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Sugar, Sugar

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Mr. Stark is going to let him keep the suit. Mr. Stark believes in him, Iron Man believes in him.

Peter collapses face-down on his bottom bunk and wonders if it’s actually possible to die of excitement. If it is, at least he’ll die happy.

It’s because of this excitement that he doesn’t realize that he’s just collapsed onto his bottom bunk- the bottom bunk of a bunk bed he definitely didn’t have when he left- until about thirty full seconds after he’s face-planted into the mattress. He jumps up so quick he nearly brains himself on the top bunk and- yeah. That definitely wasn’t there, before.

He looks around the room, taking stock of the changes he’d been too overcome by exhaustion and elation to register when he walked into the room.

It’s not that it’s a lot- technically it’s only a few things, but they’re big things. His bed, his desk, the state of the art new laptop sitting on said desk, Peter’s pretty sure he’s never even seen it in stores, only recognizes the Stark Industries emblem laser engraved into the metal- did Tony make it just for him?!

There’s a strange mixture of giddiness and vague guilt swirling together in his gut when he falls back onto his bunk, this time on his back. It’s making him feel a little ill until his eyes land on the poster- his poster- staring down at him from its place affixed to the bottom of the top bunk.

Oh, god. Oh, god. Even when Peter isn’t even around, he still manages to embarrass himself.

It hadn't even occurred to him that his Iron Man poster, which has been adorning the wall the bunk is now pressed against since he first moved in with May, is missing from its regular spot.

For one, fleeting moment, Peter comforts himself with the knowledge that there’s no way Mr. Stark actually, physically had a hand in this. He’s a busy man, when would he have had the chance?

Then he sees that the poster is now signed.



They’ve got to work on his story. This is what Mr. Stark tells him when he picks him up, three days after getting home from Berlin.

If he’s going to keep doing what he’s doing, he’s going to need a believable alibi, and Tony is offering him one. He’s going to be officially employed as an intern, under a department that’s mostly made up so no one notices the fact that he’s never actually at work, and working mostly ‘on call’ outside of school hours.

He’s also going to be paid- which, Peter does feel a little weird about that, considering he’s not actually doing any of the work, but Tony reminds him that he is doing work, just not the work detailed on paper.

Besides, Tony explains, technically this will be a real internship. Peter is more than welcome- encouraged, even- to come down whenever he wants, not just to Stark Industries’ remaining New York HQ, but to the Avengers compound. Learn, work, pad his university applications. Whatever you want, Tony says, making a broad, sweeping gesture to indicate all the possibilities that might entail.

He explains all of this over far too expensive food at a restaurant that doesn’t even list the prices on the menu. Between the knowledge that Tony is likely spending more on lunch than he has in his savings account, and everything he’s giving him, doing for him, Peter’s pretty sure his cheeks don’t cool through the entirety of the meal.



Peter seems to be under the impression that Tony is taking him home after lunch, he doesn’t bother to correct him. It’s more than worth the look of slow dawning confusion as they make their way uptown, instead. When they pull up outside the store- nothing too expensive, too bespoke just yet, but certainly more so than anything Peter has likely ever owned- the bewildered look of excitement that crosses his face is definitely a reward in itself.

He tells him that no self-respecting Stark intern has holes in his jeans, and Peter flushes, delighted and just a little embarrassed as Tony instructs him to pick whatever he likes. A rarely felt, deep sense of satisfaction curls low in his stomach as Peter does just that, settling heavy in his gut like a stone, and Tony wants more. There’s just something about Peter- so genuinely pleased and appreciative of what Tony is doing for him, blown away and not at all expectant, he wants- needs to keep giving. Keep that look on his face.

Or, more selfishly, keep that look for himself. From the excited way Peter flits around the store, babbling and spending just slightly too long pawing at the soft fabrics to be inconspicuous about the fact that he’s never been in a store like this before, Tony knows he’ll get to.



Peter doesn’t get to talk to Mr. Stark as often as he’d like to, relegated to sending messages through Happy, only ever getting to talk to Mr. Stark directly when the older man is the one to contact him. It’s selfish to want more of his time, he’s lucky he gets any at all, he knows that, but- but he can’t help it.

Still, he knows- hopes, Mr. Stark is at least paying some kind of attention. Now and then something will show up, a gift related to something or other he knows he mentioned to Happy in passing. A limited edition figurine from a franchise he likes, new sneakers, things that would’ve been difficult- but not impossible- to get on his own. Things he probably wouldn’t have been able to justify spending the money on, even with the internship.

At first it makes butterflies rise in his chest, Mr. Stark is getting his messages, he does care what Peter tells him, even when he’s talking nonsense. Maybe even especially when he’s talking nonsense, it seems.

A couple months in, though, his feelings have changed. Realistically, Mr. Stark probably just told Happy to order Peter whatever he needs to keep him satisfied, in line. He can’t blame him, really. Again, he knows it’s selfish to want the time and attention that he does from someone like Tony, but it doesn’t change how he feels, and this- it stings, just a little too much to ignore.

It’s not- it’s not smart, but it makes him want to be a little reckless.



The day after Peter passes Mr. Stark’s test, the older man is seated at their dinner table, sharing a particularly tense meal with a very, very displeased May, to put it generously.

As soon as she’d caught him, she’d cottoned on to the truth of the situation real fast. Scary fast. Peter hadn’t had a chance to soften the blow at all, not that he has a clue what he’d have said. First she’d been mad, then relieved, then mad again, then very, very curious as to when exactly he’d managed to acquire superpowers without her noticing.

Now, she’s veering towards mad again, but it’s not at him, it’s at Tony. Tony, who is, at this moment, taking it well. Too well, revealing a little too much about how personally responsible for Peter’s wellbeing he’s made himself. Not for the first time, Peter feels a little nauseous when he thinks about what he must have put him through, put them through.

Still, he wouldn’t do it any differently, given the chance. Not by much, at least.

Before he leaves, he gives Peter a new phone, equipped with all the latest tech and then some. It’s not surprising, exactly, he knows Tony wants him to be safe and making sure he has a (more than) functional phone seems like an obvious step in that direction, but it still warms something in his chest when Tony hands it to him.

He doesn’t fully grasp the weight of the gift until he’s back in his room later that night, exploring and customizing the new device. He goes to import his old contacts and finds there’s one already there. Just one. Mr. Stark.

Not Happy, not a work number, Mr. Stark’s actual, personal number.

Without thinking, he immediately hits the video call button, needing to see for himself if Mr. Stark will actually pick up. Approximately half a second later, Panic fills his chest, he fumbles for the end call button but even with his reflexes being what they are, Mr. Stark answers before he can hang up.

“Peter.” He greets, his voice is smooth and Peter’s pretty sure he catches a little amused edge to his expression as he nearly drops his phone on his face, scrambling to sit up so it doesn’t look like he was calling Mr. Stark from bed- which he was.
“Mr. Stark!” The older man grins and Peter wants to kick himself.
“Were you expecting someone else?”
“No! No- I mean, obviously not. I just- um, wanted to say… thank you?” Peter winces. Mr. Stark is silent for a beat too long to be entirely conspicuous and Peter’s not sure what he’s afraid of, but it makes him nervous.

“You didn’t think I’d answer.” There’s no point lying, Peter’s said as much in the past.
“Sorry.”
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, kid. I should’ve done this a long time ago.”
“It’s okay, Mr. Stark.” Peter promises quietly.
“It’s not,” Tony corrects. “But it will be. I’m gonna do better, kid.”



He instructs Peter to use the number for anything he feels like, so that’s exactly what Peter does. He tells Mr. Stark about his patrols, his classes, his ideas, even his plans with Ned. Tony doesn’t always reply, but sometimes he does, often enough that Peter never feels ignored. He wouldn’t expect a reply to everything, anyways, but Tony always gets back to him on the things that matter, and even a fair amount of the things that don’t.

Not only that, but he actually gets to see Tony more often, now. At least once a month, he’ll show up and take Peter out to some restaurant expensive enough to make his head spin, and he keeps Happy available to Peter whenever he might want to head upstate to the compound. He lets Peter have mostly free reign of his lab, exploring all of Tony’s new projects, even working on one or two of his own with the resources Mr. Stark provides.

