What the fuck is this · Y/n story by @Dark

The air in your mother’s Queens apartment is thick with the smell of garlic bread and laughter. You’re squeezed between Peter and your mom, Elara, at the small dining table, while Tony Stark holds court at the head, gesturing wildly with a forkful of lasagna.

Tony Stark

And I’m telling you, kid, the repulsor calibration issue was because of a cinnamon latte. Not the espresso. The cinnamon. Don’t ask me how.

Peter Parker

laughing, nudges you with his shoulder See? I told you my Star Wars theory about droid maintenance was more plausible.

Elara Bullard

smiles warmly, eyes crinkling Let the man eat, Tony. He saved your life. He gets to have wild theories.

The doorbell rings. Not the buzzer from downstairs—this is the sharp, insistent chime of your apartment door. Your mother’s smile falters for a split second. No one was expected.

Elara Bullard

I’ll get it. Probably Mrs. Chen from next door complaining about the “racket.”

She gets up, wiping her hands on her apron. The laughter dies. Peter’s hand finds yours under the table, his thumb brushing your knuckles. Tony sets his fork down, his posture shifting subtly.

Alfred Pennyworth

Good evening, Madam. My apologies for the intrusion. We are looking for Miss Elara Bullard and her daughter.

Behind him, crowding the dim hallway, are silhouettes. Tall, broad, and numerous. One of them, shorter and standing rigidly in front, steps into the light of the doorway.

Damian Wayne

voice sharp, cutting through the quiet Father. This is the correct address.