#Peters rental cleaning

[gingerparker]

PULL ON MY THONG

Pairing: College!Peter Parker X Reader

Summary: Peter needs a vacation. So, naturally, he goes to Vegas during his summer break. He's thin on cash and finds a job at a water park! The hot girl behind the bikini bar is a great bonus to his biweekly paycheck.

Warning: Fluff, sexual tension, teasing, slight body worship, drinking (both reader and Peter are 21+)

Word Count: 7158

A/N: let's pretend this wasn't a summer writing challenge... life happened HARD for it to be posted now.. but i hope y'all enjoy anyway ajsjjs DISCLAIMER!! i know the hotel i used here doesn't have a water park but i was too lazy to use a real one sooo it's an invented one!

It's too warm as soon as Peter exits the airport. It's a sticky and dry kind of warmth, no wind of any kind can be felt around him. His small luggage feels like it weighs 5 tons more than it did mere seconds ago and he realizes how stupid it is to have worn dark clothes.

Travellers push past him to find a cab of any kind to get out of the intense heat. Families get into larger Ubers and some are crazy enough to be walking out. Peter is not that determined.

He has to shuffle through the crowd to find a free cab, they are being filled much quicker than he would have thought. Thank god for his faster pace.

Inside the car, he's blasted with cool air, the sweat on his forehead seemingly evaporating.

The drive to his hotel is smooth. He chugs the rest of his water bottle minutes into the ride. Queen's weather didn't prepare him for this.

In only a few minutes he's on the strip. Billboards of all kinds flash around the cab. It's day outside yet he feels blinded by the colourful lights. He sees half-naked men posing with tourists for money as well as showgirls doing the same. He doesn't let his eyes linger too long. The sidewalk is full of people; after all, it's tourist season.

A bright pink flamingo catches his eye, his hotel seemingly calling out to him! Come, Peter! There's some air con in me maybe you could go to my bar or even check out my casin-

"Sir!" he's startled by the harsh voice that calls him, the cab driver.

"Yes?"

"We're here? I've taken you to your hotel" he gestures to the building they are parked next to.

"Oh! How much do I owe you?"

-

"Y/N, I need you to do the night shift today! Bebe is stuck in St-George, you know how horrible the construction traffic is" Your boss, Xiomara, pleads over the phone. "And I can't come in I have an appointment with my OB"

"What about Charlize?" you ask.

Your phone is on speaker on your bed and you're already looking through the clean bikinis you have ready.

"I haven't been able to reach her, please please please!" she sounds so desperate that you laugh a little.

"Should I wear the blue holo set or go for the pink and red tie-dye one?" Mars squeals loudly, her voice cracks through the speaker on your phone.

"Tie-dye!! You're a lifesaver Y/N/N, I owe you"

"No worries babes, nothing exciting was happening with me tonight" You'll just have to reschedule your date with your vibrator for another day.

"I'll buy you breakfast on your next opening shift! Wait, that's tomorrow, oh god you're gonna be so tired. I can still try and reach Char-"

"Mars! Don't worry so much, keep it going and the baby will just shoot right out of you" you laugh as you pack your bag for the evening.

"I mean I wouldn't complain. I'm very much over pregnancy" she sighs and you only hum as an answer.

You both say your goodbyes and you're quickly doing a makeup look to match your uniform for the night.

Deep red lipstick, a thick black liner that frames your eyes just the way you like and a light amount of everything else. It heats up like crazy in the small bar so you don't want to be sweating it off in seconds. The finishing touch is some body shimmer, that's for the extra tips.

You live in a resort-like rental near the Vegas Strip. Your university funds top students from other states to live in these apartments. When you'd been accepted and offered to house you; you couldn't turn it down. Leaving New York was easy enough, your parents were always travelling for their jobs and your friends were leaving for other schools so it was an easy decision.

A big bonus was that it was only 10 minutes away by foot from your job in a hotel's adult pool.

You gathered all your things and made your way out.

Tuesday nights are the slowest nights. The restricted pool access you work in usually has a long cue to be let in but currently, there are only 5 people. 7 if you count the obviously underage girls that nervously fiddle with their fake IDS.

You've only made 50$ in tips so far which is pretty disheartening. Did you waste your best body shimmer for this?

After cleaning the bar for the third time in the last 10 minutes you give up pretending to be busy. Maybe you should make yourself a drink... A nice cranberry, vodka and watermelon purée slushy... You could even try the new bubblegum gin you received...

As you're trying to figure out what to mix the new alcohol with you spot a guy. A hot guy to be precise. He looks lost as he enters the area and pockets his wallet. His eyes are wide and they seem to be full of awe. First time in Vegas probably. His abs are what make your eyes follow him. For such a soft face the body he has is a pleasant surprise, muscles that don't look too bulky and that highlight the fact that he probably takes very good care of himself.

He looks like a Long Island ice tea type of guy, who likes alcohol but doesn't like tasting it all that much. You almost want to whistle at him or do anything to catch his eye.

He'd be a better date than your vibrator that's for sure.

-

It's Peter's fifth day in Las Vegas and he just learned about his hotel's private pool. They only let people 21 years old and older in. All he knew was that there was a small water park, and the kids' screaming could be heard throughout the day.

There are more palm trees to cover up this part of the hotel's grounds, giving more privacy to whatever happens here. There's a large DJ booth elevated at the end of the pool and at least 3 different bars. The DJ obviously pressed shuffle on a Spotify playlist and decided to scroll through his phone. The 3 bartenders he sees look bored out of their minds and are seemingly playing a card game. Only about 20 other guests are enjoying the privacy of this section.

He chooses to go buy himself a drink, there's nothing much to do besides that and swim right now.

Right as he's about to go and disturb the guys playing cards he sees a little hut next to the jacuzzi. It's pure white and only has a sign on the front where it's written "Cheeky Chicks" with a bright pink bikini painted on.

His brows furrow before he steps back to look inside.

His eyes widen and his breath hitches. There stands a girl. A half-naked girl. A very very pretty half-naked girl. A girl that's already looking at him. Peter's knees might just give out under him. A smirk forms on your lips when you realised cute hot chiselled guy noticed you. This is going to be so much fun.

"Hi," you say while leaning forward on your bar a little. The guy's face heats up instantly. Red creeps up his chest and onto his face. Peter is incredibly weak for pretty girls.

"Hi," he manages to breathe out.

"Come over here," you say with a wink. No one can tell you that you aren't good at your job.

Peter nods and makes his way over to her. His steps are quicker than he initially wanted, he did want to look cool and nonchalant. Too late now!

"What's your name?" you ask when he reaches your hut.

"Um... I'm not sure" his brain is screaming the answer at him but all he can hear is "her eyes are up there, her eyes are up there, her eyes ar-"

"Mh that's unfortunate, guess I'll have to stick with sexy stranger" your smirk grows when his tongue comes out to lick his lips.

"Right, um, I'm Peter?"

"You sure about that babes?" his eyes get as wide as saucers, nicknames are appreciated... You make a mental note of this.

"Peter Parker," he says "That's my name" he nods to himself. Probably feeling very proud that he's remembered it. God, he's adorable your practically melting.

"Hi Peter Parker, I'm Y/N, it's nice to meet you hot stuff" You lean back to your normal position, he's been working very hard to keep his eyes in respectful eye contact.

"What can I get you, Pete?"

"Huh?"

"You walked up to my bar, don't you want a drink?" you gesture to all the alcohol you have around you.

"Oh! Um what's your favourite?" he looks at the numerous bottles around you.

"Anything turned into a slush" you answer honestly.

"Ok... Something with cherry?" he suggests with a tilt of his head. You nod and get to work.

If you mix your shaker more than usual who could fault you? It keeps his eyes on you as silence settles over. After adding a cherry and coconut slush to the alcohol mix you top it off with maraschino cherries and a bright pink swirly straw.

You hand it over to him, purposefully making contact with his hand. He takes a big sip and your stare falls to his neck. Thick but lean, muscular and so soft looking. He'd look so good with hickeys littered all over it. You could even trail some down, down, down... just under where his swimming trucks start. God, you really need to get off.

"So what do you think, babes?" you ask him as he brings his straw away from his lips. He nods excitedly as a smile spreads on his face. How can you want him to rearrange your insides and bake him a cake all at once?

"It's delicious! I can't even taste the alcohol you put in here" he nods seemingly approvingly and you smile smugly.

"That's how you know it's a dangerous drink" you wink, turning around to quickly put away the things you used to prepare Peter's drink.

"So how much do I owe you?" he takes his wallet out and opens it up with one hand.

Maybe this is your chance to be bold. Get a date out of this incredibly slow day?

"Mh it'll only cost you your phone number" you shrug with a smirk on your face. Peter sputters on the sip he'd taken and flushes from head to toe. He shakes his head quickly and puts down his cup.

"I have to pay you" he goes through the bills he has in his wallet, instantly paling. He counts them again to then meet your eyes anxiously. "Um, any luck this cost under 6$?" he laughs awkwardly taking out the six 1$ bill he had. You cringe and shake your head. Why must you go for the broke cutie? He sighs and shoves the bills into your tip jar.

"I'm sorry, my aunt always tells me to budget better but this trip has got me much shorter on cash than usual..." Peter puts his wallet away, already knowing it's best if leaves as fast as he can.

"How long are you staying in Vegas for?" your question surprises even yourself. You both expect to have him just walk away and forget this interaction happened... but alas you're incredibly weak.

"I don't know really... I bought a one-way ticket so... I'll probably try and get a ticket to leave at the end of summer" which is currently two and a half months away.

"And you already have no cash left??" you gasp. How is that even possible? "Do you have a job? Or a sugar daddy?" you add in a rushed tone, shocked at his quite reckless planning.

"Think I'd look good in a bikini?" he teases. Joking at a time like this? He might just be your soulmate.

"You'd look amazing in a bikini but this is a woman owed and woman run" You sigh dreamily at the thought of Peter in a bikini. New kink unlocked? Or are you just incredibly horny... "Although... one of the lifeguards at the water park quit! Maybe I could get a good word in for you" You start shutting off the lights in your little hut and locking up the coolers and stands around you.

"Now?" Peter exclaims. You ignore his shock and turn back to him. You spot his unfinished slushy and hand it back to him.

"Drink it at least, I'm not doing charity for you not to enjoy it" you tease him before making your way out, locking the side door and hanging up the "Closed" sign.

"Oh and I'm still expecting your phone number"

-

That's how Peter Parker got himself a job at his hotel's water park. The man running it barely asked him what his name was before he was hired. They made sure that he had the right certification for a lifeguard job and the next day he was on the schedule. Well, they wrote him in with a Sharpie and they spelt his name wrong but he had a job!

The kids were... tolerable, the pay was ok and the conditions were bearable. His favourite part, however, is the hottie that always put extra cherries on his alcoholic slushes.

It's been three weeks now since he was able to pay back the first one, and it's also been three weeks since you've exchanged numbers.

You've been texting back and forth like crazy. Just facts about your days when you aren't working at the same time or you even like to have him pick out your bikini. He gets exceptionally shy and takes forever to answer but, surprisingly, he's got impeccable taste. Peter knows it's because of how attracted to you he is. Getting to know you has only deepened how doomed he is, how quickly his feelings have shifted from plain lust.

"So you haven't fucked yet?" Ned's voice is loud out of his phone speaker and it scares the shit out of Peter. He's on his lunch break and it's his weekly bro date with Ned. They have lately been full of your name.

"No, women and men can be friends. You know this" Peter knows full well that he'd ditch the friendship in a heartbeat for something more. He'll keep this act up tho, more gentlemanly... right?

"Not when they obviously wanna bone Pete... You're telling me not even a steamy make-out session?" Peter is glad they decided not to FaceTime because he knows what face Ned would be making right now and he doesn't want to see it.

"No" He wishes. He wishes so badly. Like it's actually starting to concern him how much he just wants you to sit on his lap, put your hands in his hair, maybe pull a little, definitely call him babes like you alw- See? He's going insane.

"That's sad Petey, get a move on! If Y/N is as hot as you say then you can't waste any time!" Ned's voice is so diplomatic it's weird but comforting.

"Oh. My. God. Babes you talk about me?" your chipper voice almost startles Peter off his seat and onto the suspiciously green floors.

Peter looks at you with a terrified expression on his face, like you've caught him mid-murder. Damn, his Peter Tingle for not warning him of your arrival!

"Is that her? Y/N! PETER WANTS TO FU-"

His phone is thrown across the room at record-breaking speed, destroying it. You barely seem surprised.

The silence that takes over the room gives Peter time to look you over. What you're wearing today has to be lingerie... just enough is left to the imagination and it's hypnotising. The way the slightest movement makes you look, the up and down of your chest as you breathe, how you look walking closer to him. Wait, walking closer??

His eyes snap up to meet yours as you walk over to him.

"Take me out tonight" You lean down to his eye level. The eye contact you hold is intense. So much is communicated through facial expressions. Peter's mind repeats your statement over and over, making sure he actually heard the right thing.

"Where?"

"Anywhere near an Apple Store so we can get you a new phone" you wink.

-

Smoking hot date, check.

Carefully picked out outfit, check.

Cute but comfortable makeup, check.

Get Peter a new phone before the date actually starts, check.

You and Peter are now slowly making your way down the Vegas Strip. With the ending goal in mind to find someplace interesting to eat. You walked past many many different restaurants but nothing that made you stop walking.

Peter's hand holds yours loosely, the hot weather unsuitable for real hand-holding. He's wearing a light pink shirt with flamingos and flowers patterned around it, obviously, he hadn't packed a "date shirt" before leaving New York and bought it at his hotel. His legs are barely hidden away by his short jeans short that have numerous rips in them... God you want to bite his thighs.

"You're staring at my legs again" You can hear him smirking through the tone of his voice.

"Oh shut up!" you knock your shoulder onto his arm with a laugh.

"It's fine this most likely compensates for the number of times I've at your boobs... or your ass... or anything really when you have a bikini on" he gestures with his free hand to you. Most likely visualising a bikini on you now.

"Mh, that's true... I'll keep staring then!" you smile proudly winking at him. His face and neck flush pink as he ducks his head. He's so fun to tease always so responsive.

Conversation is easy. It always is. Your personalities mesh together perfectly which makes hanging out with him so fun.

This being more officially a date has put weight on both of your shoulders. Somehow, it's made a sliver of anxiety surround the both of you. It must mean you both want this date to go well; to have many more after.

"Oh! How about hot dogs?" Peter points to a small restaurant to his left.

"Those are probably, like funky hot dogs... I'm down, let's go!" you tug him towards Haute Doggery.

You're both greeted by a woman behind the counter when you walk in. The place is small, with four two-person tables and a high counter along one of the only bare walls. That said it's cosy and inviting so you're immediately excited.

"Wow! A foot-long hog dog??" Peter gasps as he reads the menu. You giggle at his reaction now reading the menu yourself. So many options to choose from... "Want to share two regular-sized speciality ones?"

"Only if we get fries" you nod seriously, now choosing a hot dog to share with him.

"I definitely want to try the mac and cheese one" Peter looks away from the menu to meet your eyes.

"Good choice! I saw we get that one and the breakfast one, I can never say no to hash browns"

Once you receive your order you make your way to one of the tables, ready to absolutely dig in. Peter takes the time to precisely cut in half both hot dogs and gives you your pieces.

"Cheers!" you say knocking your half with his before taking a generous bite of the breakfast delight.

-

"So this is my room!" Peter shuffles inside his hotel room before holding the door open for you.

The room is nothing crazy. One queen bed in. the middle, a dresser with a tv on top of it, grey carpet flooring, pinkish walls, a bathroom and a balcony overlooking the pools and the waterpark.

You make your way over to his freshly made bed: thank you housekeeping. You sit down on it beckoning Peter over to you. He toes off his shoes in a hurry before practically lunging at the spot next to you. Cute.

"Had fun, cutie?" you look at him with seductive eyes and a warm smile. You want him to be putty in your hands.

Peter reacts immediately to the name you call him, blushing and wide-eyed.

"Yeah, you're easy to talk to and really sex- I mean smart. Really smart." his words seem to be tumbling out of his mouth in a panic.

"Babes, calm down!! You can compliment me. Physically too" you smack his chest feeling the firm muscle of his peck.

He only nods as an answer but keeps his eyes locked with yours. You're the one to break the eye contact to glance at his lips. You want to kiss him so bad...

"Can I kiss you?" Peter might be a mind reader.

"Please" is what you answer.

Kissing Peter is immediately addicting. He's so enthusiastic, kisses like his life depends on it. His left hand goes to your back and his right cradles your jaw. Your own move around his body. Gripping his muscles, tangling in his hair, slipping under his shirt. You're having a great time exploring his body.

You bite his bottom lip playfully, tugging it towards you and it makes Peter moan in delight.

"You're so hot, I'm going insane" he mumbles between desperate kisses.

You only hum in answer wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down above you. His body is so warm against yours like he's on fire. You tug off his shirt, to help him cool down is what you tell yourself.

"I know I see you without a shirt more than with one but this is so much sexier" you trail your fingers all. over. him.

Peter turns you onto your side to unzip your romper. His lips never leave yours, the contact staying feverish and fast. It's like he wants to eat you whole. Maybe he does, you'd let him.

The shrill sound of your ringtone startles you, causing you to knock your chin into Peter's nose as you look up.

He groans as you reach to silence the (incredibly rude) device. Unfortunately, your index has other plans and presses the accept call button.

