(this is exactly what it says, self-indulgent garbage)
****************************
Tony likes to think he's made significant strides in maintaining an adult level of impulse control, but this is ruining all of his (okay, questionable) progress.
Well, then. Peter hasn't used that moniker in a while. Not since he was in Tony's class.
"What's with the..." Tony gestures vaguely.
The younger doesn't look up from his work. "Lost a bet."
Sure, of course, Tony thinks, that must be it; he's heard enough stories about Peter's friends for a bet to be a plausible explanation. He's going to try to believe it. He's going to turn back to his own work and convince himself there's no other reason his favorite ex-student turned lab assistant is wearing...this.
If Tony doesn't initiate much conversation over the next hour, it's because he's tired. Yes. Tired. Always tired. Nothing at all to do with resisting the temptation to say (or do) something about the way Peter looks when he's concentrating, rolling the back end of a pen along his lower lip distractedly, or the pink flash of his tongue peeking out when he makes another mini-breakthrough.
But Tony's being good; he keeps his glances limited to Peter's face, his mouth--nope, can't look there--other, less-provocative places...like, downwards, to the much-less-provocative short plaid skirt (what? He's been good for over forty-five minutes, it's practically a miracle; he can treat himself).
When Peter shifts in his seat, uncrossing and recrossing his legs, the fabric rides a little higher. There's a faint transition in the skin tone, pale to palest, higher up along that smooth (definitely shaved; was that part of the bet?) stretch of skin.
Tony wants to drag his lips all over those thighs, kiss and bite and suck, bend Peter over so he can push those long legs apart and leave a trail of marks up towards--
"I'm gonna order dinner," Peter says abruptly, swiveling on the stool to face him. "Was there something you wanted to eat?"
You. Whatever you'll let me get my mouth on.
"You. Whatever you'll let me get my mouth on."
And that definitely wasn't supposed to be out loud, but Tony's his own worst enabler, and the blush it earns him is nothing but a reward for his bad behavior.
He does consider backtracking--apologizing and reminding Peter it's inappropriate (that doesn't make it hotter, no it most certainly does not) and asking for his forgiveness (and he's definitely not thinking of explicit ways he could make up for the transgression, because that would be counterproductive)--but one question punches a hole straight through all the last-ditch arguments Tony's conscience could've made.
"H-how do you want me?" Peter asks breathlessly.
If Tony were the praying type (and if the workshop floor wasn't concrete), he'd be on his knees. Peter's staring at him, wide-eyed and flushed, and Tony has his own wager about what's going on under that little plaid number.
Part of his conscience does manage to slip through, a whisper breaking past the cacophony of 'YES IT'S HAPPENING TAKE IT'. Because he does care about Peter, does consider him an important part of his life. This wouldn't--couldn't--be a throwaway thing. Unless that's what Peter wants.
"Are you okay with this?" Tony asks (sort of blurts; he's past finesse at this point).
Despite already appearing halfway to debauched, Peter's 'well, duh' look is pretty on point.
"Good," Tony says, "show me."
God, this kid blushes so pretty. Tony already knew that, but to see it like this is a dream...and then Peter's shyly starting to pull up the hem of the skirt, and Tony briefly wonders if this is, in fact, a dream. He's had some pretty believable visions, and this is definitely something his manic, sleep-deprived brain would cook up.
"Wait. Wait," he says, "Do you want...more? After this? A regular thing?"
He's going to have a chat with himself later about this whole 'can't make words when Peter...is' thing, but at the moment he's too busy feeling sudden warm-fuzzies over the surprised pleasure on Peter's face.
"I mean," Peter says, smile a little wobbly, a little disbelieving, twisting the edge of the fabric in his hands, "yeah...if you want that, too."
It slows things down just enough Tony feels the inklings of regret. This isn't exactly romantic, and maybe Peter deserves something a little better, a little sweeter than a rushed implication of feelings. He's about to say as much, but Peter's going for the hem of the skirt again, so he really doesn't have time.
"Hold on; come here, sweetheart." He extends a hand, and when Peter takes it, he pulls the younger man forward, spreading his knees so Peter can step between them. "Just want to kiss you first."
This feels better, manages to satisfy Tony's conscience while also feeding the less wholesome beast; it's undeniably delicious, this pretty, blushing twenty-year-old in the vee of his legs, quite the departure from Peter's usual snarky self. It's a side Tony feels privileged to see, and when they kiss and Peter sucks carefully at Tony's lower lip, like a question, possessiveness drives one of Tony's hands into the soft curls at Peter's nape.
"Show me, now, baby. What do you have for me?" Tony murmurs, low, into the few inches when they break apart.
Peter curses, quiet and shaky, but reaches down and finally lifts the skirt--
"Oh, good boy," Tony says reverently.
