#trust me. she is very fine not being part of the suffocating cuddle pile

[the-owl-tree]

Wolf and her polycule pls!!! If that's too much Fox and Blight perhaps? (Don't remember if they're a ship or not)

NOT too much, i literally had a sketch of their cuddle pile ready lol i'll do fox and blight once i do some other requests

[weartirondad]

Let In Light (At Christmas Time) 2/12

FF.net I ao3

Friday, December 14th: blanket forts

Tony is elbow deep in rewiring one of his older suits when F.R.I.D.A.Y. announces Peter’s arrival and for the fraction of a second he just stops.

He’s tired. The I’m-insomnia’s-bitch kind of tired. The tired where he hasn’t had more than three hours of sleep a night for almost four days in a row and the few hours he did get were laced with different version of the same old stories over and over and over again.

Dark caves, people shouting in foreign languages. Fear, pain, cold.  

Bunkers in the middle of nowhere, a tiny screen in a dark room. Screams, blood, death.

Pepper falling. Rhodey falling. A shield shoved into his sternum. Darkness, cold – so much cold.

A sassy teenager, in over his head, fighting fights he shouldn’t be fighting. He’s falling, drowning, suffocating and Tony can’t –

“Hey Mister Stark!”

The billionaire blinks down at his hands that are still stuck in his armor, clenched around one of its powering units, and with a very deliberate exhale he forces his body to relax and his fists to open. It’s hard but he does it and through sheer will power alone manages to crack a smile along the way. It’s not a good one. Peter can see right through it but he’s trying, that’s what counts, right?

“Hey kid,” he greets him, making a conscious effort to keep his voice just a little more cheerful than he actually feels without sounding over the top. “How’s school?”

Of course it’s not working. The kid’s a genius and aside from being very empathetic to his surroundings he also knows Tony. He knows Tony’s moods and he knows what it looks like when he’s pretending to be okay. And Tony hates it. He hates that Peter knows how messed up he is and he hates how he sees him using Tony’s own coping mechanisms and he just can’t have that, he won’t allow it.

What he hates most, though, is that Peter just won’t turn away like everyone else did. Peter refuses to give up on him and while it’s nice to have someone around, sometimes the trust the kid puts in him makes him feel lightheaded and trapped and lost and oh-so-scared. The thought of disappointing him is too much to bear on a good day and today is not a good day. Today is two days away from the worst day and he doesn’t know if he can handle the pressure.

He doesn’t want to flip and have Peter suffer from the consequences. Maybe he should tell him to go home, maybe he should call raincheck and postpone to – sometime after Christmas, when he’s got some strength back because right now? Right now he’s a mess and Peter deserves so much more – a mentally stable mentor, a nice fun evening with his friends, lightness.

Ultimately, Peter deserves light and Tony’s soul has been in the shadows so long he has forgotten what it looks like. Sometimes just looking at it makes him feel like he’s going blind.

When he focuses on his breathing to keep himself from spiraling, he realizes that Peter has already flung his backpack into the corner next to his desk and himself on the spinning chair and is now talking animatedly about his day. Tony makes a mental note to listen to F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s recording later on in case he missed something important but right now, despite the gloomy knot in his chest, he feels the corner of his lips twist upwards at the sight of the teenager gracelessly hanging from the chair.

With the next inhale something warm fills his chest, gentling pulling on the untethered strings until the tangle loosens and suddenly breathing isn’t as hard anymore.

It’s still not easy, there’s still too much baggage for the breaths to come out effortlessly. Too many scars, too many memories, too much loss. But it’s easier. As if Peter’s presence in itself widens his bronchia and helps the air pave a way.

“Got homework?” he finds himself asking, the tiny smile still on his lips when the teenager dutifully bobs his head up and down. “When’s May gonna be home? Are you staying for dinner?”

