exactly what it says on the tin

And now there's two of them.

Peter: [flashbacks to when he tried to recreate a scene from Star Trek and shot himself in the neck with a nerf gun]

“Boss?”

Tony glances up from where he is elbow deep in paperwork. Harley is there at the door, perpetually sleepy looking, but one of the sharpest mechanics that he has on his payroll. “What is it, kiddo?”

“Owners of the Suzuki is here for pick-up. Figured you wanted to meet them.”

Harley figured correctly. The Suzuki has been Tony’s personal project since the owner brought it in during his off day two weeks ago. The body work had been a challenge, and Tony wasn’t often challenged by his job anymore. He found himself coming in early and staying late in the evenings spending time working on the bike, music blaring in the tiny lockable workspaces they kept cosmetic jobs locked up in.

He kind of wanted to shake the owner’s hand. He kind of wanted to see the look on the owner’s face when they realized how much effort Tony had put into the thing. Truly a labor of love. So he walks to the far back of the shop, past all the cars having mechanical issues, to where the little storage-unit like rooms are. The metal retractable door is lifted only a foot or two off of the ground, and he can see a pair of masculine, dark boots standing just inside.

When he gets closer, he hears the voices.

“—beautiful, daddy. God, look at it.” The voice speaking is breathless, high despite the masculine undertone. Tony slows, far enough away to keep his feet from being visible but close enough to listen. He’s got a large ego, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t need stroking.

“I see it princess. We’re going to have to tip big, aren’t we?” The second voice must be the boots. It’s dark, deep. Tony gets goosebumps—but he always keeps the shop cold. “You’re going to look so good spread out on it. That color compliments your pretty pale skin so nicely.”

“Do you think?” the softer voice asks, threaded with angelic guile. “Maybe we could close the door, daddy. You can sit on the bike and then I can sit on you.”

Tony’s eyebrows shoot skyward. He feels a stirring in his pants and shifts from one foot to the other, already seeking to give his growing cock more space to swell. Those voices are like liquid sex, yin and yang with each other, and he wishes more than anything that he’d been present when the owner dropped it off so that he could put faces with these words.

“You want that, baby? You want to ride your daddy’s cock, even with all those men and women out there listening in? We’d have to be quick, we don’t want the owner walking in on us, do we?”

“Let him,” the softer voice growls. “The only thing better than the risk of getting caught is actually getting caught. Come on, daddy, let’s live a little—”

Tony presses the button outside the workspace, and the metal door screeches as it lifts back. He gets the first look at the couple inside who stare at him with wide eyes: a cute little curly haired twink and a taller, buffer man who looks right out of Sons of Anarchy. Neither of them even try to hide that they’re hard—and he can’t miss the way the twink looks him up and down, pink thin lips agape.

Tony steps into the workspace and presses the button to lower the door. He lets it close all the way.

I took the liberty of turning this into some very soft and fluffy filth for y’all

CW: fluff and smut, pwp, explicit sexual content

——————————————————————————————

“Bath?”

“Oh my god I thought you’d never ask.”

Omfg don’t apologize! Instead, be like “You’re welcome, Cat, and your ho ass should feel lucky that I’m sharing this hc with you.” because I am so blessed and lucky. I’m (not-so)secretly trash for school-based AUs.

I am so for Harley being shocked to discover that Peter is secretly a little slut. He’d be so scandalized, but also so intrigued by it. Because fuck, it’s nearly inconceivable, but then again, those lips were just made for taking cock. And those doe eyes? What else could they be for, besides looking up all heavy-lidded and wide as Pretty Parker sucks down dick like a champ? And on top of that, Peter is still so demure. He’ll debase himself in the filthiest of ways, but still blush like a virgin and bite his lip bashfully every time Harley brings up Peter’s long line of sexual conquests. That dichotomy is just bewitching. 

Harley willingly becomes Peter’s next conquest. But then, add in feelings of possessiveness. Harley’s long game is to make Peter his, and only his. He teases Peter – “Tell me about how Steve fucked your face after the game on Friday – you just opened wide and took it like the rotten little slut that you are, didn’t you? You let him fuck your throat like a toy and use you as a cumbucket. Did Barnes just add to the mess? And then Wilson, too?” and he fucks Peter slow and steady, keeping his pretty princess on the brink but giving him no relief, until Peter is mewling and crying and openly sharing every little sordid detail of what he’s gotten up to. 

[and harley just moves his arms, grabbing him by the jaw with a stern “don’t hide from me, doll” before adding “you like that? like me tellin’ you how good your pussy feels? it’s so goddamn tight all the time, peter. it’s like i’m fuckin’ you for the first time all over again. such a good girl, darlin’, so fuckin’ good for me.” (part 2/2)]

HOO BOY. That, right there, is the full goddamn concept, app-dinner-and-dessert, the entire kettle of tea, the end-all-be-all. (This could also be the perfect place to insert a breeding kink, if you’re into that at all)

but I digress. Imagine how Peter would take to it so beautifully, latching the hell onto it because he loves the idea of being Harley’s slutty little girl. He’ll start wearing feminine clothes on occassion. When the mood strikes him, he’ll plop himself in Harley’s lap, loop his arms around the older boy’s neck, and whine, “Harleyyyyy, my pussy aches. Do something about it.”

