#starker paradise | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

your-divine-ribs · 1 year ago

Text

Heat

Words: 3.4k

Summer holiday balcony sex // it’s really dirty ☀️❤️☀️

Imagines Masterlist Main Masterlist

It's hot. That cloying kind of heat that clings to you like a stifling blanket, the air thick with a choking mugginess that makes it hard to settle and impossible to sleep.

You elongate your limbs in a feline stretch as you roll over in bed, causing your boyfriend's hand which had been draped over your hip to fall away. You'd normally be pressed up tightly against him as you slept but you'd naturally pulled apart tonight, so hot and sticky that you couldn't bear the additional warmth of each other's body heat.

You're both naked, having shed every layer to try and find respite from the unrelenting heatwave but it's inescapable. You toss and you turn, the thin linen sheets sticking to your clammy skin, cursing the fact that the air conditioning unit in your holiday apartment had decided to pack up working tonight of all nights. Just when the punishing temperatures had risen to a unprecedented peak, transforming the balmy nights into something wholly unbearable.

A breeze whispers into the room through the open balcony doors, it's still warm but it's a tiny reprieve and you instinctively rise up from the bed, turning towards the source. Van stirs on the bed at your movement but he doesn't wake, he just lets out a soft snore through his slightly parted lips, his long limbs spread-eagled out on the crumpled sheets. You take a moment to admire him, the way the silvery glow of the moonlight catches his striking features, the light sheen of sweat glistening on his naked skin. You consider climbing back on to the bed to rouse him from the depths of sleep with a few strategically placed kisses, but again you feel the tantalising Mediterranean breeze caressing your skin and the temptation for relief from the humid atmosphere in the apartment bedroom is just too strong.

The night is quiet save for the distant muted sounds of late-night revellers spilling out of bars on the main strip. You'd purposely booked this apartment complex a few streets away from the hustle and bustle, favouring a quieter spot tucked away, an idyllic slice of Iberian paradise where the two of you could kick back and reconnect after your busy lifestyles had taken their toll.

You step forward but hesitate on the threshold when you realise that you've not picked up your silk robe to wrap around your naked frame, but then in an uncharacteristic rush of boldness you shuffle forwards anyway. A thrill sparks in you as you quickly glance around, surveying the quiet neighbouring apartments shrouded in darkness. It doesn't look like there's any signs of life, but that's not to say that another guest won't see you out here, completely naked, standing on your apartment balcony, bold as brass. You giggle quietly to yourself. You're certainly not a prude but it's not at all like you to be so daring. There's just something about the idea that someone might catch sight of you like this that's kind of turning you on. Not to mention that it feels totally liberating.

Emboldened by your braveness you step even further out, placing your hands on the railing and looking out into the night. It's a beautiful view in the daytime but somehow it's even more breathtaking now, almost magical the way that the luminescence from the moon's glow coats everything in a silvery lustre. Crickets chirrup in the grasses below you, palms sway gently in the breeze and the pool water below shifts lazily like cascading sequins.

"Bloody 'ell! What you doing out 'ere starkers?"

Van's shocked voice suddenly cuts through the peaceful quiet, making you jump. You hadn't even realised that he'd woken up. You whirl around quickly, instinctively covering yourself with your hands even though you're not usually shy around him.

"I was just getting a bit of air... it's too hot to sleep. I... forgot my robe..."

You can see his lips quirk up into a smile as his eyes trail down over your nakedness. "I'm not complaining love... just wasn't expecting it, that's all. I didn't have you pegged as an exhibitionist!"

He folds his hands across his chest, leaning back against the door frame, still appraising you.

"I'm not!" You protest, giggling, letting your hands fall to your sides to allow Van's eyes to roam over all of you. Predictably they do.

"Really? So you're not out here flashing the neighbours then? You'll give that old guy we saw round the pool earlier a heart attack if ya not careful!"

You allow him a mischievous grin, pushing your shoulders back as you rest an elbow on the railing to lean against it. It's a casual pose even though you feel anything but, worrying that Van's loud voice might draw attention to you both up here. He's naked too, although he'd be partially hidden from prying eyes by his proximity to the apartment doorway. You, however, would be on full display.

"Keep your voice down!" You whisper, still giggling. "No one's out here to see anyway. And I'm definitely not an exhibitionist... not like you!"

His eyes widen as he presses a hand against his chest. "Me? Never!"

"Yes you," you smirk back at him. "What was that in the pool earlier? 'Oh whoops, my trunks seem to have just slipped off!' Yeah, right!"

You indicate the water below you, replaying the humorous scene in your mind from earlier when Van was bragging about his diving skills and had pleaded with you to watch him. How he'd plunged into the pool skilfully only to surface moments later holding aloft his swimming trunks that had somehow become completely separated from his body. The gasps of surprise from two middle-aged ladies who undoubtedly got an eyeful as Van had whirled his trunks around his head proudly whilst you'd captured the whole hilarious incident on camera.

"I told you those trunks were too big when ya bought 'em for me," he sniggers.

You shake your head, trying to stifle more laughter. "Bloody liar... they fit perfectly. You just love getting your kit off in public. Reckon you get a kick out of it."

Van pushes his body off from the doorframe, taking a step towards you. "Says the girl standing out here with not a stitch of clothing on for all the world to see..."

You straighten up to lean with your lower back against the railings as he approaches, looking up at him with a glimmer of a challenge in your eye. "Well... you're not exactly fully dressed, are you?"

He comes to a stop just inches away, looking down on you. "Maybe we're both as bad as each other then." His hands move forward simultaneously to grip the railings on either side of your hips, caging you in. Your breath catches as he presses his body forward and your hips meet. "Maybe we're both turned on by the risk... the thought that someone could catch us at it... the thought that someone could be watching us right now..."

His whispered words take that low and sultry tone he uses when he's trying to seduce you, and boy does it work. You stay quiet, looking up at him through your lashes, purposefully coyly as he moves a hand to catch your jaw, wrapping his fingers only gently around your throat. Your pulse quickens.

"I think maybe you'd quite like that... am I right?"

"It does kinda turn me on," you admit, pressing your pelvis forward to lightly grind against him, the unmistakable feeling of his stiffening cock setting off a glow of heat at the apex of your thighs. "But we can't do anything out here... there's no way. Anyone could see..."

Even as the words leave your mouth you're aware that they carry no conviction. You're already flicking through scenarios of what might happen, imagining his hot breath panted against your skin, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs as he spread them wide and took you right here and now for the whole world to see if they cared to look.

"We can do whatever we like babe," he breathes, lips hovering just inches above yours as he leans over you, pressing your body back against the railings so it arches up towards him. "I could turn you around right now and have you over this balcony if you wanted me to. Fuck into you nice and slow and deep, make you moan out loud for me so everyone knows just how good it feels. Would you like that, huh?"

"Oh my god," you gasp, arousal pooling between your thighs as he pushes his hips against you even harder, his now hard cock trapped between your two bodies. The stickiness of the heat just makes everything seem more charged, the slickness from your combined sweat creating a delicious slippery friction between you.

"Come on love," he urges, his fingers flexing around your throat, squeezing firmly enough to give that pressure you crave, tempting you further. "Wanna fuck you so bad... right here, right now."

It's shameless, the effect he has on you. The way your body reacts almost autonomously to his attentions. You're insatiable for him and he's only too eager in his mission to try and sate you, the perfect partners in crime. With no further encouragement you're already twisting your body, letting him spin you around so your hips are now pushed firmly against the hard metal, prone against it as he slides a foot against one of yours, nudging your legs wide apart. There's a small ledge that you've stepped up to balance on, bringing you up to the perfect height to be aligned with him.

His hands skate over your hips, curling around them, tightening their grip as he pulls you back to grind against him. Your skin's so hot, on fire, burning with the same feverish desire that's simmering between your thighs.

"Van..." you whimper, pushing your ass back against him, feeling the sharp jut of his hips. "Need you..."

His lips go to your neck, sucking hot, wet kisses, his teeth nipping at your skin with a pressure that makes you gasp. "I'm here baby... I got you."

One of his hands snakes forward from your thighs, the roughness of his calloused fingers brushing against your folds, making you shudder. He's in no mood to tease tonight, two of his skilful fingers easing straight into you knuckle deep, twisting and scissoring inside you, working you open for him.

"You're so wet for me already," he mutters into the skin of your neck. "Is this what it does to you eh? The thought that someone could be out there, watching us?"

"Yeah," you whimper needily, your hands tightening their grip on the metal railings as he pushes his fingers even deeper inside, seeking that heavenly spot that makes you mewl for him.

"You dirty girl," he chuckles throatily, thrusting his fingers in and out, again and again, sliding so easily against your slick heat, your knees knocking against the balcony wall. "We'll give 'em something to watch then shall we?"

God, how you love the feel of his fingers inside of you. They're so long and slender, and he knows how to use them so well. How to angle them just right to make you clench around him, when to add another digit, the precise curve to curl them at to make your legs shake. You're already moaning softly for him when all of a sudden he withdraws them, making you whine from the loss of fullness for a second until they're replaced by the head of his cock, velvety smooth and hard as rock, begging for entrance.

He mutters your name as his thick shaft nudges into you. He feels so big in this position it almost feels like he could split you in two. You bite down hard on your lip to stifle a choked cry, tasting something metallic. He pushes into you with purpose, filling you up until you're sure you can feel him in your stomach.

