#every like is one more frustrating starbucks anecdote i will share

[deadmaidclub]

one time at work this guy ordered like a double chocolate chip frap or something and he payed for it and i went to hand it to him and he was like. thats not mine. and i was like. you ordered the dbl chocchip frap right? and he was like yeah. and i was like. this is it. and he said “it has whipped cream on it. i never get whipped cream” good sir i have never seen you before in my goddamn life how the fuck would i know that

#txt #every like is one more frustrating starbucks anecdote i will share

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Never Too Late 3

Warnings: noncon sexual acts (later in series)

This is dark!Steve Rogers and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You’re turning forty and life seems to be forging ahead on its one way track, that is until you meet Steve Rogers.

Note: Figure I’d give this a quick update :)

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

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After you saved Steve’s number to your phone, his first text was unexpected. Just as you finished your dinner, your cell buzzed and you read his message. ‘Hope you’re having a great night.’ You had given him your number so you could run together, you hadn’t expected anything else. ‘Thanks. You too.’ The reply was simple. Courteous but short. Perhaps he would get the hint.

But he texted again. ‘Another mission tomorrow. Enjoy your run. Be back in a few days.’ You felt awkward and uncertain. How did you respond to that? You supposed you were friends but there was a barrier there still. Not like your other friends; old friends, now. The same humour tossed back and forth wasn’t there. You felt a sense of formality; of expectation. He was Captain America. You couldn’t share your dark anecdotes with him.

‘Good luck.’ You replied. He sent a smiley in return. You left it at that and plugged in your phone across the room. You didn’t want to worry about him. You had one more day off before you were once again back to work. A day to yourself. Not that you ever spent much of your time anything but alone.

Sunday came and went. Laundry, tidying, chores. All that after another run around the park. Your muscles were loosening up and you felt decent. No more frozen pizzas but greens and baked chicken. You were changing, a little at a time, but it was something.

The next day, even after your morning exercise, you arrived at work enlivened. You had to admit that Steve’s gift had come in handy. You didn’t have to fumble with your phone for the time or even to check your messages. It was all on your wrists; your steps, your heart rate, your alarms.  

Even so, you still felt a pang of guilt looking at it. He was too nice. Yet you wouldn’t let your mind wander far when you asked why. He had told you. Friends; running buddies. Simple as that. Maybe it was a novelty for him to meet someone who wasn’t entirely starstruck or to have someone who wasn’t in the same line of work as him. Or maybe he was secretly laughing at the old woman and her scuffed sneakers.

And there were other changes. Not just the physical adrenaline of your new habit. You felt a little less suffocated by the window around your counter, a little less annoyed by your eclectic co-workers, a little less bogged down at the end of the day. You started tracking your meals on the watch app, too.

The days ticked off easier and the mornings were less groggy. New York was brighter even as August came to an end. Forty wasn’t so bad. You wouldn’t let it be. You couldn’t. You’d wasted enough time.

Steve returned the following Sunday. A whole week away. You were surprised as he caught you a block before the park.

“Must’ve been quite the mission,” You remarked as you passed under the archway which led to the park. 

“It… was,” He said hesitantly. “Look at you.”

“What?” You glanced over.

“Nothing, you just look… happier,” He replied. “And you’re moving a lot better. Forty looks good on you.”

You rolled your eyes.

“And the watch,” He added.

“Yeah, it’s… thank you. It’s really helpful.” You ceded.

“Another few weeks and I won’t be able to keep up with you,” He jibed.

“Don’t patronize me,” You said.

“Serious.” He insisted. “You know it’s okay to be proud of yourself. Progress is always progress. No matter how small it seems.”

“You ever think of being a life coach?” You said. “You could really make a buck off the suckers who buy into that stuff.”

“Life coach?” He repeated. “I never heard of that.”

“Oh, you know, they get paid to give you a smiley face sticker for waking up every day,” You said. “Wait, I think they call themselves accountability consultants, these days. Sounds more like my mother.”

He laughed as you headed up the incline.

“Am I that inspiring?” He asked.

“Not the word I’d use,” You said.

“You think I’m bad but this is me in easy mode,” He said. “You haven’t seen me in Captain mode.”

“Captain mode?” You snickered. “Sounds awful.”

“So I’ve heard.” He said as he stopped. You skidded and spun back to him. “Drop and give me twenty, soldier.”

“What?” You shook your head. “Come on, Steve.”

