I'll Always Be Your Baby

by marose

Summary:

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

--

Tony gate crashes Peter's dates. It takes a while, but Peter eventually figures out why.

Chapter 1

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.”

-

Chapter 2

The morning after the night before, Peter is woken with slow, warm kisses. He smiles, sighs, bares more of his throat for his dad to rub his stubble against.

“Morning, baby,” Tony mumbles, teeth grazing Peter’s Adam’s apple.

Peter hums, feels the vibration of it reverberate against the hard press of his dad’s incisors. It makes Peter think of wolves; it makes Peter think of sharp canines tearing through jugular veins.

Peter’s hips buck, a startled moan spilling from him at the force of his want.

“Still needy for me, kitten?” Tony asks, smug, as he pets at Peter’s belly just below his navel, his knuckles just barely brushing against the head of Peter’s erection.

“Always,” Peter gasps, the truth of it almost painful. “Oh,” he whimpers as Tony’s fingers slide lower, wrap lightly around Peter’s cock, movements a slow tease.

He grips at Tony’s bicep, spreads his legs; wishes Tony would press himself between them, but he doesn’t.

“Daddy,” Peter pleads, slipping his hand down Tony’s arm to his wrist where Tony’s pulse is beating hard and fast.

From the outside, Tony looks barely affected, pupils dilated and lips parted but breathing steady, hands sure. The frantic hammering of Tony’s heart makes Peter’s stomach squirm with excitement.

Peter did that. Peter is making his dad’s heart race like a rabbit’s hop as it dashes from a fox.

Peter is making his dad want.

He tries to pull Tony closer, but Tony doesn’t budge from where he lies next to Peter, propped up on his elbow and watching with keen eyes.

“Use your words,” Tony says, stern, slowing his hand to a near-painful pace.

It’s perfect.

“Oh my god,” Peter groans, delighted at the ache. He tries to roll his hips up, and Tony grips at the base of his cock in punishment, making him cry out loud and desperate. “Daddy,” Peter keens, but he doesn’t ask him for mercy. He doesn’t want it.

“Peter,” Tony sighs, reverent, worshipping, laying wet kisses along the tense line of Peter’s throat. “You sing so sweet for me,” Tony whispers, his breath flaring hot against Peter’s ear and making him shiver hard.

“Will you fuck me, daddy?” Peter asks, breathless and eager, flushing with hot pride when his dad’s want rumbles out of him like a slow roll of thunder.

“I will,” Tony says, a promise, but, Peter thinks, a promise for the future. He will, but not right now, and Peter whines.

“When?” Peter asks, more breath than voice now, his dad’s hand still firm at the base of his aching cock.

“Soon,” Tony says, worrying at Peter’s earlobe with his teeth. “I’ll open you up,” Tony mumbles, continuing his slow pulls at Peter’s dick.

Peter thinks of the time they went fishing, when he’d stuck the knife in with barely any resistance and it’d glided through the fish’s middle, opened it up to spill its guts out on the deck of his dad’s boat.

He’s not sure why his brain makes these connections, sometimes, but it makes his belly tighten, makes his dick jerk. He thinks of his dad’s hands on the hilt of a blade, thinks of the spray of red like the spray of come, and his balls draw up tight, his breath stuttering.

Tony stills his hand again, firm around the base of Peter’s twitching dick, and Peter sobs out a hard breath.

“I’ll finger you open slow, baby,” Tony says, kissing and nipping down Peter’s neck, sucking hard at his collarbone. “God, you make the sweetest sounds. My boy.”

“Please, please,” Peter begs, one hand tight in Tony’s hair, the other desperate at the pulse point of Tony’s wrist. He squeezes his eyes shut hard, sees stars. Tony’s grin is sharp at his throat.

“Use your words, sweetheart. Tell me what you need. I’ll give you anything you ask for.”

“Fuck me open, daddy,” Peter begs, spreading his thighs, chest heaving. His voice goes high-pitched and wobbly as he repeats his dad’s words: “Open me up.”

Tony hums, pleased. He lets go of Peter, starts to move away, and Peter’s eyes fly open.

“Daddy—“

“I’m not going anywhere, Pete, don’t worry,” Tony says, soft, hands already back on Peter, at Peter’s hips, urging Peter to roll over. “Gotta do a little rearranging so I can give you what you need.”

Peter nods, calming, and rolls over for his daddy.

“Atta boy,” Tony praises, petting up and down Peter’s bare back, fingers digging into his tense shoulders and making Peter moan. “Little angel.”

Tony spreads his fingers wide, runs his hands firm down Peter’s back, chuckling as Peter arches up to lift his hips, pushing his ass up in his enthusiasm. He puts his hands to the back of Peter’s knees, manoeuvres them underneath Peter, but when Peter tries to lift up onto his elbows too Tony rests his hand between Peter’s shoulder blades.

“Nuh-uh,” Tony warns, and Peter relaxes into the mattress, face and shoulders pushed into the bed. “Oh, baby boy,” Tony coos, “You’re so perfect.”

Peter finds his voice has escaped him. He can barely manage small, needy whimpers – words are beyond him right now.

When one of Tony’s hands leaves his thighs and he hears one of Tony’s bedside drawers being opened, Peter whines loud, panting with anticipation, thinking of all those nights of reaching behind himself and wishing for deeper, for more.

Then Tony’s fingers are cool and wet at his hole, petting at him, and he has to grip himself tight to stave off an early climax.

“You wanna come already, sweetheart?” Tony asks, rubbing his dry hand up and down the outside of Peter’s thigh in a way Peter thinks is supposed to be comforting.

The care and love in his touch, in his voice, just pushes Peter closer to the edge.

“Oh, fuuuck,” Peter groans, dick lurching in his grip, thighs shaking as Tony just pets up and down over his hole; not pressing in, just slow, wet swipes up, down, up, down—

“Stop, stop,” Peter gasps, and Tony stops immediately.

“You okay, baby?” Tony asks, worried, moving like he’s going to turn Peter back over, and absolutely not.

“Don’t,” Peter begs, “Don’t stop, just… just pause.”

Tony leans over Peter, rests his hand by Peter’s shoulder, plastering himself over his boy. He lays sweet kisses between Peter’s shoulder blades, along the back of Peter’s neck.

“You don’t wanna come yet?” Tony asks, lapping at the salt of Peter’s skin.

“No,” Peter sighs, “Want you inside.”

Tony hums.

“That’s it, sweetheart, tell me what you need,” Tony says, encouraging, pushing his fingers into Peter’s hair, soothing.

“Wanna feel you inside me, daddy,” Peter whispers, voice barely holding out. His knees are aching where they’re pressing hard into the mattress. “I want you to feel how hot I am in there.”

Tony groans, his hips jerking forward to finally reward Peter with the feel of his hard cock sliding against his skin, slipping in the slick between his cheeks to graze at his hole.

“God, you make me wanna tear you open,” Tony growls, and Peter shakes, gasps, and is coming hot and helpless across the sheets.

“Daddy,” Peter keens, crying fat, disappointed tears. He wriggles and fidgets and whines until his daddy speaks.

“Peter,” he says with a hard authority that has Peter settling. “There’s my boy.”

Peter sniffles, hiding his face.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Tony says, petting up and down Peter’s back, lower and lower with each slow swipe of his palms. “I’ll make my way inside eventually.”