"Fuck... fuck... fuck," you hiss, loving the burn of the stretch, knowing that after this you'll be able to feel him for days. He stills inside you, letting you become accustomed as your walls clench and flex around him, his body curved tightly over yours, enveloping you.

"Feels so good... so perfect... you're so fucking tight babe," he utters, his mouth hot on the skin of your shoulder, his teeth sinking lightly into your flesh as he pulls his hips back and sinks into you again.

His thrusts are slow and languid, unhurried and precise, a throaty groan emanating from him each time he bottoms out. It feels blissful but you crave something darker and more urgent, desire dulling your usual hesitance, the notion of being taken roughly in this most compromising of positions chasing away your inhibitions.

"Fuck me hard... please," you beg, elongating your neck to tip your head back to rest on his shoulder, bracing your body for what's to come.

"Oh babe," he growls into your neck, fingers digging harder into your hips as he draws back to thrust into you again. "I'll fuck you so hard everyone in this apartment block's gonna know my name by morning."

His hips suddenly piston against you with force, a choked whine bursting from you from the impact, your own hips knocking harshly against the railings. It feels so good, so raw, so fierce. One of his hands darts up to curl around your throat, pinning you up tightly against his body, the other slips down to rub messy circles around your clit.

The muggy heat of the night is oppressive and thick, your bodies drenched with sweat. You're trapped between his rutting hips and the unrelenting metal railings, gripping on to them for dear life as he takes control of your body, on display for anyone who might care to look up on this most beautiful clear and cloudless night. The sky's deep ink with an array of softly twinkling stars, like diamonds have been scattered across black velvet.

Your body jolts each time he pounds into you, the stillness of the night punctuated by his gravelly grunts of exertion and the slap of his sweat soaked hips colliding with yours. His strokes get deeper, harder when you beg him keenly for more.

"Oh god yeah... just like that," you whimper, unable to stem your sounds of pleasure, your tits bouncing as he slams into you, your mind fracturing as his cock butts up against your g spot with blissful precision over and over.

He knows you're close already, he can feel the tell-tale tremors in your body, the way your cunt clenches tightly around his cock, milking his own oncoming high. You're both lost in each other, minds fogged over with how good it feels, unmindful of where you are, and how public it is, and how fucking loud you're both being.

"Ah fuck... ‘m gonna come... can't hold on," he groans, his fingers flicking quick, slippery strokes over your sweet spot, your hips grinding back into his pelvis each time he slams into you. You're chasing your orgasm, desperate and needy as you feel a spark of white hot pleasure ignite deep down in your core.

And then it's too much all at once, his tightened grip on your throat, the feel of him hot and hard and pulsing inside you, his impassioned groans in your ear as he lets himself go. You feel something stretch taut and snap in an explosion of shuddering bliss, your knees going weak as he secures you tightly against his body, fucking up into you with a few final thrusts as you feel his release spurting deep inside.

He slumps heavily against you, heart thundering against your spine as your head hangs between your shoulders, panting whilst you catch your breath.

"Jeez, it's so fucking hot," he breathes out heavily, pressing a kiss to the damp, sticky skin of your shoulder. "Feel like I'm gonna pass out after that."

"Tell me about it, I feel so faint... and I think my legs are gonna give way in a minute!"

You laugh shakily, feeling him start to soften inside as he pulls out, the warm trickle of his seed immediately coating the inside of your thighs.

"Ughh I need a shower so bad," you add, turning around in his arms to reach up and plant a small kiss on his jaw, then his cheek, then his full lips which are pulled into the widest, cheekiest grin. "You certainly look happy with yourself," you observe, smiling back, draping your hands over his shoulders to support yourself on your shaky legs.

"Of course I'm happy, I'm on holiday with my gorgeous girlfriend, I'm having the best time, life's pretty much perfect right now..." he pauses, his smile getting even wider and more mischievous, his eyebrows dancing upwards in amusement. "And... even better... I've just discovered another one of your kinks."

"What the hell you talking about?" You giggle, trying to inch Van back into the privacy of your apartment after your wanton display out here on the balcony, your shyness trickling back as the heat of passion subsides.

"Fucking in public places," he announces proudly and loudly, yelping as you slap your hand hard against his bare chest, urging him to "shhhh be quiet, will you?"

"I knew it," he continues, undeterred as you both stumble back into the airless apartment. He catches hold of your hand and starts tugging you towards the bathroom. "I knew you had a thing for it! When you dragged me off to the toilets at that party at Benji's the other night you were like a bloody wild animal!"

You roll your eyes playfully. "Oh I hardly had to drag you... you were well up for it."

"I'm sure everyone knew what we were up to," he chuckles as you both make for the shower, bare feet slapping on the tiled floor. He reaches in and twists the tap, sighing at the relief of the cool water which quickly cascades down on you both as you quickly step in. "And I'm always up for it with you... and I gotta admit, it is a proper rush doing it in risky places. Like the thrill of someone catching you at it just makes it a million times hotter."

"That's exactly it!" You agree, then you bite back a shy giggle, your cheeks glowing with embarrassment. "And I know it sounds really weird, but it kinda turns me on thinking that someone could be watching us... like secretively... oh god now I've said it, it sounds well bad!"

You raise your hands up quickly to hide your scarlet cheeks which are glowing furiously but Van quickly pulls them away, his eyes widening in delighted surprise. "You're a proper kinky bitch you are Y/N! It's all coming out now!"

"Oh my god, I can't believe I just admitted that!" You drop your head down, laughing, embarrassed, but Van won't let you hide away, his hands cupping your cheeks, tipping your face upwards.

"No... no... don't be shy, I love it!" He grins, shaking his head, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your lips. "You know, we still have six days left of this holiday... and who knows what mischief we could get up to." His hands curl around your hips as he manoeuvres you in the small shower cubicle until your back's pressed up against the tiles, an exaggerated thoughtfulness on his features as you can see the cogs turning in his mind. "There's the swimming pool, and those little beach huts... and the actual beach of course... I've always wanted to shag on the beach. There's those sand dunes along that stretch behind the apartments..."

You laugh, scrunching up your face as your thoughts go to an awkward fumble with an ex on a beach in Devon years ago. "You don't want to shag on the beach... trust me... the sand... it gets everywhere!"

Then you're both laughing out loud, blurting out ridiculous places, each one more daring and impractical than the last, trying to outdo each other as you wash away the heat of the night.

Did anyone catch the reference to this moment? 😂

#heat #catb imagines #van mccann #van mccann x reader #van mccann fanfic #fanfic #vanfic #smut

67 notes · View notes

mariacallous · 10 months ago

Text

One of the Western populist right’s enduring myths about President Vladimir Putin’s Russia is that it is steeped in traditional values, a bastion of virtue standing in opposition to an increasingly godless West. In the United States, the fascination with Russia as a supposed global center of conservative virtue has especially gained currency in MAGA world.

This image of Russia as a traditionalist’s paradise led former Fox News commentator Tucker Carlson to offer both Putin and Russian far-right philosopher Alexander Dugin, one of Putin’s most vicious cheerleaders for genocide in Ukraine, the opportunity to expound their views to millions of Americans in a comfortable, uncritical setting. It is the reason that MAGA-aligned U.S. Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene talks about Russia as a strong protector of Christianity. And it’s why former Trump administration National Security Advisor Michael Flynn has framed Putin as a defender of “family and God.”

The contrast between myth and reality couldn’t be starker. The truth is that Russia is one of the world’s least religious societies, with only 9 percent of Russians attending religious services at least somewhat regularly, according to a poll conducted in 2022 by the Moscow-based Levada Center. By contrast, nearly one-third of Americans are frequent churchgoers. Just 1.4 million Russians—a mere 1 percent of the population—attended the most recent Christmas services. The Russian state also persecutes Christians who do not adhere to Russian Orthodoxy, including Baptists, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and, of course, anyone connected to the Orthodox Church of Ukraine.

Nor is Russia a bastion of what true conservatives would consider traditional values. Based on data calculated by the Guttmacher Institute, the Russian abortion rate from 2015 to 2019 was nearly four times higher than that of the United States and more than twice as high as that of Ukraine. Russia also has the fourth-highest divorce rate in the world—60 percent higher than in the United States and more than 50 percent higher than in Ukraine. Those among the U.S. and European far right who project their own ideals onto Russian society ignore the obvious and copious evidence.

The false image of a god-fearing Russia is hardly accidental. It is the consequence of systematic efforts by Putin and his propagandists to craft talking points for the global right—an effort that has accelerated since Russia launched its all-out war on Ukraine in 2022.

It wasn’t always so. After the Soviet collapse in 1991, a Russia shorn of most of its empire struggled with its post-communist identity. Under its first president, Boris Yeltsin, the country waded into the waters of a Russo-centric patriotism. But his chosen successor, Putin, supplanted this worldview by nostalgia for the former Soviet and Russian empires, as well as adulation of brutal autocrats such as Soviet dictator Joseph Stalin and Tsar Peter the Great.

Today, to both mobilize Russians for a bloody war and undermine support for Ukraine by appealing to the political extremes in the West, Putin and his ideologues have crafted a new mythology that depicts Russia as a bastion of traditional values rooted in religious faith.

This theme was front and center at Putin’s fifth inauguration as Russian president on May 7. In his address, he declared that “support for centuries-old family values and traditions will continue to unite public and religious associations, political parties, and all levels of government.”