It’s a little like a dream come true.

It’s during one of these trips to the compound, Tony walking him through his latest excellent but thoroughly unnecessary improvements to Peter’s suit, when it occurs to him that while he’s well aware of the fact that Tony likes to spoil him- that much is clear, by now- he’s not entirely sure why.



The weekend following his sixteenth birthday, Tony takes him out.

It’s some kind of charity event that Stark Industries is hosting, they’re both dressed to the nines, on Tony’s dime, of course. Peter’s having more than a little trouble swallowing against the heavy beating of his heart whenever Tony leans in close enough that Peter catches a whiff of his cologne, typically accompanied by a firm grip on his shoulder as he steers him around the room.

He’s trapped- there’s no other word for it- in conversation with a man close to Tony’s age, something Hammer, he’s pretty sure. The last name, at least, is memorable. Hammer man has been plying him with liquor, which would concern him more if it actually had any effect on him, seeing as he is definitively underage and there’s a very unsubtle edge to the way Hammer is eyeing him as he continues edging slowly closer to Peter. It can’t have been more than fifteen minutes, but his disinterest makes time drag.

At first it had been mostly amusing, but now it’s starting to get uncomfortable.

When he’d brought it up, Peter had mentioned that he’d never actually been to the west coast, and now the man is offering to bring Peter out to his house in L.A. for a week or two- show him the sights- Peter’s not naive enough to miss the implication.

He’s saved from having to forge his own awkward exit from the conversation by Mr. Stark, who makes himself known with a heavy, protective, maybe even possessive grip on Peter’s arm, stepping in close and positioning himself just slightly between them.

“Justin. Just who I was hoping not to see.” He’s not even trying particularly hard for levity, but the man- Justin, apparently, pulls a wide, fake smile regardless.
“Tony! Always the joker.” He glances back at Peter. “You get a load of this guy?” Tony doesn’t give long enough for Peter to have to worry about replying.
“I think you’ve bored Peter long enough, don’t you?”
“Jealous?” Hammer is clearly trying for an easier tone, but it comes out with a sneer.
“Pitying.” Tony corrects, dismissive.

Hammer’s face twists into something ugly- uglier than before, but they’re already gone before there’s much chance for it to matter.



Tony knows he should probably leave well enough alone, Hammer is a creep, but that’s nothing new. It shouldn’t be enough to push him like this, especially when he knows already that Peter hadn’t cared for a thing he’d said or offered.

Still, though, it’s tough to drown out that need. It’s the same need that has him buying presents for Peter, taking him on little trips and out for expensive meals. But Peter is only sixteen, newly sixteen, and Tony can’t push too hard, just yet. Can’t be too obvious. Assume too much.

He wants to tell Peter to forget about Hammer, he’ll take him on a trip down the coast himself, and he won’t just do it bigger and better, he’ll do it for Peter, the way he would like it best, because Tony knows him better. Knows him best, or wants to, at least. He can’t do any of that, though.

Still, that doesn’t mean he can’t do anything at all.

By the time Peter wakes up in the morning, he’ll have open return tickets and passes for the Coast Starlight waiting in his inbox, as well as more than enough in his bank account to cover travel expenses for a summer spent meandering along the seaside. It’s foolish, he knows, but if Peter pushes him on it he can always just pass it off as making sure Peter enjoys his time as a teenager.

It wouldn’t be untrue, anyways. Between being a superhero, even a friendly, neighbourhood one, and that big brain of his, Peter’s in more than enough of a rush to grow up, one summer spent just being a teenager probably wouldn’t hurt him. It really might be the last chance he gets.

Tony’s motives could almost be pure, when you look at it like that.



Peter stares at the tickets in his inbox and thinks- yeah, maybe he should’ve been ruminating on Tony’s motives, here, a little more.

It’s been easy to accept Tony’s excuses and pass the rest off as guilt, but this? This is something else. He can’t be positive that the fact that Tony is essentially one-upping Justin’s attempts to buy him actually means anything, especially when Tony himself will be in no way involved in the trip, but it’s something worth thinking about.

It’s enough to develop a theory.

Now, he just needs to test it.



He starts small. He’s in Mr. Stark’s lab, visiting him upstate for the weekend, though Mr. Stark himself will only be on the compound today. It’s been a good day, filled with easy banter, hard work, and more of Mr. Stark’s patience than he honestly deserves, at times.

When Tony idly asks him if he’s made any plans for spring break, he sees an opportunity.

It would be easy to go for broke, mention a vacation he wishes he could go on, but that’s not the goal. He doesn’t want to see how much money Tony will spend on him, that’s too easy, considering how freely he spends it, he wants to see just how much attention Mr. Stark is actually paying.

He goes through his plans, which are, admittedly, not too interesting. Movies with friends, homework, patrols, and a mention of the limited edition lego Dune set that he and Ned are hoping to get their hands on so they can build it over the holiday.

Two days later, it’s waiting outside his door.



Next, he mentions the way he’s been having trouble sleeping. His heightened senses have him feeling the heat earlier than most, and combined with the increased awareness of his scratchy, cotton sheets, it’s been keeping him up at night.

Before the week is out, he’s got silk sheets adorning both bunks.



Peter never asks for any explanation, Tony never offers.

He decides to push a little harder.



He gets the tickets to SDCC for he and Ned so quick that he’s willing to bet Mr. Stark had bought them before he’d even brought them up.



It’s only a few days before he leaves for his summer trip down the West coast when he shows Tony a picture of the hoodie he’d seen on Twitter earlier in the day, it’s only carried by a pop-up shop in Hong Kong.

It doesn’t even include the brand name. There’s no convenient excuse for Tony to have it at his fingertips. He’d have to make a real, genuine effort to track it down in time, let alone get it to Peter before he leaves.

The night before he flies out, he comes home from patrol to find May has signed for a package for him and left it out on the kitchen table. He decides to be a little bold.

He puts on the hoodie, strips off his jeans so he’s only in his briefs, and sits cross legged on his bed. It’s a little ridiculous how much effort he puts into the picture, making sure his sheets look casually messy, but evident, so Mr. Stark can see he’s using them. He makes sure the lego set is visible in the background, tries to include as many of Mr. Stark’s gifts as he can manage inconspicuously, and snaps a few pictures of himself.

He sends his favourite before he can overthink how he looks, or what he’s doing, and immediately buries his face in the pillow, only barely resisting the urge to throw his phone across the room just to not have to confront how lame he is.

What if he’s wrong? What if this isn’t at all what he thinks it might be? What if Mr. Stark is just having some kind of midlife crisis over not having a kid yet, misdirecting all his paternal energy towards Peter, through money? What if-

His phone vibrates under his hand and his heart kicks up into his throat.

TS: It’s a good look on you.

Even as he feels his chest go tight, heat rising up his neck, he’s tortured by how vague it is. It’s a good look on him, but what does that mean? Good look in what way, and how good? The hoodie is a good look? Having nice things is a good look? Having nice things specifically from Tony is a good look? His phone vibrates again, almost immediately.

TS: All of it.



The trip is incredible, everything he could have asked for and more. He spends the summer traveling down the coast with MJ and Ned, all the way from Vancouver to LA. They hike, which is miserable at times, but gorgeous all the same, hang out in places that are significantly out of their league, but Tony’s name and MJ’s cool stare get them in.

By the end of it Peter is almost thankful to Justin Hammer for being such a damn creep. He’d never have been presumptuous enough to ask Tony for this trip on his own. Never even have thought of it.

Though, he’s sure he’d have given it to him if he had.

That’s the other big takeaway from the trip.

Naturally, the question of exactly where and how Peter had acquired the funds for this trip had come up pretty quick. They’d both figured out it was Tony without Peter having to say much at all, where else could it have come from? It's the why that they’ve spent the summer dissecting.

Tony, MJ has declared, has been grooming him. They’re on the plane home- the private plane- and the discussion has come to this again. He suspects it’s only because they like to watch him squirm whenever the subject comes up, being the wonderful friends that they are.

