𝑬𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒀𝒐𝒖

Peter’s heart pounded in his chest, each beat a dizzying echo of the bass thrumming through the club. He tried to keep his breathing steady, but every nerve in his body was buzzing, caught somewhere between outright panic and reluctant curiosity. The warm, almost stifling air pressed around him, thick with the scent of sweat, perfume, and the faint tang of spilled alcohol.

Tony — young, vibrant, and utterly unfamiliar yet achingly familiar — was making his way through the crowd, eyes fixed on him with an intensity Peter hadn’t expected. Those deep brown eyes, the same ones he’d grown up with, now held a sharper edge, a gleam of something almost dangerous, predatory, as he approached Peter. It sent a pulse of heat through Peter, a mix of dread and something he didn’t want to name.

Peter’s first instinct was to disappear, to melt into the crowd and avoid this confrontation entirely. But he was frozen, rooted to the spot by the way Tony moved toward him. There was no hesitation in Tony’s approach, no sign of the man who often masked his emotions under a sarcastic quip. This Tony wore his intentions openly, his gaze lingering on Peter in a way that felt far too intimate, like he was dissecting every inch of him. The hairs on Peter’s arms prickled, his skin hyperaware. He fought the urge to tug at the hem of his crop top, suddenly aware of the way it clung to his torso, how his biceps flexed just beneath the fabric. Tony’s eyes flicked there briefly, his lips curving into a half-smirk, and Peter’s pulse sped up.

Get it together, Parker, he told himself, forcing a slow, casual breath. He wasn’t some awkward kid anymore — he was Spider-Man. If he could face down Thanos and the Sinister Six, he could handle his dad's younger, bolder self. Straightening his posture a bit, Peter let himself slip into his confident, more playful side, determined to play along for the sake of the mission. The last thing he wanted was to raise suspicion and jeopardize his chance to fix the timeline.

Before he could talk himself into backing away, Tony was there, standing close enough that Peter could feel the heat radiating off him, mingling with the humid air of the club. Tony’s grin widened, his lips parting just slightly as he spoke, his voice rich and soft, with a warm cadence that Peter wasn’t used to hearing in his dad’s tone. That softness, an almost purring quality, struck something in Peter — something unfamiliar, something he wasn’t prepared for.

“¿Sabes que miradas como la tuya pueden causar problemas?”

Peter’s breath caught in his throat. Tony’s voice — the warm, velvety Puerto Rican accent — had caught him completely off guard. Spanish? It wasn’t something Peter ever heard at home, despite Tony’s heritage. He’d overheard Tony speak in French before, and once in Mandarin, but Spanish was different. The language itself felt warmer, deeper, as if it was wrapping around him and pulling him into Tony’s orbit. He couldn’t quite place the exact words, but the flirtation was unmistakable, threaded in Tony’s low, teasing tone.

He blinked, feeling his cheeks heat up as he fumbled to respond, his mind a dizzy mix of confusion and realization. This wasn’t just a random encounter; Tony was flirting. With him. His dad’s voice, that soft, intimate language, felt like it was unraveling him right there. Tony’s gaze lingered, warm and appraising, an invitation that left Peter’s mouth dry.

Trying to regain control of his spiraling thoughts, Peter forced a small, easy grin, channeling every ounce of his Spider-Man charm. “My Spanish is… a work in progress,” he replied, keeping his voice steady and letting a bit of humor edge into his tone. “But if you’re offering to teach me, I’d say I’m a quick learner.”

Tony’s chuckle was soft, his eyes brightening as he switched to English. “Well, that’s a shame,” he said, eyes flicking over Peter’s frame with unabashed curiosity. The same eyes that had watched him stumble through childhood, Peter thought, trying to reconcile them with the slow, assessing gaze sweeping over him now. “A guy like you could get away with a lot, y’know?”

Peter’s cheeks warmed, but he fought to keep his expression steady, meeting Tony’s gaze with a smirk. “Guess I’ve got to keep you on your toes then,” he shot back, testing the waters with a playful quip. “Wouldn’t want things to get too easy, right?”

Tony’s grin widened, impressed by Peter’s response. “Oh, I can handle a challenge,” he said smoothly, his gaze turning appraising. “But I wouldn’t mind getting to know more about the guy behind that confidence.” He tilted his head, studying Peter with a glint of genuine curiosity.

Peter felt a bit steadier, his nerves fading as the familiar back-and-forth banter grounded him. It’s still Dad, he reminded himself, even if this was a younger, looser version of him. “Depends,” he said with a playful shrug, leaning into the act. “Do I get to know the guy behind the… uh, lip ring?” He couldn’t help it — the lip ring had caught him off guard, and part of him needed to know how that particular accessory had come into play.

Tony laughed, his hand coming up to brush a finger over the small gold ring, his eyes twinkling. “Oh, you like it?” he teased, flashing a grin. “It’s a new thing, actually. A little rebellion, I guess you could say.” His expression softened, almost nostalgic. “Besides, I like to keep things interesting.”

Peter chuckled, trying to ignore the strange knot of emotions tightening in his chest. This is Tony, he told himself again, albeit a different version. “Interesting’s one word for it,” he replied, shooting Tony a grin. “Bet it works wonders on the ladies, huh?”

Tony’s smirk turned sly. “Ladies, sure.” He let the word linger, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. “But there’s more than one way to get someone’s attention.”

