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for the amazing @starkerfestivals kinktober prompts. I did lingerie, candy kink and just the tip. nsfw starker, dirty talk, pete's nineteen here but he enthusiastically consents, praise kink, slight feminization, blow jobs, referenced fingering and handjobs. you know, just a normal day writing porn with feels as one does ;)
p.s i might make this a series, but that depends on the feedback and work
-----
He's not even sure how it happens. Or, you know, what it is that happens. It was supposed to be simple; young reporter for The Daily Bugle wanted an interview. Ok, yeah, that's normal. Tony has ten reporters that circle him like vultures whenever he steps out of his mansion. The difference was the kid they sent him, because, by the way, he's a kid. Nineteen years old. Still in high school. Happy nearly had a heart attack when he first saw the kid. Anyway, difference is that this kid is beautiful.
Now, before you get your pitchforks out, Tony knows it's objectively wrong to do a double take in the middle of a party he's hosting because of a child. He also knows he's a Stark and when has a Stark not tempted fate? Or the police? Exactly, so he figured, fine, let the kid have his fifteen minutes of Tony Stark and he can have fifteen minutes of internally debating the pros and cons of fucking someone that's not even twenty years old yet.
But then Rhodey proposes to Pepper and what is he going to do, coax a kid into his bed while his best friends get engaged? No. Obviously. Unfortunately. So he tells Happy to plan a rain check. Poor kid went to Miami when he lives in Queens; he deserves a rain check and a flight in Tony's jet for when he gets back. Great, they schedule a meeting in Miami in two weeks.
Obadiah Stane attempts to form a coup, steal the company and ruin Rhodey's and Pepper's engagement party on the same day. Alrighty, an online meeting, then.
Peter has finals on the day they set out and can't be excused. Yet another painful reminder that he's lusting after a school boy still in puberty.
Tony Stark says fuck it like Tony Stark usually does and goes to New York.
Drops by the kid's apartment, woos the aunt and bam. Peter's luggage is ready by the time the kid comes stumbling home, arms bravely trying to carry what looks like a million magazines, journals, newspapers and printed articles. All about him. When they lock eyes, every single sheet of paper gets dumped on the living room couch.
"Hey, kiddo. Figured I'd bring myself to Queens for our interview, meet the famous aunt and wait for you here. But then May tells me you've had a rough week, so you and I are going on a road trip. My family has a cabin up north, just a couple hours from here. We can do your interview and discuss an internship at the company on the way there. Stark Industries is always looking for young talent and May and I agree: you've got talent, Pete."
May basically throws her nephew out of the apartment after making him promise to take this opportunity and have fun. They're on the highway five minutes later.
-----
Still feel like he only wants to fuck the kid? Well, he does want to fuck the kid, but Tony Stark doesn't sleep with stupid people. He's read all of Peter's articles from the Bugle, his essays from the high school newspaper and some of his work for his classes. It wasn't that hard to break into Midtown; Jarvis actually scoffed when Tony asked him to get into such a simple system.
The kid is clever, sarcastic, sharp and undeniably talented. A little rough around the edges, but who isn't at that age? If the kid doesn't want what he's offering, that's ok. If he only wants the internship, done deal. Tony's morals may be a bit sketchy, but he's not so sketchy he's going to force himself onto a kid.
And you know what? Sleeping with Peter is in the back of his mind during the first half of the ride. His questions aren't offensive or blunt, but they sure as hell don't beat around the bush. Tony actually has to pause and consider some of them a bit more deeply before answering. The whiskey helps with the unexpected case of nerves (him, nervous about flirting? His dad would keel over if he were alive.) and soon enough they're done with the prompt questions and improvising.
"At the party, the one in Miami, I saw Miss Potts getting engaged with Mr Rhodes. That must be very exciting, something to look forward to after everything that's happened. Do you think it'll help with morale, planning a wedding? If the company is getting involved."
Tony narrows his eyes at the kid, can't quite figure out his line of questioning. He takes a sip of his drink and reclines back in his seat.
"Honestly, we haven't discussed the idea of the company officially getting involved with the wedding. Pep, as you know, is a very serious CEO and I doubt she'd want to make that move. She's the type of person that would think of it as taking advantage of her job and the company's resources. Obviously, I'm going to go behind their backs and plan a few surprises. With my family money, though. Everyone loves Pep, but she'd feel uncomfortable if I intervened with the company name. I can respect that. There's no way in hell I'm letting them honeymoon in the United States, though. I will forcibly put them on a plane to Europe for that, if I have to."
Peter laughs and Jesus, that sound shouldn't be so pleasing to hear. " I look forward to taking those pictures, Mr Stark. I'm sure they'll be hilarious."
"Taking the pictures?"
"Oh, yeah! I got promoted to a photo journalist. The interview with you was scheduled before the change, though, so you don't have to worry about that."
And look at that, thoughtful, too. Tony hates paparazzi. "I appreciate that, Peter. Just for that, I'll give you the pictures for free."
He will. He's a Stark; the Bugle couldn't buy them even if they had the same budget as the Times.
Peter fidgets, toys with his glasses. Tony has the sudden urge to paint them white, watch as Peter blinks up at him from the floor and asks him, ever so nicely, if he could please remove them so he could lick Tony's dick clean without having them in the way. Tony downs his drink in one go and tries to remember how a Holy Mary prayer goes.
"You know, I was a bit surprised when I saw the engagement. I thought you were, um, involved with them. I mean, one of them, not the two of them together. That would be, not bad, obviously. Just unexpected, I guess? I hadn't thought of them as that type of couple in that ... context."
The words are out of his mouth before he can properly process them and he's never been more grateful to Pepper for suggesting he get a sound proof backseat.
"So you've thought of me, in that context?" Peter goes pink. Hello Kitty pink. Like, as pink as the goddamn Pink store. Strawberry ice cream pink. Peter wearing pink lingerie and drenched in strawberry ice cream, lollipop between pretty pink cupid bow's lips and Sweethearts littered over a flushed body.
Yes, he has a fucking candy kink; blame Jarvis 1.0 for not letting him steal sweets from his mom's hidden jar in the kitchen.
Still, that was bad, Tony. Bad, bad, possibly expensive sexual harassment lawsuit bad.
"I'm sorry, that was inappropriate-"
"No, I shouldn't have asked like that-"
"That wasn't even in the top ten worst questions reporters have asked me-"
"That doesn't mean I can ask something private like that-"
"It's fine, really, Pete-"
"I mean, if I did ask something private, it'd be only fair you ask me something, too-"
"Uh, not really, since you're a teenage reporter-"
"I'm nineteen-"
"That's not exactly a great card to throw, kid-"
"It's true, though! I'm an adult-"
"I shouldn't have asked that either way, Peter-"
"But it's true. I have. Thought of you. In that context. Often."
Great. Now Tony's going pink.
"I'm going to ask you something, Peter. You can not answer and we'll pretend this latter half of the ride never happened; your internship intact and your job done for the paper."
Peter bites his lip, peers up at him tentatively. Tony needs a bottle of whiskey right about now. "Or?"
"Or you answer truthfully. Your choice. I'm good either way, ok? I need to know you understand that one or the other, you have a choice in this, alright."
"I understand."
"You do? Say it back to me."
The kid's breathing hitches. Like something out of the romance novels Jarvis' wife used to read in the living room while Tony tinkered with DUM-E. Like Peter enjoys Tony telling him what to do. The same way Tony enjoys telling him what to do.
The hole is just getting bigger and bigger and he hasn't stopped digging, huh?
"I can not answer and there won't be any repercussions."
"Good. Nice use of vocabulary. Keep going."
"My internship will be ok and I'll have enough material for the Bugle. Or I can answer honestly. I have a choice in both."
"Fantastic job, Peter," he shivers, actually shivers, Jesus Christ on a bike, "now the question. When you were in Miami, were you already thinking of me in that context?"
He's expecting a punch. Maybe a slap, the kid looks more like a damsel in distress type and no, no, absolutely not going down the road of a roleplay starring shy, virginal princess Peter and rogue bard Tony desperately seeking to discover what's under long gowns.
(Peter in a pink cheerleading outfit, blushing wildly and gently licking him like a kitten, a bit awkward but determined to distract his boyfriend during a pregame ritual.)
(Peter wrapped in pretty bows and sheer lace, rose petals in his hair and hickies all over. Soft handcuffs pining his hands to the headboard, but legs free to scramble over silk sheets as the big bad wolf eats him up. His cute dick, who is he kidding, of course the kid has a cute cock, trapped in a metal cage and the key tucked away in Tony's garage. Laid down like a feast for Tony to devour.)
(Peter with maple syrup running down a pale chest, whiskey pooling in the dips of his hips, cotton candy melting over toned thighs and caramel drizzled over such beautiful lips.)
Tony snaps out of it and steals two bottles of water from the mini-fridge, gives one to Peter.
They chug them down, both of them flustered and looking away. "I was. I was actually planning on doing something about it, but with the engagement and then my finals. I figured I lost my chance."
"And the extremely high age gap doesn't bother you?"
Peter shrugs, pushes his glasses up his nose. "I'm an adult. I'm still in high school because we moved to New York and the school decided I had to repeat a grade. I have my own income, I'm already getting scholarship offers from a few colleges. Yeah, somethings are bound to be different, but that doesn't really change my feelings. Honestly? I thought, if I'm going to have my first one night stand-"
"Might as well be with Tony Stark?"
"No, might as well be with someone who's not going to talk about it to the entire school and who takes it seriously. I've had friends who've dated a classmate and it never ends well."
"So, you want sex. With me."
"I'd, I'd like to try having more than sex with you. But, I mean, if it's just sex on the table, then yeah, definitely. Absolutely, Mr Stark."
"Ok."
"Ok? That's it?"
"Kid, if I think about it too hard, I'm going to stop the car and then ask Happy to hit me with the bat we keep in the trunk. Do you consent to sex and will you stop me if anything is uncomfortable?"
"I do."
"Great. I'm thinking sex first and then we give dating a try, how's that sound?"
"Um, yeah. I'm not really sure this isn't a dream."
"Oh, me neither. I stopped believing this is happening when you asked me about Pep and Rhodes."
-----
"Now that my timeline is clear and my conscience feels less like a train wreck, when are we going to stop this hard to get dance, Parker?"
Tony delights in the way the kid's eyes widen, how he visibly flushes when they literally just finished talking about this five minutes ago.
(They took a break. Stopped the car, stretched. Tony screamed into Happy's shoulder. Peter laid down and stared at the sky. Happy sighed and called Pepper to let her know they'd need to keep away the nosy reporters for a while. They all collectively decided to ignore each other while trudging back inside the car. It's fine, Peter's fine, he's fine. It's fine.)
"How about now?" It's the most tentative question Tony has been asked and a little girl once asked him if he was going to become her new daddy the morning after he broke her mom's bed.
"Yeah, you know what? I completely agree."
Tony takes off his sunglasses, makes sure the carpet on the car floor isn't too dirty. These are tailored pants, after all.
"You know you can always say no, right?"
"I do, Mr Stark." Tony smiles, can't believe this kid landed on his lap.
"Unless it's a thing for you, you can call me Tony, Pete."
That cute blush again. God, that's going on his spank bank for the rest of his life. "I, um, I think it's a thing. If that's ok with you?"
"I can definitely get used to it. Now do me a favor, Pete," the kid looks at him, eyes big and body leaning forward like he's desperate to follow orders," spread your legs for me, honey." Peter's legs nearly reach the doors at their sides and Tony thanks whatever god made it so that his new lover is flexible as an acrobat.
"I was a gymnast when I was small."
The smirk on Tony's face could raise the dead, "Of course you were, Peter." He carefully unzips black jeans, lowers them down hips he wants to bite and freezes.
"Peter, are you wearing boxer-briefs with my name on them?" They say STARK in bold letters, gold stitching bright against the black, tight fitting fabric. It, uh, does something to him, he won't lie.
"Oh, I forgot I had them on today. To be fair, you make really comfy underwear. My best friends got them for me as a birthday gift."
"Uh huh, sure. Can you lift your shirt up, please?"
"..."
"Peter?"
"I swear I didn't plan this."
"Right. Thing is, I know this particular set. The bottoms aren't that different from what you can get at Target, or Walmart. They're normal, really. The only difference is the quality of fabric and the stitching. The top, though. The top, if I'm not mistaken, which I'm not," Tony slides his hands below Peter's shirt and drags blunt nails up a warm chest until they catch on something, grins like he just won the lottery, "is a lace halter top bralette. I know because I helped make lace this sturdy and soft.
