i know, i know, i’m starker but here’s just some irondad spiderson fluff
Peter is three.
Tony loves him fiercely, and would do absolutely anything for his son. Peter is everything. May’s gone, and Tony misses her, but he has his baby boy and that’s all that matters.
Peter is three, and a ball of sunshine, who refuses to leave Tony’s side.
Tony grins, hoping it’ll entice Peter to smile, as he nudges the boy towards the bustling playground in the windy park. “Go on, Petey, go play.” He urges.
Peter’s huge brown eyes gaze up at him, and his bottom lip wobbles and Tony crouches down immediately; eager to nip the tantrum in the bud before it happens.
“Hey, baby,” he croons, stroking Peter’s baby-soft cheek with his knuckles. Goddamn, his son is so cute. With that tiny little nose and those glittery eyes and his flushed cheeks and thick brown hair. “What’s wrong, huh? Don’t you want to play?”
Peter nods, and reaches out to grab Tony’s wrist in both of his little hands. “Wanna play with daddy,” he insists meaningfully, and attempts to drag Tony into the playground. Tony smiles, and shakes his head.
“You should go play with your friends, sweetheart, they’re all in there.” He can see Harry and Flash and Wade all running about on their little podgy feet.
Peter’s face screws up and his eyes go misty. “You’re my friend!” He screeches heartbrokenly, launching forward and locking his arms around Tony’s neck with all the force he can muster and Tony’s heart swells up as he hoists Peter up and onto his hip. Peter smells of clean clothes and bubble bath and Tony chuckles as he nuzzle into his neck. He twists a little, so Peter has a view into the park and his boy pauses and rubs his eye with his fist.
“Issat Wade!” He exclaims gleefully, feet kicking to be put down and Tony snorts and sets him down, watching Peter run off into the park with all the other children.
After about an hour, Tony thinks it’s time to go. It’s a little colder now, so he holds out Peter’s puffy orange coat and his boy slips into it and stands giggly and obedient as Tony zips him up.
He arches his eyebrow in amusement, tucking Peter’s hair into the little beanie and trying not to aww over how cute his kid is. “Something funny, buddy?”
Peter giggles again, and he looks like a little round ball, he’s in so many layers. (Steve had once scoffed and said ‘seriously, Tony? He’ll overheat’ and they’d both watched Peter shiver in spite of the sweaters and Tony had felt justifiably triumphant). “You’re funny, daddy,” Peter decrees grandly, leaning forward to press a wet kiss onto Tony’s nose, and then reach his arms up and make grabby hands to be carried.
Tony shouldn’t carry him, really, the car’s only round the corner- but he wants too.
He does a lot of things the parenting books say not to do.
Like let Peter crawl into bed with him, or sit on his lap all the time, or cater to his every whim. If Peter looks at a toy in the store, Tony has it bought immediately. If he perks up at a certain cartoon pig on the tv, Tony has the boxset before the sun sets.
“You’ll spoil him,” Bruce’s mutters fondly, even as he sits docilely and lets Peter scribble all over him in marker as he plays ‘tattoo artist’. Peter’s pink little tongue is poking out in concentration and Bruce keeps pointing out how Tony’s does the exact same thing and-
“I don’t spoil him,” Tony huffs, and Peter sits up with pen all over his face and cheers:
“Pancakes!”
Tony makes pancakes. Peter eats them with his chubby fingers and gazes at Tony like he hung the moon in the sky and Tony puffs out his chest but can’t keep from picturing a bratty teenager swearing at him and demanding a nicer car or a bigger allowance.
“Hey, buddy,” he murmurs, scooping Peter into his arms and placing a kiss on his head as he walks them out onto the balcony. “Never become a little brat, okay? Stay perfect for me.” He hugs him tight.
“Be perfect like daddy,” Peter vows solemnly, before wriggling and placing a sugary kiss to Tony’s chin and letting out a huge yawn that seems to startle him. He blinks like a squirrel before looking at Tony accusingly, as though he’s the reason for his fatigue. A mini-Sherlock on his hands, it seems.
Tony laughs so hard his stomach aches, and he carries him inside for a nap.
