Work Text:
“Why did I think this was a good idea?” Peter Parker moaned pitifully, dragging his feet across the pristine marble floors of Stark Industries like a sulking ghost in a hoodie.
He was already on his third cup of coffee and it wasn’t even 9:00 a.m. A very stylish, very judgmental AI voice had reminded him of this as soon as he entered the building.
Beside him, Emily—his mother’s ever-efficient, ever-unbothered personal assistant—glided effortlessly in heels that would’ve tripped a lesser mortal. She barely glanced up from her StarkTab as she tapped and swiped like a sorceress sorting the fates of executives.
“Like the idea of sending your parents on a vacation?” she replied flatly, still scrolling. “You mean the one they haven’t taken in, oh, let’s say, ten years ? That one? Yeah, no, I don’t think it was a bad idea, Peter. God knows how many times I’ve had to drag your mom to eat something other than a Luna Bar.”
Peter groaned. “Yeah, but I didn’t know handling a whole company would be this stressful. I thought she just... smiled, said some boss-lady stuff, and magically things got done.”
Emily gave him a look over her glasses that could’ve sliced a man in half. “That’s because she’s Pepper Potts-Stark . She makes twelve-hour board meetings look like spa days. She juggles tech innovation, diplomacy, quarterly projections, and your father’s high-maintenance ego with the same grace most people save for brunch.”
Peter flopped dramatically onto a leather couch in the executive lobby. “She’s like this perfect business sorceress. Meanwhile, I’m over here googling what EBITDA means. Spoiler: I still don’t really get it.”
“You’re doing fine,” Emily said, though her tone implied ‘fine’ was a relative term.
Peter narrowed his eyes. “You’re just saying that because I’m technically your boss right now.”
Emily paused, then snorted. “Absolutely not. You’re the temporary acting CEO until they get back from Bora Bora or wherever the Starks go when they finally admit they’re exhausted. I’m not paid to flatter children.”
“I’m seventeen,” Peter huffed.
“And running a multi-billion-dollar company in a fitted blazer. How cute.”
He glared at her, though it was hard to be intimidating when you were drowning in responsibilities, caffeine, and mild existential dread.
“Being their son is making it worse,” he muttered. “Every time I walk into a room, those military contractors look at me like I’m supposed to know how to dismantle a warhead with a spreadsheet. I swear, one guy called me ‘Mr. Stark Jr.’ and winked. Winked , Emily.”
She visibly shuddered. “Okay, that’s gross. But also, welcome to the club. Your mom had to put up with those same sweaty meatheads calling her ‘Miss Potts’ like it was 1955. You think the Defense Subcontractor Summit is bad? Wait until you meet the board. That room smells like ego and old money.”
Peter made a strangled sound. “I already did. One guy asked me if I could install an Arc Reactor in his golf cart.”
Emily sighed in solidarity. “God, I hate this place sometimes.”
“Same.”
“Now move, the boardroom is on the twenty-third floor and you’re already late.”
“Can I pretend I got stuck in an elevator?”
She leveled him with a look that could’ve melted glass.
“Right. Boardroom it is.”
The Stark Industries executive meeting room was a gladiator arena for passive-aggressive billionaires. How convenient.
Peter sat at the head of the long obsidian table, surrounded by fifteen people in suits so expensive they probably required their own insurance policies. Each one stared at him like a bug under a microscope, their expressions varying between polite contempt and thinly-veiled amusement.
“We’d like to revisit the defense sector’s discretionary budget,” began a man with a jaw like a bulldozer. General Abernathy, or as Peter called him internally, “Major Neck Vein.”
Peter blinked. “Didn’t we just approve five million for exo-suit testing in Nevada?”
“That was last week,” the general grunted.
“You burned through five million in a week?”
“We had... sand complications.”
Emily, sitting discreetly near the coffee tray, coughed into her drink. “Sand complications,” she mouthed.
Peter gave a diplomatic smile, which was basically code for “Please stop talking to me.”
“I think we’ll need to... circle back,” Peter said, doing jazz hands. “On that. Circle. Back.”
The room murmured in vague approval. Corporate people loved circles. Loved them more than ethics, sleep, or vowels.
The next presenter—a man who somehow resembled both a ferret and a yacht—clicked on a hologram and began a pitch about Stark Industries investing in “influencer-based AI therapy.”
Peter didn’t know what that meant, and frankly, he didn’t want to.
“So... you want to combine TikTok stars and trauma counseling?”
“It’s revolutionary,” the man said.
“It’s horrifying,” Peter replied. “Next.”