"Peter Parker, are you wearing Stark lingerie?" It is possible that the kid's glasses fog up. It is possible that it gets him hard.
"Maybe."
"Kid, I'm gonna eat you up."
Leaving behind the top half, Tony focuses on rolling down black underwear. He moans. Actually moans when he sees Peter's dick.
It's long and thin, just like the kid. As rosy as his cheeks, too. "Such a pretty pink cock and it's all for me. Do you think you'd taste like candy if I gave some Sweethearts or ice cream? Don't answer that, I'm sure you taste sweet anyway."
Peter jolts and precum dribbles from his cock. Huh. Add dirty talk to the list then.
"Mr Stark, I don't think I'm gonna last long." He hasn't even touched the kid and already his voice is cracked and shaky.
It's a very big turn on.
"Think you can last enough for me to get a good taste of this pretty thing?" Another jolt, another drop of pearly cum spills. Oh, he's going to have so much fun with Peter.
"No."
"Hmm. What if I just lick and don't actually suck? Mind you, there isn't a limit, kid. If you wanna spill inside my mouth and then come again, I don't know, between my thighs or, " Peter whines, hips flexing erratically and lip bitten red like a cherry, "I am absolutely down for that."
"I usually get, um, you know."
"Pete, I don't know."
The kid drops his head, squirms in his seat. "I get really wet and sometimes I come a lot. Many times. In one go." He winces, probably thinks Tony is going to throw him out of the car.
"Parker, look at me. None of what you just said is a bad thing. I am even more determined to get my mouth on that gorgeous dick of yours. Would you like that?"
A nod.
"Use your words, baby."
Pink again. "Yes, Mr Stark."
Shit, now he's going to have to ask Pep to call him something else. "Good boy." Peter wraps a tight hand around himself and groans, body curling over Tony's head.
"Please, please, Mr Stark. I won't last long."
"Excellent." Tony leans down and finds out that Peter Parker does, in fact, taste like candy.
---------
When they arrive at the cabin, Tony has to pry Peter away from the sticky seat. Happy opens the door to the place, does not look at either of them, does not breathe while they're close and then sits down on the front steps, taking out his first cigarette of the month.
Tony hums as Peter wakes up, happy to carry him all the way to the master bathroom.
"How long was I out for?"
"Fifteen minutes."
"And where are we going now?"
"I am drawing you a bath so we can rinse you off and get you clean."
Peter blushes and hides his face in the crook of Tony's neck. It's fucking adorable.
"I don't need a shower; I didn't come that much."
His leather seats beg to differ. The entire car is gonna have to be washed just to get the smell out. "You came three times."
"No, I didn't it."
"Right. So you didn't come in my mouth; glorious experience, by the way. You taste like sugar. You didn't come with just the tip of my fingers in your ass-"
"I asked you to-"
"To fuck you in the back of a moving car with my sizable dick. No way I was gonna do that, especially when I didn't know how much you could handle."
"I said just the tip."
"See, I wanna know why you're pouting because that same pretty jaw of yours dropped when it was just my fingers. Oh, and then you didn't come thanks to my amazing hands."
"I never said they were amazing."
"No, you said 'oh my god, let's do that again.' And I said not until you have a shower and some food. Now, are you going to be a good boy and be easy to hold during the bath?"
Peter blinks at him, hesitatingly shrugs. "What, you don't think I'm joining you?" The smile that gets him is enough to convince Tony that yeah, Peter's going to be easy to hold onto in and out of the bath.
being bilingual is so fucking weird because I'll talk to someone in English and then a friend will pass by so I'll switch to Spanish and when I go back to person A well I can either resume the conversation flawlessly, freeze for a second while I reload or continue the convo in Spanish and the chances for each are equal
Also, no babes, don't look away because you're blushing at the change of voice, we all think it's cute
my aunt really went off with my cake, this thing looks like itd cost twenty five bucks in a bakery, it has sprinkles, round flat sprinkles, meringue like swirls and a fucking inch of sugar wrapped around it, plus it tastes amazing
aka remember how I said I'd write supernatural Tony or SIM Tony going after his new assistant? Yeah, well, I'm doing both! SIM Tony will show up in future parts, so have bartender!Peter and vampire!Tony. He lusts after Pete a bit, but no warnings for this one, folks. also part of the prompt fill for @starkerfestivals AUpril event, supernatural prompt. go follow them if you dont already, the mods are deities and sweethearts
11/21/21 edit because i need the distraction, here are some gifs
The problem, Tony supposes, is that he’s his father’s son. Which doesn’t mean what you’d think it means. People, particularly the press, like to believe that all his, well, Tony-ness comes from his inheritance of the Stark name. They adore writing about their theories, how he’s the embodiment of the nature vs nurture debate. Because his last name is Stark, he’s an asshole with hedonistic tendencies. An egomaniac obsessed with glory and fame. A man more beast, more animal than actually human.
Look at him, they scream, raised by prim nannies and proper butlers, but still a mirror image of the one that came before him. Which, ok. Yeah, he likes having a good time, who doesn’t? Sure, Tony enjoys a bit of glory; he deserves it, after all the gifts he’s given humanity. If Einstein was popular and famous, why shouldn’t he be popular and famous? Anyway, the thing is, they’re wrong. They’re hitting the wrong nail on the head. Some of the whole Stark curse deal might be true, but it’s not the point. Capital letters ‘The Point’.
No, see, the problem, Tony is very well aware, is that he’s a vampire.
The curse they all talk about? That’d be much easier to deal with than his curse. Their curse is the Stark pride; his is an actual ‘cursed by a vengeful witch to lust for blood and get the most terrible fucking headache if he goes out for a day at the beach’. And really, he could handle pride. His entire family line consists (on his father’s side, his mom was a saint) of petty, narcissistic dicks. It’s part of the gene code by now. So is the guide to dealing with a world that hates pride. Tony knows how to use his pride to intimidate and conquer; it’s second nature, not an actual burden on him. The fangs, the night vision, the epic hunger for blood, that shit is new. It’s shit he wasn’t even aware could happen, let alone to him.
See, once upon a time, he got hijacked in Afghanistan and instead of, oh, who knows, asking him to build a missile or make some warlord immensely powerful, the kidnappers used him as a science experiment. Cash in the ransom, get rich and appease the witch in the mountains by getting her a new plaything. The village is saved, hooray! And he’s stuck in a cave, being tortured night in, night out. There’s a man keeping him from the sweet embrace of death though, because obviously the universe won’t let his suffering end. Obviously, the universe toys with his fate for six months before finally saying, fuck it, I’m bored, we’ll make the witch’s experiments succeed and give you the weapons you need to fight back and escape.
The weapons being, clearly, enhanced speed, strength, agility, heightened senses and the ability to grow four inch fangs and three inch claws. Oh, right. Plus a heart wrenching need for the sweet, sweet ichor running through a person’s body. And it is, by the way, very sweet. The witch’s blood was a tad bitter, sadly. The rest were fine, thank God. To be fair, it was pretty stupid to try and create a vampire without equipping yourself with the things necessary to kill said vampire if they escaped.
Where is he going with this? Ah, ok. He’s spent less than a year being Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde and, seeing as how he’s apparently the world’s first monster, Tony doesn’t have a fucking clue what he should be doing. The witch didn’t leave a note or a manual, zip, nothing, nada. Which is why he is currently enraged, sulking and downing a whiskey (or two, or three, or twenty) at an uptown New York bar. Today’s newspaper lies beneath his glass, condensation bleeding the ink into an incomprehensible alphabet soup. He can still read it in his mind’s eye though, unfortunately. The press has just released yet another article about the Stark ‘curse’ and it’s stupid, he’s dealt with it his entire life. But it stings, a little bit. There isn’t anyone he can talk to, no one he can confide in, not now that Pepper is on her honeymoon and God, he missed so many moments-
“Excuse me, sir? My shift just ended, but Peter here will continue tending the bar, should you need anything." The girl, what was her name, Beth or Betty, something, smiles that particularly fake smile people give when they've finished working with rich assholes and it's too much right now. He shoves a hand in his pocket, wriggles it around and slides three hundred dollar bills to her. The new guy freezes next to her, gaze snapping to the money and then to the girl. Anger, he recognizes anger in amber eyes, but he hasn't done anything bad, has he?
Tony squints at the money, is about to ask if that's enough when he notices the girl's flushed cheeks, her lowered head. Registers how it looks for a drunk, middle aged man to be slapping a wad of cash at a young girl in an expensive bar. Oh.
Oh.
He coughs, splutters. "Oh, no, God, that's just for dealing with my sorry ass all night. Kept the whiskey going, didn't ask questions, perfect, really. I swear on my mother's grave, I wasn't," Tony clears his throat, lowers his voice so none of the other patrons hear, "propositioning you or whatever. I know I look like a jerk, but I'm not that much of a dick."
"Thank you, sir, but that's, that's too much. I couldn't-"
"Of course you can, you've done a good job; good job means good tip."
She hesitates, looks at the new guy for, he's guessing, a sign it won't be a shitty move to accept so much money. Tony sighs, puts his glass of whiskey against his cheek. Honestly, if everyone lusted for money and riches, he wouldn't have to force his body to work properly. One of the only good things about being a monster? The ability to induce sobriety. It's a somewhat painful process, his kidneys working overtime and causing his lower back to ache like a father, but there's no way these kids are going to understand his point if he's too drunk to talk, you know, like a human. To be fair, it takes more than twenty whiskeys to make him dizzy now, let alone drunk. Still, he'll have a higher chance of not getting kicked out if they bring their boss by being sober.
Tony shakes himself off, pops his back. God, the things he does for people and wide eyed kids. "Look, how's this? Take half of the money as a tip and leave the rest for uh," he waves his hand at the other bartender, mind slipping over his name. Con of inducing sobriety? His head got. Weird, really weird after, short term memory fuzzy like static.
The kid narrows his eyes and it's like he's in elementary school all over again, skin prickling at the blatant distaste shown, "Parker."
That's definitely not it, he recalls that much, "Parker, yeah. Does that sound good, Betty?" The girl bites at her lip, glances at the supposed 'Parker'. When he dips his head in a nod, she sighs and offers a chagrined little smile. She's cute, if you're into blondes and, well, girls. Betty shyly reaches out, finger brushing over the bills and really, he won't bite the poor kid. He has hospital blood bags for that.
"Thank you very much, sir. I truly appreciate it." Tony shrugs, lips tugged upwards slightly. The girl didn't bother him during her entire shift; she deserves the money more than he does. With a quick kiss on her friend's, he supposes they're friend's, but who knows, cheek and another tiny grin, she's off. Leaving him with Parker. Great.
"You can have it back." The young man, well, child, maybe, he can't be that old, points at the remaining bills with his chin, hands snatching glasses under the bar counter and readying them. He rests his head on his palm, watches how the glass glints under the light; they're lined up straight, probably a compulsion. Tony doesn't raise his gaze, content to squint in just the right angle so he can see the refraction of light waves turn into hazy rainbows.
"It's not blood money, you know. If that's what you were worried about, Mister Parker."
A pause and, is that embarrassment he sees out of the corner of his eye, tan cheeks going a pretty pink? The boy hesitates, hands slowing; Tony diverts his focus to him, subtly paying proper attention to his face. And it's a nice face; square jaw, thin brows, cupid's bow lips, good cheekbones, amber eyes. It's not a face he'd mind having between his legs by the end of the night. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean that. It wasn't fair of me, being rude. It's just that my friends, especially my girl friends, they've had some bad experiences with bar patrons before, so I try to be on the lookout."
He actually looks sheepish and repentant, body slightly hunched and everything. Tony snorts, downs the last of his whiskey. "Kid, I'm gay. I understand where you're coming from, but you have nothing to fear from me, promise." Except I might just try to hit on you, instead of Betty, he thinks with a wince. God, he needs to get laid. With an adult that looks like an adult and not a high school student.
Parker blushes, eyes going wide. Would he look like that as Tony pushed in, mouth open and skin a faint red?
He really needs to get laid, like, now. "Oh. Um, I'm glad you're not a creep going after Betty then. How about a drink, though, on me? As an apology?" Hmm. One more drink couldn't hurt. Besides, he's curious about this Parker, curious about how much he'll do for a stranger's forgiveness. There might be something here, but he's not sure of what it is just yet.
"You'll do anything I want?" He hums, cocks his head to the side and observes, studies. A hitch of the chest, a twitch of the fingers. If he inhales deeply, he can smell it. It's still not the easiest thing, searching for a specific scent or straining to hear a high note, but Tony isn't a quitter, regardless of what the press says. If he calms himself down long enough to focus, he can catch it, the whiff of arousal. Small and nearly overwhelmed by the scent of other things around them, but it exists. It seems that now he's made it clear he's on the market, so to speak, Parker's taken an interest.