“It’s kind of gross.” MJ says plainly. “Unless you want it,” She adds, shrugging. “In which case, still kind of gross, but, y’know. Score. Richest sugar daddy in town. And a genius. And a superhero. Didn’t know you had it in you, Parker.”

Peter’s already turning red when Ned opens his mouth to speak, doing a poor job of holding back a grin, and Peter knows exactly what he’s about to say.
“Well-”
“No-” Peter warns, his voice is sharp but his protest goes ignored.
“He doesn’t-” Ned’s grin is only growing as his voice gets louder to speak over Peter’s emphatically pained protests, he reaches out to physically stop the words from leaving Ned’s mouth but he doesn’t make it in time, not that he was truly trying. “Yet.”

“Oh my god.” Peter buries his face in his hands while his friends laugh at him, slumping back in his seat, full of giddy embarrassment. It seems entirely too far fetched, more than a little hard to believe that Tony would want him of all people. Want to spoil him, want to- to touch him, but then again, actions speak louder than words, and Tony’s actions are more than a little damning, even he can admit that much.

At the very least, Tony has a thing for spoiling him. That much is undeniable. The things Tony will do for him have gone far beyond the boundaries of mentorship or even guilt.

Whether it stops there or not, he’s not actually sure, but they’ve got him feeling emboldened enough to find out.



He tells Tony all about their trip over dinner a couple days later.

He’s self-conscious of the way Tony’s eyes linger on him until he gets caught up in recounting some story or other, inevitably flushing red as he finishes, feeling the weight of Tony’s gaze once more. The cycle continues all through dinner, and it feels impossible to say whether or not Peter has just imagined the current of want behind the older man’s eyes, searching so intently for it that he’s going to see it regardless of reality.

He wants desperately to know, but tonight isn’t the night to find out. Regardless of Tony’s motives, he just wants him to know how much he appreciates what Tony’s done for him, the experiences he’s provided the opportunity for him to have, so he’ll leave it for next time rather than risk upsetting the balance between them.

Next time, though, he’ll find out for sure.



Tony wants to buy him things. Whether or not he wants Peter himself, he definitely wants to get him things. Expensive, unreasonable things.

This is what Peter keeps telling himself in the days leading up to his dinner with Tony, trying to work up the nerve to ask Tony for something outright. Something very much expensive and unreasonable. Something intimate. To a degree, at least. He practices in the mirror, batting his lashes and looking like an idiot, trying and failing not to turn red at the mere thought of what he’s doing. What he suspects.

Opportunity strikes when Tony is leant over the desk in front of them, inspecting the changes Peter has just finished making to one of his web shooters. Tony pulls back with a smile, weight shifting back onto his stool, just a little to the side so he can face Peter as he leans an elbow into the table.

“I like your watch, Mr. Stark.” Peter blurts out, nerves coming through a little more than he’d like. His heart is beating hard enough to make him just a little dizzy, palms sweating, and- Tony wants to buy him things, he keeps reminding himself of this when Tony’s brows tilt up, clearly a little surprised, probably more taken off guard by Peter’s obvious nerves than the compliment.
“Thanks, kid.” Peter swallows hard against the rattling in his chest.
“I-I want one.” He manages, forcing himself to hold Tony’s gaze as he fights the urge to wring his hands. “Will you buy me one?”

Something in Tony’s expression definitely shifts. He looks… unsettled, but far from upset or anything like it. He looks pleased. Pleased and surprised.

Both are replaced by nonchalance soon enough, but Peter knows what he saw.

“Of course I will, Peter. These aren’t easy to get ahold of, though. Limited model, only sold in Switzerland. It’ll take a week or two to get it.”

Peter knows what he saw. He decides to push. His nerves haven’t dissipated, but the thrill that he’s right, almost sure of it, now, is strong enough to rival them, quell them into submission enough that he can try and do this the way he’d planned.

He bites his lip, tilting his head just so, and he feels somehow both silly and devious all at once, but he’s- he’s practiced this. He knows what he looks like, and he knows that if Tony wants like he thinks he does, well, this certainly can’t hurt his cause.

“Two weeks?” He repeats, soft and sad and just a little pleading. “There’s nothing you can do, Mr. Stark?” It’s hard to say whether it’s just enough, or a little too much, but Peter goes for broke. “For me?”

It can’t be more than an extra second or two that Tony just looks at him, eyes narrowing just a fraction, but Peter knows beyond a doubt that Tony sees right through him, sees exactly what he’s doing. Exactly what he’s gambling on.

“Well,” Tony starts, voice gone just a little lower than before. It’s difficult to know whether it’s intentional or not, but it makes Peter shiver all the same. “There’s a shop downtown where I could get you something even nicer. They’re closed right now, but they’ll be open again by the time we get there, for the right price.” It’s not a question whether or not Tony is willing to pay said price. “Would you like that, Peter?”

Peter would, in fact, like that very much. He doesn’t even really want a watch, but he’s so elated at the fact that he’s right, because now he’s pretty much certain that he is right, that he forgets himself, for a moment, jumping up onto his feet and almost throwing his arms around Mr. Stark. He catches himself at the last second and awkwardly grips the older man’s arms instead, too excited to care. Either way, Tony’s expression is one clearly pleased at Peter’s enthusiasm, so there’s no point being embarrassed.

Peter’s heart beats hard enough to hurt all the way down to the car. Peter knows his way around the compound, by now, and Tony knows it but he keeps a firm grip over his nape the entire way down, and Peter could swear his fingers burn a brand into his skin for how devastatingly aware he is of the touch.

It’s not like Mr. Stark has never touched him before, but never like this. It’s always an authoritative grasp over his shoulder, maybe a hand over his elbow to guide him, the occasional hug. He knows, technically, there’s nothing especially intimate about the way Tony is touching him now, but it feels meaningful, somehow. Possessive. It feels like with his request, Peter has finally given something of himself to Tony that can’t be taken back.

It feels good.



When Peter looks up at him, red cheeked with eyes just a little too calculating for his own good under those long lashes he bats up at Tony so prettily, and asks for a watch like his, Tony knows exactly what he’s really asking.

He says yes.

It’d be impossible to miss the way Peter sways closer when Tony leans in to open the car door for him, and he’s sure Peter’s not too foolish to miss the way Tony’s fingers drag over the delicate skin of his wrist far more than necessary when he fastens the watch over it, nor the hand he’d guided him into the store with, just a little too low on his back to pass for decent.

Peter smiles up at him through all of it, pink and pleased and unmistakably eager, and it’s become very clear over the past hour that the next few months of Tony’s life will be an exercise in exceptional self-control.



Things are different after that.

Tony still doesn’t touch him the way he wants to, the way Peter wishes he would, and if it were for any other reason than Peter’s age, he wouldn’t be waiting around for Tony to make the first move. As it stands, though, it’s a reason he can’t fault him for, he doesn’t want to get Mr. Stark in trouble, afterall. So, Peter waits, and wants, and observes the things that have changed.

Mr. Stark may not touch him how he wishes he would, but his touches have undoubtedly changed. Everything feels more deliberate, less subtle, but somehow still natural. The touches definitely come more frequently than they ever used to, and all in all, it makes Peter feel incredibly wanted.

Hands low enough on his back that calloused fingers sometimes brush the sliver of skin where Peter’s shirt has ridden up. A tight grip over the back of his neck. Palm resting just a little too far above his knee to be casual.

It’s nothing that would raise too many eyebrows if someone stumbled across them, but it’s more than enough to set Peter’s nerves on fire, every time. Combined with the way Mr. Stark looks at him, now, not bothering to hide his interest when it’s just the two of them, Peter feels like he’s dying a very, very slow and agonizing death.

He’s not entirely sure what’s going to give out first, honestly, his heart, or his right hand.

A part of him regrets pushing, he’s wanted Mr. Stark since before he ever knew him, since his body has known how to want someone, but it’s never been quite this bad before. Definitely never so tempting.