Harley plays hard-to-get. “Well, what do you want me to do about it?”

And he makes Peter beg for it, until the younger boy is straddling his lap and grinding in desperation, face rosy with lust, eyes heavy-lidded, just gagging for it. “I need cock, Harley, your cock. Pretty please, fuck my pussy. It’s all wet for you – just for you.”

He’ll take Harley’s hand and gently guide it up the back hem of his skirt until Harley’s fingers are tracing around Peter’s fluttering, loose hole, and oh, Peter’s right. It is so wet – squelchingly sloppy and dripping with lube, because Peter took the time to prepare himself.

He’s so offended

I tHoUgHt I cOuLd TrUsT yOu!!!

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!!)

warnings: mild violence, anxiety attack symptoms (kind of)

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

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.

WinterIronSpider - A/B/O - beta!Tony, omega!Peter, alpha!Bucky

Word Count: 5,475

This is legit just porn with feels and minimal plot. Hand-wavey setting: set after the Rogues’ return, Tony doesn’t have the arc reactor, Peter and Bucky live in the tower

And away we go…

*******

Tony’s kind of panicking. 

He’d missed the signs. Hadn’t realized Peter had stopped taking his suppressants until the teen was trying to squirm into his lap right there in the middle of the lab.

They’re up in the penthouse, now, for the sake of comfort, and Tony’s done what he can–had a couple cases of water and some easy-to-digest, high-calorie snacks delivered from downstairs, undressed him so he doesn’t overheat–but it’s not enough. He’s just sitting here, putting off the inevitable. 

He can’t get Peter through his heat the way an alpha could, and as he listens to Peter beg, he has to remind himself of that fact over and over again. He has to make himself make the call.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he says, the desperation in his voice a near match to that of the writhing, frustrated Omega.

It’s bullshit, it really is, this enormous evolutionary cock-block. Mating-block. Having his biological inadequacies rubbed in his face is torture–

But this isn’t about Tony; this is about the flushed, whining eighteen-year-old whose hands Tony has to keep carefully (and with increasing frequency) batting away from the fly of his jeans.

“Please, Tony; Mr. Stark–”

Tony barely represses his groan. Fuck. That shouldn’t be as hot as it absolutely is.

“Peter, I can’t give you what you need,” he forces out, “I can’t knot you, sweetheart, I don’t–I can’t.”

They’re in Tony’s bedroom, because he may be decent enough to keep Peter’s heat off the security cameras in the lab, but he’s selfish enough to want this version of Peter–so desperate for him–to be a memory that’s tied to his private space. It’s masochistic and awful and Tony’s going to regret it later, he’s sure, but right now it’s the only thing getting him through this, keeping him from giving in.

A memory will be enough, he repeats silently.

A memory is the best thing he can hope for; something he can keep for himself when he inevitably sees a mating bite appear on Peter’s nape. At least he’ll know what his name sounds like in Peter’s moaning, half-sobbing plea, like Tony’s the only thing in existence that could make this better, the only thing Peter could ever want or need.

Peter gives another pained whine, shifting on Tony’s lap and curling forward to press his face into Tony’s shoulder, his hands dancing restlessly up the beta’s thighs, further up to tug at the hem of his shirt.

Tony doesn’t need Alpha instincts to feel absolutely torn apart by Peter’s suffering. The rush of feeling so desired, so needed by this amazing boy is damn near immoral, but there’s nothing he enjoys about being unable to do anything to really stop the pain.

In another life, he’d have declared his intentions months ago, years ago. To be the one to leave that mark, to carry the scent of their bond, to be able to give Peter what he needs–he’s wanted the impossible for a long time (slightly longer than is strictly appropriate, to be entirely honest). Instead he’s done his best to be everything he can for Peter (mentor, friend, confidant) and keeps his own longing restricted to daydreams and fantasies.

This isn’t the way he’s always pictured the first shared heat. 

In his fantasies, they’ve planned, they’ve set aside time to be together, to luxuriate in Peter’s pheromone-driven haze, touching and kissing soft and sweet until they’re completely wrapped up in each other. He’s brought himself off so many times to how Peter might sound, how it’d feel to see-smell-taste Peter as he cums under Tony’s hands, wrapped around Tony’s cock.

Reality is a lot more harsh, unforgiving.

It’s only been half an hour, and Peter’s gone from gently tossing and turning on the sheets, making cute, heat-driven attempts to seduce Tony, to crying and squirming and hurting in Tony’s lap. There’s still three more days of this for the omega.

“I can call someone,” Tony tries, the words tearing holes in his chest. “Do you have anyone…?” Someone, anyone he can call that isn’t the one person Tony really wants to avoid asking.

Peter frowns at him, eyes wide and hazy and insecure, tear tracks damp down his cheeks. “You don’t want me?”

God, Tony’s not going to make it through this.

Not to mention, that Tom Holland ass exists and it’s just gonna go un-eaten?