Yes, his mind whispers, he'll do quite well.
A shrug, graceful and fluid. Such elegance, now that he knows where to look. The collar of a white shirt widens, Parker shifting his stance into something fetching, something enticing. The boy feels challenged. Tony feels light headed, exposed sun kissed skin gleaming. His teeth ache, bones threatening to slide out. He bites his own tongue, sucks on the wound and swallows the thin blood as a distraction. It works, barely, but at least he's not lunging over the counter to get a taste of this pretty boy.
"I'm not bad at what I do. Hit me." Oh, he'd love to. Would he cry out like a kitten if Tony put him over his lap, if he warmed what he suspects are toned thighs with the palm of his hand? Would he cry out for more, or beg for mercy, tears in golden eyes?
One of the good things of having had a very proper British butler as a nanny is that, from a young age, Jarvis would teach him all sorts of things he deemed necessary for a future gentleman. Now, he's not sure about being a gentleman, but he is sure about being knowledgeable in regards to drinks. His teenage years consisted of cranking out all sorts of alcoholic drinks for his dorm building on the weekends in order to earn as many favors as he and Rhodey needed. They had access to the campus library twenty-four hours a day because the librarian's assistants adored his Bloody Marys.
He won't ask for that, though. No, he'd rather ask for the one drink that all bartenders hated mixing thanks to its sticky ingredients and time consuming nature. It was a hell of a task for Jarvis to accomplish and the last time Tony had done it? He had needed Rhodey to massage his arms for ten minutes just to get his nerves back in working order after shaking so much.
Tony narrows his eyes, grins the signature Stark grin that gave his father the reputation of a lady killer. "I want you to make me a mojito, Mister Parker."
When Pepper, aunt May's long lost ex girlfriend, tells him about a possible job offer as an in-flight bartender, he's ecstatic, flying around his room and curling the wind around his best clothes, chucking them at his suitcase. Until she asks him, point blank, if he'd be comfortable working for gods. Not other nymphs, or centaurs, or mages, or, fuck, Peter would work with monsters. Gods. As in, immortal beings known for their short temper and even shorter attention span.
He falls flat on his ass in surprise and gapes at the tall woman.
"You want me to bar tend for what is basically a little kid with all the power in the world? While trapped in a metal tub?"
The redhead, a water nymph who stubbornly decided to dye her hair auburn instead of leaving it blonde (what attracted May to her in the first place, actually), clears her throat and Peter hears the creaking of the water pipes above him. Scoots back into a corner just in case.
"It's a fifty thousand dollar gig."
"I could get that working for Mr Hammer during the summer and winter breaks, Miss P."
"A month, Peter. Fifty thousand dollars a month."
Peter glances at his suitcase. He needs an upgrade, anyway. And they could move to a new house, in what, three or four months with that type of money? Plus Ned's birthday is coming up and he really wants to buy his best friend the new Star Wars Millennium Falcon set.
"Hey, May? Where's my good bar tending suit?" Pepper sighs happily and their kitchen sink explodes.
It's the eyes that throw him for a loop. At first he thinks it's the glasses; the red rimmed sunglasses were popular nowadays and gods are slaves to nothing except fashion, so hey, maybe it's just that. An accessory that costs more than his rent, yeah, that's plausible. But then one of the 'flight attendants' (please, Peter knows more about aerodynamics and customer service than any of them) teasingly goes to remove them and the god tenses, fingers snagging on her wrist and teeth bared. The air gets blisteringly hot for a moment and Peter, as inconspicuously as possible, blows a cool gust at the attendant, so she can calm down.
The companion, another god who's steadfastly been ignoring the attendants until now, shushes the scared woman, smiling at her.
"Hey, hey, it's ok. You're ok, honey. He just doesn't like anyone touching him this early in the morning. Not really a morning bird, this one, you know," it's like watching a spell wash over the flight attendant. She relaxes, gives a shaky smile back at the god. His boss lets her go slowly, avoids his friend's gaze, mutters something about a drink and heads his way. A kid flinching too noticeably from an unknown touch. That's what Peter thinks when the god settles on the chair across from him.
The dark haired god slips his hands under the shades, rubs at his face. Lets out such a sad exhale that he actually feels pity for a being a thousand times stronger than him. Peter gets to work, silently mixes up a special drink he concocted in their kitchen at midnight the day Pepper offered this job. He'd practiced it a million times, the specific amount of strength and agility his wind gusts would need to make it, in his sleep, blindfolded, in Ned's place, in MJ's place, in Betty and Liz's place (they moved out together and he's half sure MJ's going to be living with them when she finally asks them out). He knows this drink, is what he means. And now he gets the chance to present it to the one person, is that an accurate description, that really matters.
The whole process was noiseless, but he makes sure to drag the glass a little against the tabletop. The god straightens slumped shoulders, shakes himself off.
"Could I get, oh, aren't you quick? What's this? I haven't seen it before." He wouldn't; it's, well. It's basically a frozen slushie with twenty different drinks added, plus all the other ingredients he tossed in to get it perfect. It's a dark blue and has sugar around the glass rim. That's it, nothing flashy about it.
Peter clears his throat, crosses his wrist behind his back. Look humble, but not like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, Peter. "House specialty, sir."
The god snorts, brings it to his mouth after considering it for a second or two. "Kid, I'm a god. 'Sir' only reminds me of how old I am. Rhodey over there would appreciate it, but it's not necessary with me." His boss inhales and tosses it back like it's a shot. Peter winces, wishes the god had at least taken a pause.
Quietly, because he's not an idiot, he places a water bottle on the counter. It's not an easy drink to gulp down, too many conflicting tastes to sort through. Betty nearly choked the first time she tried a sip of it.
His boss sets down the half full glass, smacks his lips and blinks. Peter curls his toes in his shoes, ready to fly off in a moment's notice.
"That's the best fucking drink I've ever had." Peter stills, lungs refusing to work and bones turning to liquid. The god keeps going like he hasn't just given Peter the greatest compliment he could receive.
"It's light, refreshing, definitely, but it has a bite, doesn't it? What is that, salt, lemon? Maybe, I don't know and I don't care. As long as you can, kid, you're looking pale."
Red eyes peer at him from over red glasses and oh, great, now his lungs are stuttering because of something else. Peter had known his boss is handsome; Pepper showed him a photo a few days after he accepted the gig. But this is different, batshit insane and fuck, he's an air nymph, he can't run out of air.
He couldn't have known, ever, in a million years, how potent a god's direct stare is. His knees buckle, he wavers and those eyes widen when he slides down. His boss lunges at him over the tabletop, manages to sit him down on the little stool he has on his side of the bar.
"Shit, sorry, kid, I forgot I could do that. Cons of being the god of the dead; everyone's sort of obsessed with the morbid, so I get the fainting spell if I don't wear the shades. Uh, let's see, a distraction, what are you?"
Peter gasps, oxygen flowing through his veins once more and heading straight for his brain. His vision blurs for a second, no lie, and this is worst then the time Harry blew pot into his mouth when they were seventeen. "I'm not for sale." He coughs, snatches the water bottle and downs it for one prolonged moment.
A pause and then his boss is laughing, snickering and then snorting and then howling and then cackling. Peter feels like he was just struck by lightning half a dozen times; heart going ridiculously warm at the sight. Figures it must be another con of being a god. (Something tells him that's not it, though.)
"I'm sorry, that was inappropriate. I, um, I meant, what are you? Like, spirit, wizard, etc, etc."
Peter flushes, scolds himself for assuming the god was attempting to buy him like an incubus. "An aurae. Air nymph."
"No shit. I've never met an air nymph before. Water nymphs, sure, cuz of Pepper, a dryad or two, back in my youth," and it's startling because he looks, he looks good, just a decade older than Peter, maybe, so how old is he really, "but not air. Is that why you're here, aerodynamic knowledge? I gotta congratulate Pep, I wouldn't have thought of getting an expert on air while we're flying."
He dips his head in gratitude, tries not to puff his chest out too much.
"Thanks. I'm actually here just as a bartender. Miss Potts wanted me to craft an individualized drink, besides, you know, bar tend, but I think the fact I can fly probably helped her choose me in the end."
The god cocks his head at him, slides his gaze at the drink he chugged. Points at it with a small smile on his face. "Wait, that drink's for me? It's-"
"Oh, yeah. It's yours. I'm not sure what to call it; I usually name it after the person, but, well." Peter scratches the back of his neck, freezes when his boss stares at him with his mouth open.
"Are you, are you serious? You took a job bartending in a jet without knowing your boss's boss's name? Kid, I gotta say: I'm impressed. It's a ballsy move, Mister..."
It's instinct, something whispering in his ear, convincing him to stretch out his hand over the counter. The smile he gives the god though, nothing has to coerce him to do that.
"I'm Peter Parker. Mister Parker was my uncle."
The god pauses. Sets down his drink. Slides his hand forward and fire races down Peter's spine when they touch, heat wrapping around him. This merchant of death grins at him, honestly and youthfully.
"I'm Tony. I think we're going to get along swimmingly, Peter. But I don't care if it's redundant because you can fly; I will throw you out of this jet if you name that delicious drink after me. Can you imagine how many of my friends would call me to say they were having the 'Tony' between the dinner courses? I'd have to go into hiding and I already live underground thanks to the job. Uh, oh, hey, the Starker."
"The Starker?"
"Yeah, both our names. The inspiration and the master artisan, what do you say? Say yes and I'll get us matching t-shirts."
Peter laughs, can't believe he was ever nervous about today.
"Ok, Tony. Starker it is." They shake on it and yeah, Peter thinks they'll get along really well.
"So let me guess, a spoiled little boy infatuated with luxury and comfort. You want the best of the best, constantly. Well, lucky for you, no one's better than me. Except, maybe, my armor. Which you seem to be rather fond of, sweetheart. "
His hips jerk, grind down against the smooth metal plating acting as a plaything for him to entertain himself with while waiting on what seems to be plush velvet seating. Not that Peter can be too sure. His mind is focused elsewhere, tangled in a diluted euphoria graciously granted by the man to his right. A man that wishes to sell him to the richest god on Earth.
Obadiah chuckles, sips at a wine decades older than the boy draped over titanium alloy as gracefully as a cat. Cocks his head and pinpricks of fear, old remnants of these last few years, settle on Peter's body. But trepidation doesn't make him falter anymore. Not when a thousand punishments have taught him how crucial it is to be pleasing, happy, carefree, in order to be desirable.
Although, this god in front of him is probably the most tantalizing thing Peter's ever seen. Acting for him wouldn't be such a hassle; more an enticing challenge than a terrifying chore.
At Obadiah's silent order, he rises slightly, lets the gauzy, half open shirt surrender to gravity and reveal miles of tanned skin ready for whatever caress quickened a deity's pulse.
"I do want what's best. That's why I'm here," another lascivious movement of silk covered hips, " but I know you don't cut corners either. You deserve everything to be perfect. Perfect suit, perfect body, perfect life. And I'm the best of the best. " It's a murmur, a show of the cards, a promise Peter's ready to make if it means conquering a god.
Tony Stark smiles and the armor underneath Peter comes to life.
So, I made this instead of doing a physics quiz because um. I feel like the latest pic just shot an arrow right through my heart and I wanted @puppypeter @professional-benaddict and @vaguekiwi to feel the same way.
As always, tumble hates me so please click for better quality.
+my brain said hot pink and then light pink so have both
He finds the kid in a Hollywood producer's summer mansion atop paradise. There's a waterfall five minutes away by yacht, lush jungle just a finger's width apart from the sprawling palace and the crystalline sea is behind him, right there for the taking if your ambition is grand enough. Actually, you can have anything if you have enough ambition and Stark men are made of envy and desire. Right now, though, he desires the teasing young thing splayed against the railing. Tony feels hunger, dark and never-ending, twisting his stomach as champagne drips down a tanned neck and onto a chest revealed to everything under the sun.
God, but he enjoys the ones with no shame, the ones that would scream prettier than any songbird amidst the biggest crowd if the price was right. When has Tony ever offered the wrong price?
"He's not for sale, Stark." A snarl sends spit flying over his suit, his new fucking suit, and forget social etiquette, he's gonna tear whatever fool dared to get close into pieces for the dogs salivating by the balcony. He's turning, lips peeling back and eyes blazing blue when a hand clamps down on Tony's shoulder and safesafesafesafe.
