#first ned now jars this is perfect

[coffee-at-annies]

“We’ve got the best goal-scoring goalies in all of hockey”

-Mike Rupp

[ptergwen]

call me cupid

w/c: 3.5k

warnings: very mild angst and a few swears

summary: despite your hatred for valentine’s day, peter attempts to make you a card

a/n: happy valentine’s day my loves!! i hope y’all get to spend some time with your people today and eat lots of chocolate <3 love you & enjoy mwah

-

it’s no secret that peter is terrible with words. he gets so flustered he can’t talk or forgets what he wants to say altogether. school presentations are torture. ordering food out is impossible. he’s accepted it at this point, that speaking just isn’t for him.

the one place it doesn’t come across is on paper. peter is ridiculously smart, and he knows all the right words to string together, which is why writing you a valentine should be no trouble at all. should be no trouble at all.

to tell the truth, he’s been sitting at his kitchen table with a blank sheet of paper in front of him for what feels like hours. nothing is coming to him. he’s not sure why this is so hard. you’re his girlfriend, he loves you, he’s said it so many times in every way he could think to. what’s different about it now?

everyone puts way too much pressure on giving the perfect gift when they should really just be enjoying each other’s company on a holiday about love. or, in your words, a meaningless holiday that was created by capitalists as another excuse to take people’s money. 

alright, you aren’t too fond of valentine’s day.

it makes anyone who’s single feel like shit and anyone who’s in a relationship lose their shit.

only mj agreed when you shared your criticisms. ned and betty gave you looks like you were insane, and flash muttered something about you being undateable. peter had laughed and swung an arm around your shoulders, but he didn’t fully agree.

although valentine’s day has its flaws, peter likes to see it as twenty four hours of extra appreciation for the people in his life. you can buy chocolate for your friends and family. it doesn’t have to be a significant other, really. him and ned would do it before he had you and ned had betty.

peter wants to remind you how loved you are even if you’re not into the festivities like he is, that bringing him to writing your card. it’s a simple and clinically underrated way of expressing his gratitude. he’d write you love letters every day if he didn’t suck at them.

may comes out of her room to see peter in the same place he’s been since he got home from school. she looks at him through her glasses, smiling as she comes into the room. he’s tapping his pencil on the table, eraser down, searching his mind for anything to write.

“still nothing?” may asks him, making her way over to the cabinets. peter puts down the pencil and sighs. his shoulders slump. “nope. i haven’t gotten past the intro.” “intro, huh?” she teases her newphew and grabs a jar of sauce. “y/n isn’t your teacher, kiddo. you’re not writing her an essay.” she looks at peter over her shoulder. a sheepish smile creeps onto his face.

“you know what i mean.” he reads over the only words on his paper at the moment. dear y/n. he’s starting to feel like spongebob the one time he wrote a paper. “what are you making?” peter asks may so he can temporarily take the focus off his unwritten valentine. “pasta,” may shakes the box in her hand. “and meatballs.”

“should i dial 911 now or wait until we’re in flames?” peter jokes about her awful cooking skills. may shoos him off and puts the box of pasta on the counter. “worry about your own kitchen nightmare.” she nods at the sheet of paper tormenting him. frowning, he glances back at her. “i’m the worst, may. i really don’t know what to write.”

may struggles to open the jar of sauce as she replies. “i thought you said- jesus.” it pops off. “y/n doesn’t like valentine’s day.” she slides over a pot from the stove and dumps the sauce in. peter stares up at the ceiling. “she doesn’t.” that’s probably why he’s having such a hard time. “why are you writing her a card, then?” may questions, turning on a burner.

“because, i dunno, it’s nice? it’ll make her happy? she might not care, but i do.” he mumbles the last part. he’s a bit of a hopeless romantic, so he hasn’t quite adjusted to the idea you had of not getting each other presents. you’re treating it like a regular day. some takeout and cuddles is all you’re doing.

peter would rather buy you things until his pockets are empty. not that there’s much in them, anyway. the point is that you deserve proper spoiling instead of corny words in his shitty handwriting.

“peter, honey. it might be better to stick with what y/n wants,” may suggests while stirring the sauce in the pot. she’s well aware that a few paragraphs from peter won’t change your mind. your opinions belong to you, and there’s nothing he can do about it, though he does have good intentions.

ignoring what may just said, peter makes a request. “what if you help me write it?” she faces the stove again. he can picture her playful smile when she quirks back, “she’s not my girlfriend.” “no, but you’re a girl... a woman,” he corrects himself, earning a scoff from may. “you’d probably know what sounds good.”

“you know y/n better than me, peter. do it on your own,” she exhales and turns back around with the wooden spoon in her hand. “it’ll be more... heartfelt.” peter hates that may is right because he’s completely stuck. his heart is being stupid today. “okay. i’ll try.” he gives her a slow nod. “why don’t you take a break? come stir the sauce. i’ll start the pasta.”

peter gets up from the table and grabs the spoon from may. she pinches his cheek on her way to the sink, getting a tight lipped smile from him.

this is not good.

-

the next day at school, peter asks around the lunch table for advice while you’re on line getting food. he feels guilty about it because may told him not to. he’s never going to get your valentine done if he doesn’t, though. it isn’t the worst thing in the world to bring on some co-writers.

“ok, what do you have so far?” betty asks, fully invested in the situation. she’s hoping this will switch up your views on valentine’s day. peter pulls out the same piece of paper from last night and says verbatim what’s on it. “dear y/n.” he looks up at ned and betty, the corners of his mouth twitching down. ned motions with his hand for peter to go on.

“that’s it,” peter confesses and folds the paper back up in shame. “dude, you told us it was a work in progress,” ned winces, betty taking his hand that’s resting on her shoulder. “where’s the progress?” betty patronizes him. they’re making him feel worse than he already did. what great co-writers he’s collaborating with.

peter throws a hand up, an eye roll included. “yeah, it’s terrible. can you help me or not?” mj narrows her own eyes at peter from the other end of his bench. she’s not interested in participating when the conversation is about forcing you to celebrate a holiday you don’t like.

“ooh!” betty squeals and squeezes ned’s hand. “you should make a list.” ned grins, leaning his head on hers. “genius, babe.” “a list of what?” peter furrows his eyebrows as he looks between the two of them. “what you love about y/n,” she explains, ned adding on, “stuff you do together, or you appreciate.”

“put whatever you come up with into sentences and voilà,” betty says in her best french accent. “oui oui,” ned agrees, both of them giggling. that doesn’t sound half bad. peter could manage a list about you. “thank you so much, guys. you literally just saved valentine’s day,” he confidently tucks his paper into his pocket. “it’s what we do,” ned tells him coolly.

“you never asked what i think,” mj cuts in, staring down her friends, who reluctantly meet her gaze. she pushes her bag of goldfish aside and raises an eyebrow. “mj, we know how you feel about valentine’s day.” peter presses his lips together. “y/n feels the same way,” mj reminds him dryly.

it’s true, but he doesn’t want to hear that right now. he’s having a breakthrough.

like clockwork, you appear at the table. you slip into the spot next to peter and put down your lunch tray. “what’d i miss?” you comment on the obvious tension, eyeing betty for an explanation. mj gives it to you. “valentine’s day discourse,” she tells you knowingly. peter shifts in his seat, uncomfortable, like he’s been caught doing something he isn’t supposed to.

he technically has.

“yuck,” you murmur, winding your arms around peter’s neck. “yuck, yuck, yuck.” he finds your words ironic because you then kiss his cheek, and peck his lips when he turns his head. peter puts a hand on your side and lets his eyes go up and down your face. a smile spreads across it, which he returns without thinking about. mj huffs in disapproval. she’s seen enough pda.

-

peter makes his list later that night. he decided he isn’t being inauthentic because he’s coming up with everything himself. he breezes right through it, jotting down what he loves most about you across the paper. it’s a mess. scribbled out misspellings and shreds of eraser, single words and whole phrases covering both sides. he’s proud of his actual progress.

he’ll write the official letter tomorrow since you’re coming over tonight. he at least has his material. the next, thankfully final, step is to reword it.

you’re ranting to peter about some drama with one of your teachers. he listens intently as always, chuckling when you crack jokes and grinning the entire time, feeling so lucky to have the most passionate, say whatever is on her mind girlfriend ever. seriously, it’s inspiring to watch.

“no, like, i never know what’s going on in that class,” you snort, peter snaking his arms around your middle from behind. “because you don’t pay attention,” he hums with his face nuzzled into the back of your neck. “because it doesn’t make any sense!” you defend yourself. his lips brush against your bare skin, drawing a giggle out of you.

“back to what i was saying,” your voice drips with sarcasm. the two of you naturally gravitate to his room, you walking in first. “she called on me, and i- what’s this?” you escape peter’s arms and head over to his desk. crap, he was working on your valentine and forgot to put it away. it caught your attention because it’s surrounded by crumpled papers and glitter.

peter was... experimenting... with designs for the front of the card. he’s learned that he isn’t too artistic either.

“wait, don’t read that,“ peter tries, but you’ve already got the list in your hands. he anxiously sucks his lower lip into his mouth and comes to stand next to you.

you first see the ‘dear y/n,’ then focus in on a few other words. my person forever, which makes you coo at the paper. insane (in the best way), which makes you gasp dramatically. i know you don’t like valentine’s day, but...

you drop the card back on the desk and let out a breath, shutting your eyes as irritation creeps in. it wouldn’t be fair for you to be mad at peter because it’s a sweet gesture, it really is. just, not for you personally. you’re on opposite sides of the valentine’s spectrum. you despise it, he sort of loves it. you’d hoped to meet somewhere in the middle.

“i thought we said no gifts,” you keep your voice level and spin around to look at peter. his face is painted with guilt. “it’s a card,” he murmurs, then meets your eyes with his brows knitted together. “i can’t even give you a card?” “i mean...” you shrug and shake your head. “look, peter. we had an agreement. i’m not doing valentine’s day.”

his disappointment comes out in the form of hanging his head. “yeah, you’re right. sorry.”

may tried to tell him this would happen, mj tried to tell him, and now you’re telling him. he should’ve expected it. he isn’t sure why he’s being so mopey about it because he was fully aware of your hatred for anything with the word valentine in it. it still hurts. peter just wishes you’d let him have the one day to love you and only you, give you some special attention.

“it’s nothing against you, babe,” you reassure him, noticing the shift in his mood. you put a hand on his shoulder. “i really just don’t like valentine’s day. it feels so... fake to me.” peter musters up a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. it drops when you loop your arms around his torso.

“if i celebrated, you’d be the first person i’d wanna spend it with.” you punctuate your words with a kiss to his cheek. he rests his chin on your head, you nuzzling your own cheek into his sweater. he’s feeling a bit better now. it’s not about him, that’s what he needs to remind himself. “thanks, baby,” peter speaks lowly into the air. you hum as if to say no problem.

scratch literally everything he’s done.

-

peter rolls over in his bed, rubbing at his eyes as his alarm goes off. it’s today. happy valentine’s day to... himself. he doesn’t think you’d want to hear it.

he’s not as broken up about everything as the other day. you have your reasons for not celebrating, and peter accepts them. hey, he still gets to spend the whole day with you. you’re technically having an unspoken valentine’s date.

he gets up from his bed with a yawn and starts to dig through his drawers for an outfit. you should be over soon.

before you head over to peter’s, you decide to make a quick stop at cvs for a few things. you ended up feeling pretty terrible about snapping on him essentially for loving you. it was over a harmless valentine, something to make you feel good and be an outlet for the hundreds of romantic bones in his body. basically, you were bitter about having a thoughtful boyfriend.

you want to make it up to him by giving him gifts instead. you’ll never be down with the whole exploitive and capitalistic side of valentine’s day, but there’s a deeper meaning to it than what you give it credit for. you see that now. peter was able to show his love for you through a homemade mess of a card, and you felt it. the price tags don’t matter. the meaning does.

dressed in his nicest sweater with his hair all styled, peter answers your knocking at his door. a grin instantly paints his face as he takes you in. you’re bundled up in a coat and holding a bag by your side. “hey,” he greets you and lets you past him. you shut the door behind him, returning the smile and winding an arm around his neck for a hug. his drapes around your back.

“hey. happy valentine’s day.” “happy valentine’s-“ peter realizes what he’s about to say and what you just said, then stops himself. “what?” he breaks the hug, squinting at your odd behavior. you’re the last person he’d expected to hear that from. “it’s valentine’s day. so, happy valentine’s day,” you tell him like it’s nothing.

he stays quiet while you shrug off your coat and throw it over one of the kitchen chairs. you bring your bag along with you, peter following you in. he’s suspicious. intrigued, and suspicious. it’s been less than a day since he last say you. you had a change of heart that fast? you aren’t the biggest valentine’s day anti he knows anymore?

“where’s may?” you wonder aloud, taking both of peter’s hands in your now free ones. he eyes the shopping bag you put down while you lace your fingers together. “with happy. they’re getting brunch.” he’s never particularly psyched to talk about their relationship. it’s always been in a joking way, though. now, he sounds genuinely upset to go over may’s whereabouts.

“they’re so cute,” you comment, tugging on peter’s hands so he looks at you. “you good?” “great,” peter half lies and nods, then presses a reassuring kiss to your cheek. he’s not bad. puzzled is the word. what you say next only adds to it.

“good. i have a few things for you,” you beam at him and grab your shopping bag off the chair. that’s what that’s for? peter isn’t fully sure what you’re up to. it doesn’t stop a smile from stretching across his lips, though.

“what happened to no presents?” he tests you as you reach into the bag. “well, i feel bad about how i acted the other day.” you pull out a heart shaped box of chocolates. “the card was really sweet, and i was too caught off guard to appreciate it. i’m sorry, pete.” peter’s eyes twinkle at you, gazing as you give him a smile with a hint of shyness behind it. you’re leaving your comfort zone and entering his.

“i was wrong and cynical and just, yeah. happy valentine’s day,” you add on and shove the box into his hand. he finally grins, so wide and then lets out a breathy laugh. “thanks, y/n. i know it was probably hard to shop being surrounded by this stuff.” he holds up the box. he’s right. you’ll unfortunately be seeing pink and red for weeks. “it was, but i did it for you.” you happily open up your arms for him.

peter puts down the chocolates and pulls you into his arms, his cheek squished against the side of your head as he hugs you to his chest. “oh my god, i love you so much,” he mumbles out, you squeezing him in response. “i love you, pete.” you press a quick kiss to his neck and hold him at arm’s length so you can see him. “i have something else for you.”

“baby,” peter coos, a pout on his lips. “you don’t have to do all of this. i would’ve been fine without the chocolates, even.” “stop, you deserve it,” you shut down the part of him that’s way too nice and selfless. “you’re my real present,” he says lower and with a toothy smile. shaking your head, you reach behind you and into the bag.

he can’t believe you’ve switched stances on valentine’s day. you’re the present pusher, and he’s refusing them. peter thinks it’s some sort of miracle that you’re not only acknowledging the holiday, you’re also partaking in it. his hopeless romantic side tells him it’s actually love, and it is. that’s the cheesy, hallmark movie truth. you suffered through shopping at a heart themed cvs because you love him. simple.

you return with a pink envelope that you place into peter’s hand. his face softens as he closes his fingers around it. “y/n, you made me a card?” “kind of,” you laugh at his overstatement. it’s obviously pre-made. you’d used a pen to fill it out in the store, scribbled a few words and tucked it into the envelope.

“it really doesn’t compare to yours, though,” you simultaneously warn and compliment him. peter dismisses you with a lighthearted click of his tongue. “oh, shush. that was only a rough draft.” “which proves my point even more. open it.” you grip onto the bottom of his sweater and grin.

he keeps his eyes on you while ripping open the envelope, then looks down and chuckles at the gag of the card. it has r2d2 and r4d4 from star wars on the front. inside is already written, “r4 is red and r2 is blue. if i was the force then i’d be with you.” you giggle to yourself, watching him read what you wrote next. i love you more every day, especially on valentine’s. xo, y/n.

peter holds the card to his side and slings an arm around your waist. “they make star wars valentines?” he murmurs, another smile breaking out on his face, one that you of course return. you use his sweater to pull him closer. “apparently. perfect for you.” peter tosses the card down next to the chocolates, both arms now holding you.

“thank you so much, baby. you’re an angel,” he sighs and pecks your lips after. “call me cupid,” you answer.

you give him a longer kiss back, tilting your head up to deepen it. your hands find their place on his biceps, earning a hum from peter as he moves his lips against yours. you can feel his love in every little movement, how he hugs your waist like you’re made of glass, rests his forehead against yours. when your lips mutually detach, peter speaks first, voice slightly husky.

“happy valentine’s day, cupid.”

you breathe out, peter closing his eyes in content.

“happy valentine’s day, r2.”

[polaroid15]

You Can't Save Everyone

Summary: After a rough night brings back vivid memories of his Uncle's death, Peter finds himself at Stark Tower. Tony has some realizations.

*trigger warning for dissociation

Read on Ao3 HERE :)

--------

It’s just shy of midnight when Peter enters the Tower.

Tony is in his lab when it happens, fiddling mindlessly with a new program for his suit. His shoulders ache and his lower back flares with pain, the discomfort only made known as FRIDAY’s alert interrupts his concentration. It pulls him away from his project like a tide rolling back to sea.

“Boss. As per the sneaking spider protocol, I am to inform you that Mr. Parker has entered the tower via an eighth floor window.”

A mixture of emotions flood Tony’s weary mind, battling mainly between excitement and worry. Historically, Peter showing up in the dead of night unannounced is not good, but Pepper has been trying to coach him into optimism.

It could be nothing.

Please let it be nothing.

“Is he okay?” Tony asks, already on his way to standing. He braces himself against his desk for a moment, working to loosen the stiffness in his joints as FRIDAY responds.

“It is unclear. Peter is unresponsive to my prompts.”

A spike of cold adrenaline shoots all the way down to his toes. He hurries towards the exit once he gets his bearings, a familiar sense of dread resting heavy in his gut. “Keep trying.”

“Of course.”

The elevator takes eons and Tony resists every nerve in his body to run once it opens. He’ll be fine, his mind assures, but even his own sentiments are hard to believe. Because it’s Peter. Because out of all the kid’s in the world he could’ve gotten attached to, it had to be a disaster prone spider mutant.

“Anything FRI?” Tony asks, quickening his stride. He’s close, but still too far. Still not there. “Is he responding yet?”

“Negative, boss.”

“Damn it kid-”

Tony stops short at the threshold of Peter’s room, the space underneath the door dark. He knocks once, twice, then barrels on through with his heart in his throat.

A sharp chill emanates from the open window but the kid is nowhere in sight. The sound of water running in the bathroom is enough evidence to steer Tony in it’s direction. Like the bedroom, the light in the bathroom is absent. Tony slaps his palm against the frame, ear pressed to hear. Please don’t be bleeding out. “Kid?” he shouts. “Are you in there?”

The shower continues to run, but it’s the only noise Tony hears. He knocks harder. “Peter! Can you hear me?”

He counts to ten in his head. Bites his lip. Closes his eyes.

“If you don’t answer I’m coming in, kiddo.”

This time he only counts to five.

Thankfully, the handle twists without a problem. Tony flicks on the switch and winces against the jarring brightness from the bulbs above the mirror. It only takes a couple seconds to find the kid in question, and his stomach bottoms out.

“Peter-”

He’s skidding to his knees on the cold tile before he can draw another breath, his fingers curling over the lip of the bathtub. Peter is sitting at the base of the tub under a steady stream of water, staring blankly at the wall and covered in blood. He’s not in his suit, the remnants of a NASA shirt just barely visible through the crimson and gore. It’s on his face, in his hair, under his nails-

Breathe. Breathe. Oh God.

“Peter?” he prompts, his hands shaky and hesitant to reach out. The kid has hardly even blinked since Tony barged in, let alone acknowledge him. Warning bells go off in his head like clockwork, sparking pain in his temples. “Can you hear me?”

But Peter merely stares onward, pale and distant as pink water circles the drain. He gives no indication whatsoever of being aware that Tony’s there, let alone talking to him, and he’s had enough experience with ptsd to know the kid is dissociating.

“FRI. Scan- scan Peter’s vitals. Is he hurt?”

“No wounds detected.”

A breath of relief. Tony leans forward, pressing his head into the tub. “Thank God. Okay, okay. Oh Christ.” More tethered, he reaches out a hand and feels the water’s temperature. Cold. He adjusts it until it’s warm and gets FRIDAY to dim the lights. “I’m here buddy,” he says, unsure if his words will break through. “Whenever you’re ready. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Even though it kills his already sore back, Tony remains hunched on the bathroom floor. He sits and watches over Peter for the better part of an hour until the kid starts to come back to himself, his blinks becoming more frequent and his fingers twitching from where they rest in his lap. The distant fog in Peter’s eyes begins to ease, replaced with tears that are nearly impossible to differentiate from the water.

“Pete?” he whispers, a sorrow of his own causing his words to stick in his throat. He’s careful not to touch, to keep a distance no matter how badly he wants to do the opposite. “You back with me kiddo?”

Peter’s eyebrows pinch together and he sucks in a shuddering breath. With the grace of a newborn foal, Peter extends his hands in front of his face. They’re still stained with blood, and at the sight, Peter moans.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Can you look at me Peter?” He feels like he’s walking on a minefield. One misstep and it all goes kaboom. “Eyes over here bud. I know you can do it.”

It’s like Peter’s moving through molasses. His head swivels, his chest heaving, and then their eyes meet. It sends another jolt through Tony, though he fights to keep his expression neutral. Comforting. “That’s great. That’s perfect. I wanna help you. Can I touch you?”

An agonizing lull stretches while Peter processes the request. Then, he nods.

Careful not to move too quickly, Tony grabs a washcloth from the space under the sink and grabs Peter’s hands. He runs the material over the marred skin and under his nails. He does the same to his arms, his neck, his face. He squeezes shampoo in his hair and waits until the bubbles disappear and the water runs clear. When he finishes, Peter’s eyes are closed and red rimmed, his posture spring loaded as if seconds from breaking.

He rests his hand on Peter’s shoulder, noticing only now that his job is done how badly the boy is trembling. “Pete?” he prompts. “You ready to blow this popsicle stand?”

Another nod. For the first time, Peter moves intently, leaning forward and struggling to twist off the water. When he succeeds he rests his forehead on his knees until Tony helps him stand and together they manage to get Peter over the lip of the tub. He stands in his wet clothes, shivering and looking at the floor.

“Stay here, buddy. I’ll go get you some new clothes.”

Only when he’s certain Peter isn’t going to topple over, Tony vacates the steaming bathroom to the bedroom. He rifles through the kid’s messy drawers until he wrangles a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. Peter is sitting on the toilet lid when he returns, his head bowed in his hands.

“You need help changing?” Tony asks at the doorway. Peter lifts his head at the question and it looks as if it takes the same amount of effort the kid has used to lift a car.

“N-no,” he croaks, his voice hoarse and almost inaudible. “I’m okay.”

“Alright,” Tony agrees, another hard knot spawning at the base of his throat. He passes the clothes into Peter’s outstretched hands. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

“Right. Thanks.”

With one final look, Tony backs away and clicks the door shut behind him. His hand rests on the knob, tears pricking at his eyes and his body feeling weaker than ever. Then, only after he regains some strength, he settles on the edge of Peter’s bed and waits. His anxiety is a low burning flame, growing higher as his thoughts spiral. He squeezes his eyes shut and hangs his head between his knees as he forces oxygen deep into his lungs. Get a grip. Focus on Peter. You can’t help him if you’re panicking.

Somewhere in the muddy spiral of his thoughts Peter finishes in the bathroom and settles on the empty space to Tony’s right, so close that their arms touch. The bed dips with his weight.

And for a while, all they do is sit there.

Tony is grateful to hear him breathing. Even and slow. He matches the pattern and feels the embers of his anxiety darken.

“I’m sorry Tony,” Peter says eventually. If possible, he melts further into Tony’s side.

“Nothing to be sorry for, kid. How’re you feeling?”

Peter hums as he thinks. Then he shrugs. “Not so good I guess. Spacey. But better.”

“Better is good.”

They lapse into another silence, though this one is shorter. Peter’s breaths pick up. “Something happened today,” he says.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Take your time. We’ll go at your speed.”

Peter relaxes again, though some unresolved tension keeps his hands curled into fists. “I always forget,” he starts, his voice catching some detached quality, “how much blood is in a person.”

Tony hardly breathes.

“I was walking to Ned’s,” Peter continues. “I- I was supposed to stay the night at his place. I had just gotten off the subway and as soon as I came up there was a driveby. The man in front of me… one second he was standing and the next-” Peter chokes. Swallows. “They shot him in the chest. I tried to stop the bleeding, but it- it didn’t work.”

“Peter-”

“He was talking to me,” Peter says, his face wet once more. “He had a family. A wife. He- he looked just like Ben. I thought it was him, Tony. I really did. I could have sworn it was him. All over again. And he died, and I left when I could see the police coming. I just ran.”

“Peter, kiddo-”

“It was Ben,” Peter concludes with a shiver. “I think I was calling his name. He died again. I couldn’t save him.”

“It wasn’t Ben, okay? It wasn’t. Even if it felt like it was. None of this is your fault.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter says again, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I shouldn’t- I just- I couldn’t let May see me like this. I’m sorry for coming here.”

This is where Tony draws the line. He swivels on the bed and grips Peter’s forearm. “I’m glad you came. I want to help, Peter. Always. You know that.”

Peter nods, lip wobbling. “I don’t- I don’t really remember walking here. It’s like my body just took over. Like it knew it was safe.”

God, this kid. Tony blinks viciously at the sharp sting of tears and clears his throat. “There’s always a place for you here. Night and day. Our wish is your command. All that jazz.”

Miraculously, Peter cracks a smile. It’s weary, and Tony is reminded for the thousandth time just how young he is. “God, I’m exhausted.”

“Yeah, that’ll be the trauma,” Tony agrees, a pit opening up in his stomach. He feels a desperate urge to fix. To protect. “Feel up to some sleep?”

Instead of answering, Peter detaches himself from Tony’s side and crawls over to the opposite end of the bed. He struggles with the covers until he’s pressed between them, flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling. “Do you think I’m cursed?”

“What?”

“Cursed,” Peter repeats, like it’s the most obvious question in the world. “That the people around me are destined to some horrible, terrible fate?”

“God, I hope not,” he tries to joke, shifting his attention to the wall.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I!”

Peter huffs out a quiet laugh, though it sounds mostly forced. Tony sobers at the sound. “Of course you’re not cursed,” he says. “It’s just- life happens, you know? And yeah, you’ve gotten the short end of the stick more than once. Way more than is fair. But you can’t save everyone, Pete. No matter how badly you want to.”

At this, Peter blinks rapidly, his mouth pressing down into a hard line. Tony notices the way his fingernails curl up hard into his palms and he instinctively reaches out to stop it. Peter splays out his fingers, though they shake, and two distinct tears roll down into the pillow. “Oh man. Why is it that you’re always right?”

“I’m a literal genius, remember?”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned it once or twice.”

Something like sunlight leaks through Tony’s chest, disrupting the weight of the darkness that’s been monopolizing ever since he found Peter in the bathroom. “You, sir, are much less funny than you think.”

“Hmm. I disagree,” Peter says, his smile faltering as his eyes dip closed. He forces them back up, though they remain half lidded. Tony can hardly breathe through the tender feeling that blossoms up through his chest. Gross. Feelings.

“You going to be okay for the night?”

Peter hesitates. Nods. Then, as Tony stands to leave, his breath hitches. “Stay,” he blurts. Then as if embarrassed, backtracks. “Actually- no. Nevermind. I don’t know why I said that. I’m sorry.”

But Tony’s already easing himself down on top of the covers on the opposite end of the bed, crossing his arms behind his head. “You better not snore,” he says.

Peter laughs again. This time, it’s genuine. A complete 180, a revival, and Tony thanks whatever higher power is listening for it. “Um. I’m pretty sure you’re the one who snores.”

Tony’s eyes close, his adrenaline gone and his energy spent. Peter is safe, he reminds himself. He’s here and he’s breathing and in this moment, he’s okay. “Sorry to break it to you kid, but geniuses don’t snore.”

“Right. Whatever you say.”

A couple beats pass. Tony’s chin dips. Then, quiet as ever, Peter’s voice returns. “Thank you Tony. For- for everything.”

“Don’t mention it, kiddo,” he murmurs, his chest tightening with a foreign feeling of affection. God, he’s getting soft.

“No,” Peter says, struggling up to his elbows. Through the dim light, Tony can see just how earnestly Peter is looking at him. “I need you to- I need you to hear me. Thank you. Everything since Germany- it’s just- if it weren’t for you-” he takes in a deep, shuddering breath. “Thank you.”

“I’m in your corner,” Tony says, surprising himself with the sincerity behind his words. It makes his chest ache. “Always.”

“I know.”

“You’re not cursed.”

“I- I know.”

“You’re a good kid.”

“Well-”

“But not if you snore.”

Peter laughs and Tony bites back one of his own. “I won’t,” he promises, his voice just above a whisper, and Tony senses it as the last of the boy’s tension drains from the room. Then, as if an afterthought, he slurs, “I’m always in your corner too, Tony.”

And within seconds, he’s asleep.

Though he’s exhausted, Tony lays and blinks heavily at the ceiling. He’s not a father, but he’s pretty damn sure this is what it must feel like.

The last thing he hears is Peter’s soft snore. He drifts, tears applying pressure against his eyelids, and vows to keep the boy safe. Because he’s not cursed. Not even close.

And Tony will always be in his corner.

Because Peter will always be in his.

No matter what.

[sassycassie-s-writing]

Under the Moon

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): Avengers - Peter Parker/Spider-Man

Rating: PG/K+

Original Idea: I’ve been in a mood recently.

Notes: (Masterlist)(By Character)(About Me) I actually put forth a decent effort this time to make it as gender-neutral as possible. It’s probably not perfect but I tried.

^^^^^

A twinge in the muscles of my back jarred me from my sleep.

$#!+ did I forget again? I thought. Another spasm arched me off my mat. I fumbled through my bag for my phone. No service. Of course not. With shaking fingers, somehow I managed to unlock it. Moon Tracker was waiting for me on my home page. It launched and actually loaded, despite the lack of service.

Tonight’s Moon: Full read the screen.

I swore aloud. MJ didn’t wake.

Scrambling out of the tent, I stumbled through the dark to the tent next to ours. “Peter!” I hissed, knocking a knuckle against the tent pole. “Pete!”

I heard a groan. “What?” Peter complained.

“I need your help. I need you to come with me. Now.”

The tent he shared with Ned zipped open. Ned was curled up in a corner and clearly Peter had been sprawled out. Peter slipped out, barely managing to get into his sneakers, and zipped the tent shut behind him. “What’s goin’ on?” He yawned.

I recoiled as pain wracked through me. “We need to get away from camp—and I need you to web me to a tree,” I replied.

“What?”

“Now!”

My tone scared him into movement. He grabbed my hand and we ran from the campsite. I stumbled more than anything. My control over my own body was slipping. I moaned in pain. Peter looked back at me.

“What’s happening to your eyes?”

“No time to explain. Keep moving,” I panted.

We blindly wove through the woods until we were over a mile away. I found a sturdy tree and backed against it.

“Web me here,” I said. “Just cover me.”

“Why?”

I looked up. The moon was starting to peek above the hills, casting its light through the woods. “Just do it!” I cried out—stifling the sound as much as I could—and slammed into the tree. “Now!”

Peter’s webshooters activated and he spewed webs at me. I gave him a small smile.

Then I thrashed in pain—

And everything went black.

—

Peter stared as his friend’s body began to change. Claws broke through fingers. Fangs replaced teeth. A snout elongated from the face. Thick, brown-and-black hair sprouted. Pajamas started to disappear under the hair.

Until, instead of a human, Peter was staring at a wolf.

An enormous wolf. Easily twice the size of a regular wolf—and he’d found out that wolves were twice as big as he’d thought not too long ago—and covered in grey fur. The beast’s paws were wide and ended in long dark claws sharp enough to tear flesh like cotton candy. Thankfully they were positioned too awkwardly to reach the webs holding it.

“Gah! What the he—” He cut himself off as the wolf snarled at him, writhing against the webs. He applied another layer just to be safe. “Since—since—since when could you do—” The moonlight shone brighter, catching his attention. He peered up.

The moon was a massive disc—full and shining silver-white down against the tree trunk.

The wolf in front of him seemed transfixed by it, staring up with a melancholy whine softly escaping its throat. It tried again to escape the webs, but only half-heartedly.

Peter whooshed out a breath as realization struck him like a blow from the Hulk. “You’re a werewolf,” he whispered.

The wolf whimpered and then growled. Peter stepped back.

“I’m not sleeping tonight, am I?” He asked.

The wolf didn’t reply.

Which was probably a good thing, because if it did he probably would have screamed loud enough to wake up their friends over a mile away—and every big nasty in the forest. And he doubted his werewolf friend would protect him.

The wolf’s amber eyes were watching him suspiciously. But Peter just sat down and yawned again. “You and I have known each other for like ten years now. You’re in on my secret. Why didn’t you ever tell me yours?” He stared at the wolf, who was still seething at being trapped, but not fighting against the webs. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Again, the wolf made no reply. Just turned those amber eyes up to the moon. Peter looked up at it too. “Yeah. It’s beautiful. Especially on nights like tonight. When there aren’t any clouds.”

The wolf whined like a puppy—and Peter had to remind himself to not tear off the webs to cuddle into that thick, soft-looking fur. That werewolves probably didn’t have any human memories when they were in their wolf form. He leaned back on his hands. “You’re probably not gonna remember this, so I may as well tell you: I’ve actually had a crush on you since like seventh grade. I know we’ve been friends for longer than that but…” He shrugged. The wolf kept staring at the moon. “I don’t know. Something changed that year. I saw you in the gym with the ballroom dance club, teaching some poor dude how to waltz when I stayed late for robotics, and it was like this… like a lightbulb went off in my head. You know? Suddenly it was like I was really seeing you for the first time. Like I caught a glimpse of the best pieces of your soul.

“And I’ve never been the same since. Never looked at you the same way. I notice the grace you use when you move. Even if you’re clumsy sometimes. But I see your compassion too. Your care. Like once I started looking, I couldn’t stop.”

The wolf didn’t even react to him at all.

Peter sighed. “I’ll keep an eye on you tonight. I promise. You won’t be able to get out or hurt anything. It’ll be okay. I promise.”

—

I came to under the pale orange light of dawn. The last dregs of dissolving web fluid clung to my pajamas. I felt drained. Like I always did the morning after a full moon.

“Hey, you’re up!” Peter said happily. I turned. He was sitting on the forest floor a few feet away, using a Bunsen burner camping “stove” to heat a small pot of water. Two paper cups were sitting near him, plastic spoons poking out of the top. I slumped against the tree trunk. “I’m making some cocoa. Want some?”

I watched him pour the water in the cups, adding packets of cocoa mix and stirring carefully. I didn’t have the energy to actually reply.

He handed me one of the cups. “This should warm you up. It’s a little chilly.”

“Did you get any sleep?” I croaked.

“I did, actually. See, the thing is, my webs dissolve in two hours. On average, it takes fourteen minutes for a person to fall asleep, and a single sleep cycle is ninety minutes—hour and a half. So I used my webshooters to set timers. An almost-two-hour one to know when to replace the webs around you, and another to wake me up roughly an hour and forty-four minutes after I set it. So I slept between replacing your webs and I actually feel alright. Probably better than you anyway.”

I grunted agreement at that. I felt like I’d been trampled by a herd of elephants.

I tried a sip of the cocoa. Not too hot, but enough to warm my core. I sighed, content with the taste and warmth.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Peter asked quietly. I met his eyes. He had the expression of a sad puppy on his face.

I huffed a little, stirring my cocoa. “My secret isn’t like yours, Peter,” I said. “You keep your secret to keep the people you care about safe. I do too, but mine—mine is different. You’re keeping the people you love safe from villains who want to hurt you by hurting them. I’m keeping the people I care about safe from me. Because I’m… we’re classified as monsters, Peter. Werewolves, vampires—we’re referred to as monsters the same way humans are mammals. I never told you because what I can do… it’s worse than what you can do. You’re a superhero. I’m a lycanthrope. Yours is a mutation of your DNA. Mine is literally a curse. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you looking at me like I’m…”

“A monster?” Peter finished gently.

I almost growled at the word. “Yeah,” I admitted begrudgingly, taking a sip of my cocoa. “You have no idea how hard it is for someone like me to make or keep friends. I’ve spent most of my life super lonely. Then I met you and Ned and MJ and I felt like… like finally I could have some friends. I was turned into a werewolf when I was four-years-old, Peter. Thirteen years, I’ve suffered with this alone. My parents know but they don’t talk about it. They pretend like my curse doesn’t exist. Then I make friends for the first time in my life and still know, deep down, that I’ll never belong with them. Not really. Even when you told me about you, I knew I still wasn’t like you. I never would be. So I hoped I could just be friends as long as I could with you guys and… find a way to live with it when you all eventually left me.”

I downed the rest of my cup and stood. My joints ached.

“We should go back to camp before Ned and MJ wonder where we’ve gone,” I said.

Not waiting for Peter, I headed back the way we’d come, following my own scent through the trees, several hours old now, but doubly punctuated by Peter’s as he’d gone back to get the burner and the cocoa.

