He can't be SpiderMan
The buzz is his shadow, an invisible energy guiding him with persuasive wisps as it pulled him in one direction- the direction of Tony, of a thought-to-be-comfort, while insistent hands pulled him in a million other directions. He felt unstable today; scrambled and teetering a few notches off of being steady with this dizziness clinging to his mind like a thick, dark fog dragging him down everytime he tried focusing.
At first, he thought it was nerves. Today was the day. The one he’s prayed for for eighteen years and now- it’s rushed at him with such speed it was a bit unsettling. But then a sense of acceptance washed over him as a handful of women tugged his clothing off and he was dressed in a traditional white bridal dress- usually designated for female brides but, given his reproduction status, he was to be addressed as a wife. Degraded by being assigned traditionally feminine clothing simply because he has ovaries.
Peter didn’t mind it, honestly. He was a trophy wife, now. He needed to get used to it.
The dotted vision and dizziness weren’t from nerves, and he felt silly to even think such a thing when, for the last week, he’s certain he’s become numb. Distantly uncaring. These past few weeks have been exhausting and taken a toll on his mental health, sure, but the most notable difference in his habits were his lack of calories.
Most days, he didn’t eat. On the days he did, he was lucky if he got even a thousand calories in him. He could feel himself starving; his spider mutated cells attacking his human cells and feeding off of whatever energy they could latch on to. He’s become pale and lethargic; purple bags a prominent visualisation of his missing nutrients that clung beneath his eyes and made him look so sickly it startled himself when he’d catch glimpses of his reflection in the mirror.
When he was being poked and prodded, needles gliding across his skin from where they were safely tucked deeply in the white material of his dress as they did last minute mending- he knew they could feel his ribs, too. It probably reflected very poorly on Tony, and while Peter wanted to defend the man, he knew it would only make matters worse so he stayed painfully silent and allowed his sinking belly to be subject to their poked ministrations.
In the sea of sensations, Tony was an anchoring presence encouraging Peter’s body to stay still and obedient, even if he was uncomfortable having his eyebrows plucked and hair styled- hair spray matting it with intentional curls pulled in random directions.
And yet, despite being woken up at six this morning and the clock on the wall already reading just after noon- he’s not been offered any food.
His blood sugar keeps rising and spiking, dehydration mixed with malnutrition and he was just a walking medical case waiting to be diagnosed with a simple glance from his aunt and Mj. They were way too observant. Tony, on the other hand, hasn’t bothered talking to him since their discussion last week, and Peter wonders what he will say when he sees the state the boy is in. Will he even care?
Probably not.
Regardless, it was show time.
The length of Peter’s body crawls hotly with an unknown giddiness as he, fully dressed with makeup caked on and his hair styled, is led down a long corridor. His prior exhaustion evaporates into a void of nothingness as his previous emptiness contends with his budding excitement. With each step forward he can feel it choking him- the known fact that he is so completely out of his element, being led down a hallway decked out in the fanciest decorations he’s ever seen; Stark industry Sentinels lining the hallway and blocking off each available entrance.
It made Peter feel so special. Like he was Royalty.
Peter, beyond the hushed tapping of his high-heeled feet across the tiled floor, can hear the vibration of life and excitement just a room away; trapped in a ball of antsiness and impatience. And the closer they get, the more his dizziness increases but Sheila- a woman on his right who has stuck with him the entire day, tightens her hold on his forearm and, in a strict no-argument sort of way, she pulls him harshly against her side; supporting his weight while offering him a smothered glare.
“You will pull yourself together,” she hisses in his ear, the other women surrounding them bowing their heads to politely seem oblivious to their conversation. “You stumble when you walk in there and you are done- do I make myself clear?”
She tightens her hold on Peter’s arm, and it rips a genuine noise of hurt out of his throat that surprises him because- yeah, that’ll leave a bruise and he should definitely worry about the fact that her minimal strength was capable of hurting him but he’s too distracted to even give a crap.
“Yes.” he whispers, shaking his head hard to try and rid himself of the black dots swimming around his vision; obstructing the hallway. “I-I’m sorry.”
He’s apologized more in the last month than he has in his entire life.
She chortles. “I would think so. You’re pathetic,” she was right, Peter knew it. It was a wonder he was chosen to marry someone like Tony Stark. A freaking elite so above Peter at this point, walking down that aisle, would be fulfilling a century long joke.
