What flavor was the cupcake and the icing and what color(s) were the sprinkles?
For those of us who absentmindedly click our pens (sorry!), is Reader going to forgive Peter if he keeps doing that or will Reader have to figure out a way to give him a fancy pen that has the barrel that turns?
If Reader is fond of fudge stripes, does she also enjoy the grasshopper cookies and the Girl Scout version--Thin Mints?
Aunt May's comment in the grocery store somewhat implied there were other notes left for Peter besides the ones relating to the back and forth snack war. Were there? What did those say...hmmm?
Peter has been walking Reader to the station for a year; did they meet at the school? If so, how did their friendship develop over that time? If not, did they know each other before that (like college) and ended up teaching at the same school?
Is Peter still Spider-man? Is he going to tell Reader if he hasn't yet done so?
Is May going to figure out a way to invite Reader over without telling Peter so that she can lock the two of them in a closet until they finally kiss?
A treaty is (if not explicitly written) essentially a negotiation with the purpose of reaching an agreement. Peter admitted to May that perhaps he did, indeed, have a crush, but that under the circumstances (work) that might be unprofessional. Would Reader agree? Is Reader still considering Peter a friendly but occasionally annoying friend or is she harboring 'more than' type feelings for the teacher across the hall? Inquiring minds wish to know....
POV me reading your questions:
Note: I didn’t answer them in order
What flavor was the cupcake and the icing and what color(s) were the sprinkles?
I pictured a funfetti cupcake with vanilla frosting and rainbow sprinkles when writing but it can be whatever flavor you want it to be :)
Is Peter still Spider-man? Is he going to tell Reader if he hasn't yet done so?
Peter is still Spider-Man but Reader doesn’t currently knowing, her finding out will come later
If Reader is fond of fudge stripes, does she also enjoy the grasshopper cookies and the Girl Scout version--Thin Mints?
I’m going to say yes, only because Reader being a bit of a foodie does come into play in a future part
For those of us who absentmindedly click our pens (sorry!), is Reader going to forgive Peter if he keeps doing that or will Reader have to figure out a way to give him a fancy pen that has the barrel that turns?
PEN CLICKERS RISE!!!!!!
She doesn’t forgive him because there’s nothing for him to be sorry about
Reader talking about the pen clicks was more about her paying attention to the things he does rather than it being something she noticed because she finds it annoying or distracting
I'd even say that it becomes almost like a white noise for her once their friendship becomes more and she’s around him often
Peter has been walking Reader to the station for a year; did they meet at the school? If so, how did their friendship develop over that time? If not, did they know each other before that (like college) and ended up teaching at the same school?
They do meet at school
Reader started teaching at their school the year before and while their classrooms are across the hall from each other and they teach the same students/grade they never really speak until Reader befriends MJ who was already friends with Peter and Johnny
And then of course her becoming a part of their little group led to them interacting more and more until they inevitably became friends
Aunt May's comment in the grocery store somewhat implied there were other notes left for Peter besides the ones relating to the back and forth snack war. Were there? What did those say...hmmm?
There are more notes! I’ll let you know what two of them are but the rest I will be gatekeeping
1) the very first one actually, is a game of tic-tac-toe (that peter lost)
2) is Reader’s number
A treaty is (if not explicitly written) essentially a negotiation with the purpose of reaching an agreement. Peter admitted to May that perhaps he did, indeed, have a crush, but that under the circumstances (work) that might be unprofessional. Would Reader agree? Is Reader still considering Peter a friendly but occasionally annoying friend or is she harboring 'more than' type feelings for the teacher across the hall? Inquiring minds wish to know....
The feeling is mutual and Reader kinda knows that Peter has a crush on her but won’t say anything because she does thinks it would be incredibly unwise to date someone that you work with and for that reason, you’ll see her try to convince herself that she’s reading into the things Peter says or does
Is May going to figure out a way to invite Reader over without telling Peter so that she can lock the two of them in a closet until they finally kiss?
Reader and May will meet on accident and she will be putting Peter on blast and that is all I will say about that.
Also, I just want to say that I love and appreciate you as a reader. From our few interactions and things I’ve seen from you on other blogs it’s so clear that you pay attention to even the tiniest detail and as a writer, it’s a rewarding thing to see. MUCH LOVE TO YOU 🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽
Omg i didn’t know you are doing the fictober thingy . Could I pretty please request a “Is this supposed to impress me?” and/or “This was not part of the plan” for our lovebirds MJ & Peter ?
day twenty seven: i think i like, living upside down
It's been a long day. Longer than MJ would like for a Friday afternoon but it is what it is. It's not like she has plans to rush home for - just a mountain of marking and some tenth grade exams she thinks might push her over the edge.
So she'll sit at her desk a little longer. Maybe she's waiting for Mr Parker to put on his daily display - but that's no-ones business but her own.
He's never really spoken to her during the day and at lunch whenever she looks at him he goes beet red and avoids her gaze. So she's not sure where the confidence comes from after school. But she doesn't mind.
She can be the first one to break the ice if he wants. After all, he does put on a show for her everyday.
He steps into view right on cue and MJ swings her legs up onto her desk. He takes his time pulling his tie from his neck and she can see the tension in his face from here. She shouldn't be glad he clearly had a hard class. But she can't help the way she pulls her lip between her teeth because when Mr Parker is worked up, he works out a little harder.
He pulls his shirt off and she can't help the moan quiet moan that leaves her throat. She runs to check her door is locked, not that she'd ever do something scandalous in her classroom. Well, unless he was here with her then she'd think about it.
He's already started his pull ups when she sits back down and she leans on her desk, head in hand as she watches the taut muscles of abs constricting as she lifts his legs in the air. She's not sure why she got so lucky that he changes out of his suit into just a pair of running shorts but she doesn't care to ask when his thighs look like that.
She's not sure what he's holding onto. The windows aren't particularly wide in her room, though she guesses he has a pull up bar or something.