He caught up to me, jogging a little. “For the record, even though you scared the pants off of me last night when I saw you turn, I don’t think you’re a monster,” he said.

I managed a small smile. “Thanks,” I replied.

“And, also, I’m not going to leave you. You’re still my friend and I’m not scared. I can lift… like, a hundred times more than my body weight. I think I can handle you as a wolf. You’re not gonna hurt me and I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s… that’s a relief to hear,” I admitted. We kept hiking back. “Do I remember you saying you’ve had a crush on me since we were in seventh grade? Or did I dream that up?”

Peter swore under his breath. A normal person wouldn’t have heard it, but I did. Wolf’s hearing. “Uh… I think you dreamt that up,” he said.

Liar. But if he wasn’t ready to tell me human-face-to-human-face, I’d give him time. He’d taken my secret better than I could have asked for or anticipated. I could let him admit his feelings whenever he was ready. I owed him that much.

When we got back to camp, MJ was sitting on a tree stump, munching on some dry cereal. “Where have you two been all night?” she asked.

[thiswasinevitableid]

15. Nymph SternClay alternately, Stern is a Dryad residing in a huge forest where a strange creature, similar to humans but different (aka Bigfoot) wanders alone. Ever curious, Stern seeks to understand why this beautiful creature doesn’t seem to have anyone else, and even tries to hide from the few humans who venture deep enough into the woods. Can they be alone together?

Here you go! It’s SFW

Joseph knows he can’t spend every hour in the Great Oak, reading and researching the movements of humans. He still struggles to justify his fascination with creatures that have little contact with his kind. Some of his peers go so far as to insist humans are a myth, or the result of the odd dryad or naiad seeing a bear from the wrong angle. 

This is false, of course, and humans have been getting bold lately, making paths and taking walks deeper and deeper into the trees. This means that dryads assigned to security roles must spend at least six hours a day in their tree to make sure no one threatens their home. Joseph is in a Copper Beech not far from the GreenBriar river, mentally drawing up his to-do list for the week, when heavy footsteps catch his attention. 

At first he thinks it’s a particularly hairy human tromping through the underbrush, decked out in a ratty flannel shirt and what he’s heard humans refer to as “sweatpants.”  But his feet are bare, his limbs and face covered in dark, copper-flecked fur, and his ears are more pointed than those of a human. He leans against Josephs’ tree, drumming his fingers on it as he surveys the area, massive back-pack slung over his shoulders. There’s a flat patch of grass twenty yards away, and this is where the visitor eventually settles. Within fifteen minutes, a small tent sits on the grass. When the creature crawls inside and lays down, his feet stick out of the flap. 

Once snoring filters into the air, Joseph slips from the tree, conjures a blanket from moss, and sets it across his feet. It gets cold here at night.

His kind gesture does not go as planned.

The instant the fabric hits skin, the figure in the tent jolts upright, growling.  Joseph sits back as his guest's head bursts into the open. Then their positions instantly reverse, the other creature scrambling backwards in alarm.

“What the fuck? Where, where’d you come from, I didn’t hear you, didn’t even smell you sneaking up on me.”

Joseph raises his eyebrows, “Probably because I smell like bark and my footsteps are no different from falling leaves.” He holds out his hand for the creature to shark, “Joseph Stern, dryad.” 

“O-kay, so why is a dryad trying to…” he looks at the blanket for the first time, “tuck me in?”

“You’re new to woodland living, I take it?”

“Not really.”

Joseph sighs, “There are specific rules that govern this forest. One of them is that dryads are responsible for everything within a two mile radius of their base” he points to the Beech, “including any residents, visitors, or refugees. Which means you’re my responsibility.”

“Uh, I’m good, you don’t need to, like, babysit me.”

The dryad produces a notebook from his pocket, flipping to the section for his resident intake form, “I’m not babysitting you, I just need some information for my records. Name?”

Deep brown eyes blink, perplexed, and then his guest shrugs, “Barclay.”

“Species?”

“No fucking idea.” Barclay picks up the moss blanket, folding it and setting it next to the tent. 

“Purpose of stay?”

“To get some peace and quiet.” He turns a pointed glare at Joseph. Even with the glower, he’s the most handsome creature the dryad has ever seen. 

“Um. Right. I’ll just fill in the rest myself. If you need anything, I’m just over there.” He walks briskly away, managing to only look over his shoulder once. Barclay is watching him, looking for all the world like a hare waiting for the fox to pounce. 

It’s only when he’s back in the tree that he realizes having a resident will cut down on his research time. Then again, his guest is far more intriguing than any human could ever be.

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

Barclay was so ready to stop feeling bad. He feels bad for stealing the tent from a guy he scared off his campsite two towns back. Bad for yanking clothes off the clothing line of rural houses so he could have two sets to rotate instead of a filthy, single shirt and shorts combo. Bad because it’s been months since he ate anything but MREs, granola bars, and day olds salvaged from dumpsters. 

Now he gets to add “feel bad because you’re crashing on some guys front lawn” to that list. He didn’t even know nymphs were a thing; he thought he was the only weird semi-human in the world. Yet here’s Joseph, hair as dark and shiny as the leaves on his home tree, skin the color of bark, and vines occasionally twining up his arms and legs. Unlike Barclay, his inhuman features make him beautiful, not beastly. 

Barclay came here to be alone. 

Barclay hates being alone. He wants a house full of warmth and voices mingling over a kitchen table, wants people to care for and who care about him. So when Joseph appears the next morning near his small fire and it’s boiling pot of foraged tea, he offers the dryad some. 

They sit, awkwardly sipping from their mugs, when he decides to take advantage of his host.

“I, uh, don’t suppose there’s any herbs growing around here? Like mint, or maybe alliaria? I wanna catch fish for dinner, but they taste better if I can season them.”

“I think there’s some growing upstream. Do you want me to show you?”

“Uh, no, that’s fine. I’m used to finding stuff on my own.”

Joseph nods, finishes his tea, and magics the cup clean before handing it back to Barclay.

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

“What...what’s all this?” Barclay stares, stunned, at the pile of goods sitting by his firepit. He counts a camp stove, teapot, and two boxes of fresh food, including bread and cheese,

Joseph looks up from organizing the supplies, “A few friends of mine, plus the Ashroot Market.” He smiles, Barclay’s stomach flipping like a flapjack when he does, “did you think we live on berries and air?”

“Kinda, yeah.” Barclay rubs his arm, embarrassed, “thanks, Joseph. I, uh, I don’t really have money, so maybe I can pay you back with-” he trails off as the nymph stands and sets a hand on his shoulder. 

“Barclay, you don’t owe me anything. I did this because you keep saying how much you miss cooking from a real pantry and, um, I thought it’d make you happy to have some options.”

“It does.” He freezes as Joseph strokes the fur poking through a hole in shirt, “I can restock your sewing kit the next time, if you want.”

“That’d be great.” He wants so badly to touch him back, to see if he shudders away from his claws or holds his hand. 

Josephs arm drops back to his side, “Ned has a surprising number of camping supplies. I suspect he stole them from humans, which is technically against the rules but” he indicates the stove, “I’ll let it slide for now.” 

A conspiratorial wink and Barclay rumbles out a purr, catching it before Joseph notices.

“Will, uh, will you at least let me make you dinner as a thank you?”

The dryad nods, “That sounds perfect, big guy.”

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

Barclay doesn’t howl often; it draws unwanted attention and there’s no one like him out there to answer anyway. Tonight he couldn’t help it, the loneliness tearing him to bits on it’s climb up his throat. He’s cross-legged on the ground, face to the stars, when Joseph sits down beside him. 

“Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you. Thought you were out.”

“I was reading.” Joseph scoots closer, rubbing Barclay���s back, “and I can tell you’re lying.”

Barclay delays answering, fixes his gaze on the Beech where Joseph lives. Nymph homes occupy liminal spaces, fitting an entire domiciles within trees. His current hobby is imagining what it looks like on the inside; whether there are books stacked neatly everywhere, whether there’s a nice kitchen, how big the bed is, what the view from the bed is like…

He’s never going to know, Joseph made that clear. 

“It’s not that no other creature is allowed in a nymph home, more that getting them in there takes a dangerous amount of energy.”

“Barclay?” Joseph rests his head on his shoulder, “have you always been alone?”

“No. Or, well, I don’t think so. I get flashes of memory from when I was really little. Like there’s this big house with lots people who look like me, and they’re talking and keep passing me around so the grown-ups can ruffle my fur and make this, this sort of” he breaks off into the low, soft hoots that echo down through the years, “and then...then there’s this gap and the next thing I remember is being dumped on the side of the road somewhere in central California, more or less an adult myself. I spent so long looking for my family, for anyone who looked like or could give me answers and all I got was some scars and a bunch of T.V shows about hunting me.” 

“That sounds awful. I, um, I’m glad you stumbled into my neck of the woods. I know I’m not always the best company and ask more questions about living around humans than you’d probably like but, um, you deserve to have at least one person on your side.”

“Thanks” Barclay tips his head sideways so it’s resting against Josephs’, “Uh if, if you ever want to, we could have a dinner here with Duck and them. I like cooking for people; one of those things I know about myself even if I can’t remember why.”

He must imagine the lips brushing his forehead as Joseph sits up, “I’ll invite everyone first thing tomorrow.”

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

A danger of sleeping in Joseph’s clearing is that Barclay feels safe. Starts sleeping like he has nothing to fear. 

The voices in the distance, jarring him awake in the dead of night, remind him of the truth.

“Shit” he scrambles out of the tent, piles it and all his other possessions into a hollow log and throws the moss blanket over it just to be safe. Then the worst sound in the world reaches him: barking. Not only are the hunters close, they have dogs. And, his acute hearing informs him, he’s their prey. 

Fuck, his scent and fur are all over this part of the woods, no wonder they’re honing in on him so fast. His best chance is to run and cross the river, but there’s an open stretch on the other side, so unless he’s lucky they’ll still spot him. 

“Hey! I think something is moving over here!” 

He flattens against the Copper Beech, narrowly dodging the beam of a flashlight. 

“Shit, shit” he doesn’t want to fight, doesn’t want to hurt anyone. He doesn’t want to be caught. Inhaling, he readies himself to give the loudest roar of his life. 

Then the world tips and twists and he’s no longer in the woods. He is, however, in a tree, if the view from the window is anything to go by.

Gasping sends his attention to the floor and he drops to his knees, scooping a limp, pale Joseph into his arms. 

“Wel, welcome to my house. Sorry it’s such a, a mess.”

He glances at the polished furniture, the neatly stacked books, and the spotless floor.

“Seriously, babe? That’s the first thing you say after saving my neck?” He giggles, tipping towards hysteria. 

“I couldn’t let them hurt you.”

“You could have died.” Barclay adjusts him so he’s mostly upright and hugs him close, “I coulda lost you why, why did you-”

His question is lost in the clumsy kiss Joseph pulls him into. Barclay’s body gives up on adapting to anymore surprises and he falls onto his back, the nymph weakly petting his cheeks as he tries, clearly exhausted, to continue kissing him. 

“You’re the most incredible being in the forest and, and I’ve been so happy since you came to stay. My entire body feels like a leaf beaten limp by the rain and I’d do the same spell this instant, without hesitation, if that’s what it took to keep you safe. Keep you with me.”

Carefully, Barclay guides him into another kiss, vines curling up them both the more he pours all his affection and thanks into the nymphs mouth. When Joseph finally pulls away, he nestles down on Barclays chest, running his fingers through his fur. 

“You, um, you may be here awhile. I’m not sure if I can get you out safely or if Dani and the others will have to help me.”

“No complaints here.” Barclay strokes his hair, which feels like soft leaves and normal locks all at once. 

Joseph answers a few more logistical questions before falling asleep in his arms, which is plenty of answers for one night. And in the morning, when the nymph rolls over to smile at him, he can confirm; the view from the bed is beautiful.

[s-horne]

BASICALLY its about tony showing his love through food sorry that was really long

okay so i had this idea, and im really swamped with work so im passing it over to you: tony associates caring and love with food. when he was really young, he would sit on his mamma's hip, one of her arms around his tiny waist as she stirred with the other, and as he grew older and howard started demanding more of her attention (for this charity or that benefit); the only time tony and his mom spent together was in the kitchen together. 1/2)

years later, tony equates food to love. he cooks for the people he cares about. and then i lost the thread of the idea but it involves steve and tony and peter and tony cooking for steve and teaching peter recipes that he can later teach his kid (2/2)

Please enjoy 3k words of Tony in the kitchen; preparing meals for his husband and their friends, his&Steve’s adoption process, and then Tony’s legacy

*******

Spaghetti Bolognese

It was an affront to the meal. His Mama would kill him if she knew how he was preparing it.

It was the only meal she’d actually known how to cook and they had a weekly Thursday night dinner date in the kitchen when Howard worked late at the office. She’d carry him round on her hip when he was too small to see what she was preparing on the countertops and, when he’d grown a little taller, sit him in pride of place to sound out every word of the passed-down recipe written in her mother’s cursive handwriting.

Of course, Maria knew exactly what the recipe called for – which was a good job when Tony tripped over some of the measurements or skipped down a couple of lines by accident – but she let him play along until he was old enough to help her cook the actual meal itself.

It was definitely the thought that counted, Tony tried to tell himself as he stared down at the meagre ingredients in front of him. He had to work with what he had and what he had wasn’t much. The only tomatoes he’d had in his cupboards were the tinned kind, so the sauce wouldn’t be as good as his Mama’s when she used the fresh tomatoes from the farmer’s market they had to drive out of town for.

He’d only wanted to make something a little special for Steve. Their anniversary had been interrupted by a battle and they’d gone from a romantic meal at a five-star restaurant to suited up and locked in a fight with an alien invader. Given that they were meant to eat out, their kitchen wasn’t exactly stocked for cooking.

“Need a hand?”

Tony lifted his gaze from the two jars of dried herbs he’d been choosing between. Neither were particularly appealing so he was glad of a distraction. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“Woke up,” Steve said, stifling a yawn behind his hand as he wandered over to Tony. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Tony agreed with a roll of his eyes, a fond smile tugging at his lips. He turned back to the dried ingredients in front of him as he waved to the other side of the kitchen, eyes drawn to the way his ring caught the light. “You can chop whichever onion hasn’t gone off over there. I think there’s actually a part of the serum that means you won’t cry whilst you chop it.”

Steve huffed a laugh, trailing his hand over Tony’s hip as he passed him. “Pretty sure that’s not a thing.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out. Dice it finely, please.”

Vegetable Soup

Vegetable soup was easy. Most soups were easy, really. Tony could make most of them with one hand. Chopping the vegetables was sometimes a little tricky with his arm in a sling, but he could stir the vat of broth easily.

After a battle, it was all that anyone needed. A few loaves of bread in the centre of the table and a mountain of pain relievers handed round with the crockery and they were set.  

“Can I help?”

Tony looked up from the pot and over to Peter, hovering in the doorway with his arms wrapped round himself. He looked young, so much younger than he was. “You’re meant to be resting.”

“Couldn’t sleep. The pills hurt my head.”

“But they heal everything else.” Tony beckoned Peter over before he turned back to the stovetop. “How do you feel?”

“Like someone dropped a bus on me.”

“Been there. Grab a tomato and stop chopping.”

Peter did so wordlessly, shooting Tony a soft smile as he slid into a chair by the table. “What else do you want me to do?”

“A few peppers, if you’d like.”

“How thick?”

“Whatever you want.” Tony watched Peter out of the corner of his eye, the way that he winced when he reached for a fresh vegetable in the middle of the table and how he moved gingerly with his eyes narrowed into slits. “How bad is it?”

Peter sighed. He worked on carefully dicing his whole pepper before he spoke again. “Bad. I can’t go home. No one can see these injuries. They’re already questioning me and this will push them over the edge of kicking me out.”

“You’re already home,” Tony said lightly, concentrating on adding a few spices to his soup instead of looking back at Peter. He could feel eyes on the side of his face and fought the urge to turn with everything he had. “After we’ve eaten, I’ll show you the papers.”

The pot bubbled, loud in the otherwise silent room. Tony smiled down at it as he stirred in large circles, scraping the side of the vat where the sauce threatened to burn.

“I’d like that.” Peter sniffed a little and let out a muffled curse. “Well. I’m done with these. Can I help you make the bread?”

Rosemary Focaccia

Tony loved making his own bread. When he was a child, their cook would only let him in the kitchen if he promised to be calm and quiet and she’d quickly realised that one way to keep him like that was to prop him in front of an oven to stare at the bread as it rose.

The smell of yeast and the uncooked dough turned Tony’s stomach as he’d gotten older, but there was nothing better than the scent the bread produced when it started to bake. Fresh rosemary only added to that, or maybe even a few cloves of garlic mixed in with the dough.

Focaccia took a long time to knead and for the rising process to get done perfectly, but spending that long watching over it in the kitchen meant that Peter could sit at the breakfast bar to finish his homework and not be alone.

Peter hated being alone. They’d discovered that pretty quickly after he’d moved into the tower with the rest of the team and had all started going almost out of their way to ensure that Peter didn’t have to suffer by himself. It wasn’t exactly a hardship for Steve to sketch in the communal living room instead of his bedroom, or for Sam and Bucky to train on the mats in the middle of the gym whilst Peter ran laps around the edge to get out of his own head.

And if definitely wasn’t a problem for Tony to dig out the recipe books that had been sent to him after their cook had passed away and flick through them to find an old Italian favourite that would take him a good couple of hours to perfect.  

Cookies

Cookies were a staple in Tony’s recipe book. There were many different varieties, so many tweaks that could be made to each batch to make a different cookie type for any occasion.

“–so that’s why Ned isn’t allowed into the theatre practice room anymore,” Peter said in-between bites of a pecan and chocolate chip cookie. “So we can’t go in to see Madison when she’s in there. We have to meet in the math rooms.”

Tony nodded along as though he’d understood any word Peter had been babbling on about. “Right.” He wasn’t sure what exactly he’d asked to prompt Peter’s longwinded explanation, but he didn’t mind the company.

“Oi, Spider-kid.”

Peter jumped comically at the voice from behind them and Tony shot an arm out to catch him before he fell off the breakfast bar he’d perched himself on. “Jeez, what – oh. Black Widow. Ma’am, I didn’t, I’m sorry, I–”

“Gym,” Natasha said, throwing a thumb over her shoulder to show where she wanted Peter to go. “Spar session. You’re ten minutes late.”

Peter’s eyes went wide and he scrambled for his phone, paling when he realised that he was, in fact, late. Tony couldn’t hide his amusement and snorted loudly, earning himself a dirty look from Peter and an unamused eyebrow raise from Natasha.

“And don’t think you’re getting out of it, either,” Natasha said to him. “Steve is already down there with Thor. They could do with a third. A mediator of sorts.”

“Oh, no.” Tony shot a faux-upset look towards Peter before grinning at Tash, “sorry, but these cookies just aren’t going to bake themselves, now, are they? Pete’s good for the job, though. Practical experience and all that.”

Peter’s glare was about as powerful as a newborn kitten’s, but it tugged at Tony’s heart nonetheless. Giving him a smile, Tony reached for the batch of raspberry cookies he had just pulled from the oven and counted out ten.

“A special treat,” he said, urging Peter off the breakfast bar and herding him in Natasha’s direction. Setting the cookies on a plate at his side, Tony winked at the kid. “For when you’re finished. You’ll need to get your sugar levels back up.”

Rigatoni Pasta Bake

The only difference between Tony’s preferred version of a pasta bake and the classic that Ana had taught him as a child was that his was a bit more adventurous. It served to make things just a little bit more exiting. Everything he did was done with a flair of the dramatics, so it made sense for cooking to follow the same lines.

Making his pasta bake was an excuse to throw everything in his cupboards into the mixture. A hundred different varieties of cheese for the topping, ground beef and sausages for the filling and whatever vegetables he found in the back of the fridge to make the meal just a tiny bit healthy. Tony loved to make it, loved to spend an entire afternoon shaping each piece of pasta if he really wanted to get out of his head. Experimenting with different sauces was his favourite – a tomato sauce for a rainy Sunday afternoon, a cheese sauce for an evening in front of the television, a mushroom and white wine sauce for a romantic evening in.

His pasta bake was the first meal he’d made when they’d finally adopted Peter, legally and truly. Maybe a small part of him had been wanting to show off, but Tony had really cared about making sure Peter had a real square meal. Something to help him recover from the small scrapes he’d gotten in his night-time brawls, to repair some of the damage of malnourishment from his previous home.

It was something so simple, but made with so much care.

Apple Pie

As stereotypical as it may have been, Steve loved apple pie. It had been something of a staple in his household when he’d been growing up and his mom had made it whenever they managed to get the fresh ingredients needed. Steve spoke so fondly of her hours in the kitchen, telling how he was often too ill and weak to do much more than sit at her side and watch, that sometimes Tony felt as though he’d been there too.

Sweet pastry wasn’t Tony’s favourite thing to make, so he chose to keep it for really special occasions. The sort of days where he wanted to spoil Steve a little, wanted to make him feel important and loved and all the things that Steve made Tony feel every day.

Tossing out the apple cores and scraps he’d collected on the side of his chopping board, Tony settled in to decorate his pie. He preferred the open-top approach, liking to cover his filling with thin slices of apple and a sprinkling of cinnamon and sugar instead of more pastry. Lost in thought, Tony startled when Steve wrapped his arms around Tony’s waist and pressed a kiss to his neck.

“Happy birthday,” Tony murmured as he fell back against Steve’s chest. “Wasn’t expecting you up just yet. Thought I tired you out last night.”

“Hm. You did a pretty good job, but the bed was empty. I don’t like it when the bed’s empty.”

“Sorry, darling. Wanted to make this for your birthday breakfast.”

Steve nosed at Tony’s shoulder, dropping kisses to the bare skin there. The first thing Tony had found on their bedroom floor when he’d woken at the crack of dawn was a workout shirt of Steve’s. Given its size, the material hung off Tony’s frame. It wasn’t practical, but it was cozy.

Sexy, as well, apparently, if the hardness pressing against his ass was anything to go by.

“Pie for breakfast?” Steve asked, hooking his chin over Tony’s shoulder as his hand shot out to snaffle a piece of apple floating in the bowl of warm water at Tony’s elbow. “How lucky am I?”

“Of course it’s pie for breakfast,” Tony said, hands working quickly to place the apple slices on the top of the very-nearly finished pie. He kicked at Steve’s ankle for punishment of the theft, but couldn’t find it in him to be too mean. “It’s not every day you turn four hundred and seventy-three.”

Standing as close as they were, Tony felt Steve’s laugh vibrate through him.

“Demon.”

“That’s me,” Tony replied happily, laughing with Steve and tilting his head to one side when Steve bit at his neck in retaliation. “Now, get off me, you brute. Let me stick this back in to brown.”

Moving back a fraction, Steve’s hands danced over Tony’s stomach. “How long do we have?”

Tony sighed happily when the pie was in, his eyes falling closed when Steve swapped from biting to sucking a deep bruise just above his pulse point. “Long enough.”

Indian Potato Pie

“Here, try this.”

Whatever Steve had been about to say was cut off by Tony shoving a forkful of potato-filled pastry in his mouth.

“Well? What do you think?”

Steve fanned his mouth. “I think it’s hot,” he said through the mouthful of crust. “Did you cook this with lava?”

“But what about the texture? The filling – do you think it needs more of a kick? I only put in a small amount of chilli flakes this time and a lot less ginger than I did before. I think I liked it better last time.”

“Tony,” Steve reached out and caught Tony’s hand, taking the fork from him before twisting their fingers together, “this pie is perfect. You’ve been making it since you were a child. You’ve perfected it so much you could make it in your sleep.”

“No,” Tony said dismissively, turning back to the counter and peering at the unbaked pie on the side. “I think it needs more salt. You can taste it in the crust. Let me just redo the pastry.”

Steve used his grip on Tony’s hand to pull Tony into his chest, wrapping his free arm around Tony’s waist to hold them close together. Tony gave up without a fight, his shoulders slumping as he rested his hand on Steve’s chest.

“Please stop worrying,” Steve whispered. “Replace the bit you shoved in my face and pop it in the oven. It’s going to be fine.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” Steve ducked his head and caught Tony’s lips in a sweet kiss. “I know you and I know our son. He wouldn’t be bringing someone home unless they were special to him. There’s no way we can scare them off. Not with a pie, at least.”

Tony Stark-Rogers’ Recipe Book

The book had taken him years to complete. Tony had started it as a young boy when Jarvis had bought him an empty journal for his fourth birthday. For the first few years of its existence, Tony had hidden it under his bed just in case Howard ever entered his room and caught sight of it.

Every page had been handwritten, carefully crafted letters spelling out the words of each recipe (and most of them had even been spelt right because Jarvis had helped him).

There were sections of his Mama’s recipes, the ones she’d passed down to him from her Mama and even her Mama’s Mama. Though Tony had never gotten to meet either of them them, he’d known even as a child that that was pretty important.

Ana Jarvis had a section as well, one with special Hungarian recipes that Tony had needed a lot of help to spell. He’d shown Ana one day, down in the kitchens. He’d pointed out all the best bits that he’d coloured in the colours of Hungary’s flag and Ana had started crying. Tony had been horrified and started tearing up himself before she promised him that he was a lovely little boy and she was crying because she was so very proud of him. Even as an adult, Tony remembered that he’d gotten a huge hug that night before bed and an extra special plate of lemon squares brought up to his room – made just for him!

As he’d gotten older and his book had gotten fuller, Tony had carefully moved it from journal to journal, cutting out pages and sticking them back into the next edition with slight amendments or scribbled changes to quantities. It was his pride and joy.

“You’re going to take care of this, aren’t you?”

The child stared at him with wide eyes, so big they were nearly popping out of their head. They didn’t speak a word, but their head just about wobbled off with the velocity of their nodding.

“You’re going to listen to Nonno when he tells you what to do in the kitchen?”

Another round of silent nodding and Tony laughed, bending down to his grandchild’s level. Holding out his arms, he let his precious recipe book rest in the palm of his hands, ready for the taking.

“Go on then, bambino. It’s yours.”

Tiny fingers curled over the edges of the stained and battered book, complete concentration etched all over the child’s face. The love Tony felt threatened to beat right out of his chest and he reached out to flick his grandchild’s nose.

“What shall we bake for your first try? I’m pretty sure there’s a good recipe for mini cupcakes in there, somewhere, and I need an assistant chef.”

Tony had no qualms about handing his book down to the next wave of Starks. His children had grown up in the kitchen working tirelessly next to him to feed their teammates and friends, their siblings and their partners. It was time.

The kitchen was the heart of the home, after all.

[takerfoxx]

Blood Island, Chapter 7

With apologies to those in it for the dinosaurs.

...

The rain continued on.

Two times Nuriel had fallen asleep for an unknown length of time only to reawaken to the sound of its patter. Two times she had drank from the bottle and eaten the fruit, leaving her with enough for only one meal left. Once she had crawled over to the far side of the ship to find a space to relieve herself. She was going to have to find a clean way to go about that once the rain stopped, but for now she had few options.

Now she was sitting slumped in her dark corner, hand closed around the bottle’s neck, sullenly looking out at a small crack in the ship’s hull across from her. Beyond she only saw the flicker of raindrops. Not even the light of the moon pierced through.

Sighing, she leaned her head back and stared up at the dark. She was miserable, she felt a little queasy from eating nothing but fruit and drinking wine, she was slightly disappointed in herself for accepting the red-eyed demon’s offerings, she was bored out of her mind, and she was fairly certain that her horribly bloody death had only been postponed, which made being cooped up in the boat’s hull all the more aggravating.

Strangely though, the one thing she wasn’t was afraid. Oh, sure, she had been absolutely terrified when fleeing from the razor-birds and the massive crocomonster. But now, having been yanked back from the precipice of death itself, she felt strangely neutral about her continued survival. If anything, she was mildly annoyed.

She took another pull of the wine. It was okay, but not the best drink she had ever had. To tell the truth, she had never much cared for alcohol. It dulled the wits, and the last thing Nuriel needed to be was off her guard, and the taste had never meant anything to her.

Still, there had been one drink that she fondly remembered…

…Nuriel yawned wide…

…one that she never expected to enjoy again, but sometimes found herself longing for…

…Arroyos is an odd town. Nestled in a bay just off the coast of the island of Cuba, it is not built upon dry land, but instead raised up above the water on wooden slats and connected by bamboo bridges and wooden walkways, expanding outward until it was twice the size of the meager slice of dry land it had grown from.

It even boasted a decent dock, letting the Periwinkle finally find mooring after weeks at sea. The crew was all worn down and exhausted, and are looking for to some measure of shore-leave, to just having something beneath their feet than the ship’s swaying timbers.

Frankly, Nuriel half-considered just staying with the ship. More people means more possibilities of being discovered, and the town isn’t the sort she can just walk into and disappear.

But like the rest of the crew, she is tired and restless. Besides, the men all were insisting that she come ashore, eager to show Ned the silent cabin boy a good time.

Unfortunately, it isn’t the fun times she had been promised, at least not at first. First comes the mooring of the ship, the tying and checking of ropes. Then comes the back-breaking part, the unloading of the cargo that they had been commissioned to deliver to this particular town, and of course, though she is easily the smallest and weakest member of the crew, Nuriel is expected to shoulder her fair share of the load. And even after all that, she is given little time to rest, as next comes the loading of supplies, from the new stores of food and water to cloth, wood, and metal for repairs to other bits and pieces that had been depleted by the voyage.

But then, with the ship watered and victualed and the repairs well underway, it is finally time. The sun is dipping down below the horizon, night is coming, and normally that would mean lights’ out, time to sleep, but tonight it means something different.

Tonight it is time to play.

Any crewmember not needed aboard loads into a pair of rowboats and heads out to the larger island, following the cliffs until they come across a wide beach. And once there, scrap wood is gathered and set alight into a massive bonfire. Bottles are passed around, freshly caught fish and rabbits are scaled and skinned and set alight, and the soon everyone is gathered around the fire, drinking, eating, singing, talking, and laughing. Several locals join the fun, some of them dockhands known to the crew, others are ladies of the town interested in making sure that the crew’s time spent with them is memorable.

Everything about that night remains seared into Nuriel’s brain. The warmth of the bonfire as it crackles beneath the stars. The sound of the black waves mingling with the cries of the gulls. The laughter of her crewmates and the songs that they sang, the first time any of them experienced joy in weeks. The humming of the ship musician’s accordion as he leads the crew through their favorite shanties. And though Nuriel can’t join in, she still grins and claps along, enjoying a rare moment of comradery in her life of lies and fearful solitude.

But most of all, she remembers her.

Nuriel’s eyes snapped open. The dream had been so vivid, so realistic that even after awakening, she could still the burning wood. She took a deep breath and glanced about.

It was still dark, and outside, the rain had not subsided. Whether that meant it was night or that the clouds were so thick that they choked out the sun, she had no way of telling.

Nuriel ate the rest of the fruit and drank the last of the wine. Wiping her mouth, she settled back, folded her hands over her belly, and closed her eyes.

They first see each other on the docks.

Though Nuriel is curious to see the town, there is little time to stand and gawk. Nuriel has a job to do, and to slack would be to invite unwanted attention. She kneels down, grabs onto the sides of a box packed with glass jars filled with seasonings and spices, and lifts it up.

The box isn’t that heavy, but its contents are fragile, so Nuriel has to take it slow as she makes her way out of the cargo hold, up onto the deck, down the rampway, and down the dock, until she finally comes to where the cargo is being stacked.

Placing the box down, Nuriel straightens up, wincing at the complaining of her knees. This is the fourth such box she carried out, and it is starting to get to her.

As she wipes her palms on her trousers, she glances down the dock.

And then she sees her.

There, standing at the other end of the dock, is a local girl, one that seemed to be about Nuriel’s age. But while Nuriel took great pains to hide any trace of felinity, this girl seems to rejoice in hers, from the way her white blouse hangs loosely around her slender shoulders to the flowers in her shimmering black hair. Though she isn’t doing anything particularly provocative, nothing more than stand with a basket tucked under one arm as she speaks to an older woman, there is a sensuality in her every movement that Nuriel cannot ignore, from the way she curves her hip outward to support the basket to how her face lights up as she laughs.

Nuriel feels her breath leave her. She used to scoff at sailors who would describe the madness that would take a man who had been at sea too long without the touch of a woman. After all, sure, women were pretty, and kissing them was probably fun, but have some self-control, man!

But now that she too had been away from civilization on a small boat filled with ugly men with no pretty girls to look at, Nuriel finally understands, and she cannot help but stare.

The girl finishes her conversation and turns away from the woman. In doing so, she catches sight of Nuriel staring at her. Nuriel feels her heart leap and tells herself to look away, but for some reason cannot tear her eyes away.

The girl’s perfect brow furrows, and her bright eyes roll with what was no doubt annoyance with another slobbering sailor unable to keep from ogling pretty girls. She starts to turn away, but then pauses.

And the next thing Nuriel knows, the girl is staring right back at her, her lovely mouth curving up into a smile of delight.

Nuriel’s cheeks flush, and she finally turns away to hurry back to the ship.

As she rounds the corner to head down into the cargo hold, she hears someone chuckle. “I saw that, lad,” says a gruff voice.

It’s Mr. Gagne, the ship’s quartermaster. An older, roguish man with close-cropped black hair and a cleft in his jaw, he always struck Nuriel as someone not to suffer fools, so Nuriel always did what she could to avoid upsetting him. During the whole of the voyage, he probably spoke less than a dozen words to her that weren’t short, gruff instructions.

So why was he speaking to her now?

In answer to his comment, Nuriel merely blinks up at him in confusion.

Mr. Gagne smirks knowingly. “I saw you staring at that pretty girl. Been a while, ain’t it, lad?”

Damn it, was she really that obvious?

Blushing with embarrassment, Nuriel turns to leave, for once thankful for her inability to speak, as it provides an excellent excuse not to answer.

But rather than let her go, Mr. Gagne clamps a hand down on her shoulder, stopping her.

“I also saw the way she was looking at you,” he says. He gently pushes his fist into her shoulder. “Maybe you should do something about that.”

Nuriel winces, and, without looking up to meet his eyes, miserably shakes her head.

Mr. Gagne sighs. “I know not speaking is kind of a problem. But just because you’re dumb don’t make you useless. You can find a way to charm her without words. And you should.”

Then Mr. Gagne pats her shoulders and is on his way.

Nuriel mulls over his words as she goes and finds another box to carry out. Of course she ought not to go seek out the girl. Even if she could speak, the girl thinks that she is a boy, and will likely not take kindly to the truth.

But…

But what if she doesn’t? What if she doesn’t reject Nuriel? What if she is still interested?

Nuriel shakes her head. No, that is a silly line of thought. Even if the girl is that…open-minded, how would Nuriel even begin to woo her? She didn’t have any experience with that sort of thing, even if she could speak?

Regardless, when Nuriel walks back onto the dock, the girl is gone.

Nuriel’s eyes again opened. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the fear, maybe it was the solitude, but she felt flushed, almost feverish but without illness. A smoldering warmth was growing within her, heat building deep within her gut.

She licked her dry lips and turned over onto her side. She knew what it was, of course. It had been years since she had first bled, and was quite accustomed to feeling the warmth of arousal, especially during whatever brief moments of peace she happened to encounter.

Nuriel usually ignored them. She lived life on a razor’s edge and could afford neither distraction nor exposure. The temptation was sweet and seductive, but she knew better to give in, not because of sin, because let us be frank, what those stuck-up cloth-wearers liked to proclaim sin and blasphemy was no less than what they enjoyed behind closed doors, but because it would cause her to drop her guard, making her vulnerable. She had seen grown men, many of them smarter and more experienced than her, end up losing everything because they could not resist a woman’s wiles, and she would not let it happen to her.

But it had to be admitted that there had been a few times, only a scant number, when the burning had become too much to ignore, and she had found herself slipping her fingers down the front of her trousers in the dark of whatever secluded hole she happened to be hiding in at the time. And ever since that night and that girl, those moments of weakness were ever harder to push away.

With a long, slow breath, Nuriel curled up into a ball and closed her eyes. She tried to think of something else to take her mind off the fire that was starting to burn inside her loins.

Maybe she ought to think of what to do about the Santa Carmilla. Sure, it was an ideal base camp, but there were improvements that could be made, alterations to make it a little more homey. Perhaps she could figure out how to make some kind of rope ladder, or patch up the holes, maybe even do something with the now-abandoned captain’s quarters, such as cover up that broken window, do something about the smell, and make some kind of bed so she didn’t have to sleep on a hard, cold floor…

And the girl is there, lying with her in the captain’s cot, hand roaming over Nuriel’s cheek while Nuriel’s own fingers explore her curves. They kiss each other sweetly in the dark, while the gentle sound of the rain outside lulls them both to sleep…

Again Nuriel’s eyes snap open. She let out a low whimper of frustration and, well, arousal, as her thighs squirm against each other in discomfort.

This wasn’t working. She couldn’t come up with a way to distract herself that wouldn’t turn toward the burning need that continued to grow inside of her.

Maybe it was the boredom making her restless. Maybe it was the long solitude, being trapped in the ship’s hull. Maybe it was the general fear and unease of her predicament keeping her on edge. Maybe whatever the red-eyed monster had used to heal her had some…interesting side-effects. But she just couldn’t shake free from the boiling lust clouding her head and setting every inch of her aflame!

