#i am not suggesting people manufacture a tie you do not want that

[billboard-hotties-tourney]

for a second I was really worried we might have another tie fiasco with Sister Rosetta and Nina

Oh don't worry, we have updated tie rules in place that prevent another fiasco. However...if anybody deserves to tie this round, they do.

[tsuki-chibi]

Passionfruit (November) Day 2: Branch

Read the whole story on AO3: Passionfruit

————

When Adrien got up that morning, he actually wasn’t looking forward to Chloé’s party at all. Though it would be nice to have some time outside the house, and out from under Nathalie’s watchful eye, he didn’t relish the thought of spending several hours being dragged around by Chloé. It had been with a heavy heart that he got dressed in a suit and left.

Now, as he started at the petite girl in front of him, he was stuck somewhere between shock and disbelief - but he could feel bubbles of elation starting to rise up in his chest as the truth sank in. He’d noticed the black-haired, blue-eyed slip of a girl in the uniform before, but Chloé had carefully steered him in another direction.

Oh my god I’m so sorry I ruined your tie

Part of Adrien had frozen as soon as she said those words - his words - out loud. Yet he’d responded automatically, and apparently said her words. The unfamiliar, but not unwelcome, feeling at the back of his mind was proof of that. He poked at it tentatively and the girl squeaked.

“U-um,” the girl - Marinette, if Chloé could be believed - stuttered. She looked like she was going to faint.

“Let’s go out on the balcony,” Adrien said. It didn’t seem like anyone had noticed what had happened besides Chloé. He wanted to keep it that way.

“What about me?” Chloé said, her bottom lip jutting out in a pout. Adrien knew her well enough to know that pout wasn’t entirely manufactured. In spite of the fact that he and Chloé were clearly not soulmates, he thought that Chloé had always harbored a hope that a miracle might happen.

“Maybe find someone to clean up the mess?” Adrien suggested. “That would be really helpful.”

Chloé’s pout deepened but she gave a reluctant nod. Marinette seemed frozen, so Adrien dropped a hand onto her shoulder and gently steered her through the crowd and out onto one of the smaller balconies. He closed the door behind them to give them some privacy, hoping his bodyguard wouldn’t come looking.

Then he turned to Marinette and said, “Marinette - that’s your name, right?”

She nodded slowly. “And you’re Adrien Agreste.”

He winced, immediately thinking that she was one of his fangirls, but Marinette plowed on without waiting for an answer.

“I admire your father’s work so much. I can’t believe his son is my soulmate!” Marinette exclaimed to herself. “I knew you looked familiar. I’ve seen you modeling his stuff.”

Adrien cocked his head, intrigued. “You’re a fan of my father’s work?”

“I like designing clothes,” Marinette explained. “I - oh shit. Please tell me that tie wasn’t a Gabriel original.” Her face went ashen.

“Uhh...” Adrien said. His instinct was to lie and say that it wasn’t, but this was his soulmate. There couldn’t be any lies between them now. She’d be able to pluck the truth right out of his head, and that was if she couldn’t just straight-up tell as he spoke.

“Oh my god!” Marinette moaned. “This is a disaster. Your father is gonna hate me!” She covered her face with her hands. “Then I’ll never be his intern and I’ll never get a place in the fashion world and I’ll have to settle for selling my clothes online!”

Adrien blinked at her. “I can just say I dropped something on my tie,” he said politely.

Marinette spread her fingers so she could peek up at him. “I don’t wanna get you in trouble.”

“It’s okay. Really, I...” Adrien trailed off. This was unorthodox, but he had to ask. “I would prefer if we didn’t tell anyone we were soulmates.”

Her eyes widened as her hands fell, and a jolt of hurt snapped out across the bond like a branch of lightning to stab Adrien in the heart. He recoiled like he’d been slapped and frantically shook his head, realizing she’d gotten the wrong idea.

“No! It’s not because of you! It’s - I mean -” Flailing, because he lacked the words necessary to adequately explain, he gathered up everything and just sort of... thrust all those emotions and memories at the new warmth in the back of his head.

Marinette flinched a bit, her cheeks flushing as the overload hit her. Adrien instantly regretted throwing all that on her without even asking first, but it was too late now. He stood quietly by, watching as she sorted through the bits and pieces that made up his reasoning.

Number one were the fangirls. Adrien’s career as a model had taken off when he was about seven, but in the last couple of years the scope of his work had changed. His target market was now pre-teens and teenagers, and it was working a little too well if you asked him. He’d been mobbed more than once, and the amount of fan mail he got was crazy. He was genuinely afraid for Marinette’s safety if some of those people found out who she was.

Number two was his father, who was a control freak if there ever was one. Everything about Adrien’s life was strictly controlled, from what he ate to what he wore to how he acted. All in the name of protecting the Gabriel brand. Adrien did not want his soulmate having to put up with that, and that’s exactly what Gabriel would demand.

Number three was also Gabriel, but in a different way. Ever since Adrien’s mother passed away, Gabriel’s attitude towards soulmates had drastically soured. He didn’t want anything to do with the concept, and worse he openly criticized everything about it. It wouldn’t be out of character for Gabriel to decide he didn’t want Adrien to have anything to do with Marinette and ban them from seeing each other.

He might even force Adrien to go to one of those places that could build artificial shields to keep contact between soulmates from happening. They were supposed to be for children who were too young when they found their soulmates, or for people who, for whatever reason, didn’t want that mental connection. But Gabriel wouldn’t care about that. He’d pay whatever money it took to keep Adrien’s mind locked up until Adrien was of age.

His body was already a prisoner. Adrien couldn’t bear the thought of his mind being held prisoner too. Like many people, he’d always dreamed of finding his soulmate. The thought of finding the one person out there who had been made just for him, and who he had been made for, had carried him through many long, lonely nights.

“Oh,” Marinette said softly when she was through. “Your father sucks.”

Adrien chuckled. “That’s an understatement. It’s not about you, really. It’s...”

“I get it. It’s okay,” Marinette said. “I don’t want that to happen either.” She smiled slightly. “I’m okay with keeping it a secret. My parents will freak out and be really overbearing. I bet they’ll try to go talk to your dad.”

He winced at the thought, but said, “Are you sure? I don’t wanna push you into anything you don’t want.”