From their putative moral high ground, Putin and his propagandists in the Kremlin-controlled media have used the bully pulpit to rail against Western “woke-ism,” political correctness, and secularism, earning admiration among right-wing populists in the West. By projecting Russians and the Russian state as deeply religious and steeped in tradition—and by denouncing the Western establishment for its supposed attacks on traditional values—Kremlin propaganda has made serious inroads among cultural and religious conservatives in the United States and elsewhere.

This has helped create some measure of sympathy for Russia’s war against Ukraine among certain segments of the far right, which see Putin as a powerful voice on their side of the culture wars.

Margarita Simonyan, the head of Russia Today, the state media conglomerate responsible for most of Moscow’s global propaganda, crystallized the postulates and far-reaching ambitions of Russia’s traditionalist propaganda during a television appearance in February.

Speaking on the heels of Carlson’s fawning chat with Putin, Simonyan saw a major opportunity for Russia to find fellow travelers and new allies among those disgruntled by secularization in the West. Unlike Ukraine and its Western backers, which she called adepts of “satanism,” she described Russia as “the city on a hill” to which the world’s traditionalists can now flock to escape their stifling secular societies. She declared that traditionalist messaging is the “beacon of a wonderful idea” whose appeal can be likened to that of communism during the Soviet era. Russia, she continued, might even counter its severely shrinking population by attracting disgruntled traditionalists from around the world as immigrants to a new promised land of traditionalism.

To this end, the Kremlin announced a new decree on Aug. 19 that eases residency rules for refugees from countries where “traditional values” are under attack from “neoliberalism” and other supposed secular ills.

Aging Russian kleptocrats such as Putin, who formerly served in the security services of the atheist Soviet state, engage in performative religion at most. As the investigations conducted by the late Russian opposition activist Alexei Navalny documented, the Russian ruling elite, including Putin himself, is obscenely wealthy and deeply corrupt. But state media outlets diligently portray them as god-fearing believers, generous patrons of monasteries, supporters of religious media, and sponsors of newly built churches—all paid for with money they have stolen from the Russian people.

These performative good works are applauded by the security service operatives who control the upper reaches of the Russian Orthodox Church. Purged and brought under complete state control under Stalin, the church has consistently promoted the aims of Soviet and now Russian policies. It is a vocal supporter of Putin’s war against Ukraine.

At the apex of performative piety stands Putin. Russian Orthodox Patriarch Kirill, born Vladimir Gundyayev and believed to be a former security services operative, has lavished praise on Putin for being “truly the first Orthodox president” of Russia. The link between Putin’s proclaimed religiosity and something approaching a divine right to rule Russia has also become part of the new ideological canon—back to the roots, if you will, of Russian Orthodoxy as an imperial church.

“May God help you to continue to carry out the ministry that God himself has entrusted to you,” Kirill said during Putin’s inauguration in May. Given the long-standing collusion between the Kremlin and a compliant church, it is little wonder that religious leaders actively support Putin’s war and encourage Russia’s young to lay down their lives.

To mask the degradation of spiritual and religious life, Russia has built a vast Potemkin village of new churches. Around 30,000 new parishes have been added in the post-Soviet era, averaging nearly three every day since 1991. Given Russians’ negligible interest in religion, they stand largely empty.

Simonyan’s comparison of Putin’s traditionalist, pseudo-Christian posturing with the global appeal of communism is apt in ways that she did not intend. Like communism, whose façade of equality and social justice masked mass repression and the emergence of privileged, all-powerful elite, today’s Russia has little patience for moral and ethical principles. Instead, the Russian state and the Russian Orthodox Church serve the exigencies of a kleptocratic mafia that rules over a deeply damaged, militaristic, and highly unequal society.

Indeed, in time, Russia’s newest state ideology is very likely to become another God That Failed—the title of a landmark 1949 book in which six Western intellectuals broke with communism, declaring that it was just a cover for a new form of dictatorship.

For the moment, none of this matters to the Western populist right, which has blithely ignored the carnage that Putin has inflicted on Ukraine. Nor will Russia’s performative religiosity put those Westerners off; their projection of virtue onto Putin’s Russia has become too important a part of their cynical politics. If your enemy is the West’s liberal and tolerant society, then the enemy of your enemy is your friend.

19 notes · View notes

voxofthevoid · 1 year ago

Note

konnichiwa, vox-sama ✌️

it seems like everyone is having fun since wednesday, huh?

wanna join this club too if it's possible, pleasepleaseplease

what would i ask of you? jeez, tough choice + others' preferences are partly mine

- voyeurism

- hickeys/marks on skin

- causing and soothing the pain

- something sweet

thank you and your inner source of ideas 🩵

Y'know, I was thinking yesterday that you seemed to have missed this week's shenanigans. Good to see you!

I've picked snippets of ~200 words from four different fics.

There's voyeurism, joint shower, face slapping, and a marriage proposal, in that order. The last one is stealth angst because it's from the Amnesia Fic.

Voyeurism, ft. itagofushi from i can offer you a black-lit paradise

At least Itadori’s clearly not complaining. His hands are almost reverent as they slide down Gojou’s chest, palming the skin he fought so hard to bare. And there’s that same, damning familiarity drenching every touch. Fingers splaying wide, trying and failing to grasp the entire expanse of Gojou’s chest. Hands encircling the thick column of Gojou’s throat, a gesture that should by all rights be threatening somehow turned into hungry affection. Megumi doesn’t understand how or why Itadori touches Gojou like that, but he knows he doesn’t want to either.

He’s not surprised when he lifts his gaze and runs into nuclear blue.

“Don’t worry, Megumi,” Gojou murmurs, his voice too gentle to be trusted. “I’m sure you’ll pack on some meat there soon—ow! Yuuji.”

Megumi ignores the whine and the pout, staring at Itadori’s fingers clamped on Gojou’s nipples. They’re pink. He remembers that. Right now, they’re not even visible, swallowed by Itadori’s crushing grip.

He tugs, hard and mean.

Gojou just moans.

“Honestly,” Itadori sighs, pulling on the nipples again. “I don’t get why you’re being such an ass to Fushiguro.”

“He, uh, he likes it,” Gojou says absently, his mind clearly lodged in the flesh Itadori is bullying.

Hickeys/marks on skin, ft. goyuu from (this is also part of the story) how the story changes

Yuuji lets out a measured breath and goes to retrieve the soap. When he turns around, the sight of Satoru, every inch of his naked skin dripping wet, hits him like a freight train, and Yuuji doesn’t stop or even falter, but his face or body must do something because Satoru’s expression morphs into smug satisfaction. He leans against the tiled wall, head tilted back and chest thrust out to let the shower spray hit his chest and sluice down in gentler streams.

His pale skin almost glows under the bright bathroom lights, but it’s the reds and pinks littering his torso that take Yuuji’s breath away. All the bleeding stopped long ago, but the bite marks and bruises seem starker. It looks different like this—more real, more violent. Maybe because of the wetness or maybe because Satoru’s upright. Yuuji’s mouth grows hot, his teeth aching with want and his tongue thrumming with memory.

His eyes trail down, taking in the sculpted stomach marred by teeth and suction, the weirdly cute belly button, and the snowy trail of short hairs before landing and snagging on the metalwork between the legs.

Causing and soothing pain, ft. goyuu from (the euphoric taste of your tears) swallow it, darling

“It’s none of your business who I fuck.”

“You made it my business,” Yuuji tells him; he doesn’t say, You made yourself mine.

Satoru shudders like he heard it anyway, eyes going dark and hot.

But this boy has never wanted with grace.

“You just wanted an excuse to be a fucking pervert—”

Yuuji slaps him.

Satoru looks delicate, his features fine and fey, but he isn’t, not even a little, and Yuuji has always treated him like that. His hand impacts flesh hard enough to make his own palm sting, and Satoru’s head snaps to the side with a sound that reverberates in the air between them.

He doesn’t make a single sound. Yuuji’s palm print grows bright on his cheek.

Yuuji dips his head, pressing his cheek to Satoru’s.

It’s hot.

“Don’t provoke me,” Yuuji says softly. “I’m already giving you what you want. Don’t be greedy.”

Satoru says nothing, makes no sound, and Yuuji stays there, rubbing his cheek gently against Satoru’s burning one until his own perpetually cool skin leeches off some of that warmth. He turns his head then, kissing Satoru where he hurt him, and that does earn him a noise—a low, gutted thing.

“Understand, Satoru-kun?”

Something sweet, ft. goyuu from the ghost in me was true (but you were haunted too)

"I was only thinking—can’t have some nubile young thing snatch you away from under my nose. Gotta put a ring on it before you realize you’re with an old pervert.”

Yuuji makes another noise, but he’s laughing too, a throaty noise that’s more incredulous than amused. “Nobody’s snatching me away. And you’re barely over thirty, that’s not old. Japan doesn’t even recognize same-sex marriage.”

“Who cares?” Satoru sits up, the covers spilling down to pool in his lap. The room is dark, but the Six Eyes see every shadow in high definition until Satoru closes his eyes again, focusing only on the sound of Yuuji’s breathing. “Only you and I need to recognize it. A ceremony would be fun, hm? We can have another one when you’re back here, with everyone there.”

Yuuji swallows audibly. “Are you really serious?”

“Yes.”

“Shit.” Yuuji laughs again, that same strangled sound from before. “You’re unreal sometimes.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Yuuji’s dead silent for long enough that Satoru’s smile dies on his lips, slinking cold down his spine.

Yuuji says, “You didn’t actually ask a question.”

Ah, Satoru thinks, forcing down a shiver. You learned the worst things from me.

“Marry me, Yuuji.”