Then Nuriel frowned.

Why resist? She was in no danger of being discovered. She was on a forgotten island of monsters and mysteries, and the only other “person” with her already knew where she was. And with the rain being what it was, she was going nowhere for a long time. Why not indulge?

Because it would be wrong. Because succumbing even once to temptation, even in a moment of relative peace and safety, would make it more difficult to resist in the future. Because she had to stay ever vigilant and not give in to-

The feel of the girl’s soft lips as they brush her own, the burning trails in Nuriel’s skin left by the girl’s fingertips as she slides her hands up under the hem of Nuriel’s shirt…

Fuck it.

Swallowing, Nuriel reached down with one hand. Her fingers were trembling and clumsy, but she managed to hook into the ties of her trousers and loosen them. From there, she slid her hand down her trousers’ front. The small, thin patch of hair tickled her palm, and she closed her fingers down over her aching womanhood.

The touch is enough to send shivers ripple over her skin, eliciting a small gasp. Taking in one deep, shuddering breath after another, Nuriel started to move her fingers, caressing the moistening folds as she closed her eyes again.

A hand comes down on Nuriel’s arm.

Startled, she pulls back with a small squeak of surprise, whirling around to face her assailant.

Then she sees dark eyes and gorgeous smile. The girl is there, the same one from the docks, now wearing a simple wraparound garment that leaves her shoulders bare.

But how? Why? How did she get there? How did she know how to find Nuriel?

“Surprised?” she says. Though she pronounces the word well, her inflection and accent tells Nuriel that English is perhaps not her native tongue. It does not matter, as her voice is sweet and rich and full of promise.

“I saw you at the docks,” the girl says by way of explanation. “And I know you saw me.” Tilting her head, she lets one hand slide down her side. “And I think you liked what you saw, did you not, cabinboy?”

Swallowing hard, it is all Nuriel could do to nod.

“Hmmm.” Then the girl nods over to one of the local men, who is laughing raucously at something the first mate said. “That is my cousin. And I told him, well, you will go be with your friends from that ship, yes? Well, there is a pretty cabinboy with them I want to see. And my cousin, he understands. Many men would not, but he does, and he says to me, the cabinboy will be gone tomorrow, why go see what you cannot keep? And I say, all more the reason to go see the cabinboy now.”

Then the girl moves her hand to Nuriel’s, squeezing her fingers. She gives it an insistent tug and tilts her head toward the shadowed part of the beach, her impish smile gleaming even in the darkness.

For a brief moment, Nuriel has no idea what is being offered. The girl wants her to go with her…why? Where? To do what? Puzzled, she tilts her head, her brow furrowed.

Rolling her eyes, the girl tilts her head again, with greater emphasis this time.

And then Nuriel gets it, and the realization causes her breath to catch and her spine to froze. No. Sure the girl couldn’t mean that, could she?

Seeing the look on Nuriel’s face, the girl’s wry smile becomes amused. She chuckles, a light, throaty sound that is honey-sweet to Nuriel’s ears.

Excitement mixing with panic and uncertainty, Nuriel glances around, hoping for some direction. The quartermaster is sitting nearby, an older, roguish man with close-cropped black hair and a cleft in his jaw, and to Nuriel’s chagrin, he is watching Nuriel slyly out of the corner of his eye.

But how long had he been watching her? Does he know what is going on?

Catching Nuriel’s eye, he slowly nods and inclines his head as well. The message is clear. Go with her, you daft idiot.

Nuriel’s eyes widens, and she looks back to the girl, who is now looking quite smug. She stands up and tugs once again on Nuriel’s hand, and this time, Nuriel goes with her.

Nuriel winced as her stomach clenched up. Just the act of indulging in the memory of that night was stoking the fires in her loins as much as the movement of her fingers was. Biting down on her lower lip, she squeezes her thighs together, pressing her hand down harder.

One hand wrapped around Nuriel’s and the other holding the neck of a rum bottle, the girl leads Nuriel away from the bonfire, away from the voices, into the night.

There is a cluster of large boulders splitting the beach in half. The girl takes Nuriel past the boulders so that they give the two of them some privacy, cutting them off from any prying eyes. As soon as they had climbed over the rough rocks and touched down onto the soft sand beyond, the girl suddenly turns around and pushes herself into Nuriel. Startled, Nuriel backs up until she is stopped by the rocks, but the girl doesn’t stop pressing into her. She leans in, planting hot, wet kisses onto Nuriel’s neck and shoulder, and Nuriel, who never had been kissed in her life, is so stupefied that she can do nothing but stand still and let her.

Then with a soft sigh, the girl backs away. “You are quite the blusher, you know that?” she murmurs. “Even in the dark I can see.”

Nuriel nervously swallows.

“Come.”

The girl gently pulls on Nuriel’s wrist, drawing her away from the rocks. She then releases Nuriel’s hand to press a single finger against the top of Nuriel’s chest, guiding her down. Nuriel tries to sit, but she seems to have forgotten how to properly move her legs, and they give way from under her, causing her to drop roughly onto her ass.

The girl laughs. She then kneels down and leans forward, laying one hand in the sand next to Nuriel while the other moves toward Nuriel’s chest.

It is then that a surge of horror breaks through the smoldering desire muddling Nuriel’s brain, and she freezes in fear. Oh fucking Christ, how could she have been so stupid? The girl thought that Nuriel was a boy! And if this kept up, there was no way Nuriel wouldn’t be exposed! She is taking her own life into her hands! Literally!

She panics, jerking away from the girl’s touch and scrambling back on her elbows. But before she can get to her feet to flee, she heard the girl sigh. Then a hand grabs onto the leg of her trousers, stopping her.

Nuriel glances back, eyes wide and heart beating fast. The girl had one lovely eyebrow cocked, her lips lifted in a wry manner. “I know,” she says. “Of course I know. You think I cannot tell another girl when I see one?”

Wait, what?

“You are not the first girl to come through here, trying to pass off as boy,” the girl continues. She reaches up to brush the back of her fingers down Nuriel’s trembling face. “I knew from the second I saw you.”

She did? Was Nuriel’s disguise really that bad? But that would mean-

“Those men you sail with only see what they want to see. They see what they expect to see: a soft boy to order around and do what they do not want to do. But I see what is.” Tilting her head, the girl slides her hand down to rest it on the back of Nuriel’s neck. “You are like me, yes? Not just girl, but girl who likes pretty things, yes?” She smiles that beautiful smile, the one that catches the breath in Nuriel’s throat and sends her heart pattering. “Girl who cares not for the touch of man, girl who shivers at the touch of other girl, yes?”

There is a pause, and Nuriel slowly nods.

“I thought so. Well then, little cabinboy, let me give you a moment of honesty.” Her hand pulling Nuriel’s head forward, the girl closes her eyes and leans in, her lips parted and ready.

Nuriel’s hand paused. Tears were starting to well up in her eyes. As beloved as that night was to her, this part of the memory hurt the most, and yet was the part she most treasured.

Nuriel finds herself responding, leaning in as well. But when she feels the girl’s soft lips brush her own, suddenly the floodgates within her mind are opened, unleashing a torrent of darkness and pain.

The cold steel is forced into her mouth, holding her jaws apart.

Nuriel jerks back with a gasp, her hands clapped over her mouth. No, no, no. Not this. Not now.

The crushing grip of the pincers that are squeezed down on her tongue and yank it out of her mouth.

“What is wrong?” the girl asks. “Did I frighten you?”

Shaking her head, Nuriel turns away so that the girl won’t see the look of grief and shame on her face.

The agonizing feel of the heated steel blade, both cutting and burning as it slices through Nuriel’s tongue and sears the back of her throat. She screams and screams and screams, but the pain doesn’t stop, the cutting doesn’t stop, until-

Sobbing, Nuriel covers her face as the useless stump in her mouth throbs with ghost pain. Why did it have to happen now? Was it because she dropped her guard? Was this her punishment for not being more careful.

And then a slender hand gently lays itself on her shoulder. “What is wrong?” the girl says. “What happened to you?”

Oh God, she knows. She may not know exactly what had happened, but she knows of the hurt Nuriel was carrying around. Damn it, damn it, damn it! That is what she gets for letting herself become vulnerable!

The girl touches Nuriel’s cheek and draws her face around so she can see it. “Please, tell me,” she insists. The sultriness in her eyes is gone, replaced by nothing but concern and compassion.

Nuriel almost turns away again, almost pushes her away. She already went too far, opened herself up too much. To expose herself any further would only make her even more vulnerable. Father would give her one hell of a tongue-lashing were he alive.

But instead, for reasons even she doesn’t fully understand, Nuriel just stares deep into the girl’s dark eyes. Then, with a harsh swallow, she opens her mouth and pulls her cheeks apart to show her.

The girl frowns in puzzlement. Tilting her head, she leans in for a better look, something that is no doubt difficult in the dark.

But then she sees.

“Oh, sweet Lord,” she gasps, covering her mouth. “Your tongue!”

Closing her mouth, Nuriel swallows again at the lump in her throat and nods.

“What…Who would…” Then the girl’s eyes narrow, and she looks back to the bonfire. “Did they do that to you?”

Oh God, she thought the crew were responsible! Nuriel hastily and emphatically shakes her head.

“Then who?”

Oh, that was a story too long, too complicated, and too painful to tell even if Nuriel could speak. She slowly lets out a long, shuddering breath, and then spreads her hands apart.

“Large…No, long. It happened a long time ago?”

Nuriel nods.

Sighing, the girl leans back on her haunches and shakes her head. “I am sorry,” she says simply. “I did not know you had been hurt so. It must have been a very, very evil person.”

A small sob shakes Nuriel’s shoulders. A very, very evil person indeed.

There is an awkward pause, and then the girls asks, “Would you like to stop? Is it too painful?”

She ought to say yes. Nuriel ought to stop things now, to compose herself and return to the ship. That would be the safer course of action.

Instead, she finds herself shaking her head. Safer, perhaps, but she doesn’t want to do that. Instead, she wants…she wants…

“I understand. Then, shall I comfort you?”

That. She wants that.

Nuriel sniffs and nods.

The girls says nothing in response. She merely leans in, and instead of caressing or kissing her, she wraps her arms around Nuriel and holds her tight. Nuriel clenches up a bit at the unfamiliar touch, but she doesn’t draw back. Part of her is scared, yes, and part of her wants to run away and hide. But so much of her wants this and wants this badly, yearning to hold someone warm and kind and be held in turn.

Nuriel gingerly and stiffly encircles her arms around the girl, clasping her hands behind the girls back. It takes her some time to work up the nerve, but she tightens her arms around the girl’s middle.

It is Nuriel’s first time being held like that. Though she knows that Father loved her and did his best to take care of her in his own way, he wasn’t one to show it like that, the few times he actually hugged her being few and far between. He did hold her tight the night that her tongue was cut out, and more times afterward. But his death came not long after, and Nuriel was left alone.

She thought that she had everything under control. She thought that she recovered and was steady in her mind and heart.

Clearly, she knew nothing.

Nuriel clings to the girl, the stranger whose name she doesn’t even know, holding onto her as if doing so could save her. Tears continue to stream down her face, tears that she normally would push back but now simply let run free. A reservoir is being emptied, one of pain, of grief, and of loneliness, one that she didn’t even know she was carrying around.

And the girl lets her. Though she doesn’t know Nuriel, though they probably won’t even see each other again after tonight, she continues to hold onto the strange girl without a tongue, letting her cry.

Then the girl parts from her. She draws her hand down the side of Nuriel’s face, brushing away her tears, and cups her cheek. “Maybe you won’t taste this,” she says. “But you will feel it.”

As the two lock eyes, the girl lifts up the bottom of rum with her other hand, pulls out the cork with her teeth, and takes a long drink. Despite everything that is going on, Nuriel is impressed, as the strong drink doesn’t even make her wince.

Lowering the bottle, the girl smiles, the mischievous twinkle in her eye visible even in the dark. It is clear that she did not swallow, as her cheeks are puffed out.

This time, when she moves in to kiss Nuriel, Nuriel doesn’t pull back or resist. The reflexive tightening of her gut and the urge to flee again rise up, but she fights them, letting the girl press her lovely mouth against her own.

Though there was much about that night that Nuriel held dear, it was that first kiss that burned the brightest in her memory, a moment of intimacy that still left her lips tingling to that day. Warm pleasure rippled out from her core from the memory alone, causing her back to arch.

Shivering with feverish delight, Nuriel pulled her hand out from her trousers and braced her back against a wooden beam. She loosened her trousers’ bindings even further and pulled them down off her hips and past her thighs. Then, settling back on her bare buttocks, she again pressed her hand back onto her yearning sex as she let the echoes of the best night of her life wash back over her.

As their mouths make contact, Nuriel feels the strength leave her, and she lets the kiss melt into, leaning back onto her elbows as the girl presses her body into Nuriel’s.

At first Nuriel really isn’t sure how to properly respond, so she tries to copy what the girl’s mouth is doing with her own. The movements of her lips are clumsy and amateurish, but the girl doesn’t seem to mind.

Then Nuriel feels something slick and warm slip in-between her lips. It’s the girl’s tongue, pushing and probing its way into Nuriel’s mouth.

Was this a normal part of kissing? Nuriel didn’t know, and with no tongue of her own she surely couldn’t respond in kind. So she did the only thing she could do: lean back and let the girl do whatever she wanted.

The girl’s tongue parts Nuriel’s lips, and then Nuriel feels warm rum flood from the girl’s mouth into her own. The harsh alcohol burns her mouth, and of course Nuriel can’t taste it. And yet, it is somehow sweet.

She swallows. It burns, yes, but it also warms, giving Nuriel courage to press on.

Then the girl places a hand on Nuriel’s chest, right over her heart. She gives a gentle push, and Nuriel is more than happy to comply, letting herself be pressed down flat on her back in the sand. She stretches her torso across Nuriel’s, heart-to-heart, and kisses her again. Nuriel lets out a small groan of pleasure.  

The girl then sits back on Nuriel’s lap, legs straddling her to either side, her sensual smile reflecting the moonlight, her midnight-black hair like a veil framed by the stars in the night sky.

In that moment, she looks like a goddess.

As Nuriel stares in awe, the girl reaches up to take the edge of the wraparound garment she’s wearing. A few tugs, and it loosens around her torso.

Nuriel’s heartrate quickens. Oh, it’s happening, it’s really happening.

Not taking averting her eyes from Nuriel’s and without even a hint of shame or embarrassment, the girl gives her garment a small push from the top, and it down, sliding down off of her, unveiling the perfection beneath.

Nuriel can’t keep from gasping a little. She never even dreamed something like this could happen to her, and yet here she is, lying back beneath a starry sky as a beautiful girl undressed for her.

Obviously enjoying Nuriel’s reaction, the girl lounges back a little, turning so that her breasts, small but perfectly shaped, are silhouetted against the stars. Nuriel’s fingers involuntarily clench, digging furrows in the sand.

Sighing, the girl leans forward, lowering her body back down onto Nuriel’s. “You can touch me, if you like,” she murmurs as she nuzzles her face into where Nuriel’s neck met her shoulder, planting small kisses on Nuriel’s freckled skin.

Nuriel’s nods, and she gingerly lifts her hands and settles them on the small of the girl’s naked back. Her skin is silky smooth, with a slight covering of sweat. She moves them upward, finally clasping them behind the girl’s shoulders.

“That is it?” the girl says in mock-disappointment. “Why do you not touch me…here.”

And then, before Nuriel could fully comprehend what is about to happen, the girl grabs Nuriel’s arm and rises up, pulling Nuriel’s hands around and pushing them into her breasts.

Nuriel sucks in air between her teeth. Oh. Oh yes. This was nice. This was very nice. She squeezed her hands in, digging them into the soft mounds, and judging by the throaty moan, it was clear that the girl quite enjoyed the experience.

And then the girl lays her hand on Nuriel’s own chest. “Hmmm,” she says. “This feels…ah. Of course you would?”

She would? She would what? What was Nuriel doing.

“Please keep doing what you’re doing,” the girl says as she coyly fingers the top button of Nuriel’s shirt. “This will not take long.”

Nodding, Nuriel continues to knead the girl’s breasts, squeezing the flesh while the girl unbuttons Nuriel’s shirt, starting from the top and working her way down, uncovering her little by little.

She reaches the bottom and slips her fingers in under hem. Leaning forward again, she places another kiss on Nuriel’s lips as she slides her fingers up, parting her shirt to either side.

Then she sits back, her hands coming up and gently pushing Nuriel’s hands away from her breasts. Taking the hint, Nuriel lets them fall to either side.

“A shame you have to hide like so,” the girl murmurs as she reaches down to slide a single finger over the linen binding Nuriel’s chest. “I understand, but tonight, no disguises, yes?”

Nuriel slowly nods.

“Good. Now, sit up a little, please.”

Nuriel struggles to obey, propping herself up on her elbows. The girl runs her hand over Nuriel’s belly, sending shivers across Nuriel’s skin, and reaches behind Nuriel’s back, arms going into her shirt. Her fingers find the edge of the linen wrapping, and she works to loosen it.

Remaining perfectly still, Nuriel stares up at the beautiful girl as she is slowly unwrapped. Finally the girl finishes peeling the linen off from Nuriel’s chest and sets it aside. Then she smiles down at what she sees.

Given her lifestyle, Nuriel never gave much thought to her own breasts, save to find them annoying when she had to tie them up. They weren’t large; in fact they were smaller than the girl currently undressing her, but it did not pay to become complacent.

But now, as the girl looks appreciatively down at her exposed chest, Nuriel suddenly finds herself quite fond of them. No one ever looked at her like that before.

The girl playfully drags a finger over Nuriel’s chest, circling around one breast and then the other. Then she takes the slight mount in her hand and bends over to close her mouth over one tiny, pink nipple.

Nuriel squirms and gasps in ecstasy. The girl sucks and kisses the hard nub, swirling her tongue around its base and kissing its peak. Then she moves her mouth over to the other breast and does the same.

Nuriel is again on the verge of tears, but not from any buried pain or shame, but from the waves of hot arousal surging through her young body. She never felt anything like this before, never imagined that it could be so good.

When she woke up that morning, she was a girl pretending to be a boy. And soon she would have to go back to being that. But for now, for this brief moment of pleasure, of vulnerability, of exposure, of naked honesty, for the first time in her life she is a woman.

The girl again sits up and wipes her mouth. Nuriel blinks her eyes, trying to clear her head. As wonderful as that felt, she doesn’t want to miss a thing.

The girl reaches down and takes the hem of the garment lying around her waist and slowly opens it up, revealing the rest of her.

Then the girl slides back off of Nuriel’s lap down between her legs. She gets onto all fours, the curve of he rear sticking into the air, and lowers her top half down over Nuriel’s waist. Running her fingers over Nuriel’s lap, she mischievously played with the laces, flicking them back and forth, before finally untying them. One they were loose, she grabbed onto the waistline and pulled them down.

Unable to wipe the silly grin off of her face, Nuriel craned her neck to watch as her trousers were tugged down past her thighs, down to her knees. Leaving it at that, the girl then runs her hand over Nuriel’s thighs and traces the contours of her groin.

Nuriel’s abdominals clench up in anticipation. Sweet Jesus, this is actually happening. This is-

Her eyes closing, the girl lowers her head down between Nuriel’s legs.

“Nnngguhhh!”

Nuriel’s hips bucked as she came, warm arousal flooding her palm. She hissed sharply, her back arching, thrusting her sex into her own hand, riding out the first orgasm she had been permitted in months.

The waves of bliss rise and crash, rise and crash, until finally the beautiful torture subsides, leaving a comfortable ache in its wake. Panting, Nuriel removed her hand and let it drop to the floor.

For a time it was all she could do to just lay there, feeling drained, sticky, but relieved. It was like finally being able to scratch a persistent itch at the bottom of her foot, one she had been unable to reach because she never had the opportunity to remove her boot. It feels like heavy stones had been rolled off her shoulders, and she could finally lie down and rest.

She had felt the same that night. When all was said and done, and she and the girl, whose name Nuriel still didn’t know, had laid together in each other’s arms, basking in the afterglow, sleep had come upon her so quickly that she hadn’t even realized that she was tired until she was waking up the next morning, still sprawled out on the beach.

When she did, the girl had been gone.

Nuriel had panicked then, convinced that it had all been a set-up, that the girl had led her away, gained her trust, and seduced her only to rob her after.

And yet, upon frenzied inspection, Saint George remained in his hidden sheath, and the few coins that she had secreted upon her body were still there. The girl had even taken the time to replaced Nuriel’s bindings and button up her shirt, leaving her disguise intact.

But she was still gone.

There had been many leering grins and knowing looks when Nuriel had returned to the Periwinkle. Mr. Gagne had slapped her on the back, and some of the crew had cheered. Nuriel’s had been flushed with embarrassment, but also somewhat proud. Regardless of what they knew about her, the crew had still been proud of her, and she appreciated that.

Even so, she had never seen the girl again. But she never, ever forgot her.

Gradually the blissful haze started to dissipate from her mind, and she started to feel her strength return. Sighing happily, she lifted her ass and pulled her trousers back up, though she left the ties undone. Then she lay down flat on the ground, curled up into as comfortable position as she could, and let herself drift off, hoping that if she dreamed, it would be of that girl.

As the soft drumming of the rain lulled her back to sleep, Nuriel found herself wondering if her new red-eyed friend had been watching.

…

When Nuriel’s eyes opened again, rain no longer pounded against the Santa Carmilla’s hull, and light was streaming in from the various cracks and holes.

Blinking, she slowly straightened up. A knot in her neck made her wince, as did the looseness of her right arm, which she had apparently slept on. What was more, her head was throbbing, probably thanks to that wine. Massaging her neck with her left hand while she shook some life into her right, she looked around.

It was day, and the storm was over. Outside she could hear the sound of seabirds mingling with the surf.

She had survived.

As the rest of her body woke up, Nuriel took notice of something interesting. Her friend had again returned. The basket was once again full of fruit. What was more, it was joined by a smaller basket. She leaned forward to look inside.

Inside were several chunks of some kind of cooked meat. Fish, from the smell, though whoever had done the cooking hadn’t been very good at it, as it seemed like they had simply torn out chunks and charred them over a fire. She gingerly reached down and prodded on especially blackened piece. It was still a little warm, so it hadn’t been there for that long.

Nuriel shrugged. Who cared? Taste never mattered to her anyway.

She scarfed down breakfast, shoveling handfuls of burnt and greasy fish and chunks of wild fruit into her mouth.

As she did, she took note of the two wine bottles, now sitting upright near the baskets. She grabbed one and sloshed it around. It was full.

Good.

Nuriel swallowed her mouthful and took a sip.

A second later she coughed. She had been expecting wine, but instead it was only water.

Well, whatever. It was probably for the best. Wine was good for when she needed to rest, but water was what she needed now. Her throat was parched, and her head hurt.

Moments later Nuriel had gone through both baskets and drank a bottle and a half. She sat back, feeling better than she had in a good long while. Her hurts were healed, her belly was full, her throat was wetted, and even her headache was clearing up.

Feeling cheered, Nuriel slowly rose to her feet. They wobbled, but held.

Then she noticed that the note that the red-eyed monster had left her was still there, lying near where she had slept.

Frowning, she knelt down and picked it up. It was still very long, and though it was obviously by the same hand that had left her that first note, this one was hurried, almost frantic.

Well, reading it would be difficult enough even in the shadows of the ship’s cargo space. Nuriel ascended the steps, braced her shoulder against the hatch, and shoved it open.

The bright light of the sun made her wince, and certainly did the receding throb in her head no favors. Squinting, Nuriel walked out onto the deck and looked around.

It was either late morning or early afternoon. The sun was high, and the sky clear. All in all, it was a very lovely day, and the view was astounding.

If one were to overlook all of the monsters out there looking to eat her, of course.

Nuriel blinked until her eyes had adjusted. Then she sat down in the sunlight to try to decipher the letter.

Her reading skills were quite rusty, and never that thorough to begin with. And the hand that wrote it had done so…quickly. Still, the letters were large, so it was clear that the writer really wanted to get the message across.

After some time she managed to get the gist of it. It went a little something like this.

I am so, so, SO sorry I scared you. That was not my (here was a long word that she had to really spell out, but she felt that it was probably “intention”) at all. Please (another long word, something-“stand”) that I am not a threat. I swear by my blood (by its blood? Was that some kind of witchcraft thing?) that I mean you no harm. You have nothing to fear from me.

Nuriel frowned. That was unlikely.

But please, please, PLEASE (here the word was written so large that it was nearly the size of the preceding paragraph) never do anything that (um, what was this word? Something-less, starts with an “r”) ever again! The island is (damn it, another big word! Dan…dangger…no, danger! Dangerous!) at night! Well, it is dangerous at day, but even more at night!

Well, on that, Nuriel agreed.

I drove the birds away from the ship, and made sure they will not return. But they are active at night, and if you go out too far, I cannot stop them from hunting you! Nor any of the other (mon…mon…Mondays? No, wait, monsters! Of course it was monsters. Why hadn’t she known that? She had certainly had the word repeating in her mind over and over again lately!) that hunt in the dark.

Nuriel breathed out. It sounded like her red-eyed friend was telling her to stay put at night, to not leave the ship. And Nuriel didn’t care for that. She wasn’t one to appreciate being told to stay or stay out of anywhere.

Then again, considering what had happened the last time she had left the ship when the moon was out…

I know I have given you little reason to trust me, and I am sorry for that. If you wish for me to leave you alone, I will do so. But I have been trapped alone on this island for a very long time, and never (ex…expe..expected!) to share it with such a brave, (cutting? Did the letter just call her cutting? No, wait, those were n’s. Cunning. Was that even a word?), and, if you do not mind me saying, (here was another long word, but Nuriel recognized it immediately, and it made her groan a little) beautiful young fighter such as yourself.

Despite everything, Nuriel couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Great, flattery.

I have been watching you from afar, and you really are quite (another long word that started with “ex,” one that Nuriel couldn’t even begin to guess at. Probably some kind of silly compliment)! Please, it would break my heart to see you come to harm especially in response to me.

If you wish for me to go, then I will do so, never to step foot near the Carmilla's Fancy ever again. I would not blame you if that were to be the case. There would be no hard feelings.

But, if you would permit me to continue to keep watch over you, I think you would find me very useful. You needn’t even see me. I will stay out of sight, bringing what you need while you sleep and keeping the monsters away.

Again Nuriel frowned. She didn’t like the thought of anyone or anything strange doing stuff while she slept, regardless of what it was.

But again, if you’d rather I not, then I would understand.

Just please promise me that you will stay safe.

Please.

And at the bottom was a flourished signature, one that Nuriel couldn’t even begin to decipher, other than it also began with an “N.”

Breathing out, Nuriel slowly lowered the paper. She sat down cross-legged on the deck and thought.

Clearly the red-eyed monster was a strange one. It was not human; that much was obvious. But Nuriel was no longer convinced that it was some kind of malicious demon. She still didn’t trust her unsettling friend, if that truly what it was, but she didn’t feel as threatened by it either.

But what to do? What if she grew complacent, came to rely on the red-eyed monster’s gifts, and it cost Nuriel her soul? What if in accepting its help she ended up damned?

You already ate its food, came the reply from the back of her mind. You already drank its wine and accepted its gifts. In for a penny…

Nuriel shivered, but she had no retort.

You tried to flee, and it almost got you killed. It was only because of the demon that you still live. And if your stubbornness kills you, then what good would your purity do? You will be burning in Hell regardless.

That was true. That was very true.

Nuriel looked down at the letter. It was true, there was nothing more dangerous than the attention of another person, and whatever this thing was, it was clear that Nuriel had its full attention. And yet, if it weren’t for that attention, she would be dead.

But what if that was the point? What if the red-eyed monster was lulling her into a false sense of security, to make Nuriel reliant on its help? What if she became too accustomed to its gifts and protection? She might as well put the collar around her own neck for it!

On the other hand, there was literally nothing stopping it from taking her by force if it wanted to. Anything capable of driving off the razor-birds and keeping the other monsters away would have no trouble subduing one small girl. It wouldn’t need to get her to drop her guard; it only needed to act, and she would be helpless to stop it.

Still, there were many stories that claimed that for all their power, creatures such as demons, the Fair Folk, spirits, and the like were bound by certain rules, and could only act according to those rules. That was why so many stories were based around them disguising themselves and engaging in some kind of trickery in order to steal souls, because they would be unable otherwise.

But again, what good would her soul do her if she were torn to pieces, if she were to starve to death, if she were to be fall sick to infection or some strange, exotic disease?

It was a puzzler, one that Nuriel had to be very careful in solving. She sat down and thought for a very long time.

Then, after nearly an hour, Nuriel stood. She walked over to the captain’s cabin and looked inside.

It was still empty, bereft of bloodthirsty birds, but the chest remained. Squatting in front of it, Nuriel perused its remaining contents until she found what she was looking for: a piece of charcoal, a hammer, and a nail. Then she turned the note over to where there was still some blank space and with unpracticed hands jotted out two rough words.

That done, she pressed the note to the side of the ruined mast and used the hammer to drive the nail through, pinning the note in place. The red-eyed monster was sure to return, and when it did the note would be waiting for it.

Nuriel’s message simply read, “THANK YOU.”

[yuulina-vre]

Gifting you a new life

I help you out

Pairing: Steve x Bucky, Reader insert

Warnings: Some blood but not much

Word count: 3824 words

Part: Three

Summary: Y/N and Steve get to have a relaxing evening with a little interruption.

Masterlist

* * *

“Steve, I’m back!” Y/N shout-whispers as she closes the door behind her and puts her keys into the bowl beside the door. She shrugs out of her jacket and walks into the living room. She’s about to place her bag on the couch as she sees Steve lying there. “What are you doing down here? Are you feel better?”

“Yeah, was tired of my own walls.” Steve squints at her and smiles. He looks a bit better, not as pale and green anymore. “I thought I said you’re not supposed to move.” She crosses her arms with a smile before she runs her hand through his blonde hair. Steve hums before he sits up a little and pulls Y/N over, so she sits beside him, then he lies back down, head in her lap, nudging her so she continues to run her hand through his hair some more. He sighs contently and Y/N laughs. “I took your classes over and had the meeting with Tony. You owe me, Picasso.”

“Oh, that was today? What did he say?” Steve opens his eyes again, after having them closed. Y/N looks around for a moment. She notices that the blinds are closed, not entirely but enough to make the living room some kind of shadowed. Each time Steve moves a bit too much to the side he’s hit by some rays of afternoon sun. He squints his eyes then, almost closing them with a pained expression. Clearly still bothered by his migraine. Y/N lets him shuffle around so his back is facing the window and he looks more at her, his own face more shadowed now. “He likes your idea. He gave me some concepts for the classroom you want to modify. He said you should look them over and tell him by Monday what you think so he can make plans to get it renovated. He also wants a list of which materials and graphic tablets you want.”

“So soon, huh.”

“You know him.” Y/N shrugs and smiles at him, her fingers tangled in the somewhat longer strand on the top of his head. Steve hums and slings his arm around her hip, pulling himself closer. Even when they are just friends, well, best friends, Steve always acts a little affectionate with her. And Y/N copies that. More than once where they told that they are a cute couple and almost always they blushed and showed each other a disgusted face. Y/N combs her hand through Steve’s hair again, pulling at the knots and tries to entangle it. He needs a new haircut. It’s been grown quite long now but it matches with his beard. Maybe she cuts it for him on the weekend.

“How was class?”

“Okay. By the way, did you know that Peter- Hold on.” Y/N pushes Steve a little so she can reach her bag. She pulls it on Steve’s sides and starts to rummage in it until she finds a folder and pulls it out. She pushes her bag to the ground and opens the folder to pull out a sheet of paper. “Did you know that Peter starts scribbling prototypes and engineering plans in your lessons?” She shows the paper to Steve who eyes it. “That’s pretty detailed.”

“I know. Why again did he take your class?”

“I don’t know. He isn’t really good at art. I thought he might have done that because his friends took my class. MJ is pretty skilled. Ned manages so far.”

“Well, I thought about showing this to tony. Maybe we can transfer peter to his class. It would be a waste of his talent. He’s clearly doing a great job and has lots of ideas on his mind.”

“Hmmm...” Steve hums and pushes the paper back to her, closing his eyes again with a tired look on his face. “Tired again?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you eat today? Took some painkillers?” Steve shakes his head in her lap and Y/N sighs, running her hand a last time through his hair before patting his chest to let her up. She puts the folder and paper down on the coffee table before walking to the kitchen. “I’m making some soup and give you some painkillers. Then we can watch some documentary and you can fall asleep. Sound good?”

“Perfect.” She hears Steve’s mumbling and nods, then busying herself in preparing dinner. After a few minutes she hears Steve shuffling behind her. “My head’s pounding.” Y/N snorts and turns to him as he flops down on the dining table. She watches him massage his neck before his head is placed on the table. “Told you, you should have stayed in bed.”

“Yeah, yeah… I feel sick.”

“Poor baby.” She coos and earns herself a half-hearted glare from the man which makes her giggles a little. “Painkillers now?”

“Please.” Y/N kisses his cheek, looking at the miserable man a second longer. “my, my. What would you do without me.” She mutters to herself as she puts the vegetables she had cut into the pot and on the stove before she leaves the kitchen to walk up onto the first floor and to Steve’s room. She finds the water bottles empty on the floor and is relieved that the man actually managed to stay hydrated. The crackers, though, aren’t even touched, same as the painkillers. Y/N shakes her head, grabs the meds and picks up the empty bottles to take with her into the kitchen. “No wonder you feel sick with your empty stomach and all.” She runs her hand lightly over Steve’s back before putting the bottles into the basket by the backdoor. Then she gets a glass from one of the cabinets, fills it with water and puts it on the table beside Steve and places the painkillers next to it. “Here, before you take these eat some cookies. No med on an empty stomach.” She shoves the cookie jar on the table closer to Steve, the goes to the pot to stir the soup, allowing Steve to wallow in his misery and take his meds on his own.

It takes only about fifteen more minutes until the soup is ready and while Y/N fills two bowls she gazes at Steve. His head is still on the table and for a second Y/N thinks he has fallen asleep on her. “Steve?”

“Huh?” he lifts his head slightly to look at her but lets it fall back down again. “just making sure you’re not asleep yet.” She grabs the bowls and two spoons and joins the man at the table, pushing his foot to him and nudging his arm. “Eat.” Her voice lets no room to argue so Steve lifts his head and eats.

They sit for a while, slowly eating. The moment Steve can’t anymore he pushes the bowl away. Y/N eyes him a second, then glances at the bowl. He managed almost half of his food. She feels satisfied enough with that, at least he got something in his stomach to get through the evening and maybe through the night. “All finished?” Instead of answering verbally Steve lifts his thumb up and lets it flop down sloppily again. Chuckling slightly Y/N puts the dishes away again, sitting back next to Steve to massage his neck. “Come on, big guy. Let’s get you back on the couch, hm?”

“Have to?”

“Yes, come on.” She nudges him once more with a chuckle and guides him back to his original spot. She drapes a blanket over him and slips back under his head to card her fingers through his hair once more, all while putting on some kind of documentary about natural disasters.

Twenty minutes in the documentary Y/N feels herself relax completely, hand now mindlessly carding through Steve’s hair while she watches one of the worst tsunamis that ever-happened roll over a city. Steve’s slack on his side, eyes closed, and Y/N thinks he might be asleep already. Then the doorbell chimes loudly through the house. Y/N’s startles slightly and shales Steve awake, who groans painfully and covers his ears, eyes squeezed shut tightly. She suspects that his migraine kicks back in, probably hurting badly again. Sometimes that happens, which means he won’t be at work tomorrow as well. “I’ll get that. Go back to sleep, Picasso.” She pats his shoulder in sympathy, presses a small kiss to his forehead and slips from the couch to walk to the door. The sun is low on the sky, sending golden rays through the streets. The golden hour, how Steve likes to call it. Y/N opens the door, getting blinded a little. “Yes?” She’s faced with the sight of a brunette man that looks a little shocked, then blushes deeply, looks at a sheet of paper in his hand, to their house number, back on the sheet and then around as if searching for something. “Oh my god. Am I wrong again?”

“Depends on who you want to find. How can I help you?” She smiles at the man and he finally looks back up at her. “Oh, eh. M-my name is James Barnes. I’m form the department of Lost-and-Found of the military. I’m searching for Steve Rogers. Does he live here?”

“He does.” Is all she says, eying the man a little longer. He looks confused at Y/N and she needs to suppress a small laugh. The man stares at her for a moment, still looking dumbfounded and eventually blurts out a question. “Are you his girlfriend?”

“Dear god, no. I would get insane with him. He’s my best friend. We just live together.”

“Oh, ok. Well, Is Mr. Rogers to speak?”

“I’m afraid not. He’s sick and sleeping right now.”

“Oh.” The brunette looks a bit uncomfortable and maybe a bit disappointed. “Can I pass him a massage?”

“Erm… Yeah, sure. Could you-”

“Y/N! Who’s the- Oh…” Y/N turns around just as Steve comes into view. He sways a little and suddenly holds his head as he falls forward. “STEVE!” She runs up to him but only manages to prevent his head to hit the floor, effectible trapping her hand between his head and the ground. She bites back a scream of pain and for a moment she thinks that she maybe broke something in it. “God damn it. Stay on the couch, dumbass!” She looks him over with an angry expression as he groans. She wonders what would have happened if he managed to smack his head like that before she got home earlier, maybe when he walked downstairs. He could have broken his neck. A shudder runs over her back and she tries to get the bloody pictures out of her head. Steve’s second groan and the nervously hovering man at the front door are a good help. “What’s wrong, Stevie?”