“I’m sure. It can be like our little secret. We can exchange phone numbers and talk or video call,” Marinette said, clearly warming to the idea. “And talk mentally too.” She grinned.

“I would love that,” Adrien said, relieved to his core. He’d been a little afraid that Marinette would want to put shields of her own up, or expect him to do that. His parents always had shields between them.

“But... oh. Chloé knows,” Marinette said reluctantly.

“Is that a problem?” Adrien asked.

Marinette furrowed her eyebrows in concentration. He wasn’t sure what she was doing until suddenly a bunch of thoughts and feelings that didn’t belong to him flowed into his head. It was a weird feeling, though not necessarily a bad one.

He frowned to himself as he felt Marinette’s emotions towards Chloé. Contempt, frustration, even a bit of fear. And through Marinette’s eyes, he watched a couple of memories wherein Chloé truly acted like a spoiled brat. In one, she loudly taunted Marinette’s art project until Marinette ran away crying. In another, she picked a fight that ended up with Marinette in trouble and Chloé getting away scot-free after threatening to whine to her daddy.

“We’re not exactly best friends,” Marinette said quietly. “Chloé picks on me a lot.” She crossed her over her chest and looked away.

Adrien tried not to scowl. “Chloé was the only person my parents would let me spend time with when I was a little. Without her, I wouldn’t have had any friends. I know that she isn’t always nice to people, but I never thought... I’m sorry, Marinette.”

“It’s not your fault,” Marinette said.

“No, but I still feel awful. Unfortunately, Chloé’s known what my words were since we were kids. We compared words when we were six to see if we’d match.” They hadn’t, obviously. In retrospect, Adrien was suddenly very grateful for that.

“Oh.” Marinette was quiet for a moment, staring out over the balcony.

Their bond wasn’t developed enough for Adrien to know what she was thinking unless she directly pushed the thought at him. But he could feel that she was unsettled. Worried. Nervous. All things that he himself was feeling, so that it was magnified.

“I’ll talk to her,” he said firmly. “I’m Chloé’s friend. She knows what my dad is like. She’ll understand why we want to keep it secret.” And he would also be talking to her about the other thing. He wasn’t going stand by while someone bullied his soulmate!

“Okay,” Marinette said, not fully believing him but willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Should we exchange numbers, then?”

Adrien nodded eagerly and took out his phone. She took out hers and they swapped. He entered his information and snapped a selfie of himself; Marinette did the same before giving his phone back. She gave him a shy smile, twirling one of her pigtails.

“I should probably get back to work before my parents wonder where I am,” she said.

“Okay,” Adrien said. “So... talk later?”

Marinette giggled and thought, directly at him, ‘Of course’.

Adrien blushed and smiled sheepishly. ‘Until then,’ he thought back, and it wasn’t as hard as he’d expected. The thought just slipped easily between them.

She crinkled her fingers in a little wave and disappeared through the door. Adrien sighed and leaned against the railing, looking down at her contact information. She had saved herself as Mari, no last name. He touched the screen over her name, then traced her picture

Marinette. God he was lucky.

[cagestark]

How about Peter, having had enough of Tony making fun of his short height (Tom is 1 inch shorter than RDJ), just coming to the Tower in high heels and Tony just short-circuiting

Sorry this took a minute! Thanks so much for the prompt

Peter is 18yo. 5k. Smut below. Ignores most canon. Pretty much all canon. Fuck that canon!

Read here on AO3. 

-

“Everybody scoot together. Come on now, act like you like each other. Please remember the rules, absolutely no bunny ears, no crude gestures, and no gang symbols are to be thrown. Am I using that right? Peter? Thrown? Okay—something isn’t right here.”

There is collective groaning as the original six Avengers—minus Dr. Banner who is on sabbatical halfway around the world, plus Bucky who can be trusted to go anywhere Captain Rogers goes, plus, well, Peter—let go of the breaths they’ve been holding and the smiles they’ve plastered on. At this point, Peter’s lips are wobbling from the strain of holding a pleasant expression. Captain Rogers, in one of his more sentimental moments, had insisted they take more photographs to document their time together before Peter went away to college, but no one had anticipated how difficult it might be.

“Who let the centennial man the camera?” whispers Mr. Stark into his ear. Warm breath fans across the younger man’s neck and Peter shivers, covering the reaction with a huff.

Never one to enjoy a laugh at someone else’s expense, Peter’s conscious demanded he stick up for Captain Rogers—though, the man had already accidentally taken the picture twice. “Come on Mr. Stark, he’s doing the best he can.”

“That’s what frightens me most.”

“Everybody, focus on me please! This would be a lot less painful if everyone could stand still for longer than it takes to blink. Now—wait—Peter I said shortest Avengers in the middle. No wonder we’re lopsided. Switch places with Tony to stand by Natasha, please?”

“With all due respect, I’m not the shortest, Captain,” Peter says helpfully. Because he isn’t. “That’s Mr. Stark.”

“Only one way to solve this,” Clint says, who has already used two previous opportunities to try to avoid taking the photograph altogether. He sprints away, leaping over a loveseat and disappearing down the hall. For a man who could be so stealthy, the sound his boots made on the floor was thunderous.

“Hate to break it to you, kid, but I’m taller,” says Mr. Stark. The older man draws himself up to his full height, and standing as close as they are (nearly chest to chest!), a tiny part of Peter wants to melt into a puddle. Except he’s been working on trying to appear more adult to Mr. Stark, which includes not wearing his character pajamas around the Tower anytime he spends the night, not creating edible volcanos out of his mashed potatoes and gravy at communal dinner times (even if Clint does it), and being one entire inch taller than Tony Stark.

So instead of melting, Peter pushes his own chest out until they look like two alpha birds posturing for dominance.

In the background, Natasha mutters: “This is like watching two penguins decide which will stand on the egg for the next month—“

“Miss Romanov, everyone knows that it’s the male Emperor Penguin who stands on the egg—“

“So you’re calling yourself the female penguin in this National Geographic love story scenario?” Mr. Stark asks, grinning. He breaks away and leans against the counter of the marble island. His face is warm, crow’s feet and laugh lines blooming in his mirth, and Peter’s stomach suddenly feels so full of butterflies that he can’t even open his mouth for the fear that they’ll all come fluttering out.

