Starker Secret Santa 2019

A (late) christmas exchange for the lovely @readysetstarker who asked for a picture showing hands. 

I hope you like it! 

it was a wonderful challenge for me as I often hide the hands when I draw haha 

My @starkersecretsanta gift to @seldom-seen-kid written to the following prompt:  Personal Trainer Tony and Gym Newbie Peter. Peter can hardly keep it together watching Tony demonstrate different exercises and lift weights. Tony is very much aware of the effect he has on his trainee, and after a session, Peter begs to be shown a whole different array of exercises. NSFW.

Merry Christmas, dear, and thank you for your patience with you lousy Santa. I hope you enjoy your gift.

For @cipherstarker on this year’s @starkersecretsanta

Merry Christmas!!

Summary:

Weathered mob boss Tony Stark does not expect to find his muse through a misdirected text. But he finds the young boy on the other side of the line every bit endearing and pretty.

As he learns that Peter Parker is every bit a young hero in the making, can he keep his secret intact or will he have to risk losing Peter forever?

Read in ao3

Excerpt:

Tony Stark has only two things on his mind that fateful Tuesday night.

One of them is that he’s meeting the Russians tomorrow morning. The other is that it’s been a while since he’s had sex.

Tony Stark, notorious kingpin of New York, known by all those seedy and decrepit, unknown by those who remain in the light, away from the sewers and the bad news, sits patiently awaiting his second in command’s text. He’s in his Stark penthouse, gazing directly through his sunlit windows. The penthouse sits beside direct view of the ocean, on the edge of a cliff. It would be an understatement to call it large--it resides over ten acres of land--and it would be an overstatement to call it cheap in Tony’s terms. He’d handed over the money without a blink of an eye, glass of red wine in hand and a gold calligraphy pen in the other.

He’d signed his name with a flourish and smirked as the previous owner was dragged out, paid close to nothing but a debt of half a million forgiven. It was a done deal, and that was that.

Tony Stark sits on the small table staring out the sunset. The tiled floor is sparkling clean, set in a minimalistic pattern that he’d had a famous designer create all the way from Italy. The pattern provides a stark contrast to the mahogany coffee table, where Tony sits alone, tapping his foot against the floor. His phone sits beside him, beside his porcelain plate.

There’s a sudden vibration, and the phone hits the corner of his plate with a tap.

Tony sets dark eyes on the screen for a mere second. He grabs it, but he turns when he hears Happy enter.

“Sir,” Happy says in greeting. “Good evening.”

Tony sits back on the chair, and he can’t help the snicker that leaves his lips.

He’s been waiting to see Happy close to three hours.

“Any updates?” Tony asks, knowing very well that if there had been something wrong, he very well would have heard about it hours ago.

Happy is standing stiffly by the doorway, awkward in his penguin suit.

“The Roman statue you ordered was shipped less than an hour ago,” Happy tells him, clearing his throat directly afterwards. Tony grabs his bottle of wine, unable to help the smirk on his lips.

“Good,” he says smugly while he starts to pour an inordinate amount of wine right to the brim of his glass. He stops right at the top, where the liquid trembles for a spare second in fear before taking its place.

“Don’t forget to place it right at the entrance,” Tony orders, unable to help himself.

“Of course, sir,” Happy says. “There’s not one person that will be missing sight of it.”

Tony snickers one more time before he brings the wine glass to his lips.

He’d had it stolen from one of his rivals, who’d had stolen it from an art museum in turn. He’d make damn sure that no one that didn’t know about it.

“Is there anything else?”

Happy shakes his head.

“No, sir,” he assures.

“Good,” Tony answers, taking another sip from his glass and eyeing the steak he’d had made just before his trip downstairs. It sat in front of him, waiting.

Tony waves Happy away dismissively, and the man leaves without a word.

Tony remembers the notification he’d received on his phone and turns his phone around to see the message.

“Hey,” the text reads, and Tony scrunches his eyebrows. “It’s Peter.”

He almost chokes on the wine as it seems to go sour in his mouth.

He’s pretty damn sure that he hadn’t given his number to anyone named Peter.

He only had five people--people that he could count on one hand--who he’d willingly given his personal number to. And they were exclusively the only people that he’d resolutely handed his trust to.

This wasn’t it.

“How did you get this number?” Tony types, fingers flying rapidly over the keyboard.

Three typing bubbles popped up in quick succession, barely a second after he’d sent the text.

“Ned gave me this number,” Peter sends.

Tony’s eyebrows furrow even deeper, a crease forming between them. Tony’s thumbs floated over the keys.

Some other bubbles popped up before quickly being replaced by another reply.

Tony’s eyebrows arched in surprise.

“Did you know that a cloud can weigh more than a million pounds?”

Tony stares at the text, not typing one word as he sees more bubbles popping up in quick succession.

By now, he’d figured out what was the issue here. And it wasn’t that somebody had betrayed his trust or hacked his phone.

“About 1.1 million pounds, actually,” Peter sends. “A single cloud.”

Tony lifts his phone, making up his mind. He’s going to type. He’s not sure what at that point, but he isn’t allowed too much time to ponder on a decent response.