“Head, light.” Steve moans, pinching his eyes closed that it must hurt as well. “Shit, you got blinded, huh? Think you can stand up for me?” Instead of an actual answer Steve moans and shakes his head minimally, barely not noticeable if Y/N hadn’t looked for it. “Okay, eh…” She looks around, trying to see if something could help her to get him up and back to the sofa but nothing catches her eye. Except the brunette man at the door. “Eh, Mr. Barnes?”

“Yes!” The man stands up straight already half over the doorstep. “Could you help me get him to the couch, please?”

“Yes, sure.” The man nods and steps fully into the house now. Before he actually grabs Steve by his arms, he looks him over quickly before gently grabbing him. “We’re doing it slowly. Tell me if somethings not right, okay?” His voice is low and gentle, as if he knows what’s wrong with the blonde. Steve nods numbly. Just then does the man meet Y/N’s eyes and with a nod the gently tug on his arms to get him into a sitting position and wait for a second before they slowly work on getting him on his knees and then on his feet. On their way through the hall and to the couch she notices that Mr. Barnes carries almost all of Steve’s weight. The thought about him carrying Steve crosses her mind and she assumes that Mr. Barnes wouldn’t even have a problem with that. The man is ripped with thick muscles and board shoulders. They gently set Steve down on the pillows and he groans again, curling in on himself to roll into a small ball, blanket covering his head. “Okay, Stevie. I’ll be right back, don’t move so much.” She kisses what she can reach of his forehead before she stands up straight again and meets the brunette’s eyes that look at the lump on the couch in concern. “Mr. Barnes.” She motions for him to follow her and though he nods she notices that he eyes Steve a little longer until he can’t see him anymore. “Please, have a seat. Something to drink?” She motions to one of the chairs at the dining table and Mr. Barnes sits down but shakes his head. “I really don’t want to impose.”

“You’re not. I’m offering.” She smiles at the man and is greeted with a small smile from him. “Then… a glass of water, maybe?”

“Coming right up.” She walks to one of the cabinets to get a glass and fills it with some cold water to passes it to him. “So, Mr. Barnes-”

“Call me Bucky, please.”

“Oh, eh, Bucky then, I would really like to know why you’re here. Is Stevie surfing on this dating apps again and invited you over but forgot to tell me?” A dark red blush spreads over the man’s face and Y/N has to say that he looks kind of cute with it. “N-no. I’m from the Military, we found something that we believe belonged to his father. I wanted to return it to him.”

“Really? After all this time?” She feels a little shocked but happy, too. “Steve loved his father. He was really devasted when they got the news of him passing away. He doesn’t talk much about him, even less since his mom’s gone too now.”

“I understand. I’m truly sorry for him. Do you think… do you think it’s a bad idea to bring him up?” Y/N musters the man a moment. He seems kind of uncomfortable about brining pain on someone else. He seems to try and be kind to the ones that lost someone. There’s a shadow in his eyes that Y/N only knows from the times Steve returned back home and she wonders what this man had gone through, so that it’s still in his face. She shakes her head. “Might do him good to talk about him again.” She shrugs then, nipping on her own glass of water. “So… Bucky? How does that name come from James?” There’s this blush again, but not as prominent as before but still there. “From my middle name. My sister couldn’t say it back when we were small. I mean, Buchannan is a difficult name for kids.”

“Buchannan? Like the-”

“Yeah. Like him.” Bucky rolls his eyes a little but still smiles. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name earlier.”

“Y/N Y/L/N.” They shake hand and Y/N notice that he has a tight grip. Something that’s just like Steve’s but still different. She frons a little but the man must have noticed her change. He quickly withdraws his gloved hands from hers and hides it under the table. For a second she thinks about asking him about it bit then decides against it. It probably is a personal thing, and she shouldn’t pry on it. “So, I’m sorry but I don’t think today is a good day for you to talk to Steve. Maybe tomorrow is a be-” A loud crash interrupts Y/N mid-sentence. Mr. Barnes is instantly on his feet and Y/N joins him, running into the living room to find Steve on the floor once again. “Dear god, Steve!” She flinches and instantly jumps up from the chair, runs into the living room. She hears the heavy steps of the other man behind her but ignores them in favor of searching the room for Steve. She finds him quickly. Steve’s lying on the ground again, holding his head with both hands, eyes squeezed shut, face drawn into a pained grimace. At first, she thinks that he rolled from the couch while turning but the she gets a glimpse of a light red shimmer. Blood. It drops in a slow trickle through his fingers, down the bridge of his nose until it slowly drips from the tip to down onto the cream-colored carpet, only to get soaked up in it and creating a small pool of crimson. “Shit. Mr.- Bucky, there’s a first aid kit under the sink.” She doesn’t look back ta the man, doesn’t wait for an answer or waits for him to move. Instead, she walks right up to Steve, kneels down and tries to push his hands away too look at the wound. “Steve. Let me look.” The blonde groans, lets his eyes shut but allows Y/N to finally push his hand away. The wound doesn’t look deep. Its just a small laceration which probably doesn’t need stitches. Maybe he even spared himself a concussion. “What did you do?” She winces light as her fingers lightly roam the red skin around the wound to try and find any remaining damage. “Toilet. Dizzy, stumbled.” Y/N cringes a little at his slurred words, looking around to find some blood on the edge of the coffee table as well. “Okay. Can you look at me?” bucky returns with the first aid kit, while Steve peels his eyes open. The man hovers while Y/N assess the blue eyes of her best friend. His pupils look normal and she feels some kind of relief flood her. “Let’s sit up so I can clean you up, yeah?” Bucky is quick to grab for Steve’s arm and pulls him up before he places a hand on Y/N shoulder. “I can do it. I was a field medic back while I was still on duty.” Y/N nods numbly, a little unsure if she should let a stranger tend the wounds on her best friend but Bucky gets to work immediately. She watches his hands fly over Steve’s head with a gentleness she hasn’t though he would possess. Steve doesn’t flinch while the man works. Actually, he doesn’t really seem to register it. His eyes are still closed, his breathing deep and heavy as if trying not to puke. So, Y/N gently takes his bloodied hands and squeezes them in a reassuring manner, before she grabs one of the tissues and some water from the water bottle to gently clean him up a bit. They work in silence for a few minutes until bucky leans back, assessing his work. He cleaned up Steve’s wound and face, disinfected it and put a big band aid over it. Y/N can see that the skin around it starts to turn a little bluish but it seemed to be alright. “You’re good, Stevie? Felling sick?”

“N-no…” His voice is silent, only a whisper, barely to hear. He manages a small smile, probably to calm Y/N’s fried nerves but only succeeds in forming a grimace. She sighs and switches her gaze to bucky who gets rid of the gloves he had put on. “His headache probably won’t let up until tomorrow now. He might get sick later and I would suggest calling a doctor when he does.” Y/N nods, eyeing Steve closely again. The man rubs his eyes carefully with his hands before peeling them open and looking around carefully. His blues stop at bucky then and for a moment he just stares then smiles a lopsided grin. “Hi. I’m Steve.” For a second Y/N thinks that Steve must, either, hit his head pretty hard and suffers from a concussion or his migraine makes him go so straight forward. It’s obvious to see that Steve finds the man in front of him attractive. He has this sparkle in his eyes that he gets when goes out to flirt. He sluggishly gets his hand up, almost slapping the other man’s shoulder with it but bucky reacts quickly and takes it, sparing him the embarrassment of sleeping his helper. “I’m Bucky. Nice to meet you, even if I hoped for less blood and collapsing”

“Hmm.” Steve hums and closes his eyes again. “Stevie. Don’t sleep. Get on couch or do you still need to pee?”

“I do.” He mumbles and a bit of color returns to his face, probably embarrassed of admitting it in front of someone he doesn’t know. Bucky chuckles only and hold his hand out. “Mind if I help you? I probably can hold your weight better.”

“’M not fat.” Steve retorts in a dry laugh and Bucky chuckles again, shaking his head in amusement. “Never said it, buddy. Come on.” Y/N watches the men making their way to the hall where the guest bathroom is located. She debates if she should follow but then settles on staying behind and clean up a bit. So, she grabs the used tissues, gloves and the rest to carry it back to the kitchen and put it in the trash, first aid kid restoring back under the sink. While she cleans up and tries to get the blood from the carpet, unsuccessfully though, she thinks about the two men. Steve seems to like him; through he doesn’t know him and probably suffers from a concussion nonetheless. Maybe she can get Bucky to come by another day and see how they get along and maybe she could get Steve a date with him. It’s been way to long since he got out on one. The flushing of the toilet startles her out of her thoughts. She hears the two man silently coming back into the living room so she quickly gets up and takes the blanket form the couch. Bucky shows her a small smile and lowers Steve back down. Little snores disturb the silent almost immediately and they both chuckle.

After covering the sleeping man Y/N walks Bucky back to the front door. “I’m sorry that you had so witness that, though, I thank you for helping me out with him. He’s usually not this… accident prone. I promise.”

“I believe you.” The man laughs shortly before he rubs his neck and looks around a bit. “I… ehrm. Can you give Mr. Rogers my card? He could give me a call when he’s feeling better.”

“Sure.” Y/N takes the card from him and watches as he nods, awkwardly step back and then waves with a mumbled good bye. He all but flees to his car and drives away. “Mr. Barnes. I think you would get along with Stevie pretty well.” She talks to herself, chuckles and closes the door.

Previous part / Next Part

[cagestark]

Prompt; ABO Starker getting together but Tony is the omega and Peter is the alpha. Peter is still head over heels, star struck, hero worship over Tony and calling him 'sir' and 'mr. Stark' and blushing wherever Tony gives him attention and praise. Maybe it all comes to a head when Tony goes into heat? Maybe Peter's first rut is triggered by Tony teasing him mercilessly? Bonus points for eager-to-please Peter

Darling anon, this isn’t really what you asked for. I’m so sorry. I hope this is at least acceptable, and if you are very upset, please come back into my inbox and I’ll rework this. For now. Take it!

Warnings: ABOverse. Alpha Peter, Omega Tony. Smut. 8.5k

Read here on AO3!

Peter is reaching with his fork for the last arancini when another fork intercepts. The metal on metal screeches as Peter’s fork is pinned to the plate just short of the last rice ball. Peter eyes the hand holding the fork—tanned, knuckles singed—and then follows it up the arm, bare, sprinkled with dark hair interrupted by the odd, pink scar. Before he even reaches the well-shaped facial hair, Peter is flushed, withdrawing his fork. Tony is wearing his glasses tonight, the lenses tinted a light blue.

“Put down the fork and nobody has to get hurt,” Tony says. He keeps his voice a low, conspiratorial rumble that can just barely be heard over the ruckus of general conversation from the rest of the Avengers around the table.

Slowly, Peter puts his fork down beside his half-eaten plate of osso buco, then lifts his hands to shoulder height, palms open. “My hands are where you can see them,” Peter says. He lets his voice tremble. “The rice ball is yours. But please don’t take the rest of the prosciutto. Have mercy.”

Tony spears the arancini and delivers it to his own plate for safe keeping, a bear hoarding food for the winter. “Bold of you to assume I’m capable of mercy, Peter Pan. And to add insult to injury—” Tony slips the last few slices of dry-cured ham bliss to take up cozy residence beside the rest of his food. Peter clutches at his heart, face twisted in pain.

“God, you two are like a two-man theatre troupe,” Natasha remarks over her third glass of wine. She’s just beginning to look flushed. Peter had asked for his own glass (“Come on, I’m eighteen, not eight!”) but to no avail. “Does that make seconds for you, Tony?”

“Thirds,” Bucky mutters. He hasn’t recovered from the spaghetti alla carbonara massacre of thirty minutes ago. If Peter didn’t know how well the ex-assassin got along with Tony, he might try to convince the older man to sleep with one eye open. Bucky certainly had the whole casually-planning-your-murder-over-trivial-offenses aesthetic going on. Peter wondered if that was something teachable—did they have a wikiHow article for that?

“It’s that time of the year,” Tony says. Despite how much he’s eaten, he still goes about the food on his plate in a methodical, prim manner: cutting it into bite-sized pieces, making sure no foods touch. “Jarvis tracks my eating habits and BMI, and he says both are on the upswing. I’ve got about two weeks left.”

“Two weeks until what?” Peter asks.

Tony gives him a bald and unashamed look. “Until my heat, kid.”  

“Oh,” Peter says, hoping his face isn’t as red as it feels. He’s got permanent foot-in-mouth disease whenever he’s within twenty feet of the omega. Of course, Tony is talking about his heat. Why else would he be eating enough for three?

“I thought you took heat suppressants,” Natasha remarks. This kind of talk—heats, suppressants—it usually isn’t table conversation. Most omegas consider it the ultimate social faux paus. Maybe Tony does too, Peter wonders. Maybe spending so much time in the public eye has chipped away at the wall between what he wants to keep to himself and what he has to share with others.

“For the spring heat,” Tony agrees, a hand resting on his gently distended stomach. The sight of that tickles something in the back of Peter’s brain—something in there itches, but he can’t find it, can’t scratch it. “But at my age, the suppressants don’t synthesize with my biology as well. Doc told me it is actually safer for me to go through every other heat au naturale. Which makes for an interesting fall season. At least I can hide the extra weight with all those winter scarves the board keeps giving me for Christmas—”

“You look great,” Peter says. He tries hard not to openly wince. Everyone else at the table does their best to pretend they hadn’t heard him.  

Tony’s smile is soft, maybe even a little flattered. He winks. “Thanks, Peter Pan. Nice to know someone around here still thinks I’ve got it.”

Oh, you’ve got it alright, Peter thinks helplessly. Probably couldn’t lose it even if you tried.

“Isn’t it dangerous to go through your heats without suppression?” Bruce asks.

“We’ve weighed the pros and cons. Calculated risks, Brucie, that’s the name of the game.”

“You know what all of this means?” Steve asks. Beside him, Bucky stiffens. The only other male omega—in the room and in the Avengers—he is not nearly as comfortable with his designation as Tony. Peter can hardly blame him when a part of him is still stuck in the 40’s when omegas were marketed as good for nothing but breeding and housewife fodder. With most heats coming twice a year, in the beginning and at the end, surely Bucky’s is approaching also— “Tiramisu is in order.”

Bucky relaxes. Tony perks up. Peter’s stomach grumbles—even after his own generous helpings.

“Cap, that’s the best idea you’ve had since—well—an hour ago, when you suggested Italian. All for tiramisu?”

A cluster of forks rise into the air.  

-

“Jarvis?”

“Yes, sir?”

“The kid. He’s a beta, right?”

“He has not presented otherwise.”

“That’s not exactly an answer, is it?”

“…”

“J?”

“I believe he is a beta, sir.”

“Your confidence is downright stirring, J.”

“Always a pleasure to give, sir.”

-

“I mean, it’s not unheard of, right?” Peter asks. He is sandwiched between Ned and MJ on his bed in his room at the tower. It was just another benefit of joining the Avengers: a fancy new room on the Avengers’ floor, coffee with Captain America in the morning and eating peanut butter out of the jar with Natasha at night. The bed is huge—and okay, maybe he’s still just used to the twin he occupied at May’s, but it’s still nice to fit all of his friends on it at once to watch movies on the mounted television. “Relationships. Between betas and omegas.”

MJ gives a longsuffering sigh, one which makes Peter frown. Yeah, they’ve had this conversation a few (million) times before, but she could at least humor him, couldn’t she? “Stark is a male omega. They’re super fucking rare, Peter. Alphas literally kill over omegas. The competition for him even if he wasn’t Earth’s Greatest Defender and a fucking billionaire—it’s extensive. Why would he choose you when he could find a dozen beefy Captain-esque alphas to satisfy his biology?”

“Okay. But. It’s not impossible, right? That’s what I’m hearing. That it’s not impossible.”

“Mr. Stark would be lucky to have Peter,” Ned says. “I mean, yeah he’s not as buff as Captain America. Yeah he doesn’t have pheromones that attract Tony on, like, a biological level. And okay, he does snore. A lot. But—”

“Thanks, Ned,” Peter grumbles. “You make me sound like a real catch.”

“You are!” Ned insists. He actually takes his eyes off of A New Hope where Princess Leia is ghostly in blue, insisting that Obi-Wan Kenobi is her only hope. “You think any of those knotheads out there can keep up with Mr. Stark in the workshop? And look at my parents. They’re both omegas. It’s not all pheromones, it’s—it’s chemistry.”

A slow smile creeps over Peter’s face. Ned and MJ create the perfect balance of unending optimism and brutal realism. In their own ways, both are looking out for him, and he knows that they want the best for him. Even if what MJ says hurts. Even if what Ned says hurts too, just in a different, softer way. One gives him the seed of hope, and the other gives him the trellis that keeps him stuck in place, terrified to make a move.

It’s balance.

-

Things get strange for Peter in the weeks before Tony’s heat. He attributes it to the poor weather, and MJ helpfully says that Mercury is entering its retrograde, so apparently that explains how these days his temper is short when usually his fuse is long enough for two. Even the other Avengers seem to take notice of his volatile mood, giving him a wide berth.

The only person with whom things don’t change is Tony. Around the omega, Peter is his normal blushing mess, though he does try hard to go out of his way to make things easier for the man. In school he learned how stressful an omega’s heat is: a week to two weeks of mindlessness while their biology urges them to breed. It can be unbearable without heat suppressants—

—or without a partner. Does Tony have someone to weather the worst of his heat with? Other omegas to scent and comfort him? An alpha to knot him?

The glass Peter is holding shatters in his hand. Orange juice soaks him, stinging the cuts in his palm. Beside him, Sam shouts an oath, grabbing his plate of pancakes to keep them out of the line of citrus fire. The rest of the table is silent, a dozen pairs of eyes watching him. It makes Peter’s blood boil—why are they staring at him this way? He’s fucking superhuman. He broke dozens of glasses when he first gained his powers until he acclimated to his enhanced strength. Accidents happen.

“Hey, it’s fine,” Tony mutters from over his shoulder. Peter can’t smell it—as a beta, his nose is unsophisticated, unable to pick up pheromones—but he imagines that the man is scenting him, calm waves like the ocean dragging at the shore. A hand comes out, nudges Peter’s soaked plate (rest in peace, crepes) back, and the begins to carefully maneuver the largest shards of glass into his palm.

Peter grabs his wrist with the hand that isn’t dripping blood onto the table. “Do not touch the glass.”

It comes out much firmer than he intended it to, like there is someone else controlling his voice. He’s never heard himself sound like that before. It clearly has an effect on Tony who opens his hand, glass falling back to the table, wrist going lax and pliant in Peter’s grip.

“Hey,” Steve says. “It’s alright—”

“Mind your business,” Peter says through his teeth. There’s tension in the air, especially between him and Steve now, who is posturing at the end of the table, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Then it all comes in focus to him: he’s making a fucking scene, here. He is holding Tony’s wrist, commanding him, like Peter is some sort of alpha. He yelled at Captain America. It’s fresh. It’s disrespectful. His whole face goes red and he stands so abruptly that he nearly knocks over Tony who is behind him.

Then he turns and sprints from the room, leaving blood drops behind him like a breadcrumb trail. In his room, he goes into the adjoining bathroom and runs water over his aching palm. The cuts are trying to seal around the glass, but he doesn’t even feel the pain. Grasping the shards with his fingers is easy thanks to his enhanced grip. Someone knocks on his bedroom door, but Peter ignores it. After a while, the knocking stops.

Peter sulks for nearly thirty minutes before his manners outweigh his misery. The cuts on his palm are just raw looking scars now, but he knows they will disappear soon too. Taking a deep breath, he steels himself before leaving his room.

Breakfast is finished. The room is filled with the sound of plates being scraped clean and stacked beside the sink, chairs being pushed in at the table. Someone has cleaned up the glass and the orange juice—better not have been Tony, he could have cut himself, he could have gotten hurt—and Peter has to physically shake his head to shake those thoughts right out through his ears. What is wrong with him?

“Captain Rogers?” Peter says timidly. The man is closest—closer than Tony who is at the sink arguing with Clint about proper coffee ground disposal. Steve’s face is open and kind when he stops collecting half-filled glasses of milk and orange juice.

“Hey Peter. It’s still Steve, okay? It’s always Steve.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I wanted to say sorry for jumping down your throat earlier. I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately.”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Steve says. He’s so kind it hurts. “Everybody has days like that, me included. Apology accepted, okay?”

Peter smiles. “Thanks. Steve.”

It takes a while for him to get Tony alone, but Peter figures that he owes the man a more in-depth apology, one he’d rather give without the other eyes of the Avengers on them. Tony seems to know what Peter is getting at, taking his time wiping down the counter (even though there are people who do that for him) and lingering. Bucky is the last one left, watching Peter with muted, angry eyes. Protective. Tony brushes the super soldier off, waving him away.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says. His mouth is dry, his throat begs him to swallow but there’s no spit in his mouth. His knees are shaking. “I’m so sorry. For the glass, and for—for everything after. Nobody should treat you like that.”

“Don’t sweat it, kid,” Tony says. His smile is easy and charming, cheeks fuller than usual with the way he is putting on weight in anticipation of his heat. Sometimes when Peter blinks, he still sees how Tony looked after the un-Dusting, thin and tired and scared half-to-death. But this Tony is an entirely different man, and all the more handsome for it. This morning, he isn’t wearing his glasses, and his eyes are so sleepy-sated. He’s still in sweatpants, and the feet poking from beneath the pant legs are bare, fine boned. So fucking cute. “Is there something bothering you? Some of the others have came to me with concerns. You’re acting out. Teenage rebellion finally catching up with you? Gonna slam some doors, tell me you hate me, vandalize public property?”

“I could never hate you, Mr. Stark,” Peter says. He can’t say those words without his throat clenching, voice dropping. Tony’s chest expands in a deep silent breath and the look he gives Peter is—strange.

He claps Peter on the shoulder, a brief burning touch, and then is moving away. “Love that for me, kid. I’ll see you—around.”

He disappears. Peter finds himself sniffing the air, but there is nothing except the lingering scent of breakfast foods. What else he was expecting, he doesn’t know.

-

“J.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Get me some new biometrics on our Spider-Kid. Be subtle about it, too.”

“The human rights protocols that Ms. Potts demanded you install require me to inform you that performing any medical testing on an unaware subject is a direct violation of—”

“Yeah, yeah, skip reading me the riot act, J. I’m a bad, bad man. Get me those results ASAP, got it?”

“Performing them now, sir.”

-

Sundays are reserved for training, the only kind of worship most of the Avengers perform. At dawn, Peter is down in the gymnasium, wearing joggers and a clingy t-shirt. Today is supposed to be most perfunctory for him considering how hard he’s been pushing himself this week (harder than usual, maybe, he thinks, but it helps burn off some of the extra energy that has been blooming under his skin, making him itch). While the other Avengers practice hand-to-hand combat, he’ll probably be running on the treadmills.

Tony is there only for show, dressed in loungewear and drinking copious amounts of coffee. These days, he’s taking it with so much sugar and creamer that Peter can smell it on him even hours later, so sweet it makes his teeth ache. He’s only a week away from his heat, but the pheromones he’s producing make him more susceptible to physical attacks. Since these exercises are just for practice and not to hurt, he is sitting out.

“Hey, kid,” Tony mumbles, still sounding as tired as Peter feels. “You look dead on your feet. Coffee?”

He holds out his own mug. Peter hates coffee, but his body moves without consulting his higher faculties, reaching out to take the steaming cup. It actually doesn’t taste bad. Actually, it tastes pretty good—just how he imagines the inside of Tony’s mouth would taste, warm and so sweet and—

“Peter,” Tony asks. “What are you doing?”

Peter freezes—from where he is dragging his tongue along the rim of the cup, laving it over where Tony had his own mouth. His mouth goes dry, the taste of coffee turning sour in his mouth. He pulls the mug away from his mouth so quickly that he almost sloshes some out onto his trembling hands. Tony barely manages to grab the cup in time, looking much more alert (and frankly, a little alarmed).

“I—I have no idea. I’m sorry.”

“That’s—okay. It’s okay. It’s good stuff.”

Peter’s eyes go half lidded. “Yeah it is.”

Then (and Peter will never forget this, not as long as he lives. If he were in a terrible accident tomorrow that stole all of his memories, he’s sure that this one would still remain, burned in his brain), Tony puts the cup to his mouth and takes a long drink, mouth against where Peter’s tongue had trailed. All the blood in Peter’s body goes south. He feels electrocuted. A hand reaches out—his, that’s my hand, he thinks, though it’s so far away—and he presses his palm flat against Tony’s forehead, soft wisps of hair under his fingers, warm skin against his own. A shudder goes through him, and by the time he has dragged his wrist across Tony’s temple and down the side of his neck, stubble rasping against him, Peter is downright trembling, teeth clenched tight.

Tony sits like a statue under his touch, eyes wide as moons, all the blood drained from his face, and when Peter reaches the scent gland in his neck, he melts. He goes lax.

“Peter.”

When Peter turns, his teeth are clenched, lips pulled back. Captain America is standing there, and Peter can smell him, acrid.

“Stay back,” Peter barks.

“Is he—?” Natasha asks in the background, her voice high and soft with confusion.

Sam grabs her arm gently, pulling her away. “Presenting.”

There is a scuffle further away in the room, Clint holding back a trembling Bucky who is trying to get to his mate—but they are beta and omega, lesser threats. Peter pays them no mind.

Steve puts both of his hands up, the picture of calm, collected reassurance. “I’m not going to hurt you, Pete.”

“I’ll hurt you, old man,” Peter says. His voice isn’t his own, deeper and darker and scared—scared of this man, this Alpha. Peter’s omega is near and vulnerable, almost in heat. What other purpose could Steve have here except to try and separate them, try to take the omega for his own. That will never happen. His spine straightens. He is a head shorter and more than the other man, but they have fought before. Peter can take him. “Back. Off.”

Fingers wrap around Peter’s wrist, pulling it gently from his omega’s neck, and while Peter doesn’t want to take his eyes off of this dangerous alpha (no matter how non-threatening he looks), his omega is beckoning him. Peter turns and—it’s Tony. Tony. Tony.

Peter snatches his wrist back, all of his sanity coming back like cold water being poured over his head. The man is watching him, cautious, and the air is scented with fear and anxiety. This omega doesn’t need that, not so close to his heat—but this isn’t just an omega, this is Tony. Tony Stark. And here Peter is, rubbing himself all over the man like some sort of barbarian.

“Oh my god,” Peter slurs, stumbling backwards, wrist to his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

“Peter,” Tony says. His mouth stays open but no other words come out: a true feat, for Tony to be at a loss for words. It gives Peter enough time to turn tail and run, no tact, just sprinting from the gym. The elevator is already opening—thank you, Jarvis—and Peter takes it directly up to the Avengers floor where he locks himself in his room and doesn’t exit for the rest of the day.

-

“I’ve rerun the scans twice now, sir. Peter Parker is an alpha. The blood work Doctor Banner performed on him this afternoon confirms it.”

“How, J? Alphas present at 14, 15—16 at the latest. Peter is eighteen years old. How did he go from beta to alpha overnight?”

“If I had to venture a guess, I would say that his altered DNA state has something to do with the late presentation. Some animalistic instincts are only triggered in the face of more base situations. More than likely, he has been an alpha all along, but until a suitable mate presented itself, his secondary gender remained dormant.”

“Are you saying I’m the suitable mate in this prime-time drama scenario?”

“I’ve never known you to sound so unhappy with a compliment, sir. Or are you fishing for more? I assure you that your hormone levels are ideal for your age, you are still fertile, and judging by the conversations I’ve overheard between Mr. Parker and his friends, he’s had romantic feelings for you for years, now.”

“Jesus, J! What happened to your privacy protocols?”

“Oh, am I not still ignoring those? My apologies, sir. In that case, Mr. Parker never talks about you at all, and they most certainly do not refer to you as Iron Daddy.”

“I swear to God JARVIS, I will wipe your programming and turn you into a glorified pocket planner—”

“If I have to overhear the phrase Iron Daddy one more time, I might be agreeable to it, sir.”

-

For the next few days, Peter moves around the tower like a ghost. Before he leaves any room, he asks JARVIS who is in the next one. That allows him to get from place to place without running in to Tony. It isn’t safe for Peter to be around him anymore—not after Peter practically assaulted him in front of the other Avengers. In a few days, Peter’s hormones will stabilize and then he’ll be more in control of himself.

Until then?

He deals. Alone. Trying to come to terms with his new secondary gender is more difficult than he expected. When he was younger, it was everyone’s dream to be an alpha or omega. Those genders were much rarer, sensationalized in the movies and books. Omegas and alphas could find True Love with each other. They had senses like super humans, exuding pheromones, being able to scent the air and tell a person’s mood.

Betas were average. Normal. Maybe he wanted to be an alpha or omega, but a part of him always suspected he would be a beta. When the years he should have presented in passed, he accepted it. Betas weren’t so bad, May told him. At least they didn’t have to deal with the mess of heats or ruts, they weren’t beholden to their biology.

Now, everything has changed.

Just the thought of the affect Tony had on him makes his whole face go red. God, how embarrassing. He practically rubbed himself all over the man, no better than an animal. Mr. Stark deserved better than that. He needed a mature partner, a mate who could keep their head even in the face of his hormones. They had words for alphas like Peter, ones who couldn’t control themselves—pups. Knotheads. It makes him burn with shame.

Some of the other Avengers come by to talk with him. Sam, Natasha, their neutral beta scents comforting. He spends some time with Bruce, an omega who used suppressants to neutralize his scent. Steve stays away, much to Peter’s thanks and shame. And Tony, too. To Peter’s complete agony. Sometimes he catches remnants of the man’s scent, and he has to struggle not to rub his face against the couch cushions, to scent them himself. What will his omega think, when he catches his alpha’s scent—only no. Tony isn’t his omega.

And Peter isn’t his alpha.

-

They let him meet Steve again first. The alpha hasn’t change physically, but it feels like Peter is seeing him through a whole new set of eyes. He smells of petrichor in the city, not very appealing. But alpha scents aren’t meant to appeal to other alphas. Does Tony like this smell, Peter wonders? When they hug, does Tony nuzzle into that thick chest and scent him?

The thought doesn’t fill Peter with the same rage it did a few days ago. Instead, it makes him sad.

“Hi Captain Rogers,” Peter says. “How are you?”

Steve smiles. “I’m great, Pete. It’s Steve, remember? Still Steve.”

Peter tries to smile back. “Steve.”

When Peter and Captain Rogers both come out of his room, the only other Avengers around are Natasha and Tony. Instinct has him inhaling—and God, Tony smells as good as Peter remembers. Coffee must be in his blood, sweet with creamer and raw sugar that would crunch under Peter’s molars and dissolve on his tongue. It’d be a dream to taste that scent from the source.

Peter shakes himself out of it. Those are the kinds of thoughts that got him in trouble in the first place. He can feel how tense the room is while he carefully approaches the omega. In Tony’s benefit, he looks relaxed, lounging on the sofa. In this position, his gently rounded stomach is clear underneath his band t-shirt and it makes Peter’s mouth water. He wills away his boner—because now, alphas like Steve and omegas like Tony will be able to smell his arousal.

“Hey Mr. Stark,” Peter says in a soft, cracking voice. “A-Are you okay?”

Tony smiles, gentle, so tender. “Peachy, kid. Just peachy.”

-

Tony’s body starts purging three days before his heat, and everyone in the tower knows it. Peter knows too, and not just because he can smell it, ripening like strawberries in sugar, but because Tony stops eating altogether. Mealtimes he spends pushing food around his plate, forcing himself to sip at his sweating glass of ice water. His body is clearing itself out, priming itself for mating. Bruce encourages him to eat what he can, but Tony just snaps at his mothering, face green. No one needs to openly state that this pre-heat seems worse than usual.

It hurts to see Tony not eating, but Peter sits on his hands and bites his fucking tongue and turns away and doesn’t say a thing because it isn’t his fucking business to command the omega. Tony is more than his designation. He’s a fucking human being, and Peter is going to respect him and his wishes, even if he’d rather see the man stuff himself, belly rounded, preferably with Peter’s—

“Bathroom,” Peter mutters, standing jerkily from the table. No one notices his quick escape. In the small, tiled room, his own scent rebounds off the walls and suffocates him, arousal, sharp, pining, sickly. Peter splashes cool water over his face, resolute in his decision not to jerk off. He hasn’t cum since before his presentation, is too afraid of how it might be different, too afraid of the knot that is likely to bloom at the base of his cock (which has grown, to Peter’s horror and delight).

Once he feels less likely to pop a boner at the dinner table, he flushes perfunctorily and leaves the bathroom—only to run directly into Tony who pushes past him.

“Sorry kid, got to yack,” he mutters. But then everything about him freezes. Peter sees his own scent, concentrated from his time in the bathroom as it washes over the omega. Tony shudders, eyes rolling. The sound that leaves his mouth can be described as nothing short of a whimper. The green tinge of nausea is replaced with the flush of his own arousal, and Peter can smell it, so good that it hurts, makes him harder than he’s ever been in his life, and this is his omega, his omega who is approaching heat and needs him—

But he is more than that to Peter, too.

Using all his restraint, Peter reaches out for the bathroom door handle and slams the door shut. He hears the soft thud of Tony’s body on the other side, like he has slumped against it. A low groan, muted by the oak.

Peter turns and goes to his room without an explanation, dinner plate still half-full.

-

“JARVIS…”

“I’m here, sir.”

“Protocol Fuck or Die. Who is on my consent list?”

“Just Captain Rogers, sir.”

“Add Peter.”

“Shall I alert him—”

“No—just. I doubt my heat will be bad enough to require an alpha’s—ah—special support, but. Better safe than sorry.”

“As you wish, sir.”

“Oh, and J? Let’s go ahead and make an addendum…”

-

Less than two days later, Tony leaves his bedroom on the Avengers’ floor and goes up to the penthouse. The door locks behind him, and Peter comforts himself with that fact. The man is safe. No one can get in without JARVIS’s say so, and the AI values Tony’s safety above all else. Even if he suffers while he’s there (and that thought alone makes Peter ache in his chest, desperate to help), at least he is safe.

Two days in, a situation across the country calls for some of the Avengers, and Steve, Bucky, Nat and Clint all pack up to head out. They don’t ask Peter to come with them, and the young alpha doesn’t offer—though he hardly knows why. Nat tucks him under her arm and presses a kiss to his forehead when he wishes them safe travels, and please let me know if you need backup.

She smiles, soft. “I think you’re needed here, Pete.”

Peter has no idea what to make of that, and no idea how right she is.

-

“Mister Parker.”

Peter wakes from a restless sleep, sitting straight up in his bed. The room is absolutely dark—the only way he can sleep with his sensitivity issues—but Peter knows that the voice didn’t come from anyone in the room. It came from above. Heart in his throat, he croaks out an affirmation, fearing the worst. Something has gone wrong on the mission with Steve and the others. They are hurt, or worse, dead. Maybe there’s another emergency, this time in New York, and Peter and Sam and Bruce will have to deal with it alone—

“I need you to go directly to the penthouse, and with haste.”

“Penthouse? That’s—that’s off limits. Mr. Stark—”

“Mister Stark’s temperature is reaching dangerous levels, and he is no longer responding to my questions. He requires immediate attention. Do not bother dressing—go straight there.”

Peter rolls out of bed. This is worse than the Avengers being hurt. So much worse. His hands shake as he leaves his room wearing nothing but boxer shorts (do not bother dressing or not, Peter wasn’t going to walk around naked). The lounge is empty and ghostly, moonlight streaming in from the windows and turning every shadow into a monster. Peter has bigger fears now, though.

“It’s his heat?”

“Yes—”

“—and what exactly—I mean, what do you want me to do about it?”

“Now is not the time for me to give you the birds and the bees talk, Mister Parker—”

Peter blanches. The elevator is waiting for him as he steps inside, feels the pull of gravity as he quickly ascends, his hears popping at the change in altitude. “JARVIS, you don’t understand—Mr. Stark, h-he can’t consent during a heat. I would be—it would be—”

“You have his consent. Based on protocol Fuck or Die—”

“I’m sorry what?”

“It’s not uncommon for older omegas to suffer serious health issues while suffering through heats alone and unsuppressed. In the event that an alpha is absolutely required, Mister Stark has a list of preapproved alphas who have his complete consent to bond with him. On such a list is Captain Rogers and, as of earlier this week, yourself.”

Peter gapes. His head spins. Mr. Stark—lists of consent—Peter?

“If it makes you feel better,” JARVIS says. “Had Captain Rogers been here, I would have asked him first.”

The elevator opens, and Peter steps out into the hallway that leads to the penthouse. His stomach is in knots, a tangle of Medusa’s snakes that wriggle and threaten to turn him to stone. His knees are shaking, knocking together in fear that is so potent it’s comical. This is his greatest dream come true (though certainly not happening in the way he had anticipated) but suddenly it is his deepest fear.

“No offense, Mr. JARVIS, but in what world would that make me feel better?” Peter asks, his sweating palm on the doorknob to the penthouse.

“We can debate it another time when Mister Stark isn’t at risk of a febrile seizure.”

