#but that means that most of the air is just overfilling my belly and putting me in extreme pain every morning

[bigolbadblog]

uhhh i'm back on my bullshit

thinking bout. stuffing mr. the duke

okay first off. the capacity on that man? absolutely unbelievable. you can fit SO MUCH good food in that bad boy

he loves eating for pleasure. naturally. but most of the time he's eating for mouth-pleasure more than belly-pleasure, if that makes sense. the flavors, the mouthfeel, even the aromas. he also enjoys the heavy, warm, slightly achy feeling of a true stuffing; it's just that he can put away so much food without even beginning to feel it, so much so that reaching that state of feeling overfilled takes WORK. a feast that would leave you stuffed to the gills is just about enough to bring him to "comfortably full." which is really the most he has time for, on a typical day. what with travelling all over and running a small business and all, he's a pretty busy guy.

but when he does get the chance to fully and i mean fully indulge his appetites.... oh boy. Oh Man. oh boy oh boy oh boy

most of the time i imagine him more as a feeder or a self-feedee. (as a side note, yes he does find an element of vicarious pleasure as a feeder in seeing his partners / playmates get utterly stuffed on a fraction of the food it'd take for him. it's not the same as experiencing it for himself, but it's still lovely to hear them panting and burping and moaning, as well as getting to rub their poor little bellies. plus, it's kind of adorable to him. aw, that's all it takes to get you so full you can't even think straight, much less get out of your chair? how sweet.)

when he wants to get stuffed, though, he gladly welcomes assistance. like i said, it's a big job. if you're cooking for him, prep will take you days. if you're with him at a restaurant or a banquet, it's gonna be your job to make sure his plate is never bare and his glass is never empty.

he's a man of taste. he likes variety in what he eats. he's not a snob- if it's good, he has no issue with polishing off an entire roast ham or a cook-off sized cauldron of chili, repetitive though it may be- but if you truly want to win his heart, offer him multiple courses of many different foods. it's the best way to keep his interest piqued and his palate entertained.

either way, it's gonna. take. hours.

he will notice how flustered you're getting as you bring him plate after plate. and he WILL tease you about it.

you couldn't possibly keep up with him, and you're too busy to try, but there will be several points where you do need to sit down and eat with him. all your meals and all the space in between them go by while he's still eating continuously.

he's a pretty chatty guy, but while he eats, he likes to focus on eating. he's surprisingly quiet, except to praise the food (and tease you, of course).

maybe about seven or eight courses in, you start to notice he's resting his free hand (that is to say, the hand that isn't constantly ferrying more food and drink to his mouth) on the curve of his belly. but he still keeps up the pace as he eats.

because he's so big, he doesn't show the bloat of a stuffing as obviously as smaller people would. which contributes to the impression that all this food is genuinely going into a bottomless pit. but sometime after you lose count of how much food you've brought him, you look at him and notice subtle changes in his silhouette. the curve of his belly gets perkier, with more bulk higher up, and he leans slightly further back in his chair to give himself room to breathe. and still he keeps eating

he's a very civilized eater. cuts his food into dainty bites, chews thoroughly, takes delicate sips of his drink, etc. because of those habits, he doesn't get super gassy super fast. but even so, with the amount of food he's packing away, yeah, there's going to be some air that'll need to get worked out as all that begins to digest.

civilized burper, too. surprisingly quiet, yet a true baritone. at first, he favors letting out several smaller burps rather than singular long belches. he covers his mouth with his napkin each time- at least, he does until he gets so full that a belch surprises him in the middle of a sentence.

at that point, he does take a break from eating to have a cup of hot green tea and let his stomach settle. if you ask nicely, he'll let you rub it. it takes you a while to find the sweet spots amid all that bulk, but you will absolutely know when you get it right. a few more longer, louder burps, but more than that, the sighs that man lets out when you rub him right... 🥵

and then dessert, of course! he'll let you hand-feed him at this point, as it's getting difficult for him to sit forward and reach the food. but he absolutely expects you to keep to his own standards of civil dining. no mess, no rush, no oversized bites. that black forest gateau is so lovely - it would be a shame for any of it to go to waste.

when the feasting is finally concluded, his face is flushed, his breathing heavy, his already massive belly pert and swollen. like any classy gentleman, he likes to finish his meals with another cup of tea or coffee, a cigar, and conversation. (this next part is for those of y'all who like some recognizable sex activities in your feedism:) but you've been so attentive and eager, and he knows how badly you've been wanting him this whole time, so while the water is heating up for that drink (and okay, you set the heat so low that it's gonna take a while), he'll give you your dessert. you might have to get a little creative with positions, though, because...

that man is not getting up when this is done. wherever you are, he's made his seating space comfortable (or instructed you on how to do so) ahead of time. cuz he's gonna be there for a while. after you share a post-meal drink, smoke, and conversation, he drifts off into a food coma right where he is.

just. a truly delightful time to be had by all.