*********************
Peter stood in his mother’s office like he was about to commit a crime. Technically, all he was supposed to do here was sit down and review the company’s upcoming charity initiative. Instead, he paced the floor, arms flailing as if conducting a one-man musical about his slow descent into corporate hell.
“This chair is evil,” he muttered, glaring at the high-back executive throne behind the desk. “It knows it belongs to someone competent. I swear, I sat in it and suddenly forgot how to breathe.”
“You sat on the ‘Stark Potts Power Throne.’ Rookie mistake,” Emily said from the doorway, sipping something green and suspiciously healthy-looking. “Only the true heir can wield its power without sweating.”
Peter peeked over the back of the chair. “Do I look like I’m sweating?”
“Like Niagara Falls.”
He groaned again, slouching into the seat like it might swallow him whole. The monitors on the desk flared to life, each one showing a different, terrifying dashboard of financial gibberish, global project updates, and a blinking red notification that simply read: “NATO HOLDING LINE 3.”
“Nope,” Peter said, pressing the dismiss button so fast it almost left a dent.
“Wow,” Emily said. “Did you just hang up on NATO?”
“I panicked!”
“You’re gonna make an international incident before lunch.”
“Is it too late to call Steve Rogers and fake a national emergency?”
“He’s in the Arctic, remember? Frozen vacation or we called it a mission. Again.”
Peter muttered something unrepeatable and then opened the next report titled: “Quantum Server Upgrade Initiative: Urgent Timeline.”
“Cool, I know none of those words.”
Emily peered over his shoulder. “Just nod in meetings and say ‘We’ll circle back.’ It’s the corporate way.”
Right after another meeting, Peter made his way back to the office. Emily tossed a stress ball at Peter’s head as he slumped back into Pepper’s chair, eyes bloodshot and spirit mildly broken.
“You survived,” she said cheerfully.
“Barely. I think I aged five years and lost my will to live.”
“Typical Tuesday,” she shrugged, then added, “Your mom once had a board meeting, a tech demo, and a hostage negotiation all before noon. You’re doing fine.”
Peter rubbed his eyes. “I just wanted to send my parents on a nice vacation. I didn’t think I’d be trapped in corporate Narnia, where no one speaks English and everyone wants to militarize toaster ovens.”
Emily leaned back against the desk. “This is your family’s legacy now. Your mom, your dad—they turned this place into more than just tech. It’s politics, progress, and PR disasters in real time. And you, Peter Parker-Stark, you just chaired your first board meeting and only said ‘circle back’ twice. That’s practically a win.”
Peter looked up, smiling faintly. “You think I could actually do this? Like, long-term?”
Emily paused, then grinned. “Absolutely. And you might need more training. But it’s adorable watching you try.”
Peter threw the stress ball at her. She caught it with one hand and tossed it back, smirking.
*********************
Peter opened his inbox to find a message from Pepper, titled: “Hi Sweetheart :)”
Hi Sweetheart,
Tony just learned how to spear a coconut. It was deeply unnecessary and involved at least one explosion.
How are you? We got the NATO ping and figured you hung up on them. Good call.
Proud of you.
Love,
Mom
P.S. Don’t trust General Abernathy. He once tried to convince me to fund a weaponized Segway.
Peter laughed until he cried.
*********************
A wave of noisy high school voices spilled into the room like an invading army of underprepared teens in matching Midtown High t-shirts.
Peter blinked.
The first face he saw was Ned’s. Then MJ. Then Flash, looking like someone had just told him Wi-Fi was canceled forever.
They all stopped.
He stopped.
Time, very briefly, decided to take a coffee break.
“Oh my God,” someone gasped from the back. “Is that Peter Parker?”
Peter blinked again.
Ned’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “Bro… what the hell?”
“Oh no,” Peter muttered.
*********************
Two hours earlier the entire sophomore of Midtown Tech arrived in front of the magnificent Stark Industries front.
“Now remember, everyone, this is a professional environment,” Mr. Harrington chirped as the students were herded into the pristine lobby of Stark Industries. “We are guests of Stark Industries. Try not to touch anything, eat anything, or—Flash, for the love of God, do not flirt with the holograms again.”
Flash scoffed. “You say that like they don’t flirt back.”
Mr. Harrington sighed deeply. “Anyway. You all should be on your best behavior. I am told we may catch a glimpse of an intern or two from the Stark Industries. Very competitive. Very elite.”
MJ, arms crossed and skeptical, glanced at the building’s towering ceiling. “So let me get this straight. We tour the tech lab, stare at billion-dollar projects we’ll never afford, and then get shuffled out for lunch and a bus ride?”