“If anything,” Bucky mutters to Captain Rogers behind them. “Peter’s the egg.”

Clint bursts back into the room. In his hand is a tape measurer, a metal, industrial looking thing more likely to be found on a construction site than in Stark Tower. “Alright gentlemen. Stand up straight, shoes off. We’ll settle this here and now.”

Peter nudges off his shoes, laughing. Mr. Stark does the same with his expensive dress shoes. Beneath the polished leather, he is wearing posh, brightly colored socks—Calvin Klein. Nice. Cute. God, even Mr. Stark’s feet are cute. Peter is so, so fucked.

They measure the older man first, the group crowding around, debating on whether the fluff of hair should be discounted.

“Tony—sixty-nine inches. Nice.”

Mr. Stark wiggles his eyebrows behind his tinted glasses. Peter’s face burns at the implication and all eyes turn to him while Clint runs the tape measurer from his heels up his spine to the crown of his head. Everyone holds their breath. Or maybe that’s just him. “Peter—sixty-eight.”

“What?” Peter cries. Mr. Stark bows, blow kisses while a few other Avengers applaud as if he’s done something extraordinary in that two-and-a-half-centimeters alone. Peter could have sworn he was taller, even just infinitesimally. He frowns, nudging his feet back into his sneakers and not bothering to tie the laces. So what if he’s pouting? The way Mr. Stark ruffles his hair, like Peter is a whole foot shorter and only ten years old, is downright counterproductive to his image!

“Now that that’s settled,” Captain Rogers says. “Can we get everyone in their spots please? Their proper spots.”

Begrudgingly, Peter switches with Mr. Stark to stand beside Natasha, who squeezes his shoulder, conciliatory.

“It’s okay, kid,” Mr. Stark says in his ear again, voice a warm vibration. “You’ve still got years of growing left, no doubt. All I have left to look forward to is growing in reverse. That’s shrinking, by the way.”

“Yeah, thanks Mr. Stark,” mutters Peter.

Captain Rogers calls their attention from behind the camera. “Okay, it’s all set. 8 seconds people! Say cheese—“ before dashing off to his spot at the end of the line.

Everyone makes last moment adjustments as the camera’s automated feature counts down. Peter shoves his hands into his pockets, tries to look happy. And then Mr. Stark’s hand comes up to press against Peter’s lower back as everyone shifts closer together. His breath stutters, feeling the warmth through his clothes, in the flush of his cheeks, and in several other even more embarrassing places.

“Cheese,” Peter breathes.

-

“You look like a lobster.”

Peter rips the photo out of Ned’s hands, face burning nearly as badly as it was in the photograph. One glance down proves that Ned—while not tactful—is certainly not wrong. Peter looks like he’s suffering from a terrible sunburn. It’s a direct contrast to how Mr. Stark looks next to him, regal, suit immaculate, glasses tinted to hide the squinting of his smiling eyes. He presses the picture in between pages of a textbook on his desk and slams it shut, willing it out of existence.

But not totally out of existence. Because God Mr. Stark looked so good.

“Besides Natasha, I’m the shortest Avenger,” Peter says, slumping into his desk chair. He picks up a sleek, metal ballpoint pen to click anxiously.  “How dorky is that?”

“You’re taller than I am,” Ned offers.

“Not taller than me,” MJ mutters, tapping away on her phone.

“I wouldn’t care about any of it except—I don’t know. I always thought I was taller than Mr. Stark.”

“Your height is cute, Peter,” says MJ, as if this is the most banal concern he’s ever expressed. “It’s endearing. You’re like a damsel in distress, so tiny and helpless—“

Peter takes the metal pen between his hands and bends it in half, tossing the pieces at her. “Damsel in distress?”

MJ brushes the pen to the floor, unimpressed. “Stark can do that too.”

“Not with his bare hands!” Ned chimes in. Peter beams at him. Ned is always in his corner—and together, they almost have enough neurons to keep up with MJ’s scathing repertoire. Almost.

Still: “This—none of this is the point, though,” says Peter. “I just need a quick way to grow three inches. Overnight preferably.”

“There are some sketchy surgeries I’ve heard of,” Ned suggests. Peter winces. Thanks, but no thanks.

“Just wear lifts, Peter. Stark does it all the time, how else do you think he comes close to being taller than Pepper Potts?”

Peter frowns. “Lifts?”

“Or heels.”

“Like—shoes for women?”

MJ finally looks up from her phone. Her expression is both disappointed yet unsurprised—bland but scathing, her curls a wild mane around her sharp features. “Shoes are for feet. You have feet. Not to mention, heels are a big turn-on for most men. And the confidence they can give? Wild. You’re missing out.”

“Heels are a turn on when Pepper Potts wears them. Besides, I doubt manufacturer’s even make them in my size—”

“Yeah, because your size nine feet are unheard of,” snarks MJ. She kicks off her stylish flats and nudges them across the room. “Try those. We’re the same size.”

Peter slips his feet into them and—okay. Not bad. They feel like they’re liable to fall off any moment but there are no laces to press into the top of his feet all day until they’re aching. And he has very nice ankles. He’s always thought so.

But what would Mr. Stark think? This whole gap year between graduating high school and going away to MIT was supposed to be spent finally making a definitive move on the man he’s been pining after since he was old enough to pine. So far, his progress has been lackluster. And by lackluster, he means non-existent. What was it that MJ said heels gave her? Confidence?

He could use some of that.

“What’s the verdict, Pete?” Ned asks.

Peter clears his throat. “MJ. Do you, by any chance, own any heels?”

-

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” Peter mutters with every step. “Jesus, Mary, Joseph—”

“They aren’t that bad,” MJ says. She’s smirking, and definitely is angling her phone too far towards Peter for it to be innocuous. If she’s filming or taking pictures, so help him God— “I’m actually a little jealous right now. Who knew your legs were so long, Parker.”

The heels are modest by the standards of MJ’s collection: two-and-a-half-inches, black. There’s a strap that goes around his ankle though it’s hidden by the hem of his skinny jeans, but it’s digging into the bone a little too much to be comfortable. The arches of his feet already ache, and he’s using muscles in his calves and shins that he didn’t even use when slinging webs thirty stories above the city. Not to mention, the heels themselves were so, so pointy.