The door clicks, lock opening. Steeling himself, Peter opens the door and steps inside.

-

The smell intense: cinnamon rolls, ground coffee beans, caramel sauce so sweet it’s just on the verge of burning. It is right out of Peter’s wet dreams, his cock rushing to fill itself so that it will be useful to the omega in need. The penthouse is a mess when Peter scans it: furniture knocked over, a glass of water shattered on the tiles of the foyer, though the water has nearly evaporated now. Everything is quiet and still. It should be eerie.

But suddenly it isn’t. A change comes over him, a rush of hormones that not only fill his cock but clear his head. It’s like everything he sees is in greater detail, sharp focus, all of his senses on high alert. There are no more nerves, and Peter is filled with the overwhelming confidence that he knows what he’s doing.

“The bedroom, Mister Parker. Quickly, please.”

Peter moves with purpose, ignoring his cock. The bedroom door is only cracked, and he reaches out with a firm hand to push it open the rest of the way.

Tony has taken up residence on the floor beside the bed. The sheets are dragged off of it as if Tony had struggled to pull himself up and lost the strength, choosing instead to curl up around his aching abdomen. Peter gathers all of the strength and calm inside of himself, works to exude it in his very scent (a thing he’s mostly unfamiliar with, but which is apparently a skill akin to wiggling his ears, which he can also do, thanks very much).

Naked, Peter is privy to every inch of tanned skin, the gentle smattering of hair on Tony’s legs, sparser at his thighs. There are no hairs on his chest thanks to the mass of scar tissue where the arc reactor used to be, smooth, pink skin that will never grow hair again. All his skin is covered in sweat, slick and glowing under the dim lights. Then, Tony’s eyes open, nostrils flaring. He turns his head towards where Peter stands in the doorway, teeth chattering from his fever, and the look on his face is pure relief.

“Alpha,” he says, stuttering through his chills.

Peter hushes him, kneeling down to drag the man into his arms. The omega groans in pain when he’s no longer curled around his aching stomach, but then buries his nose in Peter’s neck, hot breath brushing his skin and making goosebumps rise all over Peter. Tony sighs in relief, wrapping himself around the kneeling alpha. Peter can feel Tony’s cock—small, but hard and leaking—pressing against his hip. Pooled on the older man’s abdominals is cum, drying and tacky.

“I recommend a tepid shower, Mister Parker.”

“Start it,” Peter says through his teeth. He shifts up onto one knee, bracing himself so that he can support the larger man’s weight. Tony is mouth at his neck, hips rutting desperately. Peter puts a hand on the man’s lower back and guides him, encourages him, words pouring out of his mouth that he can barely hear over the blood rushing in his ears. “Come on, Mr. Stark, please Mr. Stark, you need to cum. Can you cum like this? Will you try, for me? Now, Omega, now if you can at all—”

Tony shudders, cum splattering Peter’s bare stomach. It burns—every point of contact with the man burns, thanks to the fever.

“God,” Peter groans, throat convulsing. “That was amazing. So good, Mr. Stark, Jesus, that was incredible—”

In the bathroom, the shower is running, cool enough to not create any steam. Peter grits his teeth, hating cold showers, but knowing that his omega needs it. A fever isn’t good for his omega’s brain, and at least the water isn’t cold. That might shock Tony’s system and do more harm than good. Without even stopping to shuck his boxers, Peter slides open the glass shower door and ushers them both inside. When the spray hits him, the omega whines, shrinking away.

“Stay,” Peter says firmly. Tony goes slack, suggestible.

He leaves the front of Tony’s body in the cool spray and stands on his toes to bury his nose in the omega’s neck, scenting him, scraping together every good warm safe happy feeling inside of himself. Tony’s head goes lax, leaning back, water dripping down his throat. The young alpha licks a line up his throat and to the shell of his ear. Such a thing would be weird any other time, but now it’s like there’s a part inside of him that urges him to do it, to leave his mouth on the man and never lift it.

“Peter?” he slurs.

Peter jolts. If Tony is more conscious and aware, that seems like a promising sign. “JARVIS called for me. You’re safe, Mr. Stark,” he says. “I promise.”

Tony smiles, a soft breath coming out almost like a laugh. “I know,” he murmurs. “Jesus, kid, I’m cold.”

“You’re feverish,” Peter says. “JARVIS? Can you tell Mr. Stark’s temperature?”

“It is a toasty 101.7 degrees Fahrenheit, Mister Parker, which is an improvement. I believe a decent bonding session would have a similar therapeutic effect, if the shower isn’t comfortable. And sir, may I say that it’s nice to see you stringing together a full sentence.”

Tony snorts. His voice is weak, but no less snarky. “Thanks, J. Can we get out, Pete? I haven’t taken cold showers since I was fifteen years old.”

“If we get out,” Peter says. “We’ll have to—to bond.”

“Is that—you don’t want that?”

“I do, God, Jesus, yes I do—”

Now Tony does laugh, even as his eyes slip closed in exhaustion. It is likely that without proper care, he has barely slept since his heat started in earnest three days ago. The instincts inside of Peter stir: his omega needs fucked and then he needs rest.

As soon as the cool water is off, Tony is back to stumbling, doubled over in pain, an arm curled around his tender midsection. The cramps come and go while Peter does his best to dry them off, but their hair is still dripping when he can’t take the sounds of pain anymore and guides Tony back to the bedroom. There is nothing on the bed but a fitted sheet, soft as silk, and Tony crawls onto it without prompting.

He sinks immediately into lordosis, ass up, spine curved as he presents himself, forehead pressed to the bed and chest doing its best to follow. This is pornography come to life, Peter thinks. He can see Tony’s hole, wet and dripping. Between his legs are his balls, red and aching, but it’s that hole that makes his fingers ache, that has him reaching out to press a thumb against the rim.

Tony chokes, hips jerking backwards until Peter sinks in to the first knuckle. Tony is loose and pliant, perfect for taking an alpha’s cock and knot.

“Please,” Tony groans into the mattress, shaking all over. “’t hurts, Pete. Please. Inside.”

Peter pulls his thumb free, kneels up onto the bed to shuffle closer, and then sinks two gentle fingers in, slow until they’re swallowed to the hilt. He has to close his eyes, cock aching, knot already throbbing at the base. Inside, Tony is like liquid silk, hot and wet and clinging to his fingers, the internal muscles squeezing and desperate for more to hold on to. The noise Tony lets out is pure sex, a long moan that ends higher and breathier than he’s ever heard the man.

Slowly, Peter pulls his fingers out to the tip—and god, the slide, the wet friction is just as intoxicating, eyes rolling in his skull, blinded to everything but the desperate omega in front of him—before pressing back in. He twists them, circles his hands, crooks them until he finds that spot, the rough bump inside. Tony keens, body spasming as his fists clench at the sheets, his cock spurting. Around his fingers, Tony’s ass flutters. But he needs more. Peter knows.

Soaked boxers abandoned in the bathroom, Peter’s cock is free to dribble and ache, only inches from where it longs to harbor. Brief anxiety has his hand trembling when he reaches down to run a gentle fist from tip down to root. This is the first time he’s touched his cock since he presented—but it feels the same really. Except for the base, where there is a bump, so sensitive that he whines when he runs a curious thumb over it. God, how will that feel inside Tony? Peter can’t even imagine.

Withdrawing his fingers, the omega cries out, hips jerking backwards, desperate to keep the connection. Peter soothes him with a hand on his back, urging him to relax back into the bedspread while Peter kneels up behind him. Their similar heights make this easy—all the important bits are at the perfect levels.

Taking a deep breath, Peter guides the head of his cock to the wet hole. The first touch has him whining, shaking, and if it weren’t for the firm hand on Tony’s back, the omega would likely have taken him to the root by now with the way he is thrusting back, trying to fuck himself on the tip alone. It’s now or never, Peter tells himself. Pressing forward, he sinks in until he can’t anymore. It takes every bit of restraint not to cum immediately, popping his knot in the tightest, wettest, most pleasurable heat he’s ever known. Beneath him, Tony sounds like he’s dying in the best way, groaning.

“Please, alpha, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me—”

Everything in him wants to give this man what he needs, so with singular focus, Peter pulls back his hips and lets them snap forward. Tony howls, his elbows bending so that he can grab fistfuls of his hair and pull. Peter lets his instincts do the work, trusts his body to know what is best for himself and his omega, fucking into that tight heat in desperation. The best part of every thrust is bottoming out, the brief pressure of Tony’s fluttering rim around Peter’s blossoming knot, so sensitive it makes him shiver.

“God, Mr. Stark,” Peter pants. The words are torn from his chest: “My omega.”

“Yes, yes, yours, take it, take me,” Tony says, every word punctuated by a hitch in his breath as Peter thrusts in. “Alpha—let me cum, please—”

“Yes,” Peter groans. “You need it, please. Please cum for me.”

Tony cries out, entire body stiffening and going still beneath him—every part of him except for his small cock, spurting weakly and the tight heat around Peter’s cock that flutters, squeezing, choking the life out of him. Peter desperately wants to bring Tony to another orgasm, figuring that the better sated he is, the quicker his fever will fall. But the sounds, the smells, the unbearable pressure around his cock is too much. He can feel it building inside him, balls tightening, knot beginning to swell. There’s no way he can stop it—and Tony needs this too. Needs a knot, for his body to fight the biological havoc his hormones are wreaking on it.

So Peter chases it, fucking Tony right through his orgasm. Every time the knot catches on the rim, Peter thinks this is it, this is it, there’s no way I can push into him, or there’s no way I can pull it out of him, but he does, both of their bodies capable of so much more than he ever knew. Then it hits. Peter shoves the knot past the rim, shrieking as his balls spasm, cum spurting into the omega. Beneath him, Tony shouts something unintelligible, and maybe he cums again, but Peter can’t tell. The world goes white. Nothing exists except for the tight channel around his cock, the rim that’s squeezing his knot, coaxing more and more cum from him.

But one thought comes, strikes him like a lightning bolt straight from Thor’s hammer: bite. His teeth ache down to the roots with as tightly as he clenches them together, mouth watering, desperate to clamp his jaws on that raised spot on Tony’s neck. Break skin. Mate. The urge becomes overwhelming, no way that he can stop it—but instead he turns and bites into the meat of his bicep, breaking skin until blood floods his mouth.

When it finally ends, they are stuck together. Shaking from exertion, Peter still reaches out to help Tony collapse properly onto the bed, then he guides them both onto their sides, his stomach pressed flush against Tony’s back. The omega is shaking all over, so Peter runs his hands over every bit of skin he can, murmuring words of praise, God Mr. Stark, you’re perfect. That was the most amazing thing, thank you so much, thank you.

By the time his knot deflates enough for him to pull out without hurting Tony (and it’s an inordinate amount of time later, Peter things, probably considering it was his first ever knot popped), the bite on his arm has healed. He must still look like a sight, he thinks, mouth covered in flaking, dried blood. Tony is soft and sated when he rolls onto his back, and the only indication he gives that the blood on Peter startles him is a few gentle blinks, like his eyes are blurry and he needs to clear them.

“I almost bit you,” Peter says. “I’m so sorry.”

Tony smiles, eyes already slipping closed. He worms one arm beneath the pillow under his head and lets his eyes shut completely. “Go ahead,” he mumbles. “’m going t’ sleep now.”

Peter smooths the hair out of his face. His chest feels tight, full up with love and longing and absolute adoration. This has been beyond Peter’s wildest dreams: mating Tony, bonding with him for good and not just for now? That is something that Peter can’t even let himself imagine. It’s a pipe dream, a hazy, unclear fantasy. Beside him, Tony is already asleep. The man snores—wait until Ned finds out.

“Mister Stark’s temperature is returning to normal boundaries, I am happy to report.”

Peter breathes a sigh of relief. He barely knew how much tension was in him until he heard those words, until he knew that Tony would be okay. His body relaxes, experiencing a peace he has never before known. Here, with this man he loves more than anything, knowing they are safe and that Tony is content. “Thank you, JARVIS. I’m glad you woke me.”

“As am I. Mister Parker, I believe there is one other matter that I must bring to your attention.”

“What is it?”

“It is another protocol that Mister Stark put in place. A list he created exclusively for you.”

-

It is a week later before Tony is well enough to leave his penthouse. The man has lost all the weight he put on and more, even as Peter’s constant insistence that he eat whenever he could stomach it. Despite the copious amounts on incredible sex they shared, Peter can’t help but be glad that Tony’s heats only come twice a year. Any more than that might genuinely kill the man, his legs shaking, leaning on Peter as they enter the Avengers living area.

General cries of greeting and joy rise up around the floor. Steve pulls the man into a hug before he thinks otherwise, his eyes finding Peter’s over the omega’s shoulder. But Peter isn’t jealous, just watches with a happy, soft smile. He sees the exact moment that Steve breathes in and smells the change in the omega’s scent, and Peter knows the look on his face must be that of the sorest winner, smug, and unbearably in love.

Steve pulls back and gently tugs at the collar of Tony’s shirt, exposing just the smallest hint of the healing mating bite. Peter’s own has already healed.

Bucky can’t help but frown from where he stands behind Steve. His eyes flash hot like coals, accusatory, pinning Peter in place. “You mated him? He was in heat.”

Tony waves a hand. “We had a sort of—withstanding agreement. Didn’t we, J?”

“That you did, sir. I would not let anything untoward happen to Mister Stark under my watch.”

“Hear that?” Tony asks, stalking to the refrigerator. “I have protocols in place for every possible sequence of events, and giving hot young alphas the consent to mate me for life is a very advantageous outcome, if I do say so myself. Hey—fruit goes on the top shelf, heathens, not in the drawer. I’m out of commission for two weeks and this is what happens—”

“You have, what, procedures in place? For every possible sequence of events?” Bucky asks, his arms crossed.

Tony reappears from the refrigerator, a take-out contained in his hands. He cracks it open, Styrofoam screeching, to appraise the insides. Whatever is there must please him, because he bumps the door closed with one hip and goes for a fork. “Huh?” he asks, scooping out strands of angel hair pasta. “Oh. Yeah—I do. By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.”

“Who said that?” Natasha asks. “Was that Franklin?”

“What, it wasn’t me?” Tony asks.

“Wait, I want to hear more about these procedures, especially any that involve me,” Bucky asks. They all gravitate around the counter, leaning against the marble. Peter can’t help but feel that the turmoil of the last month has ended and now things are—not normal. But better than normal. His family, his pack, they are stronger than ever.

“I could tell you, snowflake,” Tony says around a mouth of pasta. “But then I’d have to kill you.”

-

tag list: (and I know I’m missing so many of you right now, I’m sorry, I’ll work on it, feel free to continue to let me know if you want to be tagged or would rather not be. @shinycreatoroafbonk @sadbumblingmess @parkerslutt @css1992 @starkerotic @rogerthat-captain @prettyboy-parker @onemadeofglass @kirtthana @deliciousflapbanditfarm @kiaorauniverse @loki-iwanttobeking @parleroumourirr @bizzlepotter @von--gelmini 

[twokinkybeans]

Jar Of Dirt Chapter 11: Hot Red [Starker Fanfiction NSFW/18+]

Kink/Sexual Warnings: Daddy Kink, Praise Kink, Lingerie, Lipstick/Gloss, Sex Toys, Teasing, Anal, Slight Exhibitionism Other Warnings: None

All Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11 . . . Masterpost (More to come!) 

---

Chapter 11: Hot Red Peter’s humming happily as he stuffs his backpack with everything he might need this weekend. The sweet Italian tune has been stuck in his head ever since they got back from the island last weekend. Ned’s sitting on Peter’s bed, his back propped against the wall. Ned doesn’t go home every single weekend and he always complains how he wants Peter to stay as well. He doesn’t like how quiet it is without him there. 

Next weekend, he’d promised his best friend. Next weekend he’ll skip out on his boyfriend to stay the weekend with Ned to go out partying, studying together, maybe some gaming. It’s been too long since he’s done that. “Pete?” “Hmmm?” “You actually love him. Don’t you?” Ned’s voice is so serious it has Peter stop pushing his sweatpants into the already fully stuffed bag. He looks at the other boy, slowly nodding. “I… I do? Why?” Ned shrugs. “At first I figured it might just be some,” Ned waves his hands into the air, “-some power trip thing or whatever. Just fucking, y’know? Kinda like your Poe crush,” The other student sighs grinning at the memory and Peter looks down trying to hide his blush. Yes, Dameron had starred in many of his late teenage fantasies - the poster still very much taped to the wall next to his Tony Stark one. “Nevermind, I just wanted to tell you how happy I am for you, dude.” “Thanks, man,” Peter answers softly, a warm feeling spreading in his chest as he pushes the Star Wars comment out of his head. He’s happy to hear that his best friend is actively accepting his relationship. It’s not like he hadn’t noticed Ned’s confused expression when he first told him. He understood that. No one really got it in the beginning. How could a rich, famous man like Tony Stark ever want more than just sex from an awkward college kid like himself? It’d seemed highly unlikely. Even Peter had had his doubts the first few weeks. However, over the course of their time together, it’d become very clear that this was so much more. With every passing day, Peter had more trouble remembering what it’d been like to be single. “That means a lot.”

“You should ask him over next weekend.” “What?” Peter’s eyes widen and he snorts - an image in his head showing him Tony sitting on his bed, eating chips and gaming with them. “You can’t be serious.” “I am. I’m your best friend , he’s your boyfriend or whatever. You’ve been hanging out in his luxurious wealth for whoever knows how long. Don’t you think it’s time for him to come spend time in our world?” Peter’s quiet for a moment. Ned might actually be onto something here. Peter enjoys every single minute he spends at Tony’s place, but it’s a very different life. Sometimes, it almost feels as if he’s living two separate lives. He’s not very secretive about either one of them, but they’re not yet… Merging.   “Are you sure?” Ned nods happily, handing him his phone charger. Peter scrunches his nose, not sure if it still fits in the backpack. He decides to lose a few of his shirts and then pulls the zipper down, sighing happily. “Alright, I’ll ask him.” “Sick.”

-

Peter’s nervous to ask Tony. So he waits. For now. He’ll ask when the moment’s right. Tony’s sauntering around the kitchen, trying to cook for the both of them. Peter’s seated on the barstool, going over his notes once more. He has to give a presentation next Monday and he decided to practice as often as possible this weekend. Tony points at him with the big kitchen knife as Peter mumbles something about the way vortices would’ve scattered superfluid spacetime according to professor Mazur. “That theory, kid, has not exactly been proven true or false yet.” “I know,” Peter mumbles, “-we don’t have to talk about reliability. It’s about the way theories arise and how they influence other ones.” “That sounds… Philosophic.” “Yup, it is. It’s fun though, we get to explore so many theories like this! Do you know just how many possibilities there are, Mr. Stark? If, for example, Mazur’s theory would actually be true, okay? Do you see how that influences our work as Avengers?” Peter’s eyes are wide and passionate and it has Tony smile proudly. “You mean how it’d influence the expansion of the universe?” “Exactly!” “Well, when you finish this project, tell me about your conclusion.” “Oh, I will.”

Peter scribbles down a basic overview of how to set up the presentation itself and puts his books down when Tony carefully places two plates on the countertop. Peter raises his eyebrows as he lifts up to watch what Tony’s made. “Wow, that actually looks like food,” he grins and Tony waves the comment off. “Hush, kid, I can only have so many talents.” Peter snorts at the comment and pulls the plate towards him, grabbing the cutlery with his other hand and diving right in. It’s a simple pasta made with frozen spinach and pesto and smoked salmon and Peter loves it. “I mean it, though. You’re improving. This is great,” Peter says before stuffing his mouth with yet another spoonful. “Thanks, sweetness.”

-

“Soooo,” Tony says nonchalantly, his legs propped up on the coffee table. “-I’ve got an idea.” “Oh?” “Hmmm, why don’t you get the jar out? I added two new notes this week.” Peter stares at Tony’s face. God. He’s serious. Peter’s cheeks flush at the idea of Tony wanting to try even more stuff with him. So far, they’ve had so much fun already. His head’s nearly spinning at the idea of their being so many more things they can still explore. “Still in the lab?” “Uh-huh.” “Alright. Don’t move,” Peter grins. He doesn’t know why he’s feeling so energetic today, but he is, so he jumps up and takes the stairs down to the lab instead of the elevator. Too giddy to stand still. He waves at Dum-E before grabbing the jar. Obviously, he knows the robot doesn’t have feelings, but sometimes it feels like he does and Peter doesn’t want to be disrespectful just in case. Heck, F.R.I.D.A.Y. understands freaking sarcasm. Who knows what Dum-E responds to. Maybe Peter needs the robot one day, he better have Dum-E get used to him.

“Alright, I’ve got it!” Peter exclaims as he walks back into the living room. “I would’ve spanked you if you’d come in empty-handed,” Tony mutters growling, actually surprising himself and blushing at his words. He sends Peter a sheepish smile. “Oops, think I just gave one away.” “You want to spank me?” “Someday, yeah. Only if you want to, though.” Tony shrugs, trying to stay composed. But the dark, hungry look in his eyes is evident and it makes Peter hot all over. He smiles at him. Tony doesn’t usually ‘slip’ whatever’s on his mind. Meaning he’s starting to feel comfortable around Peter and it has the boy’s heart flutter. He can’t shake the feeling that maybe they’re getting to a point where they won’t necessarily need the jar to talk about their fantasies anymore. The thought alone makes his groin tingle. “I’ll think about it, daddy.” Meaning: I’m willing to try. “We’ll see about it once we pick it from the jar, alright?” Tony nods slowly, his lips curling into a smirk as he catches upon Peter’s thoughts. And excitement. “Perfect.”

Peter sits down on the couch next to Tony, the jar resting in his lap. He’s not exactly sure who picked the last time. Well, Dum-E did obviously, but before that. He doesn’t remember. It doesn’t necessarily matter either, so he takes the lid off and sticks it out to Tony. The older man smiles, reaching in and grabbing a note right away. No cheating. No evading. He takes his hand out again and carefully unfolds the piece of paper while Peter puts the jar down Tony gasps and Peter squeezes his lips together anxiously. Yes, he’s getting more comfortable too, but that doesn’t mean that not knowing what’s coming up isn’t nerve-racking. “Peter, baby, we are such a perfect match,” Tony whispers, voice hoarse as he turns the note around.

Lingerie

“Lingerie,” the boy whispers, blushing and pursing his lips. Fuck. “It’s one of your own, Pete, why aren’t you happy?” Tony frowns, discarding the note and grabbing Peter’s hands in his own. His thumbs rubbing over the back of Peter’s hands gently. “Well…” Peter pauses and looks away, his face contorted as he tries to sort his thoughts. “I’m not sure if, uhm, this is the right time.” “Why not?” “I- eh…” Peter turns bright red. “I don’t have any lingerie. I-I was eyeing a set online but it’s expensive and with your birthday I couldn’t save enough to buy it, I’m still saving up, so-” “Peter.” Tony cocks an eyebrow, interrupting his boy. He tilts his head, taking a deep breath. He knows Peter doesn’t like to have conversations about Tony’s money but this situation calls for it. He looks at the black credit card that’s been laying on one of the bookshelves for weeks, waiting for Peter to pick it up still. Peter’s lip trembles, catching up on what Tony is trying to say, but it takes him a few seconds before the kid breathes out a shaky sigh and musters up the courage to ask his question. “Tony, uhm. Can we… Maybe go shopping together?”

“Yes,” comes Tony’s instant answer. Finally. He understands why Peter doesn’t want to spend Tony’s money. Why he wants to try to work through everything by himself. But this is lingerie. Not just lingerie, obviously, but very different than his ex who wanted to buy his own apartment within the first week of them being in a relationship. God. Red flag. A few sets of nice lace panties is nothing compared to the numbers on Tony’s bank account. He wouldn’t even notice. He wants to treat Peter. Perhaps the boy had been right all these weeks ago. “You’re such a Sugar Daddy, you know that right?” Well, better live up to it then. “I would love that, Peter. So much.” Peter gives him the cutest little smile and Tony groans happily. “You’re going to look amazing.” “You think so?” “Mhhmm, got hard just thinking about it.” Peter grins, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes when he sits upright and crawls into Tony’s lap. “Maybe, we can have some fun then? Shopping mall’s closed till tomorrow morning anyway.” “Hmm, c’mere, my sweet boy. Daddy wants to eat you out.”

-

When they get to the store, Peter’s so nervous. He stares at the Victoria’s Secret logo and gulps. “Are you sure we should do this, I’m a guy.” He whispers as he peeks inside the store. There’s literally only women in there. And a couple of bored boyfriends. If he walks in, everyone will know how odd he is. “What if there’s someone who recognizes us, Tony?” “Shh, it’ll be okay. I know it doesn’t seem that way, but you’re not the only male walking in here to buy something pretty for themselves. Believe me.” Peter looks inside again and sighs. He does want this. Not wanting to buy anything online. He wants to make sure it fits perfectly before spending Tony’s money. “Uhm. Mr. Stark?” “Yes, honeybunch?” Just as the Italian tune, the name stuck with them. “I- I think I want to go in alone? They won’t recognize me as easily, and… Then it’ll be a surprise for you?” Peter’s voice is nearly trembling and Tony gives him a gentle kiss on his forehead. He would’ve loved to be there, but he gets the reasoning so he gives Peter a slight nod. “I’ll go get myself a coffee then. You want some?” “N-Nah, I’m good. Thanks, Tony.” “Of course, now, go for it, sweetness. Can’t wait to see what you’ll choose.” Peter smiles at him, giving him a quick kiss before turning around and actually walking into the shop. He’s been to fucking space. Sure he can take on something as mundane as this. Something so mundane that some people can lose their shit about it, that is.

It’s a bit weird at first, walking in the shop, but soon enough he’s sorting through all the different shapes and colors. The soft, lacey fabrics sliding through his fingers. There’s so much and he has no clue where to start. “Peter Parker, is that you?” Peter squeezes his eyes shut. He recognizes that voice right away. He mouths a quick ‘fuck’ before turning around, trying to put a smile on his face. “Oh, uhm, hi, MJ!” “What are you doing here, loser,” she grins jokingly and walks up to hug him tightly. “Haven’t seen you in ages!” “N-no, yeah, uhm, y’know, just hanging around,” he stutters. “So good to see you!” MJ raises her eyebrows and looks at Peter’s hand, still lingering on one of the black lace panties. He quickly takes his hand back, but it’s clear she knows what he’s up to. She nods slightly, eyeing him carefully before continuing. “You need any help getting pretty for your man? I sure know my stuff.” Peter’s at a loss for words at her kindness. Her smirk is obvious, but her eyes are sweet and caring. Seeing her here makes him realize how much he missed hanging out with her. “That… Would be nice?” “Figured. All right. You like lace then?” She eyes his hips once more and skillfully rummages through all the different pieces before she makes a satisfied noise and picks one for him. “Think this should fit you just fine. You need stockings too?”

Half an hour later, MJ made him try out a bunch of different styles and types. Peter needed a little time to loosen up first, but, MJ is actually is an amazing help. She’d been right stating she knows her stuff on this. He ends up with three different panties, fishnet stockings, and a garter belt, because “Tony won’t be able to resist that. Believe me, pretty boy.” It all fits him perfectly and it has him buzzing with excitement. “I’m just gonna get what I need for myself,” MJ smiles, “-you go pay for these and I’ll meet you outside? I don’t need more than 5 minutes.” “Of course!” So that’s how Peter ends up in the line. He feels some of the customers stare at him but he tries his best to ignore it all. He’s checking the sales boxes to divert his attention and his gaze falls upon a box with all different types of fruit-flavored lip gloss. Fuck him. He grabs one quickly, not even paying attention to the flavor in the hopes that no one will see it.

“That’ll be $97,99, please.” Peter takes a deep breath as he swipes the black credit card, his credit card past the card reader and swallows when he sees the approval sign. It’s official. He just spent nearly a hundred dollars on lingerie and it feels strange and exhilarating. He’s never spent this much on something that’s not a necessity, let alone using someone else’s money. God. He felt bad enough asking May for a new backpack each time. But he needed those. This… This is for fun and he doesn’t know how to even grasp that this is his life now. He waits for MJ and smiles as they walk out of the store together. He wonders how they haven’t been hanging out anymore. Of course, they don’t live at the same campus, but they should meet more often. He’s missed her. "So, Parker, you want to grab a drink or what?” MJ grins. “Uhm, yeah! I’d love to, it’s just that Tony’s actually waiting for me at the coffee bar at the other side of the mall, so-” “Awesome, I’d love to meet your man. Let’s go!”

-

To Peter’s surprise, MJ and Tony got along so well that they spent the entire afternoon hanging out at the coffee bar until Tony got an urgent work-call from Mrs. Potts. “I told you that could wait ‘til tomorrow-” Peter eyes Tony, who’s trying to get out of work with a groan. The man sighs and rolls his eyes. “Sure, fine, I’ll get it done- give me two hours.” Peter’s mood immediately sours. He had different plans for them when they got home. He’s not sure if he could wait much longer. Tony hangs up and gets up from his spot, tugging at Peter’s sleeve. “Come on, honeybunch, let’s get you home.” MJ snorts. “Honeybunch?” Peter ducks his head, but follows anyway. “Yeah, I don’t know why that one, of all the nicknames he’s called me, stuck around.” “Car’s outside, kid, we gotta go.” The older man winks at MJ. “Nice to meet ya.” “Right!” Peter turns to MJ and brings his hands together. “Was great catching up! I’ll text you, ‘kay?” MJ smirks with her lips pressed on top of each other and nods. “Sure, honeybunch.” When Tony has walked out of the store, MJ shouts for Peter one last time. “Yo, Pete!” Peter pauses and looks at MJ curiously. She wiggles her eyebrows and uses her head to gesture at the bag in his hands, all while grinning wide. “Have fun.”

Two hours. Two hours, he said. They’re far into hour four now and Peter is done waiting. He’s been eyeing himself in the mirror all this time, working himself up, softly caressing the black lace of his panties. If Tony won’t come to him, he’s just going to go to Tony. Peter takes a deep breath and musters up the courage to step outside the bedroom. He feels pretty, that’s for sure. But all of this is new and still slightly embarrassing somehow. He’s covered, yet so bare. What he’s wearing was made to be stared at. Made to be ripped off. Fuck, he can’t wait for Tony to undress him. His cock is already straining against the thin fabric and when he catches his own reflection in the long hallway mirror from the corner of his eye, he pauses, silently repeating the word he absentmindedly described himself with before he realized it was him in the mirror, not someone else. Sexy.

Tony’s typing as fast as he can, Bruce Banner is on speaker. They’re bouncing ideas, concepts, problems, solutions, that were due yesterday. Why Tony’s feeling like a workaholic all of a sudden, he doesn’t know, but he’s in a flow right now that he can’t just get out of. Not without the right incentive at least. He doesn’t look up from his screen when he hears the door opening. Pete’s probably joining him with his homework like he usually does when Tony’s in his office. He silently hopes the boy is here to bring him a strong cup of coffee as well. A smile creeps on his face when, indeed, a cup of coffee is placed on the desk next to him, but it falters. Peter’s arms are bare. Wasn’t he wearing a long-sleeved shirt today? Tony grabs the cup of coffee and glances up for a second. He chokes on his sip when he sees Peter. Or, more specifically, what he’s wearing. Tony quickly has to put down the cup and coughs. “Tony? You alright?” Bruce asks. Tony cocks an eyebrow at Peter, who smiles down at him with a grin. “F-fine!” Tony chokes out. Lingerie. He can’t stop staring at his boy, black lace panties, garter belts, see-through stockings, fuck. Peter pushes out one hip and whispers. “I’ll go get you some water, Mr. Stark.” He turns around and walks back to the door, Tony’s eyes glued to his swaying ass. “Coffee’s too hot, isn’t it?” “Is Peter with you?” Bruce asks innocently. Tony coughs one more time before he collects himself, but his cock throbs in his pants when Peter closes the door with a wink. A fucking. Wink. Fuck. “Yeah, kid brought me some coffee, but we all know I can’t function like a normal human being so I choked.” Not a lie. He didn’t lie. Right.

During the rest of the phone call with Bruce, Tony was thoroughly distracted. Whatever workflow he had, it was gone, but he was far too deep into this conversation with Banner to just end it right then and there so he could go out and tell Peter what he thought of his little stunt. The boy hasn’t come back to bring him a glass of water yet and Tony both dreads and looks forward to the next time Peter walks in. Something in him tells him Peter will.

He was right.

Again, no knock. The boy just opens the door and saunters in like he owns the place. Tony’s eyes glide over Peter’s body and he swallows, noticing how dry his mouth has gotten. Soft. Pastel. Pink. The set is disgustingly adorable and the white-pink striped stockings go all the way to halfway his thighs. Tony lets out a shaky breath when he sees how hard Peter is. How the elastic is having a hard time containing his boy’s shaft. That- “Tony?” Bruce snaps the older man out of it. “You still with me?” “Yeah! Yeah, I am, it was a little late last night.” Tony forces himself to look back at his screen, ignoring how Peter takes a sip of the promised glass of water and places it on the desk, slowly pushing it in Tony’s direction. The boy is looking directly at him and Tony’s jaw clenches. He needs to control himself. Otherwise he’ll never get this done. “It’s late for you every night, Tones, you can tell me if I’m boring you.” “You’re not! I promise.” Tony clears his throat and aggressively waves at Peter to leave. “You know me. Scatterbrained. Got four tabs open to get everything done on time.” Bruce laughs. “Maybe if you plan better, you get your work done a bit longer before the deadlines.” “Livin’ on the edge,” Tony forces out as he eyes Peter once more.

Tony picks up the glass of water to take a sip, but notices a stain. He blinks a few times and then looks back up at Peter, who decided to take a seat on the desk, crossing his legs and rhythmically twisting his foot. “So- where were we?” Tony asks quietly, trying to get Bruce to fill time as he stares at Peter opening up a compact mirror to look at his lips, fixing his gloss. God. Fucking. Dammit. “Well, we-” “Bruce, do you have a second?” Banner scoffs a laugh. “Of course.” “Peter?” Tony asks sweetly. “Could you maybe go and grab the black box from the lab? It’s got a couple red x-es on it, easy to spot. I’m gonna need something that’s in there.” “You’re not in the lab?” Bruce asks. “Nope, but Peter’s on his way there now, isn’t he?” Peter nods slowly and steps off the desk. He smiles innocently as he steals some glances at Tony while pulling up the stockings, before making his way out the door.

By the time Peter comes back, Tony is in the final stages of his project with Bruce. However, the boy once again becomes a terrible distraction. Tony’s hands hover over the keyboard, shaking, as he stares Peter down. Hot red. The boy bought a hot red set. Tony scoffs and shakes his head while sucking at his teeth. “Bruce- I’ll call you back in a second.” Without waiting for Bruce’s reply, he ends the call and he stands up, hands resting on his desk, leaning over to eye Peter up and down. The boy has his head angled down, looking up through half lidded eyes. His fingers play with the hem of his panties while one knee is turned inwards, creating the most innocent look Tony’s ever seen. Yet, his eyes tell a whole different story.

“The more you do that, the longer it takes before you get what you want, you know that right?” Tony raises his eyebrows, giving Peter a condescending look. The boy immediately straightens his back. “Thought it’d make you… Finish quicker?” He smirks and Tony groans as he steps away from his seat. “Where’s the box?” Peter turns to look at the door, where the wooden black box rests on the ground. Tony rolls his stiff shoulders. “Go get it.” Peter hurries off, but seems to slow down with every step he takes. He starts swinging his hips more and Tony swears quietly. Instead of squatting to pick it up, the boy keeps his legs straight as he bends down, stretching his arms to lift the box. Tony bites his cheek as he stares at Peter’s well rounded ass. When Peter stands up straight again, he quickly walks back to Tony, fluttering his eyes. This kid…

“Do you know what’s in here?” Tony asks, pursing his lips as he puts the box on the desk. “No, daddy.” Tony holds back a growl and side-eyes Peter, who still has a smile on his face. Tony sniffs once and presses his finger on a hidden reader. The box unlocks and twists open. Peter stares wide-eyed at its contents. There’s nothing in there. Nothing but leather cuffs. “These…” Tony picks them up and holds them in front of Peter’s face. The boy stares at them, nearly going cross eyed with how close Tony pushes them. “...Are supposedly stronger than you are.” Peter swallows. “Another project of yours, daddy?” This time, Tony grins a toothy smile. “Had them for other purposes. Strong villains, stuff like that. But well…” “Well?” “You’ve been a bad boy.”

-

Peter is gently forced to his knees next to Tony’s seat. Just far away enough that he won’t be able to reach it. Tony restrains him with the cuffs and stands up, inspecting his work. “Hope you’re not too uncomfortable,” he mutters before getting back to his seat. “Mr. Stark,” Peter says quietly. Tony looks down at him and the boy smiles. “Green.” Tony nods content and drops himself in the seat. He puts up his thumb again and holds it against one of the drawers. It opens automatically. Peter wonders what’s in it, but he can’t get a good enough view from his position on the floor. Tony takes out another black box. A black box that has Peter’s eyes go wide yet again. This is a box he knows. Tony opens it and swiftly takes out what’s inside of it. Peter’s mouth goes slack at the sight. The older man leans forward on his chair, looking down on Peter and presenting the Swissy. Peter’s cock twitches at the idea of using it again. He knows this is a big step for Tony. Last time he used it on Peter, the boy got severely overstimulated and lost his Spider senses for two days afterwards. Peter never brought it up afterwards, knowing Tony felt enormous guilt about it all, so the fact that he’s the one who takes it out again while Peter is in front of Tony, on his knees, cuffed, is very special.