“If you calculate the water density and multiply it by its volume that’s what you get,” is the text that is sent by the so-called Peter.

“But it can still float at that weight because the air below it is even heavier,” Peter sends directly afterwards.

“Just in case you were wondering,” is the last thing he sends.

Tony had figured out almost immediately that this was an error, and error is not something that Tony is usually greeted with. Especially recently.

But this was a real nice treat.

“I wasn’t wondering,” Tony finally sends after a long moment of silence. “But thank you for the random, unneeded trivia.”

The person on the other side of the conversation is undeterred.

“On the contrary,” says the ball of spunk, “How can we go along in life not knowing this very important part of life and science?”

Tony stares down at his Stark phone and very much squints at the screen.

“You have the wrong number,” he finally types down after about five minutes of staring.

“This isn’t MJ?” the person asks.

“No,” Stark sends.

He pauses for a moment, unable to help himself. As he usually does.

“Is there really someone that would find any of your trivia vaguely funny or interesting?”

Tony smirks down at the phone when no response comes back for a while.

The cream plate sparkles ivory underneath the golden lights above Tony’s head, and he lifts his knife and fork, placing his phone beside him once again. He only manages to place a miniature cut on his medium rare wagyu beef before he’s interrupted.

“Rude,” Tony’s phone vibrates.

Tony raises a dark, thick brow, large eyes focused on the small screen beside him as it glows valiantly with subsequent texts.

“There’s a McDonalds in every country but Antartica,” he reads.

Then.

“Frostnip is what you call the stage before frostbite.”

And then.

“A duel between three people is a truel.”

Finally.

“You can report spies in South Korea if you call 113.”

Tony puts down his utensils, wiping his hands haphazardly on his napkin before placing it beside his plate.

“This isn’t how flirting works,” he sends.

He keeps his phone in his hands and sees the bubbles pop in and out.

“I’m not flirting,” the new text reads.

“Your desperate attempts to impress say the contrary,” Tony retorts.

“That sounds like the opinion of someone who is either used to fighting or flirting or both at the same time,” the person on the other side of the line comments.

Both of Tony’s eyebrows are raised, his skin stretched enough that he wouldn’t be surprised if they disappeared behind his fringe.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Tony snarks back, and the phone pings with another text, this one from Pepper. Tony dismisses it, waiting for Peter’s reply.

His phone pings again, and he notices Pepper asking him if he’d eaten yet. Tony glances down at his uneaten food.

He pulls down the notification and types out a no.

He quickly moves back to open the text conversation for the unknown number’s response.

“Flirting was the first thing you thought to mention,” Peter says.

“So I’m betting my money on you being the flirt.”

There is a small pause.

“You know,” Tony reads. “That thing with Freud… Projection?”

“I’m not the one trying to flirt by giving useless facts,” Tony sends back quickly.

Tony puts his phone down in an attempt to eat his food again, but his eyes keep flitting back to the phone beside him. Innocuous yet now full of possibilities.

Tony picks it up quickly when it pings, only to see that it’s Pepper.

“No to the food or no to the Russians?” she asks.

Tony opens the message to view the conversation fully.

“No to the food. Yes to the Russians,” he sends after prompt consideration.

After still not seeing a response from Peter, he puts down the phone resolutely. Considering himself the victor, he eats the rest of his meal in peace.

It isn’t until he’s in bed, an hour after his meal and a half hour after getting ready to go to sleep, his phone pings one more time by his drawer.

Tony frowns, scooting over the edge of the bed to snatch his phone and open up the screen.

“Sounds like something an intergluteal cleft would say,” the text reads.

Tony Stark, feared mob boss and even more notorious weapons dealer, stares down at the phone in his hands in intrigue, his mouth agape. His eyebrows now for sure disappearing behind his fringe.

He goes to sleep thinking about the person behind those juvenile message, very resolutely trying not to think about the fact that he’d very bluntly called him a butt crack.

My @starkersecretsanta gift for @starkerforlife6969. Happy holidays!

Word count: 1325

Warning: major fluff, guilt, full on Christmas cheesiness

Prompt: Domestic starker. Blizzard outside so indoors with fuzzy stocks, greasy pizza, cuddling and Christmas movies.

Here’s my submission for the @starkersecretsanta, been a busy day but I wanted to get it out. My gift was assigned for Dryce, or @less-than-wholesome-shipper, I hope you enjoy, I hope I did the request justice.

The Prompt was: Tony’s Winter Holiday vacation was getting kinda boring so he pushed to go search for the elusive Wendigo that supposedly lurked in the snowy mountains nearby. What he finds instead is a young boy who was believed to be lost for years. Now if only the crew would stop disappearing, Tony could write this trip off as a success.

Word Count: 6.5k

A fill for the @starkersecretsanta from the prompt:  Chef Peter and Critic Tony whom hate each other in real life because of  awkward misshaped cute meet incidents (maybe like peter got the last wedge of cheese and Tony wanted it, they run into each other literally at the subway and loose all their groceries, Peter accidentally runs over Tony with his bike feel free to make your own) but food critic tony loves chef peters food and peter loves Tony’s critiques and writing. Enemies to lovers!  