"Hey, fellas, have you seen the latest eye candy on Hammer's arm? I think they're prima donnas or something. Probably worth a lot, taking them away from practice time. I bet only the richest man here will be able to steal them for a night or two." Rhodey's always been good at persuading others; Killian, because of course it's this scum of the earth, swivels around and grins at the twins on either side of Hammer. Tony stops considering murder when he walks away.
"I'm the richest man here."
Rhodey doesn't even blink, "You're not a man, Tones."
Maybe not, but he definitely loves his best friend.
"Who's the hottie about to be devoured on the railing?"
"Don't do anything stupid, Stark. I just got this suit cleaned and the blood stains were a bitch to remove thanks to your little tantrum from last time. There are still guts in my hair," he doubts that's a lie, last time was possibly an overreaction on his part. Not that he'd ever admit it.
"I never do something stupid. Besides, just worried about how much weight that railing can take." Bullshit.
"Bullshit. I know exactly what type of railing you're thinking about.
Stop laughing, dammit, he's high maintenance. Really high maintenance, Tony. Will bleed even you dry after a few months. Sure as hell cost me a pretty penny."
Now Tony whips around in excitement and surprise, eyes glowing for a completely different reason as Rhodey curses, tries shoving his wriggling fingers away to no avail. "You, James Rhodes, straightest man I've ever met-"
"Says Mr Camp."
"Slept with that?" They glance at the gorgeous thing, gawk at how the boy downs an entire flute of champagne in a second and hurls the glass away while reaching for two more from a passing waiter. There's alcohol and sugar, sugar, where the fuck did he find sugar here, these people are on a thousand different cleanses, coating baby pink lips and oh, he's gonna feel them against his body even if he has to slaughter everyone here to gain a lover for the night. Well, everyone except Rhodey.
His best friend clears his throat, snatches a beer from a drunk party goer and chugs it, cheeks coloring a bit. "Yeah. Hmm, it was less than a night, really. Just a few hours."
Jealousy, boiling and acidic, rises upupupup and his teeth grind together harshly before he beats envy bloody with a mental bat. He promised, long ago, ages ago, decades past, to never succumb when it comes to Rhodes. Too many times has his heart been restitched by the man in front of him for Tony to risk it all. Especially over a mortal.
"How was it?" Ok, he can treat himself to a little jealousy after seeing Rhodey grin so triumphantly into a now empty beer.
"Best night of my life, hands down. I get winded just thinking about it. Jesus, that kid's hands. Never will I find a better partner and I am heartbroken over that." The funny thing is he genuinely sounds anguished over that fact.
"What's it gonna cost me?" Plans are already forming, schemes and blueprints for a castle, a fifty foot boat, a planet, anything the kid wants.
"For a night?" That wouldn't be enough. Not for the Stark ambition.
"He's the best. Right?" Rhodey's jolt is enough of an answer.
"Two weeks?" Oh, his best friend is sweet.
"Forever." The new beer is spat out, bile and saliva decorating the smooth wood underneath their feet. He claps a hand on Rhodey's back, never looks away from the enticing creature staring right back. The boy tilts a fluffy head to the side, inadvertently stretches a swan like neck and his teeth would fit perfectly on that arch, he's sure of it.
"What's his name?"
"Pe, I can't breathe, Christ, we're gonna die because of your damned need to have the best of the best and this is my best suit-"
"I'll buy you a thousand."
"I'll hold you to that," shit, he would, " Peter. Parker. Kid from Queens. Aunt couldn't pay for college, so he started as an escort for low level lawyers, businessmen. Got so popular the price went up until Wall street wolves couldn't pay, CEOs couldn't pay, government officials couldn't pay, millionaires, billionaires couldn't pay. Took him two years and they say he's still as tight as a virgin and dirtier than the devil. "
"They say?" He sacrifices a second to slyly peer down at Rhodey.
"We, uh, never got to that. Don't look so offended; I, unlike some people, don't need the whole shebang. It was great without it and I doubt my heart could've taken more."
"Wanna share him?"
Rhodey snaps his mouth shut, gazes at Tony with so much love and affection that pinpricks roll down his back, remind him of a kind father figure with a soft accent and softer eyes. He shifts, tenses because what a way to kill the mood, Stark.
(His last name should've been Jarvis, JarvisJarvisJarvis)
"You'd do that with me?" Share a prize, a conquest that demanded blood and sweat? With a mortal?
"Yeah. Of course, I would, Rhodes. You're my best friend."
Peter Parker doesn't stop profiling him, probably analyzing the thread count of his suit, checking the shine of black shoes, gauging the worth of pink diamonds settled on rings exclusively crafted for his vital signs. Unnecessary, really.
"Thanks, Tony. Really. But you have fun. Hurricanes weren't particularly my thing before and time hasn't been too kind on me." He hasn't been too kind to Rhodey. He knows what it costs the man at his side to be around Tony, around something so volatile and toxic. Which is why he doesn't push. Prefers to shove the pain aside and distract himself with a new treasure.
"Alright. I'll see you later then?"
"Yeah, as long as you don't burn the place to the ground before that."
He's laughing as he walks toward Peter, mirth curling often cruel lips upward in the sincerest smile he's capable of producing when sober. The man tilts back, lazily stretches impossibly long legs to resemble an air of nonchalance and indifference. But his eyes. Tony knows how to read eyes, knows how to peer into the window of the soul and delight swirls around his spine when he catches sight of interest in amber pools.
Gently, he settles right next to a white elbow, wonders how such a pale shirt isn't already covered in champagne and whatever this creature of lust eats.
"Mr Parker. I've been told you have... eccentric tastes. Tell me, what does that champagne taste like?"
The boy smirks, paints such an arrogant picture Tony's hand twitches; he yearns to see if it'd burn him just as much as Peter, striking that pretty face and coloring it a dusky pink the same shade as his family ring. He dives too deep into that fantasy, ropes and roses and lipstick stains on all of Tony's shirts and scratches down his back and a perfect imprint of teeth on that shoulder and pain alongside pleasure, and his eyes flash blue for a second, nanotech surging to obey future commands. Peter inhales sharply, recognition coaxing pink lips shut and he hoards his next words until Tony's eyes turn back into their false color.
"It tastes expensive. Same taste in my mouth when I wear diamonds or when I fly to luxury hotels. Same thing I'm guessing I'd taste if I kissed you." For all the passion in the kid's voice, they might as well be discussing the weather.
"Well, I'd make sure that's the only thing you taste for the rest of your life, Mr Parker. Enough diamonds to make the sky jealous, so many hotels and cities they all blur together, thousands of trips to secret beaches until your skin never looks pale, an infinite supply of strawberry champagne and no end to the numbers on your bank account. No more disgusting men like Killian either. What's mine is sacred, treasured and adored."
Peter yawns. Twice. Cracks his jaw and swirls the last dregs of alcohol around in his mouth before taking out a strip of gum and chewing it with more interest than he gives Tony. From somewhere in the crowd, he hears howling laughter. Rhodey's never gonna forget this.
"Mr Stark, I presume it's Stark, I'm a doctoral candidate. I've got several master's, a thousand clients and the whole world wants to figure out what my lips taste like. Let alone the rest of me. Properties all over the globe have my name stamped on their side and, by the time this party is down, I'll have even more without having to grope with whatever is between my next client's legs. I can't actually remember how many people have promised me exactly what you're promising. And listen, I appreciate it. I do," a shoulder rolls back and all Tony thinks about is that oh, oh, this isn't a pretty house cat, this is a panther, " but I don't need another possessive middle aged man in the midst of a crisis trying to control what I do or don't do.
"I'm already treasured and adored. Expensive is my middle name and I doubt the great Tony Stark can write a check big enough for my ambition. I know I look like the dolls your servants play with, but I'm not some street whore with an empty head. Now, if you'll excuse me, my daddy wasn't a billionaire so I have to work these old bags out of their blood money. "
Peter pops the pink bubble bursting from his lips and it's such an intense sight that Tony has to take a few seconds before rebooting. He steps forward, catches up to the kid and pins him to the wall without having to touch him, presence and the pissed off look coming from azure eyes enough to force Peter backward.
"Listen, you child. The only thing saving your pretty face from intimately knowing the back of my hand after that disrespect is exactly that: it's pretty. So ridiculously, infuriatingly beautiful I have half a mind to start calling you Peter of Troy instead of Parker. I don't like ruining beautiful things, but I do like ripping apart my things and God, it'd be fantastic to tear you into pieces. Burn the facade and destroy the persona. I'd make it so you'd get addicted to me and only me; my money, my time, my attention, my diamonds, my body and my devotion, you wouldn't be able to get enough. No more tacky clothes worth less than my pocket change, " the boy is wearing Chanel, Dior, Gucci, probably has silk underwear, "no more trips to the fucking Bahamas. No, I'd ravish you on islands the rest of the world don't even know exist. Champagne? Baby, I'd give you the gods' own blood to drink; get a supernova for you to wear on your neck, whatever you want. What's a doctorate when I can show you the secrets of the universe. Why settle for a billionaire with saggy balls and half a head of hair when you can have me and my love? "
Peter blinks up at him, owlishly peers into his eyes and no one's ever, no one's looked at Tony like that, looked and looked and inspected his own tattered remains of a soul with so much curiosity and interest. And then he smirks, a triumphant curl he's only seen reflected in mirrors.
He's been played for a fool. Coaxed to show his cards, bare his essence, kneel before an altar, wax poetic for the entertainment of a higher power. And Tony Stark didn't even notice. Pop! That pink circle vanishes, is sucked into the pretty mouth of one Peter Parker in the same way he's been devoured.
"Why, Mr Stark, you sure know how to convince somebody to do something, huh. I suppose I could spare a night. Won't come cheap, though. I've been promised a god's attention and I won't go for less. You understand, right, how nothing in this world is free?" That smile offers pain. A different pain than what he's used to, but he's quick to catch up. And even quicker to supply his lovers with what they need. Gods need worshippers, Stark men know this since the cradle. It'd be nice to see what's its like on the other side, if this is the god he'll be kneeling for.
Tony envelops a small hand with his own, swoops down to burst a ruby circle and find out what Peter Parker's lips taste like.
(My apologies to @galaxynerdbitch who texted me more than an hour ago, I'm so sorry, I was possessed and couldn't stop writing.)
Apparently, going on hiatus also means writing down what was supposed to be a lil ficlet and not stopping until several hours later. Starker said, Sophie, you're going for one last ride, dammit. I have no other explanation for this.
(Actually, a gif of Tom rolling his eyes helped in the creation of this story, thanks, Tom.)
7,000 words below, every one say thank you tumblr for inventing the keep reading line
Y'all. I don't even know man. This took me quite a few hours, my back hurts, my wrists hurt, but I could not physically stop. I took an hour long break and that was it, I needed to finish this. I'm actually happy how it turned out (guys i wrote more than 7 thousand words in one sitting. Thats the first time in months. Go sophie) Right, so Tony likes being treated badly only when its in a session and the scene has been previously discussed. When i mean bad, I don't mean physically hurt or verbally insulted, don't worry. He likes it when Peter treats him like furniture, basically. Peter's 19. This was way softer than I expected and I'm usually more formal in the notes but I have Not slept or moved in hours, I'm sorry. Hope you guys enjoy. Please reblog if you do.
They don't play this game that often. It's dangerous, in a way. Peter worries, because he's Peter, that it'll get to his head, distort the way he looks at Tony and lead him to a darker path he swore never to touch. (After Tony talked about his past boyfriends, this sweet young man had fallen to his knees and sobbed, arms clutching at his waist the way he had clung to his mother when Howard had wounded him. I'm never hurting you, Tones. I'd rather die than do that to you.)
Tony couldn't care less, really. He has zero doubt in his mind that the dark path Peter fears will be just that: a nightmare that won't become true. He knows Peter B. Parker almost as well as he knows himself; those pale hands, that pure heart, would shatter before inflicting so much as a slap to Tony's wrist. That's exactly why, comforted by this knowledge, he encourages Peter to make him hurt.
---------------
Convincing Peter isn't too hard on the days where the suit's main purpose is to hold him up instead of defending the Earth. It won't be difficult today.
He is weary this evening, bones hollow after he had his own mortality thrown in his face by a pack of board directors crueler than the universe. There were questions now, when will we have an heir, when will we have a new young man to lead the charge? When will the world have someone other than a silly fifty year old to protect it? He had been shamed like a little kid that believed something stupid, treated like he was disposable and unnecessary, a nuisance. Friday tightens the metal armor around him, an attempt at a hug. The built in radio is crooning out 50's music from his childhood.
He's crying before he lands on the ceiling, silently gasping out his sorrow as a figure sprints toward him, red sweater two sizes too big and jeans ripped at the knees. Peter, his mind whispers, Peter, Peter, Peter. Gone is the genius. Broken, tired Tony enters the scene.
