matt, seated at Peter’s tiny kitchen table with all the casual confidence of a man impossible to remove once he entered a room, took another sip of coffee.

“You say that like you aren’t illegally good at making soup.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Peter opened his mouth.

Paused.

Then pointed accusingly instead.

“Stop supporting him.”

Matt smiled into his coffee cup.

Sapphire looked between them with growing fascination, clearly realizing in real time that Peter and Matt behaved less like responsible adults and more like two raccoons with complicated emotional attachment.

Unfortunately, he seemed charmed by this.

Peter blamed Matt entirely.

Matt, meanwhile, was very much here on business.

The relaxed posture hadn’t fooled Peter for a second.

Matt only got that still when he was thinking too hard.

Legal thinking.

Dangerous thinking.

Sapphire noticed eventually too.

“Oh,” he said softly, glancing between them. “You are discussing something serious.”

Peter sighed immediately.

“Human trafficking. Rich people. Corruption. The usual Tuesday.”

“It’s Thursday,” Matt corrected automatically.

Peter ignored him.

Sapphire’s expression dimmed slightly at the reminder, fingers tightening around his teacup.

Matt’s tone softened a fraction.

“We’re working on it.”

Not trying.

Working.

There was a difference.

Sapphire looked reassured by that in a way that made Peter’s chest ache quietly.

Then Matt made the mistake of mentioning he needed to head across town later to meet an informant connected to the investigation.

Sapphire perked up instantly.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes.”

“With Peter?”

Matt paused.

Slowly lowered his coffee.

“…Potentially.”

Sapphire turned toward Peter immediately with the full emotional force of an omega who had imprinted emotionally on the first safe person he encountered in years.

“I’m coming too.”

Peter blinked.

Matt pinched the bridge of his nose.

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“I can help.”

“You absolutely cannot.”

Sapphire’s eyes widened tragically.

Peter folded instantly.

“Matt.”

“No.”

“Matt.”

“You are both exhausting.”

Sapphire looked at Peter hopefully.

Peter looked back at Matt with the expression of someone already preparing bad decisions.

Matt sensed the betrayal before it fully arrived.

“You’re taking his side.”

“He made pastries.”

“That is not legal justification.”

“It should be.”

Matt exhaled slowly through his nose like a man reconsidering every life choice that led him here.

Sapphire turned out to be useful.

Painfully useful, actually.

Matt had gone quiet halfway through the meeting with the informant — not suspicious quiet, but the sharp stillness he slipped into whenever pieces started connecting inside his head.

Sapphire sat beside Peter at the tiny diner booth, fingers curled nervously around a mug of untouched tea while listing names softly.

Victims. Locations. Descriptions. Patterns.

Not guessing.

Remembering.

Matt’s posture had changed almost imperceptibly three names ago.

Peter noticed.

And because Peter Parker was spiritually incapable of maturity, he immediately felt victorious about it.

He shot Matt the most insufferable look imaginable.

Matt ignored him with the endurance of a man practiced at surviving annoying vigilantes.

Still.

Peter caught the faint twitch near his mouth.

Victory.

Sapphire continued quietly:

“There was another omega there before me. Red hair. Freckles.” His voice wavered slightly. “He kept trying to comfort everyone else even when—”

Peter’s hand settled gently over Sapphire’s immediately.

Grounding.

Sapphire exhaled shakily and continued.

Names kept coming after that.

Too many names.

Peter felt something ugly twist slowly in his chest with each one.

Because every name meant someone not saved in time. Someone still missing. Someone whose family was probably tearing themselves apart waiting for a phone call that never came.

And Sapphire—

Sapphire remembered all of them.

Peter glanced sideways at him quietly.

The omega looked fragile at first glance. Elegant. Soft-spoken. Pretty enough that people probably underestimated him instantly.

But surviving what he survived and still choosing to remember everyone else?

That required a terrifying kind of strength.

Peter swallowed hard.

Thank God they got him out.

Or Loki. Honestly, at this point Peter wasn’t picky about which cosmic entity had intervened.

Because if Peter had walked away that night—

His stomach turned.

No.

He physically shoved the thought aside before it could finish forming.

Across from them, Matt finally spoke.

“How long were you there?”

Sapphire’s fingers tightened around Peter’s instinctively.

“…Three months.”

Silence.

Even the diner noise felt farther away suddenly.

Matt’s expression remained controlled, but Peter knew him well enough now to notice the tension settling beneath it.

Dangerous tension.

The kind that meant Daredevil was going to start breaking people creatively later.

Peter approved wholeheartedly.

Sapphire lowered his gaze.

“I thought…” He hesitated. “I thought if I behaved correctly, maybe they’d let me go eventually.”

Peter felt rage crawl up his spine so fast it almost made him dizzy.

Beside him, Matt went utterly still.

Sapphire laughed once afterward.

Small. Humorless.

“They tell omegas that a lot.”

Peter’s hand squeezed his immediately.

“No,” Peter said quietly. “Monsters tell omegas that a lot.”

Sapphire looked at him then.

And smiled a little.

Small. Sad.

But real.

The second time Peter met Tony Stark, he was wearing a mask.

And covered in blood.

Well.

Mostly other people’s blood.

Three months had passed since the gala.

Three months of investigations, raids, disappearing accounts, leaked files, terrified victims, and powerful men suddenly finding themselves dragged screaming into federal custody.

Turns out trafficking rings became significantly easier to dismantle when you combined: Deadpool’s complete disregard for human life, Daredevil’s terrifying competency, Spider-Man’s refusal to quit, and Captain America deciding he’d seen enough.

The Winter Soldier had simply followed Steve into the operation like a particularly lethal storm cloud.

Peter tried not to think too hard about the fact Bucky apparently solved problems by shooting them until they stopped existing.

Honestly? Effective.

Tonight was the end of it.

Or close enough.

The last major safehouse was in flames three blocks down, SHIELD agents swarming what remained while ambulances crowded the streets below.

Captain America and the Winter Soldier were escorting victims to extraction teams.

Deadpool had vanished somewhere inside the building with a knife and deeply personal intentions.

Daredevil was—

Actually, Peter didn’t know where Daredevil was.

Which usually meant someone unfortunate was currently learning about Catholic guilt through blunt force trauma.

Peter himself had been assigned the main goons.

“Assigned” being generous.

Really, Peter had spotted them first and immediately decided violence was therapeutic.

One trafficker groaned weakly somewhere behind him on the rooftop.

Peter ignored it.

The bastard would live.

Unfortunately.

Bruised knuckles rested against Peter’s knees as he sat quietly on the edge of the rooftop afterward, mask still on, cool night wind brushing against the battered red-and-blue suit.

The city stretched endlessly below him.

Sirens. Smoke. Moonlight.

Peter tipped his head back and stared up at the sky.

Breathing.

The adrenaline crash hit slowly now.

Not guilt.

Never guilt for this.

Just exhaustion.

“Well, well.”

Metal landed behind him with a heavy hiss of thrusters.

“It isn’t Spider-Man himself.”

Peter didn’t turn immediately.

“Can I get an autograph?”

Iron Man’s voice crackled lightly through the helmet speakers, layered with amusement.

Peter snorted before he could stop himself.

“Pretty sure this counts as stalking at this point.”

Iron Man stepped closer anyway, armor gleaming silver and gold beneath moonlight and distant firelight.

“Depends,” Tony replied. “Are you always found near dismantled criminal organizations, or am I just lucky?”

Peter glanced back over one shoulder finally.

The glowing white eyes of the Iron Man helmet met the bright lenses of Spider-Man’s mask.

A pause.

Then Tony looked down briefly at the unconscious bodies scattered across the rooftop.

One was zip-tied to an air conditioning unit.

Another appeared to have gone through a wall.

“…Jesus,” Tony muttered.

Peter shrugged.

“They were traffickers.”

“Fair enough.”

The ease of the answer startled a laugh out of Peter before he could stop it.

Iron Man tilted his helmet slightly at the sound.

There it was again.

That strange familiarity.

Tony couldn’t explain it.

Spider-Man was notoriously difficult to read — all motion and deflection and smart remarks hurled faster than most people could process.

And yet sometimes the cadence of his voice caught oddly against Tony’s memory.

Like hearing a song twice in different rooms.

“Did you have a personal vendetta against these guys?” Iron Man asked, glancing toward the unconscious traffickers scattered across the rooftop. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Peter looked back up at the moon.

“I just don’t like people who do whatever they want without caring who gets hurt.”

The answer came too quickly to be rehearsed.

Iron Man hummed quietly.

Something about the phrasing tugged at him.

“Actually,” Tony said after a beat, “I came up here to ask you something, Spider-Man.”

Peter leaned back slightly on his palms.

“Oh? Am I finally getting recruited? Because I should warn you, I have terrible availability and emotional issues.”

“Your photographer.”

Peter went still for half a second.

Tiny movement.

Easy to miss.

Tony noticed anyway.

“Peter?” Spider-Man said lightly afterward. “He’s great. You have no idea how much he saves me from other journalists.”

Tony crossed his arms over the armor.

“Tell your little friend to stop ignoring me.”

Peter very carefully did not laugh.

The alpha sounded genuinely aggrieved about it too, which somehow made the situation infinitely worse.

“Why?” Spider-Man asked innocently. “Did he do something?”

Iron Man let out an exaggerated sigh through the suit speakers.

“He keeps refusing my gifts.”

Peter almost choked.

“What?”

“I put effort into those,” Tony continued, sounding deeply put-upon. “Thoughtful effort. One of them was handmade.”

Spider-Man turned toward him fully now.

“…You made him something?”

“A watch.”

There was defensive pride in Tony’s voice immediately afterward, like he expected criticism.

“I modified the interface myself.”

Peter stared at the glowing faceplate.

This was absurd.

Anthony Edward Stark — billionaire engineer, Avenger, public menace — had apparently been getting offended because Peter Parker refused his presents.

Somewhere inside the mask, Peter’s survival instincts were dying.

“Wow,” Spider-Man said carefully. “That’s… weirdly earnest of you.”

Iron Man pointed at him immediately.

“Exactly! Thank you.”

“You’re welcome?”

“And he sent it back.”

Peter bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to hurt.

Because yes.

Peter had absolutely sent it back.

Three separate times.

The first gift had been flowers, which Peter assumed were either: A) a joke, or B) alpha nonsense.

The second had been artisan tea imported from somewhere Peter couldn’t pronounce.

The third had been the watch.

Peter panicked and mailed all of them back with increasingly distressed thank-you notes.

Iron Man still sounded offended about it.

“I’m starting to think he dislikes me personally,” Tony muttered.

Spider-Man made a thoughtful humming noise.

“Or,” he offered, “maybe your gifts are too expensive and terrifying.”

“…They were tasteful.”

“You’re a billionaire. Your version of tasteful could probably pay rent for six months.”

Iron Man went suspiciously quiet.

“Oh my God,” Spider-Man realized. “You genuinely didn’t think about that.”

“In my defense,” Tony said, “most people don’t react to gifts by mailing them back like cursed artifacts.”

Spider-Man finally lost the fight and laughed outright.

Bright. Warm. Impossible not to answer.

Tony felt that same strange familiarity again.

Like standing outside a locked room while recognizing the voice on the other side.

Peter liked shopping in bulk.

It was one of those habits poverty carved too deep to ever fully remove.

If something could last months, Peter bought enough for months.

Rice. Canned food. Cleaning supplies. Frozen meat stacked carefully inside the tiny freezer until May complained every single time she opened it.

Security mattered more when you grew up knowing how quickly stability disappeared.

Unfortunately, some things refused to cooperate with survival instincts.

Fruit spoiled. Milk betrayed him within days. Vegetables rotted out of spite.

And clothes—

Peter grimaced, tugging absentmindedly at the sleeve of his sweater as he walked through Manhattan.

His skin had been acting up lately.

Everything felt rough. Too tight. Too synthetic.

