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IDEA A.

(Endgame AU, future fic, older Peter Parker, Morgan included, Peter/MJ romance, Drama/Mystery)

Tony Stark is dead. Lost almost ten years ago, and not to Thanos or any Avengers level threat, but in a clash with the Green Goblin that Peter regrets every morning when he wakes up and every night when he goes to sleep. Being Tony’s protege meant that most of Tony’s tech went to Peter, and on one of his more melancholy days, Peter goes through Tony’s old workshops, and digs up one of Tony’s inventions that he doesn’t recognize or remember. And once he turns it on, he realizes it must be some kind of communication device—and he gets the surprise of his life when he connects immediately with a familiar voice.

Tony’s voice. 

After some panic, some anger, some accusations, Peter realizes it isn’t a trick. Peter realizes that he’s actually speaking to Tony. Tony, from the past. Tony, three days before the day of his death.

Can Peter can change the past? And if he does, can he deal with the consequences?

IDEA B.

(Endgame everybody lives AU, no five year loss, pregnant Pepper, Avengers as family including Team Cap, Peter/MJ romance, Drama/Mystery/Comedy)

Tony wakes up one morning to a concerned call from May Parker. As per usual, Peter is worrying his poor aunt to death—but this time is different. His phone is giving a message that it’s not in service. And when Tony’s panic rises and he searches for Peter with Friday, he’s horrified to find out that there’s no trace of Peter anywhere on the earth. 

He’s gone. Disappeared, without a trace.

Tony leaps into action, using all the tech at his disposal, searching through Spider-Man fan groups online, and eventually, he’s led to an abandoned warehouse on Roosevelt Island. There’s a strange feeling in the air, and it isn’t just his fear making him sick. There’s something going on. There’s something…off.

And Tony finds a major clue under a nearby bridge, faded underneath old graffiti and withering posters and the sands of time. 

TONY - I’M HERE. I’M HERE IN 1991 :(

And it’s signed with small spider. 

IDEA C.

(AU in which Tony never met Peter, pre-civil war timeline with Avengers as family, Peter as an orphan with no May and Ben, eventual Peter/MJ romance, Drama)

Tony Stark has a happy life. He loves his girlfriend. He’s got a lot of money, he’s a philanthropist, he gives back. He’s also a superhero, with a bunch of superhero buddies.

But strangely, there’s something missing. He’s got ghosts of people he once knew, people who are gone with no goodbyes, and he’s got ghosts of people that were never here to begin with. People he might have met, in another life.

One night he’s looking through his father’s old files, and he finds out there was a project Howard was working on—searching for heroes that came before Captain America. The folder isn’t packed, and there are only a few suspects with not much evidence, but there is one person in particular that strikes Tony as soon as he sees him.

Peter Parker. Someone Howard dubbed ‘the Spider-Man’. The kid was born in 1913, and all of Howard’s evidence was blurry newspaper photos, some handwritten notes that made it seem like Howard himself was following Peter. He was never able to prove that Peter was actually the Spider-Man, but his conclusion was that he was most likely correct—because the Spider-Man never reappeared after Peter Parker died in a factory fire in 1929. 

Tony reads the details about Peter. An orphan, living on the streets. Someone Howard described as kind, helpful. ‘Undoubtedly the masked hero. A genuinely good and decent human being who only thought of others.’

Suddenly, Tony is thinking about time travel. 

IDEA D.

(Endgame everybody lives AU, not FFH compliant, Peter/MJ romance, Peter & Harry Osborn friendship, Avengers as family, Morgan Stark present, Drama/Mystery)

Peter Parker is finally on the right track. He’s a sophomore at ESU, staying close to home so he can keep up with his Spider-Man duties. He’s in a long term relationship with MJ. And they and Ned have adopted a new friend into their group—Harry Osborn.

But everything goes wrong when Norman, Harry’s father, announces that his son has been killed and Spider-Man is to blame. And worse yet, he has video evidence, despite the fact that Peter was nowhere near the event when it happened.

MJ and Ned take Peter, and they run.