“Cosmo said that wedges are easier to walk in, we should have picked some of those,” Peter mutters. They’re in Peter’s makeshift bedroom at Stark Tower. He doesn’t use it often, even though he’d certainly like to make use of the bed more than he does now—or Mr. Stark’s bed, if he’s being completely forthright.

“Wedges aren’t as sexy. You look hot,” MJ says. She slaps his ass, laughing when he yelps. “Please make sure you take a mental picture of the look on Stark’s face, okay? He’s going to flip his shit.”

“You think?” Ned asks from where he’s lounging on the bed.

“Yeah—do you really think so?” Peter’s fingers toy with the hem of his shirt, turning this way and that way in the lengthy mirror to see himself from every angle.

“Have I ever been wrong? Go get him, Parker.” She hauls Ned up off the bed. “Text us the details!”

-

By the time Peter makes it down to the lab, his stomach is in knots. He pauses just outside the elevator to breathe, wondering if he’s going to be sick. The only solace is knowing that Mr. Stark—Tony, for this, for now, let him be Tony—is alone in his lab. Most of the other Avengers don’t even have the clearance to come down to this level.

“Come on, Parker,” he mutters to himself, shifting in the heels. They’re pinching his toes, a little. “You’re Spider-man! Spider-man! You’ve fought actual real-life villains. This is cake. Absolutely cake. Okay. Okay. Let’s go—back upstairs—”

“Peter.” FRIDAY’s voice overhead nearly sends him stumbling to the ground.

“Yes?” He croaks.

“Boss is wondering if you’re going to come in or spend the rest of the evening in the hallway.”

Peter clears his throat. “Let him—tell him I’m coming.”

The lab still takes his breath away—the gleaming glass, the glowing holograms, the glistening metal. This is where magic happens. Tony is in the center of it, sitting on the floor, surrounded by papers, floating diagrams, and two different cups of coffee at various volumes. The older man is no longer in the suit he was wearing this morning for the picture. Instead, he’s wearing a rumpled t-shirt—who the hell the Raconteurs are, Peter has no idea—and blue jeans that fit tight around his thighs. His hair is mussed, and Peter has spent more than one fantasy wondering how it would feel under his fingers.

“Hey, kid,” Tony mutters around a pencil in his mouth. He reaches out to flick at one glowing hologram and it spins away. “What can I do for you?”

“Just came to—uh—see if you had plans—for dinner.”

Peter didn’t think he would make it this far. His palms are sweating, even as he wipes them on his jeans. What the fuck is he doing here? Wearing a pair of high heels? He’s a fool, the biggest, most naïve idiot. After this, he’ll never be able to show his face to Tony or the other Avengers again, he’ll probably have to flee the country, maybe change his name—

“I do now. How’s pizza sound? I just need to finish up some work here and then we can order in. I’m feeling like a homebody tonight.”

Peter’s heart soars. Suddenly he’s flying—forget fleeing the country, he’s going to move into Stark Tower permanently, probably never leave the older man’s side unless it’s to patrol or see his friends and aunt, hopefully become a permanent fixture in Tony’s bed and heart—“I’m pretty sure when you’re rich Mr. Stark, they just call homebodies recluses.”

Tony laughs. “Better than a hermit. Come help me up, kid, my knees are killing me.”

He only makes it one step. He stumbles—his enhanced sense try to save him, but he’s not used to the added height or obstacle of walking on his toes like this. He overcompensates, and then he is biting the dust, sprawled on his ass, tailbone aching as fiercely as his feet.

“Peter—” suddenly the older man’s knees are fine, downright impressive considering the speed with which is rises and crosses the room. Standing over Peter, he casts an impressive shadow, warm eyes washing over him from his hair all the way down to—Tony’s eyes widen. They literally widen, and Peter feels like if he were any less skilled with his poker face, he might have gasped like one of those ladies in the Victorian days, always swooning from scandals. He recovers quickly, reaching down to help him up.

Peter doesn’t need help though—now that he’s taken a spill, it’s like his body has acclimated. He bounces up with surprising grace, wincing at the throbbing in his ass even as it fades.

“Are you okay?” Tony asks carefully.

They are face to face, close enough that he can smell the older man’s body wash—and Peter has to look down, just ever so slightly, to look Tony in the eyes. Tony has an incredible set of eyes—the color of mahogany, framed with perfect dark lashes. They have the same effect on Peter as a knee to the gut might, stealing his breath. Jesus, this much eye contact can’t be healthy. It’s making him hard even, and Peter doesn’t know whether that is a feat or a failure. His throat is dry, so he swallows. “I’m fine. Great! So. Pizza?”

“Kid.”

“Personally, I’m feeling pepperoni.”

“Pete.”

“It’s an American classic.”

“Peter.” Tony clears his throat. He waves a hand towards Peter’s legs. “What’s this?”

“What’s what?”

“That—is not proper footgear to be in a lab—”

Supporting most of the smaller man’s weight, though Peter is fine Mr. Stark, really! Tony helps him cross the room and settles him onto a rolling chair. Peter’s embarrassment wars with his total dejection; it figures that his last hope at impressing Tony or coming across as anything other than a barely-post-pubescent teenager was a bust. Literally. Tears fill his eyes but he blinks them away.

“Peter—are you alright? Did you hurt yourself?”

“Just my pride,” Peter mutters.

Tony snorts softly. He stalks away to stand with a hip cocked against one of the metal tables. There, he takes his time and leisurely looks Peter over again, eyes catching and failing to pull away from the delicate heels on Peter’s feet. He licks his lips, and even as Peter’s breath catches, he explains it away. Chapped lips. Duh. The air down in the lab is very dry—

“So, what’s the deal, kid? Did you lose a bet?”

That just makes it so, so much worse. Peter crosses his legs, trying to shrink in on himself. Tony’s eyes track the movement, center on the flash of the delicate clasp around his ankle. Sniffing wetly, he picks at a loose thread on the side seam of his jeans and smiles weakly. “More like, I got some poor advice.”

“They look—good.”

Tony’s voice—the tone, like he’s trying to say something without saying it—makes Peter look up. If he was worried at all what he looked like, he needn’t be: Tony is staring at his shoes, head tilted like it’s an equation he’s trying to solve, or like he’s a patron at an art gallery looking at a particularly interesting Magritte painting.