His hands leave Peter’s skin briefly, and then they’re back, wet again, and petting once more at Peter’s hole: up, down, up, until Peter is gasping once more into Tony’s sheets.

When Tony finally, finally eases one thick finger inside, Peter’s entire body slumps, his knees slipping against the sheets to spread his legs wider, his hands flopping uselessly to the mattress. Tony does open him up – Peter feels as though his skull has been gently prised apart so that every thought in his brain falls out, leaving nothing but empty space and pure bliss.

Peter doesn’t make a sound beyond soft, happy sighs.

“So perfect,” his dad is gasping against Peter’s shoulder as he pushes deeper inside, lighting up Peter’s very bones. “Like you were made for me.”

“I was,” Peter sighs, breathing deep and slow and content.

“You’ll take my cock so well, won’t you baby?” Tony whispers, and Peter can feel the relief of finally being filled slip just slightly.

Peter feels his breathing steadily speed up, his loose muscles tightening more and more every time Tony pulls out, pushes in just a little deeper. It doesn’t take long to coax Peter back to the crest of the rollercoaster, begging Tony for more, drooling messy into the Egyptian cotton of Tony’s sheets.

“Another, please, please, spread me open wide,” Peter begs, listening to Tony pant, feeling a sharp thrill shooting through him at the steady rhythm of Tony nudging the head of his cock across the soft skin of Peter’s inner thigh. “Wanted it so long,” Peter babbles, pulled tight with growing need. “Thought of your hands, daddy. Every time I fucked myself, I wanted you.”

“God, Peter,” Tony groans, self-control slipping as he pushes another finger in beside the first, shoving in hard and making Peter yelp.

Tony stills, and Peter sobs: “I want it, I want it, I want it, daddy, please, fuck me harder.”

“Oh, fuck,” Tony gasps, sounding needy himself now.

It makes Peter’s dick jolt, but his recent orgasm has him oversensitive. He can’t come again so quickly, every twitch of his dick too much, startling the climax away and leaving him teetering on the brink, just where he likes it best.

Peter feels his eyes roll back, can do nothing to stop the saliva pooling around his face as his dad shoves his fingers inside him hard and fast. Someone’s making a noise, and Peter thinks it’s him, but he really can’t tell. Everything is hazy.

Then Tony stills again, sudden, and Peter feels tight as a tourniquet. He makes a desperate, dying sound, voice riding the breath rattling from his lungs. Tony slides his third finger in slow, and Peter wails.

He’s shaking, crying, clutching at Tony’s sheets, scrambling at the headboard, laying his palms there so he can push back onto his dad’s wide fingers.

Tony makes a noise, like a wild thing. Then Peter can feel his dad’s knees on the outside of his own, forcing his legs cruelly shut when he desperately wants to spread them wider.

“Daddy, daddy, please,” he begs, but he can’t get further, throat hoarse from his sobbing.

There’s a brief pause, everything still for a long, tense moment before Peter feels Tony’s cock, slick now, push between his thighs.

“Peter,” Tony sighs, forcing his fingers deeper inside and then pulling them back in time with the roll of his hips.

The drag of Tony’s dick against his balls is a sensation Peter hadn’t even thought to imagine, even during all those feverish nights of pining and fantasising and wishing. His dad still has so much to teach him.

He’s about to give voice to the thought, but he isn’t given a chance. Peter’s brain clouds over as his dad grips hard at the curve of him where his hip meets his thigh and yanks Peter back, fingers pushing in deeper, hips flush to Peter’s ass. Tony growls fierce and beautiful, biting at the nape of Peter’s neck like an animal rutting into its bitch.

“Oh, god, fuck, dad,” Peter gasps and Tony groans, runs his hand from his hip to grip at the back of his neck and shove his shoulders harder into the mattress, hold him still. Peter thinks of an intruder’s pulse fluttering and stilling beneath his fingers, sticky red, Tony’s strong hands keeping Peter safe.

The back of Peter’s thighs are throbbing where Tony’s hips are pushing against his soft skin. It brings to mind the moments Tony held him down over his lap and spanked him pink and bruised, made him cry, different to how he’s crying now but not by much.

Peter moans shaky and desperate and Tony grunts, and Peter thinks of Tony’s bloodied knuckles, his grunts of anger as he broke Vic’s face just the night before. The hand Tony used to lay into Vic is the very same hand currently pushing inside Peter’s body.

Those same bloodied knuckles are grinding against the rim of Peter’s hole.

Peter feels his muscles jerk, can feel a dazzling ache swelling in his cock, and then he’s coming, stomach tensing tight enough to hurt, thighs shaking around Tony’s dick. Tony slows, easing him through it, until Peter slumps, too weak to hold himself up.

Tony is careful and gentle as he pulls his fingers free, but it still makes Peter wince, too sensitive in the aftermath of the carnage. He manoeuvres Peter easily to lie on his back, holds himself above Peter, not quite touching, and Peter frowns, opens sleepy eyes, and looks down at his dad’s body hovering over his own.

His dad is still hard, still breathing heavy, and Peter pouts.

“If you’d fucked me properly you would’ve come from that,” Peter points out.

Tony’s eyes, when Peter looks up at his face, are sharp. Peter starts to wriggle, nervous, but Tony takes a wrist in each hand, holds him down easy.

“I’ll give you the world, Pete,” Tony rumbles, slowly lowering himself down until he’s flush with Peter’s too-sensitive body, making Peter whimper and struggle.

Tony laps at Peter’s ear, breathes hot onto the wet skin, making Peter shudder and causing an awful, aching friction.

“I’ll snatch the stars right out of the sky for you,” Tony whispers as he rolls his dick against Peter’s sweat-slick belly and soft cock.

“And I’ll fuck you, just like you want,” Tony says over Peter’s cries of discomfort.

“Daddy, I can’t—“

“You can,” Tony interrupts. “You can do anything you put your mind to.”

Tony’s dick is sliding slow against Peter’s own, too much, too much, he can’t—

“My perfect boy. I’ll give you whatever you want, baby,” Tony sighs, so loving, so sweet; a sharp contrast to his unforgiving grip around Peter’s wrists, his dick dragging torturous against Peter’s. “Won’t you give me what I want, baby boy? Won’t you give your daddy what he needs?”

He kisses along Peter’s neck, his shoulder; nudges his head back to lap at the hollow of Peter’s throat, and Peter thinks of wolves again, displays of trust, sharp canines gentle around a vulnerable windpipe.

He slumps, lets his body relax as much as he can with the way he full-body twitches with every push of Tony’s hips. Peter focuses on the way the pain is making his breath hitch the same way the pleasure had, and feels that familiar tingle in his thighs, in his belly.

When you think of it, Peter’s mind supplies, the sounds a person makes when they’re injured, when they’re dying – it’s not that different to the sounds a person makes when they’re fucking, when they’re pleading to come and crying from the pleasure of it.

Tony lets go of Peter’s wrists, and Peter pulls him close, feels his breath stutter with each push of Tony’s cock against his own, feels his body jolt with overstimulation – and Peter moans, some bastard-child of pain and pleasure that makes Tony pull hard at his hair and bite down at his shoulder and come hot and sticky like arterial spray across Peter’s skin.

“My brilliant boy,” Tony mumbles as he licks at the bite mark on Peter’s shoulder. “My perfect, strong boy. Knows just how to take everything daddy gives him.”