“Correct,” said Mr. Harrington. “And for the record, Peter Parker was invited to this, but he was exempted —the lucky little genius got accepted into the summer program instead.”
Ned beamed. “Man, good for Peter. Wonder what he’s up to right now?”
Without Ned or his other classmates knowing, the same person is located in the Floor 70, looking tense and ready to web someone's mouth shut for even breathing near him.
Peter stood at the head of the long obsidian table, a tablet in one hand, coffee in the other, dressed in a perfectly tailored Stark Industries blazer that definitely did not scream “former Lego enthusiast.” His usual chaotic curls had been tamed (slightly) and he wore that familiar “I'm two spreadsheets away from collapsing” look his mother had patented years ago.
It was at that exact moment a man in full military uniform barged through the doors like a tank with a bad attitude.
Major Rourke. All medals, scowl, and ego.
“Where is the CEO?” Rourke barked, eyes scanning the room like it owed him rent.
The field trip froze. Mr. Harrington immediately tried to usher the students back, but MJ shoved his arm down. “No way. We’re witnessing a full-blown corporate episode of ‘Succession: Stark Edition.’”
Rourke stomped in further. “We had a meeting. Two hours ago. I’ve been bounced between your idiot receptionists and some AI that told me to ‘take a chill pill.’ Where is Potts? Where is Stark? I demand—”
Peter set his coffee down slowly, took a deep breath, and turned around like he was on stage. Which, at this point, he basically was.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice calm but edged. “Were you under the impression that barging into a secure Stark Industries conference room and yelling at the furniture would get you a meeting?”
The students gasped.
Peter’s classmates looked like they had just discovered their class hamster had a mortgage and a private equity portfolio.
Rourke’s eyebrows pinched. “And you are?”
Peter smiled. Not the shy, nerdy, “please-don’t-look-at-me” smile they all knew from class.
This was the Stark smile.
“Peter Parker-Stark. Acting CEO of Stark Industries.”
Mr. Harrington nearly fainted. Ned visibly vibrated in excitement.
Rourke scoffed. “You? You’re a kid.”
Peter nodded, eyes gleaming. “Correct. I’m also the legally adopted son of Tony Stark and Pepper Potts-Stark. Which makes me your worst nightmare: a teenager with authority and sarcasm.”
Emily chose that moment to enter, completely unfazed by the chaos. “Mr. Stark, I see the General made his way upstairs.”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Peter said. “He seems to think yelling at interns is a valid form of diplomacy.”
“Should I call security?”
“Oh please do,” Peter said sweetly. “I love it when they taser people who disrespect protocol.”
Rourke growled. “I don’t have time for this. I was promised an increase in development funding for our mobile artillery drones—”
“You were promised nothing,” Peter cut in, walking toward him slowly, each step echoing off the polished floors. “You requested funding for a drone program with a 73% failure rate, a 200% over budget record, and a crash reel that went viral on TikTok last week.”
Flash whispered, “Yo, this is better than reality TV.”
Peter stopped a foot from Rourke, chin lifted. “So unless you have something new to offer beyond yelling, entitlement, and military cosplay, I suggest you take your tantrum outside before I have Friday reroute your parking validation to a cornfield in Nebraska.”
Rourke opened his mouth.
Peter raised a hand. “Ah-ah. You just got out-negotiated by someone who still needs ID to rent a movie. Let that sink in.”
The silence was glorious.
Emily handed Peter a folder. “Your 1:30 with the UN rep is ready.”
Peter nodded. “Fantastic. I love when adults know how to use a calendar.”
Rourke looked ready to pop a vein, but Emily had already hit the silent alarm to have him politely yeeted out of the building.
“You’re gonna regret this, Stark!” Said the moustache man while being escorted (read: dragged) by the security.
“Cry me a river, Major Rouke. You will be hearing from our lawyers that we are cancelling the project. Toodles,” Peter saluted the major who froze and his face visibly paled.
Peter turned back to his stunned classmates, hands casually in his pockets. “Hey, guys. Field trip, huh?”
Ned choked out a laugh. “DUDE.”
Mr. Harrington looked like he’d seen God. Or worse, a student running a Fortune 500 company.
MJ stepped forward, arms crossed. “So. CEO now, huh?”
Peter shrugged. “Temporarily. Mom and Dad are on vacation. I thought it would be spreadsheets and free snacks. Turns out, it’s more spreadsheets, stress migraines, and intimidating generals.”
Flash finally found his voice. “Are you rich now?!”