He looks right at her. And every time he does she somehow chickens out and leaves, not wanting him to think she's perving on him even though his classroom is directly opposite hers. Two stories high across the playground, so there's no one else he could possibly be putting on a show for. There's no one next to her, her classroom being the last in the building and the room next door is a supply closet.
So she thinks fuck it. It's Friday and she wants to know what his biceps feel like in her hands. She grabs her bag, shoving the exams into it as she marches from her classroom and goes to find his.
She's outside his door quicker than she would have liked and she checks her makeup on her phone. She looks pretty good for four-thirty on a Friday and Mr Parker is going to be sweaty as fuck so she figures it's fine.
When she looks through the small window of glass she sees he's still in there, though his arms have widened to her favourite version of pull ups and she swallows her moan as she opens the door.
"Is this supposed to impress me?" she asks, the door closing with a click.
"What the -" he shouts, pulling his feet to the ceiling and it would be impressive as hell if she wasn't distracted by the fact that he's holding onto the ceiling with his fingertips only.
"Ms Jones," he stutters.
"How are you doing that?" she asks, dropping her bag and walking over towards him to see if there is something she's missing.
"Er," he replies and she's pretty sure he's sweating more now than he was when he was working out.
She raises her eyebrow at him, the motion clearly spooking him as his fingers drop from the ceiling.
"Oh my God!" she exclaims, arms out as if she's going to be quick enough to catch him before he hits the floor. But he doesn't fall. He's stuck to the ceiling by his feet.
"This was not part of the plan," he mutters, a pained look on his face as he drops to the floor, landing perfectly on his feet and not on his face like she should have.
"What the fuck?!"
"Funny story," he huffs out, his hand running through his hair and she's distracted by the standing on the ceiling nonsense because his arms this close should be criminal.
"Wait - what was supposed to impress you?" he asks and she realises now that he clearly wasn't showing off. He probably has no idea who she is and didn't notice her at all. Wow. If she faked her death now, would it be believable? Maybe she should bribe him and she won't tell anyone about his ability to stand on the ceiling if he won't mock her for thirsting over him when he barely knew she existed.
"Oh, erm, nothing," she replies feeling like she's back in high school with a crush she can't control over someone who's never looked at her twice.
“Just a thought though... you might want to close the curtains before you work out. Maybe. Okay bye.”
She turns to run, fuck the exams everyone failed anyway. Maybe she could move? But as she gets closer to the door she hears a thwip and the latch is covered in white webbing.
Weird.
Wait -
"You're Spider-Man?!" she whispers, her face furrowed because obviously, he is. And she finds it strange that he's told her that before he's even told her his first name.
"You didn't figure that out from the ceiling?!" he asks and she'd think he was laughing at her if he wasn't looking mortified that he outed himself for no reason at all.
"I was distracted!" MJ replies, her arms flailing at the ridiculousness of this situation. His face softens and then a small smirk appears on his lips as he walks closer to her.
"By what?" he asks, voice low and she swears he flexes his abs on purpose.
"Nothing."
"Uh-huh, were you at least impressed?" he asks, barely a foot away from her now and he's practically backed her against the wall and she'd be nervous if he wasn't so cute.
"Maybe," she whispers, her gaze flicking across his face. He places his hands against her waist and his fingertips touch as he winds his hands around her back.
"Do you want to get dinner with me?" he asks.
"No."
"Oh," he replies, pulling back so quickly he almost tugs her shirt off. "Sure, sorry. That was - stupid. Sorry, I didn't mean to," he stutters, ripping the webbing from the door.
"I just," she says, her fingers twisting against each other. God, she's mortified but she doesn't want him to ask her out because she knows his secret.
"I won't tell anyone. So you don't have to -"
He cocks his head and it's infuriating how attracted to him she is.
"I've wanted to ask you out since I first started working here," he replies like it's obvious. Like they've ever really spoken outside work meetings.
"Why didn't you?"
"You're terrifyingly beautiful," he huffs, then, "no-one has ever said a bad word about you. The students love you and I think if any one of them ever found out they'd probably slash my bike tyres every day for the rest of my life. I didn't think you'd be interested and I didn't want to ruin our professional relationship that I'm yet to attempt to achieve because of my aforementioned points."
"You're adorable."
He groans but grins at her, taking a step closer to her again.
"Peter," he says, holding his hand out, she takes it, pulling him closer to her until his nose is brushing hers.
"Michelle," she whispers, her gaze dropping to his lips.
"It's nice to meet you, Michelle," he replies, finally pressing his lips against hers.
Warnings: fluff, domesticity, mob boss Tony, blink-and-you’ll-miss mentions of blood and violence, 100% self indulgence
----
It was the protest of his bladder that woke Peter up.
His toes curl and flex under the sheets as consciousness returns to him, a slow drip at first, unaware if the heaviness of his eyelids or the light on the other side of them are just part of his dreams. His body is warm.
It’s almost easy to succumb to the call of sleep, to slip back where left off in his dreams, however an insistent pressure against his lower abdomen tugs him back to the surface in harsh increments.
The markers of the waking world come to his awareness, slowly as the night yawns into dawn. He tries to ignore the titter of small birds on a nearby windowsill, pecking the glass, the gentle tones of the wind chime on their porch, all of which would otherwise lull hum into sleep. The killer is the unconscious jiggling of his leg, god he had to pee, an earnest request for Peter to attend to the needs of his body.
Groaning, Peter turns over in the sheets, shifting closer, burying his nose into the warm junction between his husband's neck and shoulder, hoping the sandman will come back and welcome him. He thinks he gets close, because after a few moments, despite the insistence of his stomach, his limbs feel heavier, like his body were dripped in molasses, slivered and delivered into a kaleidoscope behind his eyelids.
It’s not to be, however, when Tony snores loudly in his ear.
“No,” Peter whispers sadly to himself, clamping his hands over his ears.
It’s no use. He surrenders to the inevitable; wriggling out from under the sheets he tip-toes along the carpet on his to the adjoining ensuite.