Peter melts into the praise, his dad’s hands calming and warm as they soothe his aching muscles.

“I love you so much, Pete, so much.”

“Love you too, dad,” Peter says, exhausted now, snuggling into his dad’s gentle embrace and sweet, adoring voice.

“That wasn’t too much, baby?” Tony asks, sounding hesitant, worried, making Peter perk up a little. “Should I have stopped?”

“You said I could do it, and I did,” Peter says, frowning at his dad’s concern. “I trust you, daddy. If you say I can do it, I know I can.”

Tony smiles, so doting and soft, like Peter is precious, and Peter grins, proud under the attention.

“I want you to start coming to work with me,” Tony says, pushing Peter’s sweat-damp hair back away from his flushed face.

Peter’s mouth drops open before his face splits into a wide grin.

“Really? Really, daddy?”

Tony chuckles as his enthusiasm, scratching blunt fingernails against Peter’s scalp.

“Really, Pete.” He presses his smile to Peter’s, chuckling again when Peter wraps his arms around his dad’s shoulders, hugging him close.

“I’ll make you so proud, daddy,” Peter promises.

Tony rests his mouth at Peter’s temple, pets Peter’s back.

“I know you will, baby. Now come on,” he says, pulling back too soon, making Peter want to cling. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

Notes:

so, i loved this universe so much i apparently can't leave it alone just yet.
not sure if any more will be added or not, so for now consider this finished and we'll see.

to everyone who commented on the first chapter - thank you for inspiring me.
your kind words fuel me <3

Chapter 3

When Peter is very small, he has nightmares. He dreams of his mom, and she’s screaming. He can’t really see what she looks like, but he knows she’s his mom, a dream knowledge that lets him feel the truth of it. She’s his mom, and she’s screaming, and there’s a dark presence looming, and Peter tries to cry out for his dad but all that comes out is static.

When Peter wakes from the dreams, his pillow soaked through with his tears, he jolts out of bed and, half-blinded with fear, hurries to find comfort and safety in his father.

The hallway seems sinister in the dark, with the shadows of his terror chasing close behind him, and Peter dashes through the night with silent feet and aching lungs. He stifles his voice, one hand pressed against his snot-covered mouth, terrified his dreams will hear him, will hunt him down in the gloom.

The relief of reaching Tony’s door has a shaky breath escaping through his nose, every time. Every time, it’s like the touch of his dad’s doorknob in his palm heats him, scaring away the chill of fear still clinging to him. Because inside his father waits, ready to protect him, ready to drive the demons away.

Opening the door, Peter is embraced by the warmth of trapped body heat, and the heavy scent of his dad, something that makes Peter think safe, something that makes Peter think strong; something animal that curls around Peter like a purring lion. He rushes to force the door sharply closed, to lock the fear out, and hears his dad stir.

“Pete?”

“Daddy,” Peter sobs, adrenaline crashing now that he’s made it safely through the dark. The rapid crash of emotion is so sharp he can do nothing but stand in front of the door and cry.

“Those bad dreams back, my boy?” Tony asks, slow with sleep but already standing to gather Peter up in his arms.

Peter nods into his dad’s shoulder, sniffling and shaking.

“Poor baby. Daddy’s got you,” Tony says, deep voice vibrating through Peter's little body, making tense muscles relax.

He is taken to his dad's bed, tucked into the heat of his dad's blankets, encouraged to cuddle in close. Peter presses his dripping nose to Tony’s throat, listens to the slow, soothing rhythm of Tony’s breathing. He inhales Tony’s scent where it’s most potent, feels himself relaxing as it curls into his lungs.

"Daddy... What happened to mommy?" Peter asks, not really caring so much as curious. The echo of his dream persists, but with his dad nestled close and comforting, the fear has ebbed into a sort of fascination.

"Your mommy didn't want us to stay together, baby," Tony explains, sleep-clumsy fingers petting through Peter's wild curls.

"Did she die?" Peter asks.

"Is that what you dreamed, sweetheart?" Tony asks, gentle and calming, gathering Peter close.

Peter nods into his dad's throat, feels the hum of his dad's voice box against his nose.

"You shouldn't be worrying about things like that, sweetpea. That's too much for baby boys to fret over." Tony kisses at Peter's cheek, nuzzles his soft, pink skin. "You don't have to be scared, Pete. They're just bad dreams."

Peter sighs, relaxing into Tony's hold on him. His daddy's right. They're just dreams.

Falling asleep beside his dad is the best feeling, Peter thinks, until morning comes and he remembers, no – waking up beside his dad is even better.

-

Peter expects to start shadowing his father at his job right away but Tony, freshly showered and put together and hard-eyed, tells him he’s got to go to work for a little while and Peter pouts where he’s sprawled along the living room sofa.

“I’m not coming with you?” Peter asks, big, sad eyes making his dad’s mouth twitch just a little with fondness.

“No, Pete, we gotta work up to that,” Tony says, stepping closer and leaning over Peter to press a kiss to Peter’s forehead, hand petting Peter’s hair.

He leans back enough to look Peter in the eye and Peter pushes himself up to press a wet kiss to his dad’s mouth.

“Will you be long?” Peter asks as Tony steps away.

“Depends. If everything goes smoothly, I’ll be home in time for dinner.”

“What if everything doesn’t go smoothly?”

“Then I’ll be back in time for bed.”

Tony looks at him, still reclining on the sofa; tilts his head, pinched mouth, pushes left thumb into right palm.

“Hit the gym while I’m out,” Tony says, a direct order. “We need to keep you strong.”

“Okay, daddy,” Peter says easily, rolling off the sofa and smoothly to his feet. He skips over to his dad to press one more slow, lingering kiss to his mouth, and Tony smiles again, pets his ass.

“Go on, now,” Tony says, turning Peter and guiding him away with a hand to Peter’s lower back.

Peter hears the front door open and close behind him. He makes his way to find Happy to spot him.

-

“You wanna wrestle, Happy?” Peter asks, grinning, flushed with endorphins and dripping sweat. He jumps from foot to foot, playful.

Happy laughs.

“Don’t know where you get your damn energy, kid.”

“Come on,” Peter says, punching lightly at the air in front of Happy. “Let’s fight, old man.”

“Careful,” Happy says, pointing at Peter in mock warning. Then he shakes his head, still smiling, and starts putting Peter’s weights back on the rack.

“You don’t wanna?” Peter asks around a pout, his bouncing slowing to a sullen stop.

“There’s no point sparring with you, Peter,” Happy says.

Peter frowns.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I leave a mark on you, kid, and your dad will have something to say about it,” Happy says pointedly. “I gotta go easy on you. You won’t learn anything from it.”

Peter huffs, frown deepening.

“You don’t have to go easy on me, Happy. I can take it.”

“No. You can’t.”

It’s not cruel when he says it. He's not building himself up or knocking Peter down. Happy speaks simply. Bluntly. He means what he says.

Peter crosses him arms, looks off to the side, sulking.

“Are you tryna get your old man to kill me, kiddo?” Happy asks, hands at his hips, eyes crinkled with amusement.

Peter thinks about it. Thinks of a bullet to the brain. Peter’s never seen that up close, has only ever seen it in movies. He’d quite like to see it, he thinks.

“Could be,” Peter says, an empty threat in his throat. Peter loves Happy.