Gifted to @peachbabypie

Words: 7384

Tags: Chef Peter, critic, Tony, enemies to lovers, past harley/peter

Peter had had enough with this week. First, his bike was stolen from outside his apartment, and no one had their security camera running, when in reality he knew that Mrs. Romaro was lying, because she knew the one time he accidentally took her newspaper inside and not his. After that fiasco, he got the wrong coffee order, which never helped anything, and then he came to work only to learn that Tony Fucking Stark was visiting tonight. 

Most people would be absolutely pleased at having such a renowned critic in their restaurant, but Peter? He was livid. He wanted nothing to do with Stark. He was pretentious, with his stupid leather shoes and his whole holier than thou attitude. He was a food critic in New York City. There were a million other people just like him. 

My @starkersecretsanta gift for @areluctantsblog.

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: Love potion given to unknowing recipient, though nothing “untoward” or with dubious consent happens.

Their prompt: Hogwarts au with Peter and Tony both in Ravenclaw and in their seventh year. They are best friend since day one and pining for each other for at least 2 years. Tony’s family is a mess, so he stays for the Christmas break and Peter stays with him. Over the break one of them accidentally consumes some badly brewed love potion (not brewed by either of them). The potion’s effects are up to you, but of course complications and misunderstandings ensue. Eventually however, the accident helps them get together. Bonus for any other avengers as their hogwarts friends/aquaintances.

***

“You didn’t have to give up your Christmas break with May,” mutters Tony as he and Peter stride easily through the mostly empty corridor, silent but for the vague echoes of Peeves’ cackle and a third year’s disgusted cries of dismay. “I’d have been fine by myself.” (Peter told him once that the Muggles consider pride an undesirable trait, a sin rather than a virtue; Tony has never considered himself a virtuous man and so allows that damnable quality to keep his lips sealed, the thank you for staying with me unsaid, lingering on the tip of his tongue.)

Title: First Comes Love

Here’s my gift for @danger-dangerhighvoltage as a part of the @starkersecretsanta event. I gave the prompt “Peter and Tony getting married” and gave it a bit of spin. Tony got impatient and couldn’t wait until the honeymoon.

Happy Secret Santa! — for @starkernova

You requested forTattoo artist!peter/florist!tony, maybe tony giving peter flowers:

Tony probably bumped into Peter and saw all the floral tattoos embedded on nearly every surface of skin on the toned muscles adorning two strong arms. Tony probably geeked over the specific flora species and Peter probably flirts back.

Peter probably invites Tony over for coffee and more plant chats, Peter probably pushes curls out to Tony’s face, and Tony probably winks when he leaves, knowing Peter is eyeing his ass.

Tony likes that Peter’s tongue peeks out the corner of his mouth when he’s concentrating on something, how he pins his hair back when drawing new designs for his clients, the way his forearms twitch when erasing, the way Peter’s thighs wrap around his hips.

Tony reveals that he’s a florist and Peter spends hours at his little bodega smiling at the flowers and how in his element Tony looked, dominated by sunflowers, brown wrapping paper, and twine. Peter likes pulling Tony close, kissing all the parts of his body. He really likes when Tony’s standing behind the counter, wrapping up a bouquet and Peter drops to his knees to give his boyfriend the blow job of a century. (Especially if the bell above the door rings and an unsuspecting client pops in while Tony’s cock is in Peter’s mouth)

This was my first ever time participating in one of these, and I got the lovely @heyimstarker :)

I chose the prompt: "coffee date, Peter and Tony being all cuddly, and maybe someome has a whipped cream mustache "

I hope I did this justice, since I'm not the best :) x

( for @starkersecretsanta as well )

Merry Christmas to @darker-soft-starker! <3

@starkersecretsanta

(I read your prompt and my brain took off, totally deviated from the rom-com feel, I hope you still like it!!)

****************************************************** 

The Prompt:

Canon Divergence AU - Tony and Peter are neighbors. Tony is not obscenely rich, just a regular Joe, maybe a cop or something and lives across the hall from Peter’s apartment. Peter is still Spider-Man and regularly gets caught by Tony limping back to his apartment bloody and beaten, peter gets stuck to his doorknob and there are a lot of awkward moments etc

And away we go…

******************************************************

Like many important things, Tony’s life resets with a ‘bang’. 

On his back, ears ringing, staring up at inky-grey smoke that eats up whatever view there had been of the stars, he takes ragged half-breaths and wonders if he’s done enough, if this was the right way for him to go. When his vision tunnels and his consciousness begins to recede, he still doesn’t have an answer.

*

You’re lucky. 

It’s what everyone keeps telling him. Lucky he was far enough away from the blast that he didn’t lose any pieces, lucky his vest held up just enough to keep the shrapnel from burying itself in his chest.

Lucky.

He might be, but it’s hard to feel it when he still hurts like there’s a baby grand parked on his ribs. Harder still when he wakes up, over and over and over, with the taste–the grit–of sand and copper in his mouth the echo of too-hot sun on his skin or the stinging, freezing cling of ice water on his face (in his mouth, his eyes, his stomach, his lungs–he can’t, he can’t, pleasenomorehecan’t).

