Chapter Text
Being the son of renowned Mob Boss Tony Stark has some perks, sure. Peter gets free stuff given to him, like, all the time. Peter gets into already-sold-out venues and arenas and theatres. Peter gets let in to see films he’s clearly too young for.
His friends love it.
Of course, there’s downsides too. Peter can’t get into the sort of trouble kids should get into, with Happy two steps behind him wherever he goes.
It’s fun trying to escape the man, but sometimes the punishment when he gets home isn’t quite worth the thrill of the chase.
Because his dad, renowned Mob Boss Tony Stark, expects self-control. He expects Peter to be well-mannered and poised and mature. He expects Peter to take over the family business one day.
His dad’s hand is always steady against his skin when he lays down swift licks of pain, Peter bent over his lap and crying. His dad’s breath is always calm, his voice unmoved as he explains Peter’s wrong-doings, what he expects from Peter.
Peter has never seen his dad shout in anger; Tony Stark doesn’t have to shout.
Afterwards, Tony will make Peter sit on his bruises, will make Peter look into his cold and disappointed eyes, and Tony will explain, “Happy is there for your safety,” and Tony will pet Peter soft and hold him close and warm and tell him, “If anything were to happen to you, it’d kill me.”
It works, for a while, and then Peter will lose patience with his bodyguard again, or he’ll want to show off to his friends, or he’ll have felt ignored by his dad for too long. And he’ll make another escape, and his dad will be waiting with hard eyes and downturned mouth when Peter gets home.
And Tony’s attention will be just on Peter, his thighs strong against Peter’s chest, his hands on Peter’s bare skin, stealing Peter’s breath with each slap of contact.
-
On Peter’s tenth birthday, his dad wakes him with a flurry of kisses to his cheeks, making Peter squeal with delight.
“Happy Birthday, baby boy,” his dad says, rubbing his beard against Peter’s face, making his boy roll away to land lightly on his feet on the other side of the bed.
“Daddy!” Peter laughs, squealing again as Tony gives chase, dashing out of his dad’s reach. “Nooooooo!” he cries, breathless with his laughter when Tony catches him easily and pins him down to tickle his belly. “Stoooooop!” Peter yells through his giggles, pushing at Tony’s hands, and Tony relents; pulls his son closer instead to set Peter on his lap.
“My baby’s ten today. Double digits,” Tony says into Peter’s hair. He huffs a laugh, kisses Peter’s curls. “Gonna have to stop calling you that soon.”
Peter squirms away to stand in front of Tony and frown at him.
“But I am your baby, daddy,” Peter says, stern, folding his arms. “You’re not gonna have any more kids, right?”
Tony shakes his head, no. He’s grinning hard enough to cause deep crinkles at the sides of his eyes.
“No, Pete. Just you.”
“Right,” Peter says, smiling again, satisfied. “So since you’re not gonna have any more babies, I’ll always be your baby.”
Tony pretends to consider this.
“Even when I’m old and grey?” He widens his eyes dramatically, asks: “Even when you’re old and grey?”
“Yes,” Peter giggles, climbing back into his dad’s lap.
“Even when I’m a hundred and one, and you have to push me around in a wheelchair because my legs have gone all shrivelled?” Tony asks, squeezing at Peter’s legs, jiggling him around to make him laugh again.
“Ye-e-e-es!” Peter says, voice shaking as he’s shoved from side to side. Peter’s face is hurting from grinning. He doesn’t always see his dad a very lot, but his birthday is just for them, every year.
Tony stills his hands and smiles soft.
“Okay then, baby boy.”
Peter cuddles closer.
“Come on,” Tony says, too soon. “Let’s go have cake for breakfast.”
-
When Peter wins an award for science, he skips to Happy’s car, talks the man’s ear off about his project and his award and, when Happy just looks bewildered and sort of bored, Peter sighs, crossing his arms.
“Daddy will understand,” Peter says, looking out the window, excited at the thought. “Daddy loves science, and he’s so smart; he’ll be pleased with my project, Happy. The teacher said I’m as clever at science as someone years bigger than me.”
When Peter looks over at Happy and sees the concerned frown on the man’s face, his smile slips.
“What?” Peter asks, turning to face Happy fully.
“Sorry, Peter,” Happy says, mouth turned down. “Your dad’s, uh. He’s gonna be away for a while.”
Peter frowns, pouts, slouches in his seat.
“Oh.”
When Tony gets back, one eye is swollen, and his knuckles are bruised.
He does seem excited by Peter’s project, praises Peter for his brilliance, but by then the shine has worn off a little, and Peter only smiles and politely says thank you.
-
On Peter’s eleventh birthday, he isn’t woken with quick kisses and tickling fingers; he’s woken by a bang.
A loud bang that startles him out of bed and to his feet before he’s fully conscious.
There’s shouting, muffled enough that Peter can’t make out the words but clear enough to hear the voice.
His dad.
His dad, shouting.
Peter stands for a second, shaking, until there’s another bang that vibrates through the floor, and Peter is sprinting, light as a cat, to his bedroom door.
He’s silent as he moves along the hall to the stairs, knowing better than to take the elevator in an emergency, and pads down the steps, barefoot and shaky.
When he makes it halfway down, he hears the commotion better.
“The fucking gall,” he hears his dad saying. There’s a thud, and a grunt. “The absolute fucking audacity,” his dad snarls. Another thud, and a groan.
Peter makes his way to the bottom of the staircase and sees.
His dad’s kneeling on the floor, bare back turned towards Peter, and he’s wearing nothing but sleep pants, like he came down here straight from bed.
His muscles shift as he throws a punch, and Peter recognises the thud. There’s a wet gasp of pain following this one, and Peter whimpers, afraid.