An elite? Marrying a commoner?
Approaching the buzz that grows beneath his skin- the connection to Tony and he knows it’s a damned connection, he just can’t figure out why, his nerves mellow a bit, evaporating the anxiety created by Sheila's callousness. It’s like his body knows, without a doubt, he is going for Tony- a man who, despite their differences, will reassure him of his asserted control and effortless guidance when Peter feels so helpless and useless. Any doubts, of them- their relationship, their progressing companionship, is destroyed by prospect.
Both casual guests and selected Paparazzi not seated in the altar stare, with an annoying attentive interest, as Peter’s previously stumbled steps easily transition into self-assured strides as he parts ways from his band of women and smooths out the silk front of his dress. It was a simple thing, beautiful yet not extravagant. It had lace sleeves and partial back (with most of his back exposed) with a silk skirt that flourished behind him in a tail that drug across the floor for a foot or two in his wake.
He was requested to wear a veil, but given his failing vision and inability to direct himself without seeing everything- due to his missing instincts, he somehow convinced Sheila it didn’t go with his outfit so he was instead let off the hook with a simple flower crown twisted in his hair; white roses and small blue flowers tied together with white ribbon.
Any other situation, and he’d fawn over his appearance. Admire how well it drew together and how he pulled it off, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel any sort of excitement for his attire. He felt like a prized pig being dressed up for auction.
Pretending not to notice his audience, and surprised over the fact of how intimate the entire thing seemed when he figured Tony would blast their wedding publicly across every single social media outlet he could, Peter dabbed at his eyes for no apparent reason, just a form of distraction and to keep his hands busy, and continued on down the hallway.
What he was most excited about today was seeing May and his friends. An entire month felt like a whole life away and he can’t handle it, being away from the people who have, for years, been his anchor. He misses them.
“Peter-Peter, is it true Mr. Stark rescued you off the street-”
“Peter- How does it feel to know you have caught the world’s most eligible bachelor and made him settle down?”
“Is Pepper Potts a prominent role in your relationship? Given hers and Tony’s relationship?”
Hundreds of cameras flash in unison to their rapid fire questions, and Peter’s stomach rolls.
“Ignore them,” the woman in question says, saddling up next to Peter, her presence enough to stun the paparazzi before they shake off the shock and begin, with Peter forgotten, asking her questions. She links their arms, and her hand is a welcomed weight in his palm as she presses them together. “It’s what I do.”
Her smile is warm in the vast coldness he’s been surrounded by, and Peter feels the urge to burrow closer to her. Drawn like a moth to the flame. “I don’t know how you do it.” he admits, the rolling in his stomach increasing until it mimics the tempo of a whirlpool. His nausea spikes. Silently, his eyes fall to the thick set of double doors in front of him; closed but nevertheless daunting because he knows what waits just beyond them. Who, more specifically. For the time, he lets himself become entranced by the way Pepper’s fingers feel against his; the faint vibration of her heart tapping against the side of his finger in a smooth, slow tempo.
“If you pretend you don’t notice their presence, eventually you don’t.” she admits in a soft, quiet voice. Noticing the tremor racing down Peter’s spine, Pepper gives his hand another solid squeeze. “Hey, you okay? Are you ready?”
Her gentleness makes Peter feel like he is breakable.
He gulps, but nods. “Yes,” All good things must come to an end, he supposes, and he knows Pepper must let go eventually. “I’m fine,”
One last inspection, Pepper looks over his outfit and hair before nodding. “Let’s go, then.”
The double doors swing open.
---
“Hi, Peter,” Tony’s voice is so uncharacteristically soft, a caress along Peter’s every sense, and god does it make his heart hammer at his ribcage; a loud drumming in his ears. Just like the first time he met the man, little more than a month ago with so many cringy experiences entrapped within the short time, Peter is perplexed and amazed by the man and his beauty. By his simple outward appearance but extraordinary existence.
The emotions flooding his body throw him off, and Peter stumbles over his feet- no longer guided by assurance and a self-constructed poise. In a movement as fast as lighting, an expected speed from a literal superhero that doesn’t just play dress up like Peter, Tony’s hand darts out and grabs Peter’s elbow, steadying him with a cold smile. His body awakens at the touch, responds to the warmth, and with the sudden flood of endorphins the buzz decreases to a minor itch that crawls across his skin. Depleting in Tony’s presence, but hovering for when they inevitably parted ways.