Tony fights for his kid in the public eye while he facilitates Peter and the others with safe houses, and Peter quickly realizes that there’s a lot more to Norman Osborn than he ever could have imagined. Including the leagues of supervillains he sends after Peter and his friends. He clearly knows who Peter is, knows he’s Spider-Man. But he isn’t leaking his identity to the public just yet. And Peter has no idea why. 

Can Tony clear Spider-Man’s name before it’s too late?

IDEA E.

(Tony surrives the snap in Endgame but falls into a coma, FFH compliant, Peter/MJ romance, Morgan Stark present, Drama)

Tony remembers snapping. Remembers the whiteness that he thought was the pearly gates finally coming into view. But then nothing happened. He was in the middle of nowhere, a great dark space, and he figured purgatory would be more exciting than this. 

Sometimes, he can hear voices.

The people he loves. Pepper, pleading for him to come back. Morgan, telling him how much she loves him. Rhodey and Happy, telling him how they’re taking care of everything while he sleeps.

Sleeps?

He hears Peter, too. Almost more than anybody else, and the kid’s guilt is out of this world. Eventually, Peter talks about going on a trip. A trip that May and the others convinced him to go on. Tony’s glad. He knows the kid has earned it ten times over.

Later, he hears more voices. Jumbed, mass hysteria. 

It’s bad but we can help him—

We’re gonna try, we’re gonna try—

Please wake up, he needs you—

Peter’s in the Raft, Tony. It didn’t work. He’s in the Raft.

Tony feels a kind of strength he’s never felt before. A kind of anger and horror and pure rage and the blackness dissipates, stretches, moves like a ladder falling.

He pulls himself out.

Beeping, noises, everyone moving around, grabbing him, pushing him down. He’s dizzy, he’s sick, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Nothing else matters. They’re talking, but he can’t hear them.

He’s gotta get Peter. The Raft? The fucking Raft?

LOOK! LOOK AT THIS LOVELY, ADORABLE PIECE OF ART @dragonnan​ GIFTED FROM HER TALENTED FINGERS!!

— For Pete’s Sake!

When Peter was seven, he collected pennies.

Not quarters, not dimes, not even nickles. He had been insistent that his collection be for pennies only. And despite Uncle Ben’s various attempts at tainting his beautiful collection, not a single silver coin could be found in his dingy mason jar, crudely labeled ‘Peter Parker’s Pennies’ with half-smudged, half-dried out Crayola marker.

It was his goal to save up enough pennies to buy himself and Ned LED Star Wars Lightsabers from Toys R Us. Was it odd? Absolutely. But there was something prideful about spending so much time saving up every little penny he came across for such a large purchase. A reminder that no matter how bleak life got, he could make the impossible happen.

He spent the entire summer of 2008 working on his collection, picking up pennies he found on the street and subsequently causing Aunt May to carry hand sanitizer with her everywhere they went. His hands became cracked and dry from the frequent use of Purell, but his jar a little more full. And just like that, a lonely, sad orphaned kid mourning the loss of his parents found an odd sense of control in his life, something to look forward to each day. Even if it was only collecting a penny.

“…ow.”

Ultimately though, he caved, spending the entire $2.47 he had saved up on Iron Man ice cream bars. What could he say, the ice cream truck driver really knew how to make a sale. Ned tried telling him it was because of the ‘Keep calm and Iron on’ t-shirt he was wearing, but who really knows.

He remembered dumping that entire mason jar of pennies out and being rewarded with a frightening looking Iron Man treat that tasted much better than it looked. That didn’t take a whole lot, what with the summer heat having melted half of the red coloring into the yellow and morphing what might have been the Iron Man faceplate into a ghastly green.

Walking back to his neighborhood of Forest Hills in Queens, New York, he licked his fingers clean of the creamy residue left behind from the ice cream. It had an odd aftertaste of cherry with a surprising kick of metal. Copper. The counting of his change to the truck driver created a distinct, pungent taste that invaded his tongue, and he promptly wiped his hands clean on his pants, grimacing at the bitterness left behind.

“…wha…ugh…”

“You much on history, Mr. Parker?”

The question caught him off guard. Peter looked up, swallowing hard.