The most dangerous thing is that he’s fairly certain that if he were to give in, drag Tony in close and beg, the older man wouldn’t have it in him to say no.



Tony’s started telling him what to wear.

The heavy weight of the watch on his wrist already serves as a reminder, makes him feel like Tony- like Tony owns him, in some capacity, and wearing what Tony chooses for him only enhances the feeling. He’s well aware of the fact that it’s all very intentional, on Tony’s part.

There’s a certain performative quality to it as well. It makes him feel a little used, dressing up for Tony’s pleasure, regardless of his own comfort. Maybe he should mind it, but he really, really doesn’t.

Tony takes him to a bespoke tailor and has him suits made from scratch, choosing exactly where they’re going to fit just a little too close for comfort and where they’ll have some give. Deciding exactly how he best likes Peter to be displayed. He doesn’t stop there, after they’ve left the tailor’s, he takes him out clothes shopping and picks out an entire wardrobe of more casual clothes for him, right down to the underwear.



When Peter gets home, he finds a slim, black box he hadn’t noticed while they were out. He opens it to find several pairs of panties inside, and nearly dies on the spot. Some are lace, some silk, some even shockingly plain, cotton pieces, all in colours that compliment his skin particularly well, he can’t help noting.

He doesn’t have to worry about working up the nerve to choose a pair for himself, every day that he’s got a dinner date- because it feels safe, at this point, to call it what it is- with Mr. Stark, or knows he’ll be headed to the compound, he wakes up to a text from Tony, telling him exactly what he should be wearing and how.

If he lets his jeans ride a little too low so Tony can catch a glimpse of the soft lace peeking out from underneath the denim here and there when Peter’s hunched over one of the workbenches in Tony’s workshop, well, no one else has to know.



It’s not until the night before his seventeenth birthday, fresh out of the shower, that he notices the engraving on the back of the watch. It’s sitting on his desk, catching the last of the quickly waning daylight streaming in through his window at just the right angle to make sure the letters carved into the metal catch his eye.

Property of A. Stark



Peter is seventeen.

He’s waiting outside of his apartment building already when the car pulls up, visibly nervous, excited, with his weekend bag slung over his shoulder, dressed exactly as Tony had instructed him to before leaving the compound this morning. He already knows what he’s wearing underneath, he’s spent half the ride into the city unable to think of anything else.

Peter is seventeen, and tonight, he’s finally his.



He’s not sure what he’s expecting, exactly. It’s not like he thought that Tony would tear off his clothes as soon as he got into the car, or anything, but he did expect- something. It’s making him nervous, the way Tony has barely touched him, just looking, eyes practically burning holes through his suit with the force of his want behind them, but he won’t actually do anything about it. Won’t even tell Peter where they’re going so that he might have some idea of when he will.

When they pull up to the steps of the opera house, Peter is, admittedly, a little confused. It’s not that the opera isn’t nice, it is, but it’s not exactly what Peter would’ve expected.

Once they get inside, it becomes very apparent, very quickly, that the opera is not, in fact, the point of this particular outing.

They make their way upstairs to a waiting lounge clearly reserved for the guests with fatter wallets and more ostentatious tastes, and Tony pulls Peter in close to his side. His hand is resting so low on Peter’s back that the intent, the ownership behind it is borderline indecent and entirely unmistakable.

Tony brought him here to show him off. To make him feel shown off. To make sure everyone knows who he belongs to, and he’s well aware that there’s more than one or two things about that which aren’t quite right, but Peter loves it. He’d honestly not been sure what this was going to be, when it finally happened, still isn’t, if he’s being honest, but whatever it is, Tony clearly has no intentions of hiding from it, of hiding him.



Peter spends the entire first act paying no attention at all to the performance in front of him. His mind is occupied by the heat of Tony next to him, the man’s smell, the hand resting too far up his thigh for Peter to focus on anything else. Mr. Stark rubs small circles into Peter’s skin though his suit for the entire hour and a half, and Peter just prays he’ll be able to calm down by the time the lights come up and he’s expected to stand.

As if he weren’t already sensitive enough by simple virtue of being a teenager, his enhanced senses turn the slow drag of Tony’s thumb over his skin into something agonizing. He’s not even sure whether the soft fabric between their skin is making it better or worse.

They don’t stay for the second act.



The car that Mr. Stark has waiting for them when they step outside is not the same one that dropped them off.

It’s sleeker, a little more compact, and most importantly, driverless.

He’d be lying if he said he weren’t a little in awe as he walks up to it, stepping out of Tony’s grip to admire the machine in front of him. It’s not like any model he’s ever seen in passing or on youtube and he knows Tony built it himself. The door opens unaided just before he gets close enough to reach for the handle and-

“Woah.” He breathes. He knows he’s probably embarrassing himself, but Tony built himself a driverless car. For fun. Peter’s never even been inside a regular one, let alone one like this. “This is-”
“Yours.”
“I-what?!” He whirls around, buzzing with- he’s not even sure what, and Tony is already there, grinning as he steps in close.
“It’s all yours, kid. Built her just for you. Doesn’t even need keys, you can just use your phone.”

“Mr. Stark.” Peter manages, it’s hard to speak. He expected something big, but this is- he wants- he wants. He pushes forward, reaching up to grab the older man’s shoulders, but Tony catches his hands and steps back. He presses a hot kiss to Peter’s knuckles and it takes every ounce of self control he has not to whine.

“I’m glad you like your birthday present, but don’t thank me just yet. The night’s not over.”



Considering what Tony’s said, he’s pretty confused when the car brings them to the compound, and even more confused when Tony guides him to his suite. It’s in the same wing of the compound as the rest of the residential rooms, but separated, a little grander, a lot more private.

It’s not until they veer off away from the hall that he’s fairly certain would lead them to Tony’s bedroom, and towards a guest room, that Peter gets it. He takes in the high- ridiculously high- ceilings, the floor to ceiling windows, the obscenely large bed, the door to what he suspects is an ensuite bathroom, and wonders what else is hidden out of sight as he walks into the room.

Drifting around the room, admiring, he feels almost dizzy. It’s not that the room is particularly spectacular- it is, don’t get him wrong, but not any more so than the things Tony has already shown him- it’s that it’s his. He slips his fingers under the covers of the bed to find that the sheets may just be the softest thing he’s ever felt.

He wants to explore the room more, ask FRIDAY to show him what other features Tony has no doubt hidden away, but he feels the broad, warm press of Tony against his back, breath hot over his nape as strong hands come down to grip his hips, digging into the crease of them just enough to make something in his abdomen grow heavy with need, and-

“You’re giving me a room?” Peter’s a little surprised how quiet his voice comes out. He just- can’t quite wrap his mind around what Tony is offering him as he turns in the older man’s arms, hands slipping up to his waist as he brings his own up to wind around Tony’s shoulders. Mr. Stark's gaze is intense enough to make him glad of the embrace so he can hide the way it makes dizzy with nervous want, leaning in close. “In your suite?”
“It’s where I keep everything that’s mine.” Tony replies, voice low. Absolute. Peter can feel the rumble of his chest through his bones and it’s- fuck. He needs to feel Tony everywhere.

“Mr. Stark,” He breathes, chest filling fast with urgent, sharp need, hands kneading against Tony’s back, one slipping up towards his neck, desperate. “I love my birthday presents.” He leans in even closer and Tony allows it. They’re close enough to share unsteady breaths and Peter feels the brush of Tony’s lips burning across his own when he speaks. “Is there anything else you wanted to give me?” And Tony- Tony laughs.

Tony laughs, and then he laughs some more, head tipping back as the sound comes from deep inside him, and Peter is definitely embarrassed, but he can’t bring himself to be particularly upset as he hides his face in Tony’s neck, letting out a laugh of his own.

“Too much?” He sighs into Tony’s skin once they’ve both mostly regained their breath. Tony’s holding him close, and it’s sweet and simple but not at all what Peter needs.
“No such thing with you, kid.” Tony assures him, bringing a hand up from Peter’s waist to cup his jaw, pulling him back from his neck.