“They do?” He asks. Peter isn’t above fishing for compliments, especially from this man, this incredible idol who could probably make Peter’s heart sing (and his dick harden) with half a glance and a kind word. “They don’t look—stupid? On me.”

“I was alive in the 70’s and 80’s kid. Heels were a thing. Hell, Bowie did it—I had the biggest crush on him when I was young.”

Peter perks up. Everyone knows that Tony doesn’t care about gender in his partners, but it’s rare for him to bring it up so casually in conversation like this. Every piece of information he learns about Tony is so fucking endearing, his heart aches in his chest. Quickly, he does the math in his head. “Really? A crush on Bowie? But—well. He was so much. You know. Older.”

Tony turns away. He bends to retrieve the pencil he dropped after Peter’s fall. “Yeah. Well I was seven. Age was just a number.”

“Is just a number.”

Tony hums, scribbling something down before tucking the pencil behind his ear. “It’s—the perspective is a bit different from the other side of thirty, kid. Take my word for it.”

“I’m eighteen,” Peter mutters. “Quit calling me kid.”

“What should I call you? Short stuff?”

This isn’t working, Peter thinks. Nothing will work, because this whole endeavor is just a fool’s errand. Nothing will ever change.

Peter can’t help it—he bursts into tears. Tony doesn’t notice right away, because Peter is a pretty silent crier, elbows planted on his knees, face in his palms, shoulders shaking. The silence must go on too long, because then Tony is crouched in front of him on his haunches, warm fingers wrapping around his wrist to carefully pull them from his face.

“Hey—hey, hey. What’s wrong, Pete? What hurts?”

“This—!” Peter says, tilting his head to wipe his damp cheeks on his shoulder. “You—not taking me seriously!”

“I take you seriously—I take you very seriously.”

“You don’t. You’re always calling me kid, like, like I’m still that little boy from the Stark Expo! And then, you’re one single inch taller which doesn’t matter at all in the scheme of things but I know you, I know you’re just going to use it as another excuse to keep from seeing me for the adult I am, and—”

“Is that what this is about,” Tony asks, wrapping a hand around Peter’s ankle. A thumb drifts under the cuff of his jeans to run along the strap of the heels. It hurts because it feels so good, makes him shiver with longing that he knows won’t ever be quenched. “You want to be taller than me?”

“I want to make out with you,” Peter snarks. “But at this point, yeah, whatever, I guess I’ll settle for being taller—”

“Peter.” Tony is soft and stern when he takes Peter’s chin in his hand. He shifts up onto his knees so that they are closer to the same height, those warm brown eyes drifted from Peter’s own down to his lips and then up again. All Peter’s breath seems to be caught in his lungs, he can’t move, can’t even blink for fear of missing a single moment as Tony leans forward slowly, giving the younger man ample time to turn away.

But Peter doesn’t—because he’s not dumb. Because this is everything he’s wanted for so long that he almost feels like it’s a dream.

Their mouths are open at the first press, heads slanting to slot together like they’ve been doing this for ages. His tongue can’t help but reach out, eager to taste the older man, and the first slide of Tony’s tongue against his own is. God. It’s orgasmic. It’s overwhelming. The rough press of facial hair, the firm grip of Tony’s hand as it slides around to cup the back of his head and bring them closer, Peter’s knees shifting open to create more space for their bodies to come together. He tastes like coffee, black. Tony tilts his head just a little more, coaxes his jaw to open wider so that he can lick into Peter’s mouth, and it’s wet, so sensual, Peter goes from soft to hard so quickly that it hurts, head dizzy.

“God,” Peter breathes into Tony’s mouth. Tony laughs softly but Peter barely gives him the chance, pressing his eager mouth forward, licking Tony’s teeth and sucking the man’s full bottom lip into his mouth until he’s the one groaning and sighing.

Tony pulls away, smiling when an upset, undignified noise comes out of the back of Peter’s throat. One of Tony’s hands—fuck, why are his hands always so hot, like there’s a fire burning right underneath the skin?—drift down and he runs his thumb along the obvious erection in Peter’s jeans until he whines. “You want to be taller, Pete? Well here you are. What next?”

“Didn’t think I’d get this far,” Peter gasps. His hips twitch upwards, desperate for pressure on his aching cock. Tony’s hand comes away instead, moving upwards to thumb at the button on Peter’s jeans.

“I have an idea,” the older man says lowly. He thumbs at the button of Peter’s jeans. “Can I, Pete?” He asks lowly, his knuckles slipping underneath the younger man’s shirt to brush against abs that jump at the contact. “You can say no. I wouldn’t be upset.”

“Have you even been listening?” Peter pants. “Yes, yes. Please Mr. Stark—“

Tony groans at the moniker. His fingers are nimble and practiced as he undoes Peter’s jeans, sliding them down his hips when he shifts up to make room. “We’ve got to break you of that habit. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Peter breathes. He’s so hard it hurts, cock straining obscenely at the front of his boxers, fabric dark and damp with precum. Under the older man’s gaze, he feels like he could combust, burst into flames.

“I’d undress you properly, but I’d really like to keep these on,” Tony says, eyes half lidded as he runs his palm down Peter’s calf to the heels, thumb stroking the exposed top of his foot.

“Whatever you want, just, please—it hurts—“

“What hurts?” Tony sounds mildly alarmed, pulling back.

Peter’s face burns. He palms at his cock. “My—you know—I’m—“

Understanding comes over Tony’s face, concern draining away. “Don’t worry, Pete. I’ll make it better.” And then he is leaning down, nuzzling Peter’s hand aside and putting his mouth over Peter’s clothed cock. Even through the cotton of his boxers, it is the most intense thing he’s ever experienced: the heat, burning him inside out, the pressure, the flash of whiskey eyes that won’t leave his own, always making sure Peter is interested in this, okay with this.

“God, Mr. Stark, yes. Fuck, fuck, that’s so good—so—oh—wait—“

Tony pulls back immediately, but it’s too late: Peter is cumming, balls drawn up tight against the heat of his body and throbbing, cock twitching as he spurts into his boxers. “Noooo,” Peter whispers, reaching down to jerk himself off so as to not ruin the orgasm. It’s still the hardest he’s ever cum, Tony watching on, looking pained himself with one hand between his legs and gripping his own cock. The rasp of flesh on denim is just loud enough to be heard.