The words hung between them, stirring a creeping realization in Peter. So, there went any hope that he’d misread this vibe. Tony’s eyes flicked over Peter again, studying his crop top, his face, and everything in between with a slow, lingering gaze. Well, that clears that up. Peter felt the flush in his cheeks deepen, but he quickly covered it with a casual laugh. There was no time to start dissecting this now, not with his mission at stake.

Tony glanced down at Peter’s outfit, his expression thoughtful. “Like a certain guy in a crop top who seems to think he’s blending in when he’s really drawing all eyes his way,” Tony continued, a low laugh slipping through his words as his eyes traveled back up to meet Peter’s. “Not that I’m complaining,” he added with a teasing lift of his eyebrow, his gaze openly appreciative. “If anything, I’d say it’s working a little too well.”

Peter’s pulse quickened as he fought to keep his face neutral. He let out a casual laugh, though his mind was racing, trying to process the unsettling weight of Tony’s attention. The way Tony was looking at him now — sharp, appraising, and just a little playful — was enough to make him question everything he thought he knew about his dad.

“Guess you’ve got me figured out,” Peter replied, trying to keep his voice steady. “But if you’re going for rebellious,” he added, nodding toward the subtle glint of gold in Tony’s lip, “then I’ve got some catching up to do.”

Tony’s smile widened, his eyes lighting up with playful interest. “Maybe so. But you seem like a guy who knows what he wants,” Tony said with a casual shrug, crossing his arms in a way that brought out the lean lines of his own muscles under his shirt. Not as built as the man he knew, but solid enough, Peter thought, surprised by how his mind wandered. Tony tilted his head, his tone teasing. “I mean, crop top and all — not exactly blending in with the crowd, huh?”

Peter grinned, shrugging. “Hey, figured if I’m gonna stand out, might as well make it worth it.”

“Oh, it’s worth it,” Tony replied, his tone low, almost conspiratorial. He cast a glance around, as if considering the crowd, then looked back at Peter, his gaze softening for a moment. “Besides, blending in… kinda overrated, don’t you think? Life’s too short for that.”

Peter chuckled, feeling a strange sense of ease slip back over him. This felt like one of those moments he sometimes shared with his dad — a rare glimpse into Tony’s philosophies on life, even if this version of him was still wild and full of edges. “Couldn’t agree more,” Peter replied, letting himself relax, if only for a moment.

Tony nodded in approval, his gaze lingering a bit too long on Peter’s eyes, then drifting lower, tracing the lines of his physique under the crop top. “And, y’know… sometimes the smallest things make the biggest impact,” Tony murmured, his tone almost thoughtful as he took in Peter’s appearance, the faint smile playing on his lips.

Peter let out an easy laugh, though he could feel his heart racing. Play along, just play along. He had to blend in. He couldn’t afford to give anything away or risk altering the timeline further. This was already a mess; he wasn’t supposed to be in 1997, let alone facing a young Tony Stark. He’d felt the anomaly — a shadow following him through the time stream — just before everything had warped and tossed him here instead of five years back. If Tony didn’t pull him back in 30 minutes, he’d just have to hope he could still complete the mission and maybe figure out what went wrong.

“Guess I’ll take that as a compliment,” Peter said, slipping into his Spider-Man ease as best he could.

Tony smirked, leaning in a little closer, his expression suddenly shifting, becoming more intense. His gaze dipped lower, following the lines of Peter’s muscles as they shifted under the tight fabric of his crop top. His tongue flicked out, running along his teeth, a small, thoughtful gesture as his fingers reached out, lightly brushing the hem of Peter’s shirt. The touch was brief, feather-light, but it sent a jolt of awareness through Peter, the casual intimacy more intense than he was prepared for.

Tony’s lips curved into a grin, his long lashes casting soft shadows over his cheeks as he looked up at Peter, his eyes bright with interest. “So,” he murmured, his voice low and almost teasing, “are you always this intriguing, or did I just catch you on a good night?”

Peter’s thoughts spun, any semblance of composure slipping as he tried to reconcile the familiarity of Tony’s gestures with the intensity of his gaze. Is this really the same guy who used to freak out if I stayed out too late? The same guy who once spent a week perfecting a science project with me just because I wanted it to be perfect?

He managed a shaky laugh, struggling to keep his voice steady. “Guess you got lucky,” he replied, though his voice sounded distant, even to himself.

Tony’s grin softened, his gaze warming as he studied Peter. And for a split second, Peter saw a flash of something else — an openness, a hint of curiosity that felt achingly familiar, reminding him of the man he knew. But then Tony blinked, and the look was gone, replaced by that same playful confidence.

“So… stranger,” Tony said, his voice smooth, “you gonna dance with me, or do I need to keep up the charming small talk all night?”

Peter’s heart skipped a beat, the invitation sparking a fresh wave of nerves. Play it cool, he reminded himself, forcing himself to smile. He was here to blend in, to keep his cover — even if dancing with his dad’s younger self was the last thing he’d ever expected.

After a brief hesitation, he nodded, managing a grin that almost felt natural. “One dance couldn’t hurt,” he replied, the words coming out steady, even if his mind was anything but.