Omega instincts during stress periods apparently decided fabric texture was now a life-or-death concern.

Deeply inconvenient.

Which was how Peter accidentally ended up in a boutique expensive enough to make his bank account whimper preemptively.

In his defense, the display outside advertised: Soft fabrics. Omega-safe materials. Custom tailoring.

Peter had thought: one sweater. maybe socks.

Simple.

Unfortunately, the sales clerk took one look at him and apparently experienced divine inspiration.

“Oh,” she breathed.

Peter immediately sensed danger.

“You,” she said with growing intensity, “need restructuring.”

“…I need socks.”

“No, sweetheart. You need a vision.”

And that was how Peter lost control of his own afternoon.

Two hours later he stood numbly inside a luxurious fitting area while three employees fluttered around him with terrifying efficiency.

There were blouses now.

Coats.

Shoes.

Scarves.

At one point someone measured his waist with enough emotional investment to qualify as a marriage proposal.

Peter had made the catastrophic mistake of politely saying: “I trust your judgment.”

Never say that to omega fashion specialists.

They took it as a declaration of war.

“This color makes your eyes look softer.”

“You have collarbones people would write poetry about.”

“No, sweetheart, silk likes you.”

Peter was fighting for his life.

And losing badly.

Worse still, the boutique apparently specialized in omega clothing designed specifically for comfort, scent sensitivity, and instinctive appeal.

Which meant everything felt amazing.

Peter hated that.

Especially because he now understood why rich omegas looked so comfortable all the time.

Class warfare probably began with fabric quality.

“Now,” one clerk announced dramatically, “we discuss undergarments.”

Peter nearly blacked out.

“It’s been two hours,” he whispered weakly.

“And you still dress like someone who’s never known joy.”

“I knew joy once.”

“Not in those boxers.”

Peter regretted entering civilization.

Eventually they shoved him toward a waiting area with several outfit options while promising to “prepare more selections.”

Peter sat there holding six shopping bags and contemplating escape through violence.

That was when he heard a familiar voice nearby.

“…If you add another gold accent I’m legally allowed to sue you.”

Peter froze.

No.

No, absolutely not.

Carefully, slowly, Peter looked up.

And directly across the open lounge space dividing the omega and alpha sections stood Tony Stark.

Of course he looked unfairly good.

Dark button-down rolled at the sleeves. Expensive watch. Sharp posture softened only by visible exhaustion around the eyes.

An employee hovered nearby holding several jackets while Tony argued about tailoring with the seriousness of a man negotiating international peace treaties.

Peter’s first horrifying realization was that the alpha section and omega section were not, in fact, separate stores.

His second horrifying realization—

Tony had already noticed him.

Whiskey-colored eyes locked onto Peter instantly.

Then visibly lit with recognition.

“Oh,” Tony said.

Slowly.

Delighted.

“Well, this explains why the universe suddenly improved.”

Peter considered death briefly.

Peter didn’t know exactly how it happened.

Only that it started with Tony Stark walking into his general vicinity and immediately deciding Peter’s entire existence required commentary.

Now Peter was standing in the middle of a boutique that cost more per hanger than his rent, having what could generously be described as a crisis disguised as fashion consultation.

Tony, for his part, looked entirely too entertained.

The alpha leaned slightly against a display counter while two boutique assistants argued softly over fabric swatches like they were negotiating a peace treaty.

“Warm undertones,” one insisted.

“Cool contrast,” the other countered.

Tony raised a hand lazily.

“I’m just saying, I look better in things that don’t make me resemble a cautionary tale.”

Peter regretted making eye contact with him.

Because that had been the beginning.

The challenge had been casual.

Unintentional, probably.

Tony had glanced at a jacket, then at Peter, and said something infuriatingly simple like:

“You wouldn’t pick this for me.”

Peter, already exhausted, already overstimulated, already trapped in textile hell, had made the fatal mistake of responding:

“Why don’t you pick it yourself then?”

That was it.

That was the moment the universe tilted.

Tony’s expression had shifted immediately.

Not angry.

Worse.

Interested.

“Oh,” he’d said slowly. “So we’re doing this.”

Peter had known, with absolute clarity, that he was about to lose control of his afternoon.

And then Tony Stark had challenged him to pick.

Just once.

“Go on,” Tony had said, voice almost amused. “If you’re so confident.”

Peter should have left.

Peter should have run.

Peter instead accepted, because pride is a disease and Peter Parker was terminal.

Now he was here.

Standing under boutique lighting that made everything feel slightly unreal, holding fabric samples like weapons of aesthetic warfare.

One swatch made Tony’s skin look warmer—golden, almost molten under the light.

The other sharpened him—cooler, more distant, like polished steel beneath ice.

Peter stared at both like they had personally wronged him.

“This is stupid,” he muttered.

“It’s vital,” Tony corrected immediately.

“It’s clothes.”

“It’s identity.”

Peter shot him a look.

Tony smiled innocently.

It was not an innocent smile.

The assistants hovered like vultures sensing emotional vulnerability in real time.

Peter exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Why does this matter to you?”

Tony tilted his head slightly.

“It doesn’t,” he said lightly.

Pause.

Then, quieter:

“I’m curious.”

That was worse.

Curiosity in Tony Stark was never harmless. It was investigative. Persistent. Like a machine that noticed patterns and refused to stop until it understood them.

Peter tightened his grip on the fabric samples.

“I think the warmer tone suits you,” one assistant offered carefully.

“The cooler one gives authority,” the other countered.

Tony looked between them, then at Peter.

Waiting.

Of course he was.

Peter felt the ridiculous pressure of it settle over him.

Like the decision meant something it absolutely should not mean.

He studied Tony properly then.

Olive skin under boutique lighting.

The faint gray at his temples that no amount of wealth could disguise.

The way he stood too still for someone who pretended not to care.

Warm tone made him look… alive.

Cool tone made him look untouchable.

Peter hated both implications.

“Warm,” Peter said finally.

Simple.

Final.

Tony blinked once.

The assistants paused mid-motion.

“…Warm?” Tony echoed.

Peter shrugged, immediately defensive. “It suits you better. Next.”

Tony went very still.

Then slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted.

“Oh,” he said softly. “That’s interesting.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That tone.”

“What tone?”

“The one where you act like I just revealed classified information.”

Tony leaned forward slightly.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking loudly.”

“I always think loudly.”

Peter pointed at him with the fabric sample. “That’s your problem.”

Tony’s grin widened a fraction.

“Sure,” he said. “But you picked warm.”

Peter felt his ears go faintly hot with irritation.

“It was objectively correct.”

“Mm.”

Tony looked entirely too satisfied for someone who had just been given an opinion about fabric.

Peter turned back toward the counter.

“Are we done?”

“I think,” Tony said, far too casually, “you just made a very specific aesthetic judgment about me.”

Peter froze.

“…It’s a jacket color.”

Tony hummed.

“But you noticed me.”

Peter slowly turned his head.

Tony was watching him now like he’d just solved a small, private equation.

Not invasive.

Not loud.

Just certain.

Peter regretted everything again.
The specialist from the omega section appeared like salvation made human.

She took one look at Peter—standing frozen under boutique lighting, still holding fabric swatches like they were evidence in a crime scene—and decisively stepped between him and the alpha section.

“Come with me,” she said gently, as if rescuing him from an active disaster.

Peter did not argue.

He followed immediately.

Tony Stark did not stop him.

Which was somehow worse.

Those whiskey-colored eyes tracked Peter all the way out of the fitting space, calm and unhurried, like the entire interaction was something he intended to revisit later rather than conclude.

Peter refused to think about that.

He focused instead on breathing.

On fabric that didn’t feel like a moral judgment.

On the fact that no one was currently asking him to decide the emotional implications of jacket coloration.

Peace, however, was temporary.

Because the specialist, having apparently decided Peter was a long-term project rather than a customer, proceeded to “optimize” his entire wardrobe with quiet, terrifying competence.

“No more rough seams.”

“These materials will regulate better with your scent profile.”

“And these,” she added with a smile that felt vaguely predatory, “will last you properly.”

Peter stopped questioning things somewhere around the third tailored coat.

He also stopped arguing about undergarments.

Survival instinct had finally overridden dignity.

Two hours later, he reached the checkout counter expecting emotional devastation in numerical form.

Instead—

“Already settled,” the cashier said brightly.

Peter blinked.

“…Settled?”

“Yes. Mr. Stark covered it.”

Of course he did.

Peter stood there for a full five seconds, staring at nothing in particular while his brain attempted to process billionaire generosity as a hostile act.

Then he exhaled slowly.

“Right,” he muttered. “Great. Love that for me.”

Because nothing said normal social interaction like financial ambush.

As if that wasn’t enough, the cashier slid a small elegant box across the counter.

“And this was included as well.”

Peter frowned. “What is it?”

“A fragrance sample. Custom order.”

Peter did not want to open it.

Which, of course, meant he opened it immediately.

Bad decisions were his brand at this point.

The moment the scent hit the air, something in Peter’s chest tightened without permission.

Warm whiskey undertones. A hint of smoke. Something expensive and restless and infuriatingly familiar.

Tony Stark.

Peter stared at the bottle like it had personally offended his ancestors.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The cashier smiled dreamily. “It’s quite popular.”

Peter closed the box very carefully.

Like it might explode.

Like it might win.

He left the boutique five minutes later with bags in hand, a wardrobe he did not emotionally consent to, and the lingering sensation that he had somehow lost a war he didn’t realize he was fighting.

Outside, New York moved on like nothing had happened.

Inside Peter’s head, something had definitely happened.

He looked down at the business card the specialist had slipped into his hand.

“Come again anytime. You’re a delight to style.”

Peter stared at it for a long moment.

Then sighed.

“…No,” he decided.

Then paused.

“…Probably.”

Behind him, somewhere in the city noise, he could almost hear Tony Stark’s amused voice again.

Not loud.

Just certain.

Peter walked faster.

Personally offended.

And very, very aware that this was not over.

Peter was deep in the flower shop when it happened.

Not emotionally deep. Not philosophically deep.

Just physically buried under a mountain of stems, ribbons, and Flash Thompson’s increasingly aggressive standards for “aesthetic balance.”

Flash’s flower shop had become a strange post-graduation redemption arc.

The kind nobody predicted.

Least of all Peter.

Back in high school, Flash had been loud, arrogant, and unfortunately very committed to making Peter’s life inconvenient. There had been a phase involving stolen lunches, hallway shoulder-checking, and one memorable incident where Flash tried to “prove omega fragility was a myth” and immediately tripped over a locker.

Then came senior year.

Alcohol was involved.

So were emotions.

So was Flash, at two in the morning, sitting on a curb outside a convenience store muttering, “I don’t even hate you, Parker. I just thought I was supposed to.”

It had been deeply uncomfortable.

And somehow… that had been the beginning of something resembling friendship.

Now Flash owned a flower shop.

Which, according to him, was “strategic emotional warfare with aesthetics.”

Peter had no idea what that meant.

But he worked there part-time anyway.

Mostly because Flash had discovered Peter was weirdly good at arranging flowers.

“Stop overthinking the lilies,” Flash had said once.

“I am not overthinking them.”

“You rotated them three degrees and sighed like they betrayed your family.”

Peter had, in fact, rotated them back.

So yes.

Here he was.

Hands full of roses and ranunculus, trying to decide whether this arrangement said grief or hopeful delusion.

Flash was somewhere in the back yelling at a delivery guy.

The bell above the shop door rang.

Peter didn’t look up immediately.

“Be right with you,” he called automatically.

A pause.

Then—

That voice.

Warm. Controlled. Infuriatingly familiar.

“Ah.”

Peter froze.

No.

Absolutely not.

Slowly, he turned.

Tony Stark stood in the doorway of the flower shop like he belonged there.

Which was objectively unfair.