“Why’d you stop me?” Tony asks.

Peter is gulping for air. At times like this, he wishes he knew sign language. “I didn’t want—not so soon but then—too late and—“

Tony smiles. “It’s okay Pete. I don’t care how long you last. I wanted you to feel good.”

“It felt so good Mr. Stark—“

Tony groans, laughing a little at the face Peter makes when he pulls his sticky boxers away from his half-hard cock. He shuffles on his knees to grab a cloth from inside a nearby cabinet and watches while Peter cleans himself off, still palming himself. He winks. “I’m glad. Never stop stroking my ego, kid.”

The motion of the older man’s hand between his own legs catches Peter’s eye and he swallows, mouth dry, thinking of doing the same thing Tony did just a moment ago, pressing his mouth to Tony’s clothes cock, feeling it jerk under the denim— “Can I—help you, now? Please?”

Tony’s mirth disappears. He stands, joints creaking, and turns away to adjust himself in his jeans. “I didn’t do that for reciprocation, Peter.”

“You did it because you wanted to?”

“Exactly.”

“Cool. Now I want to.” When he stands (after his legs have stopped shaking), he feels six feet tall. His legs feel endless. At the dark look in Tony’s eyes, he feels elegant, powerful, desirable. Tony lets him back him up against the table, box him in with his arms. This man is so powerful: a superhero, smart enough and strong enough to do anything he sets his mind to. And he’s shivering between Peter’s legs, smiling contentedly like he already has come. Peter isn’t hard again yet, but he can’t remember ever feeling this turned on, this sexual.

Carefully, Peter drops down to his knees. He crosses his ankles behind himself demurely and looks up through his lashes to watch Tony’s throat bob as he swallows. “Can I, Mr. Stark?”

Tony groans, head rolling like his neck isn’t strong enough to support it. He cards his fingers through Peter’s hair. “If you want to. I’m yours.”

Peter hums. Tony’s words feed a dark part of himself that he didn’t know was ever hungry. He feels drunk undoing the older man’s belt, drunk with lust and power. It’s as if he’s possessed by some sultry spirit who despite Peter being a virgin has no qualms leaning forward to mouth at Tony’s clothed erection.

The sharp inhale above him and the subtle tightening of fingers in his hair just sends him higher. Deeper. Tony’s scent is strong here, musky but clean.

“I’ve never done this before,” Peter says lowly, brushing his lips against the hard cock as he speaks.

Tony’s breaths are downright shaky as he laughs. “As long as you don’t bite me, there’s no way you could go wrong. I feel ready to blow my load as it is, fair warning.”

“Not yet,” says Peter, all wide eyes and shiny lips. “I want to play with it first.”

He carefully tugs down Tony’s boxers to take in the sight of his cock. It is flushed dark with arousal, twitching happily under Peter’s gaze. Instinct has him wrapping his fingers around the base where there is a nest of dark curls. Then he laps with the flat of his tongue at the head where there is a glistening wetness. He’s only ever tasted himself before, but Tony is remarkably similar. He takes the head into his mouth to suckle, tonguing at the frenulum to coax out more precum.

“Look at you,” Tony says quietly. They’re words that might usually inspire insecurity, but Peter is too far gone. He’s let the anxious part of himself relax to a safe place in the back of his mind. Here, he knows now, he is safe. There is no embarrassment, just his own arousal and the arousal he’s fanning in the man above him. Tony’s hand leaves Peter’s curls to cup underneath his jaw. When his thumb brushes against the rim of Peter’s lips wrapped around his cockhead, the young man opens his mouth to let the thumb in too, running his tongue over each in turn even as the cock jumps. “On your knees, but you still feel taller than me, Pete. Such a good boy—such an amazing man. Already a better man than I’ll ever be. Jesus, baby, just like that—whatever you want to give me.”

Peter opens his mouth wider. Tony’s thumb slips free even as his cock slips deeper. Peter can’t help it—his eyes slip closed. The skin feels like velvet on his tongue as he laps at it, being careful to keep his teeth away. One hand comes up to cradle Tony’s balls and he feels more than hears the groan it draws from the older man’s chest. He establishes a rhythm, sucking as best as he can around his own whimpers, pulling back sometimes to lap at the head. When the cock approaches the back of his throat, he swallows on instinct and Tony’s hands slip free from his hair to scrabble at the metal counter behind his hips, knuckles white. The whole time, Tony keeps up the litany of filthy praise, and if both his hands weren’t busy, Peter would absolutely be palming his own cock which has returned with a vengeance.

“Almost there, Pete,” Tony warns softly. “You can pull back if you want to.”

He doesn’t want to—thanks for asking. He closes his lips around the cock head while running one hand over the shaft, slick with his spit. The precum increases, the balls in his palm grow tight and Tony tosses his head back as he comes, the noises leaving his mouth making Peter throb and whine even as he works to swallow the hot load of cum that floods his mouth.

When he pulls away, there is the briefest moment of insecurity. But it is smothered between them as Tony gathers him in his arms, tilting his head upwards just slightly to press their mouths together. Surely he must be able to taste himself, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“You’re incredible,” Tony murmurs into Peter’s neck, placing a sweet kiss there. When he pulls back, his eyes are decidedly misty and more vulnerable than the younger man can ever recall seeing them. “All this effort—Peter. I don’t know if I’m worth this.”

“Let me decide,” Peter says. He lifts his chin just barely to place a kiss on Tony’s forehead. “And from now on—if anyone asks—”

Tony snorts softly. “You’re taller?”

“You read my mind.”

“On one condition.”

“Anything.”

“Keep the heels.”

[thegayagenda-forkids]

Magical

AO3 Link

Prequel

“Cyrus, you need to calm the hell down,” Buffy said. “I can’t be chasing you around to try and get this tie straight.”

“Buffy!”

“If there’s going to be only one thing about you that’s was going to be straight, it’s going to be this tie,” she said. “Sit the fuck down.”

“Am I not allowed to be nervous today?” He said sitting down.

“Nope,�� Andi said. “Especially when I’m fixing this manufacturing flaw on your jacket pocket.”

“What do you mean I’m not allowed to be nervous today?! This is exactly the kind of day I should be nervous for!”