"Y/N?" Xiomara... This can only mean bad news.

"I know you're on a date and I'm so incredibly sorry to be doing this. I just went into labour and you're literally in the hotel somewhere..." Her voice is strained and you breathe out in exasperation.

Peter's head drops into the crook of your neck. His hands don't start roaming, they travel, map your body out. Every single inch of skin he can reach. Inside the romper, your face, legs, arms... Anything and everything.

"I... I don't have a bikini" you manage to say.

"I really don't care what you wear. Actually, you know what I don't care about the bar right now never mind" She hangs up immediately.

"Thank fuck for that" Peter exclaims dragging the rest of your romper off.

You laugh as he readily gets back to what he was doing. His lips on yours, guided your hands into his hair and hips bucking into yours.

Yeah, this is so much better than taking over "Cheeky Chicks" for the evening.

[sashaisready]

The Blood Pact: Chapter 1 - The Viewing

Bucky Barnes Vampire AU x Female Reader

Series Masterlist

Chapter 2

Reeling from a bad break-up, you're desperately trying to find a new place to live but the Brooklyn rental market is a complete nightmare. You take a chance on an intriguing newspaper ad and enquire about a room in a shared house, where you'd be living with two mysterious men. The catch is that they want something other than your money for you to pay the rent...the one thing they don't have

Large double room and en-suite bathroom available in shared house in Brooklyn. Living with two male professionals. Rent reasonable and negotiable – call to enquire, ask for Steve – 555-6786

That’s all the ad said. You couldn’t help but be intrigued. After all, who even finds a roommate via the newspaper nowadays? You’d only found it because you were absentmindedly flicking through an old paper someone had left on your table in the coffee shop. In the last few weeks you’d spent hours trawling through apartment listings online, viewing terrible dump after terrible dump. Damp. Cold. Tiny. That one apartment with literal mushrooms growing on the ceiling. Another where the other roommates had clearly put a single mattress in a closet and were trying to shave a few bucks off their own rent. You’d met with potential roommates who all ranked highly on the awful scale – everyone from that potential serial killer looking guy who insisted you didn’t need a lock on your bedroom door, to that girl who kept jars of her toenail clippings on the coffee table.

Frankly, you were getting desperate. You weren’t looking for much, just a non-closet sized, clean bedroom that you didn’t need a lottery win to afford. But that was apparently a tall order.

You had been crashing on your friend Wanda’s couch for too long now. As welcoming as her and her boyfriend Vis were, enough was enough. Your break up with Peter had left you homeless. After a well-deserved period of mourning and ‘what the fuck?-ing’, it was time to move on. Move out. Give Wanda and Vis their space back, stop being a burden and get back on the horse.

…And that’s how you found yourself on the doorstep of a beautiful, nineteenth century townhouse in Brooklyn at 7.30pm on an autumnal Wednesday.

It was worth a shot, right? You genuinely had nothing to lose by now.

Maybe the room was perfect for you. Maybe they were hipsters who put the ad in the paper as a retro throwback thing. Maybe they were super old. Whatever, at this point as long as they were clean and not sociopaths you were willing to overlook all sorts of potential flaws. And rent was negotiable, so maybe you wouldn’t need a bank loan just to pay the deposit.

Steve had sounded nice on the phone when you’d enquired yesterday. Not super old. Friendly and sweet. Very polite. He had given you the address and directions. It was actually refreshing to speak on the phone, as normally your apartment enquiries took place over tedious exchanges via the SpareRoom app. When you told him 7.30pm was a bit of an odd time for a viewing he just explained that he and his roommate worked long hours throughout the day, so evenings were best. Fine. It was New York City, a night time viewing was hardly going to raise an eyebrow.

Even so, you were a young woman going into a stranger’s house alone at night. In the city. You weren’t stupid, you dropped your location pin to Wanda and texted her the address and details. Just in case. 

You took a deep breath and rapped your knuckles on the front door. You’d done so many of these that they were almost muscle memory now. Be polite, charming, make them want to live with you. You stretched out your shoulders as you waited and took another look at your potential new home. The building really was beautiful, a classic caramel colour with period features. Tall with big bay windows. A whirring noise caught your attention and you spotted a security camera perched just above the door. It turned to face you before whizzing back to its original place. They were clearly security conscious, so that was a plus.

Moments later the door swung open to reveal a tall, handsome man who must’ve been in his 30s standing in front of you. He wasn’t at all what you expected, blonde and classically handsome, a rugged beard and bright blue eyes. A bit on the pale side, but then summer was long gone. Your gaze couldn’t help but switch to the muscles clearly lurking under his tight white t-shirt, before you caught yourself and looked back at his face just as quickly.

“Hi…I’m-” you told him, slightly flustered.

“Hey. Right on time, I’m Steve” the man grinned, extending his hand to you as you shook it and introduced yourself. You were struck by how cold his hand was, hoping it wasn’t a tell-tale sign of the lack of heat in the house.

Steve smiled warmly and gestured for you to come in. “Thanks for coming. Let me show you around, and I’ll introduce you to my roommate, Bucky”.

You nodded, following him mindlessly. There was just something about him…something magnetic. He was cute. God, was he cute. But it was something else. You had no idea what had come over you.

Steve enthusiastically gave you the tour, guiding you throughout the ground floor. The house was just as stunning inside as out, with clean white walls and a mix of modern and antique furniture. A blend of modern and classic art adorned each room but didn’t seem to clash. The whole place was somehow both pristine yet comforting, spotless yet lived in. He showed you around the enormous kitchen with its big oak table, then the kitchen island which would bring any Pinterest interior design enthusiast to their knees. Huge windows framed the sink, thick blinds were pulled down and stopped the evening darkness from creeping in.

“Wow” you muttered as you took it all in.

Steve chuckled. “Yep…we’re pretty lucky” he smiled.

He took you through to the living room which to no surprise was equally stunning, your eyes found a chic cream couch which looked comfier than any bed, but you knew you would destroy with food and drink stains in a matter of days if unleashed upon it. Your feet padded on the wooden floor as she showed you the fireplace, then the television unit custom built into the wall which you knew must’ve cost a pretty penny.

The tour continued and he showed you a bathroom (one of many) and utility room (no more trips lugging all your clothes to the laundromat…genuine bliss) before leading you up the winding staircase. The stairs each creaked underfoot and you noticed every single window you’d seen had been fitted with heavy duty blinds. Even the tiny ones which must only allow the smallest sliver of light in. A little odd. But hey, it’s their house.

Steve was animated and charming throughout the tour, pointing out his favourite parts and telling anecdotes about where they found certain belongings. Asking questions about you and your job. He took you to the first floor and walked up to a closed door.

“And this would be your room”.

He opened the door and you nearly gasped at the size of the place, an enormous bedroom with a huge double bed and antique wardrobe. The vast window was covered by the yet another ubiquitous blind.

“Obviously it’s looking a bit sparse right now, but you could really make it your own if you took the place. We don’t care if you paint or whatever” Steve added, smiling as he moved to open another interior door across the room.

“And here’s the bathroom. This would be just yours, Buck and I have our own upstairs”.

You couldn’t hold in the loud, appreciative whistle you made as you walked in - which made Steve laugh.

“Are you kidding me?” you scoffed.

The bathroom was enormous. Perfect white tiles, every inch spotless. A beautiful waterfall shower stood in the corner, a vastly superior upgrade to the slightly dribbly shower head over the bathtub at Wanda’s. Along the wall was an immaculate marble sink mounted with a stunning vanity mirror, and the pièce de resistance was a huge copper bathtub in the centre – so deep that you could clone yourself and fit at least three of you in there comfortably.

After taking in the impressive room you spun excitedly on your heel to face Steve.

“You like it?” he said teasingly, a flash of mischief darkening his baby blues.

“Like it? I would happily live in just the bathroom, never mind the bedroom” you practically squealed.

Steve laughed good naturedly at your excitement. He seemed to view you with slightly bewildered amusement, but it didn’t feel patronising or snooty.

“Great. So you’re interested?”

You nodded enthusiastically. “God, yes. I just don’t think I can afford it…this place is so nice…” you mumbled, the realisation of how much this must all cost sinking in.

Steve eyed you with interest. “Well, let’s see shall we? It’s negotiable. We’ll have a talk with Bucky and see what we can agree”.

You nodded again, following him out into the hall. You had fallen hard for the room. It was the best place you’d seen by a country mile, let alone the ridiculous plus of having a private bathroom. Steve seemed…nice. Normal. Well, aside from being insanely hot and you clearly having a weird crush on him which made you feel strangely dazed…but that was okay. You would get over your crush. If your biggest problem with him was him being too hot, you would cope. Especially for your own copper bathtub. You wondered what exactly ‘negotiable’ meant. And what about this Bucky guy? You and Steve seemed to get along fine, but what was the other roommate like?

“Uh…where do you sleep?” you asked as Steve led you back towards the stairs.

He flicked a finger upwards. “Next floor up, Bucky and I have our bedrooms there. I would take you up there but it’s not particularly interesting” he said dismissively as he guided you back down the stairs.

You thought it a bit strange that he had left out an entire floor, after all the rest of the tour was so thorough he’d shown you inside cabinets and drawers downstairs. But bedrooms were personal, you wouldn’t be in their rooms or their bathroom anyway – so you supposed it wasn’t relevant.

Steve led you into the living room and you were surprised to see the wood fire roaring, as if it had been like that for hours. You had been in here not a few minutes earlier and there wasn’t even a hint of a spark. Someone must’ve got it going in record time…

“Hi there, nice to meet you” came a voice from behind you.

You flinched, surprised as you hadn’t noticed anyone else in the room when you came in. You turned and your stomach dropped when you locked eyes with the owner of the voice.

There sat nonchalantly in an armchair was possibly the most beautiful man you’d ever seen. He was dressed in a tailored black suit, every thread hugging his body perfectly. He had long chestnut hair slicked back into a small bun, and a jawline that could cut glass. A bit pale, like Steve, but it made his skin look porcelain. His lips were full and pouty, and you could see a glimpse of his shirt straining over his broad shoulders. What had stopped you in your tracks though, were his eyes. Perfectly cerulean pools that seemed to pierce into you, to penetrate your very thoughts and dreams. If you thought you’d felt a pull towards Steve, then this was like a blackhole – unstoppable and relentless.

You gawped open mouthed at him for a moment before remembering you were trying to impress and charm here, shaking yourself out of it.

“Oh yes, hi. You must be Bucky?” you managed to utter, extending your hand to his as you gave him your name.

He smiled back at you and for a split second you could’ve sworn he was smirking, entertained by how flustered you were. But it was a tiny glimpse, quickly swallowed by a more genuine smile. 

“Yep. James Barnes, officially. But everyone calls me Bucky” he replied. His voice was soft yet deep. His hand was just as cold as Steve’s had been, you almost flinched as his cool flesh met yours. 

“Ooh, I think you’re a little chilly. Hopefully the fire will warm you up” you stammered, still ruffled by the effect he’d had on you. 

Bucky just smiled dryly in response, gesturing for you to sit on the couch as Steve slipped down in the armchair next to his. 

As you sat you were suddenly aware of how warm it was in the room. How could he possibly be cold? It was sweltering in here with that fire. 

“So it’s great you’re interested in the room” Steve began. “We just want to check our compatibility, make sure you’re a good fit. And then we can talk about rent payment, alright?”

You nodded, grabbing your purse and pulling some documents from it. 

“Here are my last six pay stubs” you said as you passed the papers over to Steve, doing your best not to look at Bucky in case you had another meltdown. “I work full time, and I have good references from past landlords. So I can prove I’ve got a steady income and I’m good for the rent” you explained, with slightly more urgency than planned. 

Steve nodded and looked at them briefly, but didn’t really seem to read them. He passed them to Bucky who seemed just as disinterested. Your heart sank, that wasn’t a good sign.

“So where are you living now?” Steve asked. 

You giggled awkwardly and launched into the much shorter, less warts and all version of your break up and subsequent forced eviction. You explained you were staying on your friend’s couch but needed to move out, and that’s why you were house hunting now. Both Steve and Bucky seemed intrigued, studying you carefully as you awkwardly gestured with your hands, laughing nervously to fill the silence.

“Sorry to hear that” Steve finally said. “Break-ups are tough. Especially when you’re cohabiting. Did you just want different things?”

You nod. “Uh yes. I wanted to be in a relationship with him, and he wanted to be balls deep in other women while I was in the next room. You know, classic incompatibility”.

Steve looked at you sympathetically while Bucky let out a strangled laugh.

Up your hand went to your mouth as you realised what you’d said.

“Oh wow, I’m so sorry that was…too much” you cringed.

“Don’t apologise. Sounds like you’re far better off” Bucky said sternly, his eyes practically burning into you. 

You nodded, you felt your face flushing slightly from the intensity of his attention. 

Your eyes must’ve been playing tricks on you in the firelight as they both men seemed to tense up for a second. But then it was over as quickly as it started.

“Thanks…I guess it’s all still pretty raw” you chuckled weakly. 

They told you that they were business partners, dealing in antiques and doing some book restoration on the side too. They’d been friends for years, more like brothers really, meeting in the army and setting up their company after they were discharged. You were impressed, you didn’t know any former soldiers turned antique dealers.

They proceeded to fire questions at you. Standard stuff about your job as a copy editor, you explained you worked from home mostly and they said that was fine as they weren’t around much during the day and the WiFi was decent. Perfect.

They asked if you did any drugs or drank heavily. No and no. Maybe a few glasses of wine or a cocktail at the weekends. 

Then they asked if you had any medical conditions they should know about. You cocked an eyebrow, unsure of why that was necessary information for a roommate interview.

“I’m sorry, I promise we aren’t trying to pry” Steve advised, noticing your discomfort. “And obviously you don’t have to share anything you don’t want to. It won’t affect your chances of getting the room. It’s just we had a diabetic roommate once who didn’t tell us, he went into a hypoglycaemic coma in the kitchen and we had no idea what was going on and couldn’t help him. He was fine, an ambulance came in time. But now we just like to know if it’s not too intrusive to share, just in case we ever need to help”.

You nodded. That made sense.

“No, no medical conditions”.

They smiled at you, then exchanged glances. Both of them looked at each other for a moment before nodding in unison. 

“Okay, the room is yours” said Steve.

You couldn’t hide your squeal, your fists clenching in excitement. You almost wanted to run up and hug them both, but restrained the urge. You were already daydreaming about that tub. 

“Oh wow, amazing!! Thank you” you beamed. “But what about the rent…?”

They exchanged another look before Steve spoke again. 

“Well, you see. That’s where the more uh…unconventional elements of the contract kick in” he replied warily.

Your brow furrowed in confusion. 

“The thing is…” Steve continued, his voice solemn. “We don’t need your money for the rent. We require something else from you”.

You frowned, suddenly uncomfortable. “Look, I know this is the twenty-first century but I don’t do stuff like that to keep a roof over my head, no matter how bad the rental market is” you spat, getting to your feet as you felt your anger rise. Who did they think they were?

Steve and Bucky shook their heads, laughing, which just made you madder.

“No, not that” Steve soothed. “We want your blood, sweetheart”.

You scoffed. “What?” 

“Your blood” replied Bucky nonchalantly. “We’re vampires, Doll”.

You rolled your eyes. “What kind of sick joke…”

“We’re vampires and we need your blood” Bucky explained, cutting you off. His tone deadpan, as if he was explaining something as trivial as how to use the stove. “So you can stay here for free, no payment needed, we just need to feed from you every couple of days. We won’t take more than you can give. You won’t feel any ill effects, and you’re not in any danger”.

You laughed incredulously, clutching your face with exasperation.

“Really? Is this how you fuckers get your kicks? Pretending to rent a room so you can pull messed up jokes?” you hissed. You should’ve known it was too good to be true. 

Steve and Bucky seemed unfazed by your disbelief. They both watched you with merriment as you got up and grabbed your purse, stuffing your wage stubs back inside. 

“You wanna show her or should I?” Bucky asked Steve.

“Knock yourself out” Steve replied dismissively. He reached for his phone.

As you headed to leave you had just managed to wrap your hand around the doorknob when Bucky was suddenly inches away from you in a single second.

You sputtered, turning to face him. “H-how did you get here so fast?” 

You looked over at Steve who was mindlessly scrolling on his phone, unbothered by whatever was happening just a few feet away from him. 

Bucky grinned. His eyes glowed yellow for a brief moment which made you gasp and slump against the door. You watched in horror as his canines grotesquely lengthened, morphing into something like animal teeth before your very eyes.

No, not animal teeth. Fangs.

At first you thought it was a prank, some sort of special effect or trick of the light.  But it wasn’t, you saw it with your own eyes and you knew it deep down. This was real. 

Suddenly it all clicked. Their inhumanly cold skin despite the warm house. The insistence on meeting at night. The way Bucky had soared across the room in half a second. The covered windows. 

They were vampires.

“This can’t be happening” you muttered under your breath, your chest rising and falling as fear gripped you. You wanted to run but you couldn’t, your terror freezing you on the spot like a deer in headlights. Panic had overtaken you.

“Hey. Don’t get yourself too worked up, like Buck said - you’re not in any danger” Steve offered casually, not looking up from his phone.

“You’re safe” Bucky echoed, and you saw his fangs slowly switch back into normal, human teeth as they were before. It was almost like it never happened. 

Almost.