Squinting into the darkness of the room, Peter relieves himself quickly, tipping his head back, sighing softly as his body relaxes. After a moment he flushes and washes his hands, and if he’s already here he might as well brush his teeth too, right?
Free of morning breath he makes quick work of crawling back into bed. It’s still warm from where he left it. Perfect. He resumes the same position as before, pressing against Tony’s broad and delightfully sleep-warm body. Even in slumber, the older man guides his arm to cup the low of Peter's waist like before.
But no matter how comfortably he settles, sleep doesn’t come back. The mistake is checking the time on his smart watch.
Six-forty-four in the morning. Too early to be awake on a day off. Not early enough to justify going back to sleep on any other day.
Goddammit.
Gingerly, Peter turns over to his other side to face Tony, helplessly smiling when he emits another loud snore.
Gently as he can muster, he raises trails his finger down the narrow slope of his husband's nose, tracing down the curve of his nostril, following down the path on his worn smile lines. Unable to stop his own smile he leans in, pressing the print of his lips to the corner of Tony’s mouth before retreating back, hoping he has sweet dreams. The unconscious grab at his hip as he slips out of the bed is almost enough to lure him back in.
Almost.
Shivering at the loss of heat, Peter heads to the drawer, near naked, the satin of his boxers the only warmth he is afforded from the cool room as he pads along the soft carpet. He slips on a pair of running shorts, socks and finally fishes the sneakers from under their bed, lacing them up quietly as the snores continue.
“You’re a fucking chainsaw,” he whispers to Tony, embarrassed by his own fondness.
He leans over to kiss his husband lightly on the forehead before he slips out of the house.
Early sunrise paints the sky a mild grey. This far out, there’s still a couple of stars out and the slim curve of the moon beginning to fade as the morning light emerges. He stretches quickly on the porch to warm up a little, the air still cool despite it being a mid-July morning.
Setting off in a light jog as he exits their property, Peter waves to their neighbours as he passes. Music pumping, he picks up a moderate pace, yelling an enthusiastic hello to Mr Moore as he retrieves his newspaper from the lawn, offering the same Mrs Bowen shoo’s her the neighborhood cats away from her flower beds with a broom.
It’s not a particularly busy suburban street. It consists of mostly retirees and their visiting kin, childless couples who drive Toyota four-doors and suburbia-stricken Jeeps and empty nesters.
The rest are Tony’s employees. One of whom shadows Peter as he sprints down the footpath, about as subtle as bull in a china-shop.
Trying his luck, as he does everyday, Peter raises his hand in a friendly welcome to the person running behind him. He isn’t sure who it is today, doesn’t look back for appearance sake, but the steps are heavy and uniform enough to know it’s no coincidence.
When Peter first started dating Tony, they argued night and day over the detail. From bickering over babying escalating into arguments over agency, slammed doors and ignored texts, ‘breaks’ that weren’t as much breaks as they were breathers. A leash, Peter called it in those early days, of the non-consensual, not-sexy variety. Not to mention the furious, heated make-up sex that would always come after.
Those were the days.
After six years together they’d come to a happy medium. They had settled on a mutually beneficial compromise. Peter got the house in the suburbs that he’d always envisioned and Tony got his best men armed to the teeth just a yard-sale away.
Perfect.
Nonetheless as Peter finishes his circuit and returns home, he’s glad he put his foot down on not having guards stationed at the entry and exits of their suburban property. They adjusted to one another's needs, that’s what relationships are all about, right? Tony’s men owned four houses in the busy street and their home was jerry-rigged to decimate all unauthorised intruders upon visual confirmation from JARVIS.
But at least Peter got the house in the suburbs. He’s going to convince Tony to get a pet, next.
Back inside, Peter kicks off his sneakers and locks the door behind him. All four of them. The emptiness of the house, evident in the absence of the music that ordinarily fills their home must mean that Tony is still in bed.
“Lazy ass,” Peter mutters, trying to pull back on the reigns of overwhelming fondness so as to not smile at nothing in his own living room. He does it anyway.
It isn’t until minutes later that he’s staring forlornly at their barren pantry and fridge that Tony wanders into the kitchen, snaking his strong arms around Peter's waist from behind, pressing a sleepy, prickly kiss to his jaw.
“Morning, baby,” he croaks, still sleep-warm against Peter’s rapidly cooling body.
“Morning, mister,” Peter tilts his head back, placing a kiss on Tony’s lips, shifting back slightly until their bodies are flushed together, snorting lightly when he feels something hard in Tony’s sweats.
“Oh my,” he gasps, falsely aghast. “Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”
“It’s a gun,” Tony confirms, the stretch of his smirk palpable on Peter’s skin. “Colt Python, you know the one. But I’m also very happy to see you, don’t fret.”
Tony’s hips hunch forward. True to his word, there are twin sensations against his backside, rutting against his lower body without shame. “See? All for you. You making breakfast?”
“You tell me,” Peter squeezes Tony’s forearms and settles into his hold. He nods towards the lone, sagging tomato in their fridge and the stale, single line of crackers resting in the cupboard. “Got any ideas?”
“I can think of something I’d like to eat.”
Peter squirms, rocking back on his heels as Tony kisses a line up his neck, facial hair prickling his skin. Heat coils pleasantly in his stomach and his toes curl in his sneakers.
“Stop. I’m -- Tony, stop -- I’m sweaty and gross. I stink.”
“Nope, not true,” he noses along the sensitive upside of Peter’s jaw. “You smell great. But if you’re bothered we can shower together. Great idea.”
His stomach growls again, swooping low. “I’m hungry,” Peter rebuts, turning around in Tony’s embrace to pout directly in his face, hoping he looks sad and forlorn. “I’m feeling faint.”
Tony looks unperturbed. “Well, alternatively, there is something I could feed you, if that’s your preference. Straight from the source.”
Peter groans and swats Tony’s chest, frankly unsure of what he expected
“You’re such a lech. Get help.”
“I’ve tried, darling, but it’s no use,” Tony sighs sadly, squeezing his hips. “You’re just too sexy.”