It takes him four days to wake calmly enough he doesn’t bolt upright, doesn’t frantically pull off sensors and yank the drip out of his arm, doesn’t get held back down and sedated.

It takes four days for him to get his hands on a notepad and a pen.

When he does, he draws a metal behemoth shooting into the open sky.

He has no idea what it means, but he feels free.

*

‘Indefinite medical leave’ should’ve been a punch to the gut, a slap to the face. By the time they’d gotten around to giving him the mandatory psych eval, though (and it had gone as swimmingly as expected), he’d been out of the hospital for three weeks, and well-acclimated to feeling like he’d taken a fist to the stomach.

Before, he might’ve argued, fought, done his best to prove that he could still be an asset to the team, that his mid-forties are practically his prime, god damn it! 

He doesn’t, though. None of it seems as important as it used to.

Being taken off the force is the least of his concerns, not when the tug to vent the dreams (visions, almost) onto paper-canvas-something is so strong he shakes with it.

The dreams are wild. Vivid and jarring. He draws bits and pieces of them all. 

He’s got the time to do it, now. 

*

Rogers is the first to stop contacting him. Barnes follows suit. 

Clint hangs on a little longer, but ultimately stops coming around after the first month.

Rhodey doesn’t feel like a loss, for all that he and Tony have undeniably drifted apart. Rhodey’s got his family; Carol and the kids. He has time for coffee, for a quick chat sometimes. He doesn’t ask after the dreams. Tony doesn’t blame him.

Nat sticks around a little longer. Stops by every couple weeks. Comes in and drinks his crappy instant coffee and looks at whatever he’s working on. Sees him go from pencil sketches to paint. 

When she sees his latest piece, she arches a brow at him.

It’s a glove, she says, flatly. The hint of good-natured amusement sparking in her eyes is nice, even if it’s not enough to counteract the rest of her reaction.

She’s a better liar than the others, because she lies with her whole body, her whole self. It’s only because Tony knows where to look does he see the wariness in the way her glance keeps flicking back to the canvas, catching on the bronze shape, on the spots of bright color that contrast so sharply.

The visit ends more quickly than usual (and they were never long to begin with), the redhead gone after a well-crafted excuse and a lingering hug. Tony knows he’ll see her again, but it still feels like a goodbye, of sorts. 

He’s not bitter about any of it, doesn’t blame or begrudge his team for not staying; their jobs, their lives didn’t end when Tony took that blast, when a cut-and-dry shipyard raid (as cut and dry as any raid can be) went a little sideways.

And, if he’s being honest, the relative handful of times he’s seen any of them after his retirement (after four months he’s given up calling it ‘leave’, given up assuming he’ll ever even try to come back), there’s something hanging silently over them, dragging between them. 

The feeling of distance (and slight relief when they part) is mutual, Tony thinks.

*

There’s one constant, outside the dreams. One figure flitting in and out of the corners of his days, his nights, his mind.

His neighbor, Peter, is a mystery. A gorgeous, twenty-something, world-weary mystery who’s eyes flicker too sharply over the whole of Tony’s body whenever Tony opens the door to find him standing there at completely ridiculous hours.

(Not that Tony’s got a healthy circadian rhythm to disrupt, anymore).

It feels less like random kindness and more like he’s been assigned security detail, the kid’s greeting and polite inquiry–How are you today, Mr. Stark? (because he can’t get the kid to call him ‘Tony’)–accompanied by eyes moving too sharply over the whole of Tony’s body, checking for damage, before he’s off again to do whatever it is he does.

Tony’s not really sure what to do with it at first, how to respond. He’s not used to being watched over, is typically the one doing the watching, the protecting. It’s especially difficult the first couple of times, because the kid–Peter–always looks a little worse for wear; favoring one or more of his limbs, and at least one visible, fresh bruise, small scrape or cut marring his features.

He does him the courtesy of not asking about them, because Peter doesn’t ask invasive questions and obviously tries very hard not to look past Tony and into the apartment, important concessions to Tony’s privacy. It’s only fair to let Peter have his, feels like an even (if increasingly painful) trade-off.

He also doesn’t want to do anything to risk losing this. He’s glad his ‘detail’ keeps showing up. Keeps existing. 

*

After a while, it becomes routine. Once a day, Peter knocks, Tony opens, and they have their exchange. It’s…a spot of light in Tony’s world, even if it feels sort of heavy.

The lightness is due in part to the way that, regardless of apparent injury or hour of the day, Peter always offers Tony a genuine smile, even if it’s also quick or small or tired.

Sometimes, though, the smiles are more grimace than anything else. There are bands of steel behind those ones, and Tony wonders how (why) this kid got so strong, and why it doesn’t seem like there’s anyone telling him he doesn’t have to be. On those days, Tony thinks about inviting him in, offering to take a look at the injuries; he’s got first aid training and still keeps his own supplies in his place.

(He doesn’t ever offer to drive Peter to the hospital; the option never seems to occur to him until after Peter’s already vanished, down the hall or into his own apartment across from Tony’s.)

There’s something that stops him, something beyond the respect for Peter’s privacy. Something about the faint blush that appears on Peter’s cheeks sometimes during their short conversations, something about the way his own eyes sometimes drift over Peter’s form in return.