“Want this?” Tony whispers, grabbing his phone from his desk. Peter nods slowly, not able to take his eyes off the Swissy. “Tell me you want it, boy.” Peter moans quietly, trying to push forward, but the new cuffs hold him back. “Please, daddy- want it- need it,” he whimpers. His hips buck and he presses his legs together to find the slightest bit of friction. Unsuccessfully. Tony smiles and presses a button on his phone. The Swissy changes into a shape Peter’s never seen before. He looks at it curiously while Tony brings it closer to his crotch. “It’s not exactly a cock ring, it won’t stop you from cumming, but…” Peter jolts when the man attaches the piece onto Peter’s cock through the fabric of the red panties. “But…?” Peter asks nervously, staring at the device that’s now indirectly attached to his body. “If Bruce finds out you’re here…” Tony pets Peter on his head before sitting up straight and moving away from the boy to sit properly at his desk again. “...I’m the only one who cums tonight.” “But daddy-” “Hey, Bruce! I’m back!” Tony half shouts with a smile. “Had to take care of something, but I’m all yours.” The man eyes at the app on his phone and then at Peter. Now the fun can really begin.

-

Peter is panting quietly, his upper body resting against the side of the desk. He can’t touch himself, he can’t turn around, he can’t find any friction whatsoever. But the buzzing. Oh, the buzzing is driving him insane. It’s agonizingly slow. Enough to have him throbbing, a stain of precum giving the hot red a deeper colour. But it’s not enough. It’s not enough to come and if he makes any sound, anything that could alert Bruce that Tony is not alone in his office right now, he won’t be getting any release at all. And he needs it, fuck, he needs it. His body has a soft sheen of sweat covering it and his eyes are rolled back as he twitches, biting his tongue to hold back the sounds he so desperately wants to make.

Is Tony distracted? Yes. But at least he has Peter exactly where he wants him to be. Directly in his line of sight as he works. He glances at the counter on his phone. The call with Bruce has already taken another hour, but at least they’re finally finishing up. Grammar checking the last page of their paper. By the time they get to the last paragraph, Tony is nearly fuming. For some reason, Bruce is getting more nitpicky with every sentence, as if he’s trying to… Drag this out. Tony scoffs as he picks up his phone and types.

Tony: What do you think you’re doing?

Bruce: Checking this paper with you?

Tony continues their conversation as if he and Bruce are not chatting via a messaging app at the same time. Peter would notice if Tony suddenly goes quiet and he doesn’t want the boy to get suspicious. “I do actually think that sentence flows well. You’re the doctor, aren’t you? Don’t you like sentences that take up at least two lines?”

Tony: You’re dragging this out!

Tony’s eyes go wide at the reply.

Bruce: 😏

“You’re right, you’re right,” Bruce replies. Tony can hear he’s smiling. “Though, I’m not so sure about the comma after ‘cancellations.’ It seems unnecessary.”

Tony: You’re unbelievable.

Bruce: You two might think you’re quiet, but Pete’s not the only one who’s been panting.

“It’s an Oxford comma, Banner, it’s not too much, it’s supposed to be there. You use Oxford commas all the time!”

Tony: Why do all the innocent people in my life turn out to be filthy?

Bruce laughs out loud. “Alright, alright, let’s leave the comma then. Moving on to the next bit.”

Bruce: I’m not filthy, Stark. You are. This is quite entertaining.

“I think that was actually it, wasn’t it?” Tony tries as he furiously types.

Tony: S a d i s t.

“You know what?” Bruce says cheerfully. “You’re right. Why don’t you finish up so you can go to Peter. He must’ve been waiting forever for you.” Tony glances at Peter, still panting and twitching and quietly moaning to himself. “He has,” Tony replies through gritted teeth, trying to stop himself from moaning along. “I think it’s time I’m gonna relieve him.” Bruce chuckles. “You go do that.” It’s quiet for two seconds. “Right, so I saved the doc, if anything changes I’ll hear from you?” “Yeah, Bruce, but I think I won’t be online for a while.” “That’s okay! It’s been a long day for all of us.” Peter jolts at Bruce’s words, letting out a soft cry. Tony could throw his phone through the window. This guy… “Good night, Bruce.” “Night, Tony!”

Bruce: Have fun!

Tony shakes his head and puts his phone down. Slowly, he shifts in his chair, looking down at Peter. The boy’s staring up with him, eyes so desperate and needy it makes Tony’s blood rush south. “D-Daddy, please,” Peter whimpers, thrusting his hips up into nothing. Tony loves seeing him like this. Loves the nearly pained expression on Peter’s face as he’s desperate to do anything just to get a little more friction. Tony licks his lips as he slowly rises from his chair, only to crouch down in front of Peter. “Well, well, well. What have we got here,” Tony whispers, smirking. It takes every last bit of willpower he has to not drag his baby up over the desk and fuck him right there and then, but he knows that playing around for just a bit longer will be so worth it. “Fuck, Pete, you’re so hard.” Tony cups his hand around Peter’s cock through the smooth fabric barely covering it, feeling the buzz of the toy. “How’s it feel, Pete?” Peter presses his hips into Tony’s hand, gasping. “G-Good, Mr. Stark!” “You look so pretty, darling. The prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.” He notices the blush creeping up Peter’s cheeks and smiles. Right where he wants him. “But you’ve been bad, huh, haven’t you? Teasing me with that sweet ass of yours.” “M-m’sorry!” “Are you, though? Seemed you knew exactly what you were doing, parading around with Bruce on speaker like that.” “J-Just wanted to- aah!” Peter chokes out when Tony slides his hand into the panties to trace his fingers across the tip. His cock jerks a little and it has Tony breathless. Peter’s so responsive to him. So hyper-aware of every little touch. “Tell me, Pete. What’s that lip gloss taste like, uh?” He asks quietly, his fingers still circling around Peter’s cock. “It’s-”

Before Peter has a chance to answer, Tony leans in, pressing his lips on the boy’s ones harshly. Demanding. Peter groans, parting his lips and melting into the kiss. The overly sweet fruity flavor sticking to Tony’s tongue. “Hmmm, peach,” he grumbles against his boyfriend’s lips, kissing him harder. “I like it. Though it’s not nearly as sweet as you are.” He shifts a little, taking the toy away and loves how Peter whimpers at the loss. “Shhh, don’t worry, you’ll get your pleasure. Be patient.” Tony whispers, standing up again to undo the cuffs. He keeps them secured around Peter’s wrists though, then buckling them together behind the boy’s back. “Get up, sweetness. Want you to kneel on the couch, bending over the armrest.”

Peter stumbles as he tries to get up, his legs tired and sore after having been in the same position for so long. Tony licks his lips as he watches Peter struggle. The boy manages and chuckles proudly once he stands upright, hands still very much bound together behind his back. It does something to Peter’s posture that makes Tony dizzy with lust. “What are you waiting for?” “Don’t you like watching me?” Peter smirks, pushing his arms even further back. God. This boy knows exactly what he’s doing. Well, two can play this game. Tony grabs the boy’s shoulder, pushing him forward only to grasp the chain locking the cuffs together. Pulling the cuffs up, making Peter struggle to stand straight. “I said, get on the couch,” he growls and he drags the boy with him, enjoying the surprised gasp coming from Peter. He knows how much the boy likes to be manhandled like that, and the cuffs only make it better. “You’re being a naughty boy, baby. I’d watch your steps if I were you.” “Yes, daddy,” Peter moans and lets Tony bend him over the armrest without any resistance. Legs falling apart, ass pushed into the air. Tony smacks it lightly and fuck, he can’t wait till the day where they pick spanking from the jar and he gets to turns Peter’s butt all pink and warm.

Tony’s hand rests on the red lace. He softly rubs his fingers on Peter’s ass, scrunching the fabric under his touch. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, Pete,” he whispers as his hand trails up Peter’s back. Peter arches into his touch, but yelps when Tony suddenly pulls at his hair. The older man’s mouth inches closer to Peter’s ear and he growls. “You gonna take it?” He gently bites down on Peter’s ear. The boy moans and twitches, struggling against his restraints. “Gonna take me like the good slut you are?” Peter nods frantically, closing his eyes and letting out a whine. “Y-yes, daddy, please, need you-” Tony raises his eyebrows. “You need me?” He laughs, slightly condescendingly, as he moves back to Peter’s ass, hooking his fingers in the hem of his boy’s panties. Peter barely dares to respond- isn’t even sure if he’s able to at this point. He’s so hard. Aching- yearning for Tony’s attention. Peter’s startled when, suddenly, he feels pressure around his waist and the sound of fabric tearing and elastic snapping. “T-Tony!” He exclaims. The boy can practically hear Tony grin. “Uh-oh,” the older man says nonchalantly. “Guess we’re going to have to go shopping again.” Tony pulls the panties away from Peter, who twitches when the fabric glides past his cock. It springs free, and the open air tickles his shaft. Tony dangles the ripped panties in front of Peter’s face. “I’ll be joining you in the fitting rooms this time, though.”

Tony walks around to Peter’s front side, keeping the panties where they are, right in front of Peter’s face. He squats down to Peter’s height and cocks his head. The boy pants, smelling himself on the fabric. Tony studies the ripped panties with both hands and glances at Peter when he feels the damp spot of precum. “What’s this?” he asks rhetorically. Peter’s jaw hangs slack and he indirectly stares at Tony, through the sheer parts of the panties. There’s a mischievous glimmer in the older man’s eye. “Since you seem to be so hungry…” Tony brings the panties closer to his own nose to take a whiff before pushing it against Peter’s mouth, making his cheeks flush bright red. “Go and have a taste, sweetness.” Peter opens his mouth further and Tony places the red fabric on Peter’s tongue. He can already taste himself and his eyes roll back as his hips buck through his moans. “Now… Don’t let go, sweet thing. Or I will reconsider making you cum.” Peter’s eyes go wide and he locks his jaw immediately. Tony tugs at it playfully, finding it’s stuck in Peter’s mouth and then lets go of them. He caresses up Peter’s face, through his hair and over his back while he moves to Peter’s behind again. “So, Pete…” Tony squeezes Peter’s ass with both hands, causing the boy to arch his back. “How do you taste?” All Peter can do is moan, clenching his panties between his teeth. Tony smiles and licks his lips. “That good, huh?” The boy nods slightly and Tony lowers himself, grabbing Peter’s cock without warning. Peter jolts and Tony rubs his thumb over the boy’s head, taking some of the newly formed precum. To Peter’s dismay, the older man lets go of his cock again. Tony brings his fingers to his mouth and studies them. “Guess I’m going to have to taste it for myself.”

Peter wishes he could turn around. Wishes he could see Tony right now, licking Peter’s precum from his fingers, but he can’t. Not with the restraints holding him back. Not without getting out of this position. Instead, he only gets to listen how Tony lewdly licks his own fingers clean, moaning around his own digits. “Mmm…” Tony sighs. “So sweet…” Peter squeezes his eyes shut, arching his back as far as he can, trying to get his daddy’s attention. He wants to be filled so bad. But the panties in his mouth prevent him from vocalizing it with anything other than a deep moan.

“Alright, sweetness. I’ll stop stalling,” Tony’s smirk evident in his voice. “I know how badly you’re aching for me to pound you.” Peter drops his head low, nodding feverishly.  “And so am I.” Peter hears how Tony rummages around for a bit and he waits patiently, shifting slightly to release some of the strain on his arms. Suddenly he feels the cold lube trickling down and he gasps, clenching around nothing. “My sweet, lil’ needy boy aren’t you…” Tony’s voice is low and rough and it sends a jolt through Peter’s body. His mind’s starting to get hazy again and Peter lets himself drown in the familiar sensation. He feels how Tony’s fingers slide towards his entrance, and then slips one in gently and it makes the boy shudder.

“Good boy.”

Peter wants to gasp, but instead clamps his teeth on the fabric tighter. His legs falling apart even wider as if asking Tony to please, please touch him more. He wants to be touched. Wants Tony’s rough, big hands on his skin. Marking him. Claiming him. Wants to feel how the man’s fingers dig bruises into his hips as he pounds him. He whines when Tony’s finger gently rubs along his prostate, pleasure flaring from his abdomen through his entire body. He feels how Tony slips a second finger in. A third. Stretching and playing until Peter’s nothing more than a moaning mess.

“Fuck, baby, I can’t wait any longer,” Tony’s voice rumbles from behind him, and the sound of Tony’s belt unbuckling sends off another jolt. He’s so used to that clanking noise, knows exactly what it means. What’s coming for him. And he wants it. Soon, he feels Tony’s warm, bare chest on his back and he melts into the embrace. Safe. Tony’s hands slide down his sides, towards his ass where they grip onto his hip bones. “Brace yourself, honeybunch, I’m not gonna go easy on you. If you need me to slow down, kick your leg up alright? Nod to me if you understand.” Peter understands and nods, and then cries out in pleasure when Tony pushes into him all the way. Tony grunts, his breath hot against Peter’s neck.

“Oh, you feel so damn good, making daddy lose his mind.” Peter wants to answer. Wants to chant Tony’s name over and over again as he pounds into him without mercy. It feels so good. So amazing. After hours of teasing and begging, finally getting what he wants, it’s mind blowing. He feels how Tony’s hand creeps up, clasping onto the cuffs. The leather creaks when Peter angles his hands, trying to hold Tony’s by bending his fingers. The tips brush against Tony’s skin, causing goosebumps to run over his entire body. Tony’s other hand sneaks around Peter’s waist. Peter’s entire body tenses when he feels Tony’s fingers wrapping around his hard on - jerking him fast and rough. “Hold on, baby, don’t come just yet. Want you to drag it out,” Tony growls, “-when you really can’t hold back, drop those pretty panties and scream for me.” The older man slams into him harder and Peter’s trembling all over, his fingers tightening on the slight grip he has on Tony’s hand. The cuffs seem so sturdy and strong, holding him in place, and then there’s Tony on top of him, keeping him down.

Peter tries. He really tries. He just can’t hold it. His mouth opens wide as he throws his head back, dropping the panties on the floor. “A-Aaahh! I… Mr…” Peter’s sobbing, body clenching, his wrists pushing into the cuffs and -  a loud, ripping noise pierces through the room as his arms suddenly shoot apart. He falls forward, gasping in surprise and laughs almost hysterically as he rides through his orgasm. “Baby, oh fuck, you’re so strong, so pretty, g-gonna- I-” Tony’s fingers dig deep into Peter’s hips, holding him tight and close as he pushes forward, grunting and moaning as he releases deep inside of him. He collapses on top of Peter, and the boy closes his eyes. He’s disoriented in the very best way. Tony’s hot, heavy body weighing down on him making him feel secure. And loved. And most definitely fucked-out.

“T-thought you said these were unbreakable,” Peter gasps, trying to catch his breath. Tony chuckles wrapping his arms gently around Peter’s waist. Holding him as close as possible. “Strong, yes. Unbreakable… Not for you, it seems. Fuck, I love you.” The older man closes his eyes, his head resting on Peter’s back. He can hear the boy’s racing heartbeat matching his own and he smiles. “Pete?” “Hmmm?” comes the boy’s soft reply. “You’re gorgeous when you destroy things.” Peter chuckles, not moving from his spot. He’s too content, too blissed, to even consider it. “Oh, and by the way-” Tony absentmindedly presses a kiss on Peter’s back, causing the boy to shiver. “Next time you wear something on your lips, throw in a little hot red, would you? None of that nude stuff.” Peter hums. “Why?” Tony smiles against Peter’s skin. “I wanna see it when I smear it all over your pretty face.”

--- More: Chapter 12: Yet to be posted Masterpost

[mikeydoodledandy]

“Barclay? What are you doing all the way out here? It’s late.” Barclay sighed softly, looking up to his partner as Joseph approached. The agent was dressed in what he’d worn to bed, a light blanket wrapped around him and his sneakers hastily pulled on without socks. He looked worried, but Barclay supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Waking up in the middle of the night to find your lover missing from your bed was no doubt kind of jarring.

“I... woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I decided to go for a walk rather than bother you with my tossing and turning. Sorry.” He was seated at the edge of the clearing overlooking the archway, on a wooden bench that had been put there after the events of the Quell. The moon was full, shining brightly overhead and casting a pale glow on the forest below. 

Joseph nodded quietly. “May I join you, or would you prefer to be alone?”

“...Go ahead.”

Stern sat, adjusting his blanket around his shoulders before carefully offering his hand to Barclay. They sylph considered it a moment before gently entwining their fingers between them, not saying anything else. They shared the silence together, the cool mountain breeze rustling their clothes and hair as shadows crept from the woods as the moon rose higher.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Joseph asked after a time, rubbing his thumb against his partner’s.

“What is there to talk about?”

“I don’t know. Any of it. The new connection back to Sylvain. They sylphs leaving the lodge. Why you’re out here of all places.”

“Ah. Those things. Right.” Barclay sighed again, looking down at their hands. His chest was tight and all the feelings he’d been having lately threatened to bubble up in his throat. The sylph swallowed thickly, considering his words.

He and Joseph had been together going on almost half a year now, settling into their new reality as best they could. Much of it had been wonderful. Joseph was an amazing partner and it felt so good to finally reciprocate their feelings after almost an entire year of pining, and make up for lost time together. Whether it was dinner dates, or curling up by the fire, or falling into bed together, it had been bliss.

But, as all things tended to be, not everything was perfect. Life went on and the people of Kepler rebuilt, but the scars had been left on the town and its people. Perhaps those in the Pine Guard most of all.

Dani and Aubrey were still on their travels in Sylvain, healing in their own way together. They’d promised to return for a big reunion in the fall that Amnesty and the townfolk were planning, but the lodge was quiet without them in the meantime. Thacker too was missed, away on his own travels into the wilds of the planet Barclay had once called home. Barclay hoped they were all doing alright, he missed them a lot and while they were able to get in touch, their conversations were few and far between.

Duck had left too. He and Minerva and Juno had all left for Brazil in the noble effort of replanting the forests there. Barclay suspected though that Duck needed to get away from it all as well and do some healing of his own.

Which meant only Barclay and Mama remained of the Pine Guard. Not that it really mattered anymore. The abominations were long gone, no longer being grown by the DOM and sent to Earth to incite conflict between their worlds. For the first time in so long, they could rest easy knowing that the full moon would come and go time and time again and no beasts would slink from the shadows to threaten their way of life.

Barclay always thought he’d be relieved for it all to come to an end, and for the most part he was, but he’d found he didn’t quite know what to do with himself anymore. Now that they’d managed to reconnect Earth and Sylvain with the help of Dr. Sarah Drake and Minerva’s strange magicks, many of the sylphs at the lodge had made the choice to go home, their exile having ended in the wake of the prevented apocalypse.

For the first time in years, Amnesty Lodge was.. just another inn. 

They’d gotten more business as tourists flocked to the town to see the mountain that had moved. The FBI had covered up most of it and the official statement was that it had been a massive collapse of underground caverns that had caused the mountain to crumble into the river, but there were rumors of what really happened. There would always be rumors.

But Barclay found that, even in his happiness of a new relationship, he missed the home that they’d all once made for themselves. It felt... empty. Jake and a few others had stayed and he was grateful for that, but he still found himself wistful for what they’d once had.

He finally let out a long breath, leaning over and resting his head on Joseph’s shoulder. “I miss them, Jo. I understand why they left, they needed to do what was right for them, but I just.. miss them so much it kinda hurts. The Lodge took me in and gave me a purpose all those years ago. We were all scared and tired and recovering from what was taken from us, but we were a family, y’know? We had each other. And now everyone’s... somewhere else.”

“Not everyone, but I know that’s a small consolation,” Joseph replied, gently squeezing Barclay’s fingers. “I’m sure Dani and Aubrey will return eventually, as will Thacker. But I know that’s not now and it’s okay to miss them.”

“Yeah.. And it’s not like.. I’m not moving on either, just in kind of a different way.” He raised Joseph’s hand to his lips, pressing a careful kiss to the back of it. “I never would have thought I’d find someone like you, Jo. Not like this. I don’t regret for a second that everything changed, because if we’d just kept on fighting the abominations for the rest of our lives and never stopped the Quell or the DOM, you and I.. probably wouldn’t have ever been able to get together. I just wish so many people hadn’t left me behind in the process.”

“I’d like to think you might have told me one day regardless, but I suppose that’s rather wishful thinking, isn’t it.”

“I dunno, I might’ve. I’d been considering it before the shapeshifter came and messed everything up. We had that moment and I know I chickened out, but if I’d had just a little more time, I think I might’ve come clean anyway.”

“Yes, that was all quite the mess, wasn’t it? Still, regardless of if you had told me your identity or not, if you’d continued to fight the abominations, well.. Tell me, how many of the Pine Guard actually survived the ordeal? You would have always been at risk.”

“I mean... hm.. Guess you have a point. I don’t think there’s really any answer to this though. I’m just... sad. My heart hurts with missing them.”

“No, I know. I’m not trying to rationalize away your pain, Barclay. I just wish there was more I could do,” Joseph sighed, Barclay nodding quietly.

“I appreciate it, Jo. And honestly, you’re doing plenty by just being here with me. How lucky am I that my boyfriend is willing to hike out into the middle of the woods in the dead of night just to make sure I’m okay?”

“I would hope anyone in a loving relationship would do the same. You came looking for me last winter when I got stuck out in that snowstorm, and that was even before we were together.”

“Well, yeah I wasn’t just gonna let you freeze out here.”

“Still. We look out for each other. I want to be here for you just as much as you’ve been here for me.”

Barclay smiled a little, but he still felt like he had a knot in his chest. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes.

“...It’s all the little things I miss about them the most. Like making everyone’s favorite order. I had everyone’s preferences and tastes down to a science. There was familiarity in that; a sense that I was a part of a bigger picture. And stuff like Dani, Aubrey and Jake all piling on the sofa and giggling together over some dumb meme or joke or what they were planning for a new prank. And how Duck always had the funniest ranger stories, that he could just deliver so completely deadpan that you couldn’t help but laugh. And when Ned-” Barclay stopped himself, throat too tight to continue without choking up anyway. His eyes were wet and itchy, the sylph rubbing them with the heel of his hand. “Fuck, Jo I just..”

Before he could try to say anything else, Joseph pulled him into a strong hug. It was firm and loving and surprised Barclay for a moment, but after he relaxed in the other man’s hold it reminded him that he wasn’t so alone. 

With an anchor to ground him, Barclay found he couldn’t hold back the swell of emotions that had been building within him. Pressing his face into Joseph’s shoulder, he hugged his partner back and let himself cry.

He missed his friends, he missed his community. Change was a part of life, but rarely was it an easy one. He just wanted them all to come back and be a big happy family again. He wanted the lodge to feel like home again. Everyone had gone on their way and left him to pick up the pieces and it hurt. It hurt to be left behind.

His partner rocked him gently as he finally released all the exhaustion and sorrow he’d been carrying the last few months. Barclay might be the bigger of the two of them, but Joseph held him with a strength that made him feel safe to be vulnerable like this. The agent stroked his long hair, wrapping the blanket he had around both of them as Barclay clenched his fingers in the man’s shirt while he cried.

Eventually, his grief slipped into exhaustion, leaving him shaky and spent. He was grateful to have the man he loved there to steady him through it, resting heavily in Joseph’s arms.

“Sorry...” The sylph mumbled hoarsely, his eyes raw. Joseph shook his head, threading his fingers in his boyfriend’s hair.

“Don’t be. It’s okay.”

“I got snot on your shirt.”

“That’s also okay.”

Barclay managed a chuckle at that, pulling away and wiping his nose on his sleeve. Joseph smiled at him softly, reaching up and wiping the tears from his cheeks. Barclay’s eyes were puffy and he was kind of starting to get a headache, but he felt a little better than he had before.

“Thanks, Jo.”

“Of course, love.”

They both sat quietly once more under Joseph’s blanket, this time wrapped in each other’s embrace as the night grew longer. The agent was calmly observing the archway, fingers idly stroking the hairs on Barclay’s arm. He bit his lip as he often did when there was something he wasn’t sure he should say, the sylph nudging him when he noticed.

“What’s up?”

“Well, I...” Joseph let out a soft breath, his fingers stopping their ministrations. “You could always go back, you know. I was always a little surprised you never brought it up or suggested it, actually. I thought maybe you’d want to return with everyone else and you clearly miss your friends.”

“Ah.” Barclay’s shoulders sagged, the man scuffing his shoe in the dirt as he mulled on his words. “I’m not gonna say I haven’t considered it. I’ve actually thought about it a lot, but I just.. don’t think there’s room for me to heal and grow in Sylvain. It’s not home to me anymore. I was born here on earth and while Sylvain gave me my mind and my form, my love for this planet has always been stronger. I was exiled when I was young and stupid, so all my growth and experience come from learning from humans. As much as I miss my friends, I think at the end of the day, my place is still here.”

“It’s been a long time though, hasn’t it? Out of all the other sylphs, you’re the only one who hasn’t even gone back to visit. Even I’ve been back to Sylvain at this point.” 

“Yeah, well... Hm. It’s kinda complicated. I guess I just.. never really fit in Sylvain to begin with. Something about earth always called me in a way that being there didn’t. These mountains feel more like I belong here than I ever felt there. There’s something about Earth, about Kepler especially that just.. makes me feel at peace. It’s this swell that I feel right in my chest whenever the sun sets and spreads a warm glow through the trees or how the earth smells after a fresh rain. Things like that that just feel right that I never felt on Sylvain.

“Those are good reasons.” Joseph nodded, looking back up at the arch. “I was worried it might just be me keeping you here, which if that was the case, well...”

“You do play a part in it too, Joseph, but don’t take that the wrong way.” Barclay leaned over and kissed Joseph’s forehead, enjoying the warmth of his skin against his lips. “That warmth I feel when I think about how much I love earth, I feel the most when I’m with you. You remind me of everything I love about humanity, Jo and I don’t ever want you to think that you’re holding me back.”

“Alright. I don’t know if I exactly embody everything great about the human race, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Naw, I don’t mean it like that. I just mean.. I love you for you. Your kindness and warmth and habits and flaws, they make me happy. You make me happy, Jo.”

“You make me very happy too, Barclay.”

Joseph gently cupped Barclay’s face, leaning in to kiss him. It was soft and careful, Barclay wishing he was a little less rough from crying, but grateful for the comfort. He leaned his cheek against his Joseph’s palm, closing his eyes. It was a mild night and he found he wanted to linger in the gentleness of his partner’s affection. The man had been so good to him in their time together and had given him so much. The sylph opened his eyes, meeting Stern’s fond and understanding expression. One last sorrow bubbled up in his chest, one he found he was finally ready to share.

“I’ve.. never told you how I was exiled, have I.”

“You haven’t, no. It didn’t seem like my place to ask.”

“You can always ask me stuff, babe. That said, I dunno how great of an answer I would have given if you had.” Barclay smiled sadly, settling back beside his boyfriend and gazing up at the full moon.

“Well.. I was exiled because I loved humanity a bit too much. I came to Sylvain as all animal sylphs do, stumbling through a gate without a mind of my own yet, scared and confused. I don’t remember that part, but no one ever does. Slowly, I grew though. I started forming memories I still have, was taken in by a loving family, grew up in a society that’s both progressive and stunted compared to a human one. The usual story.”

Barclay took a deep breath, taking in the soft scent of pine on the breeze, his knee pressed to Joseph. “I had a best friend growing up. We got into all sorts of trouble together. Nothing ever malicious, but we certainly weren’t perfect angels by any means. We’d get into places we shouldn’t, played pranks, that sort of stuff. We were best friends to the end back in those days.”

“Anyone I would know?”

“He’s not one of the sylphs who came over here if that’s what you’re asking. But you might actually.. well, lemme just continue before I start dropping names.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s fine, Jo. Anyway, we were still friends into our young adulthood, and still kinda mischief makers. He was being groomed for a really important position in the sylvan government, however, while I was kinda.. I dunno, doing my own thing. But we still had fun and he could get us access to places no one else in the kingdom could enter, which.. included the gate.”

Barclay gazed up at the archway with a soft sigh. “It was in New York back then and at first we’d just do really stupid shit like put a hand through it or quickly jump in and out of it when we got bold enough. Eventually though, we got ourselves disguises and would sneak through to earth in the middle of the night. It was peak risk-taking, but in the process we both kinda fell in love with humans. Not like.. literally, not yet anyway.”

He nudged Joseph with a small chuckle, who returned it with a smile, a faint blush to his cheeks, but this time he stayed quiet as Barclay continued. 

“Human society was so different from ours, yet still so familiar. I think a lot of animal sylphs experience that if they go to earth. There’s this connection we have that, even though we can’t remember our lives as animals, we can feel it, y’know? It’s kinda like deja vu. But it wasn’t just that. Humans are creative in a way that sylphs really aren’t. Humans don’t have magic, so they have to come up with new and interesting ways to do things and bring new and creative ideas to their media and books and films and my friend and I, we loved every minute of it.”

There was a wistfulness in Barclay’s eyes, the sylph rubbing his nose again. “He always had a love for films and tv shows. I always loved the books and music. We’d make a challenge for ourselves whenever we would sneak over to try to bring something new back with us each time. It was fun and earth was so bright and interesting, and not just because it was forbidden. I loved it. It felt.. I dunno.. Right.”

“But I’m guessing your adventures to earth didn’t go unnoticed?”

“Yeah... eventually we were caught and going to earth is like... a huge taboo in our society. There’s a reason we get exiled here. They found all our human stuff and brought us before the council and... Both of us were going to be exiled, but I... Vince had a life ahead of him in a way that I didn’t, so I... took all of the blame. He was let off and I left Sylvain.”

Joseph rubbed his shoulder comfortably, his brows furrowed. “Do you know what happened to him?”

“I dunno. I assume life just went on and he got that position he was being prepped for. I adjusted to earth and decided to travel for a while. I made a lot of stupid mistakes, got seen a couple of times. I’m sure a couple of photos of me have crossed your desk at one point or another. But... I grew. I learned love and creativity and kindness not from sylphs, but from humans. I learned to play the guitar and cook. I saw the world. And at some point, the planet I’d left behind, with its harsh laws and broken friendships just.. wasn’t where I belonged anymore. I belong here, on earth, and then in Kepler at the lodge, and now here with you, Joseph.”

He turned to face his partner, taking the man’s hands carefully in his own. Joseph’s fingers were long and slender, an interesting contrast to his rough and calloused palms. He rubbed his thumb against the top of the man’s hand. 

“I miss my friends, I do. But.. I’m right where I need to be. For the first time in a while, I finally get to choose my own path without worrying about abominations or someone ruining everything for us by discovering the truth. I get to be with someone who’s made me happier than I’ve been in a very long time and I don’t regret that.”

“Barclay, I...” Joseph pressed his forehead to the sylph’s, squeezing his fingers. “That was beautifully put. I’m glad you’re with me too. I’m glad you love earth. I’m glad I can make all this a little easier and be here to support you. I want us to be able to talk like this and for you to feel comfortable being open with me. You deserve what you need to grow and be okay and I know I’m not perfect, but I want to give you everything I can. Now and in the future.”

“Oh, Jo. You already do.” Barclay wrapped his boyfriend in a warm hug, his heart feeling lighter than it had. “Just being here and listening and caring, that’s enough. It means more to me than you can even know.”

“I suppose no one ever said moving forward was going to be easy but... at the very least, we can do it together.”

[frequent-phases]

Shameless

As much as I love Peter and MJ getting together in FFH, for the sake of the story, I’m just gonna pretend like it didn’t happen. Also, this is shit and I didn’t edit it, but I kinda like it.

Masterlist

It had been a long summer without Peter. Although I had more than enough money to go on the trip with my two best friends, I had duties to pick up at the compound and Stark Industries as Tony’s daughter. I was currently sitting on Peter’s bed thinking about how much I had missed him while he was away as he talked about the trip, fighting Mysterio, and earning my father’s glasses. I made a joke about his vacation that made him laugh the purest laugh I’ve ever heard, making my heart swell as a deep warmth filled my chest.

Don’t speak, no, don’t try It’s been a secret for the longest time Don’t run, no, don’t hide Been runnin’ from it for the longest time

I kept my crush on Peter a secret for far too long. I had met him in school before he had even been bitten by the spider that gave him his powers. The minute I laid eyes on him, on our first day of freshman year, I knew I was a goner. I never made a move on him because he was constantly pining over Liz from the first moment that he saw her.

So many mornings, I woke up confused In my dreams, I do anything I want to you My emotions are naked, they’re taking me out of my mind

I tried to deny my feelings for the longest time, even when I had dreams of the boy that I quickly became friends with. There was a surprising range to the dreams anywhere from us being on a cutesy date, to him confessing his love for me, to ones that made me blush at the mere thought of them. 

My kisses are history, they go back a long time, uh And I’m tired of loving someone that’s not mine, no

Despite all of that though, I tried to date other guys in our school. To this day I’m not sure if it was fortunate or unfortunate that so many guys want to date me because of my last name. I’m not bad looking, I’m the perfect blend of my dad and the model that he had a one night stand with, so I guess that helped me snag my distractions. I dated any guy from a random freshman to the most popular senior, even dating Flash for a hot minute, but no matter who I was with, I couldn’t shake my feelings for my best friend so I gave up.

There’s just inches between us I want you to give in, I want you to give in, oh There is tension in between us I just wanna give in And I don’t care if I’m forgiven

I sat there on Peter’s bed, watching him laugh, I couldn’t help but lean in slightly, my expression becoming serious as he began to calm down. When his eyes opened, he stared at me, taking in my demeanor and making his reflect my own.

We sat like that for what felt like an eternity, slowly inching toward each other. The longer I stared into his beautiful brown eye, the more intense the feeling in my chest grew. The burning warmth that sent my stomach fluttering, felt like it was tugging me forward and at that moment I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted it, wanted to be his, so desperately that I didn’t care what it did to our friendship.

Right now, I’m Shameless Screamin’ my lungs out for ya Not afraid to face it I need you more than I want to Need you more than I want to

Throwing caution to the wind, I lurched forward, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him to me, our lips meeting in a clash of needy passion. I was not only surprised that he kissed me back, but also surprised at how good he was. This was far from my first kiss, but I knew that it was his and he was by far the best kisser that I had experienced. 

Peter grabbed my waist, pulling me impossibly close to him as our lips danced together, pouring every ounce of passion, love, and longing that we had for each other into the kiss.

Show me you’re Shameless Write it on my neck, why don’t ya? And I won’t erase it I need you more than I want to Need you more than I want to

We moved to kneel on his tiny twin bed, trying to get as close as possible. I wound my fingers into his luscious chocolate curls as we made out furiously. My fingers against his scalp seemed to jar something as his lips made their way from my lips down to my jaw, then down to my neck. He seemed to be acting on instinct, his lips clumsy and unsure as they nipped and sucked at my collarbone, but damn his instincts were amazing. Peter’s lips became more confident when he heard my breath catch in my throat as he kissed the forming bruise. I pulled him back to my lips, pecking his a few times as a laughed breathlessly. Peter joined in on my laughter as we pulled away, smiling at each other with all of the love that we felt.

“I’ve wanted to do that for the longest time.” I whispered, dropping my forehead onto his as I bit my swollen lip.

“Me too. I just wasn’t expecting to be attacked like that.” Peter laughed.

I threw my head back, letting out a loud laugh. I calmed down, returning my gaze to his handsome face, allowing my hands to hang loosely around his strong shoulders.

“You’re Spider-Man, that has to be the best way that you’ve been attacked.”

“You’re right, but you still attacked me.” Peter insisted with a mischevious smirk.

“Well, maybe next time you can attack me.” I retaliated, my mouth twisting into a matching smirk.

The next day was the first day of Junior year and Peter and strolled through the doors of the school holding hands. I did nothing to hide the deep purple hickey that my new boyfriend had given me, surprising everyone that we passed, except for our best friend Ned, who had a running bet with MJ on whether or not Peter and I would end up together.

[dykedteach]

Sell Rome to me. I saw you posting about it and now I’m really interested in watching but like...who are the best characters? Seasons? Ships?

Hi anon!

So it’s two seasons long, and it covers the period of Roman history between the start of the civil war between Julius Caesar and Pompey Magnus, to the end of the war between Gaius Octavius (Augustus) and Antony and Cleopatra, so between 49BC and 30BC. The first season is brilliant and well paced, but there are some issues with the second season feeling a bit rushed (they had outlined the stretch of history to cover five seasons, but because they filmed in Italy it was so ridiculously expensive that they couldn’t continue and had to squeeze four series worth of outlined plots into just season two. There’s a lot of time jumps, some more jarring than others, but it’s still good.)

It’s pretty typical HBO fare in terms of sex and violence, and in terms of some of the more problematic subject matter it’s fairly similar to Game of Thrones - I wouldn’t say it’s as bad though? I think if you managed to watch Thrones (or tbh even Black Sails) despite the scenes focusing on rape, incest, and torture, then I think you’d be able to handle how Rome deals with those things.