Just like that the offer stands in the room, without a second thought, and he realizes that he doesn’t regret making it. It’s been lonely in the Tower without Pepper and Peter – Peter is Peter and taking care of him, making sure that he eats, sleeps and drinks enough has become an integral part of his DNA at this point.

“May’s working night,” Peter tells him with a pout, fidgeting until he’s sitting cross- legged on the chair, “But she’s not working all weekend and we’re having brunch tomorrow when she’s up again.”

“So, that means you want to stay the night and catch breakfast here, too?”

“I mean –“ For a second Tony thinks the kid is too polite to invite himself over but then a shit-eating grin spreads on his face as he turns on his swivel chair. “Yep. That was pretty much the plan. Hope I’m not keeping you from important – you know – stuff.”

Just from another lonely night spent staring at the alcohol cabinet. He doesn’t say, though, because he doesn’t drink and he hasn’t for months, still, the reflex never really left.

Instead he scoffs, “Me? Doing something important? In your dreams.” Peter giggles.

It’s still fake and he’s still not fine but when he turns back to the armor again as Peter starts taking out his books to work on his homework, he feels a lot lighter than he has in days.

They work on their own for a while after that and it doesn’t take long for Tony to get immersed in the inner workings of the suit once more. But while his mind is running difficult algorithms, trying to figure out how to best deweaponize it for a presentation without giving up too much of its soul, he’s always acutely aware of Peter’s movements behind him, like a sixth sense that comes to him easier than breathing most days.

“Pete,” he turns around with a frown after giving the boy another ten minutes of fidgeting, “what’s up? Do you need help?”

“Wha –?” The kid looks startled but shakes his head. “No. I was just,” he points to a pile at the foot of the couch in the far corner of the room, “I was wondering what that is.”

Tony can see the books that lay untouched on the desk with his pencil case emptied out and its content scattered all over the place and he sees the hole Peter is currently poking in the sleeve of his hoodie and he understands the restlessness behind it.

It’s a curse. One he has had to deal with all his life and one he wish he could take from the kid but as it is he can only try to get that genius mind of his to focus on something or else the jiggling would get worse and he’d probably end up hurting himself.

“What’s it look like?” he asks, feeling his whole demeanor change now that he is needed. Now that his purpose is making Peter feel better. Superficially cleaning his oil stained hands on a more-black-than-not towel he wanders over to the teen and settles on the couch, inviting him to inspect the pile with a nod of his head.

Peter, god bless him, jumps at the opportunity and almost trips from his chair with his limbs flailing in the air for a second before he manages to catch himself with a splutter, diving headfirst into the soft pile.

Normally, Peter would dissect any abnormality, anything new, with immaculate care but now he’s tearing through all blankets and pillows and comforters like a mad man on a mission. Only when he’s gone through them all he stops. Sitting in the middle of the mess he created he cocks his head to the side, leaning back on his arms with his legs stretched out in front of him.

He’s wearing his thinking frown and Tony watches as his mind works with new information, needing just a little bit longer than usual to figure it out. “They’re blankets,” he summarizes then, with a smile so warm Tony swears it could singlehandedly cause global warming and melt all remaining ice on the planet, even the one stuck in his heart. “You got blankets ‘cause I get cold easily, didn’t you?”

Of course he did. Of fucking course he got his kid blankets so he wouldn’t be cold in winter. It cost him one voice command and the boy is looking up at him as if he has just hung the moon in the sky specifically for him.

The look made him feel fuzzy. A good kind of fuzzy that he never got from alcohol anymore, and probably never really had.

“Of course I did,” he tells him when his emotions come too close to surfacing and he has to swallow past the growing lump in his throat. “Wanna cuddle up until I’m done working?”

Just like that, it looks as if Peter’s strings have been cut and he sags in on himself a little. “Um – yeah, sure,” he mumbles, hands running over the fabric of a dark blue blanket and clenching around it, “I mean, I could maybe work on my homework a little bit ya know. So, uh, so I get something done.” He trails off, shoulders and head hanging low as he attempts to get to his feet again.