Dark coat. Casual posture. That same half-amused expression like the universe was mildly entertaining and Peter personally was the punchline.

Peter stared at him for a full three seconds.

Then, quietly:

“…Why are you here.”

Tony glanced around the shop.

“Flowers,” he said simply.

Peter narrowed his eyes. “This is a flower shop. I figured that part out.”

Tony’s mouth twitched.

“I needed flowers.”

“For who?”

Tony hesitated.

Just for a fraction of a second.

Then, very casually:

“Someone difficult.”

Peter’s soul briefly considered exiting his body for administrative leave.

Of course it was vague.

Of course it was emotionally loaded.

Of course it was Tony Stark.

Peter slowly set down the bouquet he was holding like it might explode.

“I don’t have time for whatever this is,” Peter said carefully.

Tony stepped further inside.

The bell chimed again behind him.

Flash’s voice echoed faintly from the back: “PARKER IF THAT’S ANOTHER CUSTOMER ASKING FOR ‘VIBES’ I SWEAR TO GOD—”

Then he appeared.

Took one look.

Stopped.

“Oh,” Flash said flatly. “It’s billionaire trauma again.”

Tony raised a brow. “That’s a new classification.”

Flash pointed at Peter. “He collects you like side quests.”

Peter groaned immediately. “I do not—”

Tony interrupted smoothly, eyes still on Peter.

“I need help choosing flowers.”

Peter blinked. “Why me?”

Tony tilted his head slightly.

“You’re the only one here who looks like you’d judge me correctly.”

That landed.

Too accurate.

Peter opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

Then muttered, “…I hate you.”

Tony smiled like that was not only acceptable but encouraging.

“Noted,” he said. “Now help me.”

Peter stared at him.

Then at the flowers.

Then at his own life choices.

Behind him, Flash whispered, “I’m charging him double.”

Peter didn’t even argue.

He just picked up a pair of scissors with the quiet resignation of a man accepting fate.

And internally, somewhere very deep inside his soul, he sent another prayer upward.

Loki.

Whoever is listening.

Please make this stop being my life.

By the third week, it stopped feeling like an accident.

By the fourth, it had become a pattern.

By the fifth, it was a routine.

Every Thursday at exactly 5 PM, the bell above Flash Thompson’s flower shop would ring.

And Tony Stark would walk in like he owned the concept of Thursday itself.

Flash, to his credit, adapted immediately.

The first time, he had panicked.

The second time, he had stared.

The third time, he had started preparing a separate “billionaire pricing tier” without shame or hesitation.

By the fifth visit, Flash had fully embraced financial opportunism as a lifestyle.

“You’re charging him how much?” Peter had asked once, horrified.

Flash hadn’t even looked up from the register.

“Market correction.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

Peter had stopped arguing after that.

Mostly because Tony Stark, for reasons Peter refused to analyze too deeply, paid without hesitation.

Not just paid—overpaid.

Like he was tipping the entire concept of existence.

Which meant Flash had reached spiritual enlightenment through capitalism.

Peter, meanwhile, had been demoted to emotional support florist and unwilling weekly participant in whatever this was becoming.

The second Thursday had been the worst.

Tony walked in wearing the same outfit Peter had chosen for him at the boutique.

Warm tones.

Soft contrast.

Olive skin looking almost unfair under the shop’s natural light, like the entire color palette of the room had rearranged itself around him.

Peter had looked up from a bucket of lilies and immediately regretted having eyes.

Tony had caught him staring.

Of course he had.

“You chose this one,” Tony had said casually, glancing down at himself.

Peter had snapped back into professionalism so fast it was almost violent.

“I did not choose anything. I gave an opinion under duress.”

“Mhm.”

“You’re reading too much into it.”

“I’m not reading enough into it,” Tony corrected lightly.

Peter had almost thrown a rose at him.

Instead, he had aggressively arranged flowers for twenty minutes straight.

Flash, watching from across the counter, had leaned in and whispered, “He likes you.”

Peter had hissed back, “He likes attention.”

Flash had shrugged. “Same thing, different trauma.”

Now, on the fifth Thursday, the pattern was undeniable.

5:00 PM. Bell. Entrance.

Tony Stark.

Peter didn’t look up immediately this time.

He already knew.

“Afternoon,” Tony said, voice warm as he stepped inside.

Peter exhaled through his nose.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Whatever you’re about to do.”

Tony smiled faintly.

Flash appeared instantly from the back like a man summoned by profit instinct alone.

“Welcome back, Your Walletness,” Flash greeted smoothly. “Same arrangement?”

Tony glanced around the shop.

Then, without missing a beat:

“Yes.”

Peter finally looked up.

“…Same arrangement of what.”

Tony’s eyes flicked to him.

Slow.

Intentional.

“Flowers,” he said simply.

A pause.

Then, softer:

“For someone I’m still figuring out.”

Peter hated the way that landed.

Not dramatic.

Not romantic.

Just… precise.

Like Tony Stark didn’t do vague feelings.

He did problems to solve.

And Peter Parker, unfortunately, seemed to have become one.

Flash leaned on the counter, entirely unbothered.

“Double charge for emotional confusion,” he announced.

“Deal,” Tony said immediately.

Peter groaned.

“I am surrounded by criminals.”

Tony tilted his head slightly.

“You didn’t deny I’m confusing.”

Peter pointed at him with a pair of pruning shears.

“Buy your flowers and leave.”

Tony didn’t move.

Instead, his gaze drifted—briefly, almost absentmindedly—to Peter’s hands.

Then back to his face.

“I like this shop,” Tony said.

Flash immediately lit up. “Good answer.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Why.”

Tony shrugged slightly.

“It feels… honest.”

That was the problem.

Peter knew exactly what he meant.

No gala masks. No curated perfection. No polished lies wrapped in expensive glass.

Just stems, dirt, color, decay, and something trying to become beautiful anyway.

Peter looked away first.

Which annoyed him.

Because Tony Stark was not supposed to be the kind of person who noticed things like that.

And yet every Thursday at 5 PM, he showed up anyway.

Like he’d decided Peter was part of the arrangement too.

Peter was in the supermarket.

Which, for him, was already a delicate operation involving lists, memory shortcuts, and the emotional stability of a man trying not to buy six identical jars of peanut butter because they were “on sale and therefore emotionally safe.”

He was reaching for cereal when—

Warm breath brushed his ear.

And the scent hit him.

Whiskey, smoke, something expensive and infuriatingly familiar.

Tony Stark.

Peter froze.

Every instinct he had immediately staged a parliamentary vote on whether to run, fight, or simply dissolve into the tile floor.

He chose none of the above.

Instead, he stepped sideways—fast—and turned.

Tony Stark stood behind him like he had always belonged there.

Casual jacket. Hands in pockets. Expression mildly amused, like Peter’s entire existence was a private joke he refused to explain.

Peter’s neck felt warm.

Annoyingly so.

“Your employer is shameless,” Tony said.

Peter blinked once. “Which one. Spider-Man, Jameson, or Flash?”

Tony didn’t hesitate.

“The last one.”

Peter snorted despite himself. “That narrows it down to exactly nothing.”

Tony’s gaze flicked over Peter’s cart.

Milk. Eggs. Kit Kats.

Judgment.

Peter felt it immediately.

“You’re a hypocrite,” Peter said flatly, grabbing the chocolate anyway. “All of you rich people are shameless.”

Tony leaned slightly closer.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You have no idea how shameless I can be.”

Peter didn’t look at him.

“I can guess enough.”

“Can you?”

“Yes.”

Tony’s smile sharpened just a fraction.

“And what exactly have you concluded about me?”

Peter finally turned his head, slowly.

Looked him up and down like he was evaluating a poorly labeled product.

Then deadpanned:

“You have your panties in a twist about something and you’re taking it out on supermarket lighting.”

A beat.

Then Tony laughed.

Not polite.

Not controlled.

Real.

It cut through the aisle noise like it didn’t belong in a place that sold laundry detergent and discounted pasta.

Peter immediately regretted being funny.

Tony leaned on the cart handle like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Not bad,” he said. “You’re observant in domestic environments too.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“I’m noticing.”

Peter grabbed his groceries and started walking again.

Tony followed.

Of course he did.

Peter didn’t even ask anymore.

“You always this bored?” Peter muttered.

“I have three meetings I’m actively ignoring,” Tony replied.

“That sounds like a skill issue.”

“It’s a talent.”

Peter stopped at the checkout line.

Tony stopped too.

Peter looked at him sideways. “Why are you here.”

Tony glanced at the conveyor belt like he was considering the philosophical implications of cereal.

“I was nearby.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s my answer.”

Peter sighed.

The cashier called him forward.

Tony stayed exactly one step behind him the entire time, like an expensive shadow that had decided consent was optional.

Peter refused to acknowledge it.

Refused.

When everything was scanned and bagged, Peter paid quickly, grabbed the bags, and turned—

Only to find Tony still there.

Watching.

Waiting.

Like this was normal.

Peter exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Do you have somewhere to be?”

Tony considered it.

“Technically, yes.”

“And yet?”

“And yet,” Tony said, eyes flicking briefly to Peter’s face, “I’m here.”

Peter stared at him for a long moment.

Then, without warning, pulled a Kit Kat out of the bag and held it out.

Tony blinked. “Is that… for me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re annoying and I need you to leave faster.”

Tony took it.

Carefully.

Like it mattered more than it should have.

Peter immediately turned away.

“Eat it. Maybe it fixes your attitude.”

He walked out before Tony could respond.

Fast.

Efficient.

Escaping.

Behind him, faint through the automatic doors, Tony’s voice slipped after him anyway—warm, amused, and dangerously soft.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said.

A pause.

“I’m already in a much better mood.”

Peter did not turn around.

Did not.

But his pace definitely increased.

“Play his own game then,” Flash said, pausing mid-sip of his macchiato like he’d just delivered ancient battlefield wisdom instead of caffeine-fueled commentary.

Peter stabbed his chocolate cake with unnecessary force.

“It’s not as easy as it sounds,” he muttered. “He’s… persistent.”

Flash hummed thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair like a man evaluating a mildly cursed investment.

“Has he ever actually said why he’s so invested in you?”

Peter hesitated.

Then sighed.

“Something about me being too honest for a world full of masks.”

Flash blinked once.

“…He’s not wrong.”

Peter groaned immediately. “Oh my god. You too? Please don’t start acting like Tony Stark. I already have a full-time job dealing with him.”

Flash smirked faintly, stirring his drink.

“Relax. I’m not saying he’s right about everything.”

Peter gave him a look.

Flash added, unbothered, “Just most things.”

Peter leaned back in his chair with a long suffering exhale. “Fantastic. My emotional support bully is now validating billionaire philosophy.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what it sounded like.”

Flash shrugged. “You’re avoiding the question.”

Peter paused.

“…There wasn’t a question.”

“There was,” Flash corrected. “Why you specifically.”

Peter looked away at that.

Outside the café window, Manhattan moved like nothing in the world had ever been solved or broken or bled on.

“I don’t know,” Peter admitted quietly. “He talks like I’m… interesting.”

Flash raised a brow. “And you don’t like that?”

Peter hesitated longer this time.

“I don’t like that it feels like he means it.”

That earned him a pause.

Flash stopped stirring.

For once, the humor dialed down.

“People like Stark don’t waste attention,” he said more slowly. “Even when they’re annoying about it.”

Peter let out a short laugh, humorless. “That’s comforting.”

“It’s not meant to be.”

Silence settled between them for a moment.

Then Flash added, casually again, like he hadn’t just dropped something heavy into the air:

“If he’s playing a game, Parker… I don’t think you’re the player.”

Peter frowned. “What does that mean?”

Flash took another sip of his drink.

“Means you’re the variable he didn’t plan for.”

Peter stared at him.

“…That sounds like I’m about to get abducted by science.”

Flash grinned. “Rich people call it romance.”

Peter groaned again, harder this time, and slumped over his cake like it had personally betrayed him.