Peter disagrees, walking Tony backwards until his body makes contact with the kitchen bench, trailing a finger up his chest and poking him lightly in the sternum.
“Yeah? That’s not what you said when I made you take out the trash last night.”
“Well, that’s because trash isn’t sexy.”
Peter pokes him again. “And yet I stay married to you.”
“Ouch,” Tony blinks, slapping a hand to his chest. “Wow. That is uncalled for. You’re calling me trash. I’m reduced to garbage now?”
“Yes,” he pecks Tony’s lips, snickering at his offended face. “I guess I’m just not me when I’m hungry. Can we go out for something to eat, please? I’ll be nice.”
“You gonna shower first? You do actually stink, I mean. Like, really bad.”
Prying himself out of the hold, Peter tries to the best of his ability a sense of mock outrage as Tony reels him back in with an apologetic hug, even as a smile tugs at his own lips.
“You gonna brush your teeth?” Peter dips his chin, deepening his voice to mimic his husbands. “Because wow , your morning breath is bad. Rank.”
The older man looks amused, biting his lips and blinking coquettishly like he always does when he’s up to something.
“What.”
“Nothing,” Tony shrugs, still smiling. “Just wondering if you wanted to keep talking - or if you wanted to shut up and let me go down on you in the shower.”
Peter tilts his head to the side, considering it for a moment.
“Do I have to shut up while you go down on me in the shower?”
Tony’s hand is back on his heart again.
“Absolutely not. I encourage you to be as vocal as possible. Wake the neighbours.”
“Deal.”
---
After thoroughly working up an appetite whilst showering, the call for groceries couldn’t wait any longer.
It’s hardly their favourite domestic activity, but delivery just is not an option. Not only for the obvious security concerns, given Tony’s occupation, but also simply because Peter hates someone else picking out his vegetables. They always give you the bad ones, he thinks, he’s had enough sad zucchinis to know.
Still, the way Tony had sighed and rolled his eyes as Peter packed their canvas bags into the car was rather uncalled for.
Tony did agree to accompany him on one solid condition, however. Breakfast first.
“Okay,” Peter agreed. “Something healthy though.”
“Oh yeah,” Tony had nodded. “Definitely.”
---
Should have known better than to trust a dirty crook.
---
Their breakfast pit-stop, much to Peters dismay, was more grease laden than he’d hoped for. He grumbles as Tony pulls into the nearest car-park, understanding now why Tony insisted on driving.
Don’t get him wrong, he enjoys gooey melted American cheese on a beef patty as much as the next guy, but the taste isn't enough to diminish his mounting disapproval as Tony downs one cheeseburger after another, washing them down with soda and fries.
“You have a heart condition,” Peter frowns, slapping the bag of fries from his husband's hands as he brings them to his lap. “What are you doing?”
Potato goes flying over the dashboard, smearing oil over the detail in its wake.
Tony blinks.
“Wow. Now that’s just a waste,” he fishes a napkin from the bag and wipes the dashboard with it. “You know this interior is original, right? Vintage, 1973. You do? Just making sure.”
Peter knows. Tony won the car in a poker game against Hammer two years ago. Then he leaked his money laundering to the press. He hasn’t shut up about it since.
Peter fishes out the chicken salad he knows he ordered from the paper bag, flinging it at Tony who catches it easily.
“You promised something healthy. Eat the salad, Tony.”
“Eat the salad, Tony,” his husband mimics, even as he pries open the plastic lid of the leafy meal. “God, look at this thing. It’s miserable,” he spears into it with his plastic fork, shovelling it into his mouth and not looking happy about it. “It looks like clinical depression if it were a meal. Like a metaphor for erectile dysfunction. Pathetic.”
“Are you done bitching?”
Tony feeds himself another mouthful of the limp greens before leaning closer to chew grotesquely in Peter’s ear. “There. Happy, darling?”
Peter winds down the window so the cabin doesn’t reek of red onion.
“Ecstatic.”
—-
Peter is often asked where he and Tony met.
He tells his colleagues and close friends that they met in through their jobs. Look, it’s not a total lie. Except, he says that Tony worked as a consultant to the State-Board for Education and Peter was luckily enough to be invited to some event, somewhere, at some time and at some place where they happened to cross paths and meet. After hitting it off, the rest was history.
Few question it, envious and charmed by their story. A young man meets the man of his dreams, they fall in love, and spend their days happily married, leaving a dreamy white picket fence life.
The fairy-tale ending is real. The reality of how they got it is another story.
Six years ago, rushing to his shift at the grocery store, Peter had accidentally rammed his bicycle into some guys who ran into his path on one cold Sunday, morning in the heart of Flushing, Queens.
At first, Peter hadn’t noticed the gun flying into the mouth of the alley, too busy apologising to hear the clang of metal on concrete. It wasn’t until one of the men, now disarmed, fled the scene that he realised that he’d interrupted Tony’s would-be execution.
A thank-you-coffee was followed by a thank-you-date. Then, Peter got asked on real dates. Real dates led to real kisses that weren’t just a thank you but I like you and then, eventually, I love you.
But it was the I trust you that cemented Peter in Tony’s world.
So maybe Tony wasn’t really a consultant. Maybe Peter fell for Tony, the man, the provider, the person who seemed to have an interest in politics and community as much as he did about the perfect placement of his hair, or ensuring Peter’s comfort and willing consent at any given time.
And he never asked Peter to be a part of the business. Tony’s job was just as important as his own and he always reiterated that.
Which was good, because Peter loves his job. At twenty-six feels, Peter feels like his life is where it’s supposed to be. And maybe he was a local, humble high-school teacher, sure, but he still grew up on the internet. He’d looked into Tony before their first date. You know. Basic database searches like missing persons, most wanted and sex-offender registers. Luckily, Google actually said Tony was a consultant.
He even had his own LinkedIn.
Although further and not-so-legal inspections of encrypted government databases - thanks, Ned - told a different tale.
It was sort of true? Nothing happened in New York without Tony being consulted. Even working remotely he had NYC eating from the palm of his hand.