Tony’s grin widened, and he took Peter’s hand, leading him through the crowd with a confidence that made Peter’s pulse quicken. As they maneuvered between laughing groups and swaying bodies, the bass of the reggaeton music pounded through the floor and straight into Peter’s chest, syncing almost painfully with his heartbeat. The air was thick and humid, filled with the mingled scents of sweat, cologne, and tequila that clung to every surface, each breath saturated with heat and the pulsing rhythm of the club. Around them, couples moved together in ways that blurred the line between dancing and something far more intimate.

When they reached an open spot on the dance floor, Tony turned to face him, slipping a leg between Peter’s and pulling him close, guiding their bodies into a rhythm that left no space between them. Peter’s hand found its way to Tony’s waist, fingers curling instinctively around him as their hips aligned, moving to the beat in an undulating motion that felt too natural, too close. Tony’s thigh pressed up between Peter’s legs, and Peter’s own thigh slid between Tony’s in return, their bodies locked together in a rhythm that sent a flush through Peter’s skin.

He was good at this, he realized—not because he had any idea how to dance to reggaeton, but because he could feel the beat coursing through him, his muscles stretching and flexing with each shift and sway, his agility from years as Spider-Man letting him follow Tony’s lead with a surprising ease. Tony’s hand was low on his hip, strong and steady, pulling him into the movement with a confidence that made Peter’s head swim.

But he was aware of everything—Tony’s thigh between his legs, pressing just firmly enough to feel every pulse of the beat, the faint prickle of Tony’s gold lip ring catching the dark red light as he glanced down at Peter’s mouth. The lighting cast everything in a hazy, seductive glow, deep shadows and flickers of red highlighting the sharp line of Tony’s jaw, the glint of sweat on his skin, and the way the piercings in his ear caught the light with each subtle movement. Peter’s thoughts were a mess, a jumble of sensations and memories flashing through his mind in quick, disjointed bursts: The mission. The time error. The shadow in the time stream. Tony saying this would be a quick fix… And here he was, dancing with Tony, their bodies close enough to feel each other’s heat through the thin fabric of their clothes. 20 more minutes give or take his mind supplied

Back in 2025, Tony glanced down at the monitors, waiting for the familiar blip of Peter’s signal to appear, a visual confirmation that his son had reached the intended time period safely. It was routine, just a few seconds of silence as the machine processed the jump. But when the seconds stretched on longer than they should, Tony’s brow furrowed.

“Come on,” he murmured, tapping his fingers anxiously against the console. The tracking system flickered, but instead of showing a steady path to five years prior, it spat out a string of nonsensical numbers and dates. He rechecked the coordinates, feeling a bead of sweat start to form along his temple.

No Peter. No signal. Just empty static and a blinking error light.

“Oh, hell no.” Tony’s fingers flew across the keys, trying to stabilize the tracking data, but every attempt led to another error message. A slight tremor settled in his hands as he recalibrated the settings, desperate to regain control. “Not now. Not on my watch.”

He cursed under his breath, punching in a series of commands that should, theoretically, pull Peter back. When that failed, his hand reached for his phone instinctively, calling the one person he knew could help.

“Banner,” he snapped as Bruce picked up. “We’ve got a situation with the time machine. Peter’s gone off-course.”

“Gone off—what do you mean?” Bruce’s voice immediately shifted, growing sharper.

“He’s out there, somewhere, and I can’t track him,” Tony said, his voice rough with tension. He forced himself to steady his breathing, unwilling to let panic creep into his tone. “I’ve tried every override I built into this thing, and nothing. He’s… he’s just gone.”

“I’m on my way,” Bruce replied without hesitation.

Tony continued to work on the console, his mind racing, heart pounding as he cycled through every possible scenario. There was still the safety net, the automatic return set to activate at the forty-minute mark, but the thought of Peter trapped somewhere—alone, disoriented, or worse—was enough to make his stomach twist.

Banner arrived a few minutes later, eyes taking in the chaotic mess of code flashing across the console. “Alright, what do we know?” he asked, stepping beside Tony and immediately diving into the data.

“Not enough,” Tony admitted, hating the helplessness that threatened to claw its way into his chest. “The machine isn’t even registering his exact location in time—just an echo, like he’s on a detour.” He clenched his fists, teeth grinding as he tried to keep his voice steady. “Forty minutes, Bruce. That’s all we have.”

Banner nodded, calm and focused, though Tony could see the strain in his friend’s eyes. “Then we wait,” Bruce said quietly. “The return function is our best shot right now. If we push the machine too hard trying to pull him back manually, we could risk losing him altogether.”

Tony’s jaw clenched, his gaze flickering back to the blinking, error-filled display. “You’re telling me I just… have to sit here?”

“For now,” Bruce replied, his voice gentler. He placed a steadying hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Peter’s smart. You know he’ll keep his head. And if he’s anywhere close to the intended time frame, he’ll manage. He always has.”

Tony’s shoulders slumped just slightly, the weight of helplessness pressing down on him as the countdown ticked forward. Every second felt like an eternity, his mind racing through possibilities, fears, and the gnawing memory of every time he’d lost Peter before.

Finally, Tony let out a slow, shaky breath, forcing himself to trust the machine he’d built and the son he’d raised. He would wait, and he would be ready.