Flash whistled as the boutique doors opened.

Long, low, impressed.

Like Peter had just walked into a casino instead of what was, objectively, a high-end psychological hazard disguised as retail therapy.

“Nah, Parker,” Flash said, following him inside with the confidence of a man who feared nothing, not even price tags. “You’re learning fast.”

Peter didn’t look at him. “Learning what?”

Flash gestured broadly at the velvet, glass, and aggressively aesthetic lighting.

“This,” he said. “The fast track to becoming someone’s rich little problem.”

Peter stopped walking.

Slowly turned his head.

“…That sentence had too many crimes in it.”

Flash grinned. “And yet you understood all of it.”

Peter sighed and walked further inside.

“I’m here for socks.”

Flash scoffed. “Sure. And I’m here for emotional stability.”

They split naturally at the entrance—Peter drifting toward the omega section with practiced dread, Flash veering toward the alpha side like he intended to challenge capitalism directly.

The moment Peter crossed the threshold, he felt it again.

That shift.

Soft lighting. Calm scent diffusion. Fabric that made everything else feel suddenly wrong.

And then—

“Ah,” came a familiar voice.

Emily.

The specialist.

She looked up like she had been waiting for him specifically for weeks, which, at this point, Peter was beginning to suspect might be true.

“You came back,” she said warmly.

Peter paused. “Against my will, yes.”

“Wonderful,” she replied, completely unbothered. “We’ve prepared adjustments.”

Peter closed his eyes briefly.

“No we haven’t.”

“Oh yes,” Emily said, already moving toward him like a woman approaching a long-term project with emotional investment.

Peter opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Because arguing with her last time had resulted in three coats, a philosophical crisis, and Tony Stark.

He was not repeating that mistake.

Emily guided him deeper into the omega section like a strategist escorting royalty into battle preparations.

“You’ve improved your posture,” she observed.

“I haven’t changed anything.”

“Exactly.”

Peter exhaled through his nose.

“Can I leave now?”

“No.”

“…That wasn’t a request.”

“I know,” she said gently. “It was hope.”

Somewhere in the store, Flash loudly said, “WHY DOES THIS JACKET HAVE AUTHORITY ISSUES?”

Peter shut his eyes again.

God help him.

Meanwhile, Emily was already holding up fabrics like she was selecting outcomes instead of clothing.

“We’re refining your silhouette today,” she said.

“I didn’t consent to being refined.”

“You keep coming back,” she pointed out.

“I keep being dragged.”

She smiled faintly. “Same outcome.”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose.

This was how people got absorbed into systems.

One Thursday at a time.

One billionaire at a time.

One specialist named Emily at a time.

And of course, Tony Stark was here too.

Because apparently the universe had decided subtlety was no longer an available setting.

The question of why he wasn’t in the alpha section didn’t even fully form in Peter’s mind anymore. It tried to—briefly, politely—but was immediately smothered under the far more urgent habit of sending a silent, exhausted prayer to Loki like the god of mischief had somehow become customer service for Peter’s life problems.

At this point, it felt less like coincidence and more like scheduling.

Six months ago, Peter might’ve questioned it.

Now?

Now he just accepted the narrative abuse.

Tony Stark stood near the entrance of the omega section like he belonged there in a way that was both illegal and infuriatingly natural. Warm lighting softened his edges, made the gray in his hair look intentional instead of time doing what time does.

He smiled.

That particular smile.

The one that looked like it had never once been denied access to anything it wanted.

“I’m here,” Tony said pleasantly, “to criticize your every choice.”

Peter didn’t look up from the fabric Emily had just placed in his hands.

“Revenge?” he asked flatly.

Tony hummed, considering it with visible seriousness.

“Yes and no.”

Peter finally looked at him.

That was a mistake.

Because Tony was watching him like this entire exchange was the most entertaining part of his week. Not mocking. Not dismissive.

Engaged.

Focused in a way that always made Peter feel like he was being quietly measured against something he didn’t understand.

Emily, meanwhile, had already stepped aside like this was normal weather.

Peter exhaled.

“Why are you even here?” he asked, more tired than accusatory now.

Tony tilted his head slightly.

“To observe.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is,” Tony said calmly. “You just don’t like it.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Observe what.”

Tony’s gaze flicked briefly over the omega section—soft fabrics, curated lighting, careful comfort engineered into every detail.

Then back to Peter.

“You,” he said simply.

No embellishment.

No theatrics.

Just that.

Peter stared at him for a long moment.

“…That’s creepy,” he decided.

Tony looked almost offended. “It’s professional interest.”

“In what.”

Tony paused.

Just long enough for it to become noticeable.

Then, lightly:

“In patterns.”

Peter scoffed. “I’m not a pattern.”

Tony’s eyes sharpened slightly.

“Oh,” he said softly. “You absolutely are.”

That should’ve been unsettling.

It was unsettling.

But worse than that—

It was familiar.

Like Tony Stark had already decided how the story bent around Peter Parker, and was now just waiting to see where Peter would refuse to fit it.

Emily clapped once, decisively.

“Perfect,” she announced. “Now that the atmosphere is established, we proceed.”

Peter groaned.

Tony smiled wider.

Peter closed his eyes.

“How’s your beau?”

Tony’s question landed so casually it almost didn’t register at first.

Almost.

Peter’s brain simply… stalled.

Like someone had yanked a cable out mid-process.

Because as far as Peter could remember, he was about as single as a geological formation. A very committed, emotionally unavailable rock.

So he blinked once.

“…What do you mean?”

Tony, meanwhile, was already idly inspecting a rack of colors like he was judging the emotional integrity of fabric itself. One hand flicked two options aside with mild distaste.

“The omega from the gala,” he said. “Six months ago.”

There was no hesitation in the phrasing.

Just assumption.

Ownership of the narrative.

Peter frowned slightly.

“Oh,” he said. “You mean Sapphire?”

Tony went still.

Not dramatic.

Not obvious.

Just… a pause too precise to be accidental.

Then, carefully:

“Yes,” he said. “Whoever he is.”

Something in his tone sharpened at the edges, faintly cooled, like a system shifting into protective mode for a conclusion it had already decided upon.

Peter noticed immediately.

And didn’t like it.

“Sapphire’s in therapy right now,” Peter added, tone matter-of-fact. “The lawyer I sent him to turned out to be really good. He’s doing better. He’s only fifteen—I hope he goes back to school soon.”

The air changed.

Not in the room.

In Tony.

The tension in his shoulders loosened so subtly it would’ve been invisible to anyone not trained to read manufactured calm.

“…How old are you, exactly?” Tony asked after a beat.

Peter gave him a look. “Twenty-three. I know I look young. Flash keeps saying I’m basically a walking lawsuit magnet.”

A faint exhale that might’ve been amusement.

“Your friend isn’t wrong.”

Peter huffed. “Of course you’d agree. You’re also a bully.”

Tony didn’t deny it.

Which, unfortunately, made it worse.

Peter paused mid-step.

Then narrowed his eyes slightly.

“Wait,” he said. “Why did you think Sapphire was my—”

He gestured vaguely, searching for a word that didn’t taste ridiculous.

“—anything?”

Tony’s expression stayed neutral.

Almost too neutral.

“No particular reason,” he said smoothly. “Just bullying, as you put it.”

Peter stared at him.

That was not an answer.

That was a dodge wearing expensive shoes.

“…You’re doing that thing again,” Peter said.

“What thing?”

“The thing where you act like you didn’t just invent a whole situation in your head.”

Tony’s mouth twitched faintly.

“I don’t invent,” he corrected. “I extrapolate.”

“That sounds worse.”

“It’s more efficient.”

Peter shook his head once, like that might physically dislodge the conversation.

Behind them, Emily was quietly and enthusiastically selecting fabric like she had no intention of acknowledging emotional warfare occurring ten feet away.

The earlier edge in the Alpha's scent was gone now.

But something else lingered underneath it.

Curiosity, sharpened and inconvenient.

“You’re very involved in other people’s lives,” Tony said.

Peter shrugged. “Someone has to be.”

A beat.

Then Tony, quieter:

“And who’s involved in yours?”

That one landed differently.

Not sharp.

Just… uncomfortably precise.

Peter didn’t answer immediately.

Because the honest response was simple and annoying.

Not many people.

And fewer that stayed.

So instead he deflected, because that was safer.

“I have Flash,” he said. “Unfortunately.”

Tony huffed a short laugh.

“Tragic.”

Peter glanced at him sideways. “You’re still here.”

Tony tilted his head slightly.

“So are you.”

And for some reason, neither of them added anything after that.

Tony Stark paid for Peter again.

At this point, Peter didn’t even bother arguing before the transaction completed. He’d learned the hard way that Tony treated resistance like an interesting warm-up exercise.

Flash, traitor that he was, found the entire thing hysterical.

“Oh, he’s gone,” Flash had said earlier while watching Tony casually hand over a black card without blinking. “Stark’s fully gone.”

“I am right here,” Tony replied.

“Exactly,” Flash answered.

And somehow, impossibly, Tony Stark had simply… stayed afterward.

Refusing to leave.

Not in an overbearing way either, which honestly made it worse. He just folded himself naturally into their afternoon like he’d always belonged there. Following them between stores with lazy confidence and sharp-eyed amusement, occasionally disappearing only to reappear carrying coffee none of them remembered him ordering.

Peter was beginning to understand why Pepper Potts looked one inconvenience away from homicide in interviews.

Honestly?

He respected her deeply.

Because Tony used the extra time exactly how Peter feared he would:

Gathering information.

Not aggressively. Never interrogative.

Just questions slipped naturally into conversation until Peter realized, too late, that Tony Stark now knew alarming amounts about him.

That Peter graduated from MIT early.

Biochemistry major. Physics minor.

That Deadpool broke into Peter’s office years ago looking for “secret Spider-Man thirst photography” and somehow never left afterward.

That Aunt May collected ugly teapots like rare artifacts.

That Peter lost his parents too young to remember their faces properly.

And—

Most disastrously—

That Peter had never dated anyone before.

Tony’s scent changed immediately at that.

Subtle.

Sweetened at the edges in a way Peter absolutely refused to acknowledge.

Which meant he noticed it instantly.

Unfortunately.

Now Flash was somewhere deeper in the shopping district yelling about overpriced coffee beans, leaving Peter alone with the alpha again.

A recurring problem in Peter’s life.

This time they’d ended up inside a bookstore tucked between two luxury storefronts. Quiet lighting. Tall shelves. The soft rustle of turning pages surrounding them like a different universe from Manhattan outside.

Tony wandered beside Peter with hands in his pockets, gaze skimming titles without much commitment.

Then:

“Recommend me something.”

Peter blinked at him over the spine of a novel.

“You can read?”

Tony gasped softly. “Cruel.”

Peter handed him a book anyway.

“Read The Great Gatsby.”

Tony looked at the cover.

Then at Peter.

“I tried once,” he admitted. “Couldn’t finish it.”

Peter immediately said, “Maybe that’s your problem.”

Tony stared at him.

Then barked out a startled laugh loud enough that someone nearby shushed him.

He looked genuinely delighted.

“Oh, you are vicious underneath all the omega instincts.”

Peter slid another book from the shelf calmly. “No, I just think rich men seeing themselves in Gatsby and missing the point should be studied psychologically.”

Tony placed a hand dramatically against his chest.

“I’m being attacked in public.”

“You’re surviving.”

“Barely.”

Peter hummed, pretending not to notice the way Tony kept looking at him instead of the books.

Like conversation itself interested him more than the actual topic.

It was unsettling.

Flattering too, which was worse.

Tony finally glanced down at the novel again.

“So what’s the point then?”

Peter leaned lightly against the bookshelf beside him.

“The tragedy,” he answered simply. “The desperation of building an entire identity around being worthy of love and still never understanding the people around you.”

Tony went quiet.