“Yes.” It’s instant, burning. “Of course I’ll marry you. Satoru, it’s you.”

#jjk snippets #goyuu #itagofushi #kubodoesthings #divider credit: saradika-graphics #fic excerpt game #fic: the euphoric taste #fic: the ghost in me was true #fic: a blacklit paradise #fic: how the story changes

24 notes · View notes

futuresoon · 11 months ago

Text

Characters/Pairing: Ratio/Aventurine, Ena the Order Rating: E Warnings: None Wordcount: 7373 Other Tags: Psychological Horror, Rape/Non-con Elements, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Angst, One-Sided Relationship, Top Dr. Ratio/Bottom Aventurine Summary:

He’d like to meet a Pepeshi someday, though, to see an even starker example of how different the rest of the universe can be from Sigonia. What must their home planet be like, with an infrastructure catered to the height of a child? Or planets like Thalassa, covered in endless water--the technological wonders of Planet Screwllum--the memoria-drenched dreamland of…

Of…

Ah, but he’s too curious for his own good. Sigonia has everything he needs, and plenty of its own fascinations, besides.

(Aventurine was still on Penacony when the Order's paradise unfolded, but he keeps having moments of lucidity. Paradise isn't as nice when you know it isn't real.)

#ratiorine #hsr aventurine #dr. ratio #honkai star rail #futuresoon writes fic #futuresoon talks about honkai star rail

8 notes · View notes

decorworks · 9 months ago

Text

A Dreamy Swedish Summer Cottage By a River

Are you on Facebook? I still post on the My Scandinavian Home page three times a week, but I also still love a little scroll through my private feed for latest news! While it used to be more about people posting about their lives, these days it's more about missing cat alerts on community neighbourhood pages, am I right? But some of the groups I've joined come up trumps - one of which is a Swedish page called Torp och stugor, köp, sälj, hyr (crofts and cabins, buy, sell, rent). This weekend someone posted that they are selling their 'summer cottage 40 minutes from Örebro and 2.5 hours from Stockholm' which they describe as a 'real summer paradise with two bedrooms, a big guest cabin, fireplace, terrace and a pier at the end of the garden with access to a lake and much more'. And was 'anyone interested in buying it?'. Erm, me? Sadly it's a little too far away from Malmö, but I thought it'd be rude not to pass the message on in case you might like to take up the offer. Ready to dream?

Note the door frames and skirting boards have been painted in another tone - just like we saw in Freja's Danish home last Wednesday. In Freja's home the pea green shade was a starker contrast to the walls which gives a more contemporary vibe, whereas here, the tone blends nicely with the wall colour to create a more traditional and calm look. I also love that the window frames have been painted in the same tone. It reminds me of the paintwork in a beautiful rustic Norwegian cabin I once featured.

The summer cottage is pretty much closed for business in the winter - as the water is on only in summertime. But when summer arrives, I can imagine it springs into action. In Sweden, it's common for people to go and visit friends and family at their cottage for a few days - it's a way of keeping in contact. My Swedish Father-in-law always says, 'guests are like fish, they start to smell after three days'. Always makes me laugh (naturally, we also make sure to not out stay our welcome when we visit him!). I guess it depends on the guest and how close you are, but three days or not, we can all agree that a little personal space is great for everyone! At this Swedish cottage, a separate cabin in the grounds has been converted into a wonderful guest bedroom complete with a bed and dining table so you can truly make yourself at home!

And of course, they have a simple, yet lovely outdoor shower. Speaking of which, this weekend, we finally put up our outdoor shower (which was a press gift). It's a copper one with a really clever Danish design and simply plants into the grass so you can place it where ever you want. It has a tap and you can attach a warm and cold hose too! We LOVE it! If you're quick you might catch a glimpse of it on my instagram stories today. Right now, they have a special end of summer offer in case you're interested!

I hope you enjoyed the tour of Julia's summer paradise! You can find more information here about the listing if you're interested. I noticed quite a few lovely details while looking through the pictures. One of my favourites is a painting of the cottage in the kitchen - I wonder if this was painted by one of the owners or perhaps as a present from one of their guests? I have a very romantic view of a cottage with its own pier - there's something about the direct access to water which I absolutely love. Perhaps it's the sense of freedom. Is there anything that stood out to you about this pretty Swedish summer cottage? If so, I'd love to hear more below, it's often a detail or observation I've missed. Have a wonderful start to the week! Read the full article

#Cottage #Dreamy #River #Summer #Swedish

1 note · View note

ao3feed-peterparker · 1 year ago

Text

One-shots Starker week 2019

by Alo_kun Serie de one-shots con motivo de la #starkerweek2019 ninguno tiene orden cronológico entre si,los prompts utilizados se encuentran el la pagina de facebook starker paradise a la cual agradezco por crear este hermoso evento. No se permiten adaptaciones. Words: 20127, Chapters: 7/7, Language: Español Fandoms: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Iron Man (Movies) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M Characters: Tony Stark, Peter Parker, Steve Rogers, Wanda Maximoff, Nick Fury, Avengers Team Members (Marvel) Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark Additional Tags: Fluff, Lemon, Out of Character, Starker Paradise's Starker Week 2019, las etiquetas esta al inicio de cada capitulo via https://ift.tt/mw6lMA4

#IFTTT #peter parker #spider-man #spidrrman #the avengers #ao3 #ao3feed

0 notes

ao3feed-wandamaximoff · 1 year ago

Text

One-shots Starker week 2019

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/yuPrK0c by Alo_kun Serie de one-shots con motivo de la #starkerweek2019 ninguno tiene orden cronológico entre si,los prompts utilizados se encuentran el la pagina de facebook starker paradise a la cual agradezco por crear este hermoso evento. No se permiten adaptaciones. Words: 20127, Chapters: 7/7, Language: Español Fandoms: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Iron Man (Movies) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M Characters: Tony Stark, Peter Parker, Steve Rogers, Wanda Maximoff, Nick Fury, Avengers Team Members (Marvel) Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark Additional Tags: Fluff, Lemon, Out of Character, Starker Paradise's Starker Week 2019, las etiquetas esta al inicio de cada capitulo read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/yuPrK0c

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #(your tags here)

0 notes

throughthelensofthebabypanini · 3 years ago

Text

❤️IL SUO CUORE💙

This is my first ever starker fic and I hope you like it. The fic is not beta read because this was supposed to just be a ficlet that turned into a full length-ish one. For some reason when I opened my Notes app this story just started to write itself so its rushed and not perfect, so please be kind to it🙏🏽 alsooo TW‼️ for attempt at non-con starting from: “memories of his Heart” up to “Back pressed against the wall”. If anyone wants to beta this please feel free to dm me and I’ll post it on ao3 🤩anyways here’s the fic, I hope you like it!🥺✨💕

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

It happened. The one thing that Tony tried to warn everyone about. “A suit of armor around the world”, that’s what they needed but no one NO ONE believed him and it cost him the one thing THE ONE THING he couldn’t live without. THE ONE THING he’d burn the whole world for.

Two years. Two blissful, mind numbingly wonderful years became the film reel he’d see every damn time he closed his eyes. Whispers beneath black silk sheets. Smiles reserved only for him surrounded by his creations, Their children. Declarations of “It’s going to be You and Me together Baby, always.” Hazelnut eyes sparkling with intelligence, wit, and love. The Love he lost in a planet lightyears away from home. Gooey caramel eyes that looked at him with so much adoration and warmth. So desperate to feel a smidgen of that warmth again, he plunged right back into old habits.

“Tony, you need to stop this! You’re killing yourself!” Tony looked at her, tumbler creaking under the weight of his hand. The woman he thought he loved years ago. Ha! She couldn’t even accept the biggest part of him. Couldn’t look at the symbol of his determination and perseverance to live. No, He was the only one who truly loved him but He’s gone now, he failed Him. Dust in a small alabaster jar on his nightstand. A reminder that He loved him as fiercely as He protected the city that raised Him.

“Why don’t we go away for a little while Tony. Some place quite just the two of us huh? Please for me.” Please for Me. Please for Me. PLEASE FOR ME. Tony, let’s go grab dinner. We’ve been stuck on this equation for 10 hours. Come on, please for Me. Everything imploded. Arms suddenly embraced him. Sinking on his knees and letting the grief wash over his soul, at least what remained of it after Titan. Tony relented, succumbed to the comfort he didn’t love.

Nobody knew of course. To everyone else, Tony Stark didn’t lose anyone of importance to him. They had no fucking idea that the Heart he finally had after decades of iron and pain and false affection turned to crumbled in front of his eyes, Dust in a small alabaster jar on his nightstand.

The house by the lake was what Tony envisioned the first time He said, “You know, I love New York. I’m tied to her but sometimes I just want to put my feet up, lounge on a swing by the porch looking out to a lake with you by my side.” He would’ve loved it here. His Nymph, his little Sunflower Prince. This would’ve been Their paradise, His meadow, the house he built for Him beside the lake He imagined, porch swing included.

She didn’t let him bring anything he could work on. “No distractions, please. You need to rest.” That’s what she insisted on. She could try and take away, his projects, holograms, ban him from his workshop, but she could never take away the old Starkphone with busted up screen from him. “This isn’t a distraction! It’s my Lifeline Pep!” A Lifeline filled with conversations of forever, images of those two years, and His voice. She tried to fight him for it but she backed off eventually, said “okay Tony” and went back to her calls. Her worked distracted her enough from realizing that he had another lifeline strapped to his thigh for safekeeping.