“You wanna continue this? Or you wanna go home?” Bucky asked. He sounded annoyed, like you were somehow the unreasonable one here, wasting their time. 

“You’d just…l-let me leave?” Your eyes widened with fear. “Even though I know your secret?”

“Sure” said Steve, as if it was nothing. He was much softer and gentler than Bucky. “We can hypnotise you into forgetting and send you on your way. You’ll just think the room was a bust and that’ll be it. You think this is our first viewing?” 

You flapped your mouth open and close like a goldfish while they patiently waited for you to decide. It was too much. You couldn’t process it. Vampires existed?? Really? How could this be happening?

You wanted to tell them to hypnotise you, to erase all of this and let you go back to your life. You could return to blissful ignorance, rent a shoebox room somewhere else with actual humans. Human roommate toenail clippings and all.

But something inside you rebelled against all reason. A tiny voice of dissent amongst the otherwise harmonious chorus. You had no idea where it came from, it was against every survival instinct you had as adrenaline coursed through you. You battled against the urge to leave, to run as fast as you could out into the night and never look back. You couldn’t justify it, you knew it was stupid…but you listened to that tiny voice. 

“Tell me more about how this works” you whispered, as your rational brain screamed at you. 

[kickthecan-revolution]

It feels weird having so little to do. For the most part today I've made a Chinese chicken salad and watched Sister Wives outside in the sun, and stared at A3 comet pictures online. I just don't have a lot to do.

I still have stuff - I need to get the upper unit ready for rental, they confirmed they are going to sign the lease as soon as the wife gets back from a trip this coming Friday. But that's not until December 15, so I've got tons of time for that and not a lot to do. My sister badly sprained her ankle and I would have relied upon her to do it but she's going to be out of commission for a while. I've got an appointment everyday this week but it's not all day, everyday.

My house is pretty much together here - no huge cleaning projects, those have all been done for the most part. My taxes are all pretty much done. I know I've got radiation coming up but that will be 1h a day and the commute getting there and back, so many 2h a day? A little longer if I walk, which I'm going to do at least one way there to save money on Lyfts.

I feel kind of guilty for not being busy - could this be a life? I take naps during the day, I don't really have much of a purpose other than my little routine. Is this OK to not have much filling my time? I am still so tired from COVID, snot and coughing pretty consistently. Could this low energy be from that? It just feels so weird to not be so scheduled, though on a totally other level, amazing. It feels amazing. I sent a shot across the bow to a friend of mine, an extreme extrovert, that I just need introvert time to charge my batteries and she's really respected it. It's felt good.

I live such a Peter Pan life - no partner, no kids, no huge responsibilities other than keeping myself and my cats alive. Everything else feels optional, day to day responsibilities and it just feels weird to be so untethered from the earth in ways people aren't - and I feel guilty about it though for sure, my life is a lot emptier as a result of not having those things, I know that.

If I had to guess, I minimize how difficult things have been these last few years, not even including the last six months. My nightmarish boss, insane work stress, everything that happened with my parents - it's been hard and exhausting for a while but it's that what life is like for everybody? Why should I get a stretch of time, a big long season, to just do nothing? It feels extravagant and surreal.

[skyler10fic]

Wanna Surf on Your Heat Wave

For the @ficwip 1k prompt (the first image above!)

Summary:

Carol and Daisy take a much-needed vacation to Tahiti, which brings a new level to their relationship!

Read on Ao3

---------------------------------------------------------

Daisy stretched and yawned, listening for her early worm girlfriend, only to realize in surprise that Carol was still asleep next to her. Instead of waking her, Daisy crept out of bed. It was no wonder Carol slept so deeply here. The ocean sounded like it was right at their door…

As she had the thought, she opened the blinds covering the glass patio door and realized it wasn’t an exaggeration. The back side of the cabana opened to the pristine sand, with the tide just beyond. The sparkling blues of the ocean took her breath away. She’d seen plenty of beaches in her time, but nothing like this. It was a fairytale. 

Tall, lush palm trees added to the soothing white noise as she slid open the door as quietly as she could. She wandered out to the patio in her tank top and sleep shorts, captivated by the peaceful scene. 

Further down the beach, where the sand met the concrete, a coffee stand was opening. This place really was paradise. 

She heard the door behind her slide open and turned around to see Carol was waking up to the same awe Daisy had minutes ago. 

“Whoa.”

“Good morning, beautiful.” Daisy kissed her cheek and wrapped her arms around Carol as they stood watching the surfers and beachcombers. 

“Wait, is that?” Carol watched some early risers walk by with coffee from the beachside stand. 

“Mmhmm,” Daisy squeezed Carol and then let go to return inside. “Coffee first, and then want to see what else is around here?” 

“Sounds perfect. We can do whatever you want today. We just have to be back by 6 tonight. I have a surprise.” 

—--

With a dare from Daisy and a flirty wink back from Carol, the “whatever” turned out to be a surfing lesson. The girls picked boards from the rental stack and joined the class for beginners. With some basic instruction and a short paddle out to the waves, the class lined up to take turns. 

With her turn approaching, Carol grew nervous and looked back at Daisy. “What if I fall down immediately?” 

“You will,” Daisy promised. “That’s why we have another hour left out here!” 

She was right, but by the end of that hour, they had several successes as well. The whole class cheered as each of them caught a wave and stayed standing. But the one that made Daisy’s heart swell was a particularly big wave for a beginner coming up right behind Carol when it was her last turn. They were all tiring out, and despite the grin on Carol’s face, Daisy worried that the experience was going to end on a sour note if Carol not only fell but got pulled down into the churn before she could get back up. 

“Now!” screamed the instructor, and Carol went for it, wet hair slicked back in her ponytail and determination in her expression. Daisy caught her breath, bobbing on her own board as the wave passed. Carol rode like a champion, surfing her way until the wave died and she fell right at the end. She came back up and shouted with joy, pumping her fist in the air. Daisy clapped as pride swept over her. 

“You’re next,” the instructor reminded her. 

Daisy had surfed before, but the lessons had been a good refresher, and she kept the tips in mind as her wave came. She paddled until the instructor yelled when to stand, and she held her stance with all its precarity and freedom, the fleeting joy that refused to be overlooked in anticipation of the salty end. Carol cheered for her, bringing her back to earth as her flight ended in the wave petering out. They got out of the way of the others, then hugged in celebration. 

“We did it!” Carol giggled. 

“I knew we could.” Daisy kissed her briefly. “You and me.” 

“Unstoppable,” Carol finished. 

The lesson ended, so they made their way to the rental stand to return their boards and then back to their cabana to clean up for Carol’s surprise. 

—------------ 

Dinner was at an outdoor restaurant, surrounded by tiki torches, accompanied by live music, and topped off with dessert. Carol didn’t think she could be happier, despite her nerves. Significantly more scary than surfing, the box in Carol's pocket felt heavy against her thigh. 

As the sun lowered over the water, the Polynesian music slowed to a romantic song and couples got up to sway on the sand in front of the small stage. 

“C’mon.” Carol saw her moment and took it. She led Daisy to the far side of the dance area away from the restaurant, with the ocean behind them, reflecting the changing colors of the sunset.

They held each other close and the rest of the world faded away. Daisy began to speak lowly, “You know, I’ve been thinking, about us…” 

“So have I. Can I go first?” Carol waited as Daisy nodded. Carol inhaled and took the box out of her pocket. With her other hand, she took Daisy’s, and knelt on one knee. 

Daisy exhaled a laugh. “Yes.” 

“I haven’t asked you yet,” Carol teased and opened the box to reveal a shining engagement ring. The crowd around them stopped dancing and the music grew softer. “Daisy Johnson, I will love you forever. You’re my world, and all I want is to be your wife. Will you marry me?”    

Daisy’s voice caught as she rasped a “yes” again through tears. Carol slipped the ring on her finger, but Daisy had to wait until later to admire it because Carol stood and kissed her deeply as everyone around applauded. 

When they parted and waved to the crowd, Daisy quipped, “Funny, actually, that’s what I was about to ask you.” 

Carol beamed. “That just proves we’re a perfect match.” 

Daisy pulled her in close as the music played and whispered, cheek to cheek, “Dance with me.” 

Carol swayed her gently and pledged, “As long as we live.”

[chantsdemarins]

🥵"Find Tom" (Part 1)

(Tom Hiddleston X Reader)

Well, I wasn't going to write another Tom fic, but I am weak. This one is honorary for the 14 Days of Valentine's Day Community project from @muddyorbsblr

It’s suggestive in Part 1, things heat up in Part 2

Maybe interested:

@lovelysizzlingbluebird @lokisgoodgirl (I risk tagging you I know lol 😂) @tbhiddlestan83 @peaches1958 @mygfloki @huntress-artemiss @coldnique @simplyholl @mochie85 @fictive-sl0th @goblingirlsarah @carlym @mjsthrillernp @i-stand-with-loki @filthyhiddles @wolfsmom1 @fantasyfan4life @jennyggggrrr @runningawaywithloki @lady-rose-moon @icytrickster17

(New art too!)

Sea Ranch, CA Sometime after the era fondly referred to as "Peak Tom"

The path back to his weekend rental was winding, to say the least.

Coastal sage and nubby coyote bush snagged the transparent black nylons you put on at the last minute when your winter skin looked a little too ashy for an evening event at Sea Ranch amongst the Bay Area’s artsy crowd. Your hand glided down to touch the plants along the escarpment, pulling a sprig off one of the branches with a gentle tug. Holding it to your nose and inhaling the scent, mixed with the salt misting up from the ocean below, it feels like velvet air coursing through your lungs.

You are climbing now, and you imagine by the time you get to the top of the cliff, your breath will be dangerously close to being lost. You were correct.

The view that opens before you, even in the moonless night, is more incredible than anything you could remember seeing of late. He’s way off in front of you, nervously plodding-perhaps to get inside the thick redwood doors and clean up quickly before welcoming you in. You can barely see the outline of his suit, his shoulder blades, noble triangles against the lithe of his tall frame.

He’s left a light on inside, as he nervously opens the door the light hits his face. It’s a relief to see him after what felt like 30 minutes trekking through the California coastline in borrowed Prada flats. From your side of the window, he’s impossibly handsome, untouchable. The window feels like a metaphor.

How you managed to get an interview with him at this hour, after an overly festive San Francisco film festival party, was a mystery, but he agreed when you took the chance. You’d been eyeing him all night, the last person you expected to be there, and the most interesting.

Only hours before, you’d quietly moved to the deck of the main Sea Ranch house, holding your cell phone to the pristine glittery night sky, searching for a signal to rejuvenate your bad cell service. You Googled “Tom Hiddleston” just to be sure it wasn’t Michael Fassbender.

Then when you heard someone say his name, you were clear, it was him.

It was unlike you to invite yourself into the conversation he was already having with a keen-eyed group of Brits across the room, stationed next to a looming Peter Doig painting and a roaring fire, but you did. Making a joke, dropping your cocktail napkin in your nervousness. When he picked it up mid-sentence and handed it back to you, eyes meeting yours, you knew. You waited a few moments but then told him who you were, the beat you were covering for the impossibly small publication you just started writing for. You were way in over your head.

Maybe you should have covered the state fair first, not the San Francisco film festival post-screening events. The roar of crashing waves just outside the sheer wall of glass was unnerving. You flagged down one of the servers and had another caramel-colored Manhattan with one of those big ice cubes that obscure the actual amount of alcohol. Tom did the same, eyes never leaving you.

He made a joke about the event planners saving money with the big ice cubes, “a deliberate act of malice�� he said. By midnight you’d managed to find a cozy red, mostly ornamental couch, with cushions seemingly filled with lead, one shift too many caused Tom to say it first. To ask where you were staying.

You weren’t. That was the thing.

You were going to drive back to ennui filled Napa in the wee morning hours, with the marine layer locked in place, a challenge even for the sober. Which you clearly were not.

*Tom would later correct your pronunciation of ‘ennui’ when you used it in conversation, this may or may not have created a small pause in kinetic flow between you.

He offered for you to have some tea (or coffee because you were American, he promised he drank entirely too much coffee and was an honorary American because of it). He offered to be interviewed in his weekend cliff-facing Bill Turnbull masterpiece.

He was effulgent in his offering. So much so that you worried about how he seemed determined to make a good impression on you, a stranger with no obvious pedigree to situate yourself in a status of his interest.

You made your way inside, and you were right-he is nervously cleaning up. He’d been there for less than 24 hours and somehow managed to leave his running clothes, cliff bar wrappers, and socks all over the front room. He mentions jet lag, and delayed flights on the usually reliable British Airways.

You spy at least 25 pretzel packages on the quartz counter, and you ask Tom if those were from his flight. He gives a “ehehehehehheehe” laugh and says the flight staff was worried because he didn’t like the in-flight meal.

Of course, you asked what it was, how could you not.

It turns out it was beef bourgeon with Yukon potatoes. Tom explains the ‘why’ behind his reluctance to eat the meal, but you are simply not listening anymore. You are caught up in your own anxiety. He smells like blood orange and lilac with cedar. He smells like fancy architecture. He explains the house he is staying in with precise detail, he’s giving a dissertation on the Sea Ranch movement of the 70s but you hear approximately every other word. You are caught up in little visual details between the words you hear.

The way he seems different than the man you had watched on the San Diego Comic-Con reels, the impossibly linguistically delightful rhetorician of arcane theses. His mind accosts you, but his energy seems stuck in his head. It’s unnerving.

You wonder if he is even aware of his body, your body-or how you both are sitting now on the hastily cleaned up front room couch, bare feet accidently touching in thoughtless intervals. He is still beautiful but different, something has changed. You admittedly hadn’t kept up with his work, you were essentially a Marvel adjacent fan at best, and your previous amateur journalism beat was not entertainment, or the arts beat, it was tech.

There is an old wooden clock on the wall and the hourly bell strikes pausing you both, it’s 2:00 am. You laugh to yourself when you realize it’s now February 14th. Not one for any commercialized sentimentality or strange Catholic holidays masquerading as innocuous celebrations of love, you wonder to yourself if they even celebrate Valentine’s Day in England.

You want to ask Tom, but you are careful right now, he’s overly generous and his ego seems hidden under his red beard.

He’s giving “wounded” but there’s still his gaze, his cerulean eyes are boring holes through you. His skin is too golden when spring is still a few months away, it contrasts against his button-down shirt which is unbuttoned quite far. His pants aren’t two sizes too small like you remember him wearing to press events before, but they are still tight, they hug his thighs like neoprene, they are too distracting, you can’t ask if they have Valentine’s Day in London. You’ve never even been to the UK. Your blank passport is a spectral vision hanging over your head, you are a ghost covered with a bedsheet.

You debate a few more long, ponderous minutes before you finally ask if they celebrate Valentine’s Day in England. Tom wonders why you are asking. You remind him-today is now Valentine's Day. He laughs and explains America is much more theatrical than England-Brits don’t fall for heart-shaped boxes of chocolate.

You say, “So what do you guys fall for then?”

“Intelligence.”

You die a little. That’s it. You’ll never get your interview questions out of your mouth, and you may want this to end romantically. Any warm-blooded human would-when faced with the charm of Tom Hiddleston-even if it’s slightly redacted. Even if it’s like the big monolith ice cubes from the party earlier, somehow obscuring the ingredients.

You also want to know more about why he seems so different. You pry a little, your intuition is good enough and you can tell something happened.

Maybe it was a love affair, maybe he’s got mental health issues, maybe it’s being too famous, too known. This level of celebrity and privilege is impossible for you to sort out logically. You’ll likely never know what it feels like to have the kind of money to do anything and everything you’d ever dreamed of doing, and the charisma to attract endless people to bed.

He’s not vapid, though. At least his persona isn’t. He should be but he just isn’t Hollywood. You feel accepted by him, although you wonder how true that is, how true it could be-he comes from a world of strict judgments attached to insane amounts of money. People get exactly what they want. He’s part of that beast. He knows it, but he seems so normal right now. He even says he hates LA. He will never live there.

As you keep talking, words are mixing. Which are your thoughts, and which are his? A prelude perhaps to how he is in bed, all-consuming, immersive. He pulls you in, and you feel invigorated and ready to be supine all at once. Your body slinks down the cushions until you both are sitting on the plush rug, backs against the bottom of the couch.

Tom stares at you with the intensity of an SLS rocket launcher (the knowledge of an SLS rocket launcher is the byproduct of your last beat before entertainment and after tech-military weaponry). He stares at you like he owns you. Like there’s a collar around your neck. You check for a second just to be sure, running your chrome-colored nails against your throat.

Maybe that’s what he is struggling with, having too much pleasure and too much happiness. He’s laying low, attending minuscule film festival after parties in Northern California. Talking to a woman like you at 2:30 am, you feel much like the high tide outside the endless glass windows, disoriented by the lack of the moon's influence.

You close your eyes for just a second, and you can hear his voice mixing with the waves, the alcohol you’ve consumed, and his generous pours of the local wines he was gifted from the nebulas of vintners at the party. He can’t take them back to London, so “we better drink up,” he laughs again, emptying the second bottle into your vintage glass.

Are you holding it from the stem or the cup? Your grip is too tight, you notice. You try and hold the glass with less pressure, but your hands are like talons. If you weren’t holding on to a wine glass, surely it would be Tom’s cock.

Which you had spied the last time he got up to grab another bottle of wine, his jacket tossed on the chair to reveal his form with even more clarity. Although you tried not to look, it was difficult to miss. You assumed he wasn’t even hard yet, too lost in conversation.

