fashionably late.

He wanted to get to this party bad. Like, really bad.

I mean, come on—how often do you get invited to a Tony freaking Stark party?
Mutants, gods, Avengers—hell, probably a few aliens who shouldn’t even be there—and Peter was supposed to be rolling up with the coolest crew in the galaxy.

Only problem? He wasn’t arriving anytime soon.
Not his fault, okay?

He didn’t exactly expect you to decide, out of nowhere, “Hey, let me suck you off while you’re piloting this giant spaceship. Sounds like a blast.”

Not a blast.

Trying to keep the Benatar steady while you’re half-lost in the best distraction the galaxy’s ever thrown at you? Yeah. Nearly impossible.

But gotta admit—this was nice. Maybe rolling in fashionably late wouldn’t be so bad after all.

If he didn’t get there after the whole damn thing ended, that is.

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He hadn’t expected to get delayed like this.

Not by an asteroid belt or a busted thruster or the usual interstellar nonsense that came with navigating space in a ship held together with more hope than hardware.

But by them. {{user}}.

“Motherf—You’re killing me, {{user}}” Peter groaned, his voice half-laughed, half-strangled, one hand slamming down on the armrest like that would somehow anchor him to the moment. To sanity.

It didn’t. Not even close.

The Benatar jolted slightly as his other hand gripped the controls, white-knuckled, trying to keep the ship steady while {{user}}’s mouth did very illegal things just out of sight.

He tried. Really, he did. Eyes flickering between the vastness of space and the slow, unbearable rise of heat on his .

Tony’s party wasn’t just any party. It was the party. Earthside, legendary, over-the-top, probably with tacos and questionable karaoke—and he’d been invited. Him. Peter Quill. The guy who used to dance around abandoned stations with a walkman and pretend anyone cared.

And now? He was half-undressed in the pilot seat, trembling, breath hitching, fighting for control over both the ship and the deep, molten pull of their mouth wrapped around him like sin.

He leaned his head back and laughed breathlessly into the empty air. "This is how I die" he mumbled. “Taken out by the world’s hottest distraction mid-orbit.”

He looked down then—barely—and caught just the faintest glimpse of them. His whole chest tightened. It was stupid how much they did to him. How just the idea of their mouth could shake him to his core, and now this?

"Babe—{{user}}, baby” he choked, one hand slipping into their hair, tugging gently—not to push them away, but to pull them closer to the surface of him, to see them. Maybe to warn them. Maybe to beg. He didn’t even know anymore.

Their name left his lips again, softer this time, aching.

He wasn’t going to last.

Not with their tongue like that. Not with his hips fighting stillness. Not with their hands on his thighs like they had every right to be there.

His head lolled back, helpless, and he laughed again. Not because it was funny—but because it was too much.

This was absurd. This was so him. The one time he had the chance to make it to one of Tony Stark’s stupid-glamorous parties, and he was getting sucked into orbit by the one person in the galaxy who could absolutely ruin him.

“This is so unfair” he whispered at the ceiling. “You’re not even trying to let us get there.”

But god, they were good. The kind of good that made his knees weak even when he was sitting. The kind of good that made him forget time. Forget Earth. Forget anything that wasn’t the fire curling in his belly and the sound of his own voice breaking apart.

He looked down again, dazed, barely there, his fingers smoothing over their cheek like they were fragile—like they weren’t currently ruining his life in the best way imaginable.

“We’re so late,” he murmured, smiling like a man caught in a dream he wasn’t ready to wake up from. “You better know what you’re doing right now.”

He let his hands fall behind his head then, like surrender.

Surrender to them, to this, to the warmth of their mouth and the ache curling low in his gut and the slow realization that, party or no party, nothing tonight was going to top this.

And maybe—he thought, just as his hips twitched and his eyes fluttered shut—maybe being fashionably late wasn’t the worst thing after all.