And Peter?
“I want spaghetti,” Peter decides, reaching for a packet of dried pasta, the plastic wrapping crinkling under his hand as he places it in the shopping cart.
“Spaghetti,” Tony repeats, eyeing Peter dubiously.
“Uh-huh,” Peter nods, eyeing the aisle for an accompanying sauce. “With meatballs. Oh, oh - and parmesan.”
“Spaghetti and meatballs.”
Peter blinks. “Yes. And parmesan. I literally just said that. Oh ohhh, and garlic bread, good thinking,” he says, adding it to his list for when they hit the freezer aisle.
Tony snatches the packet of pasta from the cart and inspects it with evident distaste. “You want spaghetti and meatballs with dry pasta.”
“Oh my god,” Peter groans, snatching the packet back. He throws it back into the cart, swerving it around an older lady eyeing the macaroni. “Stop. I am not having this discussion again. You know how I feel about fresh, c’mon. It tastes weird.”
“Yeah, weirdo,” Tony nods as they round into the next aisle. He takes a couple of diced tomato cans, perusing their label as they talk. “It tastes like how pasta is supposed to taste.”
The man carrying a concealed weapon shadowing their steps some twelve feet away snorts in amusement. He has the good sense to look properly chastened when Peter looks back, unimpressed.
“Are you suggesting my tastes are unrefined?”
“Yes. Profoundly.”
“Yeah, well, your face is unrefined,” Peter deliberately throws a jar of not-fresh parmesan into the cart as he spots it, ignoring Tony’s grimace. “And also, considering you can’t actually cook, and I’m the dumbass that'll be sweating over a stove to cook it for you, maybe shut up?”
“My face is perfect,” Tony sniffs. “You’re rude. You know what? I’m taking my vows back.”
Peter snorts.
“Okay, cool. I hate being tied down anyway.”
“Same,” Tony shakes his head at the man shadowing them. “Can’t wait to be rid of this old ball and chain.
“I know, right? Well, goodbye, I guess.”
“Great. See ya.”
“Hey, you wanna help me clean the fridge when we get back?”
“Okay.”
Maybe their lives don’t mesh well on a surface level - king of the underbelly and a high school teacher - but they each make concessions in their daily lives to make each other happy.
Tony, bless his soul, acknowledges that Peter will never give up his job or make fettuccine from scratch, and Peter realises that there will always be corrupt politicians and black markets that need the guiding hand of a good man. Even if he doesn’t like bloodshed.
Tony never hurt anybody that didn’t deserve it. And no matter how much Peter cares, the underworld is always going to be there. Blackmarkets were always going to run regardless of how much he gave a shit. It was all about management, he'd learned.
Tony was that guy. In fact, if you ask him, couldn’t be a better guy overseeing it. And Peter was there, right behind him. It’s all about balance, you know?
Yeah.
It was never about turning a blind eye. But it kept everyone happy to make small adjustments.
Like when they’re waiting for the number to be called at a deli counter. A short, thin woman cuts in front of the pair just at the moment their number is called, immediately talks over them to get her order in.
Having stood waiting for the better part of ten minutes, his husband audibly had audibly tutted in vexation.
“Anthony,” Peter chides when he hears the sound of the hammer being pulled back in whatever firearm is in Tony’s pocket. “Stop it.”
Tony retrieves his hand from his jacket, raising it in a gesture of innocence. “What?”
“This isn’t the Wild West. You’re gonna get us kicked out.”
“It’s called being courteous. She was rude. Don’t you think she was rude?” he asks one of the men waiting beside them, who only offers a bewildered look in return. Tony huffs, turning his attention back to Peter. “Ridiculous. I’ve flayed for that kind of disrespect.”
Heads whip in their direction, including the woman who had cut in front of them, accompanied by a chorus of scandalised gasps.
“Figuratively, of course,” Tony refers to the crowd, offering a charming grin.
Several shift away from the couple and no one argues when they place their order next.
Peter sighs.
---
Lunch was a truly enormous serving of tomato soup and a veritable tower of stacked grilled cheese, courtesy of Peter’s growling stomach.
After arriving home with the groceries, having foregone breakfast, he was truly beyond hangry by the time everything was unpacked. Canned soup. Single-pack cheese, good god that was the kind of haute cuisine he was hankering for after his morning. Even Tony wolfed it down. However petulant he looked whilst doing so.
“Was lunch okay?” he asked, reaching over and wiping the crumbs from Tony’s beard with his thumb. “Up to your highness' standard?”
“Impeccable, sweetpea,” Tony smiled, setting his spoon into the near empty bowl. “Five stars.”
“Good.”
You’re so unrefined, Peter mimics petulantly in his head, feeling vindicated as Tony scoops up the, quote, ‘sodium cocktail’ with his bread crusts. Although the glare that Tony fixed him as they watched Gordon Ramsay swearing a storm on the TV gave him the impression that Tony knew exactly what he was thinking.
Whatever.
It didn’t stop Peter from sprawling across the length of the sofa to rest his head in Tony’s lap once he’d set his bowl aside, shifting, making himself comfortable. Nor did it stop Tony from unbuttoning his jeans and unzipping his fly, casually, as if to make room for the meal he’d consumed.
Inhaled, more like it, Peter thinks victoriously.
“We should get a cat,” he mumbles, comfortably full. He edges closer to his husband's body, smiling when fingers begin to card through his hair.
“No.”
“Yes. You like cats.”
“We're not getting a cat.”
“Why not,” Peter nuzzles closer to Tony’s crotch, the scent and the heat inexplicably comforting, pressing a kiss just above his groin. A low heat rises in his gut, comfortable and unhurried.
“We are not trading sexual favours for a discussion on pet ownership,” Tony warns, although his voice is soft and the fingers in his hair continue his gentle ministrations. “A discussion you will be losing, by the way.”
No he won’t. He’s going to blow Tony’s mind through his dick.
Or he will in a moment. His body feels heavy, lethargic with satiety, like he’s encased in concrete, sinking, sinking… sinking...