Peter, realizing what he’d just said aloud to Tony Stark specifically, immediately regretted having thoughts.

The alpha looked at him strangely for a second.

Not amused now.

Not teasing.

Just attentive in that dangerous way of his.

“…You read people too closely,” Tony said eventually.

Peter snorted softly. “And you don’t?”

Tony smiled faintly.

“Difference is,” he murmured, “I usually do it on purpose.”

Peter looked away first after that.

Which felt suspiciously like losing.

“Who’s your type?”

Tony asked it like he was asking about the weather.

Casual.

Easy.

Which was unfair considering Peter nearly stabbed himself with a flower stem in surprise.

Thursday evenings at Flash’s flower shop had become its own bizarre ecosystem at this point.

Half café. Half flower shop. Half Tony Stark occupation zone.

Yes, Peter knew that mathematically made no sense.

So did Tony Stark voluntarily spending hours inside a small Manhattan flower shop every week drinking overpriced coffee and pretending he wasn’t emotionally haunting the place.

Flash called it “customer retention.”

Peter called it psychological warfare.

The renovations had made the place warmer. Softer. Small café tables tucked between shelves of flowers. Hanging ivy near the windows. The smell of espresso blending with roses and fresh greenery in a way Peter secretly adored.

Tony sat across from him at one of the little tables now, suit jacket abandoned over the back of his chair like he planned to stay awhile.

Which he always did.

Because once Tony Stark attached himself to something, apparently removal became impossible.

Peter considered the question seriously despite himself.

His mind immediately betrayed him.

Someone impossible to ignore.

Someone sharp-tongued and relentless.

Someone with control issues visible from space.

Warm olive skin. Whiskey-colored eyes. Handsome in a way that became worse the longer you looked at him.

Peter felt immediate horror at himself.

Absolutely not.

So instead he said:

“Someone nice.”

Tony blinked.

“…Just that?”

Peter nodded calmly and took a sip of his drink.

Across the counter, Flash visibly stopped pretending not to eavesdrop.

Tony leaned back slightly in his chair, studying Peter like the answer had genuinely caught him off guard.

“That’s a dangerously low standard.”

Peter frowned. “No it isn’t.”

“Honey,” Tony said carefully, “that’s the kind of answer people give right before accidentally dating serial killers.”

Peter snorted.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Tony rested one arm against the table, expression oddly thoughtful now.

“You’re telling me you don’t care about looks? Intelligence? Ambition? Shared interests?”

Peter shrugged lightly.

“I mean, those things are nice.”

“But?”

Peter glanced down at the flowers he’d been absentmindedly trimming.

“But nice people are rare.”

The answer settled quietly between them.

Tony’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly afterward.

Less teasing.

More… attentive.

Like Peter had accidentally said something important again without realizing it.

Which, irritatingly, kept happening around Tony Stark.

Peter continued before the silence could become weird.

“I don’t need someone impressive,” he muttered. “I just want someone kind enough that being around them doesn’t feel exhausting.”

Tony stared at him.

Then huffed a laugh under his breath.

“That,” he informed Peter, “might genuinely be the most concerning thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Peter blinked. “Why?”

“Because you said it like you think that’s a small thing to ask for.”

Peter opened his mouth.

Paused.

Closed it again.

Tony watched the realization move across Peter’s face with unsettling softness.

Then, naturally, ruined the moment on purpose.

“You know,” he mused, lifting his coffee, “this explains why you tolerate Wilson.”

Peter groaned instantly.

“Oh my god.”

“Your standards are built around emotional survivability.”

“Please stop psychoanalyzing me in a flower shop.”

“No.” Tony smiled into his drink. “I’m having fun.”

From behind the counter, Flash finally muttered something Peter pretended he didn't hear:
“Just fucking kiss already.”

Sapphire sprawled dramatically across the nest-bed combination they’d built together over the past few months, surrounded by blankets Peter swore multiplied on their own.

The boy had integrated himself into Peter’s life with terrifying efficiency.

One day he was a frightened omega shaking in a hallway.

Now he was stealing Peter’s hoodies, reorganizing the spice cabinet incorrectly, and emotionally profiling Peter with the confidence of someone far older than fifteen.

Peter adored him.

Unfortunately.

Which meant he tolerated things like this.

“Why don’t you accept your alpha already?”

Peter paused mid-typing.

His laptop screen glowed with three separate unfinished tabs.

One: photos Flash had sent from the flower shop group chat involving a customer apparently proposing with a carnation and getting slapped.

Two: unread messages from MJ and Ned complaining about distance and adulthood and how Peter apparently forgot phones existed.

Three: a case file Matt had sent him an hour ago with the caption: Look over page seven. Don’t fight anyone yet.

And beneath all of that—

One unread message from Tony Stark.

Peter had not opened it.

On purpose.

“I dunno,” Peter answered finally.

Behind him, Sapphire made a deeply unimpressed sound.

Which was rude considering Peter paid rent.

A moment later, Peter felt arms wrap around him from behind as Sapphire wandered into the kitchen and attached himself there instead, cheek pressing between Peter’s shoulder blades.

Happy omega scent drifted warmly through the apartment.

Peter melted automatically.

Traitorous instincts.

“You know,” Sapphire murmured softly, “it’s okay to want things, right?”

Peter’s hands stilled over the counter.

The words hit harder than they should have.

Because Peter had taught him that.

Over months of panic attacks and nightmares and quiet conversations at three in the morning while the city slept outside their apartment windows.

You’re allowed to take up space. You’re allowed to say no. You’re allowed to want softness. Safety. People.

Peter swallowed slightly.

“…Tony Stark is not a thing,” he muttered weakly.

Sapphire immediately tightened his hold around Peter’s waist.

“That wasn’t convincing at all.”

Peter sighed.

“Look,” he said carefully, “he’s—”

What?

Persistent? Overwhelming? Beautiful? Infuriating?

Interested.

That one sat worst of all.

Because Tony Stark looked at Peter like he was worth paying attention to.

And Peter still didn’t fully know what to do with that.

“He’s complicated,” Peter settled on finally.

Sapphire snorted softly against his back.

“No,” the teen said. “You’re scared.”

Peter opened his mouth immediately.

Then stopped.

Because.

Annoyingly.

That might actually be true.

Not scared of Tony exactly.

Scared of what came after.

Of becoming important to someone powerful enough to leave damage behind accidentally.

Of wanting too much.

Of being wanted back.

Peter leaned both palms against the kitchen counter, exhaling slowly.

Behind him, Sapphire’s voice softened.

“He likes you gently,” he said quietly.

That startled Peter enough to glance back over his shoulder.

“What?”

Sapphire shrugged one shoulder.

“He flirts aggressively,” he clarified. “But he likes you gently.”

Peter stared at him.

The teen continued, entirely too perceptive for someone who still forgot laundry in the washer for days at a time.

“He waits for your permission before touching you. He listens when you say no. He remembers things that matter to you.”

Peter looked away first.

Dangerous.

That thought felt dangerous.

Because Sapphire was right.

Tony pushed constantly, teased relentlessly, occupied space in Peter’s life with frightening ease—

But whenever Peter genuinely drew a line?

Tony stopped.

Every time.

And somehow that restraint affected Peter more than the flirting ever did.

“You don’t have to mate him tomorrow,” Sapphire said lightly. “But maybe stop acting like wanting him is a moral failure.”

Peter groaned quietly.

“You sound like Matt.”

“That’s because Matt threatened to spray me with water if I kept calling Tony your future husband.”

Peter blinked slowly.

“…Matthew Murdock said that?”

Sapphire grinned brightly.

“No. Wade did.”

That.

Made significantly more sense.

Tony once teased him for being easy prey for beautiful people.

Peter remembered rolling his eyes so hard it physically hurt.

“You’re too easy,” Tony had murmured over overpriced coffee one Thursday evening. “Someone pretty looks at you and suddenly your survival instincts file for resignation.”

Peter had answered honestly:

“I like beautiful people.”

Tony, naturally, looked unbearably pleased by that.

Until Peter continued:

“And not just physically.”

That shut him up for exactly three seconds.

Peter always noticed beauty.

Not the polished kind magazines sold.

Not perfection.

Just… humanity sharpened into something impossible to ignore.

He once spent forty minutes talking to a woman during patrol because the way she laughed through cracked lips and exhaustion felt heartbreakingly beautiful despite the track marks on her arms.

Another time he stopped dead in the middle of Manhattan traffic because an old man feeding pigeons looked so profoundly lonely it carved something open inside Peter’s chest.

Beauty was everywhere if people bothered to look long enough.

That was why he won photography awards.

Not because of technical precision.

Because Peter Parker looked at people like they mattered.

And people could feel it.

Which was exactly why he was sitting here now.

Waiting.

The holding room smelled sterile. Cold metal and recycled air.

Peter hated places like this.

Across the glass sat the son of the Green Goblin.

Harry Osborn

Dark hair.

Eyes the color of a midnight sky right before rain.

Beautiful.

Not in the effortless way Tony Stark was beautiful.

No.

Harry looked like old tragedies.

Like inheritance sharpened into human form.

Peter stared at him quietly through the reinforced glass.

Because he remembered.

Fragments mostly.

Tiny things.

Sticky kindergarten hands. A boy sitting beside him during nap time because Peter cried easier than the others. Someone sharing crayons with solemn concentration like it was life or death.

Then Harry Osborn vanished from Peter’s life entirely.

And years later the news introduced him again through headlines soaked in blood and scandal.

OsCorp. Norman Osborn. Green Goblin.

Peter should’ve hated him on principle.

Instead—

Harry lifted his head slowly from where he sat.

And their eyes met.

Recognition hit both of them at once.

Peter watched the exact second Harry realized who he was.

Shock first.

Then disbelief.

Then something far more fragile.

“…Peter?”

God.

That voice.

Not because Peter remembered it clearly.

But because some part of him apparently did.

Buried somewhere deep enough to hurt.

Peter swallowed once.

“Hey, Harry.”

Harry stared at him like he’d just hallucinated something cruel.

“You’re alive,” he said softly.

Peter blinked.

“What?”

Harry laughed once under his breath.

Small. Broken around the edges.

“You disappeared,” he murmured. “After your parents died… I kept asking where you went.”

Peter’s chest tightened immediately.

Ah.

There it was.

The thing Peter hated most about revisiting the past.

The realization that other people remembered being abandoned too.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said quietly before thinking better of it.

Harry looked startled.

Then tired.

“So that’s still your first instinct,” he muttered.

Peter frowned faintly.

“What is?”

“To apologize for things that weren’t your fault.”

Peter opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

Because somewhere in the back of his mind, Tony Stark’s voice echoed:

You say things like kindness is optional and survival is a personal inconvenience.

Peter really hated when Tony was accidentally right.

Matt Murdock had become Harry Osborn’s lawyer.

Which honestly surprised absolutely no one who knew him well.

Because for all Matt liked pretending he operated on cold logic and legal precision, the man suffered from the exact same fatal weakness Peter did:

People who looked like they’d been left behind by life.

Matt collected strays with the determination of a deeply Catholic cryptid.

Traumatized teenagers. Ex-victims. Ex-vigilantes. Current vigilantes. Questionable vigilantes.

Peter was reasonably certain Matt would eventually adopt an actual raccoon if it looked sad enough.

And Harry—

Harry Osborn looked exhausted in the specific way wealthy children often did.

Not physically.

Existentially.

Like he’d spent his entire life inheriting consequences he never asked for.

Peter had watched Matt during the consultation earlier.

Calm voice. Measured questions. No judgment.

Just quiet attention while Harry slowly unraveled pieces of himself with visible reluctance.

Most lawyers looked at Harry and saw headlines.

The Osborn heir. The Goblin’s son. A liability.

Matt listened to him like he was a person first.

Which was probably why Harry looked vaguely stunned by the experience.

Peter leaned back against the hallway wall outside the meeting room, coffee cooling in his hands.