[theofficialpeanutgallery]

Cpaps and Apaps should be discontinued in favor of Bipaps, or whatever the one that doesn’t continuously pump air into your stomach is called. The one that only pumps air when you’re inhaling and at a rate your body can manage.

I look like a normal healthy human being but I feel like a whale that’s been beached for three weeks and needs to be put out of its misery. About as bloated, too.

[silence-burns]

Please Hate Me //part 26

Fandom: Marvel 

Summary:  Based on “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by

@thefandomimagine​

The air coming through the cracks in the windows was chilly and bore the inevitability of an upcoming evening. The sun was quick to disappear during winter, which, in Loki's unhumble opinion, was a blessing. It was the velvety darkness that allowed the snow to truly stand out. 

Loki and you gazed at it for some time, having found an empty apartment on the other side of the street from the place Peter had led you. It must've been recently abandoned, for the dirt on the floor was rather thin, and the humidity from the cracks hadn’t molded the walls yet.

The lights were out though, and so was the heating, which didn't affect Loki much, but made it harder for you to move your gloved fingers with every passing hour. You claimed to be fine, and could stay for a little bit longer, but Loki kept a keen eye on you, and especially on the shivering parts. After all, sensing a lie was not so far away from sensing an avoidance of truth. 

Unbothered, as usual, by any of his moral dilemmas, you were focused on a thick pile of photos capturing every one of the victories that filled your bellies today. 

"I think that one is the cutest." You raised one of them for Loki to see. 

He snorted, remembering the drama involved in you dropping to one knee and his perfectly controlled act of staging a surprise. The photo had a perfect shot of both your faces, and a waitress's in the background. She gave you bonus cookies after the cake. You liked her. 

"How little you need for happiness…" 

"It's not like you weren't there too. I've got evidence." You flashed the photos. 

"I can recall it just as well without those," he muttered, rubbing his overfilled stomach. 

He had to sit on a rather uncomfortable chair, the only one left in the apartment. It was bare for the most part, with only a few boxes of trash left. Whoever vacated it, wasn't keen on returning. The huge poster plastered to one of the windows suggested so too, unless the phrase "FOR SALE" held a different meaning in this world. 

You looked at the street several floors down, and at the people disappearing at one end of it. 

"Peter found a really nice place for a lookout," you said. 

Loki looked around, unsure if you were having the same thing in mind. "I'm afraid I'd prefer literally anywhere else. I'm not suited for ratholes." 

You were greatly disturbed by his misfortune. So much that your heart almost ached. Almost. 

A soft knock echoed from the door. A sigh escaped your lips. 

"I guess we can't ignore her…" you whined. 

"Be quiet, maybe she'll think we're not there anymore." 

"She’s monitoring this whole area. We can't fool her…" 

Loki's stomach made it very clear that it was not happy with the turn of events. Loki agreed. "Then be quick about it." 

"Me? I did it last time, it’s your turn." 

Loki grumbled in a language you'd never heard, but the meaning was quite clear. He moved to the door and straightened his clothes. 

The little Romanian lady had huge glasses constantly sliding down her nose. In her hands, the plate with two sandwiches looked huge and heavy and ready to fall on the floor. 

She broke into a smile that cracked already deep wrinkles on her face. The glasses slid a little bit further. Loki, involuntarily deciding what to catch first, smiled politely. He was not sure what precisely the lady was capable of seeing through the thick glasses, but it must've pleased her. 

"What a handsome young man," she cooed, slipping the plate into his hands. Her head reached only to his chest, but she managed to pinch his cheek affectionately. "But look at how pale you are! You must eat more, dove, it's important to remember about eating!" 