“Uh, no, sir. I’m actually…struggling a bit in that area. But Harry’s —”

“Did you know that the first recorded mention of cancer came around 1600 B.C. Egypt? A lot of people don’t know that,” Norman mused aloud, his tone cool, contemplative. “They think cancer came along with cigarettes and food preservatives. They think we brought cancer on ourselves as a plague…a plague of modern society. But it’s always been there…since man first figured out how to poke and prod itself — it’s always been there.”

Peter felt frozen in his seat, muscles all but paralyzed, as if he was worried any movement would disturb the sudden conversation that had uprooted from Norman. He listened intently, expression fixated.

“Then you skip ahead to Greece and Rome,” Norman waved a hand about, “Sure, doctors, Hippocrates and Galen lifted their ideas of medicine from magic and superstitious nonsensical suppositions. But it was the Hippocrates who named it. They named it cancer; karkinoma in Greek because a tumor looked like a crab. Karkinoma.”

The words floated in the air like an afternoon lecture, practiced and perfected, studied to a tee.

“And slowly but surely we got a better understanding of human anatomy. Then better technology. Better microscopes…then comes better understanding of cell structure.” His fingers played idly across the armrest of his chair as he explained, “Chemical carcinogens, diagnostic techniques, chemotherapy…and before we know it, oncology is a science. You like science, don’t you, Mr. Parker?”

Peter felt a chill work down his spine as he stared at the man so casually going on about something that felt incredibly out of the blue. He frowned, his eyebrows tugging down.

“Beginning clinical trial 10.F—G in three…two…one…”

The liquid dropped from its contained, secured case the moment the buzzer went off, the sound piercing and sharp. The feel of it always got to him; dense, thick, slimy, and somehow worse than all the times that came before. Like a raindrop, it hit the back of his hand with a pluck.

It was hot.

It was always hot, burning against his skin, sizzling at the touch. He had lost count of the chemical burns that scattered along his body, scars that told stories of the many attempts he endured in the pursuit of health. Life. A chance.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. No, never in the battery of tests he subjected himself to was it ever lost on him. He was destroying his body in the attempt to heal it.

It wasn’t ideal, and certainly not his first choice in the grand scheme of things. But they didn’t have time — he didn’t have time. There was no animal testing or research studies that could be done before reaching him.

Not if he wanted a chance.

So he closed his eyes, tight. Tight enough to feel the muscles in his face twitch and scream and beg for the release that he wouldn’t give until he heard the word ‘success’. He held his breath and bit his tongue through the searing pain that spread across his skin, rendering his fingers numb and his wrist rigid with immobility, all as he waited.

It always felt like an eternity. He would often think of Emily in these times. Deep, mahogany hair that countered her smile of pure sunshine, one he’d still picture every night before going to sleep, accompanied with the purest, brightest blue eyes he’d ever witnessed before. Even now, decades after becoming nothing more than a memory to him, she kept him calm. As long as he had her memory —

“Host organism Symbiote cytoplasm results produce…another failure for organisms protoplasmic material in binding with subject.” The voice, albeit calm, professional and tame, was nails on a chalkboard to his ears. “The changes formulated to the cell structure from clinical trials 9.E—G appear to be unsuccessful.”

His eyes stayed closed, though the pressure on his eyelids lessened greatly. He could feel the burning begin to fade on his hand, the tell-tale sign that the liquid had dropped off, running down and off his skin like water in the shower. It would fall down into a drain placed beneath his feet, where the earth shattering disappointment made it feel like his legs had wavered despite the ground staying still.

His heart beat heavily and he fought to control the emotion, taking in three deep breaths to remain composed. Each lifted his chest high, pulled his shoulders back taunt. He kept those blue eyes in his mind, fighting to remember exactly what shade they were. Always close to sky blue, but never quiet so pale. Vivid, like ice.

“How would you like to proceed, Mr. Osborn?”

And with that, he opened his eyes to the world around him, no longer able to stay in the memory of a better time and place, a memory of warmth and content. His environment was sterile and cold, a lot like the expression he wore on his face. Because if twenty-eight years of owning and running his own business had taught him anything, it was to never show weakness.