Through the glass panel, he could see Matt speaking calmly while Harry listened with tense concentration.

There was something strange about seeing them together.

Matt with his worn suits and relentless morality. Harry with old money grief stitched into his posture.

Two men haunted by fathers in entirely different ways.

Peter exhaled softly.

He hoped this worked.

Not in the legal sense.

In the human sense.

Because Harry looked like someone standing in the ruins of himself trying to decide whether rebuilding was worth the effort.

Peter understood that feeling too well.

“You’re doing it again.”

Peter glanced sideways automatically.

Tony.

Of course.

Leaning against the opposite wall holding two coffees like he’d manifested directly from Peter’s problems.

Peter narrowed his eyes.

“How do you keep finding me?”

Tony handed him one of the coffees anyway.

“You texted me your location by accident three weeks ago,” he admitted. “I exploited that emotionally.”

Peter stared at him in horror.

“You what?”

Tony sipped his drink peacefully.

“You send terrible accidental texts, by the way. Very informative.”

Peter groaned quietly and accepted the coffee despite himself.

Traitorous behavior.

Tony’s gaze shifted briefly toward the meeting room window.

“That’s Osborn?”

Peter nodded once.

Tony went quiet for a moment.

Then, more carefully than usual:

“You care already.”

It wasn’t a question.

Peter looked down at his coffee.

“…He looks lonely.”

Tony made a soft sound under his breath.

Like that answer explained everything and simultaneously doomed them all.

“You know,” he murmured, “most people see Harry Osborn and think danger.”

Peter frowned faintly.

“I see danger too.”

Tony glanced at him.

“Then why stay?”

Peter looked through the glass again.

At Harry’s tense shoulders. At the way Matt sat slightly angled toward him instead of across from him like an opponent. At exhaustion hidden beneath expensive posture.

Then Peter answered simply:

“Because no one survives becoming someone’s son untouched.”

Silence.

Heavy and immediate.

Tony looked at him strangely after that.

Not with flirtation this time.

Something quieter.

Something almost careful.

And Peter, unfortunately, understood that look too.

Peter discovered Tony’s jealousy entirely by accident.

At first he thought the scent shift meant irritation.

Then annoyance.

Then one particularly enlightening Thursday at the flower shop made everything click into place.

Because Harry Osborn had shown up.

Not even for anything dramatic.

Just coffee.

Just conversation.

Just Harry leaning against the counter while Peter explained the difference between flower meanings with visible concentration.

And suddenly—

Smoke.

Dark whiskey.

Something sharp beneath the agarwood warmth Tony usually carried so carefully.

Peter looked up mid-sentence.

Tony Stark was staring at Harry like he was evaluating structural weaknesses in a hostile building.

Oh.

Oh no.

The realization hit Peter all at once.

Jealousy.

Tony Stark smelled jealous.

And unfortunately for everyone involved, Peter Parker had been created by the universe specifically to make questionable decisions once handed dangerous information.

So naturally—

He tested it.

At first only a little.

More attention toward Harry during conversations.

More smiling.

More absentminded touches to reassure him when Harry’s anxiety spiked.

Every single time, Tony’s scent deepened into smoky bitterness.

Controlled.

But noticeable.

And Peter—

Peter found himself fascinated.

Because Tony Stark never truly lost control.

Not publicly.

Not emotionally.

The man wore composure like armor stitched directly into his nervous system.

Which meant every tiny fracture became impossible not to notice once Peter learned where to look.

And maybe.

Maybe Peter became a little drunk on being the reason for those fractures.

It was a terrible idea.

A catastrophic one.

He realized this approximately seven minutes too late.

Because Peter pushed too far one evening.

Harry had laughed at something Peter said and leaned briefly against his shoulder, warm and familiar in that quietly lonely way Harry often was.

Peter glanced up instinctively afterward—

—and froze.

Tony was already looking at him.

Whiskey-colored eyes ablaze.

Not angry.

Worse.

Focused.

The smoke note in his scent rolled heavily through the air now, rich and dark enough that Peter felt it settle beneath his skin instinctively.

Alpha.

Not billionaire. Not genius. Not Iron Man.

Alpha.

And for the first time since meeting him, Tony looked like his control had slipped by a fraction.

Just a fraction.

But God.

That tiny loss of restraint hit Peter harder than it should have.

The sharpened line of Tony’s jaw. The way his fangs had extended ever so slightly behind an expression otherwise calm. The dangerous stillness settling over him like a predator realizing it had finally become impatient.

Peter’s breath caught embarrassingly fast.

Oh.

That was—

That was not fair.

Because Peter suddenly understood something horrifying:

Tony’s restraint had always been part of the attraction.

The careful distance. The permission asking. The stopping whenever Peter truly wanted him to stop.

Seeing even the edges of that restraint strain?

It left warmth curling low in Peter’s stomach before he could suppress it.

Tony noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

Those whiskey eyes darkened further.

Neither of them spoke.

Across the shop, Flash glanced up once, saw the tension, and immediately muttered:

“Oh, somebody’s about to make terrible life choices.”

Harry looked between them slowly.

“…Should I leave?”

“Yes,” Flash answered instantly.

Peter wanted the floor to consume him whole.

Tony, infuriatingly, looked delighted now beneath the smoke-heavy jealousy curling through the room.

Like Peter had accidentally confirmed something important.

Which—

Unfortunately.

He probably had.

Heats were deeply misunderstood by people who had never actually experienced one.

Pornography turned it into spectacle. Media turned it into comedy. Alphas turned it into fantasy.

Reality was far less convenient.

An omega’s monthly heat rarely looked identical from person to person. Biology was messy like that.

Some omegas barely felt theirs beyond heightened scent production and mild fatigue.

Peter envied those omegas with his entire soul.

Because his own heat turned him into something embarrassingly domestic.

Not sex-crazed.

Worse.

Nurturing.

Painfully, aggressively nurturing.

His apartment transformed into a disaster zone of homemade soup, folded blankets, and enough baked goods to feed a small army. Sapphire thrived under it like a spoiled cat discovering unlimited affection for the first time in his life.

Flash learned very quickly that heat week meant free food deliveries.

MJ once received seven containers of curry because Peter decided she sounded “slightly tired” over text.

Daredevil had stopped questioning why meals mysteriously appeared near his office every month.

And then—

Peter’s instincts registered Tony Stark as a courting alpha.

Everything became unbearable afterward.

Because now heat added another symptom:

Fixation.

Not obsessive in a frightening way.

Just—

Tony-shaped.

Peter would find himself wanting to text him at three in the morning because he remembered Tony skipped lunch twice that week.

He wanted to buy him stupid little things during grocery trips. Expensive coffee beans. New tools. Snacks he mentioned liking once in passing.

His omega instincts looked at Tony Stark — disaster billionaire, insomniac engineer, chronic self-neglecter — and went:

Mine to take care of.

Peter hated it.

Tony loved it.

The bastard.

Absolutely adored it.

“Oh?” Tony had purred the first time Peter shoved homemade food containers into his arms during heat week. “Honey, are you nesting me?”

“I’m preventing you from developing scurvy.”

“That sounds suspiciously affectionate.”

“You’re seventy percent caffeine at this point.”

Tony only smiled wider.

It got worse from there.

Because Peter in heat lost the ability to maintain emotional distance properly.

His scent became warmer. Softer. More openly reactive.

And Tony—

God.

Tony paid attention.

Not cruelly.

Never mockingly.

But attentively enough to drive Peter insane.

“You’re hovering again,” Tony noted once while Peter reorganized his workshop for the third time.

“You build things like a raccoon.”

“You scent-marked my coffee machine.”

Peter froze.

Tony looked unbearably pleased.

“…That was an accident.”

“Hm.”

“It was.”

“Sweetheart,” Tony said, voice warm as whiskey smoke, “you literally glared at Banner for touching my favorite mug.”

Peter wanted to pass away immediately.

Especially because Bruce had absolutely noticed.

The worst part?

Tony never exploited it.

That was the real problem.

Any alpha could’ve taken advantage of an omega during heat vulnerability. Peter knew enough horror stories to distrust the entire concept instinctively.

Tony instead became gentler.

More careful.

Always asking permission before touching him.

Always making sure Peter had space to retreat.

Which somehow made Peter’s instincts spiral harder.

Because consideration was attractive.

Respect was attractive.

And Tony Stark looking secretly delighted every time Peter fussed over him was becoming a genuine health hazard.

“Admit it,” Tony murmured one evening while Peter aggressively adjusted the blanket over his lap during movie night. “You like taking care of me.”

Peter narrowed his eyes.

“You look one missed nap away from death.”

“That’s not a denial.”

Peter shoved popcorn at his face.

Tony laughed into the handful anyway, entirely too smug for someone currently being force-fed snacks.

Rut was different for every alpha too.

Some became territorial. Some disappeared into the wilderness like badly adjusted wolves in documentaries. Some worked themselves half to death to outrun it.

Tony Stark’s rut, unfortunately, was exactly like the man himself:

Subtle. Excessive. And horrifyingly attentive.

Peter didn’t even realize the pattern at first.

Because Tony never announced anything.

No dramatic scent spikes. No possessive behavior. No alpha theatrics.

Instead—

Peter would mention something once.

Once.

Carelessly. Absentmindedly. Usually forgetting it seconds later.

And then Tony Stark’s rut would happen.

Which apparently translated into: Tony becomes catastrophically competent at remembering everything about Peter Parker.

It started innocently.

Peter once complained during a grocery trip that his old kettle made tea taste “vaguely haunted.”

Three days later a package arrived at his apartment.

Inside sat an expensive electric kettle with adjustable temperature settings and a sticky note:

For your apparently ghost-infested beverages. — T

Peter stared at it for ten full minutes.

Then immediately called Tony.

“You can’t keep buying me things!”

“I absolutely can.”

“That’s not the point!”

“You said your tea tasted haunted, honey. I fixed the haunting.”

“That is not a normal response!”

Tony sounded genuinely confused.

“Buying things for people you like is pretty standard behavior actually.”

Peter hung up on him.

The problem worsened during the next rut.

Because Tony’s instincts apparently hyper-fixated on care.

Not dominance.

Not possession.

Provision.

Peter once muttered in passing that his wrists hurt after a long photography assignment.

The next week Tony casually handed him custom-designed wrist braces engineered specifically for repetitive strain support.

Peter was horrified.

Mostly because they worked perfectly.

“You’re impossible,” Peter informed him.

“And yet,” Tony replied smugly, “you’re wearing them.”

Another time Peter mentioned liking a bakery two boroughs away.

Tony bought the building.

Peter found out because the owner nearly cried while thanking him for “whatever magic you worked on Mr. Stark.”

Peter marched directly to Stark Tower afterward in a fury.

“You cannot solve emotional attachment with capitalism!”

Tony looked up from his workshop calmly.

“Counterargument: I very much can.”

“You bought a bakery!”

“It was struggling financially.”

“You didn’t even tell me!”

“I was waiting until they finalized the renovation.”

Peter made a noise somewhere between a groan and psychological collapse.

The worst incidents happened during Tony’s stronger rut cycles.

Because then his instincts became frighteningly observant.

Peter would casually mention being cold once.

Suddenly Tony started carrying spare jackets.

Peter offhandedly admitted he skipped lunch.

Tony somehow developed the supernatural ability to appear holding food within twenty minutes.

Peter complained one time — one time — about cheap apartment lighting hurting his eyes while studying.

Tony replaced every light fixture in Peter’s apartment while he was asleep.

Peter woke up ready to commit crimes.

“HOW DID YOU GET INSIDE?”

“Your boss gave me a key during the hostage incident.”

“That was for emergencies!”

“I considered your lighting situation an emergency.”

“The electric bill is lower now,” Sapphire offered helpfully from the couch.

“YOU’RE NOT HELPING.”

Tony, meanwhile, looked entirely too pleased with himself.