"Thank you so much for your kindness," Loki's words were muffled through the hand still wandering around his face. "But I can assure you, there is no need to worry about my—" 

"Oh, but someone has to!" The little lady stroked his hair in a manner suspiciously reminding him of cat owner's. "There is so little good in this world." 

Only once Loki came back to the room, properly patted and improperly pinched, you allowed yourself a laugh. "What a handsome young man…"

"Shut it." 

He massaged his bright red cheek, wondering if it would ever get back to its normal color. With lack of any furniture, he was left with no choice but to place the plate on his knees. An identical, only empty, plate was already put on the floor. 

"I hoped it'd end on fruit," he admitted. 

"Me too. I guess she's used to Peter consuming in seconds whatever she brings him, since you know, he's a handsome young man too, and always starving…" 

"Shut it." 

Loki focused on appearing busy, which wasn't easy. After all, it was an empty apartment. 

People on the other side of the street were walking in and out from the suspicious place, but not much seemed to happen. Loki was not sure what exactly Peter had in mind when requesting their help, but at this point it was a little too late to ask. 

You—which shocked Loki greatly—seemed to be of the same opinion. 

"I'm pretty sure it's just a nightclub," you muttered with your chin resting on your hands. "I mean, what's the worst that can be happening there? Some drugs?" 

"You sound like it's a common thing." 

"I wouldn't say it's common, but it wouldn't surprise me. I just hoped there would be… something worse." 

As unbelievable as it was, Loki was forced to admit, "So did I." 

You pulled a dramatic face. "Who would've thought our handsome young man wished to fight organized crime on this lovely day!" 

"What else is there to do?" He shrugged with all the dignified grace that'd been beaten into him in one of his most hated classes. "Steal some more cake? Earth is so boring when no one's invading it." 

"If you're so bored, we could pay this lovely place a visit after all." 

Loki blinked. "As touched as I am by your concern, I can assure you that if I ever feel the need to wander through such an establishment, I'd feel much more comfortable on my own." 

"You're no fun. I meant we could infiltrate it from the inside, see what's actually brewing there. Maybe we could make someone's day harder, see where it takes us." 

"I am by no means a fortune teller, but I can already say it won't be anywhere pleasant." 

You shrugged in the precise manner that always got on his nerves. "That's kinda the point, right?" 

It was, in fact, the point. 

"I'm not sure we could just go there from the street and be allowed in," he had to notice, though. 

"That's why we use my magic hands, and get some invitations." You nodded toward the people coming out of what you suspected to be a back entrance. 

"Since when is magic your domain?" 

"Unless your sparkles get us inside, I'm afraid it'll have to be." 

You sounded as if the plan was already formed, approved, and ready to use. It would be a lovely thing to believe, but Loki found his faith lacking. 

"My face might be concealed," he noted, trying his hardest not to focus on the disgustingly wet feeling of unfamiliar magic sticking to his features thanks to a certain new target on his vengeance list. "But I'm pretty sure yours might be a little too recognizable because of all your meddling with the so-called heroes." 

It earned him a pained grimace. He'd seen his fair share of your grimaces already, but not that one. 

"I don't really go on the frontlines," you forced out the words. "At least, not officially. If I have to, I wear a mask to protect my identity. There are some… former acquaintances that I'd rather not inform of my existence." 

"So that's why you were able to pull off so many proposals," Loki nodded, a puzzle finally finding its place inside his head. 

"For you, my handsome young man, I'd double the number," you assured him. "But I suggest we focus on what's at hand right now. If we can snatch invitations today, we have tomorrow to prepare for the show." 

That sounded way too reasonable to come out of your mouth, but there was not much choice left for Loki. He looked out again, noting that the amount of people 'accidentally' wandering around the dead end of the street had risen as the evening neared. 

"I'm sure I can snatch one first." Loki recalled his childhood and the many attempts to fill his pockets with a multitude of shiny objects that were surely underappreciated by their previous owners. 

"Is that a bet?" 

"Against my better judgment, I'm going to say yes." 

"Deal. Try not to get caught, though, or your handsome young face might lose some of its charm." 

[elizabeth-234]

Dream a Little Dream

Summary: Peter falls asleep on the subway and the dreams he has had since his European vacation continue to plague him.

Warnings: Canon death mentioned, endgame/FFH spoilers

Word count: 4k 

Hi Friends! While I should be working on my essay I finished this instead. This is Far From Home compliant (So FFH and Endgame spoilers below) but disregard the end credit scenes of FFH, please! Be aware that it focuses on the aftermath of Far From Home/Endgame for Peter. Hope you enjoy!