Yeah. He just… needs to rest his eyes first.
“You wanna suck me?” Tony asks softly, brushing his knuckles against Peter’s cheek, his voice low.
“Yeah,” Peter affirms, blinking, eyelids heavy with the impending food coma. But he can do it. “I can,” he mumbles, tongue thick in his mouth, lethargy impeding the eagerness of his hands.
He yawns, snuffling closer to Tony's groin. “I can... do it.”
Tony snorts down at him, thumb gently stroking over his eyebrow. He says something to Peter, like don’t strain yourself , but maybe it was a dream.
So is the case when he falls asleep to the furious swearing of the Scottish chef, fingers raking through his hair, his body conforming to the indents of their old sofa cushions. Sleep comes to him with his legs curled against the backrest, his own breath hot against his face, Mr Marley mowing his lawn a couple of yards over. Tony’s fingers in his hair.
When he wakes an indeterminate length of time later it’s to knuckles stroking his cheek softly and the declining afternoon sun streaming unfiltered through the west-facing windows.
Peter blinks, assessing the man sitting beside him.
“You’re wearing a suit,” he says dumbly, brain still foggy. “Are we role playing?”
Tony smiles. “No, baby. Don’t I wish. I gotta go to work.”
Still sleepy, he doesn’t immediately register what Tony has said until a couple of moments pass, and his heart drops to the floor at the announcement. As he does, he tries to resist the involuntary pout at the news, but the effort fails if Tony’s sad smile is anything to go by.
“No,” he says, voice small. “Tony. It’s our weekend off together. You promised.”
“I know, bug, I’m sorry,” the older man leans forward to place a kiss on his forehead before standing up. “It’s not fair. I’m just as mad as you are.”
“Why?”
“Happy called. One of Mayor Ross’s aides is threatening us with the feds. Gotta step in this time and pretend to be the boss. You know, show of authority. Make someone piss their pants.”
“You are the boss,” he yawns, smacking his lips, watching as his husband adjusts his tie above him. “But you owe me.”
“That because you’re the boss of me?”
“Uh-huh.”
Tony nods. “Alright. Name your price.”
Peter smirks, melting back against the cushions and kicking his feet up on the far armrest.
“School fundraiser, June thirtieth. You and me at a table. You’re gonna use that pretty face and charm of yours to help me sell cookies.”
Tony groans, leaning his forearms over the armrest above Peter’s head.
“You do know that you are the devil, right? You’re in the dictionary next to the definition of ‘heinous’.”
Peter grins.
“Clearly you don’t love me,” Tony tries. “I hate school fundraisers. You know this.”
“I do know this,” he says smugly, stretching his arms upwards on a yawn, fingers gripping his husband's tie on the descent. He uses the hold to tug him closer. “Do you know how many papers I set aside for tomorrow to have this day off together? Do you have any idea what I had planned? I’m mad at you. Livid, even.”
“Can I at least buy out the cookies and cake?”
“And get away with abandoning me? Uhh, let me think -- no.”
Tony sighs, shifting above him. “You drive a hard bargain.”
“I know. It’s why you married me.”
“One of the reasons why I married you.”
“Uh-huh. Go away. Be home for dinner.”
“Will do,” Tony affirms, allowing himself to be tugged by his tie until he’s dragged into an upside-down kiss. “Wait, one more for luck,” he says after a moment, leaning in and kissing Peter again.
“I hate you,” Peter mumbles against his lips. “I’m making that spaghetti and you’re gonna pretend to like it.”
“Love you too,” Tony whispers, fond, closing his eyes and planting a final wet peck on Peter’s cheek. He whispers, as Peter yawns again. “I’ll see you soon, speed racer. Don’t burn the house down.”
With that Tony leaves, the sound of door closing signalling Peter’s solitude.
If Tony’s previous ‘quick stops’ are of any worthy precedent, Peter’s in for a couple of hours of boredom.
They should really get a pet, Peter thinks, falling back into twitchy micro-sleeps once he’s alone.
With the low-slinging sun still in his eyes, sleep again eludes him for the second time that day and he can no longer drown out the cheer of children next door and the barking dog on the street over, the summer-time squeak of ill-oiled bicycles and the approaching twilight chorus of cicadas.
Retrieving his phone from his pocket, Peter goes down the YouTube rabbit-hole.
---
By the time he drags himself off the couch at least an hour later, Peter’s watched more episodes of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives than he’d like to admit, hypnotised by the food stuck in Guy Fieri’s incredible goatee.
God. Now he wants nacho chicken wings.
Stretching as he stands, Peter makes work of shutting all of the open curtains in the house, switching on the lamps in the living room and hallway lights as he goes. He keeps the kitchen window open and leaves the screen-door as it is to allow the cool evening air to drift through the house.
He does ensure he locks it, however, mindful of how much Tony hates it when the reinforced door behind it isn’t closed as well. Which is stupid. They have a reinforced door. It has six locks on it. Six.
Explaining that at their housewarming was a real trip.
Smiling at the memory, Peter heads to the kitchen. The house is definitely too quiet, he reckons, and switches on the old radio May gave him when he moved out. He turns it up as loud as it can go, tuning it to whatever station doesn’t come out distorted from the dated speakers.
Tonight, that station was the oldies. To Petunia Clark he peruses through the now more abundant trove of food they had to retrieve the necessary ingredients for dinner. Tomatoes, onion, garlic. Fresh basil picked from the pot on the window sill.
Sometimes he can’t believe how his life turned out. When he thinks back to the young kid from Queens who only had his aunt to impress with his cooking, his skills acquired from his time at Neds, Delmars and online tutorials, from that college kid who lived on packet ramen and energy drinks.
Still does, sometimes, when he thinks he can get away with stashing the packets of Mi Goreng where his husband can’t see them.
Tony keeps threatening to refine his palette. He hasn’t succeeded yet, but Peter suspects it's due to lack of trying.
Or hope.