“Tony, come on. I know you want it, need it even.” It became a routine a few weeks after she sequestered him in the middle of nowhere. “No Pep. I don’t want it. I don’t need it. I have my own room for a reason.” A conversation repeated almost everyday now with the same words said, the same responses given. And every time she sulks, flounces around house, clattering pots, pouting, looking at him with glassy ice blue eyes, he apologizes like it’s his fault he doesn’t want to touch her like that. Can’t even stomach anyone touching him like how his Heart used to.

He sleeps, he eats, he tries to survive. She “dotes” on him, tries to get him to open up, then tries to distract him with SI work because “the company still employs thousands of people Tony. We can’t all be stuck in our grief.” With nothing to drown himself with, he relents. Works on improving tech for Stark now that “Tony’s had time to grieve and he’s going back to work Mr. Walker, don’t worry I’ll make sure of it.”

They celebrate the company hitting another milestone 1 year, 7 months, 16 days after Titan, after the snap, after he put Dust in a small alabaster jar on his nightstand. Stark giving the world a breakthrough in first response equipment. A biodegradable easy to use adhesive for wounds based on His formula. A formula tucked away in the servers he made for Him. Servers she had no right snooping around in. “This could help a lot of people Tony. Relief operations, rescue missions they’re still happening. SI could aid in those efforts.” He wasn’t convinced, this was His. His creation and no one but Him should decide what to do with it but he’s gone, Dust in a small alabaster jar on his nightstand. “Okay” he yields.

“This is great Tony. We’re still on top of almost all major fields. Stark is still the powerhouse we built despite everything that’s happened. And you’re finally coming out of your funk. Here, I know you shouldn’t but since it’s a special occasion you can have a glass or two.” One glass, two, three, four. One bottle, two, three, four. He sat there, throat burning, vision blurring, his whole world spinning, it was nice feeling warm again, even just a little bit. He wants nothing more than to keep floating, drifting like he did in the Benatar. No expectations, no deadlines, no pressure, just him and memories of his Heart.

Then a weight on his lap disturbs his peace. Arms around his neck, hands on his hair, chapped lips on his. “It’s okay Tony. I know what you need. Don’t worry I’ll take care of everything. We’ll be a family, I’ll make us a beautiful family. You and me together, always.” He screams, “GET THE FUCK OFF ME!” Shoves his arms forward and scrambles to the corner of the room. Back pressed against the wall, nanites crawling up from his thigh to his outstretched arms, gauntlets ready to fire. “WHAT THE FUCK TONY! We were finally going to be together again!” This bitch, THIS BITCH! “What the fuck? WHAT THE FUCK?! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING?! I TOLD YOU! I told you NO YOU BITCH! NO!”

“TONY! I’m trying to help you! THIS, ALL THIS I can fix it for you. WE can fix this, all you have to do is let me take care of you the way you need it.”

“THE WAY I NEED IT?! And you think what?! Everything’ll be okay after we fuck?! Is that it?!”

“No! We’re going to make love the way we used to. Tony, I love you so much, I just want to help you, let me help you.”

“I don’t know what ideas you’ve convinced yourself with Potts but I don’t love you anymore! Hell, I never knew what love TRULY meant when we were together. Whatever fantasies you’ve conjured up about us is just that, a fantasy because I’ve only ever loved someone once in my whole life. My Heart, who I lost on a godforsaken planet lightyears away from here!”

“Tony you don’t mean that! You’re just confused, we weren’t together when you were up there, I’m still here Tony. We can even be a family now. No more Iron Man or Avengers distracting you. We can finally make a life together, a family. Don’t you want that?”

“My Heart isn’t you Potts. It never was. I don’t even want you to know who He was after what you pulled you selfish bitch! The only family I want is the one I built with Him! Just like how I want to live in this house, the house I built FOR HIM, WITH HIM!”

Seething, he was seething. It was clear, even to Rhodey whenever she let him visit, that he held no affection let alone love for her. He thought she was safe, but he should’ve known. Should’ve realized all those times she insisted she take care of him that way. How could he be so stupid.

“Tony, please you have to understand, I’m doing this for US. I won’t let you ruin the life I made for us here. I won’t let you!”

“What life?! I was trying to survive my grief, these months weren’t us making a life together. I needed a place to grieve the Love I lost and you INSISTED on being there for me but what did you do? You took away my suit, Rhodey has to go through you before he can visit me, you only let me use the workshop because you thought I just needed to suck it up and make SI more money! This isn’t life, this is a prison! And I was soo stupid not to realize the shit you were pulling.”

He had to leave. He had to be safe, so he fired at the wall across him and ran up to take the last thing that was His. Dust in a small alabaster jar clutched safe in his hands, the suit engulfed him and before he could reach him FRIDAY freed him from the prison she made.

“I’m so sorry Baby, don’t worry I’m gonna make sure that We’re going to be safe from now on. FRIDAY set a course for the compound, alert everyone I’m coming back.”

The field was littered with the remains of the team he once considered his family, a family that he was trying to mend because the world needed them. You’re so much more than who you mask yourself with Tony. You’ve always been kind, generous, you gave the world a hope unlike any other. And I AM SO PROUD of you for doing this. Nobody moved when he landed but when the nanites retreated, their eyes saw everything. The grief he tried to survive, the pain that bled through every bone in his body, they could all see it now. Laid bare, hands clutched around the Dust in a small alabaster jar, he wept.

“It’s okay Tones, FRIDAY told us, it’s going to be okay, you’re here now, you’re safe.”

The days passed but the hollowness didn’t, everything was still painful but he was starting to hope now. He didn’t think he’d ever get to the point where he would function without his Heart but he was trying, it’s what He would’ve wanted. I’m not going to pretend that I know how difficult this must be for you Tony but you are doing the right thing. It’s scary, I’d be peeing my pants if I was in your shoes, but you can get through this. I’m gonna be with you every step of the way.

He brought Him with him the first time he had dinner with them after what happened. For a bunch of trained spies and soldiers, they did a shit job masking their intrigue. He sat down, a plate of mash and peas in front of him, and they ate. Steve talked about his day at the VA, Nat gave updates on the reports the others had, and Rhodey brought him a slice of pie when he finished his dinner. It wasn’t nice but it was okay.

It went on like that for a few months. He’s bring Him everywhere he’d go, his room, his workshop, to the lake, and to the dinner table. It was 2 years, 3 months, 19 days, after Titan. It was 7 months, 4 days after he broke out of her prison when he decided to tell them about the Heart keeping him together. “This was my Heart. His name was Peter Benjamin Parker, the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen and He was my Heart. I lost Him on Titan. And I put all His Dust in this small alabaster jar that I keep carrying everywhere because I miss Him so damn much and I still can’t believe He’s gone.” He should’ve been ashamed for breaking apart in front of everyone again but he couldn’t seem to find shame in telling anybody who would listen how absolutely wonderful His Heart was. How He inspired him to be better, to forgive and ask for forgiveness, to want to keep living and thriving.

4 days after his confession, a man named Scott Lang, Ant-Man he called himself, opened their eyes at a shot of redemption. An opportunity to bring back the ones they lost, the Heart he once had. This was it, alabaster jar in his hands, this was going to bring his Love back.

They wasted no time, pulled out all the stops, called anybody they could back to the compound, they were going to avenge everyone who Thanos wronged.

The heist took one of them. The sister who everyone relied on, the heist took Nat. “I believe we can get her back, along with the rest if we reverse the snap. The soul realm holds all the souls of those who lost their lives because of it. We can get her back but we have to do it now.”

The gauntlet was ready, Bruce was ready, he engaged his armor, put up his shield and gazed at the small alabaster jar he kept near. SNAP and then everything was silent. He hurried to open the lid and there was nothing, the Dust, His Dust was gone. They did it. They brought Him back and then the world exploded.

“On your left” suddenly there were portals opening behind them. One by one revealing the heroes who turned to dust almost 3 years ago but Thanos was ready. He unleashed the might of his army and everyone scrambled into the fray.

They were everywhere, his armor straining under the duress and then he saw Him. Swinging towards him, taking down a handful of Thanos’ war dogs on his way with so much grace. He landed, mask retracted, gooey caramel eyes gazing up at him, “Tony, I missed you so much.” He grabbed Peter and didn’t let go. He felt his soul return to his body after too many years without it. He could breathe again, he had his Heart back and he never letting go. He crushed Him in his arms and draped his body over Peter’s. “Baby, Baby, oh god, Baby. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. I love you so much Sweetheart. I’ve missed you so much.” Tears rushed down from both their eyes, the fight wasn’t over but Tony didn’t care, he had his Heart back and he was going to savor the moment he got Him back. Peter pulled back, tears still rushing down His beautiful face. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Honey. None of this was your fault, you hear me? None of it. I love you so much Tony.”

No matter how hard they fought, victory still wasn’t getting any nearer. When Carol arrived, taking out a few Q ships with her, Strange called to him and raised one finger. This was the endgame. They grappled for the gauntlet and when Thanos thought he had won, Wanda let her magic bleed from her hand and choked the mad titan with it, Carol grabbed the gauntlet, and snapped her fingers.

They had won.

“The End. Now go to sleep because we’ve got a big day tomorrow. Gonna have lots of fun with your friends at school.”

“But Daddy, I’m not sleepy yet. I want another Heart story. Please.”

“You know just because you inherited Papa’s gooey caramel eyes doesn’t mean you can use it all the times you want to have your way little bug.”

“What’s this? My two favorite people are still gossiping even though it’s way past their bedtimes. Now this just won’t do.”