The cold metal of the window seeped into the skin on his forehead. Peter’s shoulder pressed against his aunts as the subway hummed along their route home. How far away the time it seemed when he was thrumming with life and what it might bring.  He’d been back from his trip for less than a week now and the melodious tone of his life had turned flat. Somewhere between then and now the New York scenery lost its rose tint and viewless smog permeated the air.

The golden lights of the car hit the cement walls illuminating one side of Peter’s face. His eyes drooped down as his forehead tried to sink further into the glass. It seemed that sleep was a fantasy for him now. Anytime his eyes closed fitful visions plagued him from the past year and after Europe, Mysterio’s illusions were added to the reel. Peter struggled to keep his eyes open and the flashing lights blurred together in the vision of his crossed eyes.

The golden tones caught his attention and before his eyes closed all the way they fragmented, crumbling and fusing to form a painfully familiar mask. One eye glowed eerily against the fogged glass. Peter moved his eyes right to avoid the burning gaze and the jagged edges gave way to a dark crevice. He knew what was lying behind the remnants of the red and gold mask but his eyes were drawn to the fissure. The grotesque bone radiated around the orbital socket and the longer Peter looked, the more he was drawn into the black hole. The lights flared and Peter jolted back when the worn skull seemed to smile at him.

He blinked and the reflection of his face took the place of the ghostly vision he just saw. A scoff crossed his face as he stared at the dark circles and haunted pallor of his face. May looked concerned but he just shook his head and turned back to gazing out the window. She had been as supportive as she could and was always willing to listen or take him to therapy or do anything he needed but Peter couldn’t speak about it. Couldn’t speak the words that were constantly on his mind.

There was this hole welling inside of him. This socket that sucked every happy thought and stray laugh he had down into its belly. There was no way he could begin to explain it. To try and say what he wasn’t sure he had just made up so he kept quiet and tried to stay a float.

Another charity event May hosted came and went. He was proud of his aunt. She survived an impossible situation without him and not only did she survive but May thrived. She took that impossible situation by the horns and did something with it. Did something good. It was just like her to want to help people never minding that she was in her own state of distress. If showing up and giving a peace sign was the help she needed, Peter would go to a thousand charity events and put up with all the questions from the press. He shuddered thinking about all the cameras and eager people.  

It was sad to see how little people were interested in the foundation today. He couldn’t count the number of times his adversary came up and, worse than that, how many times he stood there while the people screamed to him about Mr. Stark. The name brought with it a hurricane of memories and wounds. He couldn’t walk to school without seeing shrines built for the man. He was glad that everybody finally loved Mr. Stark, but it pierced his chest when he looked into the monumental spray paint eyes he would never see in life again.

May’s fingers carded through his hair and he smiled at her reassuringly. Concern tainted her eyes but there was nothing he could say. Nothing he wanted to say right now. On top of everything, these dreams were dogging him. They either kept him from sleep or woke him in the middle of the night. Most nights he could keep quiet and still. Though his heartbeat sounded like loud procession to him, he knew that no one else could hear the cacophony. Some nights though the dreams were so life like that it left a visceral reaction cascading through his body and May would end up rushing into his room trying to calm his cries.  

Peter sighed as he checked how far they had to go and hoped that she would be able to get some rest tonight. Maybe he could start a new book series and read until the light climbed through his window. It wouldn’t be the first time he resorted to such a method. It wasn’t full proof but the depleted and lighter circles under May’s eyes the next morning was worth it. His leg bounced up and down, and May rested her hand on it to still his movements.

“It’s okay, Peter. Why don’t you close your eyes and try to get some sleep? I’ll wake you when we get to our stop.” Her eyebrows raised and a hopeful smile played across her lips. He nodded and closed his eyes. It would be easy to pretend to sleep and the time to turn off his brain was too tempting.

He didn’t mean to fall asleep.

A loud noise was swiftly falling from above and on instinct Peter looked toward the noise. Rattling metal forms plummeted down as a green haze seeped through the space. His hands came up over his head and he dropped down to a crouch preparing for impact. At least this time he was prepared for the weight threatening to crush him. At least this time he knew it was coming. The lockers slammed into place erecting the skeleton of a hallway. When the only sounds were his harsh breath and the newly fallen objects cementing themselves in the ground, he rose off his haunches; relief falling on his shoulders.

