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like romeo & juliet

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It was a love story, he thought, sometimes.

But then--he smiles at Tony, eyes bright, guilt wrapped tight where he couldn’t see it--Romeo and Juliet was a love story too.

He thinks this, theirs, will be like that.


The city is ruled by two men, and fought over by those same two.

The Merchant of Death, Tony Stark, who walked in the sunlight, barely bothering to cloak his crimes and agenda in the pretty package of his father’s company. He was, some said, untouchable--protected by his billions, by his name, by the government who needed him too much to stop the criminal underworld he ran.

And the Doctor, who preferred the shadows, because that’s where the desperate, the hopeless and lost lived.

That’s where his people lived.

The rest of the city murmured that Stark couldn’t be touched.

Strange sat in his shadows, a pretty boy curled in his lap, and knew he could.


Sometimes Peter wonders what would have happened, if Tony had found him first.

He thinks about it most when he’s laying in Tony’s bed, and he’s lying asleep next to him, one thick arm thrown over Peter’s waist, pinning him down and keeping him close.

He hates himself, for wishing that Tony had.


Stephen Strange didn’t find Peter, so much as Peter fell into his lap.

The son of his favorite biochemist, the genius who made the ridiculously expensive drugs he used to control the streets, Peter was always in his orbit.

Mary wanted to protect him, wanted to keep him away from the dirty, violent world they lived in. Strange didn’t even disagree. Peter was...special.

He was lovely, lithe and fragile, pale and blushing and shy. He trembled under Strange’s heavy gaze, honey bright eyes wide and curious and impossibly naive.

He was perfection and innocence and curiosity and Strange thought--

He was the perfect weapon.

One no one would ever see coming.


The Doctor was reclusive.

Tony thinks he could have dealt with him, a long time ago--if he could just get him to step out of the shadows. But he clung to them, and he moved like a goddamn wizard, almost materializing and disappearing.

That wasn’t even the worst of it. Tony could handle that--one man was easy enough, even one as slippery as the fucking Doctor. But it wasn’t just him.

It was his pet assassins.

The ones who slipped in unseen, killed without sound, and vanished without a trace.

The ones Tony’s spies and tech and threats could not find.

Strange wasn’t the problem--any petty druglord could be toppled with the right leverage--the problem was the killers who protected him.  


Peter sees Tony long before he ever meets him.

Strange holds him, and Peter leans into his touch, pliant and warm and trusting. “See him, darling?” Strange whispers, and Peter watches the Merchant.

He knows the stories, knows exactly who the beautiful man in his impeccable suit and scruff is. He isn’t exactly what Peter expects. Strange’s hand squeezes his waist, just enough to drag Peter’s attention back to him. “Darling,” he says, his voice sharp and demanding and Peter licks his lips, tastes the cherry gloss Strange likes on him so much.

“Yes, Sir,” he says, obediently.

Strange smiles, and presses a kiss to Peter’s throat, and Peter shivers, wishing they were home, they were in their big bed. Sir gives will give him a tiny dose of Silk, before he fucks Peter, just enough that everything feels slippery, hazy, the whole world has faded out, except the place Sir touches him, lights him up with pain and exquisite pleasure.

He whines, high and needy and Sir laughs, presses his teeth delicately against Peter’s throat. “Darling, will you kill him for me?”

Peter looks across the room, where Tony Stark stands smiling and beautiful and untouchable with his Captain and his Soldier, and he says, “Yes, Sir.”


Stephen Strange looked at Peter Parker, a orphan boy, the sheltered, pretty child of his favorite chemist and saw a future unfold, and smiled.

Peter would be the perfect weapon. The one that Tony Stark would never see coming.


Peter watches Tony sleep, wrapped in silk and satin, and his lover’s heavy arm holding him close, and his fingers rub over the hilt of his favorite blade, the one he has used on so many of Sir’s enemies, before he slips back to Sir’s side. Those were easy. So easy.

This--this is easy and terrible and perfect and impossible.  

He thinks, It’s a love story. But a tragic one.

A love story like Romeo and Juliet.