“You are…highly credentialed, Doctor Frye.” Norman grabbed the towel offered to him by one of the many scientists standing nearby, slowly but confidently wiping his hands with it. “I have the upmost faith that you will figure it out.”

The towel was damp, saturated with a cooling gel to ease the burns that blistered on his skin. He smeared it generously across the back of his hand, stepping down cautiously from the platform where he stood. The other techs began to scatter, leaving all but one white-coated doctor standing amidst the departing crowd.

“Sir, with all due respect,” Doctor Frye started, “I have been surveying the progress on this project since day one. And since we’ve discovered that this Symbiote bio-structure won’t bond without the DNA markers of it’s original conception, you continue to try and change the cell nucleus of the genetic make-up with no success.”

Norman approached him with long strides, confident steps that spoke more than his words ever could. He cocked an eyebrow high in the air and discarded the towel to the side.

Doctor Frye held his tablet firmly in his grip as he continued, “This is the tenth failure, and the tenth time my team has played God to the membrane of an organism that cannot thrive without the mutation markers of its birth host.”

“And as we are both aware,” Norman was quick to respond, his tone smooth yet firm, “the birth host perished two years ago with an autopsy report that showed no remaining embryo fluid in the sack. Is that a fact you fail to recall or do you simply prefer that I remind you the cause behind our perennial struggles?”

There was something unique in Doctor Frye that Norman respected. For starters, the man was never afraid to stand up to him, talk science with him, throw equations back and forth. He had intense grit, a dedication to his craft, dare he say an unhealthy need to be present at the job at all times. It played greatly in his favor, the unfortunate passing of Frye’s wife, leading him to divulge all his time into his work. It kept the good doctor focusing on the cure Norman so desperately needed.

“That spider was our last chance at finding success with this project, Mr. Osborn,” he reminded, his voice going so far as to pitch with unnerve. “Without injecting the mutated cells directly into your bloodstream, there’s no way this Symbiote bio-suit will bind to your genetic DNA. It requires the mutated markers of that radioactive spider.”

As the doctor spoke, Norman began to roll down the sleeves to his white button-down, taking care in buttoning the cuffs back together on each arm. He never once looked down during the task, keeping his eyes focused intently on Frye, frowning a bit as he digested what was said.

“Your vacillation is disconcerting to hear, doctor. It seems you’ve forgotten that sitting beneath my entrepreneur credentials lays a scientific genius with doctoral degrees in chemistry and electrical engineering. So when I say this can be done, I say it with more than just words,” Norman’s words were even, clinical, nearly emotionless. “I say it with the knowledge and ingenuity to substantiate the matter.”

Aggravated, Doctor Frye shook his head with animated exaggeration, spinning around as Norman began to walk past him.

“You aren’t listening. You don’t — !”

Norman calmly turned to face him, so close that it physically startled the doctor, his muscles so tense it showed in his lips.

“This Symbiote is a living organism. And like all living organisms, you can work with its biology,” Norman insisted, his tensely knitted eyebrows the closest thing he had shown to frustration so far. “I would advise that you not allow any defeats to keep you from pushing forward onward to success.”

Deliberate to linger on a hard stare that created a sheen of sweat across Doctor Frye’s forehead, Norman gave a curt nod when the time felt right. Only then did he walk passed the man, careful to avoid bumping shoulders.

He made it to the door before a voice was heard again. It wasn’t unexpected. Norman would have paused there in anticipation regardless of what sound came his way; the doctor had grit, after all.  

“You have to give me clarification here, Mr. Osborn. Why can’t you lend my team the formula for the OZ Experiment Arachnid No. 00? We’ll create it from scratch, we’ll give the Symbiote the DNA markers it requires to bind and latch onto it’s subject matter,” he paused for a beat, his throat constricting as he stressed,  “You, sir.”

There was enough hesitation from Norman to make it seem like he had been pondering up a response. In reality, he had one ready to go long before the man had ever asked the question. It was a sore subject. It had become the bane of his existence. The loss of all his files, the OZ formula, the records of the arachnid experiment from years ago that could easily save his life — gone. And why?