Meanwhile, in 1997 Tony leaned in, close enough that Peter could feel his breath against his cheek, warm and intoxicating, carrying a faint hint of pepper and something sharp. Tony’s gaze lingered on Peter’s mouth, a spark of mischief in his eyes. “Didn’t catch your name,” he murmured, his tone low and rich, sending a shiver down Peter’s spine.

“Uh, it’s Peter,” he managed, hoping his voice didn’t betray just how overwhelmed he felt. He was close enough to see the glint of sweat on Tony’s skin, the way his lashes cast shadows under the dim, red lights, the subtle curve of his lips that seemed almost too inviting.

“Peter, huh?” Tony’s smile grew, a flicker of amusement lighting his expression as he let the name roll over his tongue. “I like it.”

Peter barely had time to process the comment before Tony’s hand slipped from his hip to the small of his back, pulling him even closer, if that was possible. Their bodies pressed together, every movement a slow, synchronized grind that made Peter’s skin heat up. The heavy, pulsing beat guided their every shift, the music and Tony’s hands grounding him, keeping him tethered in this surreal, hazy moment.

Tony leaned even closer, his voice a low murmur against Peter’s ear. “My name’s Antonio, but most people call me Tony.” His hand slipped higher, fingers pressing lightly between Peter’s shoulder blades, steadying him as they moved. “But you, guapo?” he added, his voice dropping into a smooth, almost teasing tone that sent a thrill through Peter. “Tú me puedes llamar lo que tú quieras.”

Dad, Peter’s mind supplied unhelpfully, and he almost laughed, the absurdity of it mixing with a dozen other emotions he couldn’t even begin to untangle. He managed to keep his reaction in check, a shaky grin in place as he tried to act normal. “Guess I’ll stick with Tony,” he replied, his voice coming out steadier than he felt, though he was sure Tony could feel his pulse racing.

Tony chuckled, his eyes glinting as he glanced down at where Peter’s hand rested on his waist, fingers curled around him almost reflexively. “Comfortable with your hands on me, aren’t you?” he quipped, his tone light but his eyes flickering with something darker, something that made Peter’s stomach do a slow flip. “Not that I’m complaining.” His gaze slid to Peter’s leg between his own, his smirk widening. “Especially with a thick thigh like that pressed against me. Not bad.”

Peter felt his face go hot, a surge of something close to panic racing through him. This is my dad. This is Tony. This is my dad. His mind spun, and he gripped Tony’s waist a little tighter, trying to focus on anything but the way Tony’s thigh pressed up between his legs, each pulse of the beat pushing him a little closer, blurring every sense of distance and decorum he’d held on to. He could feel the heat of Tony’s hand on his back, the weight of Tony’s gaze as he glanced down at his mouth again, lingering just a moment too long.

Peter blinked, realizing with a shock that he’d been staring at Tony’s mouth, his attention caught by the glint of the lip ring but, embarrassingly, he was still looking at his dad’s lips. He swallowed hard, his mind teetering between horror and the absurdity of his situation.

Tony threw his head back in laughter, the sound rich and full, ringing out over the music in a way that seemed to light him up from within. Peter’s heart pounded, his mind spiraling as he processed Tony’s words, the easy laugh, the way Tony’s fingers pressed just a little harder into his waist, the warmth of his hand spreading through him. Seriously, how is this happening?

Their foreheads met as Tony leaned in close, his laughter still lingering in his eyes. They were practically breathing the same air, and for a moment, Peter felt like they were the only two people in the room, the heavy pulse of the club fading into the background. I mean, yeah, I’ve always known, objectively, that he’s attractive but… this is ridiculous.

Tony’s gaze was soft, almost amused, his expression full of that easy charm that had always drawn people in. Peter couldn’t deny that this… this was actually fun. The way Tony moved with him, guiding him with such natural ease, that playful glint in his eye—it was easy to see why people were drawn to him. And here, with the music and the heat of the moment, Peter felt the oddest sense of connection, something almost thrilling. He could feel that he would always have fun with Tony, no matter the context. Even now, when every bit of this was pushing boundaries Peter didn’t know existed, he couldn’t deny the strange, overwhelming pull of it all.

“Think you can keep up, Peter?” Tony’s voice was barely audible over the music, a low murmur against his ear that sent another shiver down his spine.

Peter swallowed, forcing a grin even as his heart hammered. “I think I can manage,” he replied, hoping he didn’t sound as breathless as he felt. He couldn’t deny the thrill twisting in his gut every time Tony’s fingers pressed into his back, every time their bodies shifted just enough to feel the friction of fabric, of skin brushing too close. The club’s dark red lights cast Tony’s face in a hazy glow, his smile almost wicked as he leaned in, his gaze locked on Peter with an intensity that left him dizzy.

“Good,” Tony replied, his voice a husky murmur, his hand sliding down to Peter’s hip, guiding him into the beat with a pressure that was firm, possessive, grounding. “Because I don’t go easy on anyone.”

With every sway, every subtle grind of their hips, Peter felt his mind slip further from the mission, from the shadowy time stream and the stakes that had felt so urgent just moments before. This is insane, he thought, struggling to hold on to some shred of composure. He could feel the heat radiating from Tony, smell the spice of his cologne, feel the press of his thigh as they moved together like they’d done this a thousand times.

Peter didn’t know where to look—at Tony’s mouth, at the sharp line of his jaw, the flash of the gold lip ring that caught the light with every smirk, every glance that lingered a little too long. Every beat pulled him closer, every step blurring the line between dancing and something else entirely, and Peter’s thoughts dissolved into the heat, the red haze, and Tony’s grip, grounding him and driving him forward all at once.