Tony whirls around, teeth bared and eyes flaring hot in a way Peter has never seen before. Peter steps back, and Tony’s face falls like he’s been struck.
“Pete,” Tony whispers, gentle, palms out in surrender. “Baby, sweetheart, it’s just me.”
Peter’s breath leaves him in a sob, and Tony stands immediately, rushes over to hold Peter close.
“Sweet baby, my baby boy,” Tony coos, petting up and down Peter’s back, soothing the boy. When he pulls back his eyes are wide and sincere. “I’m so sorry I scared you, baby.”
Peter sees then, just behind his dad, movement, and he’s yelling, “Daddy!” and he’s pointing at the man getting up and moving to reach for the discarded handgun on the living room rug, and Tony lunges at the man, smashes his forehead into the man’s already-bloody nose and pins him to the floor.
“Well done, baby,” Tony says, and despite how shaky and frightened Peter feels, his dad’s words soothe him.
Peter watches as Tony strokes his fingers slowly up the man’s chest to the man’s throat, wraps those fingers around the man’s neck, leans his weight into it.
“Coming into my house,” Tony mutters, “On my little boy’s birthday. Making him wake up to gunshots. Fucking scum. Fucking delinquent.”
Peter steps closer, and Tony slides his eyes to his boy.
“You don’t have to be scared, Pete,” Tony says, soft. “I’ll protect you. Always.”
Peter nods, moves to stand by his dad. The man starts to struggle, flailing and scrambling at Tony’s arms, and Tony takes each wrist and pins it beneath his knees. The man’s legs kick out, ineffective.
Peter rests his hand on Tony’s arm, moves to kneel beside the pinned man, strokes his fingers down Tony’s tense bicep and forearm to wrap around Tony’s thick wrist. There’s blood on his dad’s fingers; a little from his split knuckles but mostly from the man’s nose, the blood pouring from his nostrils to run down his chin and cheeks and pool at his neck.
Peter pushes his fingers into the red, and he can feel the thud of the man’s heartbeat beneath his small fingers.
“He tried to hurt you, daddy,” Peter says, despairing at the thought.
He turns to his dad who is watching him closely. There’s a cut at his dad’s lip, and another at his eyebrow, thin scratches at his arms and along his cheek from where fingernails have raked across his skin. Peter’s lip wobbles. He feels Tony’s fingers tighten around the man’s throat.
“He tried, sweetheart.”
The man jerks, slows, stops. The thudding beneath Peter’s fingertips ceases.
Later, once everything’s been cleaned up and Peter has his dad to himself again, they have cake for breakfast, and while they’re still at the breakfast table Tony hands over a small, carefully wrapped box.
“This was supposed to be your sixteenth birthday present,” Tony tells him, and Peter’s eyes light up with curiosity. “I think you’re grown up enough for it now.”
Peter rips open the paper eagerly, and reveals what looks like a handle. He frowns.
“What is it?” he asks, turning wide and curious eyes to Tony.
“Come here, I’ll show you.”
Peter moves to stand in front of his father, hands the gift over, and Tony holds it out so Peter can see.
“This was my first ever switchblade,” Tony tells him, thumb stroking along the smooth object. “I washed cars and walked dogs and mowed lawns until, finally, I’d saved up enough to buy it. It felt like forever.”
Tony is smiling up at Peter where the boy stands between his knees. He holds the gift, the switchblade, like it’s special, like it means a lot to him, and Peter feels full to bursting with pride. He’s being trusted with something that his dad cares a lot about, and he’s determined he won’t let the man down.
“What does it do?” Peter asks, keen to learn.
“It protects you. Look.” Tony points out a button on the handle, says, “You press this in, and—“
A blade shoots out from the handle, and Peter lets out a surprised squeak.
“You told me I’m not supposed to play with knives, daddy.”
“And you’re not,” Tony says, stern. “This isn’t a toy, Peter. It’s for if you’re in trouble.”
“But you’ll protect me,” Peter says, grabbing onto the wrist of the hand holding the switchblade.
“I’m not always here, sweetheart,” Tony says, gentle. “You have Happy, and Rhodey, and Pepper, but you might need to protect yourself one day, baby, and I swear to you, I’m going to teach you how. You’re going to grow up so strong.”
Tony’s free hand rests at Peter’s waist, pulls him closer, and Peter nuzzles into his dad’s sleep-soft hair.
“Thank you, daddy,” Peter says, feeling so very loved. “I’m gonna grow up just as big and strong as you one day.”
Tony pulls him down to pepper kisses all over Peter’s cheek, and Peter laughs, feels his chest settle.
“I’ll make sure you're safe until then, sweetheart.”
-
Peter starts to notice, after that, how people defer to his dad. Peter starts to notice, really notice, the fear and respect in people’s eyes when they look at his dad. Peter starts to notice the quiet confidence and simmering aggression in Tony Stark, his dad.
His dad who makes him breakfast and ties his shoelaces and pulls weird faces to make Peter grin. His dad, who is often out at work, but who tries his very hardest to sit and eat with Peter every morning before disappearing for the day.
His dad, who tells stupid jokes, and laughs so much he messes up the punchline.
Peter starts to notice, with keen intensity, the way Tony moves, sharp and effortless and well-muscled, like a lion. The way Tony will sometimes look at somebody with eyes like a wildfire. The way Tony stands between Peter and any of the visitors Tony has around the house.
And the way those visitors give Peter a wide berth, quietly polite and wary.
Peter had always known what his dad’s job is. He’s Tony Stark, Mob Boss. But he’d never really known what that means.
Now, Peter realises it means violence. It means death.
It means nobody would dare lay a hand on him. Not as long as his dad is around.