Because that was the thing about his rut:

Tony Stark’s instincts didn’t scream.

They engineered solutions.

Relentlessly.

Lovingly.

Like his alpha instincts had looked at Peter Parker and decided:

This person deserves every problem solved before he even notices the problem exists.

It was deeply unfair.

Especially because Peter kept falling for it anyway.

“You know,” Flash said one afternoon while drinking coffee Peter made, “most omegas would kill for this level of alpha devotion.”

Peter buried his face into the counter.

“He bought me orthopedic shoes because I mentioned my feet hurt once.”

Flash paused.

“…Okay that’s actually kind of hot.”

“It’s psychological warfare.”

“No,” Flash corrected immediately. “It’s rich people flirting.”

It happened three weeks after Peter started genuinely suspecting Tony already knew.

Because Iron Man had become a menace.

A complete menace.

Spider-Man would land on a rooftop during patrol and suddenly Iron Man was there too, leaning against a water tower like he had spawned directly out of Peter’s problems.

Petty commentary. Terrible flirting. Unsolicited backup.

At one point Tony intercepted an arms deal before Peter even arrived and had the audacity to say:

“Look at that, sweetheart. I’m improving your punctuality by lowering your workload.”

Peter almost kicked him off the roof.

The worst part?

They worked together disgustingly well.

Too well.

Their movements slipped together naturally during fights, instinctive in ways that irritated Peter profoundly. Iron Man adjusted midair trajectories to compensate for Peter’s webs before Peter even fully committed to them.

Tony learned Peter’s fighting rhythm frighteningly fast.

Peter learned Iron Man’s blind spots even faster.

And underneath all the banter sat one increasingly horrifying suspicion:

Tony knew.

He had to know.

The staring. The hovering. The way Iron Man’s attention sharpened whenever Spider-Man laughed a certain way.

Peter kept waiting for the reveal.

For Tony to smugly announce he’d solved the mystery months ago.

Instead—

Nothing.

No confrontation. No “Peter Parker, you are Spider-Man.” No dramatic genius reveal.

Which somehow became worse.

Then came the rooftop incident.

Peter remembered every second of it with painful clarity afterward.

Mostly because his dignity never fully recovered.

“You know,” Spider-Man said while hanging upside down from a rusted fire escape, “most rich people buy sports cars during their midlife crisis.”

Iron Man crossed his arms.

“I did buy sports cars.”

“You bought more sports cars.”

“That’s called emotional layering.”

Peter snorted.

The city stretched warm and gold beneath them, late evening traffic humming far below while summer wind tugged lightly at Peter’s suit.

Then—

Tony went still.

Completely still.

Mid-retort. Mid-motion.

Peter frowned slightly.

“…Stark?”

No answer.

The gold faceplate retracted abruptly.

Tony stared at him.

Not casually. Not teasingly.

Stared.

Whiskey-colored eyes fixed on Spider-Man with an intensity sharp enough to make Peter instinctively straighten.

Then Tony inhaled softly.

And everything changed.

Peter saw realization happen in real time.

Not intellectual.

Instinctive.

His scent.

Oh no.

Peter had laughed too hard earlier. The mask had shifted slightly near his throat seals. Combined with exertion and close proximity and Tony already emotionally compromised enough by months of obsession—

Oh no.

Tony crossed the distance between them in two strides.

Fast enough that Peter barely processed it before armored fingers slid behind his neck.

Warm metal against sensitive scent glands.

Peter made a sound.

A genuinely humiliating sound.

Not words. Not coherent language.

Something soft and startled that betrayed him instantly.

Tony froze too.

For one catastrophic second both of them simply stared at each other.

Peter wide-eyed beneath his mask. Tony gripping the back of his neck like he’d just discovered fire.

Then Tony whispered, voice rough with disbelief:

“…You have got to be kidding me.”

And then—

Nothing.

No joke.

No smug comment.

No triumphant billionaire genius reveal.

Just silence.

Tony’s hand loosened fractionally against the back of Peter’s neck.

Not enough to let go.

Just enough to remind Peter he could.

If he wanted to.

He didn’t.

Whiskey-colored eyes moved slowly over Peter’s face.

Searching.

Rebuilding.

Peter could practically see it happening.

The gala.

The omega curled beside Sapphire.

The photographer who somehow always knew too much.

The flower shop.

The coffee.

The books.

The endless Thursdays.

Spider-Man.

Peter Parker.

The same laugh.

The same stubborn honesty.

The same impossible habit of collecting people and making them feel safe.

The same scent.

Everything suddenly rearranging itself into one impossible answer.

Tony stared.

And stared.

Peter had never seen him this quiet before.

It was deeply unsettling.

Because Tony Stark always had something to say.

Always.

“...Tony?”

Nothing.

Peter swallowed.

“Tony.”

The alpha blinked once.

Like he was returning from somewhere very far away.

The expression on his face made Peter's stomach drop.

Not amusement.

Not vindication.

Not even triumph.

Recognition.

Raw enough to temporarily short-circuit the rest of him.

Like Tony was seeing Peter for the first time and realizing he'd known him all along.

Peter suddenly had the horrible urge to look away.

He didn't.

Neither did Tony.

Then Tony laughed.

A single short breathless sound.

Not because it was funny.

Because Peter got the distinct impression the alternative might have been screaming into the New York skyline.

“You,” Tony said finally.

Still staring.

Still holding him.

“You absolute menace.”

Peter wanted the rooftop to collapse immediately.

Because the expression on Tony’s face—

God.

Tony looked personally victimized by the universe.

Like every bizarre emotional attachment of the past year had suddenly slammed together into one impossible answer.

The omega from the gala.

The infuriating photographer.

Spider-Man.

Same person.

Peter recovered enough to shove weakly at the armor.

“You weren’t supposed to figure it out like this!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Tony replied incredulously, finally sounding like himself again. “Next time I’ll schedule my identity crises properly.”

Peter buried his masked face into his hands.

Tony was still holding the back of his neck.

Still too close.

And now that he knew?

Peter could physically feel the shift in him.

Relief.

Attraction.

Vindication.

Something warmer too.

Something that looked suspiciously like gratitude.

As though Tony had spent the last year trying to understand why the same omega kept finding ways to get under his skin and had finally been handed the answer key.

Tony exhaled again, quieter this time.

“Honey,” he muttered, almost to himself, “do you have any idea how insane this makes the last year of my life look?”

Peter peeked through his fingers.

“…In my defense?”

Tony barked out another laugh.

“Oh, no. Absolutely not. You don’t get to ‘in my defense’ this.” He gestured wildly between them. “I have been emotionally compromised by the same omega in three separate identities.”

Peter choked.

“THREE—?”

“You think Spider-Man and Peter Parker count separately.They do not.”

“That feels discriminatory.”

Tony leaned closer again.

Delighted now. Absolutely delighted.

“You flirted with me in two voices.”

Peter genuinely considered jumping off the roof.

He never remembered who gave in first afterward.

Maybe Tony.

Maybe him.

Maybe they had both been doomed from the moment Tony first looked at him like he was something worth carefully unraveling.

All Peter knew was that one moment Tony was still laughing softly in disbelief—

—and the next his hand had shifted from the back of Peter’s neck to his jaw.

Gentle.

Firm.

Whiskey eyes searching his faceplate like Tony was giving him every possible chance to pull away.

Peter didn’t.

Tony exhaled quietly at that.

Then lifted Peter’s chin and pulled him forward.

Straight into the solid heat of the armor and the alpha beneath it.

The kiss itself was almost unbearably soft.

Just a brush of lips.

Tentative in a way Peter never expected from Tony Stark.

No performance. No arrogance. No practiced seduction.

Just warmth.

And God—

Peter melted instantly.

A tiny helpless sound escaped him before he could stop it, hands instinctively bunching against the metal plating of Tony’s suit as instinct flooded warm and dizzy through his system.

Tony made a rough noise against his mouth at the sound.

Like he felt it too.

Like Peter had somehow short-circuited him entirely.

The second kiss landed deeper.

Still careful.

But no longer uncertain.

Peter felt himself being drawn impossibly closer, Tony’s hand steady against his jaw while the other remained warm at the back of his neck, fingers spread protectively over sensitive glands like he already understood how precious the trust was.

And maybe that was the thing that undid Peter most.

Not the attraction.

Not even the months of tension finally snapping.

The care.

Tony kissed him like Peter was something to savor instead of conquer.

Peter hated how quickly that made him want more.

His omega instincts purred awake almost violently beneath his skin, heat curling low in his stomach as honey-thick scent spilled uselessly into the summer air.

Tony broke the kiss first.

Only barely.

Foreheads nearly touching now.

The gold faceplate remained open, whiskey eyes dark and stunned and unbearably focused on Peter alone.

“Well,” Tony murmured softly, voice wrecked in a way Peter had never heard before, “that explains a lot.”

Peter laughed breathlessly despite himself.

Then immediately buried his face against Tony’s shoulder in humiliation.

“Don’t talk to me.”

Tony’s entire body shook once with suppressed laughter.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, pressing one devastatingly fond kiss against Peter’s temple, “I’m never letting you live this down.”

The flower shop smelled like smoke.

Burnt petals.

Iron.

Peter thought vaguely, distantly, that Flash was going to be inconsolable over the ruined hydrangeas.

Then the villain’s hand tightened harder around his throat.

The villain sighed.

Actually sighed.

Like Peter was making a tedious day longer.

"You know," the man said conversationally, tightening his grip another fraction, "I expected Spider-Man to be more difficult than this."

Peter's vision sparked white.

The villain barely looked at him.

His attention drifted lazily across the ruined flower shop instead.

Broken glass.

Destroyed displays.

Flowers crushed beneath expensive shoes.

"Shame about the shop," he mused.

"Nice place."

Somewhere behind them Flash shouted something incoherent.

The villain ignored him entirely.

Like he wasn't worth acknowledging.

"Still," he continued, almost thoughtful, "collateral happens.”

Thought became difficult after that.

The world narrowed violently into pressure and fractured noise and the awful instinctive panic of an omega being pinned helplessly beneath something stronger.

Peter clawed at the wrist crushing his airway on reflex.

Useless.

His vision sparked white at the corners.

Somewhere nearby Flash was yelling.

Not angry yelling.

Terrified.

Peter hated that sound more than the pain itself.

“Get OFF him—!”

Something crashed.

The villain laughed.

Peter’s lungs burned.

He couldn’t think clearly anymore. His spider-sense screamed itself ragged through the oxygen deprivation, body jerking weakly beneath the villain’s grip while the ruined remains of the flower shop groaned around them.

This was bad.

Bad enough that Peter’s mind started doing strange things.

Like hearing Flash shouting into a phone desperately—

“STARK! SHOW YOUR FUCKI—”

Peter almost laughed.

Lack of oxygen was weird.

Then—

Agarwood.

Honey.

The pressure vanished instantly.

Peter collapsed forward violently, dragging in a broken gasp so sharp it hurt.

Noise exploded around him afterward.

Metal. Impact. Something screaming.

Peter barely processed any of it.

Because Flash was suddenly there.

Hands grabbing at his shoulders hard enough to shake.

“Peter—Peter, hey—hey, stay with me—”

Flash smelled overwhelmingly of jasmine now.

Fear-soaked jasmine.

Peter blinked sluggishly upward.

Flash’s face looked wrecked.

There was blood on his mouth. Dust in his hair. His hands were shaking so badly Peter could feel it through his ruined shirt.

“…Flowers,” Peter rasped stupidly.

Flash made a horrible strangled sound.

“Are you kidding me right now?”

Peter tried to answer.

Didn’t manage it.

The world tilted abruptly.

Strong arms caught him before he hit the floor.

Warmth surrounded him immediately afterward. Armor. Expensive fabric beneath metal plating. Honey layered thick beneath agarwood and smoke.

Tony.

Not Iron Man.

Tony.