“Flash,” MJ snapped. “Shut up.”
Peter chuckled. “It’s... complicated. But yeah, technically, I’m your classmate and your corporate overlord for the day.”
Mr. Harrington stammered, “Would it be... would it be okay if the class—?”
Peter waved a hand. “Feel free to observe. I’m just preparing for a presentation about international tech regulations. There may or may not be a holographic map and animated charts.”
The class lit up like Christmas.
The Midtown students sat in stunned silence watching Peter through the glass as he presented to a delegation of stern-faced officials. His voice was smooth, confident. He used words like “transnational compliance” and “ethical oversight architecture” and didn’t even flinch when someone asked about quantum encryption.
“He’s like… cool,” said a genuinely stunned Flash.
Ned wiped away a tear. “My boy. My beautiful genius boy.”
MJ just smirked. “Knew it. Knew he had it in him.”
Peter, now in full Stark-Potts mode, ended the meeting with a well-timed joke about alien trade law and received light diplomatic applause. He bowed with exaggerated grace, clearly enjoying himself.
Peter stepped out of the conference room, loosening his collar. “So, that was the day.”
His classmates surrounded him.
“Dude, you just sassed a general ,” Ned said in awe.
MJ elbowed Peter lightly. “Not bad, Starkling.”
Peter grinned. “Thanks. I was channeling Mom’s spine and Dad’s ego.”
Mr. Harrington was still frozen. “You’re... how long have you...?”
Peter glanced at his watch. “About three months in the program. Mom says I’ve leveled up from ‘barely functioning duckling’ to ‘responsibly caffeinated heir.’”
MJ raised an eyebrow. “So... Can you take over the school next?”
Peter considered. “Tempting. But I think one dysfunctional empire at a time.”
Flash raised a hand like they were in class. “Can I intern here?”
“No,” Peter said immediately.
*********************
Peter collapsed into Pepper’s big chair, tie loose, hair messy again.
Emily walked in with two folders and a cookie.
“You survived,” she said.
“I survived a military man-child, a surprise school reunion, and a live-fire board meeting,” Peter mumbled, biting into the cookie. “I deserve a raise.”
“You’re not being paid.”
“I deserve a symbolic raise.”
Emily smiled, tapping her tablet. “Already scheduled your mom’s debrief for next week. She’ll want a full rundown.”
Peter closed his eyes. “Oh God.”
“And FYI,” she added, “the UN envoy said you were ‘unexpectedly competent.’ That’s practically a Nobel Prize around here.”
Peter smirked. “Just trying to make the Starks proud.”
And in that moment—surrounded by chaos, caffeine, and unexpected applause—he kind of did.
*********************
“Hmm, what’s this? Wait?! Tony!” Pepper Potts who was just sunbathing while casually scrolling her phone spit out her fruit cocktail.
Her husband came out running, with a gauntlet on his left hand. Ready to fire just in case. “What is it, honey? Do I need to fire someone?” Tony Stark said breathlessly.
“No! Put that thing down and come look at this.” Pepper said. Tony tapped on the gauntlet and it dispersed in a watch.
He leaned into his wife who had her jaw dropping. Huh, it’s not everyday you had Pepper Potts amazed by things. When Tony finally sees what is on the screen, his jaw too. Dropped. Stunned. Frozen.
“Is that Peter? What the?!” He exclaimed. Suddenly he felt they needed to make a call home.
Peter sat slumped in the sleek leather chair in Pepper’s office, a half-eaten muffin on his desk and a cup of lukewarm coffee in hand. His tie was gone, replaced by a hoodie that said “CEO-in-Training But Emotionally Retired.”
Emily stood off to the side, arms folded, struggling to keep a straight face.
“Are you sure we have to call them?” Peter asked miserably.
“You managed to shatter three federal egos, accidentally run a live field trip, and verbally judo-flip a general. Yes,” Emily said. “They deserve a front-row seat.”
She hit the call button. The screen lit up with a soft beep , followed by a sunny video feed of Tuscany , where Pepper Potts-Stark sat in a wide-brimmed hat, sipping something definitely alcoholic. Next to her, Tony Stark reclined in a chair, shirt half-buttoned, sunglasses on, a bowl of olives in his lap.
“Hey, boss baby,” Tony grinned. “You look like someone chewed you up, spit you out, and then made you file quarterly earnings.”
Peter groaned. “Hi, Dad.”
Pepper lowered her sunglasses. “Sweetheart. We watched the footage.”