Your feet are bare, he says. What a beautiful thing, the human body. Capable of encapsulating a soul as precious as Peter's, capable of letting his baby fly while Tony had to craft a body for flight. The spider didn't give his lover powers, it tapped into what was already there. Peter was meant to soar into the clouds; it didn't matter that he had to run faster than a bullet and leap the height of a skyscraper to achieve it. Looking at the arches of Peter's feet, he knows that the man before him was born to perform wonders.
What he doesn't know is that he's said all this aloud and his baby freezes mid step, chest still, but mind, Tony's sure, working to adapt. Oh. They made it to the bathroom. Where had time gone?
Tony, I'm going to help you into the bath now. It's soft as cotton, the way Peter says his name.
Tony. His father never called him that, Anthony used to drip from his lips like tar and it would drag down his spine until fear settled at the base of his back. His name in his father's mouth meant pain. Tony, though. Tony went alongside the sound of startled laughter, his mom as bright as the sun when he picked her up and spun her around the room. Tony was paired up with a and Jarvis, the elegant namesake of his first AI answering that yes, a table for two had been reserved. He'd made damn sure that the times Tony left another person's mouth, it'd imply joy, love to his mind and not pain.
There's only adoration here, present in the wood paneled bathroom belonging to his lover. Everywhere he looks, there are signs of Peter. The fluffy red and yellow Iron Man towel hanging on the rack. Slippers from Target, ragged with age and slightly torn on the sides, placed neatly by the door. The disgusting jelly that musses up lovely brown locks is right next to the shampoo that smells like Peter (it's not the other way, Friday, no ma'am). Avengers stickers fight stormtroopers on the mirror. Peter adores his bathroom and it shows. Peter adores Tony and it shows.
His tracksuit/actual suit is folded on the counter, edges crisp and nice (Peter worked at Old Navy for some time and old habits die hard). A warm bath sponge is being rubbed all over his scarred body, particular attention brought to his right arm even though the skin there is flawless thanks to Dr Cho and her cradle. Still, the phantom pains are soothed and he can just sink into the bath, head not so full of sorrow. There are rose petals, he's surprised to see, in there with him. A Captain America ducky, too. It's not enough to make him giggle, but he smiles. Turns to look at Peter and he is always, always beautiful, but now he is stunning.
Soap suds cover his arms, the edges of rolled up sleeves are a bit damp, pink dusts a fair face (he went to the beach with Ned today, he remembers now) and a single stray lock of hair tumbles over Peter's forehead. The golden light from the ceiling haloes him and Tony is easily ten seconds away from melting like the Wicked Witch of the West, except that he'd be happy to turn to goo in Peter's hands.
Hey, it's a croak, throat sore and hurting.
Hey, it's a symphony, light and healing and nothing hurts anymore.
Wanna bet Bucky and Sam will buy a hundred of the ducks to fill their bathtub before Steve gets home if I send them a pic? That's more words than he's said all day.
Peter bursts out laughing, shoulders hunched over, eyes squeezed shut, tears slipping down, grin wide and yeah, this is the young man he's going to ask to tear him apart tomorrow afternoon.
--------------
They talk about it, of course, the same way they always do. Establish what Tony wants, what he needs out of this session. Make sure they will both be comfortable with what will happen, discuss how ok it would be to improvise a little. When everything is ironed out and it's clear that Tony is 110% himself, they set the plan in motion, let a team know what to do before they arrive. After all, it wasn't happening there; it wasn't at the Tower because he didn't want it to happen there, not in their home where every inch was a reminder of their life, happy and full of love, together.
They head to the remodeled Stark Inc building in a car, superhero suits reduced to the original red and blue Spidey suit tucked in Peter's backpack and Iron gauntlets, the ones he had on during the fight with Winter so long ago, on Tony's wrists. It helped him dismantle himself, putting away the full suit in favor of wearing the watch and black bracelet. He wasn't Iron Man in these sessions, couldn't be that version of himself the same way Peter wasn't, well, Peter when they did this.
He'd been more than half gone after the fight with Thanos, unconscious in a coma for what felt like a century, but was actually a year. Peter hadn't been told. A choice Pepper took to protect him since nothing could guarantee Tony wouldn't suddenly die, let alone wake up, let alone wake up and still be him.
He'd seen the footage of Peter in the bridge with Beck, had woken up literally five minutes before the final fight and had somehow been able to take back enough control from EDITH to at least have eyes on Peter. He'd watched the video a million times afterward, body confined to a hospital bed in space and unable to do anything except mourn and think. (Like hell Tony was gonna spring his newly revived status on Peter immediately after the fight. No, he deleted the doctored footage Beck had planned to release, ordered EDITH to erase all updates from Beck's team and, on the verge of passing out a second time, told her to be good for Peter. Then he'd passed out.)
Peter had died. Not completely, but he had. His heart kept beating, sure, but he knew the look in those amber eyes. He saw it with Rhodey, with Happy, with Pepper and Sam and Bucky and Clint and most of the time, he saw it in the mirror, too. It was a look that spoke of a somber ache, the loss of a loved one, and because of that loss, the loss of oneself.
War changed Peter, Tony's death altered him. It left him with a hole in his heart, one that wanted to be filled again. For a moment, it was. And then Beck's betrayal obliterated any hope of his heart recovering and something dark slithered in. That look he'd seen in Nat, in Winter, in Steve and definitely in himself. There comes a point where life takes so much of you that you want to fight back, want the world to drip rubies, make sure it thinks twice before hurting your family.
Violence started looking a bit more palatable when you were in that state. All the people who had that look had given in and lost a piece of themselves in the process. Hell, he barely knew the man, but Tony had recognized it, that pain and sorrow and anger, in Zemo's blue eyes in one of their conversations. Peter had also given in.
It hadn't been much, compared to his actions, but it shook Peter. Scared him, the ferocity he'd had, the whirlpool of emotions that led him to the final altercation with Beck. Peter had, to the shock of everyone that had gone through the, well, process Mourn fits, he supposes, (the loss of a loved one and the sorrow that came with it) and not process Rage (the loss of a loved one and the fury and indignation that came with it), snapped Beck's arm like a twig. It happened in a second, just a quick twist of Peter's wrist and it was done. Beck had shrieked like a wounded animal, sound raw and filled with so much pain that Tony had grimaced in sympathy.
It had jostled Peter out of process B and he'd transformed back into the usual version of himself, yelling at EDITH to bring a medic and comforting the whimpering man curled in a ball. He was back to himself, but Tony had seen it and wanted that look all to himself.
Ok, obviously not exactly that look and part of Peter, Jesus. Peter had recoiled after breaking bone, face horrified and shocked at what he'd done and Tony may be a masochist, but he would never push his lover that far, not when it would mean that he, too, would be hurt. No, Tony wants Peter to act, and he can't believe he's thinking this, similar to how Howard Stark and the board of directors treated him. Key word here being similar. They park in front of the building and with one last look and a soft kiss, they begin.
-------
Peter, decked in his oversized high school sweater, jeans, worn out sneakers and school bag, should not have the swagger of a billionaire CEO. Yet here he is, striding into the skyscraper without a care in the world, several steps ahead of Tony and not slowing down at all, shoulders squared, back straight like a ruler.
The crowd of feral lawyers ready to shred any fresh meat into pieces, the one that always loiters in the lobby, quivers, parts for Peter like the sea before Moses and Christ, Tony's already getting hard. He's proud of the way his baby is acting and more than a little humiliated that a teenager who two years ago couldn't stand up straight if it killed him is behaving more confidently than him, the fucking owner of Stark Inc and this building.
He's actually forced to speed walk in order to catch up and his cheeks burn; how do they look, a squirt three inches shorter than him leading the way like he was born to conquer the entire world and a middle aged grey fox following diligently behind, mumbling 'excuse me's while trying not to bump into anyone or trip over a briefcase?
Peter passes the registry desk and does three simple things that make Tony's knees buckle: he turns his head to the secretaries at an inclined angle, gives them a grin so proud, arrogant and dirty that the three young women simultaneously go pink, throats clearing, eyes widening and lips pursing and then he says, in a voice that invites sin to dance beneath the pale moonlight, "Hello, ladies".
It's the same move his father used to do to anything in a skirt; smile and purr. Peter Parker hasn't purred in his goddamn life, but fuck if that isn't close. He's pretty sure the secretaries are suffering through the ordeal of wet underwear just like Tony is.
It's a douche move, no lie about it. It's also hot as fuck and ridiculously distracting. So distracting, in fact, that he does trip over a briefcase. Lands on his ass with a deafening crash that acts like a black hole, obliterating all other noise inferior to it. A pin could be dropped and half the building would hear it. The lawyer whose briefcase he just stumbled over is probably new, but Tony's going to give him ten promotions in a row because he catches up quick.
"Guess a genius like you has more important things than deal with gravity, huh?" it's said with a smile, as if to say, well, of course you tripped, who has time to focus on the floor when they're creating amazing things? By far, one of the best saves in the history of time; 10/10, would recommend. His ego breathes a deep sigh, happy to be alive and well. The rest of the room is just about to imitate his ego and laugh it off when Peter bashes the atmosphere in with a baseball bat.
Peter snorts. Like it's funny. Ironic. So far from the truth that he has to laugh on instinct. Like it's stupid to think that Tony, with wet briefs, red cheeks and a glazed look in his eyes could be thinking of anything over than sex. The elevator dings and his lover walks in, scrolling through his phone with a bored look. He leans against the wall, the picture of arrogance and then the motherfucker yawns.
"Tony." His name drips down from that mouth, two syllables wrapped in a casual command. Like his dog strayed too far from where it was ordered to stay. He's scrambling, a dying man in search of a cure, shoes squeaking against the floor and mouth dry. The elevator door closes, but the burn of a hundred and fifty people staring at him in confusion and shock isn't cooled by the seclusion. Peter sighs dreamily and oh, he can feel even more ashamed, what a nice new discovery.
His lover is ogling at a picture of Steve, dressed in a navy blue suit and showing it off in the classic Captain America pose; fists at his hips, legs apart and chin held high. Peter looks like he wants to cover the blonde in chocolate and lick him clean for hours when Tony. Is. Right. There. If looks could kill, Peter's phone's casket would be on fire and launched into space. It's, he thinks, no, he's Tony Stark, he knows this stuff, it's a saved pic. From the gallery.
Peter Parker, his boyfriend who inspired him to solve time travel, saved a picture of Steve Rogers, the man he sort of envies, on a phone that he, Tony Stark, made for Peter's birthday and he's gawking at it while riding the elevator that Tony designed as they ascend through the building that Tony helped build and that Tony fucking owns.
Oh. Oh, this kid is good at this.
--------------
Once he had explained, through the course of several hours and various cups of tea, that he liked being shamed and humiliated only when he wanted to feel those things, only by people he trusted with his life, Peter had broken down. As in, needed a few minutes to reboot and function. So, he had drawn out that one syllable for an eternity, you like it exclusively when it's in your control; when you give permission to another person to make you feel bad, that's when the bad feels good? Because you chose for it to be both good and bad?
Therapists and world renowned doctors couldn't have said it better. He had said yes and that was that. Peter had dived into the subject; reading books on his way to school, upside down on the ceiling and tablet an inch away from his nose, earphones permanently on while podcasts played, web calls with experts taking up his time on the weekend, notebooks reserved exclusively for the new information always near in case he had to write something done.
Once a month had gone by, and Peter was still in his usual spot with an educational video playing, attention laser focused on the laptop and glasses haphazardly sliding down, Tony had pried his legs open from beneath the table littered with papers, books and post it notes, and sucked him down to the root with no warning.
It was a new record, three minutes and one second. He'd been smug immediately afterward, blood boiling thanks to all the pretty noises he'd managed to wring out of his baby. Peter's face when Tony resurfaced and finally looked up, though. That had him scrambling up, hands hoisting a petite waist (yes, he'd filled in quite a bit, but it was Peter, he'd always be smaller than Tony; besides, Peter blushes when he calls him his petite baby so he could be as thick as Thor and Tony would keep cooing 'such a pretty, petite lover'), teeth sinking into a long neck and legs running to the bedroom.
After Peter gave him what was possibly the best fucking of Anthony Edward Stark's Life, he had mumbled out, "babe, you read one more paper and prove that you love me enough to write a fucking thesis on my kink, and I won't let you out of this bed", between yawns.
"It's already a thousand times better than what my exes did." Cue honest conversation, Peter sobbing and his heart breaking at the sight. It was a long night. He's grateful for all of it, though. For the undeniable proof that Peter cares for him and hadn't once thought of beginning something he had no knowledge of.
