Faye

Frank bumbling a compliment after being gone for a few months:

"You look good, doll," he said, standing on your front porch as he waved a large hand in the general direction of your face. "You do somethin' different with your skin?"

Standing there staring at him as you held the front door open, your lips parted as you struggled to make sense of the very odd compliment he'd greeted you with. "Did you just...ask if I did something different with my skin, Frank?"

"Yeah, why?"

Your eyebrows rose up onto your forehead. "Who are you, Ed Gein? What the hell would I have done different with my skin?"

Throwing his hands up in exasperation, Frank's voice raised as an edge of confusion seeped into his words. "Shit, I dunno, sweetheart! You're the one always putting that stuff on your face."

"You mean skincare products?" you questioned.

He shook his head, clearly wanting to move past his failed compliment. "Was just pointing out that you look good, alright?" he defended. "Less tired."

"Less tired?" you repeated in disbelief. "I look less tired now, Frank?"

Frank's lips pressed into a thin line as a silence fell over you both. Aware he'd just shoved one of his large feet into his mouth, he jabbed his thumb behind himself at his truck parked in your driveway before taking a step backwards. "I'm gonna go grab you a coffee and come back and try this again."

"Are you getting me a coffee because I looked tired, Frank?" you called after him.

"Might grab you a cinnamon roll while I'm at it," he called back, grinning over his shoulder at you as he walked towards his truck. "And maybe I'll drive 'round the block a couple times afterwards for good measure."

"Why?" you called after him, fighting back the smile on your own face. "You trying to give me time for a nap?"

That day you’ve been previously stressed. Like when you wake up from a bad dream and you overthink for the rest of the day.

It starts in the kitchen.

The kind of late night argument that happens when the world is quiet but your thoughts are too loud. The fridge hums. There’s one light above the sink, casting everything else in shadow. You’d been pacing, snapping at him about being too controlling, too protective, like you couldn’t breathe without him hovering. He just stood there against the counter, arms crossed, jaw set.

You don’t tell him. You never do. But Frank’s not stupid, he reads people like terrain, like danger, like a map he’s memorized just in case it tries to kill him later.

He knows the minute he raises his voice and you go stiff, eyes darting away like you’re bracing for impact. He knows when you’re standing in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, trying to look tougher than you feel, that you’re not fighting him, you’re fighting a ghost.

That night, it gets messy. He tells you you’re reckless, that the world’s not gonna hold your hand just because you’ve been hurt. You fire back, louder than you mean to “You sound just like him.” you said in such tone it could leave anyone with surprise in their eyes.

The words hang there like a blade between you. Your chest is tight, and you’re ready for the slam of a fist on the counter, the storm, the violence you’ve always expected from men.

But Frank doesn’t move.

He exhales slow, rubs a scarred hand over his jaw. His voice drops low, almost too calm. “Don’t you put me in the same room as that son of a bitch.”

Your throat burns, tears threatening, but you force yourself to hold his stare. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t soften, but he also doesn’t come closer. He gives you space like it’s an act of mercy, maybe of love?

Minutes pass. The silence feels heavy, but not dangerous. Finally, he says, “I ain’t your father. I don’t get to fix what he broke. But I’ll be damned if I let you think I’d ever raise a hand to you.”

You break first, shoulders sagging. Frank steps forward then, slow, deliberate. He’s giving you time to push him away. You don’t.

When his arms come around you, they’re solid, grounding, nothing like the cages you’ve known. He smells like smoke and gunpowder, but you press your face into his chest anyway, and he lets you cry without comment.

His chin rests on your hair, heavy and steady. “You’re safe with me,” he mutters. Almost a growl, but not at you. Never at you.

People roll their eyes, but secretly they love it. Being around him feels like standing in the sun , constant warmth.

But John… John reacts differently.

The first time Bob noticed it was on the jet after a mission. He’d been casual, just tossed a “Thanks for saving my ass back there” across the aisle. John muttered a gruff, “Just doing my job” without looking up, but his ears were red. Like, red.

Bob didn’t forget that.