You pondered if this was his thing, hooking up casually. It wouldn’t be surprising, but he was just so nice and sincere in all his actions it was hard to sift out the carnal jock with rugby stories from college and pick-up games in his London neighborhood to the starry-eyed poet delivering such lines as:

"When I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one Talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He returning chide; “Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”

By the time the last comp wine was consumed and the waves outside drifted back into low tide, you knew it was now or never.

He hadn’t touched you, not even tried; you were just left with the pleasurable burn from his boyfriend experience. You could feel the wheels turning in his mind. Perhaps he was wondering if he should be less caring, should you get too attached to his attention, his cerulean stare. He couldn’t be. Otherwise, it seemed, even if he put his acting skills to work on changing what appeared to be his perpetually endearing substrate.

He grabbed your wine glass from your hand, and you cautiously released it, wondering about your previous thought of what your hand would grab if it wasn’t a wine glass.

He gently placed his head on your shoulder with his eyes closed. Good god he smelled like heaven. Like signed contracts, like large claw foot bathtubs with a view of the Mediterranean Sea. He smelled like ginger and carrots and felt warm and hard simultaneously.

His skin was soft, but his features, like his triangle shoulder blades and his nose, were strong. They felt like swords piercing your skin. You were slayed by his bone structure even before he put his cock inside you.

You hoped it would be comfortably nestled between your legs by the time the sun began to rise over the luxuriant rock wall the house rested upon. Societal norms, class expectations, and personal relationships be damned. The wine and your own ennui fueled your longing for him—

Continue on to-

Part 2

[the-hinky-panda]

The Preacher's Wife Series: Escape (Part I)

TW: Domestic spousal abuse: emotional, mental, physical, and sexual

Hank’s in love.

Again. 

It’s too soon, the wounds from the previous relationship still fresh, still stinging. But he thinks back to feeling Maggie pressed to his side, her hand in his, her head resting against his shoulder. It was one of the only times that he actually followed the speed limit back to her rental, trying to draw out the time. He can’t get it out of my mind just how perfect everything had been. He certainly doesn’t believe in romantic nonsense like soulmates but the feeling of watching Maggie walk into the cabin by herself was like watching a piece of himself go with her. 

Maybe he is starting to believe in soulmates. 

Either way, the problem remains of her husband and the process of getting her and the two children out of that mansion in La Jolla. He can’t contact Maggie directly so he approaches the next best thing, Maggie’s sister, Stitches. She’s been the medic for a couple years now and hasn’t mentioned anything specific about Maggie and her marriage. She’s hinted at being concerned for Maggie, always excited for Maggie’s visits to Santo Padre. But never has she brought up to the club a fear for her sister’s safety. 

Stitches is organizing her medical supplies in the treatment room in the clubhouse when Hank finally tracks her down. He’s only been back from Big Bear Lake for two hours and he can’t shake the conversation he had just earlier today in the truck with Maggie. He raps lightly on the open door. 

“Stitch, you got a minute?” 

“Yeah, absolutely.” She stands up and immediately starts scanning him, looking for any injuries. 

“I’m fine,” he waves her off. “I, uh, I actually wanted to talk to you about your sister, Maggie.” 

Concern immediately clouds her face. “Maggie? What’s going on with Maggie?” 

“I ran into her, up at Big Bear Lake.” 

Stitches’ concern dissipates immediately and she breaks into a big smile. “Oh yeah, she was heading up there for a conference.” 

Hank smirked. “Conference.” 

“Ah,” Stitches leans against the exam table. “So she told you about her other ‘job.’” 

“She did. My mom likes reading her books.” 

Stitches’ grin gets wider. “I’m sure the next time she’s visiting, we can stop by and see your mom if you want. It’ll do Maggie good, finding people who enjoy her books. She doesn’t get to have that satisfaction too much.” 

Hank smiles at that but then gets to the real reason for his visit. “Has Maggie ever said anything about how her husband treats her?” 

All positivity drains from her face. “I know he’s an asshole. Emotionally manipulative and a bully. I’ve been stashing money and family heirlooms for her in preparation for her to leave but she keeps telling me the timing isn’t right yet. Her publisher is also holding on to her royalties as well. Why?” 

“She just said a few things that concerned me. Wanted to get a clearer picture from you.” 

Stitches’ mouth is a firm, tense line. “What things?” 

The words are so bitter on his tongue when he says them. “I think he’s hitting her.” 

“That son of a bitch.”

She starts to move past him but he puts out a hand and catches her shoulder. The explosion is expected and he is prepared for it thankfully. “Now hold on. You know if that’s true, we do have to wait on her.” 

“Dammit, I know.”  She emits a frustrated noise and kicks the small trash can. “Shit. I had no idea he was hitting her or that it was even a possibility. He’s so focused on goddam appearances I didn’t think he would do that.” 

“It seemed like she let it slip when we were talking. She said it was never anything to go see about at a hospital or ER. I don’t think anyone knows.” 

“Course not. Simon Peters needs to keep his reputation clean or he could lose that money machine of a church. Can’t have a wife sporting bruises and casts…” Stitches pauses in her rant, her eyes going wide. “Oh my God. Her foot.” 

“She mentioned breaking it but didn’t say how.” 

Stitches returns to pacing the small room, her face thunderous. “I knew it. I knew Simon had something to do with her broken foot. The bones on the top of her foot were just snapped. She had to have metal pins and plates in there to fix it. She said her foot got caught under a box and she lost balance and fell backwards. It sounded fishy to me but she assured me that’s all it was.” 

Hank feels that sick feeling settling in his stomach. “What did it look like to you?” 

“It looked like someone stood on her foot and pushed her backwards, that’s what the breaks looked like.” Stitches lets out another sound of anger. “Six years! Six years, she’s been stuck in that house with that asshole! And I didn’t…” her eyes flood with tears and she covers her face with her hands. “I didn’t know, Hank. God, I didn’t know.” 

“What the hell is going on in here?” Bishop appears in the doorway. 

Tears are still streaming down her face and gives both Hank and Bishop the most helpless look. “My sister needs help.” 

Bishop turns to Hank. “What kind of help?” 

Taza appears at Bishop’s shoulder, peering into the room. “What’s going on?” 

“Stitches’ sister needs help,” Bishop says. 

Hank fills in the rest of the information. “Abusive husband.” 

Bishop nods. “He armed? Security guards? What are we talking?” 

“He’s the pastor of a megachurch,” Hank answers. “Lives in a mansion in La Jolla.” 

“The kids,” Stitches says. “We need to get the two kids too.” 

“Alright,” Taza puts his arm around Stitches’ shoulders. “We will. You talk to her, find out when would be a good time to get her and the kids out.” 

“Safely,” Hank adds. 

“Safely,” Bishop repeats. “In the meantime, if we have something coming up that needs attention, I’ll make sure at least three guys stay behind to help. You pick them. Okay?” 

Stitches wipes her eyes with her sleeve. “Okay. But don’t you have to bring this to the table or take a vote in Templo or something?” 

Bishop  glances at Hank and Taza, who give him minute nods, and he shakes his head. “No vote needed this time. Sometimes, we’re just all in agreement.” 

[dopescissorscashwagon]

We were literally cleaning the rentals before heading back to Rome, when the fog and clouds lined up perfectly and I captured this photo from the parking lot of our accommodation in Tuscany 🤩

📸 by Mads Peter Iversen Photography

[bates--boy]

He can’t lie: the countryside was good for Peter. Crystalline waters and trees abundant with fruit, air that – once a person gets past the undertone of swamp – breathed in cool and fresh. There was an ease in the atmosphere that Peter could bask in; encountering his sparse neighbors in this remote part of the country while shopping in the farmer’s market, catching old movies in the drive-in cinema, taking a swim in his rental’s backyard lake. And then he can come home, sit at his computer, and get to work with a clear mind.

It was a place a creature could thrive in, even one as metropolitan as him.

But, it was as that saying goes: you can take the seagull out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the seagull.

Even among the serene chirping of crickets, the whisper of winds through trees, and the tempting twinkling on the lake’s surface, the city called to him. Plus, his time in the rental was nearly up.

Bags packed, farewells exchanged, and copious amounts of photos taken, and in the blink of an eye, Peter was back home. Not even out of traffic and he had already and easily woven himself back into the hustle and bustle of the city that had his heart.

He paid the taxi driver his fare and a little tip, carried his belongings of a suitcase, his backpack, and a sports bag up the stairs, and he was back in his apartment. There was much he needed to do, like clean the dust off the stuff that had went untouched for three months, text his fathers to let them know that he made it back safely, unpack his items and get settled in. But the travel was, what, ten hours? All of that could wait: right now, he wanted to soak in the city life he had missed so much, eat some takeout while he listened to the blaring of car horns, the shouting of two homeless dudes one word away from getting into a fist fight, and the distant police sirens.

Making a quick order of pad thai and fried shrimp, Peter wiped his retro-themed radio with his sleeve and switched it on to his favorite station.

Mornin’, Chillville, Doppelganga’s here for Chillhop Radio. Summer’s here, meanin’ speedos and bikinis, parades, and whatever ya like. Sun’s blazing like crazy, so make sure you got ya sunscreen and shades, and stay hydrated! Don’t want any of ya to pass out, ya hear? While you’re tryin’ stay cool, relax, sit back, and enjoy the smooth jams. Next hour’s gonna be a doozy!

Welcome to Chillville! The hub where all the creative critters come together. Whether someone is a music artist, a visual creator, a student, a chef – everyone is welcome! Though the inhabitants are busy and always on the move, there’s something about this lively city that still feels like a little town, a cozy area where residents feel like they’re among friends when they’re sitting in at free music shows, having a drink at the cafe, or tagging the walls of the abandoned clothing warehouse.

Everybody’s chill in Chillville!

[wonderencyclopedia]

Name: Tigra Tropica First Appearance: Wonder Woman 26 (1947) Creators: Joye Hummel and H.G Peter Abilities: The ability to train a fleet of tiger butlers. Possession of an elite corp of highly trained tiger butlers. Tiger haver. Tiger riding. Pressure Point hypnosis. Unintentional and uncanny ability to cause heart attacks.

Backstory: Woman who realized she was thematically named and decided to double down on it. Tigra Tropica possessed a passionate love and adoration for tigers which became her favorite animal. Loved more than anything else, including human beings.

So great was her passion for tigers that the wealthy woman upon inheriting her estate, proceeded to fire the staff and turn her land into a tiger preserve which a vast number of tigers called home.

Training the tigers to handle the day to day tasks of her mansion such as groundskeeping, cleaning, cooking, Tigra soon had a capable collection of refined and dignified tiger butlers who learned to thrive in the perilous jungle that is high society.

However maintaining a lavish richlet lifestyle while also supporting and caring for a large ambush of tiger butlers was a costly affair. Her finances evaporating before her eyes.

In an effort to remain afloat, Tigra would hatch a most ingenious plan which she was certain would not only restore her lost wealth, but fund a further expansion of more tigers. She would form a tiger butler rental service!

For Tigra Tropica was certain that everyone must love tigers as much as she did and once people learned the joys of having a tiger butler, they would never be able to do without.

Thus being a woman ahead of her time, Tigra Tropica would use the most subtle and ingenious of ploys, the surprise free trial. She would select a lucky recipient and they would wake up that following morning with a tiger butler of their very own. One who maintaining the strict rules of hired help, would strive to remain out of sight of guests while always being on hand.

Thus be it serving breakfast in bed, pressing a suit, or chauffering their client around, the tiger butlers would strive to provide excellent service. Mysteriously those clients were prone to reacting with abject terror to having their every step followed by a dutiful tiger. A reaction which Tigra Tropica assumed the fault of a natural fear of the poor.

After a week of being tended to, the tiger butler would then take their client to Tigra Tropica, who would explain that this wonderful service could be there for $50,000 a year.

And if someone was to busy screaming in abject about tigers, she would press pressure points in an individuals head to hypnotize them into accepting the amazing deal which they would have to be crazy not to accept.

[thatonemarvelchick]

Peter - Twelve

Peter led Apricity outside, looking up at the cloud-covered sky. The sun hung low, already setting even though it was only seven. He glanced over at the girl, her small form swallowed almost whole by one of his hoodies. He’d insisted she change, wear something warmer. He almost made her take a pair of his boots if they wouldn’t have tripped her up so badly. 

She had her hands shoved into the pockets, the neckline pulled up to her nose. Peter smiled softly at the sight, the way her big hazel eyes peeked over the collar of his hoodie. It made something in his heart flutter. He tried to ignore the feeling. 

“Where are we going again?” Apricity asked, looking over at Peter. The two trudged along down the streets of Boston, towards one of the main roads. 

“We’re getting a rental car, and we’re going to drive to Brooklyn. That’s where Mr. Barnes lives.” Peter had been keeping tabs on all of the Avengers, even if none of them knew him anymore. He knew Bucky would would recognize Spider-Man. 

Apricity stopped short, looking up at him. “You want to drive all the way to Brooklyn? Peter that's a four-hour drive on a good day, with this weather we’ll be lucky to make it there by morning.” She shook her head. “Plus, I don’t know about you but I don’t really have the money for a rental car.”

Peter shrugged. “Don’t worry about the money, I’ve got it covered.” He and May had money stashed away for emergencies almost his whole life. When everything went sideways, he took all of it before he left. It was one of the few things he had left of her. “I just want to figure out what’s going on, see what Bucky knows. Sooner we get this whole mess cleaned up…” He let the words hang in the air. 

“The sooner you can go back to pretending I don’t exist.” She finished for him, keeping her eyes on the sidewalk ahead of them now. 

Peter’s throat got tight. He tried not to think of that moment in the bathroom. Of how delicate her touch was on his face. Of how much he’d wanted to pull her in and never let go. He’d even thought about kissing her. 

But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t get too close, because in doing so he was only putting her in danger. This was bad enough. 

Apricity didn’t say anything else the rest of the walk, and neither did he. When the man renting out cars heard they were looking to get one to take overnight, he looked at the two skeptically. 

“You’re gonna make a drive to New York in this weather?” He asked, eyebrow raised. He was an older man, with graying hair and a beer gut that hung low over his belt. Peter didn’t like the way he looked at Apricity. 

“Yeah.” He said simply, taking a step closer to her and setting the cash down on the counter. “It’s all right here, including the extra for insurance. Can I get the keys, please?” His tone was no-nonsense. It was clear he would not be argued out of this. He saw Apricity staring up at him from the corner of his eye, but didn’t look down. 

Soon enough, they were sitting in the seats of a comfortable blue Kia Spectra, with a working heater and a running engine. That was really all Peter could ask for. 

“Alright, ready?” He looked over at Apricity, who had stripped off one of the coats he’d given her and was now only wearing the hoodie. She was tying her hair up into a knot on the top of her head. 

“Yeah.” She mumbled around the hair tie in her mouth. It was the most she’d said to him since their conversation on the walk over. Peter sighed, turning on the radio. He couldn’t be upset that she didn’t want to talk to him, he’d essentially told her he was planning to abandon her as soon as they’d figured everything out. 

But she had to understand, right? On some level, she had to understand why he was doing what he was doing. Why he was keeping himself apart from her, why it was safer for her to be away from him? She was smart, incredibly so, she had to have understood. 

“Apricity, I’m sorry.” He surprised himself with the words. 

She frowned, turning to look over at him fully. “What?” Clearly, he’d surprised her with the apology too. 

Peter swallowed, his grip on the steering wheel tightening slightly. “I just… You have to understand why I want to- Why I don’t want you around me.” 

She sighed, realizing what it was about, and turned away. She was shutting him out. “It’s fine, Peter.”

Peter shook his head. “No, no because I can’t stand it. I don’t want to do this to you. I just- Everyone in my life, at some point or another, has gotten hurt. Everyone. And after the Statue of Liberty…” He shook his head and swallowed, trying to shake the memories of the Goblin out of his head. How badly he’d wanted to kill Norman Osborne. How badly he’d wanted to shove past the other Peter Parker and kill him. “Stuff happened. I got May- my aunt-” He felt his throat closing up and his words came out choked now. “I got her killed. She died and it was my fault. And in order to save the rest of… well, everyone, I had to make them all forget.”

Apricity was looking back at him now, those wide hazel eyes full of confusion and care. “What do you mean forget?” She whispered. Her voice was soothing to Peter, he found. It drifted through the car and caressed him, urging him to continue. 

“The problem was, that I had messed up one of Dr. Stranges spells. I made everyone who knew that Peter Parker was Spider-Man, from every universe, start spilling into this one. And in order to reverse what I did… I had to make everyone forget Peter Parker.” He swallowed, ecstatic that he’d actually managed to get the words out. He hadn’t talked about it with anyone, hadn’t had anyone to talk to about it. 

Apricity was silent for a moment, and this made Peter’s heart sink. Maybe she was seeing him for what he really was now. A fuck up, a murderer, an idiot. A catastrophic kid who ruined everything he touched. 

What she said next surprised him. 

“I’m so, so sorry, Peter.” Her voice was so genuine, it felt like a punch to the gut. He didn’t deserve sympathy, he didn’t deserve understanding. He didn’t deserve someone sitting here, consoling him about the worst things he’d ever done. 

Peter’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel now, and he shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before reopening them to see the road. 

His decision was final. He would not allow Apricity any closer than she’d gotten. When this was over, he would cut her out completely. Delete her number, change his classes, hell, maybe he’d even change schools. He would no longer be around her anymore. He couldn’t let her past any more of the precious, delicate walls he’d put up. 