“Because, Doctor Frye,” Norman said, swiping his badge to gain access out of the laboratory, “those records were recently loss in a very unfortunate…water-logging incident. Now carry on. I expect progress by the morning.”

The heavy weight of the door closed loudly behind him, an echo that shot through the air. Norman was walking down the halls before it had even slammed shut.

— — —

Can I just say…I’m really going to enjoy writing this character?

It turned out to absolutely no surprise of Peter’s that Flash’s house was huge.

“Whoa…” he stared ahead at the luxuriant and expensive-looking home with jaw-dropping awe. Only when a bug flew into his mouth did he shake himself back to reality, the back of his wrist smacking hard against his lips and the fly that buzzed around them.

The house was enormous. It would have easily put Liz Toome’s old place to shame, though there were noticeably fewer windows on the modern architecture design. Gaudy multi-colored lights surrounded them and shined all around, and the bass of heavy music blared even far away from where they stood. It all screamed Flash Thompson, something the rich teenager would happily go out of his way to do for a simple ‘goodbye summer vacation’ party.

A car door shut behind him, followed by a smooth and friendly voice.

“It is not that impressive,” Wanda casually stated, strolling up to him with both her arms crossed over her chest.

Peter shot his head over to her with record-breaking speed. “Dude…”

They both stood in the middle of what felt like a never-ending driveway leading up to the house. Other-expensive looking cars were parked all around, some even having resorted to driving on the well-kept and overly-green lawn that he was pretty sure smelt and looked like fake grass.

Peter sighed with a shake of his head. Flash always did talk up his dad, something about being a prominent hot-shot city lawyer. It was a good thing they were able to borrow one of Mr. Stark’s Acura’s for the ride over. There was no way he’d survive the embarrassment of pulling up with May’s old, beaten down Pontiac.

@yuniesan @fangirlfannning @seven-oomen @arielgryffinpuff @polizwrites @avengersincamphalfbloodstardis what's yours?

There is, quite simply, one company that is good at their job, and one that isn't.

Both are greedy, but Sony has a marked history of being both greedy and incompetent, drastically mishandling their stories and intellectual properties, usually via creative meddling by a squad of hopelessly out-of-touch executives, all of whom I'm fairly sure still work there. I mean, for God's sake, they tried to make a Venom movie without Spider-Man. That it turned out even remotely watchable is owed to sheer happenstance and Tom Hardy, not to Sony or any of the filmmakers or screenwriters they hired. They want to make a Morbius movie for God's sake! Do you know who the fuck Morbius is? No, you don't! He's a C-tier Spider-Man villain and you shouldn't know who he is! No one should, and he definitely should not be getting his own movie! Sony is run by greedy idiots who want to make a quick buck off brand recognition, but they barely even know which brands are recognizable. They were blindly, desperately trying to squeeze every dollar out of the Spider-Man IP even when they weren't allowed to use Spider-Man in any of it. If left to their own devices, they will almost certainly ruin Spider-Man, again. I'm convinced that the only reason they didn't ruin Spider-Verse is because the idiots who ruined everything else saw animation as beneath their notice.

Sony will never be seen as the good guy in this situation, because Sony is stupid and spiteful at the highest levels. There is no good guy in this situation. There is simply "the huge mega corporation that will at least give me what I want" and "the community clown college that has run my favorite thing into the ground twice already and will almost certainly do so again, if allowed."

So with all the Sony/Disney thing - is MCU Peter Parker gonna just VANISH? Is it going to be like he was never even there???

It's going to leave MCU in such a big mess. I mean, imagine. After all these fights that happened in FFH Spiderman is going to disappear, like he was never there, like this never happened. That is NOT COOL!

what we deserve <3

There’s no upside here. It’s disastrous for both companies, and for what? So some clown at the studio can have his ego stroked? 

It’s in everyone’s best interest for Spider-Man to stay in the MCU. 

Me: yeah!!!!

Marvel: oh good! Here’s one!

Me: aw, thanks guys-

Marvel: anyway so the father is dead

Me: uh, well, that actually kinda hurt my feelings so could you-

Sony: and now the son doesn’t even exist in the same universe, so his death and the resulting effects of having to bear his pseudo-father’s legacy no longer matter in any substantial way