“Cariño,” Tony said, his voice barely audible over the music, a soft, intimate murmur that sent a thrill down Peter’s spine. His fingers brushed against the small of Peter’s back, pressing just enough to keep their hips aligned, each movement in perfect sync as they let the rhythm carry them. “You’re pretty good at this, you know. Surprising for a gringo stumbling through a Latin club in Manhattan without a clue about Spanish. Not just another pretty face, huh?”

Peter let out a shaky laugh, doing his best to mask the wild racing of his heart. “Guess you’ll have to keep dancing with me to find out,” he replied, the words slipping out before he could second-guess them. His cheeks heated, but Tony’s grin only widened, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Don't threaten me with a good time pretty boy” Tony replied, his tone light but his gaze sharp, sending a jolt of something electric down Peter’s spine.

The heavy beat of the music continued its slow, pulsing rhythm, each thrum of bass reverberating through Peter’s body as his mind scattered, pulled taut between alarm and the visceral, undeniable pull toward Tony. Their bodies moved together, Tony’s thigh pressing up between his legs with each shift, each subtle grind that had Peter’s breath catching in shallow, ragged pulls. Every second, every touch seemed to shrink the world around them until there was nothing left but Tony’s face so close, his deep, steady gaze burning into Peter, the scent of tequila ghosting over his lips, mingling with the heat of Tony’s breath that left Peter’s mouth dry with anticipation. His heart raced, his stomach tightening with a gnawing want, and then, like a spark catching on kindling, the thought surfaced, unbidden but undeniable: I want to taste him .

The realization hit him hard, panic flaring, his chest tightening as he struggled to steady himself. This is wrong—this is my dad , he reminded himself, his body fighting against his mind. But it wasn’t unfamiliar—the rawness of the feeling, the heat pooling in his gut—he’d felt it before, back before he’d started dating MJ, that unfiltered craving when attraction hit hard, primitive and unapologetic.

His thoughts scrambled for something, anything, to justify staying locked in this space, every inch of him attuned to Tony’s warmth, the tension between them stretching thinner with every beat. It’s just the mission , he tried to rationalize, the words slipping into his mind like a lifeline. I have to keep him distracted; he can’t know who I am. And maybe it was the leftover haze from the time stream jump—the high emotions, the rush of landing out of place, nearly thirty years off course. Surely, the sheer intensity of being thrown into this unexpected past was playing tricks on him, dredging up unfiltered, misplaced reactions. But even that excuse felt hollow, dissolving under the weight of Tony’s presence, leaving Peter breathless, caught between dread and a visceral, maddening need.

And yet, when Tony spoke again, the rationalizations only barely took the edge off Peter’s spiraling thoughts.

“Tell me, Peter,” Tony murmured, voice thick with a teasing rasp that settled between them, igniting the air. “Do you like to lead or be led?” The question seemed to linger, his gaze holding a challenge. “Because I’m good either way, cariño… you want to feel like you’re getting fucked, or like you’re the one doing the fucking?”

Peter’s breath caught, his fingers trembling at Tony’s waist. The words were a punch to his senses, making heat surge through him, pooling low. Dad. This is Dad, he repeated, horrified, but he couldn’t deny the effect Tony’s question had on him, the slow, dangerous lick of his lips, the way his gold lip ring glinted in the dim light. His father’s eyes, so familiar yet new in this context, smoldered, leaving Peter’s mind blank and his pulse racing.

He fought to keep steady. “I, uh… lead, I guess,” he stammered, the words slipping out before he could rethink them, dread filling him the moment he realized he’d answered. Why does that even matter? His body was already on fire, his heart pounding as Tony gave him a slow, knowing smirk that only stoked the heat inside him, cheeks burning under his father’s gaze.

But Tony turned, pressing Peter’s hands to his hips, guiding them in a way that left Peter’s breath short and shallow. His fingers pressed into the dips at Tony’s back, thumbs grazing over the dimples above his waistband, feeling the firm heat of skin beneath his hands. So that’s where I got them from , Peter thought, a dizzying mix of horror and fascination flooding him, but he couldn’t stop himself as he pressed his thumbs deeper, steadying Tony as they moved together.

Tony’s reaction was immediate. His back arched, and a low, satisfied hum escaped his lips, vibrating through Peter’s hands. Tony’s body rolled in time with the music, hips moving in slow, sensual circles that left Peter struggling to keep his breathing steady. The thin fabric of Tony’s tank top amplified every shift, every sway, every inch of warm skin pressing against him.

Peter’s gaze dropped before he could stop himself, trailing down to where Tony’s body pressed against him, the way his ass moved, grinding back with a rhythm that was intoxicating. The curve of his back, the tantalizing circles of his hips—Peter was caught, fixated, feeling the tension coil tighter, his cock filling, straining against his jeans, and he couldn’t stop watching.

“You… you really know how to move,” he said, caught off guard by his own words, feeling the tension coil even tighter as his eyes stayed locked on Tony’s ass moving in time with the beat.