He would do what he couldn’t do for Ben, Tony, May, MJ, Ned, and Happy. 

He would keep her safe. 

“You shouldn’t be sorry for me. You should be sorry you ever ran into me that day.”

Next Chapter

[ry-js-climbing-adventures]

Ry-J’s Climbing Adventures

Pembroke, situated in Ontario, Canada, lies at the junction of the Muskrat and Ottawa Rivers within the Ottawa Valley. This city serves as the administrative center for Renfrew County, though it operates independently from county politics. Located about 145 kilometers northwest of Ottawa, Pembroke is a city rich in history and heritage.

The area, now known as Pembroke, was first settled by European Daniel Fraser in 1823, who initially squatted on land later found to be owned by Abel Ward. Ward sold this land to Fraser, where Moncion's Metro Supermarket now stands, and the nearby Fraser Street commemorates this early settler’s family.

In 1828, Peter White, a former Royal Navy serviceman, settled adjacent to Fraser in the current location of Dairy Queen. His arrival was soon followed by other settlers drawn by the burgeoning local lumber industry.

Initially named Miramichi, the community transformed into a police village in 1856 and was later renamed Pembroke. The name is indirectly linked to Sidney Herbert, the First Admiralty Secretary from 1841 to 1845 and son of George Herbert, 11th Earl of Pembroke.

Pembroke was officially declared a town in 1878 and became a city in 1971. In 1861, it was designated as the seat for Renfrew County, which led to the construction of the Renfrew County Courthouse, completed in 1867. The following two decades marked significant development, shaping Pembroke’s modern layout and architecture. However, many original structures have since been lost.

The courthouse and the now-unused jail underwent extensive renovations between 2005 and 2007, preserving many historic elements, like the original jail cells from 1867 and the courtroom, which now features a replica of the original brass light fixture. This site also witnessed three executions by hanging, two in the 1870s and one in 1952.

Surviving historic sites in Pembroke include a landmark synagogue, two early hospitals, the Dunlop mansion (now Grey Gables Inn), the 'Munroe Block' in the downtown area, and two residences that the White family owned. A significant fire in 1918 ravaged many downtown buildings, including the Pembroke Opera House.

In 1898, Pembroke was chosen as the headquarters for the Roman Catholic Diocese of Pembroke, adding a spiritual dimension to its historical and cultural significance.

Featured Business:

Ry-J’s Climbing Adventures is your premier destination for safe and exhilarating party rentals and outdoor adventures. We specialize in event equipment rentals and offer various inflatable attractions, rock climbing walls, and obstacle courses suitable for all ages and occasions. Our commitment to safety is unmatched, with every piece of equipment rigorously inspected and maintained to ensure a secure environment. Whether you're planning a birthday celebration, corporate team-building event, or community fair, our clean and sanitized rentals, coupled with transparent pricing and expert supervision, guarantee an unforgettable experience.

Contact: Ry-J’s Climbing Adventures 150 Quarry Rd, Pembroke, ON K8B 0A1, Canada RV4W+4X Pembroke, Ontario, Canada (613) 735–2699 https://climbingadventures.ca/

YouTube Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2shp1GIWOjo

YouTube Playlist: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLvLtkwti-sKTx7qRcvgCRP688ojcXXimd

Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/ry-js-climbing-adventures/ry-js-climbing-adventures

Soundcloud Playlist: https://soundcloud.com/ry-js-climbing-adventures/sets/ry-js-climbing-adventures

Medium Post: https://medium.com/@ryjsclimbingadventures/ry-js-climbing-adventures-5b7f464f0409

Weebly: https://ry-js-climbing-adventures.weebly.com/

Tumblr Post: https://ry-js-climbing-adventures.tumblr.com/post/754247738219167744/ry-js-climbing-adventures

Strikingly: https://ry-js-climbing-adventures.mystrikingly.com/

Google MyMaps: https://www.google.com/maps/d/viewer?mid=18g9mtP11D0EG49754gyxPMI3LZXzCsk

Google Map CID: https://www.google.com/maps?cid=10903400154571426428

Google Site: https://sites.google.com/view/ry-js-climbing-adventures/

Wakelet Collection: https://wakelet.com/wake/g2XCy5Q79-YMbMgRfRGO3

Twitter List: https://x.com/i/lists/1805470478305575376

Twitter Tweets: https://x.com/RyJsadventures/status/1805484005531214040 https://x.com/RyJsadventures/status/1805484225048756505 https://x.com/RyJsadventures/status/1805484361837593062 https://x.com/RyJsadventures/status/1805484494306394575 https://x.com/RyJsadventures/status/1805484708337532935 https://x.com/RyJsadventures/status/1805484949904277929 https://x.com/RyJsadventures/status/1805485072679674250 https://x.com/RyJsadventures/status/1805485195165905030 https://x.com/RyJsadventures/status/1805485322148757619 https://x.com/RyJsadventures/status/1805485432584716333 https://x.com/RyJsadventures/status/1805485587891204330

[999spiderarch]

Diaper: Has your muse ever changed a diaper before? Are they good at it?

Entertain: Is your muse good at entertaining children? How do they go about doing it?

Tantrum: How does your muse deal with tantrums? In public?

Parent: What type of parent does your muse consider themself?

Destress: What’s your muse way to destress after a long day?

Ramsey has not changed a diaper, though, should Peter B ask them to babysit, there'll be a first time for everything. Can't wait to see how that one goes. When she does end up babysitting for someone, she's actually quite good at keeping kids entertained in the way that doesn't involve screens. She's really good at making stupid faces and coming up with fun games. But when it comes to tantrums, they do not know what to do. Typically, they'll try anything. Mostly it results in her calling up Peter or Miguel trying to ask for advice. Post babysitting duty, their number one thing to destress is to play video games or take a LONG ass bubble bath before she has to clean the crayon off the wall. (She'd keep it there, but the apartment is a rental, smh)

[rentamatics]

If you're looking for dumpster rentals, you've come to the right place!

If you're looking for dumpster rentals, you've come to the right place! We can help you with your trash removal needs in St. Louis, MO, and surrounding areas. We have dumpsters of all sizes to accommodate any size project and the best prices in the area. We also provide surface protection to prevent scratches or damage to driveways. We also offer clean-out services, including yard waste and garage and basement cleanups. With our help, your space will be nice and clean in no time.

Name: Rentamatics Dumpster Rental & Tool Rental Address: 12 Patmos Ct, St Peters, MO 63376 Phone: (636) 265-9295 Website: https://www.rentamatics.com

[haleyboook]

Past mistakes pt. 11

Word count: 2,069

Warnings: arguing, cursing, tons of emotions

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Cora steps out of the house as I mumble out “He hates me.”

My mom shakes her head saying “No, honey..”

Cora says “y/n, your fiancée is asking for you.” My frown deepens and my dad says “Cora, not now. Why would you possibly invite the Evans’ and Peter?”

Cora says “I don’t know, I thought she sorted out her issues. Like an adult-” “Enough. Cora, send Peter home.” My mom quickly says

Cora says “I have to? Why should I send her fiancée home?”

I pull away from my mom saying “I never signed my divorce papers. Chris legally…”

“Oh my god y/n! How could you possibly be that immature.”

Walking away from them my mom says “Honey! Please-”

I shake my head as I look to down the street. My blue little rental car stopped in front of Lisa Evans’ house. The childhood home of all the Evans kids

Walking away my mom gets into a disagreement with Cora. I approach the house, knocking on the door rudely. I shout “I will climb through the window!”

It swings open a minute later and Scott says “He doesn’t want to talk with you.” I nod saying “I don’t care.”

I walk past him, walking through to the kitchen as I stop at the sight of Chris leaned against the counter, drinking a beer.

“Don’t wanna talk to you right now.”

“Yeah, I didn’t really want to speak with Pete today either but you felt the need to step in.”

He scoffs saying “You weren’t even planning on ending things with him. I saw it in your expression when he kissed you.”

I scoff saying “My expression? Only thing I was thinking of was you while he forcefully kissed me!” 

He sighs saying “I think I...” I interrupt him saying “Need to just let this go.” He continues saying “need to leave.”

I look to him confused saying “What?”

Chris shrugs saying “I didn’t like meeting the man you’ve been with after you abandoned me. Knowing that you were a completely different person with him. You weren’t even the person I married when I saw you with him. The way he described your life. God, who are you??”

I shake my head saying “You’ve changed too. You can’t blame me for everything. I wasn’t the sole reason we’re even in this situation. I ran because I had too. When Jack died... I died.”

“You don’t think I grieved him too? That I was hurting?”

“Not in the same way! I needed out. I was suffering. I was in pain.”

He shakes his head saying “So was I. I was grieving. And all I wanted then and needed was you. And you left me.”

I frown as tears well up “And I needed to be away from you.”

“You always ran from your problems. And it just seems like you’re looking for a reason to run away from us, all over again. You left me. You walked away! You ran half way across the United States..”

“I needed it. I needed change.”

“You needed me out of your life. You think I was fine after Jack died? I was left with all these reminders of the wife that abandoned me and my son that died. You left his room, half way cleaned out. I was a shell of myself because of you.”

I shake my head saying “I couldn’t leave his room after the funeral. You don’t remember that? Carrying my body out of his room every night? The struggle to get me to eat? You didn’t need the commitment of taking care of me. I couldn’t function.. I was in a bad place. I couldn’t stay.”

He says “I was getting us through it. Together. Just like everything else we were hit with.”

“Losing him was nothing in comparison to the other things. I wanted to die. I felt empty. I lost a part of myself and I’ll never get that back. So you’re right. I changed. Not because of Pete. Or any other stupid excuse. I changed because I lost the one thing we did right. The one thing we made that was truly amazing. I needed him.”

He nods and says “And I needed you.”

I shake my head saying “No you didn’t.”

“Yes I did! You were the only constant thing in my life for so long.”

I drop my hands to my side saying “The wife, and best friend you needed wasn’t me then. I was a pathetic shell of myself. You had to take care of me like I was a child. You were my husband. Not my father. You never should have had to take care of me in that way. That is why I ran. You were unhappy. Even if you didn’t want to admit it then.”

He scoffs saying “Through better or worse? That’s a part of marriage. You needed me and I was fine being there.”

“It wasn’t your job..”

“Then what was! I was in pain watching you grieve. Hurt more than losing Jack, I swear. Felt like you were slipping away from me. I was only trying to hold us above water. We would’ve drowned in sadness, Jules.”

I frown and step towards him as his emotions bubble to the surface. He shakes his head, stepping back from me. 

I wipe my tears quickly, saying “That wasn’t your burden to take on.”

“You were my wife. I understood the way you were feeling, not like I could have sat around watching you suffer. Whether you like it or not, you needed me.”

I nod saying “I’ve always needed you. Always.”

He shakes his head saying “I can’t stay here. In this town, this state.”

“Then we can go. I can-”

He sighs saying “Without you.”

My arms cross over my body and I say “Chris..”

He motions towards the door saying “You’re right, we’ve both become completely different people. You aren’t the girl I married and I’m not the man you married. We’re completely different people.”

I shake my head, slowly becoming desperate. “Stop. Chris just wait.”

He says “Playing house, pretend, isn’t what I want. We aren’t who we used to be.”

“Will you quit being so cynical!” 

“I’m being realistic! Stop living in fucking fantasy land and look at your surroundings! Our marriage is over! It’s a pathetic excuse of a marriage.”

Tears fall quickly and I shout “Stop it! Stop screaming at me that our marriage is over!”

“It is! Open your eyes!” 

“Fuck you!” I push him and he shakes his head saying “Arguing means happy marriage right! Right Jules! Right?!”

I shake my head turning away from him and then back his way “Couples fight.”

“You wanted your divorce, I’m giving it to you. Take whatever fucking assets you want. I want out. Now.”

I glare at him saying “Coward!” as he turns towards the open sliding glass door. He pauses, turns and says “I’m the coward? Maybe we could’ve patched things up if you hadn’t ran from me!” 

“Every argument you’re gonna bring this up aren’t you! If I didn’t run nothing would be wrong with our marriage right?! Everything’s on me! My genetics killed Jack. I’m the reason he’s dead. Right?”

He turns towards me, mouth open and shakes his head. “Bring our dead son into this, shift the conversation again, Jules. And for fucks sake, you aren’t the reason he’s dead. Tell me you don’t believe that!” 

I shrug and say “You used to look at me so differently before he died. Then you changed the way you looked at me. It was so different and I know you blamed me. I saw your change. You never looked at me the same.”

He sighs as he punches the wall lightly “Your right, I looked at you differently. Not because I blamed you. Because I felt sorry for you.”

“I didn’t need your pity.”

He huffs out a breath saying “But you needed me to not be a mess. And that effected me.”

“I didn’t tell you how to grieve. I didn’t ask you to-”

“But I did. I don’t regret it, especially after everything you did for me. I loved you too much to do any differently.”

I stare at him as silence covers the conversation and I say “So you’re gonna run, pull a Jules. Leave me the emotional wreck.”

He nods saying “Yeah, only this time you have someone to comfort you. I’m sure Pete would be happy to provide you comfort.”

I glare at him as he reaches into a kitchen drawer pulling a yellow envelope out. My expression changes and I say “Just wait a minute. Cora invited Peter. I didn’t invite him. You know I was going to have a conversation with him.”

He nods saying “You love him, Jules. I’m not gonna stand in the way of that.”

I frown and say “How would you know?”

“You look at him the way I look at you.”

I shake my head, quickly turning into an emotional mess as he grows blurry from the tears. “No. I don’t look at him the way I look at you. Chris... it’s always been you. You know this.”

“You can’t help who you love. You need uncomplicated love. Not me. All we ever do is hurt each other. Let him love you, and just... make sure your happy.”

I scoff saying “I won’t be happy with him. Don’t do this.”

I reach to grab the divorce papers out of his hand and he strides forward with the pen in his other hand

Stepping out of the door I follow him, through the new rain showers Boston area is wonderfully experiencing.

I shout “Don’t walk away from me, Christopher! I am still your wife!” 

“A few signatures and you aren’t.”

“Why are you doing this to me?!”

I grab his hand, looking at him as rain pours down my face in the dark night. I shake my head saying “There’s no one else like you. I don’t know how to live without you. Why do you think I couldn’t sign those stupid papers all those years? You can do fine without me. You’ve made that clear... but me... you’re all I know. All I’ve loved.”

He pauses, and says “Maybe it’s time you’ve moved on. Grown up.”

He skims the tears on my cheek off my face and pulls away from me. I watch, frozen in place as he jerkily signs his signature throughout the papers. Water dripping through the papers and he shoves them back into the envelope

I reach to pull it from his hand saying “No..”

He pushes it through the blue slot and just like that, it’s gone.

He feels sadness flush through his expression as I sink to the ground beside the mail box sobbing. Shaking my head saying “You idiot.”

Regret fills his body and he looks at the box, thinking about shoving his hand in the anti theft slot

To retrieve possibly the biggest mistake he’s made.

We hear shouting as Lisa and my mom shout for us. Chris looks to me and it’s like we’re 15 again. Running in the rain and our parents shouting for us to come in

Just in his expression I can see he feels the same way

I shake my head saying “I loved you. I still do.”

“Sometimes, that’s not always enough.”

It always was enough for us... 

He nods saying “Mazel tov on the engagement.” He pushes the car keys into my hand quickly, his hand lingering in my grasp

He steps away and leaves me. Leaves me like I left him years ago.

I look to the blue box, quickly pulling on the handle and attempting to retrieve the envelope. My mom runs towards me through the rain as I become a mess extremely quickly

My hand not even getting close to the envelope I feel my mom pull me away from the box hugging me tightly

She says “It’s okay.”

“He divorced me. He’s gone. For good.”

I sink into her grasp, “Oh honey...”

“He doesn’t want me anymore.”

What Chris and I didn’t realize was the condition of the papers, what was missing from them. 

My signature on nearly every important page.

The ink running on every signature of his. Making it completely invalid. Not legal.

But who’s to say that will change anything?

“I loved him so much.”

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

next >>

previous <<

Oh jeez, goodness. This was a painful chapter. So a time jump will be next and I’ll start wrapping the story soon-ish? I have a few more things to address and then I will. Thoughts? Opinions?

Time jump should be interesting. Should Pete know about her ex-husband? There not so long ago sexual relationship? Hehe should be an interesting next couple chapters. 

I can feel the inspiration already!

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Prompt: Whouffaldi AU where at the end of “Last Christmas” Santa Claus doesn’t just make Clara young again but de-ages 12 into a young man (Clara’s age) as well. Things are a bit awkward with both of them not sure what to make of this Christmas miracle at first but then things turn a bit romantic.

Ha, see, I told you I had some stuff that was nearly ready to post. Now all I need to do is get a good cushion on my Embrace the Raven prompts and I’ll be good to go.

4832words; while Twelve is without a doubt an excellent silver fox, might as well fully speculate since we have the evidence; this idea for a peak bby!Twelve AU involves something along the lines of a Soft Top Hard Shoulder-era Peter Capaldi; naturally begins to go a bit off the mark from the end of Last Christmas, but that’s okay because this is an AU and it needs to be done; a version of much of this could have happened no matter which version of Peter Capaldi one chooses, so there; contains a medium level of sexual content

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

“Hnggg—CLARA!”