He's especially grateful for that month of research now that Peter is walking towards the room the assistants cleaned up because the kid is behaving like a champ and Tony doesn't have to worry the way he used to with abusive past boyfriends.
There are people on this floor, accountants, if he remembers correctly, but they don't blink an eye at him or Peter; just keep going about their lives, talking amongst each other, getting coffee, typing away on calculators and laptops. It soothes him, gets his heart beating at a normal rate. What happened at the lobby is fun and all, and there are those that enjoy the constant danger, but Tony prefers breaks. This atmosphere lets him cool down, settle into a state that won't pose a danger to his heart. Peter picked the perfect place.
His baby turns out of nowhere, heads straight for the kitchen and doubt makes him slow down a tad. It's their first time here, so, obviously, Peter must have looked at the floor plans. That was logical, he would've done the same thing. Thing is, he'd thought, well, ok, get to the floor, go to the room and fall apart, bada bing bada boom, clean up, go home. He hadn't exactly considered the option of Peter greeting the employees and plopping down on the cushioned bench in the kitchen after getting a cup of coffee like he was supposed to, like it was the most reasonable thing to do, like he owned the place.
Tony gapes, jaw on the floor as a guy brings Peter a grilled cheese sandwich and The motherfucking New York Times with a chirpy, "morning, Mr Parker!". He's going to combust, implode like a supernova and Peter just smiles, says his thanks and starts reading the newspaper. Spiderman nibbles on the sandwich, sips his coffee, turns the page.
Clean mouth, sip, nibble, squint, turn. Put on glasses, squint again, grin at the page, bite, drink, adjust glasses, turn. Over and over in a varied order that he lists in his head for all of five fucking minutes before Peter, not once looking at him, spreads his legs. Oh. Oh. Here?
He splutters, gets the side eye from an employee walking by and ok. Ok. Um. Well. It's not in direct view of the elevator, at least. Peter himself would be hard to spot entirely from the cubicles on the opposite, far side of the kitchen. He, on the other hand, would be seen if he gets between Peter's legs. That's not, he's used to a slightly risqué experience if it's a scene, but a blatant exhibiotinist? He doesn't have that in him, too uncomfortable at that level of exposure. Tony could say his word and Peter would jump out of that chair, ready to sweep him away to a safe place and soothe him.
That wouldn't cause any shame. They'd talk it out, be ok, go home and cuddle. But he trusts his lover. Peter wouldn't cause him any harm, humiliate him in a way he knows Tony doesn't like. He trusts the young man and he trusts himself to back out if he's not ok with the situation. One long breath and he walks. Slowly, though, because he doesn't want attention and because he's nervous as fuck. Seven steps gets him in front of Peter. Eight seconds. Roughly six feet. Oh, hey, his lucky number. Lungs stuttering and heart skipping, Tony sinks down between Peter's legs.
Maybe he viewed it wrong, and nobody could see them. It might be that, and anyways, the table and its lil curved bench were low to the ground and most people don't look at the floor so fuck it. The rug is pretty, a warm cream color that reminds him of the coffee Pepper likes. It goes well with the green paint decorating the table and his knees approve of its thickness. Jesus, Tony, just do something other than trying to guess the thread count of a rug. He hesitates, casts one glances around them, and slides his hands up strong thighs.
The denim drags nicely against his fingertips, a sensation that grounds him as he goes in search of his lover's hard on. The sweater Peter has on covers him mid thigh; Tony has to gently fold it out of the way and begin the journey to the jean's zipper. Where he finds nothing. Absolutely nothing. There's not even a dent, not a slight incline on sight and huh. Um. Right. This whole thing is mostly an intense aphrodisiac for Tony, it's Tony's kink, after all. But.
But Peter likes it. Peter has told him that he enjoys it; making Tony happy and acting like an asshole that doesn't give two shits. Not as intensely as he did, though, not at this stage, and that's understandable. Peter tends to get more, ahem, biologically involved later in the session. When there's some semblance of privacy, he can focus his senses and physically enjoy Tony's responses. By now, he'd be a bit hard, a bit discernible through the jeans. Therefore, the present situation is confusing as fuck.
He sucks his lip, squints, rubs at his eyes, counts to ten with them closed and then snaps them open like Peter's dick is a jack-in-the-box and it'll spring up against his mouth when he looks again. Nope, nothing. Tony looks up with a question on the tip of his tongue, registers what he's seeing and the oxygen in the room is sucked up, gone, unavailable, sorry.
Peter's quirking an eyebrow at him, head to the side like he's attempting to figure out what Tony's doing. Because Tony, apparently, isn't supposed to suck him down in broad daylight and be ignored by his boyfriend in a public place with employees still working.
He's distantly aware of the noise he's making, a gargled plea mixed with a shocked gasp, a moan intertwined with what may be a shriek or a wail. What comes out as comprehensible though, is a very choked up "Peter" that's punched out of him. Classifying it as comprehensible is a nice gesture, but he doubts anyone else named Peter would understand what he said.
"Mr Parker, sorry to interrupt, but have you seen a brown puppy around? A really affectionate one? My daughter brought it in her backpack and now it's loose."
Tony jolts, flies five feet up like the time his mom caught him eating a girl out in his dad's office. His knee bangs against the side of the table, and this is it, game over, everybody go home. The pain, sharp as a knife, goes beautifully with the white hot shame curdling in the back of his spine, and he is blind. Hulk could roar in his ears and he still wouldn't hear it; his head is filled with white noise, the world has gone black, every nerve in his body is fucking alight and Christ, he hadn't noticed how hard kneeling for Peter made him. A live wire could zap him right now and he'll spill in his jeans like a teenager, like Peter used to do, sometimes still does and that image is burning his retinas now.
The role reversal, pretty little Peter Parker with a tendency to go off in minutes not even the slightest shade of turned on, 100% disinterested and Tony Stark, infamous playboy, a madman in the sheets, about to cry out because of something so stupid, so menial, so ordinary, so embarrassing and humiliating, is, he's not ashamed to say, the sexiest thing he's ever experienced in fifty years. A hand yanks him down and Tony nuzzles, finds Peter's shoulder and decides, yeah, I'll just die here against this soft sweater. His legs curl up underneath him and he will never leave this couch, how could he?
Peter wraps an arm around him, superhuman strength holding him tight; it's to keep him from sliding down, but Tony knows, deep in his chest, that's it's to comfort him, too. A reminder that Peter's got him, is right here next to him.
"I'll be on the lookout, but I haven't seen any other puppies here." That distinction, I, as in, Tony doesn't count and other, as in, Tony doesn't count because he's also a dog so how could he help and be useful? A whine rises in his throat and he clobbers it. Blind, but slowly regaining his mind, he takes off his bracelet from his left hand (yellow in the stoplight system) and shoves it at Peter. His lover instantly drags him closer, humming a bit off key and low enough that only Tony would notice. It's his mom's favorite song. That's enough to settle his heart for now.
"Ah, thank you, anyway, Mr Parker." Footsteps. A moment and then Peter bends his head, kisses at a warm cheek. The blazing inferno is gone, but residual heat continues to lick at his bones. "I'm ok. Just a few minutes and I'm good to go."
Another kiss. The rustle of the newspaper, the hushed talk and clacking of keys. Breeze from an air conditioner, a hint of lavender to it, the grilled cheese. It slowly washes over him, the reality of the world around him, the truth in it. He is here and here is next to Peter, the real one. (Not the one in his dreams, not the one that accompanied him through death and comforted him with bright light.)
"Eat a bit, yeah? Your throat must be sore and it's around snack time." Tony doesn't like knowing the hour, it fucks him up; the knowledge of how long it's taken him has shaken him in the past, rattled his brain. Like this, all he needs to know is that he has to eat, hydrate.
"You got another sandwich under this hoodie?" Peter snorts and wow, thank God, he doesn't immediately associate it with the lobby; that'd be an interesting response to explain to Pepper.
"I never ate the grilled cheese."
Tony blinks, unfurls from his position and sits straighter to look at his lover. He narrows his eyes, "I saw you eat it. For, like, five minutes." The grin Peter gives him, Peter's grin, not the other one, has no right being that smug or lovely.
"I nibbled at it, but I never ate it completely. I only got the crusts down, see?" He picks it up and yup, Peter ate the crust. Tony hates the crust. Tears gather in his eyes and he smashes his face in Peter's sweater, overwhelmed and giddy.
"You're beautiful."
Peter breathes in sharply, gently cradles Tony. "Oh." It always gets him, how lucky he is to have someone like Peter; how lucky they are to have each other. They sit there for a while, his ear to Peter's heart (even in his dreams, his mind could never conjure up this rhythm, couldn't recreate such a beautiful sound) and Peter's hand at his back.
The soft bread is slowly getting closer to him and Tony lunges, wolfs down half in a second just to nip at long fingers and make Peter startle. He's cussed out and half heartedly shoved, Peter muttering about rich gray foxes while he's busy muffling his snickers and giggles. The cup of coffee is put in his hands and ah, it's water. It has a tiny amount of lemon to wake him up with its tartness, and he loves Peter so much it hurts.
"You ok?"
"Yeah. My feet are a bit stiff, but I'm good. Got half the crossword done. Wanna play?" Peter shows him his work, neat letters stacked on top of each other; at a glance incomprehensible, but a little distance, focus and ta-da, the words of the puzzle were as clear as day. He writes down a new one with the pen that Peter probably magicked out of his hair. "Not really what I meant; oh, look, we got splendid."
Peter gives him a peck on the cheek, surveys the crossword with his tongue sticking out. Peers at Tony when no explanation comes. He clears his throat, face on fucking fire, and mumbles. "You know, oar lick."
Peter Parker, teenage genius, stares at him. Oh, great.
Tony takes a sip of the water, licks surprisingly dry lips, and tries again.
"Four clicks."
Now his lover squints, cocks his head to the side exactly like a befuddled cat named Elizabeth (long story, the feline child of one obscenely tall Brit and his redhead wife; his cat sister, he supposes) and a vein in his forehead is very likely twitching. He clenches his teeth, curls his fists around the blue sweater.
"Floor cinch."
"What?"
Tony snarls, hauls himself onto Peter and hisses, body aflame once more. "Your dick, asshole. Why wasn't it hard?"
Peter crumbles onto himself, hand curled tight around Tony's shirt. His lover has the audacity, has the gall to wheeze, spit flying and tears skidding down. Tony can hear his lungs rattle with every raspy breath of laughter, see the color rise, turn a rose red and feel the strength in Peter's grip. The kid looks like he seriously might die.
"It's not funny, Mr asshat. I thought it broke, or, stop laughing, I mean it, I thought something bad had happened. Will you please, oh, God, I will walk away right now if you don't take a second to breathe."
Tony angrily crosses his arms. He does not pout. No, sir. No skulking or brooding here. Just bristling wrath. Peter kisses his neck, goes to his cheek when Tony attempts to hide his neck in his own shoulder. The kisses are accompanied by giggles, high and sweet. "I am. It is." He doesn't stop the kisses.
Now it's his turn to blink in confusion. He looks at Peter, accepts the one chaste kiss laid on his lips. His father would keel over if he knew how easy Tony melted at the touch of his lover. Good.
"I have no idea what the hell you're - "
"I'm turned on, Tony. "
"... What, right now?"
"Yeah." It's like Tony asked if he loved Iron Man or Star wars.
"But, we haven't. I mean, we've just been sitting?"
"I haven't stopped being turned on?" Like he's the one not making sense.
"Oh, come on. Since when?"
Peter looks at him and he's thinking Peter's thinking an alien stole the real Tony Stark who's a certified genius.
"Since before the elevator. I could smell you, hear your pulse. I thought, I thought you knew."
The elevator. Before the elevator. Oh.
"Oh."
"Is that ok?"
"Yeah, no, I'd just really like to uh, get going with the session. I think I'm good to go, if you are." There is a chance he'll tackle Peter and devour him if they don't continue. There is also a chance he does that anyway in the session. Win-win, really.
Go, Tony.
--------------
The rug here is thicker, more plush and definitely cleaner. Peter toes off his shoes, slumps into the office chair (at the head of the wooden table, he notices) that's most likely ergonomic and takes out the Stark phone. His legs are just under the table so Tony will be blocked by the rest of the chairs and hard to view. They're really doing this. Ok.