Tony frowns. “No, why would you-?“ Oh.

My dad never really gave me a lot of support. I’m trying to break the cycle of shame.

“Or,” he tries a different approach, not missing how Peter is perching up just that tiny little bit at his softer tone of voice, “Or we could both take a break and relax a little. What do you say?”

He can see that it’s on the tip of his tongue to decline but apparently all their talking the past few months about accepting what Tony offers has gotten them somewhere and in the end Peter simply nods, a happy grin spreading on his face once more as if he just flipped a switch.

“Can we build a blanket fort?”

And – what?

“I have never once in my life built a blanket fort.”

And, yeah, maybe he should’ve seen it coming but he hasn’t and it might just cost him his hearing.

“WHAT THE –“

“Do not finish that sentence.”

As always his words fall on deaf ears.

“- HECK, MISTER STARK!” Peter all but shouts from two feet away, staring at him with wide, accusing eyes. “You can’t be serious! No way, you’ve never built a blanket fort!”  

“Yes way,” he gives back, swallowing the biting bile as he tries to be supportive and nice and all that shit good mentors apparently do. How on earth where there people having and raising kids full time out of their own free will? “And I am not going to start now.”

“Oh come on, please!”

Ah, yeah, that answers is questions. It’s definitely the disarming puppy eyes. And possible the shear endless amount of full body hugs.

“Fine,” he relents contritely, “But if we’re gonna do this we’re gonna do this right, understand? The full ten yards and then some.”

“Aye, sir!”

Peter is jumping up and down and he looks so much more at ease than just ten minutes ago and that’s worth all the back pain Tony is going to get from that experience. Damn kids.

It ends up taking them two hours to finish but by the time they do the ceiling of their fort is fitted with two chains of light, giving the arrangement a somewhat mystical touch to it.

They’re both lying on their backs, heads resting on their respective pillows while a fortress of other pillows is stacked around them, effectively shielding them from the outside world (the lab) and keeping them in their very own cocoon except for the small opening they made for food supply and such.

Dum-E has done a great job providing them with snacks and drinks albeit Tony vetoed the kid’s wishes for hot chocolate.

Peter has already forgotten he was sulking, though, and just stares up at the lights in wonder and, as Tony notes in satisfaction, otherwise perfectly still.

“This is what I’ve always imagined stargazing must be like,” he whispers, voice so quiet and in awe that Tony barely catches it.

It hits him again how different their upbringings have been and how he’s going to make sure that he only ever passes on the good things if he can help it.

“I’ll take you stargazing one of these days,” he promises, voice soft as to not startle the peaceful boy.

The teenager turns his head to meet his eyes, unruly curls falling over his left eye that Tony itches to push them back. “Promise?”

“I promise,” he says, reaching out to brush the curl away gently.

He promises him a lot more in his head but he doesn’t know how to form the words to let him know, yet. He hopes Peter understands anyway.

[hypnoidvoid]

Uhhhh for the prompts can you write about reddie just goofing around and then accidentally finding themselves in a compromising position??

[Title: Twisted Up]

A/N: Yo listen, this is the kind of shit I live for. Especially if it involves Reddie playing Twister and both being too stubborn to lose, no matter what position they end up ;)

Pairing: Richie Tozier x Eddie Kaspbrak, (minor) Bill Denbrough x Stanley Uris, (minor) Beverly Marsh x Ben Hanscom

Words: 2.2k

// Link to Read on Ao3 //

Permatags: @edstozler @kaspbrak-eddie @noahschnapp @richiefuckfacetozier @reddies-spaghetti @tozier-boy @eds-kas @thatgazebobullshit @honeybeehanlon @constantreaderfool @reddie-for-anything @s-tanleyuris @beepbeepdickie

Game night was no time to fuck around.

The Losers Club fucking around? Absolutely not. This shit was serious.