The Doctor sat up and scrambled to get to his feet. Did they do it? Did he break through the final layer of the Kantrofarri-made dreamscape? He gasped for breath as he stumbled towards the TARDIS doors; blood was dripping down from his temples from the incisions made by the Kantrofarri and the paralyzing agent that had been coursing through his system was now being properly metabolized and flushed out. Throwing the ship into gear, he made his way to the house Clara was staying at—a seaside rental for the holiday.

“Clara!” he called out again, running through the house. He got to the bedroom and saw her staring at a pile of dust that was sifting through her fingers onto the duvet. “Clara! There you are!”

“Don’t come any closer!” she warned, not looking up from the extraterrestrial’s remains. He stopped. “Am I young?”

“I don’t…”

“Am. I. Young?”

He glanced around quickly and found a hand mirror, which he placed in her grasp. She used it to look at herself—she was the same. There were no more tricks, no more layers… she was finally free… they were free. She glanced up to look at him and her eyes grew wide.

“What...?” he asked.

“I… I think you should use this next…” she said quietly.

The Doctor’s hearts skipped several beats. Oh no—did he regenerate? Again? So soon? Did they go so far as to make his regeneration instinct kick in? He took the mirror in-hand and held it carefully, unsure of what he was going to find.

There, reflecting back at him, was the same face that he had prior to the Kantrofarri encounter, except… somehow it wasn’t. His hair was now brown, his face less-frowned… he hadn’t necessarily changed faces, yet was more like his other recent regenerations…

…he was young.

Well, he wasn’t young-young. He was actually getting up there in age, if one was honest, but there was still the fact he didn’t look as old as the years belied. There was more of the mystery, more of the ageless being, more of the mask he knew he could shed because Clara was there for him.

“What… what is this…?” he marveled.

“It looks like you’ve been given another gift from Santa,” she said. “You look the same age as me now.”

“You mean… we didn’t look the same before…?”

“No. The big man just shaved off twenty years, if you were a human.”

“That’s impossible… the only way he could have done that would involve him being one of the Sisterhood of Karn… and have you seen that beard?”

She stopped and looked at him, narrowing her eyes. “When was the last time you met a human woman who’s hit menopause?” He stared at her, unsure how to answer that. “You know what? Fine. Just let me clean this up…” She got out of bed and began to pull together the duvet, trying to think of how best to dispose of the alien remains because it staying in her bed a moment longer was too gross a concept for her to consider. Clara stopped when she saw the Doctor out the corner of her eye, holding his hand out and looking at her pleadingly.

“Please… don’t even argue…” he requested. She knew precisely what he wanted to say and put her hand in his, kissing him on the cheek.

A second’s pause and they both dashed from the room hand-in-hand, running down the stairs and out the house to the TARDIS. To hell with the duvet—cleaning could wait. Soon as the door was shut, Clara pushed the Doctor against the console and snogged him vigorously.

Sweet fuck, her head was spinning as she kissed him, tasting the cosmos on his lips and across his teeth and tongue. She didn’t care what he looked like—brown hair or grey, frown lines or smooth skin—because she would have laid him out on the console no matter what now that they were alive and together and back in the TARDIS again. Her fingers combed through his soft curls as she held him in place, his arms and hands splayed flat on the console because he didn’t know what to do with them. When she stopped kissing him, she pulled away to see that his face was an interesting shade of pink and he looked almost breathless. His eyes were wild with a flurry of emotions, none of which involving wanting the experience to stop, despite the fact he was clearly shook down to his core.

Everything was going to be fine.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

It had been two weeks since classes were back in session at Coal Hill Secondary School and the children were all a-twitter. Not all on Twitter, as that was a separate ordeal that involved unmitigated social media use and potential lack of (responsible, mind) adult supervision. The students were all chatting, theorizing, and amazed; Miss Oswald came back from Christmas holiday with a new gentleman caller, and it was the talk of the courtyard and canteen and corridors.

Kevin was convinced she met him while on holiday. That’s how his parents met—on a seaside holiday. That’s romantic, right?

Elisa thought he looked too similar to the substitute caretaker Miss Oswald had been seen with. Was that his son? Was that even legal? Could she really date her ex’s son?!

No… Màiri insisted that it was a coincidence, though admitted that the timing yeah was more than a bit sus…

…except Courtney Woods put her foot down once and for all on the matter, as the unofficial-official-self-appointed expert on their teachers’ love lives: it was the same Scottie in love with Ozzie.

There was a temporary coup against the unofficial-official-self-appointed expert as her classmates protested the idea. That would only involve turning back time! You can’t do that! The idea was absolutely preposterous and there was no way to get around that fact. It was a complete load of shite.

Then what was the explanation for him wearing the same clothes? Holding himself the same way? Having the same wonky run that wasn’t even really running? His accent was even too dead-on for any other option to possibly be considered. He was a space-bloke, so who was to say that he couldn’t decide to age backwards a tic?

Logic and reason was beginning to win. Doctor Smith, the silver-haired Scotsman who filled in for a week for Mister Atif, was well-known to be a space-bloke, with a funky space-cupboard (that opposing factions agreed to disagree on whether or not it was used for snogging or for sex), and the ability to down an entire pot’s worth of espresso and not even get the shakes. He called them brilliant, even when their teachers didn’t, and it had made the kids all jealous that Miss Oswald had both Doctor Smith AND Mister Pink wrapped around her finger, possibly doing some juicy love-angle stuff that their parents would smack them for even thinking about. It would make sense that Doctor Smith would come back after all that time, after giving Miss Oswald some room to breathe and mourn, and to return with a bit of an upgrade to boot.

Facts and informed inference nearly won… only for Courtney to suggest that Doctor Smith was also the same man Miss Oswald had been seeing before… the one that was a more gangly and goofier version of Mister Davies.

Nah, you’re full of bunk, Woods. She dumped that one because he looked like Mister Davies. How dense can you get?

Rather, apparently.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

“I almost feel as though I need to take a visit to Karn and look at their rolls.”

Clara smirked at that before taking another bite of her ice cream. They were meandering through an intergalactic market, arm-in-arm as they munched on ice cream that tasted vaguely of gelato. Space-gelato. The Doctor had not been impressed by the comparison; gelato was leagues superior.

“Why’s that?” she wondered idly.

“We’ve been getting more stares since Christmas,” he claimed. “I need to know who was masquerading as Santa and if punishment needs to be doled out. It’s like a punishment for me and I want to know why.”

“Relax,” she insisted. “If it’s a punishment, then I don’t think it’s because of anything Santa did… or, at least it’s not the thing you think.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Of course I am.”

They continued their stroll, coming upon the edge of the market, which itself was atop a large hill. The hill’s slope began just outside of the stalls’ limits, turning into a grassy plain of oranges and reds, looking over a green sunset. They sat on the sloped grass and watched the sun sink lower in the sky, nestled up against each other’s side.

“You know, I was really worried about you at first,” Clara said. She rested her head on his shoulder and laced their fingers together as they held hands. “I’d never seen a regeneration before that—I thought that something’d gone wrong.”

“Nothing went wrong.”

“Well, I know that now, but in the beginning? I thought you always regenerated to be physically around my age and then went from there. You know, took a bit of time getting to grey.”

“Now you can see that I don’t.”

“This is correct.” She sighed as she looked over the valley below, watching the breeze tickle the grass and rustle the trees. “Would you know if something had gone wrong?”

“Yes and no,” he replied. “Yes, in theory. No, because I’ve never done it wrong.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Are you sure?!”

“It’s a bit jarring each time, but yes, I’m sure that nothing’s gone wrong.” He took another taste of the space-gelato. “Did you like me better with grey hair?”

“I like you better when you’re not pretending,” she corrected. “Why would I want you doing anything along the lines of pretending?”

“It’s saved our skins a couple of times.”

“Not like that and you know it.”

“Oh.” He watched as some children tumbled down the hillside and pondered, only stopping when he found his space-gelato hand was colder than it should have been. Some of the confection had dripped out of the cone and onto his hand. He bent to lick it, though was cut off my Clara getting to it first. She kissed it away, going up his fingers and to the cone. After giving him a flirty smile, she went back to finishing off her own treat.

“Should’ve picked that flavor,” she decided.

He crossed his legs and sat there in embarrassment—it was almost as though she was being like this on purpose.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The Doctor waited patiently outside the school on a bench. While it was often used by students (and sometimes parents) while they were going to or from the building, he decided he was going to park the TARDIS off in a corner somewhere and go on a walk with Clara after she was off from work. He idly read while he waited, feeling the impending chaos that was about to rein as the end-of-class bell inched closer and closer.

Finally, it was done and the bell tolled. Students began to slowly pour out of the building, until the schoolyard was full of the medium-sized humans, the ones that were growing up to be in the way and the others who were nothing short of brilliant.

“Hi Doctor Smith!” one of the kids beamed, approaching him. “Why aren’t you inside? That’s where Miss is.”

“Miss Oswald and I are going to go for a walk, and I decided to wait for her out here,” he explained. He noticed that the tween was staring at the book he was reading and he snapped it shut. “Yes…?”

“Just… I didn’t think she’d have you read for homework.”

“Did you ever think I was maybe doing it because I like it?”

A second student came up, this one a bit older, the smug smirk on her face almost cringe-worthy. “He just wants to get some action in.”

“...and what leads you to believe that…?”

“...’cause that’s Jane Eyre.” The second student paused, watching the Doctor’s eyebrow shoot up in confusion. “That’s what you wanted to go for to start. You were Mister Rochester before, and you saw Mister Pink as some sort of weird St. John stand-in. We don’t know how you did it, but you used your space-bloke powers to turn back to before Mister Rochester met the Masons…” She tapped her temple with what seemed like a knowing look. “You let Miss know what she’s getting in the future, so now you can turn back to normal. Sneaky.”

“Bugger off,” he scowled. The teen pulled the younger student away and the kids generally left the Doctor alone as they all dispersed for the afternoon. Even Clara’s coworkers gave him a gentle berth as he pretended to go back to his book, yet was failing miserably.

Reflecting on the teen’s accusation, the Doctor’s mind first dedicated a layer of thought to the notion, with it eventually consuming his entire consciousness. There had been reports—more like rumors, honestly—of Time Lords abruptly changing something about their appearance outside of post-regeneration sickness. It was most often attributed to changing hair or skin color, or growing or shrinking in height, and came after some sort of major event. A defining moment; his body doing such a thing was fairly monumental.

Was it reuniting with Clara, or was it something else entirely…?

“Ah, there you are,” Clara said, catching his attention. He looked up from the book and saw her standing there, with them all alone in the schoolyard. “I was wondering where you went.”

“Thought we’d go for a stroll,” he said. The Doctor stood and tucked the book under one arm whilst offering the other to hold. She hooked her arm in his and they set off, taking a meandering walk down the pavement.

As they wandered their way back to the TARDIS, the Doctor pondered on a few thought layers about what the student had presented him with. He was absolutely mad about Clara, that much was for certain, but how did that tie into his current regeneration’s eccentricities? How come it started off grey and then supposedly melted backwards in time? It was no mystery to the fact that the people around a Time Lord often influenced their regenerations—that much was well known in the Academy—but the topic of how was always the biggest question.

What was it about Clara that made him do this, and how was it all connected?

“You’re wandering off again,” Clara noted, bringing him back to their conversation. He glanced at her and saw that she was staring at him, her brow furrowed. “What are you thinking about?”

“Just this and that,” he claimed. Didn’t want her to overthink anything. “I thought it was on a deep enough level consciously to not interfere with out conversation—I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, just as long as everything’s fine. Is it fine?”

“I’m with you, Clara Oswald,” he said as they turned a corner. “How can it not be fine?”

“That’s good to hear,” she said with a smile. He felt a flutter in his hearts, which caused him to blush. “You’re adorable, you know that, right?”

“I didn’t think I regenerate to become adorable.”

“Well, you are,” she claimed, “and when I say that, you know that I mean all of you, correct? I haven’t seen a bit about you that wasn’t absolutely, one-hundred-percent, purely adorable.”

He scrunched his nose at that. “You’ve seen me… basically be an all-powerful god-like creature, ready to lay waste the cosmos as punishment for gaining my disapproval.”

“Don’t complicate it, alright?” she teased. “Now let’s get to the TARDIS—I want some planets.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

It was Wednesday, which meant that the Doctor was picking Clara up directly at Coal Hill with the intent of not letting her go until it was the following day right before classes. The students snickered as they watched him loom impatiently in the corridor, waiting for them to clear out. They all stayed put as the final bell rung, watching in delight as their teacher’s space-bloke glared at them through the door’s window.

“Aren’t you all staying a bit long?” he grumbled as he finally opened the door. The kids all grinned, which prompted him to sit down in Clara’s desk chair to pout. Clara looked at him from over by the whiteboard, then at her students, and then smirked.

“If you all want to stay behind that badly, then I guess we’ll be doing some silent studying,” she decided aloud. Clara took the marking off one of the tables and sat down in the Doctor’s lap, allowing him to hold her as she continued to work. His arms were able to wrap fully around her torso and his lips found the back of her neck, worrying the skin along the hem of her jumper.

After deciding that the display of affection was about as gross as their teenaged siblings and cousins and neighbors with their significant others, the tweens all left in a hurry. There was not a child within earshot when one of the Doctor’s hands slipped under the front of Clara’s jumper, his chilled hand coming into contact with her bare torso.

“Ack—not here!” she hissed, brushing him off. “It’s almost like you’re acting as though we’ve both already had sex and are on a timer to do so again.”

“What I want is you out of this classroom,” ha admitted. He leaned forward and murmured in her ear, “Please bring the marking with you. I’ll still watch.”

“...but you can’t watch me here?”

He considered that. “No.”

“I see.”

Clara stood and gathered her things, stuffing everything in a large tote bag before crooking her finger, letting the Doctor know she was ready for their Wednesday to officially begin. She followed him through the corridors to the cupboard where he had stored the TARDIS and let him put the ship into gear, flinging them into the time vortex. He had barely turned around to say something when she grabbed him by the open flaps of his hooded sweatshirt and tugged him downwards until he was on his knees. The tote bag full of marking had conveniently disappeared as she was sliding into his grasp, using the temporary height advantage she’d gained by attempting to sit on his waist as she snogged him stupid. His hands finally figured out where to go and held her by her thighs and hips, keeping her from traveling too far down his torso.

They sat there, on the floor of the console area, aggressively kissing and petting until the Doctor could feel the muscles in his legs were as though they were bursting into thousands of tiny flames. He stood, lifting Clara into the air, and began to fumble around for a solid surface to rest her weight on. They were almost at the door when the TARDIS decided that she was not going to have any of that within her confines that particular evening and opened the door, causing the Doctor to tumble out into Clara’s bedroom. Her bed broke their fall, though it also prompted them to break apart, both on their backs and gasping for air as they were completely flustered by the entire situation.

Only a moment to regain their composure and they were back at it, the two of them beginning to tug each other’s clothes off as they themselves began to feel too warm to keep them on. They kissed frantically as they stripped off their layers, both attempting to make a play for who was going to be on the top. Clara ended up pinning the Doctor underneath her as he squirmed at her touch, his faculties not yet entirely sure how to process the sensation. He was completely within her auspices, and for that he was glad.

...except, as Clara sucked on his neck while he groped a breast and began teasing her between her legs, the Doctor came to an interesting realization. This woman, this human, was entirely the reason why he had been able to regenerate in almost a backwards manner. She was the one that made it possible for him to drop his mask, drop everything, and show her who he really was without any pretense. How could he hide from her anyhow? She knew what was behind the floppy hair and bowtie, behind the suit and sandshoes, behind it all. There was an ancient cosmic horror, if some were meant to be believed, and she knew that intrinsically. It hadn’t even been a question, just something that they both accepted. He already knew that, she already knew that, and yet he had needed to be that, if but for a little while, reverting back to something a bit more par the course after a bit of a physical sort of rant.

She had been there for him as he regenerated into something rougher and coarser, so that he could have time to heal after the horrors of Trenzalore.

“Doctor…? Are you alright…?” He opened his eyes to see that Clara was looking down at him, concern upon her face. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he looked her in the eyes—those big brown eyes that seemed so impossible that he couldn’t help but often get lost in them.

“I’m perfectly fine, now that I have you,” he claimed. “You not only gave me this regeneration and more, but you gave me a chance to recover when, under normal circumstances, it would have been a lonely, horrible route.”

“You’re exaggerating,” she frowned.

“I wish I was,” he said, tears beginning to well in his eyes. He touched her face with his hand, caressing her cheek and jaw with his palm. “You are the reason I even exist. You are why I’ve been able to do the things I have under the amount of time that has passed. You are why I was able to both drop my mask and put it back together again.”

She looked at him, the concern having not faded. “That doesn’t mean that I prefer you like this…”

“I know—it means that you prefer me, and that is more than anything anyone else has been able to give me, no matter how much they’ve meant to me over the years.” He pulled her back down into a kiss—gentle and tender—and chuckled weakly. There’s not many who are able to say that, you know.”

“Yeah, you idiot,” she replied. She grabbed his lower bits, making sure they were still firm and ready to go. “So, we doing this or what?”

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Overall, it was a bit annoying that there were people who did not take him seriously anymore. Sure, it was easier to catch people off-guard, or to sneak by under fewer suspicions, but it was also not entirely fun having to reexplain every time that he wasn’t entirely there to have a good time.