A cloaked figure stood at the end of the hall shrouded in shadows. Peter swallowed a lump down in his throat at the familiar sight. He knew what he should do. He should run. Chase down the hall and fight the demon standing there obscured by the green fog. How hard could it be? He had overcome every other enemy he’d come face to face with. This was just another one. Take them down and save the day. It was easy. But something held Peter in his spot. He tried to take a step forward but his legs lagged behind him like he was walking through a molten tar pit. His shoulders sloped toward the ground in predetermined defeat and his body felt the burdens of the fight before it began. He knew in the back of his mind that he’d been in this hallway before, many times before and that they’d fought. The outcome of their battles was beyond his memory.

The green fog condensed in the hallway and his head spun upon inhaling the fumes. He needed to get out of there.  Peter turned his back to the figure and started running in the opposite direction. His legs burned but he pushed them faster. His breath came out in heavy gasps.  The figure appeared before him standing with his arms clasped in front. Peter gave one a large bust of energy and used it to propel himself over the figure to keep his momentum going. He could feel the gaze burning into his back but he kept going.

The figure reappeared and Peter knew that there was no going around it. No amount of running away would ever result in being free from this apparition. He stopped short and the two stared at each other. A sense of betrayal filled Peter but he couldn’t remember why. The hate and anger that filled him were too abstract in the moment but he fueled the emotions into energy.

He struck fast and brought his foot up to kick through the main body but it sliced through smoke instead. His teeth ground against each other as he spun around looking for the man and missed a hand coming straight toward him. He staggered back, pain blooming in his forehead, and sunk into the lockers. His head rattled in time with the metal doors and like a domino effect they echoed down the hallway creating a staggered drum procession. It resounded in his ears and Peter held his hands over them to block the influx of noise. The lights brightened and combined with the noise his senses screamed.

The warmth leaked from his back and he was so focused on himself that he missed the hand coming toward him again until it gripped his neck. The pressure steadily grew. Peter was lifted up and his legs did a strange dance, jerking in the air. He tried to kick forward but was met by more smoke, which he inhaled as he struggled for breath.

The hand contracted and his fingers came up, grasping at anything he could hold onto. He tried to pry it away but it remained like a noose. His chest was burning and the pressure spread from there up to his brain until he felt like an overfilled balloon. Whimpers escaped his throat as the man’s eyes torn into him, desecrating his hope. When it became almost too much the hand let go and he collapsed to the floor. His hands came up automatically to feel his sensitive neck as his body was wracked with violent coughs.

Laughter ricocheted through the air and he forced himself onto his hands and knees before getting up. He was still coughing and sucking the air greedily. The hall was empty and he started to walk. Clutching his side he went down the hallway, not minding the sting in his shoulder when he burst through a door. The door slammed shut and he leaned against it trying to catch his breath. Maybe he was safe here. He walked toward the windows missing the green mist surging from under the closed door.

He stumbled toward the windowsill, eager to get out of the building when a large slab slammed into the ground. The jagged edges rose taller than him and everyway he turned more slabs fell, pining him inside a circle. Multiple Spidermen stared at him from all sides. The confident version of himself he was used to seeing on the news was replaced. Instead he was met with a sorrowful looking figure. His shoulders were wilting, yearning for the ground and the powerful muscles he had developed by all his superhero activity looked small and weak in the mirror.

His frustration mounted and he ran through the mirror breaking it into pieces that turned to mist instead of falling to the ground. The momentum propelled him so he ended up falling through the window he had been close to before. The glass scattered around him, cutting into his skin and leaving gashes through his suit.

The hard grass crashed into him and he stared wildly at the dark atmosphere around him. Something drizzled down his face and his fingers came away with a dark liquid coating them. Why weren’t his cuts healing? The mist seeped along the ground and covered the gravestones, concealing the names engraved on them. For the first time that day he was grateful for the green nuisance.  He didn’t want to see what names were lurking underneath, what names were etched permanently into the stone.

He climbed onto his feet and walked backward, afraid to put his back to the graveyard. His spine went stiff when he ran into something solid and his breathing rushed out of him when he felt strong hands fall on his shoulders. The stiffness abandoned him and he was nothing but pliant when the hands turned his body so he was facing whom he backed into.