Bill looked down at his hand of cards (pretty much the whole deck at this point), then to Stan’s complacent face from across the table. His features spoke ‘there’s no fucking way you’re winning’, and he was fucking right…. maybe. The worst part about all this is that both of them bet $50 on a  game of luck, $50 that neither of them really wanted to or could afford to sacrifice, but both did anyway, and Bill had spat mad smack the entirety of their game.

Uno was no laughing matter.

Running his eyes over his fan of cards, Bill hesitantly chose a green 8 and slid it across the table. He was satisfied with his pick, for Stan had played all yellows and reds for the past 6 turns, and yes, he counted. The odds seemed to be in his favor with this track record. Stan pinched his lips and anxiously scratched the underside of his chin with the hand not holding his last card. He took dreadfully long, in Bill’s opinion, and laid down the the only card he had, but upside down.

Getting impatient, Bill rustled, “Well s-show it already! There’s n-nuh-no strategy, just lay down t-thu-the damn card, Stan!”

Stan hung his head in defeat and reached for the pile of shuffled scrap cards, “Fine.”

“T-T-That smug fuh-ucking face all for nothin-”

He sharply retracted his hand and flipped a green 9 over to slam on top of Bill’s card without looking up.

“You mother f-fuh-f-fucker.”

Devious, slit pupils peeped from underneath his tight curls, “Looks like you owe me fifty big ones, Denbrough.”

“Fifty b-bucks yeah, not five huh-dred,” Bill slumped in his chair like a pouty child, defeated. He wanted to buy an upgraded XBOX controller with that money, and a new bean bag chair with the $50 he was preemptively expecting to win from Stan. Instead, he sat in his metaphorical salt marsh of being short $50. Stan only straightened his posture and gleamed, holding out a flattened palm for his reward.

A crash of pots and pans hurdled out from the cabinets and on to the linoleum floors, puncturing the ear drums of everyone in the Hanscom household, even the cat. A collective flinch among the Losers was shared from the clanging metal.

“Fuck, sorry fellas!”

Beverly popped her head out from around the corner of the kitchen, “Dumbass thought Eddie hid his Christmas gift in the cabinet.”

Mike, who had been observantly watching the Uno game from the couch piped up, “And was it?”

She licked her finger and slicked a curl behind her ear, “Nope.”

“Fuck!” Richie yelled again.

Normally, game nights would be held at Bill’s house, but tonight was an exception. Ben’s mom was visiting his lonely aunt in Washington and asked her responsible son to watch the house. Of course she allowed him to have friends over, she trusted him more than God himself, but even Ben had to admit that keeping his house out of harm’s way was a big task. A task, but one that was worth it to have his best friends brighten his home on a snowy winter’s eve.

Eddie’s head breached underneath Beverly’s, “He’s not even close,” and mouthed to Mike ‘it’s in the trunk of his own fucking car’.

“Gimme a hint?” Richie hailed.

Eddie just endearingly smiled at his friends in the living room without turning his head, “Absolutely fucking not, Rich.”

“Fuck!” He chirped for the third time.

Waltzing with a chipper pep to his step into his living room, Ben held both hands behind his back, “Hey guys, I found an old game of mine. I used to love this one.”

“How old can it be Benjamin, you’re 18,” Stan snorted, pocketing the money he won from Bill.

Ben bellowed a characteristic bellied laugh, “Old enough to still be fun.”

Beverly skipped out of the kitchen and attempted to snatch the item Ben was hiding behind his back, “What is it? What is it, what is it, huh?”

He gently pushed her hip aside to divert her grabbing twirl, and managed to plop a kiss on her nose as she was scooted to his left, “Twister, honey.”

She swiftly yanked the game out of his hands on the outturn of her twirl and shook her body with excitement, “I love Twister!” Clutching the box to her bosoms and tipping a foot off the ground, she gave Ben a firm kiss on the lips.