-
It’s Peter’s thirteenth birthday, and his dad doesn’t wake him with kisses but with a gentle hand smoothing back his hair.
Peter scrunches his face up, turns to hide in his pillow. He’s woken hard and uncomfortable and doesn’t want to face the day just yet.
“Five more minutes,” he grumbles, and Tony laughs.
“Better hurry up, sleepyhead. Breakfast’s getting cold.”
Peter jerks his face up at that, and he thinks for a moment that Tony has forgotten. His erection wilts quicker than he’s ever experienced, leaving him feeling achy and upset.
“It’s my birthday,” Peter whines, frowning, disappointed.
Tony laughs again, ruffles Peter’s hair. Peter wrinkles his nose, but his chest settles. Tony doesn’t look surprised or guilty at the announcement. He’d not forgotten.
“I think you might be too old to have cake for breakfast, now, Peter,” Tony says, fond.
The comment seizes Peter’s belly in a way he doesn’t understand.
“Come on,” Tony says, turning away without kissing Peter’s cheek or tickling his throat with his beard, and Peter feels a sudden and awful longing.
“Chop, chop,” Tony calls from just outside the door, voice disappearing down the hall: “Rise and shine.”
‘Peter,’ he’d said. Not ‘sweetheart.’ Not ‘baby.’
Peter scowls at the eggs Tony made for breakfast, and Tony chuckles but his heart doesn’t sound in it.
“Teenagers,” Tony huffs, trying to sound playful but just sounding sad.
His dad gets him plenty of gifts for his birthday; a new phone and high-quality clothes and new equipment for the lab Tony had built for him the year before. He gets Peter a brand new camera, complete with several lenses. He gifts Peter with brass knuckles that fit him like they’ve been custom made.
Still, Peter remains bratty and testy all day until Tony finally loses his patience.
“Peter,” he says, stern, when Peter rolls his eyes at him again. “Dial back the attitude, kid.”
“Or what?” Peter asks, cocky. “You gonna spank me?”
Tony crowds into his space, looms over him, making Peter crane his neck to look him in the eye, and for a moment Peter thinks he’s going to get his wish. He’s not why his cock stirs awake at the thought, but it does.
“Do you really want to test me?” Tony asks, the threat in his voice making Peter shiver. “People told me to expect some bad behaviour when you reach your teens but, Christ, Pete, I didn’t think they meant the minute you hit thirteen.”
Tony pushes his fingers through Peter’s hair, and Peter leans into the touch.
“You’ve always been such a good boy,” Tony says, voice dipped low. “I laughed when people tried to warn me. ‘Not my baby,’ I told them. ‘My Peter is an angel,’ I said.”
Peter closes his eyes, turns to nuzzle into Tony’s palm.
“You didn’t wake me up properly, daddy,” Peter whinges.
He sounds childish, but he doesn’t care. The only other time Tony didn’t wake him up with quick kisses and light fingers pushing up his pyjama top was two years ago when he was too busy making a man choke on his own blood. Peter pushes closer, presses his face to Tony’s throat.
“It’s my birthday,” Peter complains, clinging to Tony’s waist, melting into Tony’s touch as he pets up and down Peter’s back.
Tony lays a kiss to Peter’s temple, another to Peter’s cheek. They’re not the quick, playful kisses of years prior. They’re slow and warm and wet.
“Peter,” Tony rumbles, still petting up and down Peter’s back, slow and steady. “You’re growing up, kid. I can’t keep treating you like a baby.”
Peter shakes his head, stubborn.
“Don’t call me that,” Peter says, squirming away. Tony lets him go easily.
“Don’t call you what?”
“Kid,” Peter spits. “I’m not a kid. I’m not some – some random boy.”
Tony’s never called him that before, and Peter hates it.
Tony nods, surrendering to Peter’s will as he so often does.
“Okay, sweetheart,” Tony says, holding out a hand for Peter to take. He pulls Peter in fast, starts laying soft, tickling kisses to Peter’s face, and Peter grins. “Forgive me, baby?”
“Yes, daddy,” Peter says, giggling. He makes big eyes at his dad, his hands at Tony’s firm chest. “Can we go to the movies? I want popcorn.”
Tony laughs.
“We can just get popcorn if you want popcorn, sweet thing.”
“Nooo!” Peter cries, dramatic. “You can only eat popcorn at the movies, dad. It’s the rules.”
“Okay, okay, whatever you want, Pete.”
Tony ruffles Peter’s hair, pulls his boy into his side as he walks them through the house to make their way towards the garage.
-
When Peter is fourteen, he gets asked on a date.
The boy, Harry, is sweet, and brave, looking straight at Peter and ignoring Happy’s stern glare just over Peter’s shoulder. Peter is grinning when he says yes.
They go for milkshakes and burgers after school, at the little diner down the road from their school building.
When Happy moves as if he’s going to join them at their table, Peter glares.
“Seriously?” he snaps, and Happy laughs like that was what he wanted from the boy. He reaches out and ruffles Peter’s hair, making his bangs flop into his eyes, and then takes a seat at the table next to Peter and his date.
Peter huffs, fixes his hair, and when he looks to Harry the boy is smiling at him.
“What?” Peter asks, grinning back, pleased at the attention.
“Nothin’, just,” Harry shrugs. “He always looks like he’s about to shoot someone, but, he’s actually kind of like your embarrassing Uncle, huh?”
Peter laughs, nods.
“He’s all bark,” Peter says, then quickly amends, “Mostly.”
The date is nice. Very nice. Harry is pretty, and looks closely at Peter when Peter talks, and laughs good-natured and sweet when Peter drips ketchup down his chin. The conversation flows easily; Harry is smart, the son of a very successful scientist, and they geek out about newly-discovered theories for a while, Peter relieved to find Harry is as much of a nerd as he is.