“Hi,” he wasn’t sure why they were exchanging pleasantries, but he also wasn’t going to voice disapproval. It was nice to feel seen by the man, even with a hundred people bearing witness to their exchange. Then again, that’s probably why Tony was doing it. To put up an illusion. To make everyone believe he is a perfectly caring husband who dotes on his wife and loves them.
Tony hesitates for a moment, then lets go of the boys elbow and Peter, with reddening cheeks, takes the three seconds offered to stumble his way up the stairs to the altar; standing before a hundred people but recognizing none of them.
That’s when it hits him, as his eyes scan the ocean of people surrounding them, all warm eyes comforting but not familiar or soothing. May and his friends didn’t show up. They were absent on the, arguably, biggest day of his life. Even after Tony reassured him they would be here, they weren’t.
He combats the flood of disappointment, wills the tears burning at his eyes to not fall, and instead focuses on Tony, swallowing back the bile rising in his throat. He thought he was ready to get married, has prepared for it since he was a kid, but now that the actual act of wedding himself off to another person was evolving around him; it felt too soon. Too rushed. He was too young. He had so much more life to experience- the people depended on Spider-Man.
He can’t be Spider-Man if he married himself off to… Off to Iron Man. Tony was a literal competition in Peter’s line of work.
He can’t get married without May here. He gave up on the illusion of having his father walking him down the aisle, given both of his father figures were dead, but May- she was supposed to be here.
With fluttering eyes, Peter subtly rakes his gaze over Tony’s body while the guests get settled; guided by the marriage officiant who was a middle aged man with a balding head and kind, round eyes to match his expanding stomach. Tony was in a tight-fitting but perfectly tailored navy blue suit, paired with a red tie that had little white polka dots littering it. His hair, as always, was styled in that intentionally disheveled sort of way with his beard perfectly trimmed.
He smelt heavenly; like roasted coffee, aftershave and something bitter and exotic. Like a tinge of motor oil and pine needles.
Tony wasn’t looking at Peter and the boy pretended that didn’t hurt. The fact that he even touched him was something, had to count for something. A very, very small victory, but a victory all the same.
Lost in his thoughts, every well-planned word he’d intended to use vanished and he stupidly blurts, “Are you ready to get married?” He wants to ask where his aunt is and why, pitifully, Peter’s single row of chairs was left empty. But he knows better than that. To upset Tony in such a public area, with hundreds there to bear witness to Peter’s disobedience.
Tony’s lip twitch, obviously fighting a smile, but standing before his audience his composure doesn’t crack. “I wouldn’t be standing where I am if I weren't ready, Peter.”
And okay, that was odd? It almost… Sounded like a reassurance?
Should he tell Tony he wasn't? That every part of his being was drawing him towards the exit. Should he warn the man that Peter’s stomach was a sinking hole of quick sand and as each second progresses them forward, his stomach becomes noticeably thinner as he literally starves to death in front of Tony- in front of the world with every camera in here angled directly at them. Part of him recognizes in Tony’s presence his dizziness and nausea has dimmed down to manageable levels, but the rational part of him chooses to ignore it for the sake of his sanity.
Floundering a bit, Peter shrugs, and realizing that they do, in fact, have an audience who has fallen to silence as they expectantly wait for Tony’s next move- he frantically spouts some shit to hopefully divert the attention away from them. “Are the Avenger’s invited?” and, like expected, the very name is like a flame drawing the moths towards it because the cameras frantically begin to pan around the room as they try to confirm Peter’s question- creating a mild frenzy.
The smile Tony bites back with is teetering on amused, with annoyance curling the edges. It’s an oddly playful sort of smile, and it makes Peter’s stomach feel warm. “As full of questions as always, Mr. Parker.”
And, oh, apparently the formalities were back. Clearing his throat, Peter ducks his head down, averting his gaze. He hated feeling so unsure in Tony’s presence. Like he was walking on eggshells and waiting for that inevitable snap to come. “I’m a very curious person.”
“Did your aunt never teach you that old saying- ‘Curiosity killed the cat?’” Tony asks, and Peter watches the room of chaos with deaf ears.
He flinches, fighting his submissive nature at the clear displeasure in Tony’s voice and he really, really wishes he were anywhere but here. “I-Of course she did. My lost manners are entirely to be blamed on me,” he mumbled, voice cracking with embarrassment and fear that he hopes Tony won’t pick up on.