“Not until I see twenty,” He said. You weren’t sure if he was kidding. You laughed. “Captain mode.” He got closer. “Hands shoulder width apart,” He commanded. “Knees straight.”

You stared at him as your chest flurried. You blinked and his hands went to his hips.

“I can’t-- Steve.” You said.

“You can’t or you won’t,” He challenged. 

You grimaced and checked your watch. You weren’t even halfway done your run. You got down slowly to the ground, cheeks burning, and got into position. You lifted yourself shakily and grunted out, “One.”

“That’s it.” He stepped around you. “Two. Three.” He counted for you and swung a foot over you and stood above you. “Four.” He bent and grabbed your waist. “Don’t bend your knees. Five. Six.” He guided you. “Keep your form. Seven. Eight…”

Your arms thrummed and you dropped to your chest entirely at fourteen. You were out of breath already and embarrassed. He came around you and knelt in front of you.

“Only six more.”

“Steve,” You panted. “Stop.” You pushed yourself up and sat on your knees. 

“You’re just gonna give up?” He asked.

“Please,” You got up and wavered on your feet. “I… I can’t.”

You turned away from him and started walking. You dusted off your hands and regained your breath. He followed only as you broke into a jog. He caught up easily.

“You only get better by doing it,” He said.

You were silent. Humiliated. You had felt so good, so ahead of the game and he had pulled you right back. Reminded you of your age, of your weakness. And you had let him.

“How old are you? One hundred and what?” You gasped. “I don’t see any grey. Nothing. I’d killed to look like you ten years ago, let alone today. Don’t act like you know. You don’t. Another ten years and you still won’t feel like I do.” You sniffed back your anger. “You don’t know how lucky you are or how easy you have it.”

“I was just trying to… help. To push you.” He said. “To show you what you’re capable of.”

“All you’ve shown me is what I can’t do,” You sneered. “As if I didn’t already know.”

You continued on in silence. He languished in the anger radiating off of you as you dwelled in humiliation. One step forward, two steps back.

📱

Steve apologized again before you parted. Once more over a text. And again the next morning. You just wanted to forget it and you said as much.

Your run was quieter that day. You had work on your mind. You could tell Steve felt bad. You did too. You were taking your insecurities out on him. He hadn’t done it with bad intent but it still felt like it. It still felt entirely degrading to stand beside him in stark contrast to vitality. He was a beacon and you were a burnt wick.

You left him with as few words as the day before and returned home to shower before you caught the train. The same counter, the same co-workers, the same ticking clock staring back at you, the same disgruntled New Yorkers.

As you clocked out for your lunch, Deanna stopped you. Her usual starbucks monstrosity in hand.

“You’ve got a visitor.” She said. “Front desk.”

You sputtered out your confused curiosity and grabbed your lunch from the break room fridge. The last time someone came to see you, it had been your mother. She wanted your thoughts on your nephew’s birthday party. She had quickly grown frustrated with your suggestions and subsequent indifference to her obstinacy.

But it wasn’t your mother. Steve stood by the round desk where applicants were dolled out forms and their papers were reviewed before the moved onto you. You approached and your grasp tightened on your lunch bag.

“What are you doing here?” You asked.

“I wanted to apologize.”

“Again?” You peered over at the girl at the circular desk. You waved Steve away from her and led him out to the shared lobby. “I’m not mad at you, okay? I’m mad at myself. I shouldn’t have reacted like that.”

“I shouldn’t have pushed you. You obviously weren’t comfortable with that and I should’ve known better.” He said. “Can I make it up to you?”

“You don’t need to.” You replied.

“Well, maybe you don’t think I do but I think so,” He said. “There’s a pizzeria by my place. I thought a slice would be good for a cheat day.”

“It’s Monday,” You said.

“And? One slice.” He caught your eye. “Please.”

“One slice.” You checked your watch. “And the last twenty minutes of my break.”

“It’s all yours, sorry,” He raised his hands. “I’ll meet you after work. Here.”

“Fine,” You nodded. “See ya then.”

“With bells on.” He smiled but made no move to leave.

You turned away first and felt him watching you as you passed back through the door. You glanced back as you neared the desk. He was still there, staring at you. You quickly continued past the front desk and back through the waiting room. Your cynicism was getting the best of you.

📱

As promised, Steve was waiting for you. You’d almost forgot as he spooked you in the lobby. You let him hail a cab and were thankful for the leather seat. You were exhausted and you weren’t halfway through the week.