Even with his teenage hormones, though, Peter doesn’t feel… attracted to Harry, exactly. He’s good looking, sure, and easy to talk to, but Peter doesn’t want to move to sit closer, or lean into Harry’s slim body, or kiss Harry’s smooth cheek and slightly-chapped lips.
Harry doesn’t make Peter feel sweaty or shaky or stuttery.
They’ve just finished their burgers, and Peter has just made Harry choke a little on his milkshake with a quick one-liner, and Peter is grinning proudly into his own shake when the bell above the diner door jangles, and Peter glances up to see—
He chokes on his own shake, and Harry laughs.
“That’s karma, Peter Stark,” Harry is saying, but it seems far away.
Peter’s dad, Renowned Mob Boss Tony Fricking Stark, is standing in a sleek black suit, pocketing his sunglasses and glancing around, scanning the little diner around him. Peter stares, wide-eyed; Tony Stark, a dark shadow amongst the soft pastels of the diner interior.
Tony spots Peter quickly, but instead of making his way straight over to his son, Tony instead strolls over to the counter where a waitress is smiling her customer service smile at his arrival.
Peter slumps into his seat.
“You okay, Peter?” Harry asks, fidgeting. He glances over his shoulder in the direction Peter is still staring, and then quickly turns back to Peter, eyes big now, face pale. “That’s your dad.”
“That’s my dad,” Peter confirms, grumbling into his shake, stirring the strawberry drink too vigorously and breaking his paper straw. He sighs. “This is so embarrassing,” he moans, hiding his face.
He hears Harry laugh, the sound shaky with nerves.
“Hey,” Harry says, quiet like he’s trying to avoid being detected by the predator a few feet away from them. “Everyone’s parents are embarrassing, right? That’s, like, their main job, I think: embarrassing their kids.”
Peter lets his hands fall a little, uncovering his eyes but keeping his fingers pressed to his mouth.
“You think?” Peter asks, voice muffled by his hands.
Harry laughs, a little clearer now, and nods. “Definitely.”
Peter is just starting to relax a little when he looks back to where his dad is now leaning against the diner counter. The girl serving him doesn’t look professionally polite anymore. She looks flustered and pleased, giggling at something Tony says that Peter can’t quite catch, even straining his ears the way he is. The waitress scribbles on a napkin and hands it to Tony and Tony brushes their fingers together deliberately when he takes the paper from her.
Peter shifts in his seat. The back of his neck feels hot. He feels a sharp spike of jealousy, for how easy his dad holds himself, for how confident and fucking smooth his dad is. He feels a sort of longing for how big his dad is, hard and heavy muscle a contrast to Peter’s own slight frame and bent spine.
And then Tony is turning away from the waitress and setting his sights on Peter, and Peter feels his dick twitch at the dark ire in his dad’s eyes.
Pete had been worried, when it first started happening, that his reaction to his dad was inappropriate. But he read about it, and erections as response to adrenaline are totally normal for boys Peter’s age. It was a relief, when he read it.
Sometimes Peter wonders if he isn’t maybe using it as an excuse.
Peter finds himself inexpertly flirting with his dad, sometimes, and brushing it off as familial affection. Peter finds himself thinking, sometimes, of heavy hands and dark eyes when he touches himself, and he’s sure he’s crossing a line, but the images never coalesce into anything fully formed or coherent so, he thinks, it’s fine.
By the time his dad’s slow swagger has him standing by Peter’s table, looming above the two boys, Peter’s fully hard in his jeans and blushing.
“Having fun, boys?” Tony asks, slipping his hands into the pockets of his perfectly pressed trousers. The move makes his shoulder holster visible, the butt of his gun peeking out from the confines of his suit jacket.
Harry’s eyes are bulging. Peter sighs.
“We’re fine, dad. What’re you doing here?”
“Tut tut,” Tony says, amused. “Is that any way to talk to your old man?”
Tony turns to level a stare at Harry, amusement vanishing and replaced with stern, cold authority.
“What do you think, boy?” Tony asks, his voice sending a shiver through Peter. “Would you talk to your father with such a lack of respect?”
“N-no, sir,” Harry squeaks.
Tony slips his hands out of his pockets, lays one on the table, leaning over Harry. In the other, he holds a small butterfly knife, the blade still, thankfully, folded away.
“Dad,” Peter pleads, hot all over. “Will you stop it? We’re just hanging out.”
“Uh huh,” Tony says, eyeing Harry who now looks like he might throw up. He looks green. “What else were you planning on letting hang out, boy?”
“Oh my god,” Peter mumbles, sinking down and hiding once more in his hands. “Dad. You’re so embarrassing.”
Tony straightens up, laughing at Peter’s reaction, at Harry trembling in his seat.
“Clean up needed on aisle three,” Tony crows, and when Peter peeks out from between his fingers Harry is bright red.
Tony slaps Harry on the shoulder, hard, and Peter shifts in his seat at the way the boy’s whole body sways with the force of it.
Peter straightens in his seat, sees the way Harry’s blue jeans are dark and wet, and he glares hard at his dad.
“That’s so uncool, dad, what the fuck?”
Tony whirls towards Peter, then, eyebrows raised and eyes dangerous.
“Watch your fucking language,” Tony warns, and Peter bows his head, cowed.
“Sorry, daddy.”
Tony pets Peter’s head, ruffles his hair, then steps back.
“Pete’s right,” Tony says to Harry, looking apologetic. “That was uncool, I apologise.” He fishes his wallet out, presses a few notes into Harry’s shaking hands. “Buy yourself some new jeans, on me. Now scram.”
Harry wastes no time in scrambling to his feet, rushing out without even a glance in Peter’s direction. Peter feels his mouth turn down, hurt.