“Papa I just want another Heart story that’s all. Daddy always forgets the happily ever after part of the story.”

“I did forget again didn’t I. I’m sorry Benny Bug. How about this, after the war ended Iron Man and his Heart got married, had a genetically engineered bio-baby named Benny Bug and they all lived happily ever after. The End. How’s that?”

“Hmmm. I’ll take it! Wanna know why?”

“Why little bug?”

“Because I love Papa and Daddy 3000.”

33 notes · View notes

noloveforned · 2 years ago

Audio

friday always seems like a blur to me between work, home and radio but somehow by the end of the day a radio show full of new music has aired. tune into wlur tonight from 8pm until midnight to see what materializes! if that's inconvenient, you can catch up with last week's show below at your leisure.

no love for ned on wlur – march 17th, 2023 from 10pm-midnight

artist // track // album // label ramones // the job that ate my brain // mondo bizarro // chrysalis the runaways // california paradise // queens of noise // mercury the cool greenhouse // the neoprene ravine // sod's toastie // melodic lumpy and the dumpers // too much slime // collection, 2012-2014 // lumpy fastbacks // a quiet night // a quiet night 7" // no threes the coolies // king of confusion // if you gotta go-go, go-go now- a tribute to the go-go's // sympathy for the record industry lenz // moody michelle // ways to end a day // 1-2-3-4 go! the younger lovers // i can't (kim) deal with it // sugar in my pocket // southpaw the bug club // love for two // green dream in f# // we are busy bodies garden centre // super moon // a moon for digging // kanine sharp pins // bettie wait // turtle rock cassette // hallogallo tapes squilll // scripted lines // daughters of the earth // lost sound tapes black belt eagle scout // nobody // the land, the water, the sky // saddle creek ulaan passerine // light of lights // dawn // worstward antonina nowacka // part one // lamunan // mondoj cole pulice // astral cowpoke // scry cassette // moon glyph benji b, raven bush, theon cross, nubya garcia, tom herbert, shabaka hutchings, nikolaj torp larsen, dave okumu, nick ramm, dan see, tom skinner and martin terefe // raven flies low (single edit) // london brew // concord jazz larry young // sunshine fly away // lawrence of newark // perception tony williams // there comes a time // play or die // moosicus cortex // prélude à go round // troupeau bleu // trad vibes wiki and subjxct five featuring navy blue // one more chance // cold cuts // wikset enterprise boldy james and nicholas craven // scrabble // fair exchange no robbery // near mint yl, starker and no-face // friday night lights // lo.face // circle of patrons demahjiae featuring ovrkast. // lord // lord digital single // (self-released) nappy nina featuring moor mother // stone soup // mourning due // lucidhaus vérité // temporary // love you forever // venice music liberation // move me // liberation // night school say sue me // smothered in hugs // ten ep // damnably nicholas krgovich // cup full // ducks // orindal sierra manhattan featuring jokari // losing // which life, the friends // another cozy slippers // be alone with me // cozy slippers // subjangle the telephone numbers // weird sisters // weird sisters 7" // meritorio

#wlur #radio shows

3 notes · View notes

cagestark · 5 years ago

Text

The Rest it Kills

About this: ballerina!peter and mobster!tony. Starker. Physical and emotional between established quentin beck/peter parker.

THIS IS UNFINISHED. Anyone is welcome to continue it.

“FRIDAY, baby? Do you have the shot?”

It’s a celebration, which does nothing to explain why the room gets quiet as soon as Tony enters it. Around the table are four of his best and brightest, the handful of underlings that were instrumental in helping Tony execute his vision of how to repay Adrian Toomes for encroaching upon his weapons market. For a job well done, he’d invited them up to the penthouse to have at his expensive collection of spirits.

He’d left them alone for only a half hour to make a few calls, but now upon his return they were shifty eyed and babbling about something inconsequential, a sure sign that they had hastily changed the subject.

“Alright,” Tony says, pouring himself a glass of scotch. “Out with it. I’m a paranoid bastard at best. At worst?—well. Ask Toomes.”

“It’s nothing bad, Tony,” Rogers says. If the fact that Rogers hadn’t told a lie his entire life didn’t put Tony at ease, then his clear eyes and voice did. Rogers was his number two, and they got on thick as thieves. He’s about as likely to lie to Tony as the sun is not to rise.

“Then I’m not angry,” Tony says, taking the empty seat. “But now I’m curious. Which is worse?”

“Angry,” Wilson says in that deadpan way that Tony just adores.

“Come on, don’t leave me in suspense,” Tony says, finishing his scotch with a single gulp. He pours himself another.

It’s Romanov who—doesn’t break, per say. Tony isn’t convinced that there’s anything that could break Natasha, though if they were on opposite sides, he might have a few places he’d be willing to start. She must weigh the pros and cons and decide that letting Tony in on their little secret is the best move. Whether it’s best for her, for them, or for someone else, Tony can’t say.

She shifts and pulls out a piece of paper folded in half and tosses it across the table. Barnes and Rogers groan.

“Nat, you rat,” Barnes says.

“Wow,” she says, eyes glittering. “That rhymed, Bucky. It was beautiful.”

“What the fuck is this?” Tony wonders out loud as he unfolds the paper. It turns out to be nothing extraordinary. It’s a program for the New York City Ballet. The ballet is something new by Ratmansky, with principal dancers MAXIMOFF/PARKER. “Ballet? Taking up a new hobby, Barnes?”

“I thought I’d look great in the tights,” is all Barnes says. A deflection if Tony’s ever heard one.

“Their boy toy is the lead,” Romanov admits (to fresh groaning from around the table).

Tony’s eyebrows raise. “Boy toy? All three of you?”

“We are in the process of wooing him, so to speak,” Wilson admits, taking a swig from the bottle in front of him. “Barnes and Rogers might be willing to tag team him, but I want him all for myself.”

Rogers’s eyes flash, cold steel in the overhead lights. “Watch the way you’re talking about Peter. He’s not a piece of meat to be shared.”

“This is a goddamn episode of the Bachelor,” Tony laughs. “Which one is Peter: Maximoff or Parker?”

“Parker,” all four chime together.

“I feel like a father whose kids are going out on their first date. Are you buying him flowers? Are you opening the car door for him? Are you being safe?” Tony jests. He leans back in his chair feeling the warm thrum of the scotch in his stomach, glancing from one besotted man to the next.

“All that and more,” Barnes says. Then, with more than a little bitterness: “It’s the way he deserves to be treated.”

Tony lifts his brows. Natasha slides him the deck of cards so that he can shuffle. He’ll lose, especially once he’s as drunk as he hopes to be, but there’s no amount of money he could lose to them that wouldn’t amount to pocket change in his book. Consider it their bonus. As he deals, he asks, “Trouble in paradise?”

“You could say that,” Wilson mutters. “He’s not exactly on the market.”

“Never took you for a homewrecker, Rogers. Barnes maybe—“

“Hardly a home to wreck,” Barnes admits. “Not a happy one, at least. Pete’s boyfriend is a perverted, abusive low life.”

Tony goes stiff. The buzzing in his gut transfers to his brain, raw as the sizzle of electricity. In his mind, he sees himself as a young boy sitting cross-legged by the vanity in his mother’s room watching her apply creams and powders to disguise Howard’s abuse. All the heinous crimes Tony commits, that one is not among them. He doesn’t prey on the weak. It’s the only promise to his mother that he’s never broken.

“So, take care of him,” Tony says lowly. “Do you or do you not have certain skills and the balls to use them? You could kill this boyfriend and have it look like a hundred different accidents. What’s the problem here? Do you need daddy’s permission or something? Well, here, I’m giving it.”

Rogers scowls darkly at his hand. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Wouldn’t I? Regale me, then! Because it sounds to me like I’m sitting around the table with a bunch of pussies.”

“Peter asked us not to,” Barnes says.

Tony blinks. “Is—is that it? Good God. Definitely a bunch of pussies. Kill the bastard anyway. If you can’t stomach it; if you don’t want your boy toy mad at you, give me a name and I’ll do it. It can be done before we’re four rounds into poker, for fuck’s sake.”

“It’s not like we don’t have the stomach for it,” Wilson says. He’s the newest of their crew, but Tony appreciates his fearlessness, the open, unabashed expression he gives Tony when calling him out on perceived bullshit. “It’s about respect, man. We respect Peter’s wishes, and he trusts us because of it.”

The form of respect Tony is most acquainted with is fear. This softness he sees in his men right now translates to nothing short of weakness. Tony has never lived in a fairytale: the world is hard, and it makes hard people.

The rest, it kills.

“It’s complicated,” Rogers says to soothe Tony’s hackles. “If you knew the kid, you’d understand I think.”

“Now you’ve gone and done it,” Barnes mutters. There’s movement underneath the table: one person kicking another, everyone jolting to get their legs out of the way. Barnes looks like he’s sucked on a lemon, or taken a shot of Nat’s imported whiskey. “Now he’s gonna go see Pete for himself and none of us will have a chance.”

As it is, Tony doesn’t have to lift a finger to meet Peter because Peter comes to him.

Tony knows the benefit of giving his men a nice long leash.

He doesn’t have to. With them living in the Tower, it’s within his rights to keep surveillance on all of them; except he knows that distrust breeds distrust. Wilson, Romanov, Rogers, and Barnes have earned his trust. For that reason alone, he removed the wiretaps and cameras in their rooms upon their arrivals.