Still, when he focuses on Happy’s face, the man’s smile has faded. Happy crosses his arms, eyes flat, mouth gone thin.

“That hurts my feelings, Peter,” Happy says, serious and stern.

Peter looks down at the ground, ashamed of himself. He didn’t want to upset Happy.

“I’m sorry, Happy, I didn’t mean it," Peter says, voice gone small and contrite. "Just throwing words around.”

There’s a heavy pause. Peter shuffles his feet. Happy, finally, sighs loud.

“Look,” Happy says, forgiving the boy, taking pity on him. “If you really want to learn to fight, really fight, not playing…”

Peter looks back at Happy, wide eyed and eager now.

“You’ll have to ask your dad.”

Peter pouts.

“But dad’s not here,” Peter whines. “He won’t get mad, Happy. Just tell him I wanted to.”

Happy laughs again, soft.

“You’re a brat, Pete,” Happy says, but it’s fond, and Peter isn’t hurt by it. “You’re spoiled.”

Peter hops from foot to foot again, raised fists like an old-timey boxer.

“Come on, Happy!” Peter says, needling. “I challenge you to a round of fisticuffs, let’s go!”

Peter can see the moment Happy relents to Peter's will, and a thrill rushes through him like he's falling. Happy rolls his eyes, grins, pushes up his sleeves theatrically, holds his arms out.

“Give me your best shot, then, kiddo.”

Peter whoops with the triumph of getting his own way, launches himself at Happy, excited and eager. He jumps at the larger man, clings around Happy’s waist with his legs, throws a punch at Happy’s face that Happy deflects with an open palm, quicker than he looks, pushing Peter’s fist to the side so it sails harmlessly past Happy’s head.

Then the heel of Happy’s palm connects fast and hard with Peter’s sternum once, twice, precise and accurate hits, the impact of it jarring through Peter's slim body and dislodging Peter with seemingly little effort. Peter tries to drag the man down with him but Happy is much bigger and heavier than he is and he lands on his back with a thud, breath slapped out of him.

Happy reaches out a hand, helps Peter to his feet.

“You okay?” he asks, kind. Peter’s mouth turns down, but he nods. “Ask your dad to teach you, kiddo. He will, if you ask.” He ruffles Peter’s hair, and Peter huffs a laugh, pushes Happy's hand away. “Shower time. I’ll let the kitchen know you’re hungry.”

-

Peter’s dad isn’t home for dinner. When Peter’s eyes grow heavy, his body slowing and forcing Peter to admit defeat and retire to bed, Tony still isn’t back. He takes himself to Tony’s bedroom, strips down to nothing, slips into one of Tony’s t-shirts, and climbs under the cold, fresh covers.

It’s pitch black when Peter is woken by the dipping of the bed, Tony’s bare, night-cool body pressing up against Peter’s back, soft groan of relief against the nape of Peter’s neck.

“Where you been?” Peter mumbles, catching the cold hand sneaking under his borrowed t-shirt to pet at his belly, and dragging it up to mouth at Tony’s knuckles. Tony’s hands smell like soap, and cigar smoke, and pennies. “Was lonely.”

Tony hums against the back of Peter’s neck, rubs his icy nose across Peter’s hot skin, goosebumps making Peter’s hair stand on end.

“Tired, sweetheart. Go to sleep.”

Peter is no longer tired. He turns in his dad’s embrace to kiss his dad’s mouth slow and deep, tongue pushing in to lap at the mint of his just-brushed teeth.

“Peter,” Tony says, pulling back enough to speak. His voice is barely audible, heavy with exhaustion. “It’s been a long day, baby.”

Tony looks tense, and Peter wants to look after him, wants to pet him soft and hold him warm and cater to his every need. Peter wants Tony to be happy, always, and to be proud of Peter for being the one to make him feel that way. Peter wants Tony to love him dearly, and need him, daily, forever.

“Can I take care of you, daddy?” Peter asks, scratching firm at his dad’s scalp. Tony hums again, relaxing even more into the pillows.

“Lay on your front,” Peter whispers, urging Tony to roll onto his front and feeling a thrill as Tony obeys without hesitation.

Peter rises up on his knees, throws one leg over Tony and settles himself down so he’s seated on the back of Tony’s thighs. He pets up and down Tony’s back with both hands, leaning his weight into it a little more each time, grinding the heels of his palms into knotted muscle until Tony groans.

“Feels nice,” Tony mumbles into his pillows, sounding blissful, on the brink of sleep.

Peter digs his fingers into the hard muscle of Tony’s shoulders, pushes the tension out with his thumbs, drags his hands down Tony’s back to knead at Tony’s ass until his dad is boneless beneath him and breathing deep and slow, a low, contented rumble sounding with each exhale.

“’M not gon’ get it up for you tonight, Pete,” Tony mutters, and Peter notices then that he’s hard, rolling his hips a little against his dad’s thigh.

He flushes, shakes his head though Tony can’t see it.

“No, daddy, don’t worry about that,” Peter tells him quickly, pushing his hands up to massage Tony’s lower back muscles. “I just like hearing you happy. Just relax.”

“’M relaxed,” Tony rumbles, purring as Peter pushes his thumbs in harder. “You can take care of yourself,” Tony says around a yawn, “Long as you clean up your mess.”

Peter’s hips twitch at the words, his dick painting a wet line along his dad’s thigh, collecting in his dad’s leg hair. Peter’s lungs feel twisted inside out thinking of chasing his own pleasure, humping at Tony’s leg like a needy puppy while his dad dozes unconcerned beneath him.

“You don’t mind, daddy?” Peter asks, a little winded.

Tony’s leg hair is surprisingly soft, catching against the head of Peter’s cock, a sensation entirely new and intriguing. Peter rolls his hips slow, concentrates on the catch of hair, the spreading slick.

“I like hearing you happy,” Tony mumbles.

Peter’s breath catches at the calm of his dad’s voice, unaffected by Peter’s arousal, sleepy and pleased and letting Peter rut against his near-unconscious body. Peter leans his weight heavier on his palms, pressed between his dad’s shoulder blades, making Tony groan, not in desire, but in relaxation. Peter whines at the sound, flushed hot already; crawls up further to push his leaking cock against the dip of his dad’s spine at his lower back. He quickly strips his borrowed t-shirt, pets along the defined angles of Tony's back muscles with eager hands.

“Am I spoiled, daddy?” Peter asks, thinking of Happy’s earlier words. “Am I a brat?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Tony hums in assent, stretching out.

The roll of muscle in Tony’s back has Peter plastering himself down against his dad, thrusting helpless against the bumps of Tony’s spine. His confirmation that Peter is spoiled has something hot thrumming through Peter's veins, something that feels like power, like dreadful control. It fills Peter's chest, makes him breath out hard at the thought.

“Oh, that feels…” Peter gasps, focusing his aim against his dad's spine, running his slit along the little bumps and dips of Tony’s vertebrae. He laps at the salt of Tony’s skin, pushes his nose into the back of Tony’s neck to breathe him in, the scent stirring the heat in his belly and making his cock jerk.

“You’d let me get away with anything,” Peter breathes, filled with awe at this powerful, brutal man relaxed and purring beneath him. He breathes heavy against the back of Tony’s neck, slows his pace until it aches.