“I really liked him,” Peter says, eyes welling up.
Tony settles himself on the bench next to Peter, puts a heavy arm around Peter’s now shaking shoulders, pulls his boy close.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Tony says, petting Peter’s hair as he cries. “I’m not gonna say you’re too young to date, I’m not a complete hypocrite.” He presses a kiss to Peter’s hair, and Peter’s emotions start to settle. “I just want you to find someone who deserves you, that’s all. If he can’t handle one little blade that isn’t even unfolded? He can’t handle you.”
Peter nods, sniffles; wipes his running nose on his dad’s impeccably tailored and incredibly expensive suit jacket, and Tony laughs, fond.
“Okay, I deserve that,” Tony says, pressing another kiss to Peter’s hair. “You want dessert?” Tony asks, making Peter peek up at him through wet lashes.
“I want whatever costs the most,” Peter says, adding: “Something messy I can spill on your lap.”
Tony throws his head back with his laugh, delighted.
“That’s my boy.”
-
It keeps happening.
Tony tells him, “You deserve better than that weasel,” or, “I can’t believe you even went out with such a coward,” or, “I thought the sobbing was a bit much.”
He pets Peter as he says it, voice gentle and soothing, and Peter forgives him more easily every time.
-
At first it was embarrassing, and when Peter genuinely liked the person sitting with him, he’d dread seeing his dad walk in to ruin it all.
After the first few times, though, Peter started expecting Tony. He wouldn’t get his heart set on seeing any of his dates again; he’d glance at the door and he’d shift in his seat, excited. The flush on his cheeks made a lot of his dates think he was eager for them. Tony walking in and easily stealing all of Peter’s attention must’ve come as a bit of a shock to those people.
When Tony eases in, it’s fun now, watching his date shake, watching his date flee. Peter will pout, will whine, will act as though he doesn’t enjoy watching his dad intimidate and threaten every potential suitor. And Tony will apologise, will go soft and gentle and pull Peter close, pet Peter’s hair, and it’ll settle Peter and drive him crazy all at once.
-
(As the years pass, Peter has no choice but to stop lying to himself about his ill-timed erections. His dad stopped spanking him years ago and he still thinks of it as he fucks himself open at night, his bedroom just next door to his father’s, his ears straining to hear his dad’s own bedsprings creak.)
-
The first time Tony doesn’t turn up, the disappointment startles Peter into asking, desperately, for a second date. He’s sixteen, now, on the cusp of seventeen, and confused by his reaction, by the way he feels stood up even as his date kisses his cheek goodbye.
When he arrives home, Tony’s in his office, typing at his laptop by lamplight.
“Hey, buddy,” he mutters, not pausing in his typing as Peter hesitates in the doorway.
“Aren’t you going to ask how my date went, daddy?” Peter asks, feeling cold with neglect, upset at Tony’s lack of interest.
The words have more of an effect that he expected, but the way Tony’s eyes snap up to him, alive now with something molten and predatory – it has Peter standing straighter, nervous and excited and suddenly energised.
“You went on a date tonight, sweetheart?” Tony asks, voice impossibly deep. He slides his chair back, closes his laptop with a sharp click that has Peter forcing his hands into his pockets to press against his dick.
Peter nods, swallows hard.
“Well,” Tony says, crossing his arms, tilting his head, examining Peter from top to toe. “How did it go, Pete?”
Peter swallows again, throat dry. He feels keyed-up, sweating and breathing harder.
“It was good. His name is Quentin. I asked him for a second date,” Peter says, smiling as Tony frowns. “He said yes.”
Tony huffs, scrunches his nose, annoyed. He pushes himself to his feet, stalks over to where Peter is still hovering at the doorway. Tony’s eyes are keen and hard and all for Peter, now.
“Really?” Tony mutters, closing in on Peter, making his boy step back until he’s pressed against the doorframe. “Must be a hell of a guy,” Tony says, taking Peter’s chin in hand, turning his face this way and that, scrutinising his face, his neck.
“You looking for hickeys, daddy?” Peter asks, more a gasp that anything else.
Tony presses his hand to Peter’s chest, holds him firmly against the doorframe. He looks thunderous. Peter’s harder than he thinks he’s ever been. He wraps both hands around Tony’s wrist, desperate to keep him close.
“I didn’t let him touch me, sir,” Peter says, unable to stop himself from glancing down at Tony’s mouth. “Well…” he starts to say, correcting himself, and Tony growls.
“Well, what, baby?” Tony asks, gripping Peter’s chin tighter, forcing his head back against the doorframe.
Peter can’t help the sound he makes, a soft whimper, a sound of wanting that Tony seems to misinterpret as he steps back, looking ashamed of himself.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Tony says, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not my business.”
“He kissed my cheek when he said goodbye,” Peter says, fingers coming up to rub at the spot his date had pressed his lips to, wanting to be rid of the sensation.
Tony watches the movement with sharp eyes, looking protective, almost angry. It’s enough that Peter can pretend it’s possessiveness in his dad’s expression, a want not just to protect but to keep.
If that were the case, Tony would’ve been there tonight. The thought makes Peter feel bratty.
“Wonder where he’ll kiss me next time,” Peter says, cocky, challenging.
Tony just hums, thoughtful, considering. When he steps closer again, he’s not angry; he licks his lips, leans his hand just above Peter’s head, pressing in close.
“You think he’ll be brave enough?” Tony asks, mouth coming to smudge his words into Peter’s cheek, right where his date’s lips had been minutes earlier. “Think he’ll kiss your mouth next time, Pete?” The fingers of Tony’s free hand drift up Peter’s arm to rest at his throat. “Think he’ll kiss your neck? Your collarbones?”