“You shouldn’t” Buffy said, fixing his tie and the clip. “Because Andi and I have gone over this ten thousand times with a fine toothed combed...the kind of comb you use on lice, even. You’re not allowed to be nervous.”

“Well how do you guys expect me to calm down without going into a panic attack first?” He said wringing his hands. “I was so busy with my second semester finals I barely paid attention to planning all this.”

“Which is why Buffy and I took over some of the aspects we specialize in,” Andi said, fixing the hole. “If you want to calm down,” she said. “Why not remember what exactly got us all here?” She inspected the jacket and had Cyrus’s stand to put the jacket on him and inspect it for any other flaws, and started fixing him up before working on the flowers that would be his boutonnières of sorts.

“That day?”

“Yes, the day from about a year ago?” Buffy said. “Our graduation trip.”

“Oh...that day,” Cyrus couldn’t help but smile like an idiot.

_______________

“Come on guys! We’re here at Disney World!” Cyrus was jumping up and down and T.J. was holding his hand. “How are you guys so tired?”

“You’re the only one who hasn’t driven yet on this road trip,” Buffy said, yawning slightly and getting off the monorail and to the gates of Magic Kingdom. “And I thought we should have done Epcot first.”

“We’re here for ten days!” Cyrus said. “Because T.J.’s cousin works here and got us ridiculously good discounts! And we’re even staying in pretty sweet rooms.”

“Rooms one could even say are...docious magocious?” T.J. said with a shit eating grin, and Jonah groaned.

“I haven’t said that since seventh grade!” He said. “But yeah, they’re pretty cool rooms. Though it’s weird being all alone.”

“Did you really want to be in a room with a couple?” Andi asked him.

“Nope, especially since one of those couples is both of my ex-girlfriends,” he said.

They flashed him a grin and Amber kissed Andi’s cheek.

“Awww, cute,” Marty said, yawning as they passed through the gate. “But I think before anything, we stop by the Starbucks? It’s called Main Street Bakery on the map.”

“How about Cyrus and I wait in line for the Mickey and Minnie meet and greet while you guys grab coffee for us all?” T.J. suggested. “That way we get a big wait time out of the way and we get that picture done first before we get all hot and sweaty from the Florida sun?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jonah said and they split up, T.J. and Cyrus heading to The Main Street Theater for the meet and greet and the rest going to The Bakery. Once they were in line, T.J. pulled out his phone and started texting.

“Wow, really? You’re addicted,” Cyrus teased.

“I’m telling the others our drink order,” He said. “Iced grande skim milk light ice white mocha with two pumps of vanilla and a cheese danish for you, right?” T.J. was texting the group the drink orders, that was true, but what Cyrus didn’t know at the time was that he was also texting them some very specific instructions.

“You know me too well Thel,” he said smiling. “And you’re getting the venti salted cream cold foam cold brew,” he said. “With a ham and cheese croissant.”

“You forgot to add the vanilla,” he teased.

“Oh no, the horrors,” Cyrus rolled his eyes. “I’m no longer a worthy boyfriend I should just go, leave, never see you again…”

“And stop being so melodramatic?” T.J. said putting his phone away and taking his hand.

“You like my drama. You said it makes life fun...even when you couldn’t be more stressed out, like you were during your “trial” in middle school?”

“I didn’t know the maximum punishment was lunch detention!”

“Yeah...good thing I served it with you.”

“When you discovered for the first time I could play piano?”

“Piano that you later taught me…”

“Attempted to teach you. You still misuse the hell out of the una corda pedal.”

“It’s the pedal that makes it sound pretty! I love that pedal.”

“You love a lot of things,” T.J. teased pulling Cyrus closer.

“You’re one of those things. Are you sure you’re going to complain?”

“Not in the slightest,” T.J. said, pulling him in and kissing him right when the rest of the group cleared their throats.

“Your drinks your royal dorkusess?” Buffy handed Cyrus the cold brew and T.J. the white mocha, which they took and immediately swapped.

“If you mess up the next thing to give up, I’ll know you’re not really my friend,” Cyrus said.

“Don’t worry, I know you keep kosher style,” she said, handing Cyrus the cheese danish.

“Good,” he said taking a bite. “At least you’re somewhat my friend.”

“God I wish you loved me as much as you love him,” Marty teased her.

“Maybe one day.”I officially stopped carrying him around though. That’s T.J.’s job now.” There was a twinkle in her eye as she said that. Nobody noticed Amber separating from the group and going to the Cast Member at the door and whispering something in her ear before she went back to the group. The Cast Member took out her radio and called over her coordiator.

Seconds later, a man in a blue shirt and a name tag that said Tom from Kissimmee, FL came up to them. “Hey guys, Mickey and Minnie noticed you guys in the crowd and wanted to give you a special tour of their theater.”

“Whoa…really?”Cyrus said, looking around excited.

“Yeah...sometimes Mickey and his representative Cast Members like to make a bit of a magical moment for our guests,” he said. He gestured to the girl at the door.

“You guys were really cute in line,” she justified.

“Come with me please.” Tom led the group through a different door and they went through a different little area before he opened the door to an empty room with Mickey and Minnie looking over and waving at them. Cyrus immediately went up to hug them and T.J. handed his phone to the cast member at next to the photographer. Both men at the front of the room were snapping pictures while T.J. and Cyrus hugged the mice. Mickey went to gesture for the rest of the group to join them when they held out a single finger, saying ‘wait a minute.’

“Guys!” Cyrus started but T.J. took his hand. “Hey, I just wanted to say...Mickey, Minnie, you two seem to make each other’s lives quite magical, right?” Both mice did giggling gestures and hugged each other. Cyrus looked around with wide eyes and looked at his friends who did their best to look surprised. Only half of them were convincing.

“Well, this man right here is Cyrus Goodman,” he said introducing him to Mickey and Minnie. “I think he’s made my life ridiculously magical. I used to be...well...not a good person. This guy helped me change...find acceptance within myself...stop being afraid...overall just made me a better person.”

“Teej….?” Cyrus’s voice rose several octaves.

“Which is why I want to keep improving with him forever.” He pulled out the box from his pocket and got down on one knee. The idiot group of friends started squealing with excitement and even the cast members were getting in on the happy squeals. Cyrus was blushing, half laughing and half crying, covering his face and looking away. Mickey and Minnie were jumping and stomping excitedly. “Cyrus...will you be my happily ever after?”