Peter remembered that strangely clearly.

Even half-conscious, even barely breathing properly, Peter recognized the difference instinctively.

He was pressed tightly against a solid chest while chaos unfolded somewhere beyond him.

“Easy,” Tony’s voice said near his ear.

Not calm.

Controlled.

There was a difference.

Peter had heard Tony angry before.

This wasn’t anger.

This sounded like terror wearing control as a skin.

Peter tried to open his eyes properly.

Tony’s faceplate was gone.

Whiskey-colored eyes locked onto his instantly.

And Peter—

Peter had never seen Tony Stark look frightened before.

Not truly.

It startled him more than the attack itself.

“You’re okay,” Tony said immediately.

The lie cracked slightly around the edges.

Peter tried to laugh.

Coughed instead.

Tony’s grip tightened painfully for half a second.

“Don’t,” he said sharply.

Flash appeared beside them again, pale and furious and terrified all at once.

“Ambulance is two minutes out.”

“Too long,” Tony snapped instantly.

Peter drifted after that.

In and out.

Fragments only.

Tony carrying him. Flash arguing with someone. Sirens.

Warm fingers against Peter’s wrist the entire time.

Making sure he stayed.

Beeping monitors dragged Peter back to consciousness hours later.

Everything hurt.

His throat especially.

Peter blinked blearily at the hospital ceiling before turning his head slightly.

Tony Stark sat beside the hospital bed.

Not in armor.

Not billionaire-polished.

Just Tony.

Wrinkled shirt. Dark circles beneath his eyes. Coffee gone cold beside his elbow.

He looked up instantly the second Peter moved.

Relief hit the alpha’s face so hard it physically softened him.

“Hey,” Tony said quietly.

Peter stared at him.

And suddenly—

Vividly—

He remembered every small thing that had led here.

The grocery store. The flower shop Thursdays. The ridiculous gifts. The hovering during patrols. The careful kisses. The way Tony always stayed just slightly too close like he was preparing himself for Peter to vanish.

And Peter understood.

Really understood.

Tony Stark became Tony the moment Peter realized the man loved him enough to be afraid.

Not possessive fear.

Not alpha instinct.

Human fear.

The kind that hollowed people out from the inside at the thought of losing someone.

Peter’s throat hurt too much to speak properly.

So instead he reached weakly toward him.

Tony moved immediately.

Hands careful now as he leaned closer, pressing his forehead against Peter’s gently like he needed physical proof Peter was still here.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Tony admitted softly.

Peter managed the ghost of a smile.

Then rasped painfully:

“…Flash okay?”

Tony actually laughed once.

A wrecked, exhausted sound.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “You’re definitely Spider-Man. No normal person almost dies and asks about their friend’s emotional state first.”

Peter smiled sleepily at that.

And beneath the hospital antiseptic and ruined exhaustion, honey and agarwood wrapped around him again.

Home.

The city glittered quietly beneath them.

New York always looked softer from rooftops at night. Less cruel. Like distance blurred the sharpest edges of it.

Peter sat near the ledge swinging his legs idly, the evening wind cool against the back of his neck.

Then—

Gunpowder.

Cheap cologne. Grease. And something unmistakably Wade.

“Hi, babyboy~”

Peter smiled immediately before he even turned.

Eight months.

Eight whole months since Wade had vanished off on another SHIELD mission involving classified nonsense Peter intentionally never asked about.

“How was your mission, DP?”

Wade landed beside him dramatically, arms overloaded with paper bags absolutely dripping grease stains.

“Took me too long to finish,” he groaned. “But I cleaned it so good nobody will suspect a thing.”

Peter eyed him.

“…That sentence sounded illegal.”

“It was illegal.”

Wade handed him a chimichanga anyway.

Peter accepted instantly because loyalty had limits and free Mexican food transcended morality.

They ate in comfortable silence at first.

Or, well.

Comfortable by Wade standards.

Which meant Wade complained theatrically about government coffee while Peter updated him on life between bites.

Flash expanding the café section again. Sapphire starting school properly. Matt accidentally adopting emotionally damaged people like a cryptid social worker.

Wade listened surprisingly attentively beneath the constant jokes.

“And then,” Peter finished eventually, “Tony tried to convince the doctors I needed twenty-four-hour monitoring in his penthouse.”

Wade went still.

Slowly lowered his chimichanga.

“…Anthony Edward Stark.”

Peter immediately regretted speaking.

“What.”

“Oh my God.” Wade slapped both hands against his masked cheeks. “OH MY GOD.”

“Wade—”

“You bagged the billionaire!”

“Nobody bagged anybody!”

“Petey-pie,” Wade said, voice trembling with delight, “the alpha’s been courting you harder than a Victorian man with tuberculosis.”

Peter hid his burning face behind food.

Which unfortunately only encouraged Wade further.

“This is the best day of my life.”

“You literally fight assassins professionally.”

“And now my best friend is emotionally compromising Iron Man. Dreams do come true.”

Peter groaned loudly.

But underneath the embarrassment—

Warmth lingered.

Because talking about Tony still did that to him.

Even now.

Especially now.

Wade noticed instantly.

Of course he did.

The mercenary leaned against Peter’s shoulder dramatically.

“Aww,” he crooned. “Someone’s got feelings.”

Peter shoved him weakly.

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t. Continue the gossip.”

Peter huffed but complied anyway.

The flower shop. Patrols. The boutique disasters. The hospital.

That last one quieted Wade noticeably.

Not joking-quiet.

Dangerous quiet.

“I almost died,” Peter admitted softly, staring out across the skyline. “I think it scared him.”

Wade was silent for a moment.

Then surprisingly gentle:

“Scared you too, huh?”

Peter didn’t answer immediately.

Didn’t need to.

The silence itself was enough.

Wade sighed dramatically afterward because sincerity physically damaged him.

“So,” he announced loudly, “how’s my emotionally supportive arachnid hero handling being aggressively loved by a billionaire alpha?”

Peter nearly choked.

“He’s not aggressively—”

“The man bought you orthopedic shoes.”

“…That’s unrelated.”

“Peter.”

Peter stared very hard at his chimichanga.

Then finally squirmed slightly where he sat.

“…What would you advise this person,” he began cautiously, “if someone came into their life and refused to leave and this person maybe developed feelings.”

Wade became terrifyingly still.

Then:

“Are you telling me someone has my Petey-pie’s heart and you’re crazy about them too?”

Peter blushed instantly.

Wade screamed.

Actually screamed.

The sound echoed across three rooftops.

“OH MY GOD.”

“Wade!”

“PUT A RING ON THAT BASTARD.”

Peter snorted despite himself.

Wade grabbed his shoulders dramatically.

“No, listen to me carefully. That alpha looked one emotional conversation away from building you a second moon.”

“That feels exaggerated.”

“He bought a bakery because you liked their croissants.”

“…Okay maybe slightly.”

“SLIGHTLY?”

Peter laughed helplessly then.

Really laughed.

The kind that loosened something tight inside his chest.

Wade watched him carefully afterward.

Then quieter:

“You love him.”

Peter froze.

The city noise carried softly below them.

Traffic. Sirens. Life.

Peter looked down at the half-eaten chimichanga in his hands.

And thought about whiskey-colored eyes.

About agarwood and honey.

About a man who stayed.

Stayed through sarcasm and sharp edges and fear and secrets and Spider-Man and hospital rooms and all the ugly complicated parts in between.

A man who became Tony.

Peter smiled before he could stop himself.

Small. Soft. Hopelessly fond.

“…Yeah,” he admitted finally.

Peter didn’t remember exactly when Tony’s penthouse stopped feeling like Tony Stark’s place and started feeling dangerously close to somewhere he belonged.

Maybe it was the workshop.

Tony invited him over under the extremely transparent excuse of “wanting a second opinion,” which really meant: Tony wanted Peter near his things so he could watch Peter light up over engineering.

Peter only agreed because Tony bribed him shamelessly.

“Come over,” Tony had said casually over the phone. “I’ve got steak.”

Peter narrowed his eyes instantly.

“…What kind of steak?”

“Medium rare.”

“…Continue.”

“And wine.”

Peter arrived thirty minutes later.

Tony never let him forget it.

The workshop itself became their thing embarrassingly fast.

Peter perched on workbenches while Tony engineered impossible things. Tony complained theatrically while Peter stole tools directly from his hands. They argued over physics. Over coding. Over whether Tony counted as “ethically supervised.”

It became easy.

Dangerously easy.

And somewhere around visit four or five, Peter wandered into Tony’s bedroom for the first time.

Then stopped dead.

“…Tony.”

Tony looked up from his tablet lazily.

“Hm?”

“Your bed is a human rights violation.”

Tony blinked once.

“I’m sorry?”

Peter stared in genuine horror.

The bed was huge. Expensive. Perfectly designed.

And utterly devoid of instinctive comfort.

No softness. No warmth. No scent layering. Barely any blankets.

It looked like a showroom display pretending to be a sleeping space.

Peter felt offended on a biological level.

“How do you sleep here?”

Tony glanced around.

“…Horizontally?”

Peter made a scandalized noise.

Tony watched, fascinated, as Peter immediately started yanking blankets around with increasing irritation.

“What are you doing?”

“Fixing this.”

“Honey, that’s Egyptian cotton.”

“That means nothing to me emotionally.”

Tony should have stopped him.

Probably.

Instead he leaned against the doorway and watched Peter aggressively construct a nest on his bed like an omega possessed.

Blankets first.

Then softer throws from the living room.

Pillows rearranged with frightening precision.

Peter even stole one of Tony’s hoodies halfway through and shoved it into the center with visible satisfaction.

Tony’s scent deepened instantly.

Peter ignored him heroically.

“There,” Peter declared eventually, hands on hips. “Now it looks survivable.”

Tony stared at the bed.

Then at Peter.

Then back at the bed.

“…You nested my bedroom.”

Peter frowned.

“Well somebody had to.”

Tony laughed softly under his breath.

Not mocking.

Almost disbelieving.

“You know,” he said after a moment, “you’re the only person who’s ever been in here long enough to care what my bed looks like.”

Peter glanced back at him.

Tony’s expression had gone quieter somehow.

More honest.

“I usually don’t bring people here unless it’s for…” Tony gestured vaguely. “Quick pleasure. Casual things.”

Peter shrugged immediately.

“I don’t care.”

And he didn’t.

Tony’s past didn’t bother him.

What bothered him was the idea of Tony sleeping alone in that cold designer nightmare every night while pretending it didn’t matter.

Peter climbed onto the newly built nest to test it critically.

Then immediately melted into the blankets.

“Oh,” he mumbled. “That’s much better.”

Tony’s entire face softened at the sight.

Peter sprawled comfortably in the center of Tony Stark’s bed looked absurdly right there.

Like warmth settling into a place that had been waiting for it.

Tony crossed the room slowly afterward.

Not predatory.

Careful.

Always careful with Peter.

The mattress dipped as he sat near the edge of the nest, whiskey eyes fixed on him with that same unbearable fondness Peter still didn’t know how to survive.

“You realize,” Tony murmured, “this is omega behavior equivalent to emotionally moving in.”

Peter blinked sleepily up at him.

Then, entirely unapologetic:

“Your bed was ugly.”

Tony laughed so hard he nearly fell sideways into the blankets.

He actually did end up half-falling into the nest.

Peter snorted.

Tony made absolutely no effort to move back out of it.

The alpha settled deeper into the blankets instead, still shaking with quiet laughter.

For a moment neither of them said anything.

The city glowed beyond the penthouse windows. Machines hummed faintly from the workshop beyond. Warmth gathered thickly beneath layers of blankets and stolen scent.

Peter felt Tony's shoulder brush lightly against his own.

Neither of them moved away.

Neither of them acknowledged it.

The silence settled easily around them.

Comfortably.

Like it had always belonged there.

And for the first time since Peter had met him, Tony Stark's bedroom looked lived in.