There’s adrenalin buzzing under Peter’s skin and when Tony leans in close, his touch is the only thing keeping Peter still. He drags his thumb over Peter’s cheek, back and forth, and if Tony doesn’t do something soon, he’s going to die.

Tony’s hands grow tight enough to bruise, over his hip, his jaw, and when he speaks in a voice Peter’s only ever heard the briefest glimpses of, Peter knows he’s done for.

“You ever done this before?” There’s nothing Peter wouldn’t do or confess for Tony in this moment, with the promise as evident in his voice as it is. He’s so lost in the thought of what that might entail that it takes him a moment to gather his wits enough to reply.
“I-I’m not a virgin, but- um. No one’s ever-” His chest is burning and Tony grins, so close he can almost feel it.
“No one’s ever what, Peter?” He sounds amused, and Peter exhales, heavy and shaky as he forces out the words.
“No one- I’ve never been- um, you know, fucked.” He only barely stumbles over his words, still finishing a little shier than he’d like, but he considers it a win when a low noise tears its way up out from Tony’s chest. It makes his own chest rattle with nervous anticipation, heat swirling low in his gut.

“Good.” Is the last thing Tony says, so possessive and pleased it’s almost aggressive, before he finally, finally pushes forward and presses their lips together. The grip over his jaw is tight enough to ache and Peter moans when Tony’s tongue delves between his lips, pushing forward into the kiss, wanting nothing more in this moment than he wants to feel consumed.

Tony doesn’t let him down.

They’re pressed tight together, and Tony is stealing the breath from his lungs, nipping at his lips, sucking on his tongue, pushing until Peter can hardly keep up with the dizzying force of pleasure coursing through his veins. What he lacks in finesse, he’s fairly certain he makes up for in enthusiasm, Tony definitely isn’t complaining.

He pushes into every touch, he knows that even through the fabric of his suit, Tony is going to be bruised within the hour with the force of his grip on the older man’s shoulders.

Tony throws him off balance when the hand gripping his waist slides down over his side to grab at the thick muscle of his ass, pulling Peter apart and making him moan into his mouth as new heat builds in his chest. His hands have come up to tangle in Tony’s hair and when the older man pulls away just as his lungs are starting to burn, dipping down to mouth fervently at his throat, he knows he’s pulling too hard but Tony doesn’t seem to mind and he just can’t stop himself.

When Tony pushes in somehow closer, though he’d have thought it impossible, Peter’s cock presses into the thick of Tony’s thigh and- fuck, he can’t stop the whine that slips out. Mr. Stark has to feel how hard he is, close to leaking in his pants.

He can feel the hot swell of Tony’s own cock pressed against the crease of his hip and it makes him want to cry with how badly he wants to get his hands, his mouth on it. Tony isn’t near fully hard yet and Peter’s more than a little embarrassed at the thrill that shoots down his spine when he realizes how badly he wants to earn it, loves that he has to.

He’s still working up the nerve to ask for more, wondering if he’s even allowed, if that’s how this works, when Tony takes it out of his hands entirely, bringing both hands to Peter’s hips and turning them around so he can drop down onto the bed, dragging Peter into his lap and this- this is much better.

Tony bites down on his clavicle as Peter follows his instincts, burying his hands back in Tony’s hair and grinding down into his lap and- fuck. Fuck, he can already feel himself starting to leak and he knows he hasn’t got long.

“Mr. Stark, please.” He begs, breathlessly humiliated by how fast he is, not even a hundred percent certain what he’s asking for.
“What is it, baby?” Tony asks, low and sweet into the damp hollow of his throat.
“I can’t- I’m gonna come, I can’t hold it, Mr. Stark. I’m sorry, I-”
“Shh, shh. Peter, it’s fine.” He soothes, hands coming up to rub over Peter’s back in something almost paternal and- shit, honestly, he wonders how sick it is that it turns him on even more when he thinks about it like that.

“But-please, I don’t want to stop, Mr. Stark. I really-” Peter’s breath is coming out stuttered and- and Tony laughs. Not so raucous as before, something lower, still laced with too much lust to truly get lost in it.
“Trust me, Peter. We’re not done until I say we’re done.” And that- fuck. Fuck it’s almost too much, and Peter doesn’t keep it a secret, whining wet and desperate as his hips grind down again, desperately seeking the friction he’s currently craving with every nerve in his body.

“Come on.” Mr. Stark’s hands come down to pat the backs of his thighs, pushing him to move up onto his knees, hands coming down to support himself, gripping the older man’s muscled shoulders. “If you’re going to make a mess of yourself, I want to see it.” Tony’s tugging Peter’s belt open as he says it, and it’s a small miracle that the sight and sensation of Tony tugging his trousers down to his knees doesn’t make him blow his load before Tony can even get a good look at him.

Once his pants are out of the way, Tony’s hands slide up the bare backs of his thighs and Peter startles himself with the cry that slips past his lips. The sensation of skin on skin, it’s just so fucking much, and on top of the feeling of exposure that comes with Tony’s long, lingering gaze, like he’s determined to savour and appreciate every square inch of skin Peter has on display, well, it’s very nearly too much.

His hands are kneading into Tony’s shoulders and when the older man’s hands come up to grip his ass and spread him open he knows he must dig into then hard enough to hurt, but Tony doesn’t say a thing.
“Oh, baby.” Tony groans. “Look how pretty you are in your panties. Such a pretty little cock for my pretty little boy. You’re even better than I imagined.” Peter’s starting to shake, going hot and red from his cheeks to his chest at Tony’s words. Humiliating in themselves and only made more so by how much they apparently do it for him. He knows he’s not big, knows that’s not likely to change, but hearing Tony talk about it like it’s- cute. It’s a lot. He wouldn’t have expected to like it but apparently he definitely, definitely does.

“You’ve already made such a mess.” Tony chides into his skin as he leans in to nip at the waistband of the panties. Peter feels the tip of his finger slip under the seam of the soft fabric over his ass, not quite touching the crease of him, and he just- can’t.

“Mr. Stark.” Peter gasps, struggling for air as thick, stifling pleasure rolls through his veins. It’s enough to make him shake, entire body wracked with tremors, muscles seemingly unable to decide between tensing and going lax as he feels himself coming into the panties, warm, viscous fluid seeping through the fabric and spilling out the sides.

The force of his orgasm leaves him dizzy and panting, slumping down into Mr. Stark’s chest as the other man sits upright, hands returning to Peter’s waist. After giving him the barest moment to catch his breath, he reaches up to tilt Peter’s chin back up so he can lean in and kiss away what little air is left in his lungs.

Peter melts into it, sucking lazy and messy at Tony’s tongue. He feels Tony’s hands come around to his chest to start working open his buttons and he does his best to help, shrugging off the suit jacket with slow, uncooperative muscles as Tony gets the last of them done. Even with the lethargic, post-orgasm hazy clouding his mind, Peter is hyper-aware of the drag of Tony’s fingers over the skin of his shoulder as he pushes his shirt open.

His cufflinks are still on so it doesn’t quite come off, but the sleeves pool around his wrists, hanging low behind his back, and Peter’s heart rate kicks up when he thinks about what a mess he must be while Tony is still so perfectly put together underneath him. It makes him antsy, but not in a particularly bad way.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter pleads between kisses. “Please, can I- am I allowed to- to ask for things?” He can feel the way Tony grins.
“Only if you ask nicely.” Peter shivers, swallowing hard.
“I want- let me use my mouth. Please.” Tony’s hands tighten their grip over his biceps and it spurs more nerve in him. “I wanna blow you. So bad. I’ve wanted to suck your cock since I hit puberty, please.” By the end he’s near tearing up with the desperate want and mortification of his own words, how sincerely he means them.

“Fuck, kid.” Tony groans, pained and very clearly more than a little interested. “Yes. Get on your knees for me, Peter. Hands behind your back, gotta show me how badly you want it. Show me you deserve it.” And Peter- fuck, he really doesn’t need to be told twice.

He pushes himself up out of Tony’s lap, standing on shaky legs and wincing at the cooling mess in his panties, and drops down to his knees, heart in his throat, as Tony scoots closer to the edge of the bed, unbuckling his belt and spreading his legs wide enough to make room for Peter.

