Ramblings from a writer

Riiiight, okay. Welcome, welcome to my renovated blog! I—uh... decided for a change of pace. Specifically in what I post. This is going to be my “normal” tumblr from now on, for all of you Old-R^3 peeps. Good luck finding my new one, because I’m not linking it here for Reasons. 

((Once again, you can blame @prey-to-go for this.)) Tony crossed his arms, wings flicking as he all-but stared down the little green-tan form clinging to his Christmas tree and hissing bloody-murder. 

“Pete,” he implored, spreading his arms placatingly. “Please get off the tree. I’ve washed my hands four times; if I do it again, my skin is going to go with the soap!” 

Said employee bared his—frankly unimpressive—teeth and hissed again, the sound seeming to bubble up in his throat before all-but exploding outward in a vicious expression of pure distain. “I can still smell it.”

Set a few days after what I’mma call the “Careless Pred” incident:

Peter had been coming in to see Tony almost every day since about week prior. Sometimes the demon tucked him away, sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes, Peter even got to watch what he was doing in the lab. 

Today didn’t seem to be one of those days. 

As FRIDAY announced his presence, Peter stepped cautiously out of the elevator, listening for the tell-tale thumps of Tony’s footsteps. 

Silence. 

Curious. Tony usually told him if he was going to be in a meeting, and most-if-not-all other times, he was right there waiting for him. A bad feeling rose in Peter’s throat as he carefully ventured in, momentarily forgetting about FRIDAY. 

He made the hike to the kitchen, poking his head around the marble-countered table. Sure, meandering around Tony’s penthouse should have probably made him antsy, but he’d been around the place countless times... granted, that was with Tony, but everything was fine.

Peter needed to stop talking to himself. He was working up his own anxiety. 

“Mr. Stark...?” Parker called quietly, very nearly leaping out of his skin when the Irish voice from above answered. 

“Mr. Stark is asleep on the couch. Would you like me to wake him?”

Peter blinked, tilting his head with a slight scowl upward. WHICH COUCH? There were like... three on that floor alone, and they were all miles away (to him) from each other!

“No, no! That’s alright. Let him sleep.” God knew Stark needed it. 

Deciding to not risk waking the demon with FRIDAY’s loud voice, the young employee kicked himself into a steady jog, cold creeping up his legs. While the Prey to Go! uniforms were useful for many things, keeping warm was not one of them, and he preferred to keep his toes intact, thank you very much.

It took Peter twenty minutes—Twenty gosh darn minutes to find the couch Tony was passed out on, and by that time, he was shivering slightly and had given up on jogging, panting a little too much for comfort. 

Mr. Stark had sprawled out across the couch in the “common room”, wings not even tucked in and his tail curled over his legs. He was resting his face on his hand, and was dead to the world, snoring like a continental subduction. 

Must have been one heck of a day. 

Peter hopped up onto a cushion of the couch Stark was not sitting on, having to squirm and wriggle to get the better part of his body onto the flat portion. From there, it was a simple clamber up to the back of the couch, which was mercifully low to account for wings, and he could perch. 

He was still cold. 

Frick. 

While Peter could very well withstand a little chill, he had no inclination to sit there for hours, where the temperature would likely drop. 

Peter looked to Tony, cringing. Worst comes to worse, he got kicked out and went home... though, knowing the demon, he’d probably just get eaten again. 

So, swallowing his nerves, the Prey to Go! employee threw the upper half of his body over Tony’s shoulders, braced himself, and hauled the rest of himself up, very nearly overshooting and tumbling down Stark’s chest. 

Success!

And Tony barely stirred, muttering out a muffled noise that sounded like a soft growl or cat purr. 

Peter took a moment to get himself settled, carefully nestling himself in the little niche between the demon’s collarbone and his wing-shoulder, resolving to wait until his customer woke up and be there. 

As he settled, Peter came to a second unfair realization. 

Tony was like a personal heater. He radiated heat. The soft kind of heat that came from a warm breeze. So, not only would he never find a couch as plush as a stomach, but he also would probably never find something as comfortable as sitting on a demon’s shoulder. 

Maybe there were perks to being tiny.