The pizza place was small but smelled delicious. You ordered a slice with veggies and Steve got triple meat. You sat at a round table by the window and opened the bottle of water.

“How was your day?” He asked.

“Same old,” You swallowed your first bite. “Not very exciting work. Nothing compared to fighting bad guys.”

“You don’t like it?” He prodded.

“It’s work. It’s definitely not my dream. Not that I really ever had one.” You took another bite to shut yourself up.

“You never tried anything else?”

“Well, I worked retail before. And I was a waitress.” You took a drink of water. “Art degrees might as well be painted over. Ironically.”

“You have an art degree?”

“Buried somewhere.” You said.

“Oh yeah? You paint?” He leaned on the table.

“Sometimes… not much,” You confessed. “Doodles mostly.”

“But… you could sell your art.”

“For pennies,” You countered.

“You never know? And it could be a second hobby. Something you love.”

“Well, with art, you have to have something to say. There’s a point in your life when your voice becomes futile and then you just are too tired to talk above the crowd.” You shrugged. “Anything I have to say has been said before.”

“You don’t know that.”

“What do you care if I paint?” You challenged.

“Well, I think you should do what makes you happy. Not just what you should do or have to do.” He said.

“So you save the world because it’s what makes you happy?”

“Well, in a way, but I do other things. I draw, no degree in that but I do it. I run, not so fun to you but it clears my head. I build things.” He bent his crust and dropped it. “And I do new things that I end up hating and sometimes I end up loving. But if I didn’t try, I wouldn’t know.”

You swallowed and wiped your mouth.

“Maybe that’s why your Captain America and I’m not.” You said as you crumpled your napkin up. “You have a serum that can turn art into money?”

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers x reader #fic #series #never too late #dark fic #dark!fic #mcu #marvel

[whumphoarder]

Festive Misfortune

Summary: Being lactose intolerant sucks. Being lactose intolerant during the Christmas season sucks even more.

Or, Tony tries to give his kid a carefree holiday party for once by serving a completely dairy-free menu. But of course, Parker Luck™ strikes again.

(In the same universe as Spider-Man’s Very Mundane Kryptonite and Face God and Walk Backwards Into Hell, but you can read them in any order)

Word count: 1,953

Genre: Fluffy illness, sickfic, Christmas theme

Link to read on Ao3

“So, you’re saying I can eat everything here?” Peter asked in amazement, eyes scanning the overflowing buffet table at the Avengers team Christmas dinner. “Including the lasagna?”

Tony nodded. “Every single dish. I catered the entire event from a restaurant specifically specializing in allergen-free dishes. Despite how it may look, there’s not a drop of dairy in sight.”

“So”—Peter moved over to the dessert section of the table—”the cannolis? The tiramisu?” He looked up at his mentor, near giddy with delight. “Even the cheesecake?!”

Tony chuckled. “For once, knock yourself out, kid.”

For just a second, Peter looked like he might cry. He settled for pulling Tony into a bone-crushing hug. “Mr. Stark, this is the best Christmas ever,” he said sincerely.

X

As expected, dinner was a rousing affair. The team joked and laughed as they ate, sharing anecdotes and recounting past missions with each other. With the exception of maybe two dishes that had weird textures, the catered dairy-free food was all surprisingly good. Peter tried a little of everything, gushing his thanks to his mentor the entire time to the point that Tony felt a little bad for not having done this before. Everyone agreed the crème brûlée topped tofu-cheesecake was the star of the show; Tony watched fondly as the kid polished off his third slice.

Once dinner was finished, the team moved into the common area living room to decide on a movie to watch. Or attempt to decide on a movie anyway.

“White Christmas,” Bruce said. “Hands down, best Christmas film of all time.”

“You can’t be serious,” Clint balked at him. He made eye contact with Tony. “Home Alone. That kid is a tactical mastermind.”

“I vote Die Hard,” Natasha said.

“That’s not a real Christmas movie,” Wanda complained. “I want to see Charlie Brown in English. I’ve only ever seen it dubbed in Sokovian.”

“Nah man, you gotta do the Grinch,” Sam said, walking in with a massive bowl of steaming popcorn.

Nat wrinkled up her nose. “Which version? Classic or Jim Carrey?” she asked as she snagged a handful of popcorn.

Sam shot her an offended look. “Jim Carrey is a classic.”

Steve was sulking in an armchair at the other end of the room. “I still vote Babes in Toyland,” he grumbled.