Once freed of his pants and briefs, Tony’s cock hangs heavy between his legs. Not yet fully hard and already so thick that the anticipation alone makes a phantom ache run through Peter’s jaw. His cheeks are burning at the realization that his mouth is legitimately watering. He twitches under Peter’s gaze and there are nerves beginning to buzz and swell in his chest now that the haze of orgasm has finally faded.

Tony- Tony’s not like anyone he’s ever been with, not even close. What if Peter isn’t good enough? What if he’s terrible? He doesn’t- well, it’s not like he’s got much to go on, here, and the task of figuring out what to do for someone with as much experience as Tony seems- daunting. To put it lightly.

Tony’s fingers threading through his hair manage to draw him out of his head, stop him from spiralling any further. He’s got one hand planted on the mattress, supporting him where he’s leaning back just a little, and the other is carding through Peter’s hair, soothing over his scalp as he tugs him forward, just a little.

“Come on, sweetheart. Don’t get shy on me now.” He teases, light enough, but it turns to a bare edge of threat just a moment later, not enough to scare, just enough to spur him. “Maybe you don’t deserve it, after all. Was I wrong about you, Peter?”
“No!” Peter cries, hands flying up to grip Tony’s thighs, desperate and nervous. He’s- he’s a little freaked out, sure, but he wants this. He just hopes he’s good enough for Mr. Stark. “No, please, please Mr. Stark. Don’t make me stop, I-”
“I can’t make you stop if you never even start, kid.”

And that’s- yeah. Yeah, he’s definitely wasted enough time. He shuffles in closer until the musk of the other man fills his nose and it’s just distracting enough to encourage him forward, hunger overwhelming the nerves that well up in his chest at the closeness of Tony’s cock.

He sucks in a deep breath and exhales, just a little unsteady, and draws his tongue over the tip of Tony’s cock and it’s- it’s good.
“That’s it, baby.” Tony groans, petting over his hair and Peter sinks forward to press a wet, tongue-filled kiss over the head, cheeks growing just a little hotter when a soft, muffled moan slips out of his chest. “You ever sucked cock before?”

“Mmhm.” Peter hums over his cock as he finishes his kiss with a suck, pulling off with a small ‘pop’. He doesn’t waste a moment, immediately moving to begin licking his way down the bottom of Tony’s steadily hardening cock. It’s messy, difficult to manoeuvre with Tony’s cock not quite fully erect, slipping over his face and down his cheek as he keeps trying to trace the thick vein running along the underside of it without using his hands.

“But you’ve never sucked a man’s cock before, have you, baby?” It’s not really a question, he can tell from his tone that Tony already knows the answer. He can tell, but whatever that says about Peter’s skills, he doesn’t seem displeased. Far from it.
“No, Mr. Stark.” Peter murmurs softly into the skin of his cock. Tony shifts and brings his other hand over to lift his cock away from Peter’s face.

Peter gets the message, he can feel his own cock beginning to stir again as he dips down to tongue at Tony’s balls. He carefully sucks one into his mouth, looking up at Mr. Stark and taking care to keep his efforts gentle enough to stay pleasurable. Mr. Stark’s eyes are unwavering, intent on him in a way no one’s ever have been, and when he pulls back with a blissed out sigh to suck the other one into his mouth, Tony presses his cock down against Peter’s face.

The length of it is more than enough to run the length of his entire face and Peter wants to cry with how dirty, how shamefully turned on it makes him feel. Tony finally pulls him back up off his balls and he can’t resist the urge to drag his tongue up the underside of Tony’s cock as he goes.

This time, when he reaches the head, he doesn’t hesitate, sucking Tony into his mouth right away and moaning because fuck. He’s only a few inches deep, and already Peter’s jaw twinges, the weight of his cock on his tongue satisfying him in a way he’s not sure he even knew he craved. He wants- needs more.

He closes his eyes and concentrates on slowly trying to work Mr. Stark further and further into his mouth each time he sinks down, tongue dragging over him, allowing himself to get messy to the point that he knows he’s drooling over the older man’s cock. He can feel it dripping down over his chin, smearing up over and around his lips as he sinks down, finds himself hyper aware of all the obscene, wet noises he’s making but entirely unable to care.

Tony’s hands tighten in his hair.
“Look at me while you’re sucking my cock.” Tony warns, his tone can’t be mistaken for anything else and when he speaks to him like that, Peter’s pretty sure he’s incapable of saying no. Incapable of wanting to. Though, to be fair, he can’t imagine ever wanting to do anything that would run the risk of Tony taking his cock away from him.

Peter looks up at him and is happy to find Mr. Stark’s composure finally beginning to slip.
“That’s better, baby.” The older man assures him, voice heavily laced with appreciation. His hand slips down to caress Peter’s jaw as he pulls back, suckling at the tip of his cock before diving back down. “So pretty, Peter. These lips were made for sucking cock.” Tony informs him, reverently running his finger along the stretch of Peter’s lips as he speaks. “Gonna make sure I put them to real good use, baby. Real good.”

Peter can’t repress the shiver that trickles down his spine and through his body at the promise of Tony’s words. Yes, yes. He wants that, wants it more than he knows how to articulate. Wants Tony to keep him at his beck and call, push him down onto his knees whenever he feels the urge- which, hopefully often- use him until he’s spent himself in Peter’s mouth or- or even on his face. Peter will beg for more every time, if he has too.

He wants desperately to tell Mr. Stark all of this, is pretty sure he’s caught up in what’s happening enough that he’d actually manage to get most of it out if he tried, but that would mean pulling off Mr. Stark’s cock and that’s just not a sacrifice he’s willing to make, at the moment. He settles for moaning emphatically around the cock currently making his jaw ache, wanton and mostly unashamed, hoping Mr. Stark will see how much he wants it. How much he means it.

“You like that, don’t you, you little slut.” Peter moans again at Tony’s words and the shame they spur, clawing at the back of his mind. Yeah, he does. “Barely seventeen and you’re already for desperate for cock. Can’t get enough, huh?” Peter sinks down far enough to gag just to prove Tony right, not allowing himself to pull back despite all of his instincts that scream at him to do otherwise.

His view of Mr. Stark is going hazy, obscured by the water welling up in his eyes. Tony groans, and Peter’s about to pull back but Tony’s hand slips back and his grip tightens in his hair enough to send pain lancing out across his scalp and holds him where he is. The fingers of his other hand come up to prod at Peter’s mouth and- fuck, his lips sting as two manage to slip into the corner of Peter’s mouth alongside Tony’s swollen cock.

It’s next to impossible to breathe around the fullness of his mouth, and when Tony begins slowly thrusting forward into his mouth Peter’s chest is beginning to ache with the burn of his lungs, gasping for air every time Tony pulls back.

“I’m gonna fuck your face, now, sweetheart. Just relax for me.” And Peter- Peter does the opposite of relaxing. His eyes go wide and he immediately feels a nauseating mix of panic and want begin to swell in his chest, clawing at his throat and sending the rhythm of his heart off kilter. Tony must pick up on it because he chuckles, low and resonant as he continues to thrust shallowly into Peter’s mouth.

“It’s my way or no way, Peter.” Really it’s- it’s all he needs to say. The desire for Tony to just- take, tell him what to do and make sure that he listens, it overrides anything else he might feel about the situation. He knows if he really didn’t want this, Tony couldn’t stop him, but the thing is- the thing is he does. He’s pretty much certain that there’s nothing Tony could do to him that he truly wouldn’t want, too eager to be his focus, especially like this.

When it becomes clear that Peter won’t be making any efforts to stop him, Tony pulls his fingers from his mouth with a sigh, placing his hand back onto the mattress for support, and begins fucking into Peter’s mouth in earnest.

The first thrust that sinks into his throat nearly makes him sick. The heavy stretch of his throat as Tony forces himself down it just plain hurts, makes it impossible not to gag, gurgling and choking around Tony’s cock as his throat constricts painfully and repeatedly around him. Not to mention the fact that he can’t breathe at all. He’s entirely at Tony’s mercy. Tony’s balls are pressed against his chin and he can feel himself drooling heavily onto them, unable to stop salivating when the urge to gag is so strong.