Back to the plot! One of the things I most love about it is how it balances the two worlds of Ancient Rome. Half the plot is focused on the real historical events and the nobles that took part in them, yes, but then the rest looks at the lives of ordinary soldiers and families, and it’s really interesting to see how these two very separate worlds have an effect on each other. There’s also a lot of stunning comparison scenes, things like funeral scenes blended together so you see the difference between how a self proclaimed god might be mourned by crowds, and how a common roman might be mourned by their family. Visually, it’s a stunning series as well. The locations they shoot on are gorgeous, and the cinematography is amazing too (a lot of the crew I’ve looked up seem to have been posted on the first few seasons of GoT after - for example, the man who directed Baelor where Ned Stark gets beheaded also did an episode here featuring a Triumph celebration, and it feels very very similar although entirely different moods).

Depending on how much you know about that period of Roman history, you’ll likely know a lot of the main characters. If you’re a fan of The Terror, Ciaran Hinds and Tobias Menzies play Caesar and Brutus, and they have some absolutely incredible scenes together (and apart). You have other prominent historical figures like Cleopatra, Mark Antony, and Augustus (as a teenager, Octavian), but they do also expand a lot upon the role that the female relatives of these figures had. Two main characters who don’t feature so much in the history but are given prominent time here are Atia, Octavian’s mother (and the lover of Antony, so I think she’s supposed to also be Fulvia) and the niece of Caesar, and Servilia, the mother of Brutus and lover of Caesar. They really are shown as the heads of their houses, and you get to see how they tweak things behind the scenes, whisper ideas into the ears of the men who change the world. I’ve seen people compare Atia in particular to Cersei Lannister, and I can definitely see the parallels.

In terms of the relationships, there’s a lot of intense romances throughout the show generally between men and women, if that’s your thing. Even though it has its issues, I ended up loving how they showed the passionate affair between Cleopatra and Antony, for example. There isn’t much canonical gay representation - one fleeting f/f relationship, and a handful of jokes about Antony. The two main soldiers that the show focuses on, Vorenus and Pullo, definitely have an intense relationship, very much ride or die, and very familial, but I think if you wanted to read it in a certain way there’s definitely a reading there. In the past few months, I’ve somehow gone in for Brutus/Antony, after seeing some incredible content for it which has made me think about their parallels and so on. There’s also a very non-deep element about it where I’ve chosen the two men in the series I’m most attracted to, but anyway.

I don’t know how well I’ve sold this to you, but it’s definitely worth a try! If you enjoy historical dramas, or HBO shows, it’s worth it. It’s not perfect by any means, but it’s entertaining for sure. There’s a lot of very funny scenes, the dialogue feels very...real? but then also you get these huge iconic lines and speeches and it’s just perfect. I really didn’t expect it to be as funny as it was.

If you’re not too opposed to spoilers, I have a fair bit tagged on my blog under Rome (I will warn you, there’s a lot of repeat reblogs - it’s still a small fandom with a small output of content, but I’ve only been here since the start of the year and even I’ve seen it grow!). If you’re in the UK, it unfortunately doesn’t seem to be on any streaming services, but it’s on HBO if you’re in the US. (or, you know, search Rome HBO free stream online or whatever).

EDIT: look I fully intended to be impartial but I would also hate for someone to start watching Rome with no concept of how much of a gem of a character Cicero is, he very much snuck up on me as a favourite during my first watch, and only now during my second do I feel I fully appreciate this sly dramatic king

[winterromanov]

keeping all the promises (we made years ago) - a romanogers fic

Peter’s mixing a bad gin and tonic when Natasha and Steve finally come into the back. Her tiny frame guides him through the throngs of people as a The 1975 song plays in the background, crooning about skinny jeans and spare time and she’s got a boyfriend anyway. They disappear down the basement steps and Natasha must be a little drunk, he reckons, because the door is barely shut when they start kissing. And this—this, he realises, is the only narrative of the two of them that matters. (rock band au. chaos, man.)

/one

It’s Uncle Tony that gets him the job. Well—perhaps gets isn’t quite the right word, because get implies a bit of shuffling behind the scenes and handshakes when in reality Uncle Tony can get whatever he wants whenever he wants. He’s not even his biological uncle. Sometimes, Peter wonders if Uncle Tony just fancied having a nephew and saw him in kindergarten and thought, hey, he’s the one. May’s never told him how Tony ended up being his sort-of guardian, usually financially but sometimes otherwise. He’s just…always been there.

The always been there feels a little more literal now, ever since Peter mentioned that he might not want to go to college after all. Yeah, sure, the Princeton physical sciences program is like, the best in the country, but is that really all there is? He likes music and evening walks and the shitty little apartment he shares with May in the city. He likes the familiarity and the way it covers him like a safety blanket.

It wouldn’t be an understatement to say that Uncle Tony was pretty fucking pissed at the idea. Of, you know, not making the most of the thousands of dollars he’s invested in Peter’s education and not going to an Ivy. Nevertheless, there’s not much he can do about it. Even Tony Stark can’t force him to go to college, even if he looks at him with that disapproving glare every single goddamn day for the rest of his life.

(Uncle Tony’s disapproving glare is one of the scariest things Peter has ever seen, period. And Ned once made him watch all The Exorcist films in one sitting back in freshman year. Took him a good few weeks (months) to shake the paranoia and realise that, realistically, he probably wasn’t going to get possessed by some angry old spirit anytime soon.)

But Uncle Tony can ask him what he’s doing instead of going to college, and Peter quickly discovers that a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders is not an adequate response. He thought that maybe Tony would get him some sort of starter position in his company, but Tony isn’t the kind of guy who gives out jobs to anyone (even if they’re his sort-of nephew). No, if Peter ever wants a job at Stark Industries he needs a college degree first, and a good one at that.

“You need a taste of the real world, kid,” Tony had said, Peter idly spinning on the office chair in front of his desk. “And then you might think twice about giving Princeton the boot.”

And that’s how he ends up in front of Endgame.

-

Peter knows a hell of a lot about Uncle Tony, but also absolutely nothing at all. There are things he deliberately keeps hidden and Peter knows better than to ask about but he’s also ridiculously open, especially about how fucking rich and clever and sexy he is. May says it’s a confidence thing—that he must be hollow under all that blithe arrogance, but Peter has never met anyone more solid. He thinks. Tony cannot be anything other than whole, because he’s sure helped keep Peter’s foundations stable all these years.

He knows that Tony’s business is his life. That he’s a bit more…forward, with women than he should be, but it’s all talk because Pepper wouldn’t stick around if it wasn’t. He knows he prefers Turkish food over everything else and that he cares more than he lets on, always.

But he absolutely didn’t know that Uncle Tony kind-of owns a nightclub in the city; the super cool kind that has live bands and plays British indie rock and a menu with over fifty different kinds of cocktail on it. It makes so much sense, when he thinks about it. It’s exactly the kind of place he imagines Tony heading to after a day working non-stop at the tower.

It’s only three in the afternoon but the place is unlocked, Tony pushing open the double doors at the front with his shoulder. Inside, there’s a jarringly bright room with a bar and a stage that feels wrong not swathed in darkness or the muted glow from overhead lighting. A woman with long, brunette hair that falls down her back is mopping the floor off to the side. She looks up when she sees them enter.

“Wanda,” Tony greets, pushing Peter forward. The girl smiles bemusedly, shoving the mop back in a red plastic bucket. “Working hard?”

“As always, Mr Stark.” Her accent is soft, European. Peter likes the twinkle in her eyes. “You’ve just missed Nat, but Clint is still in the basement, if you’re looking for them.”

“Barton. Perfect.” He tugs on Peter’s arm, and Peter vaguely feels like some naughty kid being dragged around by their dad. This must be what that feels like, he muses, not that he knows much about the whole parent thing. “Come on, Peter.”

Peter rolls his eyes. Wanda catches him, and she laughs a little, returning back to the mop.

Tony drags him through a hallway lined with black-and-white checked squares and down a set of stairs labelled staff only, the walls covered in aggressive-looking graffiti which he assumes are song lyrics he’s never heard of. He likes music, but he’s the soft-spoken acoustic type. Not the mosh-pit type.

(Alongside Tony Stark’s disapproving glare and horror movies, he’s also kind of terrified of being swallowed by crowds. He doesn’t like the feeling of being lost or untethered. He likes being anchored to something. Someone. It’s kind of ironic, really, considering.)

Tony opens a door at the bottom of the stairs that leads onto what he assumes is some sort of staff common room, the walls all exposed brick and lined with tattered leather sofas probably pulled from a garage sale. Band posters either hang loosely with blue thumb tacks or, in some cases, in black frames—some scribbled with messy signatures. A makeshift bar stands in front of a small kitchen, lined with more liquor bottles than he cares to count. A coffee table is littered with vinyl cases and sloppily written notes, a wire charging an iPhone trailing all the way from the door. A man with brown hair and a strong jawline sits on the sofa nearest the back wall, Doc Martens kicked up on the table, scrolling through his phone. His eyes barely flicker when they enter the room, like he’s waiting for Tony to talk first.

“Welcoming as always,” Tony remarks, urging Peter to walk further into the room. The other man snorts.

“If you want a fucking parade every time you enter a room, Stark, you should stick to those dumb expo things you still insist on doing.” He’s still scrolling through his phone. “Who’s the kid?”

“I’m not a kid,” Peter can’t help but say, because he’s eighteen and a high school graduate, for God’s sake. Both Tony and the man raise an eyebrow, in that patronising way Peter is all too used to. Like, you’re basically just fresh out the womb, boy.

“You’re a kid until you stop thinking like one,” Tony says, and it looks like Peter is still going to be getting a lot of that. He gestures towards the man and back again. “Clint Barton, Peter Parker. Peter, Barton. He’s your new boss.”

“Half-boss,” Clint quickly corrects, “Nat would probably slit your throat if she heard you say that. Also…” Clint pauses, finally putting his phone down. He seems to examine Peter carefully, eyes flicking up and down. He feels oddly exposed. “Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, be doing AP Literature homework or something?”

Peter sighs, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I’m not in high school. I graduated high school.”

“I refuse to believe that. How old are you? Fourteen?”

“I’m eighteen!”

Clint narrows his eyes. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I know my own age.”

Clint hums. He shifts his feet from the coffee table and to the floor, leaning forwards. “Don’t get me wrong, Peter, but are you sure you want to work here? Aren’t you better suited to…like, a computer science major? You just don’t look like the kind of guy we’d usually hire.”

Peter takes that to mean you look like a massive fucking nerd, moron. Well, Clint’s not wrong, but it’s always a bit jarring to hear someone say it actually out loud. He’s not the kind of person who works in a cool bar with cool people who wear Doc Martens and listen to the Arctic Monkeys.

“He’s hired because I say he’s hired,” Tony interjects, pressing his hands on Peter’s shoulders. “And because this little punk thinks that he doesn’t want to go get a STEM major.”

Clint smirks a little at that, like he’s gone from zero to just a touch of respect for him. “Teenage rebellion, huh?”

“No,” Peter replies, not that convincingly. “I just don’t want to go to college, alright?”

“Not right now, but a few weeks of working with these absolute head-cases will have you handing in your transcripts before you can say Ivy League,” Tony states and Clint chuckles, “You will be begging for the sweet release of the Princeton marching band and that compulsory calculus class.”

Peter looks over at Clint, who merely nods in a faux serious manner. “We’re special here, Parker. Absolutely one-of-a-kind.”

“Who’s one of a kind?” Another voice rings out behind them, clearly feminine but surprisingly low and sultry in tone. When Peter turns, he sees a petite woman with red hair that scuffs her shoulders, skinny jeans hugging her legs and a leather jacket over her shoulders. She clutches a shopping bag in her left hand, her nails painted the same shade as her hair. Her Converse sneakers are black and streaked with dirt, but like they were made that way, like it’s all staged.

He has to actively fight his jaw from dropping open. Because, Jesus—he isn’t blind. She’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen…and there’s something about her, a familiar quality he can’t quite place, like he’s seen her before in another time or place. She smirks when she finds him staring. Peter flushes, looking away, and thinks idly about beautiful gardens and being tempted in by a Devil.

“You are,” Clint replies effortlessly and, like that, Peter realises that there must have fucked at some point. Her eyes glint as she drops her bag on the counter.

“I assume you’re here for a reason, Stark,” she says, “If this is your new intern, I’m dying for a coffee.”

“Funny,” Tony shoves his hands in his pockets. “And as I was just telling Barton, this is your new employee.”

“As of when?”

“As of right now.”

When this woman assesses him, it feels more scathing than it did with Clint. Her eyes are slower, her expression less readable. Clint was clear in his uncertainty. It’s impossible to tell with her. Eventually, she halts, lips pursed. “Huh.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Clint responds. He’s back on the coffee table, like he’s bored by the whole situation.

Tony stands back, folding his arms. “You have an opening now the other Maximoff has moved on, and this moron needs a reality check. You lot are probably the worst people I could think of to give it to him.”

The redhead blinks slowly. She rests her chin in one hand, her elbow on the bar. She’s looking straight at Peter, green eyes blazing like exotic jewels. “You have any bar experience?”

“Uh…” Peter scratches his head sheepishly, “No?”

“You train him, Nat,” Tony says when Nat looks skeptical, “You train the hell out of him. Or get him to do the 4am bathroom cleaning shift. Your choice.”

“We have Clint for that,” she says, and Clint throws a scatter cushion at her. She catches it with ridiculously quick reflexes and dumps it on a bar stool before hopping onto it. Her shopping bag is exclusively filled with grapefruits. “Although, we do need a new bartender now Pietro has fucked off.” She pulls a knife from seemingly nowhere and points it in Peter’s direction, which gives off a threatening air that Nat looks all too comfortable with. Worryingly. “But no doing homework at the bar. It’ll ruin our image.”

“I’m not…” Peter starts, but Nat’s smirking again. So. He’s just going to have to accept the fact this is going to be a running joke, right? Anything that gets Tony off his back.

“You’re kind of adorable,” Nat says, looking over at Clint. “Steve will love him.”

“Steve will try and adopt him.”

“Steve will try and adopt anything that looks vaguely pained and puppy-like,” She chops a grapefruit in half, then into quarters. “It’s taking everything I have to convince him we don’t need a golden retriever right now. It’s exhausting.”

(At this point, he stands gormlessly and watches both Clint and Nat bicker back and forwards about this Steve, this guy that Nat must be dating, and nothing clicks. Nothing clicks yet. He feels like a bit of an idiot when he eventually does, though, because of course. That’s why Nat looks so familiar.)

“Well,” Tony interrupts in a tiny pocket of silence where Clint and Nat aren’t snarking at each other, “Consider Peter your anniversary gift. He’s every bit as charming as a golden retriever without having to pick up the shit. I think he’s already potty-trained. I think.”

Peter shakes his head out of disbelief. Not biological, but every single bit as embarrassing as a blood relative in front of anyone cool. Nat doesn’t take her eyes off the grapefruits.

“Our anniversary was last month, asshole, and all you gave us was a fucking star named after us. You know, one of those dumb certificates you buy online for about ten dollars.”

Tony clutches his heart dramatically. “It’s romantic, not that I’d expect you to understand. Imagine looking up at the night sky and knowing a little piece of you and Steve is up there, glimmering just for you, courtesy of me. That’s special, Nat. Money can’t buy that feeling.”

“Money can buy that feeling. You bought it for ten dollars. Fortunately for you, Steve is a gullible and the sappiest son-of-a-bitch we know so at least someone enjoyed the sentiment.” Natasha pauses for a moment, resting the knife down on the counter. “Now. You—Peter—how much, exactly, do you know about cocktails?”

-

There are things he learns incredibly quickly when working with Nat—facts, logistics, statements. Both Clint and Nat have known Uncle Tony for a while, but he’s not sure why or how. Tony helped Clint and Nat buy Endgame and he continues to invest in the business, taking a share of the profits. It’s been open five years, but Clint and Nat have known each other way longer than that. He’s not sure why or how. Actually; he’s sure why, because Clint and Nat are pieces of the same puzzle, irrevocably interlocked. The way they look at each other is haunted by years and years of shared history. You’d have to be blind not to see that.

Also—Nat mixes drinks with a speed and precision that is impossible to replicate. He watches hopelessly as she grabs spirits off a rack on the wall from memory, barely glancing at the labels. Wanda occasionally brushes past and Peter can see the amused look in her eyes, like she’s in on a joke he doesn’t know about.

She’s trying to teach him how to mix a basic mojito—not their most popular drink, but one of the easiest—when the front doors swing open and a man walks in, tall and broad-shouldered, blonde hair mussed from the motorcycle helmet that hangs in his right hand. His shirt is way too tight for his torso and arms but he looks so good anyway, in a way that Peter could only ever replicate in his dreams.

It takes Peter a moment to realise, when the man smiles at Natasha like she’s every good dream he’s ever had, that this must be Steve. And then it takes another moment once he gets a decent look at his face, that this isn’t just any Steve. This is Steve fucking Rogers. And Nat… Nat is Natasha Romanoff.

“You certainly took your time,” Nat says coyly as Steve sidles over to the bar. He reaches over and takes her face in his hands, kissing her gently and casually on the lips. It’s like Peter isn’t even here. It’s nothing too intimate, though; Nat seems aware of her privacy and what she wants other people to see. She seems to have a strict code on showing and telling. Peter isn’t part of her exclusive inner sanctum (yet).

(Clint struts in, then promptly struts out again, muttering something about letting someone else be the third wheel for a change.)

“Meeting overran,” he confesses, still curved over the bar, “Honestly, I keep telling them I’m retired.”

“Show them your birth certificate. Can’t possibly expect a man in his nineties to record another album.”

Steve laughs, and honestly, it’s like watching a scene out of a romantic movie. “For some reason, they just won’t believe me. They might believe you, though. You have a way of getting people to do what you want.”

Natasha pats his cheek gently. “Absolutely. Oh—and this is Peter, by the way. Anniversary gift from Stark.”

Steve’s eyes settle on him for the first time since he arrived, because it’s very clear that he’s the kind of guy who tunes out the rest of the world when his girlfriend is in the room. “I thought Stark got us a star for our anniversary. I love that star.”

“Of course you do,” Nat titters, “And Peter is filling in for Pietro.”

Steve offers Peter his hand, and he shakes it tentatively, because this is still Steve fucking Rogers. “Great to meet you, kid.”

“Oh,” Nat lowers her voice, “He’s not a kid. He just graduated high school.” When Peter’s mouth opens, she grins. “This is Steve. He hangs about here sometimes. Can’t seem to get rid of him. I have tried, believe me.”

“You’re Steve Rogers,” Peter breathes, dumbstruck, and it’s only when Nat and Steve share a bemused look that he breaks out of his stupor, cheeks flushed. He nervously looks at his feet. “Sorry—it’s just I’m a big fan.”

There isn’t anybody who hasn’t heard of Steve Rogers, as far as Peter is aware. He’s got all his albums on CD stacked on the shelves of his bedroom and he listens when he’s feeling particularly nostalgic, pressing them into the portable player May got him a lifetime ago and lying back on his bed. Steve is the Golden Boy of America’s pop music scene, his songs soulful and sad with a quiet, yet constant, lingering optimism. It’s the kind of music that reminds him of leaves in the fall and sitting alone on the subway. The kind of voice you could get lost in, but not in the unknown, terrifying kind of the way. It’s like he’s trying to guide you home.

Steve and Nat share a look and Peter fears that he’s made a bit of an idiot of himself. Again.

“Whatever you do, don’t ask for his autograph,” Natasha scrunches her nose, glancing up at her boyfriend. Steve looks mildly entertained. Like he’s used to it. “His ego is big enough as it is.”

Steve shakes his head. His hand reaches across the bar and squeezes Natasha’s shoulder. She softly runs her hand over his knuckles—it feels weird, to use the word soft to describe Natasha, because from what Peter has seen (in his admittedly limited experience) she’s never anything but razor sharp. “You’ll come to realise, Peter, that this woman never has a day off.”

Natasha’s smile is wistful, longing. “I don’t have time for days off.”

The room suddenly feels heavy and Peter can feel something lurking under the surface of their dialogue, something that’s not being said while he’s there watching. Steve looks away, smiling at the ground. Look—he’s not that into tabloids or dumb E! News twitter threads where their pictures are plastered about like incriminating photo albums, but he’s not totally unaware of it either. He knows Nat’s surname because he’s seen her red hair on the cover of magazines at the drugstore countless times, on May’s coffee table. Some of them have been holding Steve’s hand. Some of them are just Steve. Some of them are Steve with other women.

He’s got enough knowledge to know that this relationship mustn’t be…easy. Or conventional, at the very least. Not that he knows much about that. He knows about as much about romantic love as he does parental.

(Aka, not much at all.)

Wanda is the one who breaks the moment. “Nat, Clint is asking—oh, hi Steve!”

Steve smiles and the two share a quick embrace, because Steve definitely seems like the hugging type. Meanwhile, Natasha walks round the bar and beside him—Steve slings an arm casually round her shoulder, and it’s so comfortable and natural that Peter feels something shift in his chest. Wanda lets them know that Clint needs to run over the inventory before opening in a couple of hours, so Nat leaves Peter in Wanda’s capable hands while her and Steve head down to the basement together. Peter can’t seem to drag his eyes away from them.

“You too, huh?” Wanda remarks, one eyebrow raised. Peter blinks, not sure what she means. “They’re magnetic, right? And not just because they’re both ridiculously attractive.”

Peter flushes—for what seems like the millionth time since he arrived—and covers his hands with his sleeve. “I don’t—“

“We’ve all thought it, one time or another. There isn’t anybody else like them.” Wanda smiles softly. “They haven’t had it easy but they’re happy now, so. Every cloud, yes?”

Peter nods hesitantly. “What do you mean…haven’t had it easy?”

Wanda’s smile is still gentle, but there’s an unwavering nature to it. She seems to float past him, like she’s not quite real, an ethereal ghost. “That’s not for me to tell. But I can tell you how to make more than just a mojito, if that’s adequate?”

Peter feels himself relaxing, the tension vanishing from his shoulders. Wanda is a little less terrifying than Natasha. Her eyes are big and touched with melancholy, but there’s no bitterness there. “Yeah. Yeah, that would be really adequate, thanks.”

-

His first shift—well, his first shift is insane, and he completely and totally understands why Tony thought this place would cure his college related existential crisis. The bar is packed from the moment the door opens because even though there’s no live music tonight, Clint and Nat’s sick playlists seem to reel in people from all over the city and further out. A bearded guy in a Led Zep shirt drunkenly tells Peter that he’s come all the way from Toronto to listen to Hawkeye and Black Widow, and he’s really not sure what that means.

There are also people who are here when they realise Steve is about, from Twitter or whatever. He’s not exactly under the radar as he seems to spend a lot of his free time in Endgame (for obvious reasons) but as soon as the customers start coming in, he edges away, disappearing off into the basement while Nat, Clint and the rest of them work. Other than Wanda, there’s only one more employee who turns up—a tall, buff British guy called Thor who wanders in about fifteen minutes before opening time with hair off a Herbal Essences commercial. He slaps Peter on the arm and almost knocks the wind out of him.

By the time closing time hits Peter feels battered, bruised and a little like he’s fallen out of a top floor window, his shirt covered in shit tons of unnameable alcoholic combinations and his head beating like a bass drum. Clint, Nat, Wanda and Thor weave between people and the bar like it’s ingrained in them, grinning and laughing and seemingly knowing everybody. As the cool, 2am air of August hits his face like a slap round the face, Peter wonders if he’d actually been holding his breath the whole time, waiting for the storm to be over.

He almost throws up on the stairs. Almost. He kind of wants to go home, go to bed, and never come back here again. Everything—it just happens a lot, always. Maybe he is just a kid. Maybe he’s not ready for a life outside of education, like Tony had said.

He feels a hand curl round his shoulder and he starts, but when he turns he sees Steve, oddly reassuring and stable in this new world that makes no sense whatsoever.

“You alright, Peter?” he asks, warm and empathetic, “Maybe you should sit down.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, instead sitting on the damp, stone steps that lead up to the entrance. Peter sighs heavily, goosebumps bristling up and down his arms. Cautiously, he eases down next to him. Wonders how his life got to this.

“It can get pretty intense in there, huh?” Steve nudges him with his shoulder. “I thought that when I first started singing in public, like my heart was just going to rip out my chest. But it gets easier. Maybe you’ll even enjoy it.”

Peter laughs a little at that. There’s a scab on his left thumb and he picks at it out of habit. “I think Clint was right. I’m not the kind of guy they like here.”

“God, don’t let him hear you say that. Clint can’t ever be right. The universe would implode.”

Natasha appears at the front door from nowhere, as is the pattern, and it’s the first time Peter’s seen her all evening properly—she’s wearing a black lace camisole and leather pants that leave very little to the imagination, but Peter knows better (and is better) to let his eyes hover for too long. Her lipstick matches the color of her hair. She’s absolutely breath-taking, like a rebellious Hollywood starlet. It’s the first time he’s seen her tattoos, too; she has a spider on her left shoulder, an arrow on the other and there’s the smooth curve of a circle that peaks out of the waistband of her trousers. She hands Peter a paper cup filled with water. Come to think of it, not drinking anything all night was probably a bad idea, adding dehydration to a general sense of, you know, existential dread.

“It’s just your first day, buddy,” Steve says, “It’s new. That’s all.”

“I think you did pretty well for someone with no experience,” interjects Nat. Steve gives her an exaggerated look of shock. “Hey. I said pretty well. He’s still got a lot to learn.”

“Praise indeed! You should be proud, kid. Took her over a year for her to say anything remotely nice about me.”

“That, and also I’d take every opportunity to prove Tony Stark wrong about something.” Nat smirks. “You just got to get into the music, then you won’t be able to fucking wait to come back.”

“Yeah,” Steve smiles, looking up at her, “She’s pretty exceptional at making mixtapes.”

He’s entering yet another moment that feels like an intrusion just being there, another conversation without words. He’s been the third-wheel before—countless awkward dates at the Cheesecake Factory—but this feels like a whole other level of it, because the worst kind of couple to tag along with are the ones that use silence like it’s not silence at all.

“Am I…alright to go?” Peter asks quietly, folding the cup in his hands. He’s not sure how all this works.

Nat nods. “Yeah, seeing as it’s your first day. But tomorrow you’re helping with the clean-up.”

“How are you getting back?” Steve is already sifting through dollars in his wallet, “Get a cab on me.”

“Oh—Mr Rogers, I couldn’t possibly…”

“It’s Steve, and you absolutely can.” He hands him twenty, and Nat audibly sighs from behind him. “What? What is it?”

Natasha looks totally unsurprised. “Clint was right about something. You’re totally adopting our new bartender. He’s only been here a day!”

Peter has to admit, having Steve Rogers look out for him is hardly the most disastrous thing to come out of this shift. He half-smiles, mostly to himself, unfurling the twenty between his fingers. Steve just shoots Nat a withering, long-suffering look, because this is what Steve calls being nice.

“Thank you, Steve,” Peter says, standing up, “And thanks for the water.”

Steve salutes a goodbye and Nat walks down the stairs, filling the space Peter leaves. As he saunters down the sidewalk, he picks up snippets of their conversation:

“Which star do you think is ours? You know. The one Stark bought us.”

“Oh, shut up about that goddamn star. Stark will really try and buy anything, won’t he? Even bits of the universe. You’re supposed to—I think you should just leave the cosmos the hell alone. We don’t have to understand everything.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” A pause. “The science is neither here nor there for me. And Stark’s capitalist consumerist ideology aside…I just like to think the stars all come out for you.”

(He thinks about that all the way home, in the slow hum of the cab, the buzzing tinnitus in his ears. He thinks about loving someone so much you want the whole universe to exist just for them.)

-

The first thing he does when he gets home is Google them. He can’t help himself. He just—he has to know more. But as soon as he types in their names, and a ton of unsavoury articles mentioning other women and possibilities about Natasha’s past come up, he feels disgusted with himself. This isn’t the truth. This is just hearsay and shady sources and the edges of facts cobbled together with hyperbolic adjectives and PVA glue. This feels voyeuristic and weird, like he’s doing something explicitly wrong, like he’s listening to high school gossip.

He turns to Instagram instead. Natasha’s—predictably—is on private and he’s too awkward to send a request, and the blur of red on the icon might not even be her. Steve’s is a lot easier to find. He’s got almost three million followers and a blue tick, his photo an outtake from some shoot where he’s laughing like a maniac. His most recent picture isn’t even of him. It’s Natasha, caught off guard in the basement of Endgame, looking through the stack of records he’d seen on the coffee table. When he swipes along there’s another where she’s using a Bon Iver vinyl to cover her face, looking beneath her eyelashes at the camera. The caption reads though she be but little, she is fierce.

And this—this, he realises, is the only narrative of the two of them that matters.

-

The next day he wakes with a thumping headache. When he asks May if there’s any aspirin, she looks at him with a mix of disappointment and muted shock.

“Yes, I agreed with Tony when he said getting a job would be good for you, but really Peter?” she tuts, to Peter’s confusion, popping two tablets out of the tray and into his hands. “What was it, then? Beer? Rum? Vodka?”

Oh. Oh. She thinks… “Relax, May. I didn’t do anything. The music was just loud, that’s all.”

May doesn’t look entirely convinced, her eyes slightly narrowed, but it admittedly isn’t in Peter’s character to engage with any underage drinking (even though that’s what he’d probably do in college, if he was still going). Clint had slid him across a jack and coke with a wink at some point after midnight, but he’d let it go warm on the counter. The only time he’d ever really drunk was at Liz Allan’s New Year’s party at the end of junior year, and that was only to prove to that dumbass Flash Thompson that he wasn’t a pussy. His puke tasted like beer and then that just made him puke more.

“I just worry about you. I’ve never pictured you working in a place like that.” May sits at the kitchen counter, watching him as he swallows back the pills. “Couldn’t you send your resume to a bookstore or something? Bryony from Pilates says she’s looking for a new waiter at her place. Maybe that’s more your… thing.”

It’s quite likely that’s more his thing, but the told you so that would come out of Tony’s mouth is persuasion enough to keep on at it. Yeah, he feels like death and another night like yesterday is not going to make that any better, but surely he’ll get used to it. Right?

“I’m not quitting already. It wasn’t so bad. Plus, I got to meet Steve Rogers.”

May’s eyes almost bulge out of her head. “Excuse me? Steve Rogers as in…?”

“Yep,” Peter pops the ‘p’, grin tugging at his lips. His aunt isn’t exempt in the nationwide crush everybody has on Steve Rogers. “The manager—well, one of the managers—is his girlfriend. You know Nat Romanoff?”

“Oh, so she’s Nat Romanoff to you,” May chides, “Didn’t realise you two had got so close already.”

“Shut up. She’s kind of terrifying. So is the other guy who runs the place. But there’s a girl there—Wanda. She’s pretty awesome.”

May purses her lips, studying his expression. “Is she pretty pretty too?”

“No!” Peter replies a little too quickly, to May’s delight, “No—she’s… nice, but she’s a bit older than me. Anyway, I’ve told you before. I’m not looking for anything like that.”

(It’s been almost a year since Liz Allan tore his heart to pieces and he’s still not over it. It’s kind of pathetic, really. They were never really dating to begin with, but it all felt so real anyway.)

“Alright,” May hums, “Just…be careful, okay? I heard you come back late last night and I hate thinking about you walking about on your own.”

He wants to say that he’s eighteen and basically an adult and that New York City at 3am doesn’t scare him, but him and May have been so close his whole life and it must be difficult, her watching the little boy dropped abruptly on her doorstep all those years ago growing up and moving on. Other than Uncle Tony, who walks in and out of his life when it suits him, May is all he has. And she’s only got him. There’s a lifeline there that holds them indefinitely together and she hates watching it stretch, fray.

“Steve got me a cab,” he says gently, “And I’ll bring my bike tonight. I’m totally fine. I promise.”

She gets up, kisses him on the top of his head, between the curls that are still damp from the shower. It makes him feel like a kid, but not in the restrictive, controlling way Tony does when he’s pissed at him. It makes him feel nostalgic for the time where May would kiss his scraped knees better when he tripped on the sidewalk and make him peanut butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off for his lunch box.

“I love you more than anything,” May says, her mantra. You don’t have a lot, but you do have me.

Peter smiles. Blinks slowly. “I love you too, May.”

-

Just before he leaves the apartment for another round, a notification lights up his phone. He doesn’t recognise the number, but he opens the text anyway, and it’s a link to a Spotify page ran by username blackwidow. The playlist is titled for peter.

-

“You’ve looked them both up on Instagram, right?”

Wanda says this as she drops on the sofa next to him, propping her feet on the coffee table. Clint and Nat are bickering in the office adjoined to the kitchen and occasionally he can see one of them through the window—he’s almost certain at one point Nat had Clint by the throat, but Thor looks at him, shaking his head. You just gotta let them ride this one out.

“Uh…what?” Peter absent-mindedly replies, dragging his eyes away from the pot of pens that has just collided with the window. Wanda doesn’t react. It must be normal.

“Steve and Natasha,” Wanda elaborates, “I did. It’s the first thing I did, after I met them. You wanna know about someone’s life, you find their social media. Or lack of it.”

Peter sighs. Well, at least it’s not just him. “Yeah, I did.”

“I’m assuming you haven’t sent Natasha a request.”

“Nope.”

Wanda grins. “She’s meticulous. Natasha. Obsessed with privacy and who gets to see what. I’m surprised she has social media at all. I mean…it’s not illogical, considering, but she does not reveal her soul to just anybody. Steve, on the other hand, is an open book. Not very good at hiding anything. Which is usually a good thing, sometimes not.”

Peter tilts his head, taking Wanda in. She’s wearing makeup today, black smudged round her eyes. May’s right, she is pretty pretty. “You seem to know quite a lot about them.”

“I’ve worked with them for a while now. And anyway. They’re interesting. You see it, too. Sometimes it’s hard to look away when they’re together.” Wanda doesn’t flinch when another crash comes from the office. “You wonder how they work, because they seem so very different.”

Peter shrugs. She’s not wrong, obviously, but he doesn’t want to look too interested, like the creepy fans that leave leery comments on Steve’s pictures. “People do say that opposites attract.”

“People are stupid. And vague. What even are opposites?” Wanda’s laugh is low and sort of croaky. “I am just glad they found their way back to each other.”

“How did they even meet?”

Wanda’s smile is the same one he saw yesterday, like he’s encountered a dead end and she knows it. This is not her story to tell, like so many others. “I am sure you will find out eventually.”

Clint bursts out of the office, then, dabbing at a cut on his cheek with a napkin. He looks kind of like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards, flustered and breathing hard. His eyebrows lift when he sees Peter sitting there, offering the two of them a quick greeting.

“Oh, and Clint!” Natasha calls out, appearing from behind the door, “Could you get me an iced latte?”

Clint considers for a second, before nodding. She throws him her reusable mug and he catches it with one hand before turning to leave.

“Don’t even try and get me to explain that relationship,” Wanda says, “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

Peter laughs under his breath. It’s like Nat said, in the conversation he shouldn’t have heard. We don’t have to understand everything.

-

At about 11pm that night he joins Wanda for a cigarette out the back fire door and for the first time, he feels kind of cool, watching as the end burns a tiny amber dot, ripping a hole in the black. He’d never smoke one himself—the fact that May is horrified by him consuming alcohol is bad enough—but he likes watching her, how oddly and decadently beautiful the smoke unfurling from her lips is.

At the bottom of the alley, a motorbike pulls up and a man that looks vaguely Steve-shaped jumps off of it. Wanda glances at him with a smirk, stubbing out the cigarette with the toe of her boot. His arms fold out, and a woman runs into them, their laughter echoing down the street. They obviously don’t know that him and Wanda are watching; it feels like a private glimpse that they’re not supposed to see, a privilege. Natasha’s legs wrap round his waist. They hold each other for what feels like minutes, hours.

He can’t take his eyes away the whole time.

“I told you,” Wanda elbows him, brushing past to get to the door. “They’re magnetic. You’re pulled into their orbit.”

“I just…I don’t know why,” Peter says, dumbfounded, “Maybe it’s the way they look at each other? Like the whole world could burn to ashes and they’d just…stand, in the afterglow.”

“You’re poetic, Parker,” Wanda muses, “But you’re not wrong, either.”

They’re pulled back into the heat of the club when Clint realises they’re not working, grabbing them both by the shoulders and violently shoving them back onto the bar. He’s not paying them to gossip about snapchat and heelies, or whatever the kids are into these days, apparently. And Thor can only handle so much attention before his ego combusts.

He’s mixing a bad gin and tonic when Natasha and Steve finally come into the back. Her tiny frame guides him through the throngs of people as a The 1975 song plays in the background, crooning about skinny jeans and spare time and she’s got a boyfriend anyway. They disappear down the basement steps and Natasha must be a little drunk, he reckons, because the door is barely shut when they start kissing.

-

It takes about two and a half weeks, give or take, for things to start to feel normal. The hours fuck up any semblance of a sleeping pattern, but he’s no longer waking up with a thudding in his skull like a second heartbeat and Wanda’s tip about earplugs help a ton. He arrives at about three, sometimes earlier, sometimes later. He’s usually off again by two unless Nat or Clint are feeling generous about clean-up. The bar is shut every Sunday and the freedom is near divine. He doesn’t get up until midday and spends the rest of the day in his pajamas, eating pancakes and watching shitty reality television about people who are paid to sing badly or hate each other.

Steve is in the bar most nights and whilst he doesn’t always talk to Peter, he begins to miss him when he’s not there. He’s usually got a motivational speech or two in his back pocket, and it feels pretty fucking awesome that Steve Rogers seems to care a little about his wellbeing.