The tennis shoes are neatly placed next to Peter's, he sheds his outer layer and, when Peter lazily rolls himself away from the table, ducks under the table. He begins to sit cross legged, glad he chose the stretchier denim, when Peter tsks. A hand settles in his hair and guides him closer to long legs. Once resting on his haunches, the hand curls around his jaw for a second before slipping away. They've never done it like this before, not for the sessions. He can spend hours warming Peter's cock or getting him to come multiple times.
Peter would be lower, chair closer to the ground and at the perfect height where Tony didn't have to maintain a strained position. It was good, always, so he's curious about this new development. He breathes on his hands, warms them up a bit before starting. A ritual that helps center him. Tony inhales slowly. Exhales and begins.
The calves are first. Peter's legs are glorious and Tony's often added more layers of armor on his lower half, concerned in case someone identified a disadvantage and tried to go after it. Even before the serum, Peter had wonderful legs. Now they could just run faster than bullet and kick a car a few miles away, no big deal. He digs his fingers in, drags the tips up and down to help with circulation. That and he knows Peter's extra sensitive when denim rubs against his skin.
He goes up, up and then sweeps down once Peter's breath's sped up. Tony holds back a snicker, focuses on massaging the soles of his lover's feet. He's seen the kid run barefoot on a gravel road and come out unscathed, limbs bare of damage. But looks can be deceiving. Slowly and carefully, he presses down with controlled force. Crack, crack, crack. An old trick from an old friend. Peter sighs in pleasure; a small thing that sends pride curling in his belly. It also kindles the flames a bit; the world's richest man, the guy that could withstand the power of Infinity Stones kneeling at the feet of a teenager that could barely drink before passing out cold. (Well, with Asgardian mead, anyway.)
Hesitatingly, he kisses each toe; they haven't done this either, but the surprised little noise it gets him makes the move worth it. Tony switches over to the other leg and Peter, now able to predict the routine, just keeps scrolling. He can see him if he tilts his head back; the kid doesn't flinch even as he snaps the bones. It's like he's not here.
Done with both feet and calves, Tony happily goes in search of Peter's thighs. His father had told him the story of Alexander the Great when he was a kid. Presumably in an attempt to inspire Tony to do equally wondrous things. And yeah, he'd listen, a part of his family was descended from the Greeks and it was, all in all, an interesting story. Unfortunately for Howard Stark, what had stuck to his head after several decades was the beginning of Alexander and Hephaestion's first meeting. See, what the whole world likes to remember is that only death was able to come close and defeat Alexander.
What Tony remembers, every damn time he so much as catches a glimpse of Peter and his legs, is that Alexander was originally beaten by Hephaestion's thighs. Spin it however you like, direct it the way you like best, it's queer as fuck. They rivaled the relationship between Achilles and Patroclus, so yeah, it's not a hetero love story, sorry, dad.
The point is he's been trying to get Nat to teach Peter that weird thigh grip thing so he can help Peter practice and be smothered by the tone thighs he has before him. God, he'd been this close to crying the first time Peter let him fuck those thighs, no lie. They're big, and strong, and capable of crushing his skull, and supple, and soft and so sensitive Peter had blacked out from coming when Tony had spent an hour just touching them and painting red flowers on golden skin with his mouth. Ah, good times.
But he's good now; Peter doesn't like him to spend all his time on his thighs so he behaves. Still. The devil need not tempt when such beauty is before him. Tony flexes his wrists, goes up and down and left and right without moving his actual position, hand only rubbing a small area of Peter's thighs. It's not much on a normal person; it's killer to a superhuman. Bruce had explained it once; the nerves send so many signals to the brain at such high speeds that blood rushes down to the area and the warmth is enough to make a superhuman shut down for a moment or two.
He slides outwards when the table top creaks, hands soothing gently now that he has Peter a bit more alert. Tony presses a kiss against bony knees, nips at them and chuckles at the kick that nearly gets him. Alright, message received. Tongue heavy in his mouth and anticipation killing him, his fingers pull at Peter's belt. And then the door opens.
His heart slams into his ribcage, the air gets stolen from his lungs and Tony is half way sure there is a scream lodged in his throat. Peter looks up, smiles, says "oh, thanks, man. You can just leave it at the end of the table". He's too far gone to notice how Peter has crowded in closer, hiding him; too tense to see that there's no way someone could view the body under the table from the opposite side.
The stranger leaves and Peter's web thwacks onto whatever it is, drags it closer. Ten seconds later Tony glances up; he's eating pizza. Peter is eating, licking grease from his hand and liking posts while the rush of adrenaline hits Tony like a train. Sweat actually drips down his spine, his knees have gone weak, there's a chance his mind has stopped working and he's not really processing here. Peter glances down with something that's nearly, yet not quite annoyance or disdain. It both shames him and sets him on fire.
Lip bitten raw, he yanks at Peter's belt, freezes when he sees the red armor. Enough time passes that his lover begins to bend over in order to check in with him. He's fine. Just. Great.
"Key. please." Peter relaxes, seems a bit sheepish and he doesn't really understand why, this is a brilliant idea, a lovely surprise and he'll buy Peter a cake for this when they're done, definitely, until Peter grasps his hand and brings it to the base of the cockring. It beeps once and falls away into two halves; one half slinks forward and wraps around Ton's finger like a ring. A ring on his left hand. The other half mirrors the action on Peter's own left hand. The kid clears his throat, mumbles out a limp "surprise" that's quieter than a mouse.
See, if you had told Tony that he'd be closer to crying than coming today, he would have pat your back and thank you for the advanced notice because yup, if there was one person capable of simultaneously making his dick and heart go off and explode in a shower of sparks, it was Peter B. Parker. He clutches at Peter's hand, rests his head on a knee. "Baby, I'm not gonna last. Not like this."
He won't; after the lobby, the elevator, the misunderstanding at the kitchen, the knee injury, just, the fucking kitchen as a whole, ok, the unexpected guest, the pizza, the look, worshipping Peter's legs and now this? Tony thought he'd had his fair share of intense sessions, but this takes the cake, the grand prize and his heart. A warm enough breeze is good enough for him; Tony's dying here and Peter's a vampire offering an eternity of goodbad shame alongside gooddefinetelygood love.
His lover slumps, leans on the arm of the chair with a leg propped up, yawns and lowers his gaze like it's the least worthwhile thing he's done all week, like his dick isn't a gorgeous pink and diamond hard inches away from Tony's face . Says "go for it" in a tone of dismissal and he's gone; growling finally, fuck, Tony pulls him in by the thighs, rakes his nails at them through the denim, takes Peter whole and moans at the weight pushing his tongue down. It takes him a significantly less amount of time than three minutes to make Peter break.
He slides the warm ring up a long torso, settles it over a fast heart at the same time his lover's cock goes an inch down his throat and game over. Peter shouts, spine curving in an impossible shape, glasses falling to the floor and hands in Tony's hair. The sound that his baby lets out is pure heaven, something he's going to replay over and over like his favorite album. He gulps down Peter's come, shivers like crazy, sucks hard while moving away and Peter jumps in place, hands replacing hair with the armchairs, breaking them.
Tony moans like he's being payed for it. "Jesus, baby, fuck." With as much grace as a newborn foal, he gets up, slides into place on Peter's lap; Tony whispers sweet nothings, litters chaste kisses all over, fingers tracing inane shapes on a warm nape before oh so carefully tucking Peter away. He pulls the zipper up, does the belt, straightens the sweater. Peter slowly comes back to him, and they're kissing, but it shouldn't even classify as kissing because their lips are barely touching, bodies exchanging air more than anything else.
Tonytonytonytonytonytonytonytonytonytonytony
Peter only stops chanting his name when he really kisses him, tongue licking away any fear or hesitancy.
"Tony, that was so good, so good, fuck. I keep seeing stars every time I close my eyes."
"Don't, my pretty baby, you were perfect, doll, close them then."
Peter's slurring, eyes clearer, but mouth still running on autopilot.
"What about you?"
There's a perfect spot on Peter's neck where he's extra sensitive and he licks at it, kisses it, bites at it until the kid underneath him is keening and a lovely pink hue colors his face. "Hmm?"
Peter sneaks a hand down, cups him through his jeans and they both still. Oh. Well then. Guess he has a new record, too.
"You shouted, nearly broke your back. It was - "
"I broke composure - "
"Perfect because the shame is fucking A, absolutely fantastic, but what drives me crazy regardless of roles, of sessions, of any added aspects, is you, baby. Making you happy, helping you do what you just did is what really gets me going. As seen by the evidence provided in my pants, my turn on is you, Peter. Though I gotta say, the ring was a genius concept. The unexpected guest, too. But I'm a bit wary of that."
Peter blinks once. "That was a robot. I thought it'd be better not to involve another person because it might make you uncomfy, so I brought the robot in. I was sure you'd notice."
He'll deny his heart cracked in two later, but it split like his composure while fucking Peter's thighs.
"God, I love you so much, Peter Benjamin Parker."
---------------------
Cue a ton of soft aftercare. The people working on that floor were all new interns happy to work at the company even if their first job was odd and included not intervening with Mr Parker and a sheepish Mr Stark.
"Aren't you bi?" Tony's left eye twitches and Peter slams his laptop lid close on Ned's startled cackling and MJ's triumphant grin at getting a rise from the billionaire. Clears his throat and tries to stamp down his giggle.
"Yeah, what's up?" They're in May's apartment for the night, visiting in the hopes that they'll catch Happy ripping his pants while proposing. Plans were, sadly, cut quick when Tony's driver took one glance at their amused faces, flushed red like a cherry and then dragged Peter's aunt to a five star hotel for the weekend. On Tony's tab as payback, obviously.
"So instead of, I don't know, buying scented candles, maybe some nice dinner-"
"Tony, I'm not eating another microwaved meal just because you like the chemicals-"
His boyfriend flicks his wrist, pretends he hasn't spoken a word, "Hear something? No? Great, neither did I. Dinner, flowers, a few chocolates-"
"Halloween was last week and you ate all of Morgan's candy!" Tony looks around, raises a hand to his ear and makes a face, hear something? Peter sighs, falls back on his twin bed with a soft thump. Shakes his arms so this ridiculous man keeps going with his interrogation.
"Or, and this is just me saying random stuff, condoms, lube," he groans, shoves his face into his Spider-Man pillow and drags the Batman blanket over himself, "I mean, hey, how about a toy or two? I know there's a cute little sex shop down the road and they're having discounted prices."
Peter snorts, peeks out at Tony. "Are you really that serious about sleeping with me in my childhood bedroom?"
"No, I'm that serious about railing you in your childhood bedroom. Please, Pete, there's a difference. Anyway, in favor of buying what I've just mentioned, my sweet, loveable boyfriend decided to spend," Tony kicks under his bed and he lunges forward, gets a hand shoved into his face while the tallest of the two crouches and lifts-
"Fifteen dollars worth of Halloween candy when he promised-"
Peter yanks at Tony's arm, scrambles up his body like a monkey in order to steal back his sack of sweets.
"What the fuck are you doing, this is my nice Tom Ford suit!"
"Oh, please, this isn't the the three piece, two buttons, Tony, give them back!" Tony growls at him, stumbles to the open window and shoves the bag over the sill. He freezes, legs clutching at Tony's waist and hands wringing the soft silk of the (kinda meh, to be honest) suit.
"I thought you promised not to binge until Christmas, Pete. Thought we had ourselves an honorable wager between two, no, stop it, I swear to God, I will drop it if you don't calm down," the bag sways in the wind and he pouts, rubs his cheek over Tony's stubble.
"Please, Tony, I worked so hard carrying it up the stairs."
Tony huffs, turns his head away. "Yeah, no, I'm sure you did, Spider-Man. And don't try and fool me, you little minx. I know you're being affectionate for the sugar."
"Please, please, please, please," he whines, fingers tugging insistently at Tony's face, his shoulders, the long sleeves, the silver hair, "please, please, please, please, please. They had the sour vampire Haribo's on sale, Tony!"
"Which I could buy for you year round, Peter!"
"But I bought those with MJ and Ned at the store for fifty cents. It's not the same!"
"Oh, what, the rush of getting away with it while everyone had no idea it was available did something to you?"
"Exactly! Like me being with you!" Tony blinks at him for a moment or two, gears turning in his head. Peter gives him the puppy dog eyes Morgan perfected when she was three. The man sighs and hauls him upright, muttering about ungrateful boyfriends and sugar high teenagers driving him crazy.
Tony plops down on the bed and shoves him halfheartedly when he jokingly presses wet kisses over a fine nose and flushed cheeks.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm the best lover in the world. Stop wriggling and let me feed you candy, you monkey. Can't believe you bought this much, you'll get a, actually, can you get cavities?"
