#getting drunk n kissing strangers at clubs is The best form of experimentation

[yameoto]

this is so out of left field but i am having a gay crisis i guess? feel free to ignore but you give wise older sibling vibes don’t ask me why because i dont know so here I just gotta write this down bc i went on my first date ever w a man and he really likes me and thinks im pretty and i feel nothing and he wants to go on a second date and i said yes bc i should give this stuff a go you know but i literally cringe at the thought of like kissing him or doing anything romantic w a man but when i think of doing it with a woman i do not feel cringe or icky im like yeah sounds nice… always knew i liked girls but was unsure about guys and now im just lowkey spiralling bc ive been afraid of the word lesbian forever but now its not hitting me w the gut punch it used to??? i might just need to get drunk and kiss strangers in the clubs but anyways thank you for listening i need to work out how to not hurt this very nice boy who likes me

oh what a lovely descriptor aa thank you! and u sound like you’re in the process of detangling your internal dilemma on your own so kudos to you! n reminder that letting him down easy is totally understandable—suspected lesbian or not. tonnns of people don’t feel it on the second date. it’s usually the certifiable tiebreaker actually! dating should be fun. so it’s well within your realms to just say you don’t feel a spark regardless what you think your sexuality may or may not be. wishing u the best of luck in your romantic ventures anon <3

[im-a-goner-foryou]

Classic first meeting at a bar ft. snarky asshole! Tony / sorta brat! Peter

Let it be known that Peter doesn't make the wisest decisions.

Idly swinging his legs over the edge of his stool, he peers out from the shadowy corner of the bar he's hiding at; swirling his martini half-heartedly as his gaze lands on Harry-- predictably, on the dance floor, though the pretty redhead in his arms is something new.

So much for sticking by my side all night, Peter thinks bitterly, averting his eyes just as his best friend begins what seems like an attempt eat the girl's face off. Sighing long sufferingly and bringing his sopping finger up to his lips, Peter sucks the faint salty taste of martini off before knocking back the last dregs of his drink and beckoning to the bartender; if he's going to be miserable tonight, he might as well do so with the little help of a few drinks. "One strawberry vodka, plea--"

Before he can finish his order, though, a smooth voice abruptly interrupts him. "So, they're serving minors in bars now are they?" the mystery man-- for that low, silky baritone is one undoubtedly of a male-- chuckles, sliding easily into the seat beside him. "Then again, you youngsters certainly have become much more creative about fake ID's."

Incensed, Peter whirls around to face his unwelcomed guest, mouth already parted around a sharp retort; that is, until his gaze falls and focuses on the man-- then his mind reels to silence, and he feels a flush burn hot through his body. The choice words he had planned to speak were stuck in his throat around the same position his heart was in; all that manages to slip out is an eloquent "uhhhh."

The gorgeous hunk of a man merely smiles down at him, a corner of his lips twitching upwards into a small smirk that screams of smug arrogance as though responses such as Peter's are only everyday occurances for him. Taking in the crisp black material elegantly draped over broad shoulders in the form of a suit that hugs that well-defined figure so perfectly it had to be tailor made, Peter can't help but feel frumpy in comparison-- Christ, that sleek wrist watch alone is probably worth more than his entire outfit.

So stunned he is by the almost off-hand classiness exuding from the older man, Peter's gaze lingers for much longer than considered acceptable before travelling up to the other's face; he startles at the coolly amused expression etched into those handsome features, enough to snap him out of it. Shit, Parker. Get a fucking hold on yourself, you're better than this.

Then the man speaks again in a slow drawl, "like what you see, kid?"-- and just like that, the floaty feeling of entrancement that had washed over Peter melts away; he stares, incredulous, at the haughty expression on that chiselled face. Jesus, just how entitled can this guy get?

"What?" Peter croaks out, having finally found his voice again; clearing his throat he continues vexedly, "I- I'm, not underage."

"Sure," the man scoffs. "And I'm not a world-famous billionare. Who are you trying to fool, kiddo?"

"Don't call me that," Peter snaps, all traces of revernance for his older companion now gone and replaced with irk. "I'm telling you, I'm legal; and so much for the whole 'world-famous' shtick going for you, because I don't know who the fuck you are," he adds, though as soon as the last word leaves his lips he's consumed with regret-- agitating strangers at the bar is never a good idea, after all.

This particular one, however, doesn't seem bothered in the slightest; if anything he seems delighted at Peter's firing back. "Ooh, fiesty, I like that," the man says silkily, before languorously holding out a hand for him to take. "Tony Stark's the name," he shoots a quick wink at Peter-- who, much to his own displeasure, feels himself flush pink in response. "Now you know what you'll be screaming tonight in my bed, sweetheart."

Peter can't help but chortle at that overused line, releasing his grip on that calloused palm to reach back into his glass. "Um, I'm Peter Parker. And what makes you so sure I'll be going home with you, Mr. Stark?" he asks, fishing for the last olive with his fingers and bringing it up to his lips. Dark, undeniably lustful eyes track his movement, zeroing in on his mouth as he rolls the fruit across his lower lip; against his own will, Peter feels a sense of giddy pride at having the man's attention.