Tony caught Peter’s stare, a smug grin on his lips as he murmured, “Like what you see?” His voice was a dark purr, low and knowing, and Peter’s cheeks flushed hotter as Tony looked over his shoulder, catching Peter’s stare, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “Keep staring like that,” he murmured, voice a teasing drawl that left Peter’s skin tingling, “and I’m gonna start thinking you want something, cariño.” His eyes flicked down to Peter’s half-lidded gaze, catching the dazed, aroused look in his eyes. “Or maybe… you already do?”

When Tony pressed back, rolling against him with a rhythm that left Peter mindless, he managed a choked response, his voice raw, “Y-yeah,” the word slipping out in a breathy gasp. God, what am I even saying? His brain was screaming at him, but the heat pooling low in his stomach only intensified, his voice breaking again as he stammered, “I mean… I—”

Peter’s face heated, his breath hitching as Tony’s hand found his nape, fingers curling into his hair, tugging him closer until Peter’s mouth was so near Tony’s he could almost taste him. Tony’s body pressed back, rolling against him with a rhythm that left Peter’s mind blank, his hands sliding up under Tony’s tank top without even realizing, touching the warm, taut skin of his waist and abs, feeling the hard lines there as Tony’s breath caught, a low sound slipping from his lips.

Peter’s brain screamed, This is wrong, this is wrong , but Tony’s touch had him pinned, captivated, as Tony’s mouth brushed the corner of his, leaving a soft, open-mouthed kiss that made the thrill surge stronger, spilling from him in a whisper. “God… this is…”

As Tony’s lips trailed down, pressing slow, lingering kisses along Peter’s jaw and down to the tender skin just behind his ear, his breath warm, his voice low and rich in Spanish, thick with desire, Peter’s mind spun wildly.

“Hueles tan rico, eres tan jodidamente perfecto…” Tony’s words, a heated haze against Peter’s skin, washed over him like fire. “Me encanta tu cuerpo… tan fuerte…”

A shiver ran through Peter at the praise, at the way perfect sounded so thick, so intimate coming from Tony’s lips. He didn’t understand every word, but he felt the weight behind them, sensed the intensity in each syllable, and it shot straight to his core, setting a throbbing ache low in his stomach. His cock pulsed, helplessly responding to the words, to the way Tony’s voice seemed to claim him.

Oh great, he thought, a flicker of humor breaking through his haze of arousal. I have a praise kink, and my father’s the one who discovered it. Does this count as a… daddy kink too? Shit, is this incest? His thoughts spiraled, tinged with that Spidey-brand awkward humor that clashed with the intense heat building inside him.

And the scent, god… Peter could pick it out now—that faint musk so unmistakably Tony—warm, inviting, familiar from years of memories but now dangerously intoxicating. It was his dad, yet here, in this moment, it made his head spin, filling him with a desire he barely knew how to handle.

Then another thought slipped in: Wait… is he smelling my cologne? Or… oh God, my pheromones?

His face flushed hotter, the realization both mortifying and achingly thrilling. He’d worn the cologne Tony had gifted him last Christmas, but after hours in the club, that scent had likely faded. No—Tony was reacting to whatever was naturally coming off him. Peter was torn between horror and the thrilling knowledge that Tony was responding to something innately his. Just as intoxicating was the fact that he was reacting to Tony’s scent, too—it was Tony, just him. His skin felt hypersensitive, prickling with every touch, every inch of him aching to feel Tony press closer, to keep his lips tracing along his skin, to keep murmuring in that low, heated voice.

Peter was caught between wanting Tony to keep kissing him and… not even knowing what he wanted next, just that it was him.

Then, Tony’s mouth brushed against his ear, murmuring low, “¿Cómo alguien puede ser tan perfecto? ¿Dónde has estado? ¿De dónde saliste?” His voice was a sultry promise, each word sending a ripple of heat through Peter, making his knees feel weak. Perfect, Peter echoed in his mind, the word sparking through him like wildfire, setting his skin aflame.

Well, Peter thought hysterically, I came from you.

Before he could stop himself, Peter leaned forward, his mouth brushing over Tony’s bare shoulder, tasting the warmth of his skin as he left a soft, lingering kiss there. His lips tingled, a forbidden thrill igniting as he felt Tony’s reaction—a low, surprised hum, Tony’s breath hitching as his body pressed back against Peter’s, as if urging him even closer. The realization of what he’d done hit him, but the heat of the moment had him helpless, lost, and he leaned in again, this time pressing a firmer kiss to the edge of Tony’s shoulder, his lips grazing the bare skin. Tony’s hand tightened on his waist in response, pulling him closer, his grip a silent invitation that left Peter’s pulse racing.

Why does my dad have to be this gorgeous?  Peter thought helplessly, each detail of Tony’s face sinking into his mind—the thick lashes, the curve of his lips, the glint of his lip ring that left Peter’s mouth dry. And the Spanish—he hadn’t expected it, the language slipping from Tony’s mouth in a way that felt like a revelation, like a door to a part of his father’s history that had been locked away. It felt like Tony was someone new, someone unfamiliar, someone dangerous, and yet the way he looked at Peter… it was as though he were seeing him through the eyes of a stranger.

Peter scrambled to find a reason, any excuse to stay close, rationalizing to himself that it was just the mission. Yes, the mission— he had to keep Tony’s attention focused, he had to play along. That was all this was. He could hold steady, let this go on just a little longer; in ten minutes, he’d be pulled back to his own time automatically. Ten minutes or so—he just had to keep Tony engaged until then. He told himself that the physical reaction he felt wasn’t real, wasn’t him, just part of the job.