Tony nodded solemnly. “Multiple angles. Emily sent us the security cam. Friday edited in dramatic background music. Very touching.”
Peter gave Emily a betrayed look. She sipped her coffee like it was holy water.
“I was doing damage control,” she said with a smile. “PR already framed it as ‘youthful genius handles aggressive stakeholders with poise.’ You’re trending on LinkedIn.”
Tony leaned in, smirking. “And TikTok. There’s a remix of you saying ‘before I have Friday reroute your parking validation to a cornfield in Nebraska.’ It slaps.”
Peter buried his face in his hands. “I wanted to run a quiet meeting. Maybe fix a spreadsheet. Not go viral for emotionally drop-kicking the Department of Defense.”
Pepper smiled proudly. “But you did it with grace, baby. The whole board was impressed.”
Tony raised a finger. “I wasn’t. I was stunned. You were magnificent. You were me—if I had been slightly less of a disaster at seventeen.”
Peter peeked up. “You’re not mad?”
Tony scoffed. “Kid, if I had a nickel for every time I humiliated a military official in front of teenagers, I’d own the Pentagon. You made the Stark brand proud.”
Pepper added gently, “And you kept your cool. You protected our staff, upheld company protocol, and stood your ground. That’s the kind of leadership that matters, dear.”
Peter leaned back, relieved. “Thanks. I thought I totally blew it.”
“Oh, you absolutely did,” Tony said cheerfully. “But in the right way.”
Pepper glanced at her tablet. “Although... you forgot the school field trip.”
Peter flinched. “I didn’t forget ! I just... wasn’t told it was happening on that floor.”
Tony grinned. “Peter, you were literally in the same room as your class when they walked in and still didn’t notice until Flash screamed.”
“Who let them in the conference room anyway!?” Peter asked.
Emily raised a hand. “Technically, Friday did.”
“Traitor,” Peter muttered.
Tony leaned back with a sigh. “Honestly, I think you needed that. A little humility via teenage horror.”
Peter shook his head. “It was like being ambushed by every phase of my awkward existence at once. Flash asked me if I was rich now.”
“And?” Tony asked, smirking.
“I said it was complicated.”
“That’s my boy,” Tony beamed.
Pepper smiled softly. “We’re proud of you, Peter. You’ve grown so much. And the way you handled that general—”
“Brilliant,” Tony interrupted. “Truly. I haven’t seen anyone get verbally ejected that hard since I told Ross to choke on bureaucracy.”
Pepper gave him a look. “You also got banned from that gala for two years.”
“Worth it.”
Peter sighed. “So... I guess I survived?”
“You did,” Pepper said warmly. “And now we’re seriously considering letting you run next quarter’s product pitch. Not alone, obviously, but with supervision.”
Peter blinked. “Wait, like... actually run it?”
“Don’t make it weird,” Tony said. “We just realized you might actually know what you’re doing.”
Peter lit up. “Okay. That’s—yeah. Cool. Terrifying. But cool.”
Tony leaned forward. “Just one thing.”
“Uh-oh.”
Tony’s grin widened. “Next time a general barges in? Toss in a little more menace. Maybe quote the Geneva Conventions. Really freak ‘em out.”
Pepper sighed deeply. “Please do not quote war crimes protocols as sarcasm.”
Tony made a "what?" face. “It’s educational.” Both Peter and Pepper laugh.
"We are so proud of you, dear. And that's the best feeling parents can feel." Pepper said after laughter subsided. Tony who wrapped his arm around her shoulders also smiling brightly.
"You are our son, Peter and we will always be proud in everything you had done."
Peter laughed, feeling something settle in his chest—a strange, heavy, warm thing.
Pride. Not just from them. But for himself.
For once, he didn’t feel like he was pretending to be a Stark. He was one.
Emily had asked for early leave since she got a hot date tonight and Peter already finished all the schedule for today and decided to settle in early. He opened the balcony of Stark penthouse and put his hand on the railing.
Peter stood overlooking the city, the wind in his curls, another coffee in hand.
He’d survived bureaucracy, military egos, teenage trauma, and internet fame.
Tomorrow, he’d do it again.
But tonight?
Tonight, he texted Ned and MJ:
“Next time y’all drop in, give me a heads-up. Or bring snacks.”
She replied instantly:
“Next time, we’re crashing your board meeting with protest signs. #JusticeForLabPeriods.”
Ned replied a minute later:
“Flash got an aneurysm and Mr.Harrington was about to faint. Others, traumatized. All I can say is SLAY, DUDE.”
He smiled.
Life was chaotic.
But he was a Stark.
He was ready.