And the more he saw it, the more he wanted to push. Because it wasn’t just embarrassment, there was a tension in John whenever someone praised him. Shoulders stiffening, jaw tight, like he didn’t know what to do with it.

So Bob started doing it on purpose.

“That shirt looks good on you, Walker” one morning in the kitchen. He didn’t linger, just walked past, mug in hand, but caught the way John’s breath stuttered, the way his eyes dropped to the counter like it’d suddenly become fascinating.

In the gym, Bob sauntered over while John was finishing a set, fingers brushing his bicep in passing. “Damn. You’re getting bigger, Walker.” He didn’t stay to see the aftermath, just smirked to himself on the way out, because he didn’t have to stay. He knew.

And on missions? Every time John got them through something alive, Bob made sure to murmur a low, “You did really good. Thanks for taking care of me” when they were packing up, even tho he knew damn well he didn't need John to take care of him.

John would grunt, nod stiffly, and turn away fast, too fast.

Okay so I know it’s a trope to put smolboi Peter in Tony’s old MIT hoodies, having it all oversized and sweater paws. And dont get me wrong it hella cute and equals one(1) soft boi, but hear me out….

Tony was the small boi when he was at MIT like he was super young and tony is not a big dude. Which means when he purchased MIT hoodies in his college days they would all be like size small, so they would fit him (Nd even those would be a little big)

So flash forward to adult Tony who has a closet full of old hoodies that totally no longer fit him ( k maybe they still kinda fit and maybe he wears them around the house when he’s feeling nostalgic). So now we got resident small boi Peter parker with stark tower/avenger compound practically his second home, he has all his crap laying around.

And one day running late he picks up a hoodie that’s tossed on the couch, throws it one and heads to school. Only to realize half way there that hey this says MIT wait a minute…. but eh it fits and don’t want to be late!

From then Peter steals tony’s hoodies (classic trope) because they fit him perfectly and do you know how long it takes to break in a new hoodie???

And then one day Peter goes into tony’s closet, as is now the norm, to steal a hoodie only to put it on and to be swimming in it. Full on classic trope, sweater paws, down to mid thigh the whole shabang. Cue confused Peter, Mr starkkkkk i think I think your hoodie grewww

Tony comes in all confused only to see soft boi Peter (awwww) and realize that he is wearing the hoodie the Tony stole from rhodey back in MIT. Tony has to convince himself not to fight Peter for the sweater cuz come on peter already stole all his hoodies and that ones the most comfyyyy. But Peter looks so cute that Tony decides he will just steal another hoodie from rhodey

Skip to a week later and we have rhodey come and see Peter laying around in his hoodie that tony convinced him he had lost it after leaving it on the bus back in MIT days, what the FUCK TONY!!!

In walks a once again confused Tony wearing another of rhodey’ s hoodies that was stolen a week ago, whaT THE FUCKKK TONY!!!

He replayed the moment in his mind a thousand times. He remembered the look on Bob’s face when he said it, the way he’d turned away when John tried to take his hand. It hurt more than getting his arm broken. It hurt more than diving on a live grenade.

From the second the words left Bob’s mouth, John knew that something was wrong. He knew that Bob was lying, that he was trying to drive John away with every comment he made about how he didn’t love him and how he never loved him.

John just didn’t know why.

and then getting back in his car and going back to bed.

Tags by @oneiriad

Peter: okay, you were right; board meetings really *are* boring as hell.

Tony (chuckling dryly, trying to hide his disappointment that Peter will be signing off, cause he’s started to really enjoy the company): i’m always right.

Peter’s silent. Just when Tony thinks he’s gone, he hears: …what do you call a fish with a bow tie?

Tony: hm?

Peter: “so-fish-ticated!”

Try dangling someone’s gay awakening in front of them on a string and see if they deny themselves a good night. Peter isn’t any worse than any other teenager.

Besides he’s 17… almost 17. In like, three months. That’s basically legal.

Peter loses his virginity in the backseat of Mr. Stark’s self driving car. mr. Stark smells like scotch, a woman’s perfume, and a good time.

Five years later, spider-Man has caught the attention of the Avengers, and no one would ever accuse Tony Stark of not being able to do basic math.