Peter is shaking hard, breathing fast, gripping at Tony’s shirt.
“You think you’d be brave enough to let him, little boy?” Tony growls, a threat in his voice that has Peter almost bucking his hips.
Peter whimpers again, tilts his head back against the doorframe, wanting to beg but not knowing, really, what for. He grabs again at Tony’s wrist, urges his dad to press his fingers harder around Peter’s throat. His dick lurches in his jeans, makes Peter gasp.
This is his dad, Peter reminds himself. This is weird.
Peter tenses a little at the thought, and Tony feels it, steps back.
“If he tries anything you don’t like,” Tony says, straightening the creases Peter’s desperate grip has left in the soft cotton of his shirt. “I’ll kill him.”
Tony’s near-black eyes and sharp grin make Peter think of sharks. The matter-of-fact tone of his dad’s voice around the threat leaves no room for doubt: Tony is being very literal. Peter shoves his hands back into his jeans pockets, pushes hard at his erection, leans against the doorframe, aiming for casual but probably missing.
“Our second date’s this Friday,” Peter says, watching his dad closely, seeing Tony mentally moving appointments, rescheduling, for Peter. “Seven o’clock. We’re going for dinner.”
Tony nods, walking backwards towards his desk chair.
“I’m sure it’ll be a blast,” Tony says, still grinning.
Peter grins back.
-
That date is the first one that has Tony pulling his gun from its holster, pressing it to Quentin’s temple.
“Heard you put your hands on my son on the first date,” Tony says, tone casual, eyes fierce. “Gotta admit, I feel disrespected, Quentin.”
Quentin shakes his head, starts to plead, and Tony cuts him off by slipping his gun into his mouth, busting his lip with hard metal as he shoves inside.
Peter lets out a hard breath at the sight, uncaring of who might see as he palms himself beneath the dinner table.
“You think I raised a slut, Quentin?” Tony asks, fierce, holding Quentin still with a strong hand on the boy’s shoulder when he tries to jerk back.
Peter’s 100% fucked up. He’s watching his dad deliver death threats for kissing his son’s cheek, and all he can think of is Tony’s rough hand landing heavy on Peter’s shoulder, holding him still as he pushes further inside Peter’s mouth.
Peter’s mouth floods, eager, and Peter thinks, what the fuck is wrong with me.
Quentin’s crying, making a high-pitched terrified keening sound around the barrel of Tony’s gun. He’s failed Tony’s test. Tony would usually be letting him go by now. But Tony’s making no move to release Quentin.
Tony pulls the trigger back, the sharp sound making Quentin sob, and Peter feels a little worried now, but mostly he feels impatient.
“Dad,” Peter whines, not sounding embarrassed like he has in the past, or scared like he probably should in this situation. He’s exacerbated. He wants Tony’s attention on him, not his date.
Peter’s rewarded immediately. Tony’s gaze jolts towards him, eyes crinkled with his smirk. He’s a jungle cat playing with an injured songbird.
Peter smiles.
“Are you done?” Peter asks, crossing his arms. He raises an eyebrow like he’s unimpressed by the display, but his tone is too playful to pull it off.
Tony eases the gun from Quentin’s mouth, drawing Peter’s attention for a second, and when Peter looks back at his dad, Tony looks like he knows a secret.
Peter flushes hot, mouth unintentionally falling open, tongue wetting his dry lips. Tony examines Peter’s face, then straightens up to his full height.
“I don’t like him,” Tony comments, waving his gun to gesture at Quentin.
Peter huffs a laugh.
“Yeah, I got that,” Peter says, standing himself.
He turns to look at Quentin where he sits, trembling, quite possibly traumatised.
“I’m sorry, Quentin,” Peter says, feeling bad for dragging the boy into his family’s mess. “I’ll delete your number.”
Tony rests his hand at Peter’s lower back as they leave, lower than a father should. He looks smug when Peter glances up at him.
They stop for ice cream on the way home.
-
It keeps happening.
People don’t ask Peter out much, even less as the years go on, rumours spreading of Peter’s crazy and over-protective father making people keep their distance.
So Peter starts asking, instead, and finds that most people say yes eagerly, looking appreciatively at Peter’s full lips and big does eyes. Others look at him like he’s a death sentence, and when they say yes it sounds like a plea for mercy. Those people make Peter grin, feral.
No one ever says no.
Tony doesn’t gate-crash all of them. The ones where Tony doesn’t turn up are almost as good, though. The anticipation, the adrenaline, makes Peter needy, makes Peter close in on his date and kiss them rough, hands wandering, fingertips touching cheeks that rarely have enough hair, running down bodies that never have enough muscle.
He never fucks any of them, always turned off at the last minute. The way it leaves them panting after him is enough of a rush; he doesn’t need their hands on him when he can take care of it himself. Often he dismisses them after that, ties cut. But sometimes…
Sometimes he asks for a second date.
-
When Peter meets Vic, he feels flustered.
Vic is in his late thirties, with well-groomed facial hair and a heavily muscled body.
He calls Peter ‘baby’, and Peter swoons.
“Want me to pour you a drink, baby?”
Peter wonders how he’d react to being called ‘daddy’. He’s not even ashamed of himself anymore. Plenty of people have daddy issues; it’s basically passé at this point.
Peter meets him at one of Tony’s get-togethers, the room full of gangsters and criminals, and there, at the bar, stands Victor. He’d offered to pour Peter a drink, and had laughed when Peter said he’s too young.
“I would’ve thought you being here meant you wouldn’t worry about breaking the rules,” Vic says, leaning close, openly flirting. “I’m Vic,” he says, holding his hand out, and when Peter takes it Vic leans in to press a kiss to Peter’s knuckles.
Peter smiles.