“Okay one, that definitely sounds like a porno,” Tony scoffed at him, “and two, that’s just because it’s the only one old enough for you to remember.”

“Hey,” Steve shot back, “I have the right to nostalgia just as much as the rest of you.”

“What about It’s a Wonderful Life or Miracle on 34th Street?” Bruce suggested. “Those have gotta be from your era, right?” He glanced up at the ceiling for confirmation.

“It’s a Wonderful Life, directed by Frank Capra, was released in 1946,” FRIDAY informed. “Miracle on 34th Street, directed by Les Mayfield, was released in 1947.”

Steve sighed and shook his head. “I was frozen in ‘45.”

“Ah.” Bruce winced. “Sorry.”

“Okay, I say we let the kid pick,” Tony declared over the chatter. “What do you say, Pete?” he asked, turning towards the unusually quiet teenager at the other end of the sofa.

Peter seemed caught off guard. “Oh. Um, I dunno…” He shrugged and shifted position, pulling his legs up and tucking his knees to the side. “I’m good with whatever.”

“C’mon, you gotta have some preference,” Tony pressed.

“I guess…I mean, the Grinch is always good. Or Christmas Vacation, maybe?” Peter suggested.

“Oh man, how did I forget about the Griswold family?” Clint exclaimed. “I’m changing my vote.”

“I’m down,” Sam agreed. “Exploding turkeys, insufferable relatives, electrocuted cats...what’s not to love?”

X

It turned out Clint could more or less quote the whole movie, and did so under his breath for the first five minutes solid until Nat threatened to silence him in a rather unsavory way. They were all much quieter after that.

The movie was amusing as always, but Tony was a little distracted. Peter kept shifting around on the sofa, only giving half-hearted laughs at the funny scenes. For the most part, his lips were pressed together tightly.

Tony frowned and leaned over to whisper at him. “You alright, kid?”

All traces of discomfort disappeared from Peter’s face as he quickly flashed his mentor a smile. “Yeah, of course.”

When they got to the swimming pool scene, Tony jokingly tossed a throw blanket over the kid’s head, blocking his view of the screen.

“Aw c’mon!” Peter complained, his voice a little muffled by the blanket. “It’s PG-13. You don’t even see anything.”

“No minors will be viewing sideboob under my roof, kiddo,” Tony declared.

Natasha smirked at him. “The hypocrisy is rampant.”

“Nah, I’m with Stark on this one,” Clint said. “Kid’s got plenty of time for that later.”

Wanda rolled her eyes. “You two are such dads.”

Still comically covered by the blanket, Peter got to his feet. “I’ll just use this opportunity to go to the bathroom,” he mumbled. “Enjoy your sideboob, everyone.”

The team snorted in laughter as the blanket-clad figure shuffled out of the living room.

X

When twenty minutes passed and Peter still hadn’t returned, Tony was starting to get antsy. Finally, he slipped off the couch and headed out to the hallway.

Upon discovering that the closest bathroom was unoccupied, he paused. “FRIDAY, where’s the kid?” he asked.

“Peter is currently in his bedroom,” the AI replied.

Tony’s brow furrowed. He’d just been teasing the kid about the sideboob thing—he honestly didn’t give a shit if Peter watched PG-13 or even R rated scenes for that matter. But maybe calling Peter out in front of a group of his literal heroes had embarrassed him more than Tony thought.

Figuring an apology was probably in order, he made his way up to Peter’s room. Technically, it was one of the guest bedrooms, but Peter stayed in it so often that it had morphed into his own space.

When Tony got there, he saw that the door was just slightly ajar. Through the gap, he could see Peter sprawled out face down on top of the bed, arms circled around his pillow which he was clutching to his stomach. His head was tilted away from the doorway so Tony only saw the back of it.

Tony hesitated a second before rapping the back of his knuckles against the door. “Hey kid? You planning on coming back?”

Peter pulled his head up and turned towards the doorway. Seeing his mentor, he immediately pushed himself up to sit up on the bed against the headboard. “Oh, sorry!” he gasped. “You didn’t pause the movie for me, right? Because you can totally keep playing it.”

Tony pushed the door open further and stepped inside. “They’re still watching, don’t worry,” he assured. “But you disappeared on us. What’s going on?”

Peter glanced down at the bedspread and shrugged. “Just got kinda tired. Wanted to lay down.”