Peter shrugs, does a quick happy wriggle when Tony rips open the Haribo bag and gives him a red bat. "I got one or two when I was a kid, but nothing after the spider bite. Aren't you going to have a piece?"
"Well, seeing as how my doctor threatened me with fifty blood tests if I ate too much sweet stuff-"
"Then you cheated the wager!"
"Are you serious, I eat you out all the time and you're sweet. I can have a piece of chocolate every, like, blue moon. Here, you can have the bats and I'll have-"
"Me?"
"You honestly offering yourself over candy?"
"Yes?"
"...yeah, ok, scooch over."
Peter settles back on his pillow with the bag of candy, content with his impromptu dinner and a show. Until, of course, Tony does something life altering with his tongue that makes him see stars and accidentally yeet the bag off his bed and into the living room. Yeah, they have a hard time cleaning all of it before his aunt comes home.
---
When Happy and May get back, Peter has a rather distinctive hickey on the side of his neck that looks like, of all things, a tiny bat with the initials TS inside of it.
for @starkerfestivals rewind event. I went with 'royal' from their wonderful AUpril prompt list. Have some feels, some angst and enemies to lovers. Sort of ;)
There are, Peter knows, moments in which his control is snatched away, stolen by fate and destiny. In these moments, it is his duty, as ruler and protector of his people, to bow his head and acquiesce to the unseen hands that shape the future. No matter what it personally costs him, no matter how opposed he is to it, it is his responsibility to put his home first. That is how his father and uncle ruled. Not by being Richard or Ben, but by being King Richard and King Benjamin.
With great power, they whisper now in his ear, ghosts that never fail to haunt him, comes great responsibility.
I never wanted power, he whispers back and looks into the eyes of King Anthony Stark. They are dark, very nearly black in the low light of morning. It's fitting, really. Considering this man is trying to conquer his kingdom through marriage or war, Peter prefers that he have eyes the color of shadow. The color of death, some of his kingdom's legends say.
It's even ironic, actually. The kingdom cursed to forever have a cloak of night over it being conquered by a man of eyes as dark as night.
Peter steals back his control from the cruel stars, from this Merchant of Death and says, calmly and steadily, "No."
The man's second in command sighs and orders more wine for himself. Shares the pitcher with Peter's aunt. Well, at least they're getting along.
Stark’s lips quirk upwards, a parody of a smile and he cocks his head. "No?" It's asked with laughter wrapped around the syllable, like he's being funny. Like Peter didn't just doom his people and basically declare war against the king kneeling in front of his throne and, in turn, against Emperor Thanos.
It's asked as if they were lovers and Peter has mumbled something nonsensical in his sleep next to Stark.
"Yes."
A glimmer of mirth, he decides, looks out of place in death's eyes.
"Yes, you will marry me? Or yes, I am correct in having heard you reject my proposal to said marriage?"
Peter doesn't blink; simply undoes the heavy cloak around his shoulders and stands, letting it fall over the throne his ancestors carefully crafted. He'd take off his crown, too, but Ned would most likely kill him if it got dirty. His best friend had spent a year in the forges in order to create it, after all.
With him standing, he looms over the foreign king. Yet he doesn't feel powerful or strong. Peter feels light, as if he's going to drift away with the mere hint of wind. A servant passes by with a second pitcher for Sir Rhodes and his aunt. He raises his hand, waits a moment or two as the young girl realizes her ruler is giving her an unspoken order. She hurries, hand trembling while she pours him a goblet.
She truly is young, no older than twelve, probably. Will her fair hair, as golden as the sun that has not shined on his kingdom for decades, be stained red by this afternoon? Has he transformed her mother into just a woman now? There isn't a word for it, Peter notices. A parent whose child no longer belongs to them and this world, but to death. Will his choice mean that the shadow encroaching in his throne room will wash over such a young child?
He smiles at her, the only gift he can offer that will not be useless or worthless or in the thieving hands of the enemy by nightfall. She smiles back, turns and hesitates. Shyly shoves the silver plate holding the wine and a cup at the king on his knees. The court inhales sharply, hearts still and faces pale.
Stark's lips peel back and he looks away from the kindest smile he's ever seen. Finds the normally sweet wine to be appropriately bitter for the occasion.
"No, thank you, little one. But I'm sure Sir Rhodey would appreciate it." The girl does a clumsy curtsy and heads in the knights direction, not a worry clouding her face. His aunt's new companion dips his upper body, thanking the child for her good service. He grins when he receives a giggle. It could be worse, he knows. They could be vile, murderous men attacking his citizens instead of informing him of their plans to overtake the kingdom. But it appears they're only grim reapers in the actual battlefield.
"Your Majesty?" Peter glances down. He's lucky. If this had been Howard Stark, he'd be killed for ignoring the man.
"My answer is no, King Stark. I won't marry you." Carefully, because the worst thing now would be to spill his goblet over the king, he makes his way down the steps. Shakes his head at MJ and goes toward the gardens. The wolves are already here; no need for his guard to accompany him around the halls.
"Might I join you, your Majesty? If not in matrimony, then in a walk?"
He keeps walking, drowns his cup. Of all the kings they could have sent him, they chose the most charming, the most dangerous. There's a compliment there, somewhere. Any other day, he would examine it, search for it. Now he just wants to lie down and cry.
But. If he won't relinquish his control, he may as well give a rejected man a view of the infamous Parker gardens. "Keep up, then, your Majesty. There is much to discuss."
---
The man's scarlet armor is a masterpiece. He studies it while the man studies the flowers that have been blooming in the garden since the construction of the castle. They are red and white kings cloaked in onyx, he notices.
There is a phoenix carved into the breastplate of King's Stark suit, wings spread wide to cover his heart and the beginnings of his rib cage. He can see the details on each feather, how the craftsman lovingly spared no expense. The man shifts and Peter blinks; it looked like, just for a moment, the phoenix was moving with him. In its beak, a serpent lies coiled.
"I thought the Stark emblem was a snake."
"Hmm? Oh, it was. I changed it." Peter sets down his cup, stares at the man.
"You just changed it?"
"Yes. Ow." King Stark has pricked his finger in the garden.
Bile rises in the back of his throat and he swallows it down alongside the scream trying to rip his chest open. Peter inhales slowly, goes to the man and takes his hand. The movement makes a drop of blood fall onto the myrtle flower. It spreads over the white petal as horror spreads over Peter's heart.
"King Stark, do you feel like there are moments where your control is stolen from you? And sometimes you're lucky in stealing it back? But there are still times where it's taken from you again and again?"
The man comes closer, has to bend down to look at his face properly.
"Your Majesty, you're crying."
Peter hadn't noticed. "Do you know what I'm talking about, King Stark?"
A pause. The dark eyes turn to the flowers, grow even darker. "I do. I changed the emblem into a phoenix. Something that truly represents me and not those that came before me. It is mine, only mine. I was lucky in that I was able to do what none had done before. But sometimes fate kicks me down and no matter how hard I try to fight, it continues to press on my shoulders until all I can do is kneel. I understand, King Parker."
"Will you be a good ruler to my people?" The man goes rigid, muscles locking in place.
"I don't particularly enjoy jokes meant to ridicule me. Especially when I have already been rejected." His voice is as cold as ice. The old king shining through him. What a child.
Peter hisses, yanks on the hand in his grasp. Pulls until the beautiful armor is pressed against his clothes and the metal digs into his skin through the layers of silk. "I asked you a question, red king. Will you be good to my people, my home?"
King Stark stares at him and Peter now understands how foolish it was to have MJ stay back. At least with her company he wouldn't be this afraid. "You misunderstand. I have no plans in killing you, your Majesty. The kingdom will be given to me, that is how wars work. But you will continue to be the leader. Not a king, exactly, but a ruler nonetheless. The Emperor may seek bloodshed, but I've seen enough of it to last a lifetime. We will capture your soldiers, not kill them. We will capture your people, not slaughter them. After a day or so, they will be released. I promise you, no harm will fall to them."
He squeezes his eyes shut, feels warm blood lick over his wrist. Fine. Peter knows when he has been bested. Even if he has lost to the unseen hands of fate and destiny.
"And if the kingdom is given to you through marriage?"
"I would ask you where you have hidden a sister or brother. But judging by your tears, I think that might not be best. Tell me, should I ask you to marry-"
"King Anthony Stark, Merchant of Death and Risen Phoenix, will you take me, King Peter Parker, Lord of Sorrow and Wisdom, as your husband?" He recites the words, tastes ash on his tongue. When he opens his eyes, tears spill.
"Before I say anything, might I ask why 'Lord of Sorrow and Wisdom'? I've never heard such a description of the Parker line."
"Do you see the flowers around you? Do you see how they are all purple and white?"
"I assumed it was because those are the colors of your house."
Peter shakes his head, laughs.
"No, King Stark. Our house colors are purple and white because of the flowers. Each flower here represents sorrow and wisdom. Acanthus for artifice, anemone for forsaken," as he mentions them, he points them out, these harbingers of anguish, "begonia for beware, belladonna for silence, candytuft for indifference, striped carnation for refusal, purple columbine for folly or resolution, depending on what old lady you ask, crab blossom for ill nature, purple hyacinth for sorrow and a white geranium for stupidity. My great great great grandfather planted that one as a child and his father didn't have the heart to pull it out."
"Wait, you're missing this one." The man points at the flower with his blood. Clever man.
"With every generation, a king would come to the garden and if his suitor pricked their hand on one of these flowers, it was not meant to be. If they pricked their finger on the myrtle flower, that flower, they were fated to marry. It is the only flower here that symbolizes happiness, marriage. A Parker is obligated to wed the one whose blood stains its petals. It is how my uncle knew he had to marry my aunt. It is why my parents believed fate wished for them to be together. And even though you're the Merchant of Death that's come for my kingdom-"
"I told you I will not hurt anyone here-"
"Do you think that magically makes it better? My home will no longer be my home. My people will not answer to me; they will answer to a stranger, to a foreigner. To a man who is known as the servant of death and destruction. And you may promise all you like, you still hold power over the kingdom. Almost a hundred generations of Parker blood have ruled. But now, whether you say yes to marriage or to war, you will rule. You will be king and I will be prince or consort. In the end, what you say is law and what I say is a whisper, a suggestion. Yet I cannot say no. Not when you've bled on the flower."
Peter wipes at his face, goes to the east side of the garden. Is silently joined by a king destined to be his husband. He was a fool for denying the man earlier today. A fool to believe he might have finally been free of the responsibility that came with the white crown he inherited.
"None has to know. I'll prick my finger on any flower and then you can say it's not meant to be."
"You would do that when I've just offered you my kingdom? When I've just told you that destiny wants you to have it?"
King Stark shrugs, rubs a ruby ring on his left hand. It's small, thin metal straining around the man's pinky finger. Beautiful, yes, but out of place, almost.
"I don't believe in arranged marriages. Not those that are fated, I mean. My mother and father have a similar story to that of your parents, but theirs is much less sweet. Less happy, in the end. I was supposed to marry Lady Virginia. That was arranged by man, mind you, yet still seen as law. She's lovely, my best friend. But her heart and mine could never be each other's. So if you don't want to marry me, that's ok. We can have a bloodless war and I'll leave. Go back to my kingdom. I'm only here because of the Emperor, not because I want your kingdom, lovely though it may be. We're alone here, your Majesty. No one has seen the flower."
"May I ask about the ring?" A curious distraction to keep him from throwing himself off the garden and into the sea below.
"Ah. It was meant for Pepper, but when my mother learned we weren't going to marry, she told me to wear it. Keep it warm, she said, for the one who will be by your side."
"Do you have it on in battle?"
"I do. It's a dead give away if any light shines on it while it's night, but I can't take it off. Something always stops me."
"Loyalty, maybe?" That earns him a glance, quick and surprised.
"You could say that. Your Majesty, it might be that I'm old, but is it getting lighter?" Peter frowns, squints at the sky. It is faint, barely there, but yes. It is getting lighter.
"I think it is. Will you be a good husband?"
The man faces him now, slowly takes his hand in his. His finger has stopped bleeding. It is pink, though. Just a bit. Peter can't remember the last time the color pink was seen in the gardens.
"I promise I will be. I promise on my mother's soul, Peter. I'll be good to you and your people will never have to fear me."
It could be worse, he reasons. Much, much worse. If his parents were happy, maybe he could be content with the red king.
"Then you should ask me again. Properly."
---
When MJ finds them, Peter is holding hands with Tony, his left finger carrying a new ring that fits perfectly. They are staring, quietly, at the first sunrise the kingdom has seen in over a hundred generations. Their crowns are at their sides, placed on top of the flowers that are even more beautiful in the bright light. They are red and white kings cloaked in gold.