“Just be more upfront about being a Time Lord,” Clara said idly. She was sitting next to him as they were at a table far away from the emperor’s head one, which was where they needed to be in order to investigate why on earth he had access to phaser guns despite it being tenth-century Swabia. The long, low table where they are was packed full of people, making it easy for them to blend in if they were quiet, for despite being the emperor’s esteemed guests, most people in the hall were also esteemed guests, making the intrusion seem more natural.

“Just relax,” he murmured lowly. “Just a bit longer and we’ll be in their favor just enough to get where we need to be; I’m wondering if it’s Sontarans… again…”

“If it’s a Sonataran, then at least we’ll be able to combat it appropriately,” she claimed. “I’ve spent enough time with Strax to know how to confuse those walking potatoes.”

“They’re not all as dense as Strax—some are denser.”

“What is so secret you must share it with your bride, Doctor?” chortled a man sitting across the table. They both looked at him and saw the shit-eating grin on his face. “Is it that you are too anxious to return to your bedchamber? Are your youthful urges too much to handle during our dinner?”

“I would hope I married a man with at least some subtlety,” Clara responded, not allowing the man to make further comments. “At least he is a man that pleases me well—not all men do.”

“Women can be fickle creatures, and it is easier to have more luck with other men than with a woman,” the man nodded, acting as sagely as possible. “I’m glad for you, but at the same time, I cannot help but feel jealous.”

“Well, you can’t have mine,” the Doctor said, grabbing onto Clara’s arm in a display of affection she was not going to let him forget about later. “She is the reason I am alive.”

“Isn’t that the reason we all are alive? A woman?” The man took a large bite of the chicken before him and chewed thoughtfully. “Yes. It must be so.”

“If you are so wise, then why are you not up there with the emperor?” Clara asked. She saw the man’s hackles bristle—she hit a nerve.

“I used to be, but there is an interloper in our midst,” he claimed, leaning forwards so that he could lower his voice. “No one seems to believe me, and yet… I know what my eyes see: a man with six fingers.”

“Six fingers on one hand…?” the Doctor asked. Then man shook his head.

“No—that is but a clansman of Kirtl—I am talking about three fingers in total, three on each hand, and something about him is simply not of this world.”

It took all the Doctor and Clara had to both not burst into grins right then and there. They continued to coax information out of the man—Otsfield, as they eventually discovered—and became all that much closer to figuring out when it was the Sontaran came into their midst and why he was introducing the powerful wartime technology to a civilization that was nowhere near achieving such matters on their own.

By the time they did retire to their bedchamber, the time-and-space travelers had been able to get loads of information out of not only Otsfield, but from others as well, and they were pondering their options very seriously. The TARDIS was sitting in the corner of the stone-built room, like a cat that was waiting for its masters to sleep so that it could pounce and wake them in the middle of the night.

“I don’t know about this,” the Doctor mused. He took his jacket off, then his hooded sweatshirt, as he readied for bed. “It seems like there’s something a bit too convenient about all of this.”

“It could be a bit too convenient,” Clara added, “but it would be satisfying to know that you actually nailed it right on the head for once without it being about Daleks.” He shrugged at that—there was no arguing against her point. “Why don’t we sleep on it—the TARDIS will wake us if there’s any real issue that arises.”

“Are you sure you want to…?” the Doctor asked, not entirely certain they were about to go in the correct order of things. He pulled off his t-shirts at once and stood there in his bare chest, noting how sparse and lanky this body was. Clara place both hands atop his chest—over his hearts—and looked up at him.

“Of course I do,” she insisted. “There will need to be some time before the Sontaran hiding in our midst feels it’s safe to move about freely, yeah…?”

“...yeah…?”

“Then let’s while away the time in a manner that we see fit.” She draped her arms around his neck, pulling him down into a kiss. “First a shag, then we can worry about the Sontaran.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, lifting her up into the bed. He climbed in after her, rolling so that he was on his back and she was able to reach down the front of his trousers, making him groan at her touch. Her lips smiled against his neck as he pulsed in her hand, making it clear what his body and mind both thought of the contact.

Okay, so what if it wasn’t the most productive way to while away their time while waiting for an antagonistic force to reveal itself? It was just fine by them, and that was what counted in the end, wasn’t it?

[darker-soft-starker]

 Starker High School AU, Pt. 4 (Pt.1, Pt.2, Pt.3, Pt.5)

---

The last bell of the day sounds and Peter doesn’t know if he’s thankful or reproachful.

On one hand, no more classes. 

On the other: giving up an afternoon of Robotics to spend time with the modern embodiment of the antichrist.

To add insult to injury, it had been one of those long, arduous days that never seemed to end. The hours stretched themselves into impossibly bloated milliseconds as he watched the clock - and it still wasn’t over.

Dread filled him in anticipation of the afternoon and before first period he accidentally smacked himself in the forehead trying to get his locker open. It hurt and he was sure it would bruise. But if he was looking for sympathy, there was none to be found. Bucky and Nat weren’t speaking and in result their friends seemed wary and divided amongst themselves. 

It made for a rather awkward day.

His efforts to be neutral ground and to bridge the gap were met with vexation and were brushed off, so he ate lunch alone again in the library Bucky and Nat were fiery and fiercely independent, so not unexpected, but it was in his nature to want to mend the rift.

Ben used to tell him not everything was up to Peter to fix.

Easy for him to say.

Nonetheless he does his best to keep that notion in mind as he goes through the day, but everything seems off kilter. No one is talking to each other, he was so busy and caught up with all of the internal discord and schoolwork that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. 

And May was acting super weird this morning. 

Worry gnawed at him in a way that had him forgetting about eating, whether it was about May and Thursday’s match, about the giant pimple that bloomed on his chin overnight -- or whatever inevitable torment that Stark had cooked up for them this afternoon.

It’s still a few minutes before they’re due to meet but Peter isn’t dragging his feet.

He isn’t. 

Sure, the hallways are vacant of any other students. 

And maybe he is feeling just a little petty for the time Tony kept him waiting despite his own plea not to -- besides, he still has a couple of minutes before he’s due, he’s not going to turn up early for goodness sake, as much as the part of him that says if you’re not early you’re late begs him to quicken his footsteps. 

Maybe he does stretch it to the last minute just to see Tony looking frustrated by his vintage ‘69 Mustang, the line of his mouth unmistakably displeased as the cars in the lot around him gradually disperse.

He knows the moment that Tony notices him, leant against his car, sunglasses slipping down his nose to properly glower at him. 

“This is why you’re an asshole,” Tony points a finger at him as he arrives. “I should leave you here.”

“Sorry,” Peter apologises airily, “I was trying to be anywhere but here. I’m not late though, so?”

Tony rounds the car to the drivers side, still pointing at Peter. “Don’t push your luck, Parker. Get in.”

Snickering quietly to himself, Peter heads to the other side. 

The engine growls loudly, a deep rumbling that goes through Peter’s entire body. Buckling himself in quickly, he peers around curiously while Tony reverses out of the lot. He’s reluctantly surprised. For an old car that belongs to a teenager behind at least two school fires it’s in impeccable condition. 

“Nice car,” he says quietly, mostly to himself as his gaze roams the interior with interest. 

It’s difficult to associate Tony Stark with the words nice or neat even, but that’s exactly what the car is. The interior is unscuffed, squeaky clean, the leather seats are comfortable, not a sprinkle of cigarette ash to be seen.

It really is spectacular - when the engine roars and the seats vibrate under him, Peter gets a sense of wonder and curiosity, like that one time he fell in love with DeLoreans after watching Back To The Future with Ben.

Curious, he opens the glove compartment and finds a generous stash of snacks and chocolate bars inside.

“Don’t touch anything,” Tony scowls, smacking Peter’s hands from the dash. “That’s rule number one. The interior is original and my girl is sensitive to your residue.”

Residue, he scoffs, tempted to reach out and touch more just to be contrarian.

“You got a sweet tooth or somethin’?” Peter asks instead, gesturing to the glove compartment. 

“No.”

“Can I have some?”

“No.”

“Are you gonna say anything else to me on this trip?”

“No,” Tony smiles sardonically, turning up the radio louder until the riffs of Queen’s Somebody To Love drown them both out.

True to his word, Tony remains silent over the course of the drive. It suits Peter fine, it’s not a quiet that is uncomfortable or awkward, not with the radio playing loudly from an oldies station, the wind whistling through the windows and the echoes of traffic around them. 

He thought it might be a stiff and uncomfortable drive, however the longer nothing goes unsaid between them, the more Peter feels himself relax in his chair, warmed by the heater and his limbs loosening until they feel boneless after the day he’s had.

And to his credit, Tony doesn’t appear overly tense or uneasy in having Peter in his space - in fact, he looks as chilled out as Peter has ever seen him. 

The perpetual strain around his jaw and shoulders seems eased, his posture open and casual as he drives with one hand, shifting gears with the other, sometimes tapping out a tune on the steering wheel. And whenever a song he particularly likes comes on the radio he turns up the volume, and if Peter looks over at the right moment he sees him smile privately to himself, a pleased little quirk of his lips.

Sometimes Tony speeds and puts his fingers out the window to card them through the wind, and his smile grows.

Although the amicable vibe has little to do with him, it’s probably the first time that they’ve spent more than five minutes together without hurling insults at each other. 

It’s weird.

Too wary of shattering the peace, Peter doesn’t mention it.

By the time they’re on the Queensboro Bridge the Eurythmics are playing one of May’s favorite songs. Without realising he’s doing it, he’s bobbing his head along to the tune, whispering the words under his breath, suddenly reminded of dancing in the kitchen with her and Ben, nine years old, using wooden spoons as microphones.

He’s smiling before he can stop himself, head tilted back against the seat, eyes unfocused on the skyline. It smells like Tony’s cologne and engine oil, like being enveloped in an old memory. He can see Tony looking at him from the corner of his eye but neither of them say anything.

The volume is turned up.

---

They arrive at the realtor with just minutes to spare before their appointment is due to commence. 

The traffic had built incrementally during the drive to Long Island City, the roads becoming more congested as they went. The tension in Tony’s shoulders returned as the minutes ticked closer to four-thirty, his tapping on the steering wheel out of impatience rather than good-cheer. 

Peter actually does feel a little bad now. 

Not that the five minutes he could’ve spared would have made much of a difference, but still, guilt whispers vehemently. 

It’s for that reason that he politely doesn’t say anything that could be perceived as inflammatory when Tony pockets his sunglasses and buttons up his dress shirt, checking his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Even if he’s dying to tell him that he looks like a damn nerd.

Not that he can talk. 

Heeding Tony’s words, he’d dressed similarly in his okay-est pair of jeans, a clean shirt and a cardigan. In class, MJ laughed and told him he looked like Napoleon Dynamite.

They head in, a bell above the door signalling their arrival. It’s a chain realtor, not the one they rent their apartment through, but Peter thinks there is an office right near his building. Inside, a middle-aged woman at the front desk greets them.

“Uh... we have an appointment with Kate Price” Tony gestures between them. “Appointment for Tony Stark?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman apologises in a heavily Welsh accent, “you should have gotten a notification, she’s unwell and taken the day off.” 

“Oh, um --”

“That’s okay though, I’m free, I can help you if you’d like.”

“Are you sure?” Peter queries, sharing a look with Tony who appears just as uncertain. “We’d really appreciate it.”

“Absolutely. It’s quiet anyhow. Come,” she beckons them down a narrow hallway to a set of cubicles and L-shaped desks. There doesn’t seem to be anybody else in the office, he notes, as the two are directed to sit before a desk while the woman types away at a computer. 

“I’m Miranda,” she introduces herself, holding out her hand for both of them to shake. “The appointment notes say you’re after a nearby rental?”

“Sort of, we’re just looking at some pricing. Nothing serious, we just need to take some notes, get a feel for it.”

Miranda’s glasses slide down her nose as she observes them.

“You’re a wee bit young to be moving out of home, aren’t you?”

“Oh! No,” Peter stutters, waving his hands, “we’re not actually --”

Miranda waves at him dismissively. 

“Not that I can judge. My husband and I were living together and married by nineteen, ‘course he’s dead now. We had a good run though. Anyway, good for you. Young love, it’s so sweet.”

“Young what,” Peter says.

Miranda, typing away cheerily at her computer, clearly didn’t get the memo about the school project like Kate must have.

Peter turns to Tony, who is just as wide-eyed as he is.

What the fuck, he mouths, slinking down in his chair.

I don’t know, Tony mouths back, stupefied.

“So, what are we thinking - a studio if it’s just the two of you? Something cozy?”

“Uh, well, we’re looking to grow,” Tony says, hand slapped over his mouth. He shares a bewildered, wide-eyed stare with Peter.

“Right, well, nothing wrong with knowing what you want. What’s the budget? Let me see what I can find for you.”

“Ah,” Peter shifts in his seat, trying to communicate wordlessly with Tony as their research angle quickly becomes derailed.

He tries to communicate the need for an urgent exit in a stare that he hopes is prolonged and meaningful, but is only met with equally panicked blinking from the other boy. There’s a moment spent blinking undecipherable messages at each other and before he knows it the silence has stretched on far too long.

“Well, we were thinking sixteen-hundred a month. Right... Tony?”

“Right,” he nods slowly, eyes darting between the two. “Single income, see. Parker - uh, Peter is still in school.”

“Oh, bless,” she says spiritedly, typing away at her keyboard. “It’s not easy, I know, been there. What do you do for work, young man?”

“Me?” Tony asks, gesturing to himself, shooting Peter a desperate look. “I’m... a mechanic...apprentice.”

Peter has to disguise his snort with a cough, the horse so far out of the gate there is no catching up to it.

“Good for you, darling,” she says distractedly as she busies herself with the monitor, missing the heated glare Tony sends him. “Let’s see, might be tight, but we may have something for you. One bed, one bath, a living room that can be converted to a second bedroom.”

“Great,” Peter nods hesitantly. “Where?”

“Across the street, actually,” she swivels the monitor on its stand to show them a set of blurry photos of a small apartment. “And it’s currently vacant - we can do an inspection right now, if you’d like?”

There’s a pregnant pause.

“One moment,” Tony smiles at her, holding up a finger.

There’s a screech as Tony pulls Peter’s chair across the linoleum with a single hand.

“This is getting out of hand,” Peter whisper-hisses, ducking his head.

“I know, I know, I know,” Tony squeezes his eyes shut, making placating motions with his hands that do little to appease Peter’s rising apprehension. “It’s alright, it’s under control. Listen, hear me out, we go to the inspection, have a look at the place --”

“You can’t be serious, dude, we’re sixteen.”

“We’re not going to actually fill out an application, numbnuts, listen; we go, we take some pictures, get some details about the property, add it to our report and bam, who needs a reference? Think about it! Who else is going to have this level of detail in their report?”

“I’m not exactly sure this is what Miss Ahn meant by field research.”

Tony pokes him in the forehead. 

“Think outside the box, precious. Rise above the urge to do the bare minimum and we might just get a good grade.”

Peter sneaks a glance at Miranda. “Fine,” he pokes Tony back in the chest. “But you do all the talking, smartass.”

“Fine with me.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

Tony turns back to Miranda and offers her a charming smile. 

“We’d love to. Lead the way.”

---

They door sticks when Miranda turns the key into the dead-lock.

She struggles with it momentarily, smiling assuredly at the two boys as she twists the doorknob back and forth, pressing her shoulder against the peeling wood, forcing it open with a bang.

“Here we are,” Miranda announces brightly.

The two follow her inside, sharing a reluctant look with each other as she leads them into what must be a living room, the click-clack of her heels echoing off the scuffed floorboards and bare walls.

The first thing that Peter notices is that the room, while void of furniture, seems impossibly small, even by New York standards.

With the three of them spread thinly throughout it, there are but a few inches of space between them. Barely any room for a couple of armchairs, let alone a full sofa or a coffee table.

At a glance, he takes stock of the cracks in the ceiling, the discoloured patches in the plaster and the splintered wood of the front door frame where it appears it has been forced open from the outside. The chain-lock is broken.

Tony is over by the far corner, wiping a finger through a layer of dust on the window sill. 

There’s a loud bang from upstairs.

“So, this is the living area,” Miranda says with a flourish of her wrists. “And if you follow me, this down here,” she leads them around the corner, “is the kitchen.”

The kitchen is comprised of a small formica bench, a stained backsplash and several cupboards missing their handles.

While Miranda continues to point out and inform them all of the ‘cosy’ and ‘quaint’ features, Tony slips his phone from his pocket and with a nod of acceptance, lingers back a few steps to take photographs of the apartment. 

While he’s doing so, Peter busies himself by inspecting the kitchen, toying with the dials of the oven and the two-burner stove top, testing the swing of the cupboard doors. 

Inside one of them is a dirty tea-cup and a dead cockroach.

“-- and as you can see, plenty of room for a dining table, maybe you might like to have friends over --”

He follows them into the bathroom, which is just as compact as the rest of the apartment. He tests the faucet, noting that the tiles are cracked, as is the bathtub. 

Most worryingly are the speckled spots of black spores along the higher walls and the ceiling. 

“-- it’s a big old tub, plenty of room,” she pats Tony on the stomach, “could fit two in a squeeze if you suck it in, aye? Now, this way please boys, let me show you the pièce de résistance --”

Tony guards his stomach with his hands, pouting as Miranda leads them to the adjacent room.

“This is the main bedroom,” she beams, flicking on the light. “Perfect, isn’t it?”