Rich brown eyes twinkled at him and he was surprised to find he was almost as tall as the man. His growth spurt must have been hard at work now that their eyes were nearly equal but he decided not to say anything about it. It wasn’t the time.

The goatee quirked with a smile and Peter’s breath caught in his throat. The hands resting on his shoulders slid down his back and forced his face against the man’s chest. Peter couldn’t move, still not believing who was standing in front of him but as he breathed in the man’s familiar scent of gasoline and pine he relaxed into the man’s frame. His arms came up and he gripped the material of the suit, relishing in the thought that he was leaving wrinkles in the suit. That there would be some mark for the man to remember their interaction by.

“It’s good to see you, Kiddo.” The familiar voice spoke in his ear and to his horror Peter found tears clouding his eyes.

“Mr. - Mr. Stark?” His voice was hoarse and it took him a couple of attempts to get the words out. The chords in his neck ached with speech and the fingers left residual pressure around his neck.  

The arms slid back to his shoulders and Mr. Stark’s eyes looked to inspect his costume. Peter fumbled with his mask, wanting to see the man with no barriers. He tried to brush his matted, sweaty hair out of his face but it just fell back on his forehead.

“Look at that hair, kid. You’re going to look like Thor when he had his princess hair pretty soon. And as soon as you’re able to grow some facial hair I expect you to try and grow the goatee.” Peter’s lip wobbled as he tried to respond but he couldn’t think of anything to say to the man who he looked up to.

“Hey now. I’m just kidding. Plus I don’t know if you could pull off my signature look.”

“I- Mr. Stark, you did it. You did it.”

“Did what, kid?” The lump only got bigger and Peter grabbed the front of the man’s suit not caring that he was acting needy. He had to say this.

“You saved everyone. You saved me, Mr. Stark.” It was the simplest way he could express everything he wanted to say to the man.

It was the utter truth, too. Mr. Stark saved him. He saved him not just from enemies or difficult fights but more importantly from himself. Mr. Stark showed him confidence and determination at a time he wasn’t sure of his purpose.

At the beginning when Peter got his powers there were times where he would sit alone and overlook the city’s silhouette. He tried protecting everyone but day after day he would consume the news to see that more people were hurt. People he didn’t save. He would have to isolate himself for a while after that. The feeling of hopelessness became a constant companion. Then he found Mr. Stark sitting on his couch flirting with Aunt May and the world had never been the same.

The man humbled Peter. He gave him expectations that Peter yearned to live up to. After the events of his homecoming dance settled down Peter felt like he was drifting in a limbo. He declined the offer to be apart of the Avengers. Something he was proud of but he felt isolated and alone afterward. His stomach clenched at the memory of his emotional state during that time. Sleep time was nil and not even school could act as a distraction. Above all he was worried that Mr. Stark would go back to ignoring him; that it would be like the beginning again.

Then one day a familiar car was waiting for him in the circle drive at school. The windows were tinted and Peter expected to see Happy’s gruff face. He was surprised and not so secretly pleased when it wasn’t Happy in the drivers seat. A wide grin stole across his face and Peter practically skipped to the car. Mr. Stark asked him about school and listened with an indulgent smile. Peter chatted away and pretended not to notice when the man seemed to be overcome with emotion when he mentioned the Vulture.

Mr. Stark’s hand turned white as he gripped the wheel. The other was clenched on the armrest and though Peter didn’t stop talking he reached his hand over and gently placed it over Mr. Stark’s. It seemed to do the trick and the man’s fingers loosened and gripped his hand tightly. The man’s eyes returned to their clasped hands throughout the car ride.  

It became a sort of routine with them after that. Mr. Stark would pick him up from school, sometimes even letting him skip school, and they would just hang out. Some days they would go out and explore New York together; share their favorite eating spots or see a new museum. Mr. Stark would always wear some type of disguise. Of course it didn’t really conceal much of his identity. If the Avengers cap didn’t do it, the signature glasses would be the give away. It was the quiet days that Peter liked the best. The days were they would spend their time tinkering in the lab or watching a movie together.