Tony frowned as he moved closer to the bed. “Too tired to sit on a couch and watch a movie?” he questioned. “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” Peter mumbled back, but his stomach cut him off with an angry-sounding growl. A grimace flashed across his features and Peter snaked an arm around his middle.

It was a gesture Tony knew all too well. He blinked at the kid. “You have a stomach ache.” It was a statement, not a question.

Peter gave him a sheepish look.

Tony blinked again. “Why the fuck do you have a stomach ache?” he demanded.

“Uh...sorry?” Peter mumbled.

“No, I didn’t mean-” Tony cut himself off with a frustrated sigh. “I just don’t get it. Nothing you ate should have had dairy, so why is this happening?”

Peter gave a half-laugh. “Welcome to my world, Mr. Stark.” He hugged the pillow back to his obviously cramping stomach. “It's fine—I'm used it it. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve ordered soy milk in drinks at Starbucks and got regular milk instead.” He shrugged. “Now I just get that iced tea lemonade thing when I go there.”

“This is unbelievable,” Tony muttered irritably. “FRIDAY, call up the catering company. I want to speak to their manager. Now.”

“No, no, it’s okay!” Peter said quickly. “You don’t have to get anyone in trouble! I’m sure it was just an accident.”

“No, they can’t get away with this shit,” Tony argued, the feeling of righteous anger rising in him. “If they’re gonna advertise their menu as dairy-free, it better be fucking dairy-free! I mean, what if you were someone who had an actual dairy allergy instead of an intolerance?” he demanded. “Then we’d be talking about anaphylactic shock, not an upset stomach. This is serious, Peter—they have to be held responsible.”

Peter rubbed a hand at the back of his neck awkwardly. “Yeah, so about that...”

“What?”

“Um…I wasn’t gonna tell you, but if you’re gonna yell at someone—” Peter steeled himself with a breath. “It might not be totally their fault?”

Tony narrowed his eyes at the kid. “What did you do?”

If possible, Peter looked even more uncomfortable. “Uh… it wasn’t really me either…” He glanced up at the ceiling nervously. “I was kinda checking with FRIDAY before you got here to see what might have gone wrong and it turns out this place has two different specialized menus you can order from.”

“Right.” Tony nodded slowly. He was well aware of that. “One is dairy-free, and the other is gluten-free. I ordered off the dairy-free one.”

Peter’s stomach grumbled again and he pressed a hand to it with a wince. “Yeah, so, the two menus have pretty similar sounding stuff…”

Realization suddenly dawned on Tony. “Oh my god,” he muttered, a sick feeling coming over him. “Tell me I didn’t…”

“No no, not everything!” Peter cut in. He gave a humorless laugh. “Trust me, Mr. Stark, I would be like, on the bathroom floor, praying for god to just finish the job if that were the case.”

That image didn’t make Tony feel even remotely better. He squeezed shut his eyes and pressed his fist to them. “Which dishes did I order wrong?”

“Just um… just the cheesecake,” Peter mumbled. His stomach grumbled again. “And like, also maybe the cannolis?”

Guilt flooded through Tony. “Great. Fantastic.” He huffed out a sigh. “I fucking poisoned you.”

“No, no it was an accident!” Peter said quickly. “And it was probably my fault anyway—I should have known there was no way that gloriousness was made of tofu,” he said with a half laugh.

Tony ran a hand over his face. With all the shit he usually gave the kid about eating things he knew would make him sick, knowing that for once Tony was the reason for Peter’s current suffering made him feel terrible. “God, kid, I’m so sorry.”

“It's fine! I wasn’t even gonna tell you because I knew you’d feel bad but then you found me and…” Suddenly Peter paled and hopped off the bed. “Um, I gotta go, be right back.”

“Pete, I swear I’m gonna make this up to you,” Tony called after the kid as he headed for the en suite bathroom. “Christmas is in five days and I am an actual billionaire, so dream big kiddo!”

Peter threw a mock salute in Tony’s direction as he scurried off. Just as he got to the door, he looked back and locked eyes with his mentor. “It was really good cheesecake, Mr. Stark,” he said sincerely.

As soon as the door was shut behind him, Tony let out another sigh and muttered at the ceiling, “FRIDAY, get my Audi dealer on the phone. Tell him I’ve got a rush order.”

Read Part 4 of the Lactose Intolerant Peter series

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#spiderman fic #spiderman #irondad fic #sick peter parker #mcu writing #my fic #irondad