The two young men stall in the doorway, peering inside. 

The space, probably equipped to handle a solitary king-single and a drawer at best, isn’t particularly generous by any means. The flickering bright yellow globe seems to only highlight the blistering wallpaper and the suspiciously stained carpet.

It smells like weed and cat pee. 

“So as you can see, plenty of privacy for you two, the living room can be converted into a second bedroom if need be -- or if one of you needs to sleep on the couch,” she winks at them.

“Right,” Tony says slowly, nudging the other with his elbow. “What do you think...honey?”

“I don’t know, dear,” Peter says, elbowing him back. “What do you think?”

“I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.”

“Bless,” Miranda cuts in, leaning on the doorframe while she observes them. “You’re just adorable, you must be high-school sweethearts.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“...Y-Yes,” Tony says after a moment, voice croaky. His hand snakes out to awkwardly pat Peter on the shoulder. “...we are.”

“So, what do you think?”

“About him?” Tony points to Peter.

“About the apartment,” she laughs. “What do you think, do you like it?”

“Oh, um, I have a few questions actually,” Peter mentions, following them back into the kitchen area, ignoring the odd look that Tony sends him. “If that’s okay?”

What are you doing, Tony mouths, back turned to the realtor as he clears his throat. 

Peter holds a finger up to request a minute. There’s a struggle to each convey their message silently, however, Tony reluctantly concedes, spreading his hands wide in a theatrical approval to proceed.

He paces the room, shuffling at the bubbling linoleum that he’d narrowly tripped on coming in, bending down to inspect it.

“Do you know how long the apartment’s been vacant?” He directs his question to the realtor.

“Oh, not long,” she replies vaguely, flipping through her file. “Couple of days or weeks, I think. I’d have to check.”

Peter nods, glancing between the three, standing. 

“Umm, I noticed that the oven doesn’t heat up. I thought that maybe the gas was turned off but the stove works? Also, um, in the living room there’s a section of floorboard that’s rotting with because there’s a water leak from the ceiling?”

Miranda’s smile freezes. “Oh, is there? That must be new.”

Peter wrings his hands together, glancing at Tony, stomach swooping at his own boldness. “And, uh, I noticed that the windows stick; the water pressure is funny, too?”

“I can get that checked --”

“There’s black mold in some of the rooms. I think because there isn’t temperature control, the windows are west-facing, so it must get pretty humid in the summer.” 

Peter looks to the other boy in what he hopes seems heartfelt. “I don’t mind, I only mention it because Tony’s... well, he’s got asthma.”

Tony coughs, catching on. 

“Yes, that’s right.”

Miranda’s posture crumples at that, her professional veneer instantly wiped from her face. 

“You’re right, this place is a dump,” she admits, kicking at the floor, spreading her arms out wide. “Look at it, it’s vile. I wouldn’t let my wretched old mother-in-law live here, the old bag. I’m sorry, boys.”

“Well, actually,” Peter says, gesturing between himself and Tony, stepping closer to him. “We’d be happy to do all the repairs and look the other way about the safety violations if there’s any wriggle room on the rent?”

Miranda flicks through the papers she’s holding, adjusting her glasses as she reads through it. The adjacent neighbors can be heard yelling through the thin walls.

“We do have a margin to drop it from sixteen-fifty to... fifteen-hundred a month for the right tenants. Not going to lie, the landlord is pretty desperate. Would you like an application?”

Tony clamps his hand on Peter’s shoulder, squeezing it. “We’ll think about it. Could we get all of those terms in writing, pretty please?”

Peter grins.

---

“I can’t tell if that was genius or crazy,” Tony says after they’ve departed ways with Miranda, headed back towards the Mustang on the other side of the road. “Seriously can’t say I expected that.”

The pair jog across the road once there is a gap in traffic.

After Ben passed, Peter and May moved twice. As a young child Peter saw another apartment as just that - another place to set down his duffle of second-hand clothes and thrift store toys. But May was smart. Savvy. She calls it the Parker Discount. 

Peter shrugs when they reach the car.

“Well, just because our report is meant to focus on budget against costs, doesn’t mean we can’t find ways to save money and maximise it. Not when you consider insurance, bills, food. It all adds up.”

“I’m still trying to pick my jaw up from the floor. Didn’t know you had that in you, Parker.”

“Yeah well, you don’t know anything about me,” Peter says to the ground, kicking at the pavement, “so.”

He tries not to squirm under the weight of Tony’s considering gaze, like a vice tight on the back of his neck. He feels the moment something shifts, as if a pin pricks the wall between them, easier to breathe.

“Look, whatever you think about me, I don’t care, but you probably couldn’t find a better partner for this project. I know more about this than you do.”

“Alright, no need to crow about it, I just said I was impressed. Don’t let it get to your head.”

Peter’s stomach growls loudly over the evening traffic before he can respond. 

“Sorry,” he says, cursing the timing of his body, “haven’t had anything since breakfast.”

Tony nods to a diner across the road.

“You wanna?”

“Oh,” he objects, worried about his bone-dry bank balance, “I’m not --”

“C’mon, dickweed, my treat. Don’t leave a guy hanging, it’s not polite.”

Tony waits patiently, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s sure it’s a look that many have fallen for. A crooked, wry smile and a self-confident air that one might confuse between charm and indolence. 

He feels out of his depth for once, and isn’t sure if he likes it. But his stomach growls again and he’s got nothing to lose except for his appetite. 

“Okay,” he says, nodding. “Sure.”

---

It’s the most surreal experience he’s ever had.

He pinches himself to believe that it’s real, that he’s dining out on a Tuesday evening in the boroughs with Tony Stark. The same guy he thought might murder him just last week.

He’s still not so sure that’s out of the question, to be honest. It would be the most normal thing about this entire day.

The silence is definitely awkward this time, sat at a table outside under a weather-protective canvass while they wait for their meal. A woman with a large doberman sits nearby, giving them odd looks every so often as she speaks loudly on her phone.

Peter’s nursing a giant glass of cola. The only sounds between them since they ordered have been the clinking of ice cubes from his glass and the sound of bubbles as he blew through the straw for a lack of better things to do.

From the daggers he’s getting from Tony, he’d wage that he’s annoying him - hence the probable murder - but he’s spared by their waitress returning with their meals.

A truly monstrous pile of fries is placed before Tony, along with a burger, a sundae and a milkshake. He takes off his dress shirt to reveal a black undershirt, as if in preparation to sweat through the meal.

Big meal for a big mouth, Peter thinks, as his own BLT is set before him. 

It’s weird.

Tony is weird.

This whole damn thing is weird.

“Don’t you think this is weird?” he asks, idly picking a seed from his crust and nibbling on it.

“Yeah,” Tony sighs. 

“I don’t like it.”

“Me neither. What was I thinking?”

“Dunno,” Peter says.

It’s quiet again after that. And it’s weird. Sitting down with over a civil meal with Stark or any of his cohorts wasn’t particularly on his bucket list for junior year, but here he was, picking at his crusts, dying to pee.

Tony takes three fries from the pile and dips them into his sundae, then the milkshake before eating them.

“Dude, gross.”

Tony looks at him oddly. “Uh, no it’s not. Have you never dipped your fries in ice cream before?”

“Is that a metaphor for sex?”

“What? No, you weirdo,” Tony shakes his head. “Are you serious? You’ve never -- god, that explains everything,” he slides his fries across the table a few inches. “Though it truly nauseates me to share with you, I can’t let this stand. Try it.”

“Ew, not after you’ve touched them --”

Tony slides his milkshake closer.

“Try it, butthole. You won’t totally hate it, promise. Well, you might, but if you do it’s just gonna confirm that your taste is garbage, which is what I already think about you. Anyway. C’mon, try it.”

Peter, while staring at Tony, begrudgingly accepting a fry from the peak of the pile and scooping it in ice cream from Tony’s sundae.  

He waits for the moment the combination of textures will make his stomach turn while he hesitantly chews, but instead is pleasantly surprised that the sweet salty flavours compliment one another so well.

“Not the worst, is it?” Tony grins knowingly, placing another fry in his mouth in the same manner. “I’m right, aren’t I? It’s good. Say it. I’m right.”

“It’s alright,” Peter says, stealing another fry to make sure. “Don’t let it go to your already inflated cranium.”

The self-satisfied smirk on Tony’s lips tells him it already has.

Quiet fills the space between them again, more charged than before in a manner that Peter can’t really describe. Like as if there was a soft buzz in the air, like he would get be struck with static electricity were he to touch it. 

Not keen on getting stung, he continues eating his sandwich.

Tony on the other hand, has other ideas.

“So, Peter Parker, now that I know you’re not a total dumbass, tell me this,” he takes a deep breath, his expression grim, “ -- do you wear glasses for the aesthetic or what?”

Peter stares at him.

“C’mon. Are you aiming for nerd chic? You shouldn’t, it’s very 2012.”

“Dude, no. I know glasses are like a thing or whatever but I actually do need them to see. I’m like, blind as fuck.” 

“How blind is blind as fuck?”

“Pretty blind.”

He takes off his glasses and twirls a finger in the direction the smudge of colour that he assumes is Tony.

“Can’t see you, like at all,” he squints. “You’re just a blur. Which is the best you’ve ever looked.”

Tony takes the glasses from his outstretched hand, and he has a hysterical moment where he thinks that Tony might go so low as to steal them, but is quickly realizes he’s just trying them on. He whistles before handing them back to Peter.

“Yup, those are prescription alright. The fuck? Why don’t you wear contacts?”

Peter shrugs, slipping his glasses back on. Stark comes back in perfect clarity. 

“They’re super expensive,” he’s alright with admitting to Tony at this point. “I have some I use for matches, or for special occasions, but I dunno, I’m used to glasses.”

“Do you have to clean them all the time?”

“Yes.”

In fact, there’s smudge from where Tony has inadvertently touched the lens.

“Have you ever stepped on your glasses accidentally?”

“Yep.”

He’s done it more than once but he’ll never forget the first time, how upset he was in the moment or how he fruitlessly tried to hide his face from Ben and May so they wouldn’t see the cracks in the lenses. He cried when they found out. 

That first time was just weeks after his parents had died, and he’d already been laden with thoughts of being a bother and a financial burden on the couple. They never stopped trying to prove that he wasn’t a hardship to care for. Sometimes, on mornings like the one he had, he still can’t help but wonder how much better off they might have been without him.

They eat in contemplative silence afterwards. While he finishes his sandwich he watches as Tony surreptitiously feeds his fries to the doberman under the table, unbeknownst to the owner. He has to eat quickly to conceal the smile taking over his lips when the dog slowly shuffles closer to their table with purpose, looking at Tony with big, soulful eyes. 

Once he’s finished eating and there’s nothing left to hide his amusement, he resumes their conversation.

Clearing his throat, he points towards the Mustang once he has Tony’s attention. “Okay, your turn. What’s with the deal with the old girl?”

"My car?”

"Yeah. Explain the whole greaser vibe.”

The other boy is quiet for a moment, his gaze searching Petter contemplatively, a napkin being twisted between his hands.

“She was a hunk’a junk when I bought her, mostly scrap metal. I bought all the spare parts and got her up to scratch. I dunno, I just like cars, tinkering with them or whatever.”

“You restored her by yourself?” Peter asks, reluctantly impressed. 

He looks at the car again, trying to picture it.

It wasn’t hard to imagine Tony Stark getting his hands dirty, being the prized pig that he was, but having the wherewithal and competence to rebuild a vintage vehicle at sixteen? It would explain the whole Danny Zuko, T-Bird look, but with his bank balance, he could have easily bought a Mustang in mint condition without having to lift a finger. It would explain the streaks of oil from the other day.

Tony shrugs, twisting a napkin between his hands.

“Sorta. Anyway, quit your judging, four-eyes.”

“Not judging,” Peter holds his hands up in innocence. “I just didn’t expect that about you.”

“Yeah, well. I’m exceptional, I know.”

"That’s not the word I would use,” Peter allows. “But you’re not the worst.”

A flash of surprise briefly crosses the other boys face before it disappears. 

“High praise,” he says wryly, resting his chin on his hand. He looks Peter up and down slowly, his big, curious eyes made warm by the dying sunlight. 

“I’m as shocked as you are.”

“...You’re not the worst either, I guess,” Tony sighs like it pains him to admit it. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, we could never be friends -”

“Definitely not -”

“ - but you’re not completely intolerable. God, never thought I’d say that. Maybe I’m growing as a person.”

“Am I still a neanderthal?”

Sipping his milkshake through the straw, Tony raises his shoulders half-heartedly.

Peter kicks his foot from under the table, unwilling to take that for an answer, even if Tony kicks him back, his eyes flicking upwards briefly, his smile almost bashful. In the dying light of the sunset he almost looks soft; approachable.

“Probably shouldn’t have called you that, huh.”

“Probably not. Is that an apology?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Don’t push it, Parker. I’m just saying you’re not completely abhorrent. Who knew.”

“I knew. I just don’t know why you’ve always hated me so much.”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out small and quiet, but he can’t take it back once the words have left his mouth.

It starts to rain.

“Sorry,” Peter says, louder to be heard over the droplets hitting the overhead umbrella heavily, immediately feeling stupid. “I shouldn’t have -- it’s not a big deal. I mean, I really don’t like you either.”

“Can I get you boys anything else?” 

Both boys turn towards the waitress who’s approached their table, lined-lips smiling down at them, a notepad in her hand.

Tony throws a fifty down on the table and stands and Peter follows suit.

“Nah,” he says, cocking his head to the door. “We’re good.”

---

“See you back at school?” Peter yells to be heard over the rain, back on the sidewalk.

“I’ll drive you back,” Tony yells back, wet hair clinging to his face.

“What?” Peter cups a hand over his ear.

“What?” Tony does the same. “I said I’ll give you a lift!”

“The station isn’t far,” he points. “I can walk!”

“Don’t make me look like an asshole! Get in, princess!”

With the rain pelting his thin shirt and thunder cracking angrily from above, he doesn’t spend his energy arguing. He gets in.

---

The short drive back is amicable, music muted, the pitter-patter of the easing rain filling the ever-growing comfortable silence between them.

With the heater going it doesn’t take long to dry off and restore the feeling back to his fingers. Heat beats from the vents beating pleasantly and along with being sated from the meal, Peter feels like he could nod off at any moment. He has to keep snapping his eyes open, although it’s difficult to adjust his focus as the sunset bleeds into a ruddy orange on the wet windshield, the lights from the cars blurring into bright long streaks of colour. 

"You’re not a total lost cause, Tony admits, slowing as they near his apartment block. It’s the first time either of them has spoken since starting the drive back. “Look, maybe it’s the fact that your face looks like a puckered asshole when you speak, I don’t know. There’s just something about you that really rubs me the wrong way."

Peter cringes as they come to a stop outside his building.

"I don't want to rub you in any way."

"And yep, here comes the mental image,” Tony’s nose scrunches, like an infant that just ate something sour. “Gross. Thanks, Parker.”

“Welcome.”

He unbuckles himself and opens the door, hesitating for a second while the moment settles between them. 

“Thanks for the grub and the ride, I guess. Text me when you get the paperwork from Miranda?”

“Aye, aye,” Tony mock salutes him. “Now get out of my car.”

Peter complies, giving him the finger by way of goodbye. 

Once the car merges and disappears into the traffic, he grins down at his hands, cheeks going warm.

It’s the thrall of finally feeling on equal-footing, he reasons, as he takes the step back up to his apartment. That’s what it is. His stomach is inexplicably still squirming as he enters ascends the floors, going over the day in his head until he arrives at his door.

It smells like tikka masala and too much ginger when he enters. He sets his backpack by the door, placing his keys on a nearby hook. 

May greets him with a sway of her spatula, sauce hitting the splashback with the motion.

“Hey bubby,” she says, gripping his shoulder as he nears and kissing his cheek.

Upon closer inspection, he finds that the kitchen is sparking clean. The floors have been mopped, the grout between the tiling is without a speck of dirt and there are faint notes of harsh disinfectant below the smell of spices.

“Oh wow,” Peter says, looking down at the chicken and bean assortment. The rice on the burner looks soggy and overcooked. “That looks great. How was work?”

She gestures vaguely but doesn’t meet his eyes.

“You hungry?”

It’s the same weird behaviour from this morning and he doesn’t have the heart to say that he’s already eaten.

Instead, he collects the cutlery and napkins, takes a stack of bowls and helps her plate up.

“Dancing With The Stars?” he asks, tilting his head towards the living room. He hip-checks her when she doesn’t reply. “C’mon, you’re not going to let me eat all alone, are ya? Tony says ‘hi’, by the way.”

He doesn’t know why he adds that last part, recalling the exchange rom the other day, but it’s worth it to see her smile.

“Alright,” she nods, scooping rice into the bowls. “How is Tony?”

Everything that happened that day bleeds away, unimportant, insignificant. 

“He’s alright, I guess.”

---

May falls asleep on the sofa hours later. 

He doesn’t want to move her, as exhausted as she is, so he covers her with an old blanket and removes the glasses from her face, placing them on the coffee table. He cleans up as quietly as he can and places her phone on charge in the living room.

On his way to bed he checks his phone for the time. Both Bucky and Tony have sent him text messages, the latter with the awaited paperwork.

Ben would be proud of him, he thinks, smiling as he reads through some of it, saving the rest of it until he’s more alert.

Maybe it wasn’t such a horrible end to the day after all.

---

*

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