A change Peter noticed was that Mr. Stark started to… hover. It was nothing huge but the man was hesitant whenever Peter left the room. Peter could feel his eyes follow him as he left and the relief in them when Peter returned made his heart stutter. The man was also more prone to contact now. Mr. Stark didn’t even seem to be conscious of it and would just reach out to rest his hand against Peter’s shoulder or back, like he was making sure Peter was still there. Peter’s cheeks blushed when he remembered their first hug, well not-hug they had because they “weren’t there yet”. Now Mr. Stark would hug him every time he dropped Peter off and he couldn’t even pretend to be too cool for them. They were one of the best parts of the day.

He also humbled Peter. Had shown him unconditional love and strength. God, so much strength. Because of the man standing in front of him he had purpose. He knew his strengths and weaknesses. When everything went black although Peter’s skin crawled, he knew that if anyone could find him in the darkness it would be Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark was his friend, his mentor, and most of all he was a father to Peter. He never doubted Mr. Stark after that. He was never scared that he would be alone again. Now that wasn’t the truth anymore. Mr. Stark had left him. The man saved the world at the cost of his own life and it wasn’t fair.

Somehow, though, Mr. Stark was standing here in front of him as solid and real as ever. Peter could hardly believe his eyes but the feeling emanating from his chest was real. In seriousness that Peter wasn’t used to Mr. Stark looked straight into his eyes.

“I am so proud of you, Peter, for everything. You’ve made the world a better place and I cannot wait to see what you are going to do next.” His arms wrapped around Peter once more and this time Peter didn’t hesitate in reciprocating. He held on for dear life, squeezing everything he could out of the embrace and injecting everything he left unsaid into it.

Mr. Stark seemed to have got the messaged for he tightened his arms. Peter felt a well surge inside him and a sob escaped him. He felt soft lips on his forehead and tried to see through his wet eyes.

“I always knew you were better than the rest.” He said with a smile before wiping the tears away under Peter’s eyes. Peter leaned in and inhaled his scent, storing it in his memory. Mr. Stark rested his hand on Peter’s cheek, which blushed bright under the utter love in the man’s eyes.

“I love you, Peter.” His smile widened. All the sadness and pain lifted from the man’s shoulders, leaving him free from all the burdens stalking him in life. Peter’s own smile froze on his face as the man started disappearing.

It wasn’t like The Decimation. There were no crumbling pieces floated in the air. This was almost worse somehow. Mr. Stark was just fading. Nothing would be left of him, no trace that he was ever here. His smile was disappearing, blending into the darkness behind him. Peter’s hands slipped through the material he was clutching. He tried to grasp at anything he could but they came back empty.

His breath caught and Peter stumbled back, afraid to take his eyes off the man for a second before tripping on a stone. The ground rushed up to greet him and Peter’s arms came out before he fell flat. It was only a second but when he looked back up there was nothing but green mist.

Dragging himself onto his hands and knees, Peter let the drool and tears stream down his face and onto the ground. He was gone… again. A burning erupted in his chest and Peter curled into himself, resting his head on the slab of cement between his hands. His sobs weren’t dignified cries. They were raw and consumed his whole body, leaving his muscles aching.

He lifted his head and watched the tears drip down, staining the slab. His eyes finally focused on the stone and realized it was a gravestone. The blank stone shifted under his gaze and instead of fading the words glowed to life. No!His mouth opened as he inhaled swiftly. The name burned onto the back of his eyes. He tried to scream and started backing up to get away from the name. His arms shook and he ended up falling backward, hitting his head on another gravestone causing his vision to go black.

His hands seized his hair as the sound of the subway voice chimed. The beating of his heart burned its tune through his veins. May was hovering beside him with a worried expression. She brought her hand forward, ignoring his flinch, and wiped the tears away from his cheeks.

“Peter? Are you okay? What happened?” He couldn’t face it, couldn’t bear to look at the emotion on her face and buried his head into her jacket. His arms came up to grasp onto her sweater not wanting her to disappear into the green mist, too.

“I miss him so much, May.” Her hands smoothed down his hair as she leaned her cheek on his head.

“I know, sweetie.” They stayed connected for the rest of the subway ride. The lights made Peter’s eyes ache but he wouldn’t shut them for fear of what he might see. When they made it back to their apartment May tucked Peter in bed after taking his shoes and jacket off. She was heading to the door when he whispered. His voice cracked and May wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or to himself.

“I didn’t even get a chance to tell him I loved him.” Her eyes watered at the yearning that poured out from him.

“He knew, Peter. He knew.”

Thank you!