The song changes again, and to the highs and lows of Neil Diamond's Sweet Caroline Peter gets the sauce simmering in a pan, dah-dah-dah-ing under his breath, shimmying his hips and using the wooden spoon as a microphone as the music sweeps inside him. By the time the song ends, the stove backsplash is rendered in streaks of burst tomato but it’s fine, he’ll clean it up later.
It’s not until the pasta is near ready that the front-yard sensor light blinks on and the front door creaks open.
It’s a testimony to Tony’s light footwork that Peter doesn’t notice he’s been crept up on until arms wrap around his waist from behind, startling him as he’s draining the pasta.
“Honey, I’m home,” Tony whispers, leaning forward to kiss his cheek.
Peter smiles, setting the pasta aside on the bench to grip Tony’s forearms as the older man guides their hips to sway to the music.
“How was work?”
“Absolute murder,” he presses a line of kisses across Peter’s jaw, goatee tickling his skin. “And before you ask, yes that is a gun in my pocket.”
“Does that man you’re not happy to see me?” Peter queries, setting the strainer aside and turning in his husband's arms. Settling his hands on Tony’s hips, his dumb mouth can’t help but echo the other man's fond smile when their eyes meat.
“I’m very happy to see you, always,” Tony pecks his lips, pausing. “I bought apology wine. Château Lafite 1787, you’ll like it. Come, let me get you a glass.”
Before Tony gets too far, Peter tugs him back by the wrist to face him.
“Wait, hang on,” he mumbles. Without looking away he brings his thumb to his mouth and licks it. “You’ve got a… thing...”
Bringing his spit-slicked thumb to Tony’s cheek, Peter rubs away at the long smear of blood that he’d spotted moments earlier, deep red and markedly drying in the bristles of Tony’s beard.
“How did that not get on your shirt,” Peter muses, digging the digit in to remove the remaining dried flakes until it’s clear. Satisfied with his work, he steps back and nods. “Okay, Mister-Man, you’re free to go and wash up.”
“Thank you, dear,” Tony says dryly. “You know how messy Barnes gets.”
“I recall. Does Barnes know that it’s a bitch to get arterial spray out of whites?”
“Why do you think he only wears black?”
“The aesthetic.”
Tony snorts, uncorking the wine, leaving Peter to finish plating up their meal.
They take their bowls and drinks over to the sofa, settling close together amongst the cushions. Tony shifts, knocking their elbows together to unmute the nightly news on the TV, leaving the remote lying in the groove between their thighs.
The first few mouthfuls are initially silent, both too ravenous to do more than groan with every slippery slide of noodles into their mouth.
“Mmm,” Tony drops his fork to the bowl with a clang, wiping the stray sauce from his mouth with a tissue from his pocket, throat bobbing as he swallows. “Baby, this is divine. Did you make this sauce from scratch?”
Peter nods, still chewing a bite of meatball. He swallows, twirling his fork into the pasta. “S’it okay? Thought it might offset the pasta taste. I used the basil from the windowsill.”
Tony leans over to press a kiss to Peters lips, his breath against his mouth all rich red-wine and tomato tartness, like all of their good nights before. He chases it with a peck of his own before resuming his attention to his meal.
“It’s amazing. Five stars and I’m not even being facetious. Thanks for cooking, chef.”
“S’ok,” Peter shrugs, a little bashful. With his free hand he picks up the remote and turns up the volume as the news program returns back from the ad break.
“And in breaking news,” the news anchor reads, stony faced and staring directly into the camera, “Paul Morello, aid and confidant to Mayor Ross, has been reported missing since last Wednesday. Close sources to Morello say he was last seen outside of his office getting into his vehicle three days ago. His girlfriend of four weeks says he hasn’t been home since he left that same morning.”
Peter snorts, shovelling another helping of spaghetti into his mouth. God, this would have gone so good with garlic bread, he thinks mournfully, wishing they’d bought a frozen loaf from the store and mentally adding it to his next shopping list.
“Please,” Tony huffs. “We only had Morello since this morning. Two of my girls had him before that. Which was an actual coincidence, believe it or not. Got mouthy when they demanded a condom.”
“Scumbag,” Peter concurs, sipping the wine. It’s pleasantly tart. “Did you give the girls a tip?”
“Sure did,” Tony knocks their glasses together. “Was just gonna cut off a finger at first, but turns out he has a list of buried charges that makes Brock Turner look like a choir boy -- or, well, had a list. Past tense."
“Good riddance,” Peter tilts his head back and downs the rest of his wine.
---
Long after the food is demolished and the food-coma state has passed in a daze, Peter remembers his promise from earlier.
While Tony’s attention is on his phone, scrolling through a Reuters article about himself, Peter takes the opportunity to slink down off the sofa onto his knees and position himself between the older man's legs. Curling his hands under Tony’s thighs, he kisses his way up from bend at his knee to the junction of his groin where he noses interestedly at the soft mound at the centre.
He mouths at it, peering up through his eyelashes, silently requesting attention at the same time Tony looks down. The man wastes little time in setting his phone aside and cupping Peter’s face with his hands.
“First a world class meal and now this?” Tony sighs, running his fingers through Peter’s hair as his zip is lowered. “I don’t fucking deserve you.”
“Hey, I decide that,,” Peter gently reprimands, tugging down Tony’s slacks, watching reverently as his half-hard length springs from the fabric to rest lazily against Tony’s hip. “And I’m feeling kinda generous, so. Take it or leave it.”
Tony reaches a hand down to caress the lobe of Peter's ear, the corner of his lips quirking sideways. His legs spread further to accommodate the width of Peter’s shoulders.
“Well, if you say so. Guess I better take it.”
Peter licks the tip of his cock, grimacing when his cheek comes into contact with something harder than Tony’s cock.
“Actually, can you just remove the loaded firearm from your pocket, just -- I don’t want it going off in my face? I -- yeah. Thanks. Sorry.”
Tony sighs, fishing out and dropping the weapon on the coffee table.
“Perfect,” Peter nods. “Glock 33. Nice. On second thought, wanna pop that in the safe and I’ll meet you back here pants-down? Cool?”