“You…” Cyrus was laughing and crying. “You’re such a jerk! You stole my moment!” Now everyone looked confused and Cyrus pulled out a box from his pocket. “I was going to do it in front of the Cinderella castle! And ask you if you’d make my dreams come true!”

Everyone lost their minds then as T.J. started laughing and crying as well and pulled Cyrus down for a kiss, both of them clumsily exchanging the rings. A cast member came back with two purple buttons and seeing the scene, took out a sharpie and wrote on one, “I said yes!” and on the other, “I also said yes!”

“We’re still getting the Cinderella castle pictures,” Cyrus said as everyone joined in for hugs and congratulations.

“You’re getting all the pictures you want,” the photographer said. “Your vacation pictures are on me.” The two mice raised their hands. “And on Mickey and Minnie.”

The two men put on their buttons and kissed each other again.

_________

“You guys had the perfect engagement,” Andi sighed dreamily. “I wonder if mine is going to look like that.”

“Well, all you have to do is read each other’s minds without realizing it,” he said, looking down at his light green tie. He chose the colors to match T.J.’s eyes, even coordinating the bridesmaids dresses to match him. “And then have me and Buffy as your “Best People” like I have you two.”

“Speaking of being best people,” Buffy said. “Your flowers are done, your jacket is done, and guess what?”

“What?”

“You look perfect,” she said smiling and kissed the top of his head in a big sister sort of way.

Cyrus was smiling wide and he could barely control his breathing. “How much longer?”

“Five minutes,” Andi said. “Your mom and stepmom are just outside the door, waiting for you.”

“Then…here we are…” he said and he hugged his best friends. “I love both of you.”

“We love you too,” Buffy said, hugging him back with Andi, resting their heads on his shoulder. “T.J. is going to love his first look.”

“I think I am too,” he said. “You two are supposed to go before me anyways.

___________

T.J. had gone down first with his mother, Bowie and Jonah playing them down the aisle. Then Andi and Amber walked down together, followed by Buffy and Marty. Amber and Marty separated and went to T.J.’s side while Amber and Buffy took their place on the other side, smiling as they were all under the chuppah, or more accurately T.J. was under the chuppah with the officiant who specialized in doing Jewish and Catholic mixed ceremonies and the others stood slightly to the side.

Jonah and Bowie changed the music when Cyrus started coming down, and T.J. smiled wider than he even thought possible, even wider than when Cyrus had pulled out his own ring in front of Mickey and Minnie. And if Cyrus’s cheeks were already hurting before the ceremony, they were going to rip apart out of the sheer glee of seeing the man he loved standing in front of him, in a black tux with a green tie and boutonnières, looking at him like there was nothing in the world other than the two of them.

At the front, Cyrus hugged his stepmother and then his mother before going to the front, taking T.J.’s hands and hoping that his yarmulke wasn’t crooked. T.J.’s certainly didn’t look crooked from where he was standing, but T.J. could be wearing his on his nose and Cyrus would still think it looked perfect.

T.J. looked at their hands and had to stop and remind himself that there were procedures he had to go through before he could take Cyrus and run away with him, no matter how tempted he was at that moment.

He barely paid attention to the Bible verses his family read out and the blessings Cyrus’s ridiculously huge family paid them, the entire time just staring at Cyrus’s eyes waiting for his moment.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the officiant said. “And now it’s time to exchange vows. T.J.?”

He nodded and looked over at the officiant for a second before looking back at his fiancé. He loved that word for the past year, but he was about to upgrade. “Cyrus Goodman…” he took a breath and laughed nervously. “What can I say? It started with a chocolate chocolate chip muffin...and Buffy refusing to help me unless I helped you,” he chuckled and Buffy nodded approvingly. “I was...no mincing words, I was a total jerk back then. A bad person...you’re the first person who saw the good in me trying to come out, and you helped me by talking me through a learning disability, helping me work out my feelings on a swing, letting me teach you how to do a somersault...and you influenced me to do the right thing when I encountered horrible situations, like Reed and the gun back in middle school. You helped me come out not only to everyone here, but to myself, by just being yourself. My biggest fear since I met you was losing you. You were one of the best things in my life...and I can’t wait until this is over and you can officially be the best thing I can brag about to everyone I meet, because I really am ridiculously excited to show off my husband.”

Everyone clapped politely and Cyrus had to wipe away tears. “How am I gonna top that?” He said with a little laugh. “Can I say it?” T.J. looked around thankful they had a small ceremony and that he was mostly over his insecurities and nodded. “Thelonious Jagger Kippen...god I love that name…” Andi and Buffy quickly looked at each other with wide eyes. THAT’S WHAT IT STOOD FOR?!!! “Thelonious...You say I helped you be a good person, but you helped me become a braver version of myself. You helped me tackle each one of my silly little fears, like swinging higher, doing a somersault...dirt biking?! Whoever thought I would get on one of those things?!” He laughed a little. “And I can’t wait to see what else lies in store for us...how else you’ll make me braver as we keep going. I loved presenting you as my boyfriend, I was overjoyed this past year when I introduced you as my fiancé...and now that I can brag about my husband...you’re never gonna hear me shut up again.”

“And I hope I never do,” he said gently.

“Cyrus Goodman, do you take this man to love and to hold, to honor and cherish, in sickness and health, til death do you part?”

“I do.”

“Thelonious Jagger Kippen, do you take this man to love and to hold, to honor and cherish, in sickness and health, til death do you part?”

“I do.” He said. “I’d be dumb not to…”

“Then by the power vested in me by the government of the United States, I now pronounce you two married. You may now kiss the groom.�� They rushed over and kissed while everyone cheered. A covered glass was placed at the ground and Cyrus stepped on it hard, shattering it while everyone cheered and congratulated them.

“Time to enjoy the reception, Mr. Goodman-Kippen,” Cyrus said.

“Time to enjoy the rest of our lives, Mr. Goodman-Kippen.” T.J. said smiling.

Of course, they weren’t the only ones smiling like idiots, and they gave Marty their blessing to steal the scene after their first dance to get down on one knee himself. They shared an anniversary after all, what’s one more thing?

And just in Disney tradition, they lived happily ever after…

_______

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