Bill sat closely next to Stan on the couch, with Mike lounging on the arm, “Y-Yak.”

“Don’t be such a bitter butter, Denbruh,” and Richie kissed the air consecutively in his direction, after sneaking behind Eddie and pulling him into a suffocating hug.

“I-I think you mean Nu-nuh-tter Butter.”

Richie happily planted sloppy pecks onto Eddie’s rosied cheeks as he squirmed away, “Yeah whatever.”

Through sullied giggles, Eddie meekly protested, “Richie, fuck, Richie STOP!”

As Eddie made his way to the couch, Richie obediently followed, with his arms looping around Eddie’s waist and mimicking his short-legged gate. Eddie may have told Richie to stop, perhaps even a thousand times, but here he was, placing his heated palms on top of Richie’s on his hips and leaning his head back against his chest.

“Who wants to play? We need four players.” Ben asked, laying out the plastic gameboard with the help of his girlfriend. Beverly splayed out across it, even in her primly ironed dress, to flatten the thing out for gameplay.

Richie blew a tickling raspberry into the side of Eddie’s neck, initiating a surprised yelp.  

“Okay so Eddie wants to play, any other takers?”

“Really?”

“Oh me, please me good sir!” Richie snarked after being elbowed by Eddie, who was nearly in his lap.

Mike sniggered, garbling under his breath so only Stan and Bill could hear from the couch, “Get a damn room, motherfuckers.”

“I’ll play, I’m on a winning streak anyway, Bill, want to bet again?” And Stan shot a coy glare at Bill as he stood up.

Bill puffed his chest, “Yeah m-me too. Count m-me in.”

Even though she was disappointed she didn’t get to opt in and play this round, Beverly was pleased with the opportunity to spin the color directory alongside Mike and Ben. She made sure she held the wheel so that if there were chances to make this game as tedious as possible, she would have the liberty to cheat if need be and make that decision. Right now, she was their God. And Beverly Marsh was going to make this game as inconvenient as humanly possible.

Sitting with her legs awkwardly crossed on the shag carpet against Ben’s body, she announced with a devilish lull, “So, who’s first?”

“Bill,” Eddie chortled coincidentally in sync with Richie, who nudged him kindly in agreeance.

Beverly spun the wheel, “Right foot red, Bill.”

Many turns came and went without problematic intervention, snide comments, or even side chatter. The farther the game deepened, the more serious it got. The four playing were in no mood to lose to their childhood friends, and in Bill and Stan’s case, their significant other. Even Richie, who took nothing seriously and absorbed certain things with a grain of salt that should be taken with a brick of concrete, and who at other times could make events that would usually be fun and games become life and death. Twister was a gladiator’s battle.

Eddie admired Bill and Stan’s relationship; how he wished that he had had something like that. As he pinched Eddie’s side to make him squirm, Richie thought the same thing.

Unfortunately, Bill and Stan relinquished their efforts relatively soon. They were both struggling, and without words made knowing eye contact, crumpling to the floor simultaneously so that they both lost at the same time. As much as Bill would have loved to beat Stan once tonight, at any fucking game that they played really, he found a peaceful truce to be just as satisfying, especially, when it resulted in extra affection that he wouldn’t have gotten if he had boastfully won. Losing the $50 and a round of Twister was worth it if he went home with a pleased Stan. A happy Stan was the best Stan and every Loser could attest to this. You didn’t have to date Stan to know this.

“Left foot yellow, Eddie,” Bev cackled, knowing very well that the arrow had landed on a different color and direction for her to announce. Bill and Stan cuddled close on the couch, watching Richie and Eddie continue their chaotic game of tangled limbs.

Eddie shot her a horrified glance, “This game is hacked, there’s no way. There’s no way, Ben? Help? Bill?”

Ben calmly overlooked Beverly’s shoulder to see that it indeed should have been right foot blue, “Yup, left foot yellow.”