“Oh,” Peter gasps, scratching light at Tony’s scalp, dragging his teeth against his Tony’s skin. “Feel so good, daddy. You always smell so good.”

Tony just hums, a lazy sound. An acknowledgment that he’s heard but doesn’t have the energy to reply.

Peter rolls his hips slow against his dad’s prone body, feels the bumps of Tony’s spine, the sparks of pleasure shooting through him, settling heavy in his balls and making him feel delirious.

He thinks, ‘I could pull this spine right from his body and he’d never see it coming.’

A gasp, a shudder, a hard thrust against his dad’s back. He’s leaking a mess of pre-come, and it gathers in the dimples at the base of Tony’s back, makes everything slick, makes Peter feel breathless. The trust Tony has in him fills Peter up with hot pleasure, pushes Peter close to the edge.

Peter could stick Tony deep with the knife he knows his dad has in the top drawer, could sever through the spine that’s bringing such glorious sensation, could feel the hot spill of red against his belly. He won't, of course he wouldn't. But, oh, he could.

“Daddy,” Peter mewls, drunk with the power of it, trying half-hearted to bite back his sounds and failing completely. “I love you, I love you.”

“Love you, Pete,” his dad grumbles, sounding put out that Peter is keeping him awake, and Peter’s breath stalls.

“Oh, god.” Peter rolls his hips faster, growing desperate, flushed and sweating now with a sort of needy humiliation he’s never thought of wanting. He bites back his voice as best he can, clenches his teeth, presses his forehead to the nape of his dad’s neck, a thin and quivering noise sidling past the prison of his incisors.

“Hurry it up, Pete,” Tony says, sounding impatient. “Tryna sleep.”

Peter jerks, a sharp, “Oh!” falling from his spit-slick mouth, lungs emptied out as he shakes apart and comes hard, clutching at the sheets either side of Tony’s body, thighs tightening around his dad’s hips. He lets out a long, shivery breath, slumps a little to the side so he doesn’t land too heavy on top of Tony.

“Clean up after yourself, boy,” Tony mumbles, and then he’s drifting to sleep, snoring light and content.

Peter lays a slow, pleased kiss to Tony’s cheek, lets himself enjoy the throbbing of his orgasm, the twitching of his muscles, and then, when he feels his brain begin to dim with impending sleep, he forces himself up to find a washcloth and clean up his mess.

-

Peter thinks, sometimes, of a moment when he was very small, still in his pushchair. One of his earliest memories, of Tony pushing him along, jogging.

Peter had squealed, “Faster, daddy, faster!” and Tony had picked up his pace, Peter urging him on to a run, until Tony’s sprint slowed.

“Daddy! Faster!” Peter had pleaded, pouting at Tony’s breathless laugh.

“No more, Pete,” Tony had said, making Peter whine his disappointment. Tony had laughed again, slowing to a stroll. “You’re too much for me, baby boy.”

-

“Dad?”

Tony hums, turns his face further into his pillow.

“Daaaad?”

Peter’s tone rises and falls, wheedling in a way that has Tony slitting open one eye to cut him an exasperated look.

“What do you want, Peter?” Tony grumbles, rubbing his face into his pillow to ease the itch of sleep in his eyes.

“Good morning,” Peter says, bright eyed and grinning.

“You better have woken me up for something important,” Tony warns, and Peter shifts, pushes up from where he’s lay to sit cross-legged beside Tony. He's back in his dad's t-shirt now, the collar stretched-out with age and hanging off of one slim shoulder, the loose fabric pooling at his thighs.

“I was thinking,” Peter says, toying with the hem of his stolen shirt, nervous. “Before I start going to work with you… you could maybe… teach me some things?”

“How to fight dirty, for a start,” Tony says, rolling onto his back to stretch hard, back arching up a little, distracting Peter.

“Uh-huh,” Peter says absently, nerves forgotten. He runs his eyes down the length of his dad’s strong, thick torso to where the sheets are bunched up at his waist.

“We need to practise your shooting some more, too,” Tony continues, scratching at the dark hair below his navel, causing the sheets to slip down ever further.

“Yeah,” Peter breathes, licking his lips, running his eyes back up Tony’s solid body, hungry now.

“You’re insatiable,” Tony laughs, eyes sparkling when Peter tears his gaze up to drink in his dad’s smile.

“Yeah,” Peter says, grinning sharp.

Tony pats at his belly, offering a seat, and Peter scrambles over to straddle Tony’s thighs, so different from the night before. He traces light fingers along the grooves of Tony’s cheeks where his smile is crinkling his face, dances his hands down to pet at Tony's sparse chest hair before leaning in to kiss Tony’s mouth quick and chaste.

Tony grumbles a complaint when Peter pulls back, grips at the back of Peter’s head, fingers tight in Peter’s hair, the weight of his other hand heavy at Peter's thigh.

“You don’t mind my morning breath, dad?”

Peter laughs at his dad’s frown.

“Do you mind mine?” Tony asks, laying a slow kiss to Peter’s lips.

“No,” Peter says, pressing his body down a little closer, craving more.

“Exactly,” Tony says.

Peter smiles, kisses his dad again, pulls away a little so he can feel Tony’s fingers tighten in his hair and force him back down. Peter groans, pleased; settles himself down more comfortably on top of Tony.

Slow, lazy presses of lips to lips. Tony’s hands run under Peter's stolen t-shirt and across Peter’s skin like he can’t touch enough, sliding firm down Peter’s back, a soft squeeze of Peter’s ass, encouraging Peter to roll his hips against Tony’s half-hard cock. One palm runs back up to grip at the back of Peter’s neck, the other kneading at Peter’s ass, the tip of his middle finger sneaking in to pet across Peter's hole, making the boy tremble.

“Did you like using me like that last night, baby?” Tony says against Peter’s mouth, licking at Peter’s bottom lip.

“I liked that you let me,” Peter quickly corrects, swallowing Tony’s answering groan with a tongue in his dad’s mouth.

“My smart boy,” Tony growls against his mouth.

Then Tony's hands are pushing up impatiently to rid Peter of his clothes, pulling Peter back down to lick into Peter's mouth, filthy and wet. Peter moans, rolls his hips again until Tony's hand moves suddenly to Peter’s lower back to steady him, and then Peter is being flipped, and Tony is settling between his spread thighs, rolling his own hips with a fluidity Peter’s nowhere near achieving yet. Tony's cock is almost fully hard now against Peter's own erection and the boy keens, arches up into it.

“Are you going to fuck me, daddy?” Peter asks, desperate and not trying to hide it.

“Soon,” Tony promises, kissing down the side of Peter’s neck, worrying at the still prominent teeth-marks on Peter’s shoulder.

“When?” Peter whines, petulant, and Tony pulls back, looking ready to scold him, when his eyes flicker down to settle on Peter’s chest, the last remnants of sleep chased away as Tony’s eyes sharpen.

Peter is pale, bruises easy, and the imprint of Happy’s palm is a violet smudge against the white canvas of Peter’s skin.

“What’s this?” Tony asks, tracing rough fingers along the bruising.

Peter pushes up into it, the ache of Tony’s touch shooting straight down through him and echoing in his dick. Peter’s hand flies up to grip tight at the back of Tony’s hand and press his fingers in firmer, the pain blooming hot and forcing a soft moan from his panting mouth.

Tony’s eyes are fierce and wild when he looks back up at Peter’s flushed face.