*  

He wonders, sometimes, what Peter would think of the paintings. 

He’s imagined it a few times; showing him, watching him see them. He doesn’t know if Peter’s into art at all (not that Tony even really is, not in the technical sense), but it wouldn’t really matter; Tony’s fantasies don’t usually revolve around the younger’s critique of his work.

More than anything, he wants to see Peter in his minimalist-but-cluttered space, sitting on his couch or leaning against his kitchen counter, propped against the windowsill, a mug of something hot in his hands and a truly relaxed smile on his face.

Sometimes the fantasies are less innocent, but…something in him just wants to see Peter safe.

*

“Okay, we need to talk about this.”

They’re standing in Tony’s doorway, another ass-crack-of-dawn ‘status check’, and there’s blood actually trailing down from Peter’s left sleeve, dripping off the kid’s fingers.

Peter fidgets in place. “…About what?”

In spite of his concern, Tony nearly snorts a laugh at the completely terrible evasion. 

He reigns it in, arches his brows. “You’re getting you on the carpet.”

The kid shoots a quick glance downwards at his hand, blanching slightly. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s–it’s really nothing, I just–”

“‘Nothing’ is a papercut, Peter,” Tony snaps. “Putting aside the bruises, fat lip, and the fact you’re obviously favoring your right leg, you’re standing here with blood running down your arm. That’s not ‘nothing’.”  

He’s tired and frustrated and afraid, finally venting these feelings after weeks of this, weeks of wondering if Peter’s just going to stop showing up, weeks of being on edge between visits even if they come like clockwork because he just can’t lose these moments, he can’t–and he doesn’t realize he’s moved forward into Peter’s space, how close he is until he finishes speaking. 

Peter’s staring at him with saucer-wide eyes, a pink stain on his cheeks, his slightly wheezing breath fanning across Tony’s chin.

Tony backs off quickly, hands in the air. “Fuck, I’m sorry–”

“It’s okay,” Peter says, and Tony watches the bob of his throat as he swallows. “You–I’m okay. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I am. You don’t need to worry about me Mr. Stark.”

The determined set of Peter’s jaw is both compelling and frustrating, and Tony just barely manages to muscle back his urge to argue further.

“Just…I’m here,” he says, finally. “If you need to talk. If you need anything. Please.”

Something desperate and pained slashes across Peter’s features, and then it’s gone. The younger man nods, short and tense, turns and disappears into his apartment.

Tony stares at the closed door for another moment, before stepping out and shutting his own door, heading down the hall. 

Air. Air will be good.

*

Air is good. It’s always good. Always helps after the dreams, chills away the sweat, clears his head.

It doesn’t do quite as much, now, when his worries are linked to reality instead of a dreamscape, but it feels good nonetheless. 

He stands on the roof of the complex, high up, until the edge of the sky begins to change color. Like he does every time he comes up here, he thinks about his favorite of the dreams, the brief period when his nights were filled with the exhilaration of flight.

He hopes Peter has somewhere like this, that he has something good to return to, his own version of reaching the sky.

*  

“Mr. Stark, I don’t feel so good…”

Wind. Reddish puffs of dust in the air, unnaturally colored sky–everything is wrong, everything is ending, failure, failed, no–

“I don’t wanna go, please–I don’t wanna go!”

He can’t lose him, he can’t lose the kid–it’s his fault, Tony’s fault–he shouldn’t have been here, he shouldn’t have–

Tony bolts upright, gasping past the taste of dust in the air–gritty on his tongue, in his throat, burning his eyes.

With a clumsy, half-conscious drive, he drags himself up off the couch to the easel, practically throwing the painting of the glove (gauntlet) to the side and slapping a blank canvas up.

He doesn’t start this one with a pencil sketch, no swipes of graphite or charcoal. The paint ends up on his bare hands, coating his fingers, and then he’s frantically tracing and contouring a face, neck, shoulders, craggy grey rock and more of that reddish dirt–shades of beige and brown, orange and red and blue, grey and black twisting (crumbling) away.

Time is nothing, a non-entity; all Tony knows is the need to touch, to hold, to stop the inevitable–

When it’s finished, the energy drains with disorienting suddenness. It’s difficult to keep his arms extended, so he doesn’t; he pulls them towards himself, hunching over with a sob and burying his trembling, paint-tacky hands in his hair.

The dreams have only ever been abstract; images in a mental blender. Vague human shapes and random objects, landscapes–weird, vivid amalgamations of feelings and colors and sensations. Tasting the dirt, feeling the loss; those things are par for the course.

But none of the people in them have ever had a voice; no one has ever said a word.

He couldn’t make out clear features of the face, even staring head on…but the voice that still rings in his head sounds a lot like Peter’s, and now that the frenzy is over, it’s almost paralyzing.

After an indeterminate number of minutes, the dream fades in the way dreams do, and he uncurls with a heaving sigh and stands, drags himself to the kitchen counter to make coffee.

He’s already painted it out, it’s usually enough, but when he sits back down in front of the easel, he feels sick, anxious. His hands are unsteady, knuckles white where he grips the handle of his mug, the liquid inside it rippling slightly. 