When Tony pulls back he has only a fraction of a second to suck down some air around his cock before he’s slamming back into Peter’s throat with enough force to make the joints of his jaw creak. The stretch never gets any less painful, but Peter does manage to get steadily better at repressing his instinct to gag, and he’s proud of the fact that he never lets himself try to pull back off of Tony’s cock.

He’s not sure whether the inability to block out his own wet, filthy noises is a blessing or a curse, at the moment. They make him feel thoroughly shamed, used, and he’s realizing more and more just how much he enjoys that. Tony is babbling praise above him, and Peter’s half expecting him to keep going until he fills Peter’s mouth with come, but when he tastes Tony starting to leak over his tongue, the man gives one last thrust, holding Peter’s head down and grinding up into it as he does his best to keep his eyes open, it’s not easy, and pulls back.

Peter’s dizzy with the lack of air and the force of Tony’s thrusts when the older man’s cock slips free of his mouth, immediately gasping for air. Tony leans down and forward to pull Peter up and he stands easily, if a little unsteady, letting Tony push him over onto the bed on his back.



Once he’s got Peter deposited on the bed, panting and staring up at the ceiling with unfocused eyes, Tony makes quick work of himself. He gets undressed, well past the point of caring if his clothes wrinkle when he drops them on the ground, and grabs the bottle of lube he’d already placed in Peter’s nightstand.

When he turns back to face him and finds Peter gazing up at him through hazy but unquestionably hungry eyes, legs falling open, having kicked off his trousers, briefs and socks the rest of the way, and looking only a little shy about it- which means he’s doing it despite the discomfort because he wants to be on display for Tony, just like he knows he likes, he has to give his cock a brief, tight squeeze just to stay sane.

He crawls up onto the bed, dropping the lube within reach, and hooks his arms under Peter’s thighs. He’s so fucking flexible, knees bending back to the bed when Tony lowers himself down to lick into Peter’s mouth, cock grinding down into the wet mess of silk covering Peter’s own hardening cock. When he pulls back and pushes Peter further up the bed, lifting his hips so he can slip a pillow underneath them and dropping down between his legs, he’s pleasantly surprised by the filth that starts pouring from the younger boy’s mouth.

“I love your cock, Mr. Stark.” Peter confesses, sounding devastatingly sincere. “I know I wasn’t that good at it, but I can’t wait for you to fuck my face again. I promise I’ll get better. I want- I want it all the time. I wish I could spend all day with your cock in my mouth.” He looks at Peter with his slick lips, flushed cheeks, glassy eyes and thinks- yeah. That can definitely be arranged.

He won’t tell Peter that just yet, though. It’s too nice to hear him beg for it.

When Peter starts talking again, Tony grabs hold of his ass, pulls his panties to the side, and spreads him as wide as he’ll go just to hear Peter’s words break off into a humiliated whine.

“Oh, god. Oh, god- Mr. Stark. That’s so-”
“Filthy?” Tony finishes for him, smirking up at Peter between his legs as the boy scrambles upright just a little, struggling to brace himself with his hands still caught in the sleeves of his shirt. Peter says nothing and Tony doesn’t give him the chance to think of anything, instead dropping down and licking a hot, wet stripe up the crease of Peter’s ass, tongue catching deliberately over Peter’s asshole, prodding at it just enough to make the boy squirm.

Peter’s breath is coming out broken and ragged, he can feel the shudder of it all through his body and it’s goddamn intoxicating how intensely responsive he is. Sensitive to every swipe, prod, tug of Tony’s tongue. It’s amazing, he’s gorgeous, everything Tony had expected and so, so much more. And he hasn’t even been inside of him yet. He’s like a damn dream. So open and willing to do whatever Tony asks of him. Still holding onto that little bit of awe even after a couple years.

It’s a bit of an ego boost, if he’s being honest. Which, seeing as he’s currently in the process of shoving his tongue inside the ass of his teenage protégé, there wouldn’t be much point to being anything but honest, at the moment. The way Peter cries out, hips jerking like he can’t figure out whether he wants more or less of what Tony is giving him, he doesn’t have to ask if Peter’s ever done this before.

He seals his mouth over Peter’s hole and sucks as he fucks into him with his tongue, and Peter is coming apart at the seams. He can feel the shake of his legs, and he’s fairly certain he’s already leaking again. Tony fumbles blindly for the lube, messily coating his fingers but entirely unwilling to pull away, and without warning, slips two fingers into Peter alongside his tongue.

Peter outright sobs, and it’s the most gorgeous sound Tony has ever heard, sending delicious, intense pleasure curling out through his abdomen and skittering across his nerves. He wants more. Wants to devour Peter so thoroughly there’s nothing left for anyone else to take. And the most mind blowing part is that after all this time, he actually gets to.

After all, Peter is his. His to spoil and pamper until he gets to see that sweet flush in his cheeks, his dress up however he finds most pleasing, his to fuck and fill with come until he feels fucking sick with it. Until he feels marked down to his core, so deep and thorough that he can’t ever forget that Tony owns him.

It’s- the thought is too tempting, and he can’t wait anymore. He should really stretch Peter out more, work his hole until he’s loose and open for Tony’s cock, but fuck- he wants Peter to feel it. Wants him to ache for days, a constant reminder of what Tony’s about to do to him, of how badly he wanted it.



By the time Tony sits up and leans back, Peter feels like a fucking mess. His heart is jackrabbiting in his chest, his cock is aching and leaking, making an even bigger mess than was already there. He’s got frantic energy lighting up his nerves to an almost painful degree and he’s dizzy with the way his heartbeat rushes through his head.

The wet sound of Tony slicking his cock draws his eye, and he can’t decide which sight he prefers, Tony’s swollen cock sliding through his fingers, or the burn in his eyes as he looks over Peter’s body. There’s no time to pick one before Tony is crawling over him, muscled thighs pushing Peter’s own slender legs apart as he settles over him.

He kisses Peter, unhurried and messy, with what would be too much tongue in any other scenario, but somehow just feels wonderfully debauched in this moment. Peter wants desperately to wrap his arms up around Mr. Stark, run his hands over his back and just touch him, but his hands are still caught in the stupid shirt, and Mr. Stark is dropping down to mouth at his neck in a way that feels so intimate, so new, he can’t- oops.

The sleeves of the obscenely expensive shirt tear, and suddenly Peter is left with the tattered remains of it hanging from his still fastened cuffs. He expects- he’s not sure what he expects, but Mr. Stark doesn’t give a second of pause to what’s happened and honestly, fuck it. If he doesn’t care, Peter sure as hell doesn’t care.

He finally, finally gets to run his hands over Tony’s back, moaning at feel of him. So broad, over Peter’s slender frame. Packed with years of solid muscle, covered in scars that Peter wants to trace with his tongue.

Tony reaches down to drag his cock down over Peter’s ass, effectively ending any other trains of thought. Peter’s nails dig into his skin so hard he feels his knuckles creak when Tony pushes against him just enough to feel the beginnings of the stretch, already burning, and pulls back for reasons truly beyond Peter’s comprehension.

Peter whines and instead of giving him what he wants, pushing into him properly, he does it again. And again, and a-fucking-gain. Peter wants to cry. There may just be legitimate tears leaking from the corner of his eyes, truth be told. It’s hard to say for sure, so impossible to think past the almost satisfying stretch of cock Tony keeps giving him.

“You’re cute when you beg.” Tony hints, panting as he pushes himself up above Peter with a smirk. It’s clear this isn’t exactly easy for him, either, and that’s some small comfort, but not enough. Peter is more than happy to give him what he wants.
“Please, please, please Mr. Stark. You said I’m yours, right? I want to be, I want it more than anything, I need you to show me. Prove it to me, make me feel it, Mr. Stark, please? I want you inside me so bad, I know it’s going to hurt, I’ve- I’ve read about it. I know, I want it, want to know I’m yours-”

That must do the trick, because Tony’s pained grunt is all the warning he gets before Mr. Stark is pushing into him, for real, this time, and fuck does it ever burn. He’s not sure what noises he’s making but Mr. Stark seems to enjoy them. Peter’s not sure how far into him Tony is when he lets go of his cock to grip Peter’s hip, pressing him down into the mattress, but if feels like the stretch of him never ends.