“Has someone put their hands on you?” Tony asks, placing his palm square over the mark and pushing, holding Peter down, forcing a thin, needy cry from the boy, making him spread his legs wider.

“Daddy,” Peter mewls, tipping his head back, wanting nothing more than his dad’s teeth, his dad’s unrelenting fingers at his throat. He tries to pull at Tony’s wrist, to guide his hand up, but Tony won’t budge.

“Answer me, boy,” Tony says, sounding cold with anger, hot like a freezer burn.

“I asked him to,” Peter says, which is apparently the wrong answer, but has the desired effect when Tony’s hand comes up to rest, threatening, at Peter’s throat; not pressing down, but heavy, capable.

Peter feels hot with the knowledge that his dad could break him, could choke the air from his lungs, and he never would. Peter brings his knees up to Tony’s waist, wraps his legs around Tony’s middle and thrusts up against him with a groan.

“What are you thinking, daddy? Are you thinking someone hurt me? Are you thinking someone fucked me?”

Tony growls, but it’s inching away from anger and into violent, possessive want.

Peter is panting, gripping hard at Tony’s wrist, pulling him closer to press just slightly at his windpipe. His head is spinning.

“Oh, god, choke me,” Peter begs, “Teach me a lesson, mark me up, fuck me, please, please.”

“You’ll get what you’re given, boy,” Tony says, dripping an authority that has Peter’s hands dropping limp to the mattress, his legs splaying open, ready to be used.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Tony groans, running his hands hard down Peter’s body, ignoring his twitching dick to grip at his thighs. “Who put their hands on my baby? Tell me, sweetheart.”

“It’s eating you up, huh? What I was doing while you were too busy for me?”

The sharp crack of Tony’s palm against Peter’s thigh makes him yelp, makes his dick leap up and slap back down against his belly.

“Answer the question,” Tony warns.

“You’d better keep a closer eye on me daddy—oh god, yes, harder,” Peter gasps grabbing hard at the bedsheets as Tony spanks his thigh again. His begging is rewarded with another sharp slap, hard enough to steal Peter's breath, hard enough that tears spring to his eyes. “Daddy,” Peter moans, “Spank your naughty boy.”

“Fuck, Pete.”

Tony crowds into Peter’s space, digs his right fingers into the hot, red handprints at Peter’s thigh, grips hard with his left hand at Peter’s hair; he holds the boy down as he pushes his tongue back into Peter’s mouth, laying claim, making Peter’s thoughts spiral to hot-wet-more-more-more.

Peter wraps back around his dad, hands at Tony’s thick waist, the heels of his feet pressing to Tony’s ass. He whines around Tony’s tongue, straining up into the slow rolls of Tony’s body, digs his fingers into the muscle of Tony’s back.

Then Tony is peeling Peter’s hands off of him, pinning them up by Peter’s head, grip harsh at Peter's delicate wrists. He bites hard at Peter’s mouth, leaves his lip throbbing, leans back enough to look Peter in the eye.

Peter feels like he’s being pinned by a feral beast, teeth bared, and he twitches up his hips up again.

“Stop,” Tony warns, quietly dangerous.

Peter stills his hips, tears slipping free, rolling across his temples into his hair.

“Down,” Tony demands, and Peter loosens the grip of his legs obediently, drops down to the mattress, keens loud and frustrated as his dad hovers over him, no longer touching where he needs it most, only point of contact hot hands around Peter’s wrists.

“Tell me, Peter,” Tony says, like he’s pleading, like not knowing is destroying him.

“Daddy,” Peter sighs, feeling loved and so very in love that the air feels too thin in his trembling lungs. “We were just sparring, that’s all.”

Tony leans a little closer, still not touching but warming Peter now with the heat rolling from him.

“You’re mine, Peter,” Tony snarls like an injured tiger cornered and afraid and ready to draw blood. “You’re my boy.”

His hands tighten around Peter’s wrists, and Peter feels satisfaction unfurl in his belly, spreading out until he’s purring with it.

“Yours,” Peter croons, heart a hot puddle spilling through his chest. “Just yours. Made just for you, daddy. My daddy.”

Tony hums, tension easing, hands loosening around Peter’s slim wrists, leaving an ache behind that Peter’s sure he’ll feel forever. Tony’s eyes soften, go warm and adoring, the wildfire in them settling to a gentle heat.

“We were just sparring,” Peter says again, soothing. “I don’t want anyone but you, not ever. Just you. It was always you.”

Tony settles in closer, releases Peter’s wrists to rub at Peter’s bruised chest.

“I’m sorry, Pete,” Tony says, looking almost guilty but… but his eyes are sharp in a way that has Peter tingling everywhere. He sounds hungry when he asks, “Did I hurt you, baby?”

“Yes,” Peter breathes without hesitation, wriggling against Tony, restless and hot.

“Did I scare you?” Tony licks his lips, looks down at Peter’s panting mouth.

“No,” Peter says, reaching up to push back his dad’s mussed hair.

“My brave boy,” Tony sighs, leaning into Peter’s touch. He leans down to press soft, sweet kisses to Peter’s salt-wet temple, his flushed cheek, the rapid-fire of his pulse.

Peter feels Tony’s hand, hot and steady and slow, slide down his side, across his belly, light fingers trailing barely-there across Peter’s dick, making him tighten his grip in Tony’s hair.

“All mine,” Tony mutters, teasing along the length of Peter’s cock, back to cradle Peter’s balls, back further to press at the sensitive spot between Peter’s balls and his hole, startling Peter into a loud grunt, a shaky gasp.

Tony sucks at Peter’s neck, his collarbone, and Peter blurts, “Don’t you want to know why I woke you, daddy?”

Tony hums, bites at Peter’s collarbone, moves lower to suck at Peter’s nipple, all the while rubbing tight circles just behind Peter’s balls, and Peter cries out, splayed legs shaking.

“Please,” Peter whimpers, clutching at Tony’s hair, at his shoulder. “I want to ask you something. Please listen.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” Tony says, not sounding sorry at all. He pulls back, hands leaving Peter's body and making the boy feel like his strings have been cut as he slumps back to the mattress, panting. Tony leans his weight on his hands against the bed either side of Peter’s waist and looks into Peter’s half-lidded eyes. “I’m listening, sweetheart, go on.”

“I want you to teach me how to suck your dick,” Peter says in a rush, so eager that saying the words out loud makes his erection jump.

If Peter had thought Tony’s eyes couldn’t get any darker, he was wrong. Tony’s pupils grow impossibly big, left thumb coming to rest at Peter’s mouth, swiping along Peter’s bottom lip, pushing inside to run along Peter’s tongue. When Peter wraps his lips around Tony’s thumb and sucks, Tony groans, his fingertips twitching at the vulnerable dip of Peter's throat where jaw meets ear.

“It’ll take plenty of practise,” Tony rumbles, shifting with barely-contained excitement. He dips down closer to nip at Peter’s ear. “You ready to open up for me whenever I want it, baby? Want me to fuck your throat? Teach you how to take it? How to love it? Want to feel how I’ll fuck your perfect little ass one day, Pete?”

Peter whines around Tony’s thumb, drool dripping down his chin, fingers tight around Tony’s wrist to feel his hammering pulse. He breathes in sharp and tense, and Tony’s right hand grips sudden and hard at the base of his cock, staving off his impending orgasm and making Peter sob.