But Tony was so close, so warm, each murmured word sending a hum across Peter’s skin, his scent wrapping around him, grounding him in the heat between them. Ten minutes…

Tony’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the console, eyes fixed on the relentless countdown timer. The return function was set, counting down the minutes until Peter would be pulled back automatically. But there was no certainty in that. None.

Bruce sat down beside him, silently offering his presence as a steadying force. They shared a quiet understanding, each man doing his best to hold onto hope, even as the timer ticked down with excruciating slowness.

A light knock on the lab door barely registered with Tony, but Bruce glanced over as Steve stepped in, his expression serious. “Got here as soon as I heard,” he said, voice low. Sam, Natasha, and Clint entered right behind him, all wearing similarly worried expressions.

Tony barely spared them a glance, focused instead on the erratic blips on the monitor. “He was supposed to go back five years—just a quick fix, in and out. Something… something must’ve gone wrong with the coordinates. He’s somewhere off course, and I don’t have a damn clue where.”

Sam exchanged a grim look with Natasha. “Any chance he just… got a little sidetracked?”

“Sidetracked?” Tony echoed, looking up from the console with a mix of frustration and worry. “This isn’t a field trip, Wilson. It’s a delicate time jump with zero margin for error.”

Wanda entered next, a quiet yet fierce determination on her face. She took a seat beside Bruce, her hand hovering near Tony’s arm, as if to lend a touch of reassurance without breaking his focus. Vision followed close behind, nodding at the others as he took in the situation with a calm, assessing gaze.

“Have you run diagnostics on the time stream settings?” Vision asked, his synthetic voice calm and rational. “If there was an external interference, it could have disrupted the pathway.”

“I’ve checked everything twice, Vision. It’s all coming back clean,” Tony said, his voice taut. “It’s like he’s just… slipped out of our range.”

Natasha crossed her arms, watching the monitor with narrowed eyes. “So we’re saying he’s lost, with no clear sign of how far off course?”

“More or less,” Bruce replied, his tone resigned but steady. “There’s a forty-minute auto-return built in. In theory, it should snap him back here the moment the timer runs out.”

Bucky slipped in quietly, his brow furrowing as he assessed the tense scene. “In theory?”

“If something really pulled him off course, that same interference might prevent his return,” Bruce answered, sighing heavily. “But that’s worst-case. We’re not there yet.”

With around eleven minutes left, Thor’s voice echoed from the corridor as he made his way in, fresh from off-world communication and still adjusting to the earthly surroundings. “I heard Peter’s mission… ran into complications?” he asked, glancing around at the others. “What do we know?”

“Not much,” Steve replied, giving a shake of his head. “He’s off target, but we don’t know why.”

“Could be some kind of…energy?” Wanda suggested, her brow creased in thought. “The time stream is unpredictable, and there are entities we don’t yet fully understand.”

Tony’s jaw clenched. “So you’re saying he might’ve run into some kind of… presence?”

Wanda exchanged a glance with Vision, whose face remained stoic but contemplative. “It’s not impossible,” she said softly. “There are… anomalies that exist in the fringes of time and space, things we haven’t encountered directly. But I’ve felt them before, lurking, like echoes.”

Clint raised an eyebrow, leaning against a nearby workbench. “So he might’ve seen something? Like, a glitch? Or maybe something alive?”

“Alive would be… concerning,” Vision murmured, folding his arms as he considered the possibility. “But there are things, shall we say, just outside of our perception. As Wanda said, anomalies that could have slipped through.”

Steve’s expression grew tense, his jaw set as he watched Tony’s restless movements. “So he’s out there, off-course, and there’s a chance he’s not alone?”

Tony’s gaze hardened, eyes locked on the monitor as the timer inched closer to zero. “We don’t know,” he muttered, his voice a barely restrained growl. “We don’t know what he’s dealing with out there—or what could’ve pushed him off-course.”

Bruce placed a steady hand on his shoulder. “But we do know he’s Peter. He’ll hold it together until he’s back, Tony. Just a few more minutes.”

The room fell into a tense silence, everyone’s eyes on the console as the minutes drained away. 10 more minutes...

Meanwhile back in 1997, Peter was dying, but no really. He's being dramatic... he thinks because Tony’s body felt feverishly warm beneath his hands, his muscles firm, skin impossibly smooth, and Peter couldn’t help the way his own hips moved in sync, undulating against him as if by instinct, their bodies locked in a rhythm that left him breathless. The rationalizations dissolved as he fell into that steady, grinding beat, his hands exploring the hard lines of Tony’s body, tracing over his waist, over the strength he could feel there.

Tony’s voice broke through, low and playful, his eyes dark as he looked over his shoulder, catching Peter’s gaze. “You’re really good at this,” he murmured, his voice thick with approval, a little breathless. He pressed back against Peter harder, moving slower, his gaze heating as the tension in the air tightened further. “Starting to feel really fucking good for me.”

Peter’s throat tightened at the words, his mind struggling to keep pace with the flood of sensations. This feels like… he thought, panic and desire clashing, like sex . His chest grew tight as the realization settled over him, his skin buzzing with the wrongness, but the thrill shot through him all the same. He was dizzy, high off Tony’s scent—the musky, warm smell of him filling Peter’s senses, making his head spin as he pressed his lips against Tony’s shoulder, feeling the heat of his skin under his mouth.