He runs the pad of his thumb up the line of Peter's straining, pink-satin-covered cock, rubs light circles just under the head until Peter whimpers and rocks his hips forward, searching for friction.
"If you want more, you need to use your words, princess." The name slips out before Tony can catch it, but the only response is a sharp inhale, and the small dark spot forming on the pink satin gains a little more circumference.
"Can you--more? Please?" Peter pleads.
"So close, Pete," Tony says, running another feather-light stroke from base to tip, "please, what?"
Oh, he's perfect. Tony says as much as he lowers his seat until he's level with Peter's stomach, smirks at the shiver and darkening of Peter's blush. He keeps telling him, strokes his thighs and slides his thumbs up under the fabric, presses endearments into the skin above the line of the panties, and again in between sucking kisses that leave damp patches on the satin up the length of Peter's shaft.
The sound Peter makes when Tony pulls the panties down and swirls his tongue over that leaking slit about kills him. He massages himself through his worn jeans, smiling into the not-enough contact he's giving Peter, brushing feather-light kisses and sweeps of his tongue until Peter's actually shaking, one hand holding the skirt up and the other white-knuckling the edge of the worktable.
Peter's being so good, hardly moving, and Tony wonders if he's naturally this submissive or if someone else had taught him how to hold still, how to take what he's given. He doesn't like the idea of someone else touching his--touching Peter.
"Sweetheart," he says, casually, pulling back and dropping his hands around to rest at the backs of Peter's thighs, "has anyone else had you like this?"
"Not--I mean...Y-yes. Um. Yeah."
"Hmm." Tony brushes a light, distracted kiss over the head of Peter's cock before rolling the chair back. "Turn around. Bend over the table."
Something inside him rumbles in satisfaction at how quickly Peter follows the instruction.
"Are you--" Peter starts, cuts off with a swallow, "are you gonna spank me, Mr. Stark?"
He wants to. Peter would look so good in that shade of hot, stinging red-pink, begging Tony for more. A sweet punishment for giving something away that wasn't his to give. But they're not there, yet.
"Oh, kid," Tony breathes, "you are something else. But no, sweetheart." He runs his hands flat up the backs of Peter's thighs, up until he's kneading two handfuls of that perfect ass. "This time, you're going to cum with my tongue inside you."
Peter's responding moan is startled, breathless and wanting, and he pushes back when Tony presses a thumb between his cheeks.
Next time, Tony's going to leave those trails of purple-red blossoms up the soft skin of Peter's inner thighs. This time, he slides the scrap of pink satin down those smooth legs (God, he's going to have to worship those on their own at some point), spreads the firm-soft globes and drags his tongue in a broad, slow strip from Peter's balls up to the top of his cleft.
"Anyone else taste you like this?" Tony asks when he pulls back, rubbing his thumb over the now spit-slicked hole.
Satisfaction rolls through him, dark and wanting, at the shaky 'no', and he nips lightly at one of Peter's cheeks before spreading him further and moving back in.
Tony eats him like the dinner he'd been offered. Licks and sucks at his rim, loud wet sounds obscene in the open space of the shop. When he presses inside, the tip of his tongue pushing past the ring of muscle, Peter gasps his name and pushes back, and Tony squeezes his hips, guides him until Peter's fucking himself on Tony's tongue.
It's perfect--delicious and maddening, and Tony could do this for hours (is already planning that particular session), but this time he's just as swept up as Peter is, just as ready when he finally reaches down and gives Peter something to fuck into, gives Peter everything, until his boy, his princess, tenses up with cums with a cry.
Rising, Tony kisses his way up Peter's spine as he fumbles open his fly. He's fully intending to rub himself off onto Peter's back, on that beautiful, wonderful skirt--and this kid is the gift that keeps on giving.
"Please," Peter half-mumbles, stretching out further across the surface of the table, canting his hips back, "fuck me, Tony, please--" He's beautiful like this, boneless and fluid, flushed and wanting more, and Tony wants.
"Okay, princess, because you asked Daddy so nicely," Tony says, unthinking, but Peter just shivers and lets out a soft pleased sound.
Peter's open enough Tony's not afraid of hurting him, but he still breaches him slowly, savoring the emotions with the same steady push: the possessive (Peter is his, now, to fill, to cage, to keep) alongside the sweet (Peter's...his, his boy, his partner, his favorite).
When Tony cums, it's with one hand gripping Peter's hip, tight enough to bruise, and the other twining fingers through Peter's. He presses a kiss to the back of Peter's neck.
Impulse control is overrated, anyway.
germansingergirl
ellievsbear
snowghoul
discoholicmusic
jbbartram-illu
andulkaphoto
gummygunk