“One day,” Tony whispers, a breathless promise, “Once you’ve learnt how it feels to really need it. Once you feel crazy with it. Then I’ll give you just what you're craving, baby boy. I’ll fill you up so good, Pete, I promise. Gonna make a mess of you. Gonna make it so you can't think of anything else.”

Tony bites again at Peter’s throat, his shoulder, stops to suck at Peter’s nipple, pushing down against Peter’s tongue with his thumb and making his gag reflex twitch.

"Peter," Tony groans, deep and fathomless. "God, my boy. I'm gonna stretch you out until you fit me like a glove."

Peter's whole body jolts and shudders, cock twitching hard, pulsing and so close, teetering on the very edge of delirium. His voice is strained and loud, even muffled as it is around Tony's thumb.

Tony continues his leisurely descent, kissing down Peter’s belly, dipping his tongue into Peter’s navel, lapping above and to the sides of Peter’s dripping cock, nipping sharp and painful at the sensitive skin of Peter’s inner thighs. Peter jerks forward, sucks Tony’s thumb in deeper, pushes it to the back of his mouth so Tony can feel the way his throat is fluttering.

Tony groans, sucking hard at Peter’s thigh, and then, finally, moving back up to take Peter’s cock into his mouth in a smooth glide, loosening his grip at the base of Peter’s erection and humming his permission. Peter breathes in sharp through his nose at the sudden onslaught, sucks hard at Tony’s thumb, huffing and whining and stumbling into his orgasm, filling Tony’s mouth, the pleasure powerful enough it makes Peter’s muscles cramp and his brain go perfectly blank.

Tony groans, letting his thumb slip wet from Peter’s slack mouth as he pulls off Peter’s softening cock, Tony's right hand sliding up to pet at Peter's trembling belly. Peter can't respond when Tony crawls back up to kiss at Peter’s wet mouth, pushing his tongue in, sharing Peter’s bitter salt taste; Peter just lies there, bleary eyed and open-mouthed and shuddering.

“Let’s break you in, baby,” Tony rumbles, Peter’s stomach clenching hard at the words. “Up.”

“One second,” Peter gasps, still quivering hard, brain still muddled and cloudy.

Tony grips at Peter’s hair, not enough to hurt but enough to pull Peter’s head back.

“Now,” Tony says, impatient.

Peter jolts up, shaky as a newborn colt, and moves where Tony guides him, comes to stand by the bed as Tony sits on the edge.

“You’re doing good, baby,” Tony coos, petting Peter’s sides, soothing. “Make me harder than anyone ever has.” Tony kisses at Peter’s trembling belly. “Get on your knees.”

Peter almost collapses at the command, deep and menacing.

Lurking in the tone, Peter hears, ‘I can’t be held responsible for my actions if you don’t do as you’re told right fucking now,’ and he gasps, his legs nearly giving out, making him have to lean heavy on Tony’s knees as he lowers himself down to the plush carpet.

“Good boy,” Tony says, petting Peter’s hair. “Slide your little hands up the inside of my thighs,” Tony tells him, and Peter obeys. “Slow,” Tony says. “Be a tease, Pete. I know how good at that you are.”

Peter comes back to himself a little, the need to please pushing its way through his brain-fog. He looks up from beneath wet lashes, runs his tongue along his shining bottom lip, inches his hands lightly up Tony’s thighs, just halfway up before he runs them back down to Tony’s knees. Tony smiles, proud.

“There he is,” Tony says, scratching at Peter’s scalp like he would a kitten. "And again. Rile me up for you, baby, make me need it."

Peter pets up and down Tony's thighs, lets his fingertips graze Tony's balls, the hair at the base of Tony's cock, but he doesn't touch directly and Tony hums, approving.

“Good boy," Tony says, guiding Peter down with a twitch of his fingers at the back of Peter's neck. Peter goes down easy, eager. "Start kissing my legs, baby. Gently, now. Draw it out.”

Peter lays wet, hot kisses to Tony’s knees, nips at the skin just beside Tony’s kneecap, pushes his hands up the outside of Tony’s thighs to rest at Tony’s hips. He can hear Tony’s breathing getting heavier, can feel Tony’s fingers push more insistently against his scalp, and Peter kisses higher, licks at the soft skin he finds, sucks small marks up the inside of Tony’s thighs, hears Tony groan.

“Such a quick learner. That's it. Mark your territory, baby.”

Peter grips tighter at Tony’s hips, pushes closer, sucks hard at Tony’s thighs, up, up, until he can feel the wet head of Tony’s erection push against his cheek. Peter moans, impatient, ready to take it in, when Tony’s hand tightens in his hair, stilling him.

“I told you to tease me, Pete," Tony says, dark warning in his voice, in his night-black eyes. "Don’t disappoint me.”

The challenge flares hot through Peter and he leans back to grin up at his dad, white teeth gleaming.

Peter lurches up on his knees, reaches up to grip the back of Tony’s neck and pull him down into a heated, messy kiss. Peter groans long and deep, lets all his long years of pining spill from his mouth and into Tony, hears Tony’s answering moan, feels it shake through him.

Peter bats Tony’s hand away from his hair, swallows Tony’s surprised sound. He pushes his own hands into Tony’s hair, rough, and licks deeper into Tony’s mouth, letting his stomach brush just barely against Tony’s straining erection.

Peter moves to kiss and lick and suck down Tony’s neck, hands trailing down Tony’s body, mapping out the plains of him, down his heaving chest and quaking belly. He laps back into Tony's mouth, sucks on Tony's tongue as he trails his fingers past Tony's pulsing cock to his knees then back up between Tony’s thighs, thumbs running across the sensitive skin either side of Tony’s erection.

Tony’s needy whine feels like the sweetest victory Peter’s ever earned. Peter drinks it desperately straight from Tony’s mouth.

He trails his lips down to follow the path his fingers just took, copying Tony’s earlier ministrations, biting at Tony's jaw and neck, sucking at each nipple, kissing down Tony’s belly to Tony’s hips, ignoring the cock he so desperately wants to choke on. Instead he moves lower, to Tony’s thighs again, down to Tony's knee then back up the other thigh until he’s hovering his mouth an inch away from the wet head Tony’s cock. He fights the urge to take it in, breathes hot against it for a few long moments before moving away again, savouring Tony’s tense groan.

When he looks, Tony’s hands are clenched, resting on the bed either side of him. His eyes are shining black and fixed on Peter like Peter's the most beautiful, most entrancing thing he's ever seen. Tony's stomach muscles are trembling with want, thighs twitching as Peter trails curious fingers around Tony’s balls. Peter feels dizzy with it all, his own cock trying desperately to struggle back to life at the sight before him.

Tony reaches out, then, to guide Peter’s head down, gentle, grip loose at the back of Peter’s skull. Peter feels like the whole world is tilting.

“Lick just at the base, baby,” Tony says, voice wrecked like he’s been screaming.

Peter breathes out hard, sucker-punched by the sound; drags in a shaking breath when Tony moans, wanton and desperate, at the feel of Peter’s breath.

Peter does as he’s told, laps at the base of Tony’s dick, listens to Tony’s voice go high and tense and hungry. He licks lower at Tony’s balls and Tony’s fingers twitch at the back of Peter’s head, Tony’s breath rushing out loud. Peter takes the encouragement, sucks at each of Tony’s balls, presses his tongue behind to that spot that had lit Peter up earlier; relishes the shake of Tony’s thighs around his shoulders, drinks it in, memorises the deep growl above him.