Damn it, Peter was really trying today and disintegrating before Tony’s very gaze over a minor bumpy conversation was going to get him nowhere in life. He wasn’t this awkward growing up- at least not with mentally mature people. Peter has always been that shy yet confident nerd- the one who was a bit unstable with his lanky limbs but could run laps around the competition at science fairs and anything of relation that didn’t require physical strength. Tony intimidated him and no matter how cocky or confident Peter became in Spider-Man’s skin, nothing prepared him for the smothering, yet intoxicating, aura of Tony Stark.
Recently, though, he’s lacked structure and it’s set everything off-balance. Tony offered the proper discipline required to reign Peter in and keep him obedient, but the man has done a poor job of setting up a warm, safe environment and allowing Peter’s inner-monster to just… relax and not feel so on edge and nervous all the time.
Tony awakened every part of Peter’s body and yet, he never had the intention to tame it. He wishes he could just tell the man to fuck off already but that wasn’t an option, was it?
Tony side-eyes him, but doesn’t turn his head enough to offer Peter the proper acknowledgement he deserves. Look at me, damn it, acknowledge the dress! The effort! “Is that hard to control?” he asks, and Peter gets the impression Tony was chortling at a joke he wasn’t privy to. “The self-blaming? You don’t have to shoulder all that blame, kid.”
“Well, I do.” and he does. He just doesn’t know why. Probably because he’s done it since he was a kid, with no sibling or friend there to pass the blame off the when he broke a vase or stole a cookie. He’s always taken the blame, even if it wasn’t his own. “I blame myself for everything. I always have.” As children, his next door neighbor chopped his sister’s barbie doll heads off and, despite knowing he would get grounded, Peter took the blame. He shouldered every wrong thing in his life like it were his hands who crafted them: his parents death- Ben’s death, being bitten by the radioactive spider.
Maybe, maybe if he’d been more observant he wouldn’t be here.
“You blame yourself for this?” Tony inquires, gesturing his hand outwards- towards their overflowing room filled with people Peter didn’t recognize.
For our wedding? Or companionship?
Peter nods, once, and digs his fingernails into his palms. “I-I do, in a way. Maybe if I, if I weren’t so difficult the government would have found me someone different- You someone different.” Peter wants to say it, knows he shouldn’t, but it’s bubbling up his throat and burning his tonsils like holy water that just needs to be spilled. In a decidedly softer voice, he continues, “Maybe if I weren’t so difficult, you would actually want to marry me.”
“You think I don't want to marry you?” Tony scoffs, and Peter squeezes his eyes closed- afraid of what truth may lie on Tony’s face. Alone, in his room, he can craft fantasy after fantasy. Envision a life, a world, where he and Tony met that first day and just fell in love. He can pretend their children will have loving parents, and live in a healthy environment. But here, now, reality is mocking him as she chimes, hauntingly, in a voice oddly reminiscent to Tony’s. “I said I don’t-won’t ever love you- the disagreement regarding your sexual experience was simply because I was stunned.” the words, even weeks later, still sting like salt on a fresh wound. Peter wasn’t sure he would ever get used to the idea of Tony’s intention being strictly platonic, with sexual interest.
Tony’s sincerity seemed forced and Peter took it for what it was. “I disagree,” Peter says, the words laced with anxiety, enough that he notices Tony draw back ever so slightly, towards the stairs and away from Peter, with dark eyes pinning him on the spot. “I think you’re disappointed with me. Y-You’re Tony Stark, surely you deserve someone b-better. Someone experienced.”
Tony’s shoulders lock, squared back with enough tension Peter could feel it radiating off of him. Almost immediately he regrets even saying anything, but retracting now would only further upset Tony. He knew it.
“We don’t have to do this,” Peter rushes, attempting to mend his previous mistake when he sees Tony open his mouth to speak, eyes calculating. “I understand my role, and I appreciate the opportunity. I apologize for ever speaking against you.”
Tony’s eyes narrow, and his nose wrinkles in an obvious attempt to reign himself in. “Speaking against me, or at me, Peter?” his head tilt is curious, if not a little endearing, and Peter’s stomach swoops. “You’ve mistaken my reservations as disappointment. Perhaps we need to more than reconcile tonight. I’ll remind you not only am I happy with the arrangement, but I fully intend to enjoy it.”