Patches of the paint are still shiny-wet on the canvas, and part of him wishes it would stay that way, something about the wetness making it seem alive. It’s blurred, as though he’s looking at the image from behind frosted glass, but there’s an obvious shape, the body of the owner of that heart-rendingly familiar, rasping voice. It’s faceless; a kernel of (relative) normality he clings to, so he can try to convince himself this painting doesn’t feel like the manifestation of his greatest failure, of a grave error that doesn’t really belong to him but still spreads, aching, behind his ribs.

He’s sore everywhere–his shoulders and neck from being hunched over, his arms from being held aloft for far too long. His hands ache, too, and they’re dry, paint cracking and peeling in an ugly neutral blend of the colors he’d smeared on his fingers.

He showers, manages to get the paint out of his hair. 

But he can’t watch as the color flecks and melts (disintegrates) from his hands and disappears down the drain. 

*

Every day.

Every day for the last four days. 

The dreams and the art are a cycle: he dreams, he draws, he gets a few days respite while he finishes the piece…and then he wakes again from a new nightmare or dreamscape and starts over. 

He’d finished the first painting the same day…but he keeps having the same dream. Keeps hearing Peter beg to stay, keeps feeling the body in his hands crumble away to nothing. The taste of dirt in his mouth won’t leave, isn’t touched by coffee or food. He’s got five variations of the same painting piled in the corner of his apartment, and he’d been sure that if he doesn’t do something, he’s going to live the same horror over and over and over.

So he’s doing something.

He’s maybe ending this vicious repetition, but he’s also making up for the way he’s been ending their conversations more quickly, the way he’s been holding back and hiding, pretending he doesn’t see the flicker of hurt on Peter’s face when Tony’s the one who evades, bids farewell and closes the door.

He’s the one knocking, now.

“Mr. St–Tony?”

Seeing Peter like this–standing there in a t-shirt and boxers in the doorway of his apartment, less bruised than normal, looking confused and alive, he looks amazing–blows whatever plans Tony had away, ash on the wind. 

He doesn’t think, just sighs Peter’s name and pulls the younger man forward into a tight hug, buries a hand in his hair, presses his face in the softness, too, everything in his head spinning with relief and joy and a painful kind of apology–

–before he notices how stiff Peter’s gone in his arms. 

Probably because, in the months since they’ve been doing this, they’ve never actually engaged in physical contact…or had a real conversation beyond the single argument those days ago. Peter doesn’t know about the dreams; he doesn’t know anything, and Tony must seem like he’s having a mental break.

Before he can make himself let go, though, Peter’s arms snap up to wrap around him, tight, so tight it makes Tony’s ribs ache.

It ends too soon, Peter pulling away to stare at him with suddenly wet, red-rimmed eyes and hope so sharp it hurts to look at.

“Are you–do you know? Do you remember?”

Cold trickles down Tony’s spine.

He knows, without a doubt, he should. He should remember, and he doesn’t. It feels like another failure that he can’t say ‘yes’, that he can’t bring himself to answer that hope with something other than tense silence.

His heart breaks when Peter steps back after a few seconds, looking embarrassed and a little panicked.

“Never mind, I’m sorry–”

“Wait, no,” Tony blurts, barely resisting the urge to pull Peter back in. “Don’t–Look, I can’t…I don’t know what you’re talking about, but maybe you could tell me? I just…” He sighs, frustrated at himself, at the feeling that he’s missing something huge and that huge thing is Peter-shaped

“I just need to be around you for a little while,” he finally says. “Is that okay?”

He’s sure he’s going to get a door shut in his face; Peter’s expression is torn, aching, and Tony wouldn’t blame him in the slightest.

But he’s lucky. 

“Um, yeah,” Peter says carefully after another long moment, something like resignation coloring his tone. “Come in, please.”

*

The layout of Peter’s apartment is a mirror of Tony’s, but significantly less cluttered. Pretty minimal, actually, less like a choice in aesthetic and more like he’s only just moved in: a futon and a desk for furnishing, a small microwave and coffee pot on the counter, no pictures on the walls or taped to the fridge. 

Tony’s not judging, can’t; he’s never lived particularly extravagantly either, and his studio only looks lived in because of the art supplies taking up a good third of it. 

As for the lack of personal touches, of photos, memories…If anything, it makes Tony feel a further sense of closeness, of camaraderie. He doesn’t have pictures up either, not anymore; can’t look at the ones of he and the team, of he and Rhodey through the years. Not since everything changed.

The futon draws his gaze, again, still pulled down flat, like Peter’s just woken up, or had just laid down for bed. Tony stares at the pillow and rumpled, pulled-back comforter, and feels a twist of guilt (not enough to leave, but it’s still there).

“I’m sorry about the mess,” Peter’s saying as he closes the door and moves to stand a little off to the side. “I wasn’t expecting company at…um. Whatever time it is.”

Cracking a joke would be ideal to diffuse the tension, or maybe even giving a generic, polite response (‘it’s fine’, ‘I don’t mind’, or, ‘you have a lovely home, literal man of my dreams’), but when Tony pulls his gaze from the futon, Peter’s lips are curved in a tight smile, his stance awkward, yearning, like he’s trying not to approach Tony, but he wants to.