“Lick up to the head,” Tony says, as much a plea as a command now. His breath whistles past clenched teeth as Peter runs the flat of his tongue up painfully slow.

When he reaches the head, Peter traces his tongue along the defined edge of it, flicks up the slit to dip into the pre-come at the end, laps at it for a moment, Tony’s sounds of pleasure shooting through him, lighting him up with pride.

Tony’s hand presses flat to the back of Peter’s head.

“Mind your teeth, Pete, make sure they’re – fuck – make sure they’re behind your lips.”

And then he’s pushing at the back of Peter’s head, and the head of his cock is stretching Peter’s lips, forcing Peter to open his mouth uncomfortably wide to accommodate its width.

Tony’s dick looked big, felt big in Peter’s hands, but now, stretching Peter’s mouth wide, hindering Peter’s breathing, Tony’s dick feels huge.

Peter sucks lightly and Tony’s voice goes loose and deep and relieved.

“Oh, baby, my boy, god, wanted your mouth so long, Pete,” Tony babbles, spurring Peter on: “Take me deeper, baby boy, I know you can do it, relax, fuck yes, Pete, Peter. Wanna break you open. God, I'm gonna fuck you raw.”

Peter's already fully hard again now, panting through his nose, Tony's voice zipping through his blood, thrumming in his veins.

The head of Tony’s cock rests against the back of Peter’s throat and Peter whines, the vibrations travelling through Tony’s dick and making him almost shout, hand tightening in Peter’s hair and shoving him down, making him gag.

“What you do to me, Pete,” Tony says, gentling his hand, petting Peter’s hair. “I’m sorry, baby, you make me crazy.”

Peter struggles to open his eyes, has to look, has to see, and when he focuses on Tony’s face Tony moans louder, mouth slack, eyes wild and burning through Peter’s middle, making Peter feel desperate. Peter dips down again, struggles to suck around the girth of Tony’s length, frustrated when he can’t take it in further than a few inches.

“Use your hands, baby,” Tony says, commanding again and looking on the brink of violence, pushing Peter’s bangs away from his face with a rough hand, smearing Peter’s tears across his cheeks with hard fingers. “Touch what you can’t suck.”

Peter does as he’s told, and Tony growls, baring his teeth, growing hotter and more intense the longer Peter holds eye contact.

“Something about you,” Tony says, gripping hard at Peter’s shoulder, forcing himself in deeper, making Peter choke just how he wants it. “Wanna ruin you. Wanna make sure I live in you forever, fuck.”

Peter drags in what breath he can through his nose, gulping down Tony’s pre-come as best he can, enjoying the ache in his jaw, the nudge of Tony’s cock head against the back of his throat, growing rougher and more insistent. His head is spinning.

“Gonna teach you how it take it all, Peter. Press your little nose to my stomach. Hold you still and fuck into you until you can’t speak. Oh, Jesus, you’re so perfect. Gonna use that mouth for what it was made for – fuck – what I made it for. I’ll loosen you up. Peter. My Peter. Relax your throat for me, that’s it, doing so well, oh, baby, gonna fill you up with me.”

Peter’s throat convulses in a needy sob, and Tony is pushing him down again, much harder this time, too much, he can’t breathe—

It’s so good Peter’s eyes roll back, his dick leaping up, head rush making everything hazy.

Tony’s voice as he comes will stay with him forever. He can’t wait to hear that sound again: something ravenous and triumphant and animal. Something that fills Peter up hot. Something that makes Peter think: Mine, he’s mine, no one else can hear him like this, no one else can taste him like this, mine, mine, mine.

Peter drinks Tony down, eager, greedy, licks up everything he spilled, frantic, wanting to take Tony inside himself and keep him prisoner there.

“Mine, mine,” Peter mumbles, lapping at Tony’s come, Tony’s softening cock. The rasp of his voice makes him cough, the ache making his dick jolt up.

“You hard again, Pete?” Tony asks, breathless, leaning heavy against the bed on one palm, the other sliding in the tears and the come on Peter’s chin and pushing it all into Peter’s drooling mouth. “You gonna hump me like my little pup?”

Peter feels feral, feels needy and demanding and hot with a possessive darkness that clouds his brain. He lunges up at Tony, pushes him back against the mattress, takes Tony’s hand and wraps it around his dick, his own hand over the top of Tony’s fingers as Peter thrusts into the ring of heat.

Peter can barely breathe, wants more of it, takes Tony’s other hand and wraps it around his throat, pushes against the fingers, and Tony finally recovers from the shock, tightens his grip, cutting off Peter’s air with one hand, creating a perfect tunnel around Peter’s dick for Peter to fuck into with the other.

Peter hips jerk, strokes unsteady already. It takes barely any time at all before he’s coming across his dad’s belly, Tony’s hand at his throat loosening just enough for Peter to drag in one shaky breath before it tightens again.

Peter’s brain cuts out. He’s floating, drifting in this nameless, thoughtless place. Blissful.

When he comes back from his delirium he’s slumped over and sticky. He presses his face to Tony’s throat and he’s shaking, adrenaline crash; crying, clutching at Tony, clinging to Tony’s gentle voice, focusing on Tony’s hands rubbing up and down his back in long, slow strokes.

“My boy, my boy,” Tony coos, nose pressed to Peter’s hair, breath flaring out hot, the absence of heat on each inhale making Peter shiver.

Tony’s hands run up Peter’s back, down, up again, and Peter melts into Tony, rubs his hot eyes into Tony’s neck.

“Yours,” Peter mutters, coughing again.

“As I’m yours,” Tony says, always knowing just what Peter needs, tone reassuring and making Peter whine, cling closer. “Just yours, Peter. Don’t worry, baby, daddy’s got you.” He nuzzles into Peter’s hair, wraps Peter up in strong arms. “Now I have you, I’m never letting you go.”

Tony’s voice is a threat and a promise, ready to defend his territory, ready to tear the world apart.

Peter sniffles, calming, basking in the glow of wanting and getting, of needing and having. The thrum of his orgasm is still throbbing through him, and he rolls to lie beside Tony, stretches out, presses in close.

“You made my brain fall out,” Peter says, voice hoarse. “Hope you do it again soon.”

“You like sucking cock, baby?” Tony asks, sweet and loving.

“Like sucking your cock, daddy.” He snuffles into Tony’s throat, breathes him in. “You taste how you smell,” Peter says, sliding his messy hand up into Tony’s hair. “Like home. Want it on my tongue always.”

“God, you own me,” Tony says, rolling on top of Peter to kiss him deep and slow and so full of love.

Peter grins, teeth hard and sharp against Tony’s mouth.

All mine, Peter thinks, clinging to Tony's strong, solid shoulders.

"My Daddy."

Notes:

look who's back on their bullshit! it's this little louse, at it again with more mob daddy tony :)

i wrote this days ago but work has been... just long hours, you guys know the struggle.

looking like i'm gonna do more but i'm flaky so i won't promise <3

Notes:

inspired by this post: https://reniisbooks.tumblr.com/post/184673885875/gangleadertony-starkercest-au-peter-loves-his

it just kind of... got away from me a bit.