Tony shakes his head, his cock bobbing as he stands.
“So cool.”
---
Peter sighs softly against the back of Tony’s neck when the sliver of sunlight hits his eyes.
As usual, sleep doesn’t return to him easily once it’s lost, and unlike the previous morning, he doesn’t attempt to fall back under. The humidity of his own breath is uncomfortably warm against his chin. His bladder, full again, presses against his husband's warm body, soft cock against his lower back.
Tony, predictably, continues to snore.
Peter leaves the bed and tiptoes to the adjacent bathroom to pee. When he returns, he closes the curtain, mindful of his nakedness, then returns to the bed.
Deciding to make best use of his time awake, Peter spends the early hours of the morning under the sheets. Shifting down the mattress, he spreads Tony’s cheeks and buries his face between them.
The snores quickly turn into groans.
This is the life. Having his sleeping dragon of a husband kicking out his feet in his sleep, moaning wetly into his pillow as Peter eats him out. He always takes Peter so well, even in sleep. With his face flushed, breathless, it’s no hardship for Peter to tenderly attend to the musky furl of skin, tight again despite their recent loving.
It was magnificent. Even half-asleep, Peter couldn't allow it to go without worship on a Sunday morning.
His jaw is sore by the time Tony comes, his hips driving his release into the sheets. After taking a moment to catch his breath, chest heaving with the aftershock of his orgasm, Tony flips over onto his back, squinting up to the ceiling.
Peter crawls back up, pressing a line of kisses up Tony’s sternum to the hollow of his collarbone. Arms wrap around him tightly until they’re chest-to-chest, sticky with sweat. This close, Peter can feel the rhythmic beating of Tony’s racing heart.
“D’you wan’ me to…?” Tony mumbles, mouth going slack.
“I’m good, go back to sleep.”
“‘Kay. Love you.”
“Love you more,” he whispers.
Later, Peter is going to bring up the idea of adopting a cat again. He’s going to wear Tony down, he knows it.
But that can wait, for now.
Smiling, Peter hooks his leg over Tony's hip, kisses the back of his neck as tenderly as he can muster, and lets the darkness pull him back under.
Firefighter! Tony stark x highschool teacher, request
I know that this was submitted after my drabble request and you probably wanted a full fic, but to be honest this little drabble stuck in my head and wouldn’t get out. I hope you can accept this. Thank you
-
The call comes in at ten past ten in the morning: the old half of Elm Tree Elementary is on fire. Tony isn’t surprised. Built in the late 1800’s, the school is old as dirt—hence the newer building they attached for the younger students. How the thing hasn’t been shut down due to health code violations (don’t even try telling him it isn’t infested with asbestos), Tony has no clue.
“It’s gonna be dust in the wind before we even get there,” Bucky mutters stepping into his boots.
“But maybe we can save the newer half,” Steve insists, his pretty face grave.
Within minutes of the call coming in, they are dressed and on the truck, maneuvering through traffic. They can see the smoke from blocks away, and Tony thinks Bucky might be right: how much of the school is even going to be left when he gets there?
In the parking lot are 600 students of varying ages, watching the school burn with intermingled interest and glee and fascination. A few are crying—they’re just kids after all. Tony’s heart clenches for them, and for the teachers who’d had to usher them out. In a heartbeat, they are off the truck and scrambling into motion. Steve immediately puts in a request for more than the other two trucks from the station that have followed. If he can, he’ll get every fire truck in New York City here to try to save the school.
As they get off the truck, they are bombarded by two dozen first graders grabbing at their jackets, all shouting over each other, tears in their eyes. Tony kneels down, singles one of them out, and asks them to explain what everyone is frantic about—
“It’s Mr. Parker,” the girl says, eyes wide and red. “After he got us out and did headcount, he went back in.”
“What?” Tony asks. “Why? Where did he go?”
That’s how Tony and Bucky end up going room to room in the old section of the school, desperately searching for a ‘brown haired’ teacher who is ‘real, real nice’. That’s helpful, Bucky had muttered.
The smoke is heavy here, though no flames have reached this hallway and section of classrooms. Tony bursts through a door, sure that there will just be tiny desks and cubby holes and abandoned snacks when he is met with the sight of the prettiest young man he’s ever seen. Mr. Peter Parker must be fresh out of college, eyes wide and brown, skin pale and clear. He looks at Tony with wide eyes.
“What the fuck are you doing in here?” He shouts to make sure he is heard through his mask. “Notice anything funny about this place? It’s about to combust!”
Peter’s face hardens. Tony takes the time to look and see that he is standing in front of a two dozen large terrariums. One hand is poised above the cages—and it’s holding a scrabbling, wriggling mouse by the pink tail.
“I couldn’t leave them!” Peter says, a fire in his eyes to rival the building’s.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tony asks, not sure whether to laugh or cry. “They’re mice! You’re gonna die for some mice?”
oh what about teacher/teacher relationship au where science teacher! tony stark happily dating math or history teacher peter for about two years. tony decided to propose to peter with the help of his students during a basketball game break.
Both Peter and Tony being teachers does sound like a fun idea! They could be the thing all their students gossip about. That might be really cute. I will definitely write this one, but it will take some time, as I really need to write the next chapter for ‘The M word and a wedding’. As well as the other prompts I have received. ... And the SIM story... Good lord, I hope I get it done in a reasonable time frame! :-)
Write Me Love Notes In Glitter Glue, Steter AU - Character Cards (Part 3)
The task of the modern educator is not to cut down jungles, but to irrigate deserts.
Stiles is a single dad with two kids, and a real contempt for the status quo. Peter is a kindergarten teacher with an army of loyal little minions, and maybe a few ulterior motives.
Write Me Love Notes In Glitter Glue, Steter AU - Character Cards (Part 2)
The task of the modern educator is not to cut down jungles, but to irrigate deserts.
Stiles is a single dad with two kids, and a real contempt for the status quo. Peter is a kindergarten teacher with an army of loyal little minions, and maybe a few ulterior motives.