“Can I touch you again?” Tony asks. 

He realizes how it sounds as soon as he’s blurted it out, and as he watches Peter blush, lips parting in silent surprise, he wishes he meant it that way; that he was only trying to finagle his way into further messing up Peter’s bedspread, wanting to touch for a reason so mundane as arousal, instead of out of the powerful desire to reassure himself of Peter’s continued existence. 

Before he can apologize or rephrase, he’s got an armful of shaking, but warm and solid, Peter.

Peter’s face–his cheeks, his nose, his lips–are warm, pressing into the bare skin at the junction of Tony’s neck and shoulder, a sensation that takes Tony’s breath away more so than the return of the tight bands of Peter’s arms, one low around Tony’s waist, the other angled up between his shoulder blades. 

Fabric tightens across his shoulders and a little at his neck, like Peter’s gripping a handful of his shirt, and Tony feels more than hears the younger speak. 

“Yes, please. Touch me.”

Tony swallows thickly and hugs Peter back. The ‘thank you’ is burning in the back of his throat, threatening to spill out…so he lets it. Breathes it strained and hollow into Peter’s hair, the kind of ‘relieved’ that hurts so much worse before it gets better, and Peter shivers in his hold.

It shouldn’t feel so good. It shouldn’t feel better to hold Peter, this virtual stranger, than it does to even think of being near his family, his old friends (his other friends, other; they’re not gone, they’re just…distant–not gone, not gone, not wrong), but it does. It feels right, in a way nothing else seems to feel anymore. 

“I’m sorry,” he hears himself say, “I’m so sorry, Peter, I’m sorry…”

He’s sure he’s holding on tight enough now that it has to hurt, but he can’t make himself stop. His hand ends up back in Peter’s hair, fingers twisting into the soft brown curls, his other hand gripping at the back of Peter’s thin, worn t-shirt, and suddenly he needs more. Needs more proof, needs more confirmation that he’s not dreaming, that Peter’s not going to crumble apart in his arms. He’s just not sure how to say it, if he can–

He flinches when he feels Peter shift, feels him nosing at his throat, feels lips parting.

“I miss you,” Peter whispers, ragged and strained, breath warm against Tony’s skin, and it doesn’t make sense, but it does.

*

The fading bruises on Peter’s skin taste the same as the pale, unblemished places, are just as soft when Tony’s lips and tongue brush over them, and this isn’t what he’d meant to do, but it’s what’s happening now and neither of them appear inclined to stop it.

They should be talking; Tony should be wondering about the question Peter asked when they hugged for the first time. He should be panicking about how Peter apparently knows him enough to mourn him (he’d said ‘I miss you’ the way Tony talks to his mother, like he was talking to a gravestone) even though Tony had definitely never met him before he left the force, before the dreams. Would’ve remembered a face like his (an everything like his, really).

But they’re not talking. Instead, he’s tangled with Peter on the futon, dragging his lips from bloom to bloom of fading green-yellow-purple down Peter’s torso, his scalp tingling with every reflexive tightening of the fingers in his hair, the disbelief and awed arousal on Peter’s face as much an aphrodisiac as the taste of his skin, the texture of it under Tony’s hands.

Every motion feels like something slotting into place, the restless places in Tony’s mind settling a little further, the empty spaces filling with heat and emotions too big for how little he really knows this person–this beautiful, strong, wonderful being.

Tony’s not panicking. He’s not wondering. He still doesn’t know how this is happening, still doesn’t know Peter beyond the last few months, barely knows him now, but nothing has felt this easy, this right, in a long time.

When Peter spills, warm and liquid, over where their hands are wrapped together around their twin hardness, Tony swallows Peter’s soft gasp, kisses him and groans Peter’s name as he finds his own release.

*

There are things he needs to say, things he needs to show Peter, the way he knows there are things Peter needs to show him, tell him.

The enormity is there, a strangely relieving weight, blanketing as they sink into each other in soft, post-coital haze.

It’s complicated. It’s bigger than the dreams, bigger than anything Tony can fathom.

But when Tony fades, curled together on the futon, Peter’s head under his chin and one of Peter’s hands resting on his sternum…

He dreams of flight.

My fic for this year’s @starkersecretsanta !!

Happy Holidays, @lesbianstarker !! I hope you like your gift!! <3

Prompt: Mafia!AU (no powers) where 19-year-old college student Peter somehow ends up in a relationship with morally conflicted Italian Mob Boss Tony Stark. Tony was forced to take on the position when his dad, the former Don, died unexpectedly. After 25 years, he’s sort of come to accept that he’s never going to be a good person. But the guilty starts eating at him as he begins to corrupt sweet and innocent Peter Parker. The boy wants to get closer, wants to be with Tony but Tony keeps him at a distance for Peter’s own safety. But it doesn’t stop him from bringing the kid to deals as eye candy. Peter is shy and submissive, both the best and worst sexual outlet for Tony’s self-loathing anger. But the more Tony pushes him away, the more determined Peter is to really get close to the older man. He wants to prove his usefulness and dedication, completely unaware that Tony already knows he’s both of those things and more. But he thinks Peter should be better than that….