“I break the rules my dad lets me break,” Peter says, pointedly looking over to where Tony is standing, swirling the liquor in his glass and watching Peter closely.
“Ah,” Vic says, following Peter’s gaze. “You’re Peter Stark.”
Vic doesn’t sound scared or put off; if anything he seems even more interested. Maybe he thinks Peter will be a fun challenge.
Peter eyes Vic, makes a note of the holster at the waistline of his belt, his strong-looking hands, his thick arms. He thinks Vic will be a fun challenge.
Peter steps closer, lithe and predatory.
“Daddy talks about me a lot, huh?” he asks, exaggeratedly innocent, eyes wide and smile soft.
Vic’s expression sharpens with obvious desire.
“He’s proud of his boy,” Vic says. “I can see why.”
Peter blushes, not because of the compliment, but from hearing of his father’s praise of him. He wants to know what, exactly, his dad says about him when he’s not in the room, but he doesn’t ask. He just giggles, like he’s charmed, and forces himself not to look away to check his dad’s still watching.
“Thank you, sir,” Peter says, blinking up at him, biting at his lip and eyeing Vic’s face.
It’s then that he feels Tony come to stand beside them. When he turns to look, Tony is staring down Vic, and Vic is staring back, unthreatened. Foolish, Peter thinks.
“Doom,” Tony says in greeting.
“Stark,” Vic replies.
Initially, Peter had thought they looked similar, but when compared side-by-side, Peter can see the differences. Vic is a little taller, Peter notes, but not quite as stocky. Tony looks rougher around the edges, calloused knuckles and frown lines, slight cut beside his eye where he’d had to knock someone around a couple days ago and took a lucky jab to the face. Vic, on the other hand, looks like his muscles comes from a gym. Vic looks like he gets people to do his fighting for him.
The more Peter compares, the more Vic comes up lacking.
Still, the times when Peter flirts with other people are the times when he feels the weight of his father’s stare the most keenly, so he steps a little closer to Vic; feels a thrill shoot straight to his cock when Tony’s eyes darken with warning.
“Vic was just telling me all about how proud you are of me, dad,” Peter teases, playful.
Tony rolls his eyes.
“Don’t go getting a big head, sweetheart,” Tony says, sharp eyes flitting to where Peter rests a hand at Vic’s arm. “I made you, didn’t I? Of course you’re perfect.”
Peter’s chest hurts. His hands ache, and he knows the only thing that would satisfy them would be to press them to Tony’s body. He tightens his grip a little around Vic’s arm.
“You’ve raised a good boy, Stark,” Vic says. “Too good, perhaps. You think he’ll know what to do once you’re gone?”
Peter frowns, looks up at Vic, offended. When he moves to pull his hand back, Vic’s fingers land atop his own, keeping him in place. He looks over at Tony with wide, shocked eyes.
Tony has gone perfectly, dangerously still.
“Pete,” Tony says, quiet but so menacing it catches the attention of those stood around them almost immediately. “Is this man doing something you don’t like?”
Peter nods, reaching into his jeans pocket to cradle the switchblade his dad had gifted to him for his eleventh birthday.
“Is he very important to you, daddy?” Peter asks, double-checking before anyone acts rashly. “I wouldn’t want things to get complicated on account of me.”
Vic smiles, squeezes Peter’s fingers slightly.
“Such a good boy.” He says it to Tony as though it’s a compliment, and Tony’s face scrunches up in disgust.
Then Vic glowers, mean; his hand tightens cruelly around Peter’s own until the bones grind together. Peter holds back his wince.
“You’ve raised a pet, Tony,” Vic continues, smug when Tony doesn’t react. Unaware of the peril he’s in. “Not an heir.”
Tony glances at Peter, down at Peter’s pocket, and then over to Vic, and Peter understands. He pulls his knife free, flicks it open, and stabs Vic neatly between two ribs, startling the man into letting go.
When Tony descends upon Vic, the entire room goes still and quiet, nothing but the soft murmur of music in the background to drown out the noise of fist meeting flesh. The steady rhythm of it has Peter breathing harder, his whole body flushing hot. Wet thud and pained moan and Tony’s grunts of effort as he lays into Vic, spreading red across the carpet, sticky and hot.
When Tony stops, Vic is gasping, struggling weakly as Happy and Rhodey pick him up to remove him from the room. Tony steals the ice from Vic’s abandoned drink to ice his knuckles, and turns back to the room.
“Anyone even thinks about looking at my son in a way I don’t like,” Tony says, cold and deadly. “I’ll take the skin from your bones. I’ll turn you fucking inside out,” Tony snarls, and several people step back at the promise in Tony’s voice.
In the quiet of the room, Peter can hear Vic wailing somewhere off in the distance, and he shivers.
Then Tony takes a few deep breaths, straightens his tie, smooths out his hair, and smiles at the crowd.
“Alright, folks, entertainment’s over. Go back to your dodgy dealings and canapes.” The room titters, relieved, and Tony grins, charming once more.
Once their guests have settled down, Tony reaches out to Peter and Peter melts into him.
“You shouldn’t flirt with people like that, sweetheart,” Tony says, petting up and down Peter’s back.
“I’m sorry, daddy,” Peter sniffles into Tony’s chest, and Tony sighs.
“Pepper can look after our guests. Come on,” he whispers, guiding Peter to the elevator and taking them up to their bedrooms.
Peter is expecting Tony to usher him into his own room, but when they reach his door, Tony’s arm around his waist gently guides him to keep walking until they’re making their way into the master bedroom and Tony is shutting the door firmly behind them.
Tony’s hands are still sticky with blood.
Peter whimpers.
“I’ll go get cleaned up,” Tony says, misunderstanding the cause of Peter’s distress. He leads Peter to his giant bed, even bigger than Peter’s king, and takes himself off to the en suite to wash up.