A wave of shame and horror surged inside him, but it only intensified the electric pulse that shot through his body, his cock throbbing, painfully aware of Tony’s proximity. And he knew, without a doubt, that Tony could feel it too. Peter’s stomach clenched with guilt, his cheeks burning with humiliation, but his body was betraying him with every grinding motion, unable to pull away.

Tony’s voice cut through the storm in his head, low and rough. “You look like an angel,” he whispered, the words wrapped in something dark, intimate. “So beautiful. Anyone ever told you that?”

Peter’s heart skipped a beat, his mind reeling. Yes, you have , he thought, memories flooding back to all the times Tony had called him “angel,” “sweetheart,” “honey” over the years. But hearing it now, spoken with a breathless hunger, left him stunned, paralyzed. Jesus… His pulse raced, and he struggled to keep his voice steady. “Hah, once or twice,” he managed, his tone shaky, barely covering the conflict tearing him apart.

Tony’s hand slid back to his nape, pulling him in even closer, their mouths nearly touching, so close that Peter could feel the heat radiating from Tony’s lips, so soft, so near. His breath came shallow, each inhale pulling in the scent of Tony’s skin, the warmth, the weight of his body pressed against him in a way that felt like it was blurring every line he thought he knew.

This is wrong, his mind screamed, but his hands betrayed him, sliding over Tony’s waist, feeling the firm muscles, the steady pulse beneath his fingers. He craved the warmth, the closeness, the unbearable intimacy. Tony’s hips rolled back again, pressing harder against him, and Peter felt himself harden further, his body responding with an intensity that left him breathless, the friction, the heat between them a near-unbearable ache that blurred everything else.

“Enjoying yourself, cariño?” Tony’s voice was a dark murmur, his eyes flicking down, catching Peter’s dazed, heated gaze, feeling the hard press of Peter’s need against him.

Peter’s face flushed, his breath coming in shallow, shaky gasps as he scrambled internally, trying to ground himself, to pull his mind out of the haze of arousal, but the words slipped out before he could catch them. “I… yeah, I am,” he breathed, the confession barely a whisper. Panic shot through him immediately, horror and shame mixing with the heat, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t pull away, every grind blurring the lines further as he was swept under, drowning in the forbidden thrill that left him breathless, caught between guilt and need, unable to turn back.

Tony leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over Peter’s lips, his voice low, almost breathless. “I’m… really enjoying it too.” The words were soft, charged, each one sparking a jolt through Peter as Tony’s gaze held his, intense, dark, impossible to look away. His eyes flicked down to Peter’s mouth, lingering, and Peter felt Tony’s hips press in, noticed the faint flush on Tony’s cheeks, the hunger in his eyes.

Peter’s pulse hammered as he stared at Tony’s parted lips, the invitation too close, too tempting, his thoughts spiraling out of control. I’m sorry,dad , he thought in a panic, a flare of shame flickering up, but his body didn’t respond to that desperate plea. Instead, his mind wandered, grasping for anything to hold onto. Memories of his father floated up unbidden—Tony’s voice calling him “angel”, the way he’d always looked out for him, the familiar warmth of his steady presence, the kind of closeness they had. But each thought just seemed to tighten the ache inside him, making him crave Tony’s touch even more, his father’s warmth now something dangerous, drawing him deeper into the need, the attraction, the sheer, aching want.

The pull of Tony’s big, doe-like eyes, gazing at him with that raw desire, almost drove him to the edge. Why does he have to look at me like that? Why is he so pretty? The question spun in his mind, caught between horror and some part of him that had always known how stunning his father was. There was something about seeing him as a stranger, someone new and dangerous, that wrapped around his senses, intoxicating him.

Tony’s head tilted back, falling against Peter’s shoulder, and his fingers threaded through the hair at Peter’s nape, holding him close, his thumb brushing just under his jaw. Peter’s lips still tingled from the way they’d brushed against Tony’s skin, and he was high on the warmth and scent of him, his body responding helplessly as he pressed himself closer, feeling every solid line of Tony’s body.

“You know,” Tony murmured, voice soft but intense, “I’ve never had this much chemistry with a stranger before.” The admission was almost teasing, but his words held a darker weight, leaving Peter breathless, dizzy with an impossible blend of excitement and shame. Chemistry , Peter thought, the word making his stomach twist with arousal and a strange, hysterical urge to laugh. My own dad is saying this…Oh yeah, we sure do dad.

And then the song faded, the DJ’s voice crackling over the speakers as the beat disappeared. But even in the silence, they kept moving, still pressed, still swaying, still grinding, as if the music were still pulsing around them, both of them locked in an impossible rhythm that wouldn’t let them stop.

Peter’s breath hitched, his thoughts spiraling out of reach, replaced by one impossible, undeniable impulse. His heart pounded as he looked down at Tony’s parted lips, so close, so inviting. I know I shouldn’t— his mind screamed, but the pull between them was too intense, too inevitable. He was past the point of control, past any sense of reason.

And then, in one heartbeat, he gave in. He closed the gap, his lips meeting Tony’s in a kiss that was as forbidden as it was inevitable, and they both surrendered to the moment they could no longer resist.