Stan let out an incredulous twitter with Bill’s arm around him, blatantly amused.

There was no hiding that grin. Richie’s face darkened into a smirk that could have physically assaulted Eddie with his satisfaction, but instead, Bev and Ben did it for him.

“Listen to the Lord Eds, She hath spoken.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Ben?”

“Sorry bud. She hath spoken.”

Begrudgingly making his body twist over, Eddie had no choice but to straddle Richie’s torso to reach his toes of his left foot to touch the closest yellow circle, otherwise risking losing the game. Their groins pressed against each other too tightly, even for Richie to keep his propped body up in pristine form. This position made it fucking hard to maintain any kind of strength, focus, or composure.

Richie’s face blushed crimson with his delight, “Bev, next? Please?”

“Right foot blue.”

This was a harmless enough turn; all Richie had to do was shift his foot one circle up. He did so with minimal grace, and was able to support Eddie’s body weight on top of him. Eddie lightly bounced as Richie shifted his body weight under him, and if Eddie didn’t feel his sprouting boner beforehand, now it was painfully obvious. There was no hiding the excitement in Eddie’s pants either, from Richie’s point of view.

Sitting in Ben’s lap, Beverly spun the arrow of the wheel and unleashed a harpy’s laugh, “Right hand red!”

Both Eddie and Richie’s faces dropped. She couldn’t be fucking serious.

“Ben? Is she fucking serious?”

Even Richie weakly asked with droplets of sweat making their way down the side of his face, “I’m dyin’ here, you trynna kill me Haystack?”

Leaning up from his comfortable perch, Ben sternly analyzed the chart in Bev’s lap, and for the first time it had actually landed on what Beverly shouted aloud, “Right hand red, she’s not lying.”

Eddie shook his head, making eye contact with Richie, “Don’t hate me for this.”

Richie unsuccessfully gulped the growing lump in his throat, his eyes widened to a cartoonish size, and his breathing picked up, “I won’t, trust me. Go for it.”

Extending his body over Richie’s while still straddled, Eddie scooted his short frame forward to place a hand on a red circle. Eddie’s crotch hovered directly over Richie’s face and he worked to the best of his ability to keep himself from relaxing even an inch. Otherwise, he’d literally be sitting on his face.

“Rest in pieces, Richie,” Mike giggled.

“Can it, Michael,” Eddie barked.

The rest of the Losers not playing were muffling fits of laughter. Even Stan, who initially found this ploy to be childish, was now hiding his head in his shoulder to keep from outwardly laughing. Seeing Richie struggle so hard was a damn treasure.

Eddie’s crotch brushed Richie’s nose and he whispered to himself, ‘Fuckin’ Christ, Eds’.

His body began to horribly tremble. He was close to buckling completely; from holding the same position with his noodle arms for so long, and from the electric surges of arousal he felt swarming his pants. The tickle his nose endured was the cherry on top, and there was no avoiding the sneeze building in his sinuses. A fucking sneeze doomed him to a loss.

“Achooo!”

Violently sneezing into Eddie’s crotch, both of them collapsed, with Eddie falling onto Richie’s face. Exactly what Eddie didn’t want to happen. Eddie scrambled to roll off of Richie, flustered beyond his control. They whipped their heads to look at each other for a moment of silence before breaking out into laughter with their audience. Both of them were scarlet, and not just in the face— but everywhere.

Richie sat up dumbstruck, quickly crossing his legs to avoid himself further embarrassment. He flashed a goofy grin at Eddie with fluttering eyelids and a wink, “I don’t know, I think I fucking won.”

Eddie, who also had his legs crossed, laughed into his hands, “You lost the game, liar.”

Pushing himself off the floor to tackle Eddie, Richie smittenly cooed, “Wasn’t talkin’ ‘bout the game.”

If they weren’t dating before, it was bound to happen sooner or later, especially after that tomfoolery. Dumb boys, dumb boys. One day it’ll happen.