"Well," Tony says lowly, still staring as the boy's cheeks hollow slightly to slide the olive into his puckered mouth, "I like to be optimistic about my chances... and there's no way I'm giving up such a pretty little thing like you."

Fuck, Peter had to give him credit; the guy is smooth.

While he tries to not preen visibly under the reverent praise, Tony raises a hand to signal over the bartender once more to place an order for a 'Crown Royal on the rocks' and another drink Peter had never heard of before. "Worth a try for Martini-drinkers," he offers in explanation, turning back with a knowing jerk of his chin at the now empty glass before him.

"Right." Peter rakes his gaze unabashedly across Stark's suit, the salt-pepper of his neatly trimmed goatee, and swallows the bitter olive rather forcefully. Unbidden, he imagines how the coarse stubble will feel against his skin, between his thighs--

"So, you come here often?"

A soft giggle slips past his lips, and Peter thinks he catches out of the corner of his eye Tony's grip on the edge of the counter tighten. "Really, you're gonna go with that pick up line? That's worse than even your first one."

"It's always worked well for me, hasn't it?" Tony quips back easily, chocolate eyes twinkling as he accepts his drink from the bartender. "Never had problems picking up cute jailbait at the bars with nothing more than my charm and cheesy one-liners." He then tips back his glass to down the amber liquid, and Peter takes the oppurtinity to stare at the bob of the man's throat as he swallows, sipping cautiously at his own drink all the while-- the underlying flavour of sweet and floral bursts across his tongue, surprisingly pleasant. Licking his lips to chase any stray drops, Peter senses the unmistakable sensation of eyes pinned on him once more, and this time meets Stark's hungry gaze full-on as he draws in his bottom lip in between his teeth to nibble coyly at it in sudden boost of confidence.

"Mm-hm... so tell me Mr. Stark, are you usually so forward with all your other 'cute jailbait' or is it just me?" he hums, before downing the remaining liquor in his glass in one shot and with a burst of courage- or stupidity, maybe both- he slides off his bar stool to clamour clumsily onto the older man's lap instead; judging by the widening of those blown pupils, the sudden bold move catches Tony off guard just as much as it does Pete himself.

To his credit however, Stark immediately catches up, setting down his glass heavily onto the counter and uncaring of the whiskey sloshing over the rim in favour of supporting Peter's hips instead, tight grip of his rough hands pressing so hard into his flesh the boy's sure there'll be finger-shaped bruises there the next day; just the thought of it is enough to make him moan in longing and roll his hips experimentally to press their crotches against each other. Tony growls low in his ear in return, something deep and primal and fuckfuckfuck Peter's actually wet in his boxers from how turned on he is.

"Just you," the man grunts in answer, then those large hands of his are sliding underneath his shirt and burning hot against his skin; Peter arches into the greedy touch, slings his arms around Tony's neck and buries his nose into the crook of it to breathe in the heady scent of expensive cologne and faded cigarette smoke, desperate to be claimed as Stark's. When Tony pushes him up against the counter so that the edge of it digs painfully into his back and hauls him impossibly closer up his thighs, a needy little whimper escapes him-- and when the older man grabs hold of his chin to bring their mouths together into a messy graceless kiss, Peter feels as though he's going to implode. He surges forward, frenzied in the way he licks into and gets drunk off the lingering bitter taste of whiskey in Tony's mouth; every single aspect of this man so goddamn intoxicating.

Tony himself, though not as wrecked as Peter already is, seems to grow more depraved by the minute; sucking bruises into the trembling length of his neck, knuckles whitening from how hard he grips onto his hips to rock the teen on his lap. "Such a pretty boy," he croons, breaths falling harsh against his skin, burning gaze still all-consuming as it sweeps appreciatively across his body-- Peter flushes at the thought of the state he must be in right now, utterly debauched and practically humping an older man's million-dollar suit in the corner of some shady night club. "Comin' in here with those tight jeans of yours hugging that cute little ass, baby boy, just had to have you..." Tony groans into the crook of his neck, hands travelling upwards to wind themselves into Peter's once coiffed hair and tugging his curls loose; when his clawed fingers tighten around the fistfuls to yank brutally, the boy cries out, squirming helplessly on the man's lap so that the prominent bulge tenting those slacks nudges against the cleft of his ass.

"Ah- oh! Oh god, Mr. Stark!" Peter gasps, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he begins to grind back against the stiff length of Tony's cock, nearly sobbing with the need to feel the thick girth buried inside his clenching hole. "God, god--"

"Nope, though I can understand why you've made that mistake," the man grunts against his ear, snarky even as he's practically fucking Peter through their layer of clothes. When he leans back and tugs the boy's head upwards to meet his eyes, a shadow of a smirk hangs on his lips. "You can call me daddy though, I certainly won't mind."

"I-- I am n-not--" Peter gasps, trying his best to sound defiant; it doesn't have the same effect he's trying to achieve, considering that he's now riding Tony's thigh with unbridled enthusiasm. "-calling you... daddy."

Stark only barks out a raucous laugh in response, cocky as ever-- Peter's beginning to find that it suits the man well. "Oh, we'll see about that by the end of tonight, baby boy."