Peter pets at himself through his jeans as he waits for his dad to return, hoping to ease the ache there and only succeeding in stoking the fire.
When he hears the water being turned off, it physically hurts him to take his hand from himself, makes him moan, despairing and needy, unable to contain his voice.
Tony’s face, when he returns, seems pained.
“Pete,” Tony whispers, voice ragged. “You’re killing me, here.”
When Peter opens his heavy eyes, he sees Tony has removed his jacket, tie, shirt – has on only a tight tank top and his slacks.
Peter can’t begin to even think of stopping his reaction: he leans back on the bed, spreads his legs, palms again at his throbbing dick, staring openly at Tony’s thick biceps and wide shoulders.
Tony’s chest heaves.
“Baby…” Tony says, his voice a warning. He watches Peter for a few long seconds, then looks sharply away, squeezes his eyes shut.
“Daddy,” Peter whines, needing his dad’s attention, his hot gaze, the want waiting there.
When Tony looks back at him, Peter feels his cock jerk, precome soaking his underwear, making everything hotter, slicker. He keens at the sensation, fingers fumbling at his belt, until Tony speaks.
“Stop,” Tony says, making Peter still immediately.
He focusses on his dad, gasps at the dark need he sees.
“I think you’ve given me a denial kink,” Peter gasps out, his dick lurching in his jeans, balls tight. He fists his hands in Tony’s sheets to keep himself from touching. “Seems like I can’t get off without edging myself a few times first anymore. The amount of times you’ve got me right on the edge with nothing but a look…”
Peter moans, hips jerking up as he watches Tony slowly unbuckle his belt, watches the soft leather glide through Tony’s belt loops as he pulls it free. The clatter as it hits the floor makes Peter feels like he’s about to have a heart attack.
He can see the outline of his dad’s hard cock through his slacks; when Tony reaches down to squeeze it through the fabric, then slides his hand into his pocket to palm at his erection, Peter keens, spreads his legs wider.
“Keep talking,” Tony demands, moving his hands to the button of his trousers, just resting there, waiting. The knuckles of his right hand are bruised and split, still bleeding slightly.
Peter obeys immediately.
“That moment just before you come, and you can’t breathe, and you’re so close, ah! Daddy, that’s where I am every time you touch me,” Peter’s vision starts to blur as tears well up in his eyes, sticking his lashes together, making his throat hot. “And then I have to wait, sometimes hours, and it makes it feel so good, daddy, so fucking good—“
Peter squirms, desperate for just a little friction, a little pressure, anything.
“When you touch yourself,” Tony rumbles, his voice making Peter’s back arch.
“Yes, yes, when I fuck myself, daddy,” Peter whines, grabbing so hard at the bedsheets his fingers hurt.
Tony groans, and Peter’s eyes fly open just in time to see his dad’s control finally crumble, his fingers deftly flicking open the button at his slacks to slide inside, palm at his own cock.
“Let me see,” Peter begs, falling still as he zeroes in on the muscles of Tony’s forearm as he moves his hand beneath his trousers. “Please, daddy, please.”
“Anything for my well-mannered boy,” Tony says, finally pulling his cock free.
Peter squeezes his legs shut, cries out, so needy for it. He pulls at the bedsheets, sobs, wriggles; can’t stop staring at the way Tony palms at the head of his cock.
“It’s just as big as I thought it’d be, daddy,” Peter pants, letting his knees fall open again, rubbing the heels of his feet against the mattress. His voice nearly gives out as he gasps, “Do you think it’ll fit?”
“Peter,” Tony groans, and then he’s shoving his trousers down and crawling up the bed to settle above Peter, kissing him hard.
Tony’s hands are unbuckling Peter’s belt, unbuttoning Peter’s jeans, dipping inside to press against Peter’s aching cock, and all Peter needs is to roll his hips up once, twice, and he’s huffing out a breath through his nose and keening out a desperate cry and coming, sticky, against his dad’s palm, thinking of them sticky red and jerking hard at the fresh wave of arousal the thought inspires.
Tony leaves his hand, warm and still, against Peter’s cock for a few seconds, letting Peter push up into it as he wrings out the last of his pleasure. Then he eases his hand free, careful of his boy's now oversensitive cock, and, still wet with Peter’s come, jerks himself off above Peter. He presses his face into the side of Peter’s neck, kisses and sucks at the unmarred skin there, and comes hard across Peter’s belly with a groan that has Peter twitching.
“Wanted it so long, daddy,” Peter says, and he’s crying in earnest now, clinging to Tony and shaking hard. “I’m so sorry, daddy, I needed it, I’m sorry.”
“Hush, baby, shh, none of that,” Tony says, gentle, leaning his face back just enough to look Peter in the eye. “Should’ve taken care of you sooner,” he coos, brushing Peter’s sweaty bangs back from his face. “I’m the one who should be sorry, sweet thing. I didn’t see how patient you were being.” He lays fluttering little kisses across Peter’s cheeks, licking at his tears. “Didn’t see just how bad you needed it. How much you needed your daddy.” He lays a sweet kiss to Peter’s mouth, to Peter’s cheek, to Peter’s jaw. “I won’t make you wait that long again, baby boy, don’t worry. Daddy’s got you.”
Peter breathes out, relieved and sated and happy, grinning as he lays soft kisses to Tony’s shoulder.
“I’ve got another date, daddy,” Peter says, giggling, teeth sharp at the curve of Tony’s neck.
Tony growls slow and deep.
“You’re damn right you do,” Tony says, pressing his forehead to Peter’s. “With me.”
“With you,” Peter agrees, snuggling into Tony’s side as soon as Tony rolls off of him. “They were all for you.”
-