But it’s still his home, and he watches it. Closely. Tony has just poured his third glass of scotch when FRIDAY alerts him that there’s an unauthorized presence in the Tower.

“Unescorted?” Tony asks. His blood thrums—this is the most exciting thing to happen all day.

“Mr. Rogers and Mr. Barnes are the ones who granted him entrance using Mr. Roger’s passcode, and they appear to be returning to Mr. Rogers apartment, judging by the floor number selected in the private elevator.”

Tony rolls his eyes, relaxing back in his chair. “A fuck, baby?”

Tony has asked them not to entertain guests at the Tower without his authorization, but Tony was young once. He knew the thrill of breaking rules, how good forbidden, casual sex could feel. He wouldn’t put it past Rogers and Barnes to have grown bored, considering they’ve been dicking each other down since they were teens. Just thinking about twenty years of monogamy has his cock shriveling. If they’re just bringing home someone to bend between them and spitroast, Tony’s not going to bother abandoning his scotch.

“Judging by the young man’s level of inebriation, I would hope not.”

Groaning, Tony sets his scotch aside. He gives it a mournful glance while he steps into a pair of jeans and straps up. “I’m coming back for you, baby,” he whispers. “Wait for me. Take no other lover. Fuck, I hate wasting my humor on an empty room.”

“I’m here, boss,” FRI offers.

Tony rolls his eyes.

When he knocks on Steve’s (Steve and Bucky’s apartment, considering how much time Bucky spends there) at fifteen minutes ‘til midnight on a Thursday, he would usually expect a bleary-eyed blonde to crack the door open, a dark apartment the backdrop behind him. Instead, the door opens and light floods out into the hallway. Steve is dressed in his pajamas, that is to say that he’s wearing only a pair of pajama pants that cling to his hipbones for dear fucking life.

“FRI said there’s someone in my building and they’re drunker than I am. Don’t you know that’s a crime?” Tony asks, leaning against the doorframe. The cock of his hip emphasizes where his gun rests, but Steve’s eyes don’t even flicker to it.

Nonplussed, Steve just steps aside to give Tony room to enter.

Slumped on the sofa, bundled underneath a large blanket is a young man. Handsome, his face is a testament to masculinity: cut jaw, straight nose, flat brows and thin lips. The only hint of estrogen is the clear, smooth skin that looks like he’s never grown facial hair in his life. Right away, Tony places his bets that he knows who this kid is.

Peter Parker is resplendent, large brown eyes that blink sluggishly, dragging all over Tony’s figure like his eyes can’t decide where to rest. Sitting up, the blanket falls away and reveals his naked chest which Tony eyes with appreciation. He has the optimal figure for a ballerino, obvious strength that is lean and not bulky.

One of the thin lips is split, bruise blooming like the most tender flower beside his mouth. The wound opens when the kid’s mouth falls open.

“Ohmygod,” he slurs, elbows shaking from lack of strength. He collapses back onto the comfortable couch. “Tony Stark is here.”

Were he not so sobered by the kid’s appearance, the bruises and blood and the red-rimmed eyes and raw mouth, he might be charmed. Bucky appears dressed no more than Steve and Tony, a glass of water in his hand. He helps Peter sit up and coaxes him to drink from the glass. Every other sip, Peter gets distracted, gaping from naked chest to naked chest. At one point, he falls asleep propped up on Bucky’s shoulder.

“He’s not drunk,” Tony says, standing back with Steve while they watch Bucky try to coax the kid into consciousness. “Drugged?”

Steve hums. A muscle in his jaw jumps from how he’s grinding it. “It’s not the first time. Beck and Peter have different tastes in the bedroom. Peter has mentioned before that sometimes after their date nights, he wakes up sore.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. And you haven’t killed this guy, yet?”

Steve looks downright tortured. He does it well; Tony’s always thought of him as a bit of a melodramatic. “Peter would never see us again if we did. We have to decide between being around to support and protect him or not being around at all.”

“If Beck was dead,” Tony says coldly. “There’d be nothing to protect him from.”

“James,” Peter groans, losing and finding purpose again during the middle of the word. “Tony Stark is here!”

“In the flesh, kid,” Tony says, stepping forward. Peter’s eyes trace down Tony’s chest, tracing the matting of scars over his sternum before dipping over his abs (nowhere near as pronounced as Barnes or Rogers’s, but Tony does alright). The kid licks his lips. He can’t help but preen a little, winking at Bucky who is rolling his eyes. “

The curiosity has been planted like a seed deep inside Tony’s mind. It sprouts, soaking up thoughts until it’s the only thing he can think about, Peter Parker, principal dancer, owner of three of his best-men’s hearts.

It leads Tony here, to the best seats money can’t even buy at the Lincoln Center in Manhattan, dressed in his best tuxedo, dark eyes focused on the curtain that glows gold. His heart pounds when it withdraws on a dark, empty stage, though he hardly knows why.

By the end, he has a better idea.

There’s no hiding a single sharp line or sensual curve in the outfits they wear onstage, the pale tights and leotards. There is nothing soft about him save for his curls, but still he leaps and lands silent on his canvas-clad feet. The dance is obviously based around Maximoff’s character with Peter there as her supporting love interest, but even when the red-head bewitches the audience with her fouettés, Tony can’t take his eyes off of Peter’s figure, bowed at the edge of the stage and watching her with the sweetest supplication. When it is time for his own variation, he leaps and bows with a boneless grace that does more than take Tony’s breath away. It makes him hard. It makes him think about those long, strong legs wrapped around his waist while he gives the boy his cock. It makes him think about peeling those tights off and wrapping them around the dainty, pale wrists. It’s a good thing no one can see his erection behind the wall of his box seat when they all stand to give their ovation.

Peter bows and flushes, hand in hand with Maximoff before standing behind her sweetly while the entire place howls for her.

Tony thinks that maybe he’s starting to understand.

No one bothers him where he leans against the wall beside Peter’s dressing room door. Whether it is his reputation or his thunderous expression, he knows not, but he’s grateful for the lack of distractions while he eavesdrops on the conversation taking place inside the dressing room between Peter and a man Peter calls Quent.

—work harder in the gym. Have you been tracking your calories on the app we downloaded together?

Yes, Quent, Peter mumbles, barely audible through the walls.

All of them?

I said yes.

Don’t get defensive, babe. I had three different audience members come to talk to me about your figure tonight. It pisses me off too! If you’re ready to leave the industry—

You know I’m not.

Quentin sighs, the long-suffering sigh of an argument that has been often visited. I know. This is your dream. Poor baby. It must be so tough, loving a job that hurts you so much. But I’m so proud of you for pushing through, Peter, you know that, right? I just wish you were a little more grateful to me for trying to keep you on the right track. You treat me like the bad guy.

Peter doesn’t respond.

Is there anything you need before I go? How’s your back feeling? Your lifts looked a little strained towards the end.

Feels okay. I’ve got everything I need back at my apartment. I’ll go home and put my feet up.

You deserve it. Just don’t forget to use that app okay? There’s a rustle, a struggle, maybe Peter trying to pull away. But Tony’s always had an overactive imagination. Hey. Don’t be like that. I love you.

You too.

Peter. Say it right.

Tony slips away from the door before Quentin can come out. From his place around the corner, Tony still has decent vantage to put eyes on this man for himself. Average height, average weight. Fit enough—for a civilian. Tony’s hands positively ache for a gun. Though he’s carrying, he’s no fool. Now isn’t the time, nor the place.

Once he’s sure the man is gone and not returning, Tony makes his way back to the door. It’s time to meet this young talent from Queens (yeah, Tony read the brochure) for himself. But when Tony goes to lift his hand to knock, the door swings open.

Peter blinks in surprise. He’s dressed in gray leggings that look soft as cashmere, a NYDC hoodie on, sneakers on his feet. Spilling from the sneakers’ tops are black fuzzy socks, meant to keep his toes warm from the cold New York weather.

He’s limping.

And gaping. It never gets old, seeing the way his reputation precedes him. He loves the way the crowds part for him on the street, loves the way waiters and waitresses stammer and struggle to serve him, the way eyes grow wide like Tony is a god in the flesh.

Tony extends a hand. “I’m Tony Stark. It’s a pleasure to meet you; you’re a very talented dancer.”

“Hi,” Peter breathes, taking Tony’s hand. Tony grips gently, feeling like he’s liable to break bones, the kid’s so fucking delicate. And cold. But Tony knows the saying: cold hands, warm heart. He wonders what that makes him. Peter works to regain himself, saying, “Trust me, I know who you are. It’s so nice to meet you. Thank you—they didn’t tell me that anyone important was going to be in the audience.”

“They who?” Tony asks. “Your managers, or my men?”

Peter swallows, face draining of blood. As much as Tony likes these games, they aren’t as enjoyable when the worm on his hook is as pretty and polite as Peter is. He puts on his most charming (softest) smile and makes sure to ask, gesturing to the messy dressing room behind him, may I come in?

Nodding, Peter opens the door wider. They both ignore how he was clearly on his way out, a backpack in his hands. He sits it down carefully by the vanity where he applied his stage makeup and seats himself on the chair, nudging his shoes off. When he stretches the arches of his feet, he winces. Tony gives him a moment to settle, stepping around the tiny room and taking in the smells and sights. On one wall is a picture of Peter and Quentin, arms around each other, beaming.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, voice quiet. Tony glances over at him. “Are your—men in trouble?”

“No,” Tony admits. “If they were, I certainly wouldn’t be here watching ballet; I’d be...busy.”