Going deeper and deeper, splitting Peter open past the point he’d thought it was possible, creating a pressure inside him so intense he can feel it in his chest were his heart is rattling with the flood of adrenaline surging through his body at the intrusion.
“Peter, Christ.” Tony groans as he finally bottoms out, balls resting against Peter’s ass. His voice is broken and ragged, as if the words are being torn from his lungs by force.

“You’re so fucking tight, sweetheart. I’ve never felt anything better, gonna fuck you till you cry.” And fuck- Peter, honestly, he’s not that far off from it already, but he appreciates the promise.
“Please.” He sobs, and before the word is even out entirely, Mr. Stark is pulling back and he’s not even entirely out of him but Peter feels so empty already.

Still, when Tony pushes back into him, harder and faster than before, he knows he needs time to adjust, go slow. Tony doesn’t give it to him. Instead, he wastes no time at all, building up to a bruising pace, fucking into Peter’s body without giving an inch of leeway, making good on his promise to make Peter cry far, far earlier than intended.

Peter fucking loves it. It hurts, and it spurs pleasure in him like he’s never felt before. Dark and heavy and new levels of desperate. Radiating out through his abdomen, swelling in his chest, making it difficult to keep track of his limbs, impossible to think past the slap of Tony’s hips.

Tony’s pace stays downright punishing as he drops down to mouth at Peter’s neck, reaching up behind him to grab the headboard for extra leverage. Peter’s hands come down to grope at the older man’s ass, spurring him on. He wants more, harder. He wants to feel it for a week, though he knows that’s likely impossible.

Still, he tells Tony as much.

“Of course you do, baby.” Tony pants into his neck, half amused. “This is what you wanted all along, isn’t it, sweetheart.”
“Fuck.” Peter cries out. “Yes, yes. I- I hoped. Hoped you wanted this. Wanted me.”
“Peter. You have no idea- fuck-” Mr. Stark doesn’t finish his thought, but Peter can’t complain when he realizes that he’s only cut himself off to give Peter what he wants.

He pulls out and Peter whimpers, it feels awful, left empty and exposed like this, but Tony doesn’t waste time flipping him over and pulling him up onto his knees. Peter feels him lingering for a moment, leaking cock burning against the crack of his ass as he nudges Peter’s legs wide for him again, then Peter’s arms are wrenched back as Tony gathers the tattered sleeves hanging from his wrists, bringing them back to wind them around a strong hand as the other pushes his head down into the mattress.

His neck hurts, his shoulders hurt, he can barely breathe and fuck- fuck Tony is pressing into him again and it’s just too goddamn much. He doesn’t even get the chance to pull back before Peter is coming all over himself again. Orgasm scrapes through him and Tony still keeps a relentless pace. His climax is almost painful in the way it squeezes the breath from his lungs, and he can tell from the gut-punched sound Tony makes and the increased burn where he’s stretched open that he must he squeezing down over Tony more than he’d realized.

“Look at that, look at you. Coming again as soon as I get my fucking cock inside you, Peter. You should be ashamed.” Fuck, fuck.

Peter’s second orgasm leaves him wonderfully, exhaustingly relaxed, and it’s easy to give into the bow that Tony has forced his back into it, sink into the position and really put his ass on display as Tony fucks into him while he drools steadily into the pillow below him. It’s near impossible to focus between the twinge in his neck and the tears in his eyes, but it is, at least, easy enough to catch what Tony is saying.

“You take my cock so well, baby, even though I know it hurts. I wish you could see how fucking greedy you look, pulling me in like you do. Maybe next time. Would you like that, sweetheart?”
“Yes.” Peter groans into the mattress, half out of his mind as Tony continues fucking into him with a force that could almost be described as vicious. With the way he’s relaxed, Tony feels like he’s reaching him even deeper, and it scratches an itch he didn’t even know he had.

“Good, baby. That’s good.” Tony sounds like he’s running out of breath, but he shows no signs of slowing down and Peter will admit it, he’s a little surprised. Very, very happily surprised.

“You want a little more, Peter?”
“Yes.” Peter moans, impassioned. He really, really does. Though, he doesn’t quite realize what he’s asking for, what Tony’s offering- or, warning him of, more realistically, until Mr. Stark’s hand leaves his head and he feels rough, blunt fingers nudging up against his stretched out, swollen hole and- oh, god. Sharp, sick pain lances up through his spine and settles low in his gut when Mr. Starks fingers begin to force their way inside of him, up against his cock.

It’s- it’s too much. Way, way too much and Peter really, sincerely feels like his heart might stop as Tony fucks him through it. His fingers are tugging and stretching and Peter is crying for real, now, sobbing into the soft sheets blow him.

“God, Mr. Stark.” He cries.
“Tell me how it feels, Peter.” Tony growls behind him, panting in time with the snap of his hips, Peter’s entire body grinding forward across the mattress with every thrust.
“It’s- so much. It hurts, Mr. Stark. I feel like you’re- like you’re gonna tear me open.” Peter knows he’s hiccuping, knows his breaths are coming out broken and stuttered, but he can’t do anything to cease the shudder of his lungs. “I can’t- I didn’t know it would- would feel like this. I think- I like it.”

Tony moans and tugs at the rim of Peter’s asshole, making him cry out, loud and pained and stupidly gone for Tony’s cock, Tony’s everything.
“Sweet boy.” Tony pants behind him. His hips are beginning to lose their rhythm. Pace growing harder and more erratic. “I’m gonna have so much fun with you, kid. Fuck. Waited so long, not a fucking thing I’m not going to do to you. Gonna ruin you for anyone else, I promise.”

Peter is more than a little shocked, almost upsettingly so, when he feels the familiar, sore tensing of his muscles. It feels like there’s a fist coiling tight in his abdomen as one, last, mostly dry orgasm rips its way through him, annihilating his ability to form coherent thoughts as he sobs through it, feeling almost sick with pleasure. The convulsions wracking his body are, apparently, enough to drag Tony over the edge with him.

The older man tightens his grip over the fabric, wrenching Peter’s shoulders painfully, and collapses down onto him as he grinds out the last of his own orgasm inside Peter’s ass. He can feel the bursts of hot liquid inside of him, the tug of his fingers on Peter’s rim even more severe with this new angle.

“You’re fucking perfect.” Tony swears into his ear as his hips jerk and stutter, both of them only barely breathing. “Never letting anyone else touch you. You’re mine. Mine, Parker. Understand?”
“Yes.” Peter swears, sounding as wrecked as he feels. He’s amazed he even manages a word. “Yours. Mr. Stark. No one else.”
“That’s right.” Tony pants, half growling as he finally goes lax against Peter’s body, not bothering to slip out of him just yet, for which Peter is greatful. “You belong to me, now.”



For all the brute force he’d fucked him with, Tony is wonderfully tender when he cleans him up. Peter’s way too worn out for a bath, and Tony takes care to wipe him down with a warm, soft cloth, pulling off Peter's wet, sticky panties, cautious where he knows Peter is sensitive and raw. Once he’s clean, he scoops Peter up in his arms and carries him out of the room and down the hall to his own room, telling Peter he’s more than earned a clean bed to sleep in. Peter just can’t believe he’s sleeping in Tony’s room, in Tony’s bed, after all this time.

Even with everything they’ve just done, it doesn’t quite feel real.

He slips into the bed next to Peter and tugs him in close to his chest. The last thing Peter hears before finally giving into the dark tugging at his consciousness is Tony informing him that they’re headed to Prague tomorrow morning, and Peter wonders if Tony will take advantage of the opportunity. Maybe if he asks real nice Tony will let him spend the flight, if not the day, with his cock in his mouth just like he’d wished for earlier.

It’s something to dream about, at the very least.