Tags: Mob Boss Tony, Age difference, Guilt, Feelings, nsfw content, Possesive Tony

Written for the lovely @scarletmanuka1 for @starkersecretsanta - happy holidays gorgeous, I hope this does you justice xo 14.5k

Prompt: Peter is invited to a fundraiser as Tony’s ‘plus one’ but due to his age, people assume that it’s platonic. Peter is forced to watch beautiful people try to pick up Tony all night, and who, Tony being Tony, flirts outrageously with them. Happy ending. Warnings: insecurity, jealousy, misunderstandings, developing relationship, alcohol consumption, adult peter, happy ending

——

Tony Stark has a horrible sense of timing. Let it never be said otherwise.

No, really. It’s as if when creating man God had a plethora of functional internal clocks that ran dry at just the very moment that he was giving life to Tony. And to compensate for the absence of timeliness, God shrugged and gave Tony extraordinary intellect and painfully good looks instead.

More than once has he read a headline post-snap that read: Tony Stark late to his own award ceremony! Or Stark late to hearing: A billionaire who doesn’t own a clock?

Peter wishes that it were hyperbole. Really. But if there was one thing he could say categorically of his former mentor, it was this: despite his smarts Tony Stark was poor at keeping a schedule.

Like when he failed to notice that he’d been in the lab for three days straight, missing board meetings.

Or, when he’d drunkenly stumbled into a party in the Avengers common room one night, not realising it was Langs’ birthday. Misreading the room, Tony had raised his glass, slurring a heartfelt “Mazel tov!” before staggering off to his room, leaving the occupants stunned.

Or the memorable, however awkward time Tony announced his and Peppers divorce as everyone was exchanging gifts on Christmas morning.

“For fucks sake, Tony,” Rhodey had said, mid-unwrapping.

Sure, Tony’s inability to parse appropriateness with whatever was going on at the time soured a few events, it rubbed some people the wrong way. And yeah, it meant that Tony forgot some birthdays and conferences or disrupted a briefing or two. Peter still never faulted him for it.

Well, not much.

Here’s my piece for @speckledcoffeecups for the @starkersecretsanta 

Not my best work, but I tried to follow the prompt the best that I could. 

Desperation. Something post endgame where Peter is like I just want Tony back/better, and when he finally gets him (or SIM) back he’s like clingy and desperate to simply be around him.  

Tags: Peter’s age is not specified, a little canon diversion, light mentions of Tony’s injuries (nothing graphic)

Word count: 1,177

Peter only stirs when he’s jolted lightly by laughter. He hadn’t been aware he’d fallen asleep until his eyes cracked open and he returned to the land of the living. Really, he shouldn’t have been surprised, considering how little sleep he’s gotten over the last three days. But he’s still angry with himself when he turns his head slightly and spots Tony, laughing at something someone said or did. His eyes are bright and full of light, and it’s such a relief to see him conscious that Peter almost forgives himself for missing the moment Tony woke up. 

Around them in the room is the whole team, and they’re all breathing lighter than Peter’s seen them since the battle against Thanos. But none of them look as joyful as Tony does, sitting up in the bed against a mountain of pillows, his arm wrapped around Peter’s body, holding him close. 

Peter’s eyes wander to the stump at Tony’s other shoulder where his other arm used to be. Even though he’s had three days to adjust to it, Peter isn’t sure he will ever be used to it. 

Peter doesn’t notice he has eyes on him until he lifts them, a blush spreading across his face when he catches Tony staring at him. There’s a curl to the corners of his lips, but Peter is more interested in the life he finds in Tony’s eyes. The last time that he witnessed them had been on the battlefield, post snap. They’d been cold and unfocused, almost glazed over. Peter had been so sure he was going to lose the love of his life. 

But now here he was, alive and well, staring down at his boyfriend. 

Merry Christmas to @peterparkerstarker !! 💝💝

…and the rest of the Starker fandom!! 🎁🌠🎄

Request: Peter in an oversized MIT sweatshirt, lollipop in his mouth, on Tony’s lap, grinding up against him/riding him - And what a fantastic request this was!

Side note: This is not the full drawing! It’s not even 1/3 of the drawing, but since it’s really naughty I will be sending it to you in private! 😈

this is for lovely Reme, @donttrythereisnocureforwhatweare! we clearly have a very similiar taste in fics lol. super super fun to write! i hope you enjoy 💕

prompt: King Anthony Edward Stark has rebuilt the Kingdom of Starfield after his father spent all the resources in wars against other kingdoms. Despite being one of the most loved monarchs in generations, he doesn’t seem interested in continuing the line. That’s it, until he meets Peter Parker, one of the Omega professors in the most prestigious Academy for noble Omegas. ***

His kingdom is astounding.

Okay, clearly his ego is through the roof, but he could never lie. He’s put his blood, sweat, and tears into making his kingdom glisten and shine. The nature around it is beautiful, with rolling hills and fields of poppy flowers, but the real work had to go inside the towering buildings and cobblestone streets. Anthony prides himself in whipping their society into shape, passing laws benefitting omegas and creating societies for the bright minds of their kind.

“King Anthony?”