Peter sags in relief. The way his shoulders hunch throw his collar bones into sharp prominence where they peek out from the neck of his sweatshirt. “Oh thank God. They’re so nice, Mr. Stark, and I promise they don’t tell me anything about their—your work. James still insists that he works for some guy named Potts in New Jersey. Who’s Tony Stank, he asked me when I brought you up.”

Tony lets his lips twitch. “James’s middle name is Buchanan. Some call him Bucky. Tell him I said: now we’re even.”

Peter grins and it’s radiant. Tony feels an unsteadiness in his gut, like missing a step on the stairs or hearing a gunshot go off when he’s not been the one to pull the trigger. There’s just the gentlest stirring of jealousy when Peter mouths the name, Bucky, testing the way it tastes and wrinkling his nose in laughter.

“I can’t wait to see the look on his face,” Peter says. “Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

Now might be the time to offer to let the kid use his given name but—Tony’s kind of into it. A few more instances of Mr. Stark rolling off that polished tongue might have Tony hardening in his tux. “Take a picture for me,” Tony suggests, sitting down on the cozy loveseat that is opposite of Peter’s vanity.

“You said—you enjoyed the show?” Peter asks, demure. The sleeves of his sweatshirt pass his wrists and most of his palms, turning his hands into adorable little sweater-paws. When he reaches up to bite at a nail, the sleeve slips down past his tiny wrist. Tony could surely wrap an entire hand around that wrist and have more to spare.

“It was incredible,” Tony admits. “I don’t usually have the attention span to sit through longer shows, but I was hooked from curtain rise to curtain fall, kid.”

Peter flushes, not so much in embarrassment as he does from the pleasure of being complimented. The flush of the drunk, though it seems Peter’s poison of choice is praise. Tony can’t help but want to spread him out on the sheets in his bedroom and say the sweetest, filthiest things to see if he can get the kid hard with just his voice. “I’m so glad. There hasn’t been as much press; new shows are always a little slow to take off. Wanda really is something special, though. She spent a season overseas and came back with so much more grace and growth—”

“Did she do well tonight?” Tony asks, unbuttoning the top button on his jacket to reveal the trim waist and vest beneath. He realizes what he’s doing just as the words are coming out of his mouth. Tony is flirting with Peter, and his flirtation is a force of nature. “I barely noticed her. Couldn’t take my eyes off of you, kid. How the hell you manage to dance that way, I can’t fathom.”

Now the flush hints at being flustered. He soaks in the way Peter’s face darkens, the way he hides behind one of his hands as the praise makes his posture go soft and waxy. His voice is remarkably even when he says, “Lots and lots of practice.”

“Your hard work pays off. I was captivated. I could tell that my men were the same.”

That topic sobers Peter, who sits up straighter. His pretty face twists, the question mark clear, the confusion too genuine for Tony to take it disrespectfully. On the contrary, Tony finds his forthrightness attractive when he asks, “Why did you come tonight, Mr. Stark?”

“I came to see what it was about you that has my men so enthralled,” Tony admits. With the kind of power he has comes the freedom to be honest, even painfully, brutally honest, because repercussions are either minimal or nonexistent.

“Did you figure it out?” Peter asks. Tony can’t help but feel like the kid is asking him for the both of them: what is it so special about me? Yes, this boy is fragile. That can’t be overlooked. But inside of him there’s still a spark of spirit ready to alight at any moment, grateful for any tinder that it’s given. He’s not Maria Stark. Not yet.

“Yes,” Tony says, standing. He rebuttons his jacket. “And I’d like very much to get to know you better, if you’re agreeable.”

“Me?” Peter’s head cocks, squinting up at Tony like he’s trying to see through him, to see what is really being said. “Why?”

Tony is used to letting his baser instincts guide him. He fucks who he wants, goes where he wants, says what he wants, and he owes no one alive an explanation for it. Many people have stopped asking Tony questions like why? Certainly none of Toomes’s men asked Tony why when he was torturing them forty-eight hours ago.

“Because I want to,” Tony says. He reaches down and picks up Peter’s backpack, putting it over his shoulder, the canvas bag downright gauche against his Givenchy tuxedo. “So what do you say, kid? You look dead on your feet, but would you like to be dead on your feet somewhere more private?”

Peter takes a long moment to think about it before tucking his toes into his shoes.

He belongs there amongst the backdrop of Tony’s penthouse. Peter glances around with all the coltish wonder of a newborn, running his fingers across the genuine leather of the sofa, leaning forward to look at the smart-glass table that Tony likes to prop his feet up on at night. Upon entering, Tony removes his tuxedo jacket and takes Peter’s hastily-removed sweatshirt. He appreciates the four inches of skin that appear when his shirt rides up, sticking to his outerwear.

He doesn’t appreciate the yellowing bruises dotting the kid’s biceps. Fingertips, he knows. His mother wore them round her neck like pearls.

“Is it okay if I take my shoes off?” Peter asks. He limped from the theater to the car, from the car to the elevator, and from the elevator to the couch where he collapsed with a sigh of relief. When Tony encourages him to, Peter nudges off his comfortable shoes and brings one foot up into his lap where he firmly presses his knuckles into the sole.

Peter asks for a drink. Tony gives him access to his wine, and the kid chooses for himself: a red, Chateau Margaux that smells of rose petals and hints at citrus and turns Peter’s cheeks pink. He doesn’t ask for a second glass, and Tony doesn’t offer it; the last thing he wants is the kid to think that Tony invited him here to take advantage of him.

“Tell me,” Tony asks, watching with rapt attention the faces Peter makes, like he’s dancing on the knife’s edge between pleasure and pain. “Tell me how you met my men. They aren’t exactly patrons of the arts.”

Peter’s face smoothes and he smiles. “It was Natalie, actually. She comes to shows every so often; I think her and one of the instructors know each other. Sometimes, she sponsors promising dancers.”

Romanov. Her and this instructor must truly know each other for her to be using a cover name around them. He files all this away in the darkest parts of his mind, should she ever become a problem someday. Tony has places reserved in his brain for all of his closest allies; already, he is making one for Peter too. Trust is earned but ever ephemeral.

“So Nat introduced you?”

“Yes. She sponsored me for a while, so we got to know each other pretty well. Once I mixed up my days and showed up at her condo when I wasn’t supposed to, and I met the others. Sometimes they would come to shows or send me gifts backstage.” Peter frowns. “I asked them to stop though because—Quent would just throw them all away.”

“Quentin Beck.”

“How’d you know?”

Tony just smiles and changes the subject. “You must know that the three of my men are half in love with you.”

Peter groans, pressing both his palms flat to his heated cheeks. “I had a feeling they were...interested. I hope they don’t feel that I’ve led them on, Mr. Stark. Nothing untoward happens at all when we’re together; sometimes I, I meet Steve and James for dinner, or other times Sam comes over to my apartment and we just talk, I promise. They’re so kind and it’s—it’s nice to have people to talk to.”

Peter stops talking abruptly, mouth open. He lets it fall closed with a click. When Tony prods him gently, he admits, “The attention is nice, too. It feels good, feeling wanted. Does that make me bad?”

Tony wonders what kind of miserable asshole would have Peter in his bed at night and not show the kid attention. It takes a special fuck-up to come home to a lover like Peter and not make him feel wanted. “Wanting attention? Not at all, kid. It’s the least of what you deserve.”

“You sound like them,” Peter says, smiling. “James and Steve and Sam. They’re always doing and saying nice things and telling me that I deserve them.”

“Good,” says Tony, one side of his mouth curling upwards. “I feel like a proud father; I’ve taught them well. Should you have those elevated?”

“Sorry?”

“Your feet. Elevation will keep down the swelling.” Tony places one of the expensive throw pillows on his lap and pats it invitingly. Peter stretches out without anymore prompting, toes flexing as his joints pop before curling in. The kid makes for an indecent picture, all long lines, absolutely nothing hidden by the leggings he wears.

“I asked them if I could meet you, you know,” Peter admits. He’s red from far more than the wine, now, judging by the way he has one hand pressed over his eyes to shield him from Tony’s gaze. As if it’s possible to. Peter peaks through his fingers. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mr. Stark, but I’ve had a crush on you for ages.”

A crush. God. Tony doesn’t know what’s more hilarious, the sweet naivete of this boy or how it makes his cold heart flutter. Tony’s eyebrows raise. “Is that so? I’m not exactly crush material for the mentally stable.”

Peter hums. “When I was a kid, I had a lot of bullies. I started dancing when I was four years old, and not a lot of other boys understood. Sometimes, I used to daydream about you coming to protect me from them. To put them all in their place and then whisk me off to that house you gave a tour of on TV once, the one in Malibu.”

“Good taste,” Tony says. “You know, I used to do the same thing when I was young. I dreamed about someone coming to protect me and my mother, to take us both away somewhere where no one could ever hurt us.”

Sitting up on his elbows, Peter fixes Tony with a serious, solemn stare. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Is that what happened?”

“No. I became that someone. What happened to you?”

“I guess I gave up on the idea,” says Peter.

“Look. Maybe you don’t have your crush on me anymore, but I’m not the kind of man who can look away from innocent human suffering. My men told me about your boyfriend.” Peter sags back onto the couch and puts his face in his hands. He shakes his head from side to side, though no words come out. “This is my offer, kid. Let me take care of the problem. Let me be that knight in shining armor you wanted when you were younger.

#starker #cagewrites #unfinished fic #tw: abuse #ballerina!peter #mobster!tony

262 notes · View notes