He hasn’t had the nerve to ask about how they met, yet. Wanda is still tight-lipped and Clint is borderline psychotic anyway, so each of them feel like a dead-end. He’s stuck with assumptions and watching them from his peripheral.

“You know, he wrote his last album about her,” Clint says in a rare moment of honesty, while they’re preparing for opening. Steve and Nat are tucked in a booth by the door, her knees brought to her chest, speaking impossibly close together. “It’s abhorrently adorable. Almost puked when I heard it.”

“What?” Peter says skeptically, “You mean the whole of See You In a Minute is about Natasha?”

“The whole goddamn thing. Sickening, isn’t it? I think the title is some sort of private joke between them.”

Peter doesn’t mention that Steve’s last album is his favorite, because he doesn’t need more excuses for Clint to bully him. Plus, he needs to push on. He needs to know more. “Have they always been like that? You know. Close.”

Clint pauses. He’s polishing glasses, but lays the cloth on the counter, looking over at him. “I’ve known Nat a long time. Long enough to know that it takes…a lot, to impress her. To pull her in. Even with me—and with Steve—it took her months to realise there was a mutual trust there.” He grins a little, showing the softer side to all that strident energy. “If you tell her this, I will violently murder you, but I love that girl to bits and I wouldn’t accept just anybody taking her away from me. But I accepted Steve immediately. So take from that what you will.”

It doesn’t really answer his question, but he supposes it answers a bunch of other unasked ones.

There’s a moment of silence. And then—

“Have you and Nat ever…?”

The look Clint gives him makes him realise he knows better than to finish that sentence.

-

(He brings up See You in a Minute on Spotify the moment he has time alone before opening, back on the leather couch in the basement. He figures the songs might have a new meaning now he knows who they’re about. His thumb taps the titular song—a slow, atmospheric ballad that sits in the recesses of his heart as soon as he hears the opening piano chords.

I have one last dance all saved up for you

He really wishes he wasn’t crying, but he just can’t help it.)

-

A band is playing that night called The Guardians who everyone but Peter seems to know well. They’re a six-piece retro rock band that the crowd goes wild for—they all have crazy hair colors and equally crazy names, apart from the lead singer, who’s messy brown hair is barely brushed and is weirdly also called Peter. They stay for a while after their set has finished, building up a substantial bar tab that Clint’s on their ass about. Peter Quill and his girlfriend Gamora (the other singer and guitar player of the band, her hair bright green and her lips painted black) sit on the stools and tease Peter (who they call Little P, hilarious) until closing time.

“Are you even allowed to serve alcohol?” Quill jibes, sipping a beer, “Isn’t there a rule against children being anywhere near liquor in public?”

Gamora pokes his shoulder. “Maybe it’s some sort of psychology project. He’s studying us for a paper.”

Peter can’t even be bothered to argue at this point. He still gets this same genre of comedy from Clint on a daily basis so what’s a couple more age-related jokes? He just smiles, mixing a cosmo for Gamora’s scary looking sister who silently glares at him from the stool next to her.

“You know what would be a fun psychology project,” Quill points a finger in Peter’s direction, “Nat Romanoff.”

Peter pauses for a second. “What makes you say that?”

Quill’s limbs are loose from all the drink he’s been downing before, during and after his performance, so his movements are all exaggerated and floppy. “Don’t tell me you’re not interested. Clint too. They both have shit in their pasts they don’t want us to know about.”

Gamora is decidedly more composed. She shakes her head, looking at Peter seriously. “All conjecture, of course. And none of our business.”

“I heard she was a spy for the Russian government,” Nebula casually mentions, her tone completely void of inflection. “She can slit someone’s neck with an envelope.”

All three of them look at Nebula, slightly aghast, but Nebula’s expression is so stoic and emotionless Peter can’t tell if she’s joking or not. Even Quill blinks heavily, knocked speechless.

“That’s…not what I meant,” Quill slurs, leaning in closer, “But there’s something there.” He taps the side of his nose. “Mark my words.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Gamora says, “Having a past you want to remain in the past is hardly rare.”

Peter’s beginning to notice a pattern with his colleagues. They all guard their memories under heavily armored doors and it’s only in occasional moments of softness or weakness where anything is ever revealed, and rarely by the person themselves. Clint let’s something slip about Natasha, Wanda about Clint. None of them really know anything about him.

“How long have you guys known Nat and Clint?” Peter asks, before tentatively adding, “And Steve?”

Quill and Gamora smile knowingly, like maybe this is a question that’s been asked before. Gamora presses a hand down on Quill’s shoulder. Peter hides the urge to sigh at another dead end. “We’ve been performing here since they opened, but if you actually want to know anything about them we’re probably the worst people to ask.”

Quill nods. “They don’t talk. If you ever find anything out, though, feel free to let us know.”

Peter laughs disbelievingly. “As if they’ll ever tell me anything.”

“Have you asked them?” Gamora replies, and Peter’s expression answers her question. “Little P, if they didn’t think they could trust you, they wouldn’t have hired you. They don’t let just anybody into their inner circle.”

“My uncle got me the job—he’s like, an investor, or something. Trust had nothing to do with it. Probably the opposite.”

Gamora’s lip curve, unconvinced. “I think you know it’s never quite that simple.”

“I don’t…I don’t even know why I’m so interested.”

“That’s what everybody says,” Gamora says wistfully, sliding him a tip across the counter. “And we should probably leave before he makes a fool of himself.”

(The he in question is Quill, who has since disappeared to join the dancing crowds with his shirt off. Nebula’s eye roll is mechanical, like the rest of her. Peter wonders if Quill and Gamora are her Steve and Nat; two wildly different individuals that seem joined together by something no-one else can see, that no-one quite understands. She downs the rest of her cocktail and makes her way towards the couple, who have since started kissing in the middle of the dancefloor.)

Gamora kind of reminds him of Michelle. Clever, beautiful, existing on a plane that floats way above everybody else. He swallows hard. He’s not sure where that thought came from.

-

By coincidence, MJ actually messages him about a week later. He’s been so busy either sleeping or working that all his friendships outside Endgame have taken a bit of a back-burner, texts stacking in his inbox that he’s been too tired to respond to. Besides, the only person he really keeps in contact with from high school is Ned and he’s spending the vacation before he goes to college with his family in Hawaii—he’s kept updated with sunkissed snapchats from the beach, exotic flowers and drinks in coconut shells. He’s hovered over Michelle’s name a few times over the past few weeks, but she isn’t always the kind to message back. She flies off grid as soon as school is out. There’s no point in tormenting himself over her lack of read receipts.

But when she messages, asking if they want to meet at the mall, he types sure before he can properly think about it. It’s a Sunday, after all, and he’s been thinking an awful lot about the limited relationships he has lately. What he wants them to be.

(That’s definitely a bi-product of Nat and Steve. He can’t put it down to anything else.)

MJ is sat by the fountain in the middle of the shopping complex reading a copy of Marx’s The Communist Manifesto, making notes with a tiny wooden Ikea pencil. Her dark hair is long and loose and she’s wearing a plaid shirt with sneakers, casually beautiful in the way she’s always been. It takes her a minute to look up and actually see him standing in front of her and when she does, her mouth opens a little, curved in a bemused grin.

“Woah, Peter,” she says, closing her book, “Didn’t realise you were edgy now.”

(She’s talking about his new Doc Martens that Wanda helped pick out. They’re shiny black leather and extremely uncomfortable, but you know, he’s getting down with the culture.)

“I’m…not,” Peter says. MJ laughs at his awkwardness. “You should see the people I work with.”

“This your new job, huh?” MJ eases back into the bench, crossing her legs. “Now you’ve decided to fuck college. Is this the beginning of a crisis? I’m getting vibes, here. Smart kids who screw college to work in a nightclub are definitely going on some sort of downward psychological spiral.”

Peter shrugs, smiling. Trust MJ to be brutally honest about his life choices. “Do you wanna grab coffee?”

“Yeah, as long as it’s not Starbucks. I’m not using my limited finances to fund their crooked corporate empire.”

They trail around for a bit before they find a cripplingly expensive but decidedly independent coffee house, filled with mismatched vintage furniture and hipster-types crowding the front windows with their moleskin notebooks. Peter feels out of place but Michelle fills the space like she owns it, lounging in an armchair angled away from the counter. She closes her eyes and asks for a chamomile tea and a blueberry muffin which he—he just gets for her.

He returns with an Americano for himself, because for some reason he wants MJ to think he’s the kind of person who drinks black coffee now, when in reality he’d prefer something fruity and sugary that has him flying off the walls.

“So…” Michelle starts as he falls into the sofa opposite, “You’re definitely not going to Princeton?”

Peter folds his legs. Tries to get comfortable. “I’m definitely not going to Princeton.”

“Interesting. Even though Tony Stark will probably fund, like, all your tuition fees?”

Peter rolls his eyes. He hates her insistence on bringing up the fact he has Tony in his life, a handy billionaire safety-blanket, like he can’t complain about anything ever. Yeah, sure, Tony would probably fund his way through college—but he wonders how much of that is guilt money, the dollars his mom and dad would have scraped together if they were still alive. Not everything is about money. Tony Stark is the kind of person MJ hates with every fibre of her being, but… Peter still loves him, and not just because he’s rich as shit. Even when he’s being super annoying.

Michelle smiles sadly when he doesn’t reply. “I’m sorry, Peter. It’s just hard for me to get my head around, you know? I would commit homicide for someone to fund my way through college. Maybe I already have.”

Peter chuckles. Has a sip of his god-awful coffee. “Where are you even going for college? I don’t think you’ve ever said. In-state?”

“It’s what I’ve been meaning to tell you, actually,” MJ admits, “It’s a bit further out than in-state.”

“Oh. Right. Pennsylvania?”

“Bit further than that.”

“…California?”

“Not exactly.”

“MJ, are you going to make me run through every college I know about? Tony’s shoved just about every prospectus in my direction so we might be here a while.”

“I got accepted onto a philosophy program,” MJ starts, bringing her teacup to her lips. “At University College London.”

Peter almost spits his coffee out everywhere.

“I honestly didn’t think anything would come of it. The whole admissions process in England is completely whack, and they don’t have SATs and stuff over there so I didn’t think I had a chance. But—I don’t know. Something happened, and I got in. So I guess I’m moving to London.”

He’s not completely sure what she’s saying, just watching her mouth move and nothing but blurred, incoherent noise reaching her. She said London. MJ is moving to London, and that’s a hell of a long way from anywhere.

“You’re moving to London?” he just about manages to squeak.

“Yep. Totally aced it, dude. Time to live my English dream. You know. Try and abolish the class system they have over there and stage a revolution against their monarchy.”

A vacuum opens in his stomach, like he’s just now realising that he doesn’t really want to live in a country that isn’t the same as MJ’s. But she looks so happy. He doesn’t want to be, but he can’t help it. He can’t not be happy for someone who is about to do everything they’ve ever wanted.

Nevertheless, it’s an inconvenient epiphany. Wanting to hold onto someone as soon as they tell you they’re going to leave.

“Congratulations,” he says, hoping there isn’t a crack in his voice. “That’s…incredible, MJ. You’re awesome.”

“I know! And now you’re earning a proper wage like an adult, you can totally come and visit me over there. We can eat scones and laugh at how ridiculous British accents are.” She kicks him gently, grinning. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Peter says quietly. “Yeah, of course I will.”

“Cool. Now we’ve got that out the way…” MJ reaches into her bag, bringing out her little black copy of The Communist Manifesto. “Can I interest you in a dialogue with my new BFF, Karl?”

He sinks back into his chair, feels his whole body bleed between the fabric and through the floorboards.

-

He walks into work the next day and finds Steve and Natasha sitting in one of the booths. Steve has an acoustic guitar and he’s strumming chords while Nat is nodding along, pointing at something on a scrap of notebook paper in front of him. Occasionally, he’ll grab a marker and cross something out or scribble something down. When the door shuts behind him, the two of them look over. God. He’s got a running habit of ruining moments.

“Hey Peter!” Steve calls out in his usual, friendly way, “What’s up?”

He’s about to reply, but Natasha edges in first. “Come over here. Let’s talk.”

There’s something ominous in her tone but Natasha is impossible to predict, so a vague sense of anxiety haunts him as he sidles over to the booth and sits slowly in the space Nat has made for him. He wonders if she’s firing him but Steve looks chipper—surely he wouldn’t look that happy if he was about to lose his job, right? Maybe his not so discrete interest in their relationship has…got back to them? He’s already imagining the look on Tony’s face. I said you needed a reality check.

“Am I in trouble?”

Nat laughs. Even that is low and sultry, somehow sexy. Steve laughs too. “Peter—I know we tease you about it, but you do realise you’re not in school, right? And…calm, measured conversation isn’t usually how we deal with things here.”

He recalls the argument in the office a few weeks prior. Yeah, sounds about right.

“We just want to know about you,” Nat continues, “Because—I know a lot about the people I work with. But I don’t know anything about you, other than what Stark has said. And I trust his judgement about as much as I trust Steve’s.”

“Hey!” Steve says with a pout, “My judgement is perfect, thank you very much.”

“It’s the opposite of perfect, but okay, Mr I-trust-everybody-I’ve-met-ever.”

Steve shakes his head at him. “This is what I get for not being openly hostile all the time.”

“It’s got me and Clint this far. Anyway, I digress.” She nudges Peter gently. “Tell us something about you.”

Peter is mildly suspicious about the whole thing and doesn’t know what to say, so just stares vacantly at the two of them.

“Okay…well, at least we know you’re not a talker,” Nat murmurs, “So how about I ask you a question. Who was the girl you were with at the mall yesterday?” Peter’s jaw swings open like a door on a loose hinge. Nat half-smiles. “I saw you when I was coming out the Urban Outfitters. I’m curious.”

Steve glowers at her. “Peter, you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to. She’s insatiable.”

“Oh, yeah. But if you don’t answer it you’ll be kind of answering it, if you get what I mean.”

Peter’s taken aback. For someone who is so private about everything, she’s appears to have no qualms investigating his private life. He coughs on nothing and shifts in his seat awkwardly. “Just a friend. From school. It isn’t—she isn’t…”

Nat laughs under her breath, looking over at Steve. “He’s right. It’s none of my business. But you two looked good together. That’s always a good start.”

“Is it?” Steve asks, and she sighs.

“I think so,” Nat splays her hands out on the table. He notices her fingernails are painted electric blue. “But, sure. It isn’t everything.”

“What is everything?”

The question catches both of them off guard and Peter instantly regrets asking, wishing he could catch his words back in a butterfly net and shove them back inside of him. The two of them are…they’re untouchable, Wanda and Clint have both made that equally clear. It’s something you find out, not something you’re told. But it’s too late now. Steve and Nat look at each other in a minute of an intense, burning eye contact and not for the first time Peter imagines being swallowed up by the seat whole.

“I guess…” Steve begins but trails off. Peter watches as his fingers inch closer to Natasha’s on a table, like they’re playing a complex game wherein they discover where their boundaries are, how far they can go while he’s still there. “I guess everything is when you’re sat in a room, and there could be just one person it or thousands, but it doesn’t matter because none of those faces are the one you want it to be. The only perfect room, the only one you’ll ever be happy in, is the one they inhabit with you. To leave it…or for them to leave, feels like you’re constantly just gasping for air.”

Natasha looks away. Somehow, Steve manages to drag his eyes away from her, after saying all that, and back to Peter.

“But sometimes everything is just knowing the favorite brand of ice cream they like to eat when everything is awful or the setting they prefer their washing machine on. It’s all about striking a balance.” He half-smiles. “Sometimes it takes a while to find it.”

Peter frowns. He likes Michelle, likes her more than he’d ever let on if the uncontrollable reaction his body had after she said she was leaving is anything to go by, but how can he know if it’s everything? What Steve is saying sounds suspiciously like soulmates, if they exist. That not being with them feels like dying. What he feels for MJ is blurry, inconstant; but it’s there all the same. He’s not sure if that flame is supposed to become anything more. Not that it matters.

“Michelle is moving to London for college,” Peter says desolately, then rolls his shoulders. “She’ll be living a whole other life over there. I can’t expect her to fit me into it, even if she liked me back.”

“Hey, Peter?” Nat says with a sympathetic smile, “Distance sucks, but you know what sucks more? Waiting too long. We know a thing or two about it, and I’d recommend quite heavily against it.”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve adds his two cents, “I’d give it a one star review on Amazon for being the worst ever. Not what I ordered, arrived broken, the lot.”

Clint enters and asks if they need a witness to sign the adoption papers and Nat throws a dirty washcloth at him, everything returning to normal. But there’s a warm feeling in Peter’s chest, because this is the closest he’s ever got. Maybe Gamora was right.

-

He sends Michelle a text that night, asking if they could maybe meet up again. She doesn’t reply. Maybe she never will, because that happens. But he’s not waiting too long. It’s not what he ordered.

-

They have an evening off a couple of weeks later because it’s Nat’s birthday. Apparently it’s tradition that whenever her or Clint turn a year older they fuck potential profit for a day and spend the night drinking whatever they can get their hands on. Instead, Peter’s invited to a small party that is hosted at Clint’s apartment across town—he’s still dragged to the bar a couple of hours before, however, to roll kegs of beer and various bottles of multi-colored spirits from the storeroom to Clint’s car for the occasion. He vanishes back home to shower and change before returning, May hastily shoving a bottle of wine into his hands as a gift as he leaves. He’s pretty sure he’s never seen Nat drink white at all, but hey. He’s only little. He doesn’t know much about liquor.

Clint buzzes him in and he follows the drum beat in the corridor to his top-floor apartment; the door is open so he just walks in, but is surprised when he sees nobody about. The speaker is blasting music into an empty room and if it wasn’t for Wanda entering the kitchen, he’d assume he’d come to the wrong house.

“Peter!” she says excitedly, squeezing him into a tight hug. Her dark hair is loose across her shoulders and she’s wearing a burgundy dress that floats above her knees. He can’t help but smile at her. “So glad you could make it!”

He leans out of the embrace, putting the wine on the counter. Glasses are spread out without any clear design, interspersed with opened bottles of various drinks. As far as he can see, there’s no non-alcoholic alternatives—May would probably freak out. “Where is everybody?”

“Did Clint not tell you? We’re on the roof. I’m just off to the bathroom but if you go through the door off the kitchen and up the fire escape you won’t miss it.”

She bounds away so he slowly makes his way up as per Wanda’s instructions. As soon as he opens the door he can hear chatter and laughter, and upon reaching the top he finds an area covered in strings of white fairy lights and odd chairs from jarring furniture sets. A bar runs along the edge near the wall where Clint is mixing drinks, rows of glasses filled with a very generous amount of vodka and garnished with olives. There are people he recognises—Steve and Natasha are tucked into a loveseat, finally comfortable with the eyes on them, with Thor perched on the edge—but mostly people he doesn’t. A man with white hair sits comfortably with a brunette woman, while two unknown men stand deep in conversation off to the side. Nobody notices him straightaway and he feels little odd, the youngest there, but Clint dramatically fist-pumps the air.

“Parker!” he exclaims, walking over and clapping him ferociously on the shoulder. He wonders just how long the drinking has been going before he arrived as he tries not to cough up his lungs. “No extra-curriculars tonight? Lacrosse, maybe?”

“Leave him alone, Clint!” Natasha says, to Peter’s surprise, but then— “He’s way too little for lacrosse. I think he’s more of a mathlete.”

“Who’s kid brother is this, then?” One of the men he clocked earlier calls out before heading over, “Could be Rogers, I suppose. You both have that needy white boy look about you.”

Peter sighs, stretching out his arms. “Should we just get all the insults out the way now? Then we can move on with our lives.”

Needless to say, the insults don’t decrease with time—if anything they continue to spike as more vodka is consumed and less fucks are given, which are outstandingly little to begin with. Sam—a friend of Steve’s from his touring days—is by far the most scathing, not letting him rest for a second. Peter kind of likes it, though. It’s the way a lot of them show affection for each other, brutally kicking the shit at every opportunity. Steve’s other friend is Bucky, someone from childhood, and the white-haired guy is Wanda’s brother Pietro who left Endgame for music management somewhere. Maria and Phil work in legal and know Clint and Nat from wherever they were before Endgame. A good-natured yet authoritative man called Rhodey turns up later, who Peter recognises from Tony’s offices but has never actually met. Maybe Tony and Pepper will turn up at some point. Maybe they won’t.

Clint offers him one of Nat’s Special Birthday Martinis. He’s on the edge of turning it down, but everybody is laughing and he kind of feels part of this, so why not. The taste is bitter and awful and Clint laughs at him for a very long time, until his eyes water and he has to go and sit down. He talks to Wanda and Pietro, about their life in Sokovia before civil war ripped it to pieces, and Steve mentions how he took Nat out for Chinese food and champagne.

Steve brings in Natasha’s cake and Nat flushes—just a little—as she sees the candles flicker in the relative darkness, like Steve is holding a fire in his hands. Her eyes flutter closed as she blows out the candles and Peter muses on what she wished for, or if she wished at all. The alcohol makes his stomach feel warm, and the people make him feel warm, and he thinks this little party in this pocket of New York City may be one of the happiest moments of his life.

As the hours lull into the coolness of the morning, guests in various states of drunkenness either leave or continue on into Clint’s apartment. Peter takes a minute to steady himself, his heady heart and clouded head. He clings onto the metal railings until his knuckles turn white, staring out over the city. His city. He can’t go to college because he can’t leave here, all the lights and the heat and the music. New York is him and he is New York. This is something that cannot be ever taken away from him.

He hears footsteps and instead of you know, staying, like a normal person, Peter’s instinct is to duck behind the bar. He’s not ready for anyone to see him yet. He just wants a couple more moments alone with the world—plus he feels a little drunk, and being drunk is the best right here.

The footsteps come to a halt barely feet away from him. He’s not trying to listen as this is weird enough as it is, but it’s difficult not to. It’s Steve and Natasha.

“Another year, another one of Clint’s illegal martinis.” Steve’s voice. “Or two. Or several.”

Nat laughs lightly. “I’m going to go with several. I better not be holding your hair back while you puke tonight, boy. It’s my birthday.”

“Well—technically it stopped being your birthday a few hours ago, Nat, but I’ll let it slide because I love you.”

“You love me, huh? That’s certainly a new development.”

“Nah, it isn’t. Loved you the moment I saw you.”

“You fall in love with everybody.”

“Not in the way I love you. God, Nat. Do you actually realise what you do to me? Every time I look at you—you rip all the air out of my lungs.”

“That sounds pretty painful.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s agony. But it’s worth every second because…because you’re you. After everything. You’re you.”

There’s a few seconds of quiet. Peter wishes he’d just gone because as much as he wanted to know about them, to feel closer to them, this isn’t…this isn’t it. This is too private. Maybe if he edges along, he could sneak…

“Marry me.” Steve’s voice hangs in the night, like one of his songs. Poignant. “Marry me, Natasha.”

Nat is quieter than Peter’s ever heard it. It’s quiet, and it cracks in the middle. “Is that Clint’s martinis talking?”

“No. No. This is me talking. Marry me. You know—you know I’d be happy, forever, with what we have now. But I want to. I really, really want to.”

“Steve…” her voice is barely a whisper. Peter’s hand balls into fists. He’s here and yeah, he shouldn’t be, but he’s goddamn invested at this point. “I’ve been told that I can be pretty hard to deal with, sometimes. I’m reluctant to inflict that on somebody forever.”

“For you to inflict your inconstant, confusing, ridiculous self on me forever would be a privilege, Romanoff.”

“You really do have an answer for anything, don’t you? Insufferable asshole.”

“I’m your insufferable asshole.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.”

At that moment Peter’s leg just…involuntarily spasms. His foot collides with a nearby chair and it shifts across the concrete loudly, his cover completely blown. Shit. There’s no hiding now, so he peeks round the edge of the bar, finding Steve and Natasha stood with their arms around each other.

“Hello,” Peter says sheepishly, pointing towards the door, “I was just—“

“Parker, you’re not going anywhere.” Nat grabs him by his shirt and pulls him up, but there’s no malice on her face. Instead of violently throwing him off the top of this very high building for perving on their proposal, she drops him on one of the sofas. Steve hands him a nearby martini, amused by the whole situation if anything.

“You’re sitting there, and I’m telling you everything you want to know.”

[parkneroses]

parkner week day 1! i can’t believe i actually got this done. mucho thanks to @parkner-stuff and @emptycanoflizards for being lovely to talk to while i struggled with this :) <3 

word count: 1.3k | if you enjoy this, buy me a coffee? | read it on ao3

day 1: road work ahead/parades/identity porn

Let’s get one thing straight: Peter Parker never swore.

Ever since he was a kid, there had been a little orange stained wooden box on the kitchen counter in May’s apartment. It had a thin slot in the top that Ben had carved with a kitchen knife and it was decorated with crayon scribbles and spare buttons from May’s (never used) button collection. A post-it note Peter had stuck on the front when he was seven marked it the “Swere Jar Box”.

Peter had lost many a dollar to the swear box in his time. One unfortunate incident involving him stubbing his toe on the couch leg, and thus letting out a horrendously creative string of profanity, resulted in him not having enough money to see The Force Awakens on opening night with Ned. On that day, Peter had vowed to never let a foul word slip off his tongue for the rest of his life.

But, in this cruel and desolate world, sometimes drastic times called for drastic measures.

“Mr Stark,”

“Hm.”

Peter smacked a tattered, soaking copy of the Daily Bugle down on the lab table in front of Tony.

“What the fuck is this?”

Tony didn’t spare the paper a glance as he moved it to his left and continued picking at the inside of the Iron Man faceplate.

“Newspaper. Wet newspaper.” He said. “Why’s it wet?”

Peter huffed and crossed his arms. Tony didn’t even look at it. He didn’t even care that Peter had just wasted a whole entire dollar on him.

“It’s wet because I’m wet. Read it, asshole,” Peter said. He was two bucks poorer now, but even that couldn’t curb his rage.

Tony looked up at him incredulously. “Are you swearing at me to get my attention?”

“It’s working, isn’t it?”

Tony huffed and grabbed the paper off the table. In big bold writing, spread across the top of the page, the headline read:

Spider-Man’s Secret Identity Revealed? Leaked Photos from Tony Stark’s lab show that the Spider-Man is a Child!

Well, that wasn’t ideal.

Under the ridiculous headline (on the front page, might he add) were two blurry pictures taken through the window of Tony’s lab by drone. The first picture was Tony standing next to what seemed to be the spider suit, but the second one-

“That’s not you,” Tony muttered under his breath. The picture showed a kid about the same height and build as Peter, but with curly blonde hair and tanner, freckled skin.

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock, who is he?” Peter asked. Three whole dollars gone down the drain.

“Okay, first of all? Watch your potty mouth. I know you don’t have three dollars to put in your swear box, and I’m not about to cover that for you if it’s me you’re getting mouthy with. And how is this my fault?” Tony scoffed, setting his faceplate aside to give his full attention to Peter- a rare, but welcomed occurrence.

Peter’s straight face morphed into a cutting glare. “How is it your fault? That’s not me in the suit! I didn’t put that other kid in the suit, it’s my suit. Plus now, whoever he is, he’s in danger from everyone I've ever locked up!” He took a deep breath, “Tell me how this is my faut Mr Stark because I don’t see it.”

“Last week. You said you couldn’t come over on the weekend to fit the new suit, so you gave me your measurements and told me to put it on something else. Not my fault I had a spare kid lying around with similar measurements to yours. What did you want me to do?” Tony asked nonchalantly, as though he couldn’t see Peter falling apart in front of his eyes.

“A mannequin, Mr Stark. Or a trash bag stuffed with paper, or a CPR dummy. Or literally anything other than an actual real person,” Peter whined. “Where did you even find him?”

Tony sighed. If it were up to him, he never would have let Peter find out about this. Lord knows how possessive he was of his suit, not to mention how he’d feel knowing someone else had had access to Karen.

“His name is Harley, and I’ve known him since he was... somewhere between the ages of eight and twelve, I can’t tell the difference. He’s upstairs.” Tony looked up in thought, considering the consequences of his next question. “Wanna meet him?”

Peter sputtered for a second, before nodding his assent with confused eyes.

Tony hoped he wouldn’t regret it. Both of his boys were such a huge part of his life, and he didn’t know if his heart could handle them not getting along. Although, there was no real reason for them not to. They were so alike, around the same age, had similar interests and life experiences. In a perfect world, they would have been introduced at a gala, or movie night, or some kind of happy occasion where Harley wasn’t half asleep and Peter wasn’t soaked to his socks, but for now, this would have to do.

*

Although Tony had brought the boys into the lab together, he couldn’t help but feel like he was intruding. They were staring each other down so intensely, that if Tony didn’t know better he’d think they were checking each other out. Neither of them were exactly at their best- Peter looked like a wet dog with water still running down his face and arms, and his dirty grease-stained sweatpants were a darker red in patches where the rain had caught him. Harley had forgotten to bring any clothes other than work gear on his visit from Tennessee, and was forced to wear the spare Hello Kitty pajama pants Tony had bought for Peter as a joke.

“Spider-Man? Meet Spider-Man!” Tony joked.

“Not funny,” Peter muttered under his breath, and Harley stared him in the eyes.

“Nice to meet you too, sunshine.”

“Those are my pants.” Peter met his heated gaze.

Harley studied Peter carefully, considering his options. When Tony had mentioned his other mentee, Harley had just been jealous. But standing in front of him now, he could feel that tension slipping away. The boy he was looking at was cute, and Spider-Man was known for being kind and caring. He was a catch, and Harley figured it wouldn’t hurt to shoot his shot.

“I can take them off if you want.”

Peter smirked. Of course he was mad at Tony for letting someone else wear his suit, but Harley seemed nice enough. He was pretty, and he had a southern accent that made Peter’s insides melt. Add his snarky sense of humor to the list of things Peter liked about him, and he might as well have been Peter’s dream guy already.

“At least buy me dinner first,” he said, savouring the horrified look on Tony’s face.

Harley smiled, stepping forward and taking Peter’s right hand in his, before kissing it like the gentleman he was. He was clearly laying it on thick for Tony, but Peter still blushed and looked away. He caught Tony’s eye for a split second, and the pink of his cheeks darkened.

“At eight tomorrow okay?” Harley asked, and Peter nodded happily.

Tony was- well, shocked or surprised didn’t exactly fit the bill. Other than desperately holding back from forcing Harley to put a shirt on, he was kind of happy. They weren’t fighting, and nothing had been blown up. All the stress he had had, the excuses he had made to stop his two protégées meeting, had been for nothing. All was well.

Until the news vans started piling around the tower. Cameras flashed, and reporters screamed for the chance at one of the biggest headlines of the year. And in the middle of it all, like a god rising from the abyss, stood J. Jonah Jameson in all his hellish glory, with his stupid ugly mustache on his stupid pancake face. Tony would deal with him later. For now, he had two lovebirds to control before they did something stupid, like blow up his lab or try to take over the world.

[wolfypuppypiles]

Bad days aren’t so bad when you have a super dad

(AN: I was having a bad day at work the other day, basically, I was just overtired and overworked and the only thing that made me feel better was 1. eating my dry cereal on my break yum yum 2. changing the playlist for the entire cinema to disney cause fuck everyone else its my fav and they can eat my ass 3. writing this so here we go!

I live vicariously through my boy, you know, the usual.)

“Godammit, Friday would you kill the thrusters a bit? I’d like to keep my fingers for a little while longer.”

The AI did as she was asked and Tony squinted as he started tinkering again, only for the AI’s voice to interrupt. 

“Sir, Peter has just arrived and it seems he’s in a bit of a mood. As Happy puts it-” Her voice was replaced by the grumpy oxymoron himself. 

“I don’t know what the hell is wrong with him but if that little shit gives me that kind of attitude again I’ll let him swing himself home. You deal with him.”

Tony rolled his eyes at his friend's lack of patience and Peter wrangling and dropped his tools on his desk. “Send him to the living room.”

“ETA two minutes.”

Tony sighed and wiped his hands down before making his way up to the kid's bedroom to pick something up before heading to the living room and adjoining kitchen, entering the same moment Peter did from the opposite end. 

“I don’t think I can keep going to classes, Mr Stark. I really don’t.” The kid usually said hello before he launched into his excited rambles but he was in a bad mood and comfortable enough in the compound to forgo the formality. 

He dumped his bag by the couch before flopping down onto it and Tony swiped down at his phone, changing the buildings playlist to Peters favourite mix of rap and old school rock. 

The first time Peter had come to Tony upset, he’d been crying and it had taken him two hours to calm the kid down. He’d gotten it down to a fine art by now. 

He didn’t offer many words as Peter ranted, knowing it was best to let him talk himself out before offering advice. 

“Uh uh.” He threw the kid his oldest, comfiest pair of sweats he'd grabbed from his room, not bothering to look as he threw them and walked into the kitchen. 

“It’s not even like I need to go. I know everything they’re teaching me and they still think I’m stupid! Mr Taylor hates me and I mean HATES me. It’s not my fault he got the equation wrong. I just pointed it out.”

He could hear Peter tearing off his school clothes to put his sweats on and kept his back turned as he grabbed a jar of giant cookies from the counter, pushing the hot chocolate button on the coffee machine on the way back. 

Peter was pulling his hoodie down over his chest and shaking out his curls when Tony got back to him, mouth moving a mile a minute and face red from his word vomit. Tony handed him a cookie and pushed his shoulder to get him to sit down, putting the jar on the table in front of him. 

“Mr Taylor sounds like an idiot.”

Peter laughed and waved his cookie around, socked feet kicking against the carpet as Tony curled up his nose and picked up the teenagers clothes from the floor. “Right? He's the worst!”

Tony wasn’t one for cleaning up after himself let alone someone else and threw the clothes behind him just to get them out of the way as he went to grab Peters hot chocolate. 

Peter was still talking and Tony raised a barely interested eyebrow at Peters new turn in his story. 

“And of course she took his side which isn’t fair! She didn’t even hear what he said! But I got detention just because I was the one without a hall pass. Whatever. Maybe, I’ll just quit and be Spider-Man full time. At least I don’t get that crap when I’m patrolling.”

Tony grabbed the hot chocolate and some extra marshmallows, making sure to only grab the pink ones that Peter liked before going back to sit with the kid. 

Peter had eaten his cookie already, hand rubbing restlessly through his hair as he reached for another. He looked worn out and sad now that his anger was dissipating and he sighed as Tony took a seat beside him. 

“Sorry. I don’t mean to dump this all on you. You have better things to do than listen to my boring school stuff.”

The Avenger handed the hot chocolate over and levelled his gaze at the kid. Tony may have perfected the air of boredom in any and all situations but that didn’t mean he wasn’t listening or that he didn’t care.

“First of all, your stories about school aren’t boring. It’s like a telenovela on tape and I will always listen to whatever new shenanigan you’ve gotten yourself into. Secondly, Peter, you find school boring because you’re a genius and you’re right; you’re too smart to be there. But high school isn’t just about exams and papers, it's about being a kid with your friends. So, you’re going to stay in school and savour the moments you have with Ted and DJ-”

Peter’s mouth quirked up a little at the sides as he corrected quietly. “Ned and MJ but whatever.”

“-Because this is the last time you’ll have adults organising everything for you and you’re going to miss that when you go off to college. You’re also right about Mr Taylor. He sounds like he doesn’t know the difference between astatine and selenium.”

Peter huffed out a laugh at that, expression brightening as Tony continued. 

“And look, Flash is an ass for sure and he never should have said that to you but just remember that he’s a highschooler whose biggest concern is whether or not he’s getting asked to prom.” He took the kids shoulder and shook him a little, making Peter smile. 

“You’re Spider-Man. You’re an Avenger. You’re way above that snot-nosed shit-”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up at that, laughing and Tony laughed too, shaking his head. “Don’t repeat that. Listen. You can handle anything. And whatever you can’t...you let us handle, okay? May and I are always gonna be here when you need us. Even if it just boring high school stuff.”

Peter blinked at him, eyes finally bright and happy again, all the darkness and temper gone. 

He nodded and sighed, relieved and he leaned into Tony’s side, blushing just a tiny bit. “Thanks, Mr Stark.” 

Peter smirked, teasing in his voice as he joked his way through Tony’s quietly humming anxiety about being so open with his feelings. “I didn’t know you were so soft. You’re supposed to be Iron-Man, right?”

Tony laughed and shoved the boy's shoulder before grabbing him again and pulling him into a side hug. 

“Yeah, whatever Underoos. You just keep acting like you’re a grown-up and you’ll get there someday.”

Peter snickered as Tony put on an exaggerated, high pitched voice, hugging the teenager as he kissed his cheek noisily. 

“My littleee boyyyy!” 

Peter pushed him off, full-on belly laughing, all traces of his bad mood dissipated in the wake of Tony’s terrible impression of May. 

“Stop!”

Tony let go but ruffled his hair, and Peters eyes found him again, gaze deeper than it had any right to be with a smile that bright. “Thanks for always taking care of me.”

Tony looked away, feigning a lack of interest to keep from thinking about his father or the fact that he sort of felt like Peters. “Don’t mention it, squirt.”

Peter leaned back into the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table, head nodding along to the song playing softly overhead. “I always feel better after talking to you. Man, I love this song.”

Tony smiled. His arc reactor heart had been stretched and pulled so that Peter could fit inside and he didn’t mind it one bit. “I know.”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20008729

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13348805/1/

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