Tony can’t catch his breath, his head bowed, forehead pressed to Peter’s back, the clear imprints of his hands a deep and blotchy crimson over his boy’s ass; they’ll surely leave beautiful bruises, dark against the pale skin, visible evidence of his boy’s utter trust in him.
“Baby,” he pants softly, reverently, as he pushes himself upright, withdrawing carefully from his boy’s used body, a thick trail of semen slipping out after, and Tony finds himself wishing he can get hard again, fuck back into the reddened hole, sloppy and wet and perfect because it’s Peter. Another time, perhaps, when Tony isn’t exhausted and Peter can handle it; Tony’s put him through his paces tonight. There’s a quiet whimper, a discomforted noise, as Tony shifts to the side, swiping a gentle hand down the sweat-slick back. “You were so good, sweetheart.” He pets back the damp strands of hair from Peter’s forehead, caresses a cheek wet with tears. Peter’s brow smooths, the small frown disappearing at the gentle praise. “You took everything Daddy gave you and more. I’m so proud of you.”
Whiskey-colored eyes open, the flecks of lighter brown sprinkled in looking like drops of honey in the soft glow of the sunset through their balcony windows; Tony thinks he can look into those eyes for hours and still not get enough of them, of the trust and honesty and love filling them as they stare back at Tony. (Tony had been so certain, so sure, that all of that love and trust would disappear when he showed Peter his most carnal desires, when he wanted to hurt Peter, but… but they hadn’t, had - in fact - only intensified, and Tony- Tony never feels more at a loss than when he sees that, when Peter finds every way to show him.)
“I did good?” Peter’s voice is rough, scratchy with use - screams, moans, pleas - and Tony’s heart hurts with the sheer amount of affection he feels for this beautiful boy, this precious creature who had spiraled his way into Tony’s heart the first day they’d met, Peter’s eyes wide and gorgeous as he’d repeatedly apologized for running into him, for the iced coffee on his suit.
“You did so well, sweetheart.” For all that Peter is more confident, has grown more comfortable in his own skin and his place in Tony’s life, he’s always vulnerable after a scene like tonight’s, his unfocused gaze showing he’s still a little lost, relying on Tony to reassure him, to make decisions for him and take care of him; it’s the most important job Tony has ever taken on, and he’s doing his best not to fail. (Luckily, his success rate at most things is phenomenal.) “Daddy’s lucky to have such a perfect boy.” He reaches back, blindly feeling around for the cooling gel and bottle of water he’d placed on the nightstand earlier. Peter whimpers, buries his face in the sheet as Tony lightly spreads the gel, massages the burning hot skin, then sighs, soft and dreamy, as it begins to soothe. “Drink, baby.” He urges Peter to lift his head slowly tipping the water through the younger man’s parted lips until half the bottle is gone.
Peter makes a soft noise, his arm dragging slowly upward, fingers curling in as he reaches for Tony, who immediately moves closer, moves Peter’s pliant body to rest against his side, half-on Tony’s chest and half-off, doing his best to keep the overly-sensitized skin of Peter’s ass from touching anything. Peter mumbles out a hoarse, “Daddy,” and Tony presses a kiss to the crown of Peter’s head.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Love you a lot.” The words are barely there, Peter already half-asleep, but they shine like a beacon of light in the darkness for Tony, a promise of safety and home.
Fingers threading through damp curls, Tony offers another kiss, this time to Peter’s forehead, and says, soft and low, wary of breaking the silence with anything louder than the quiet half-snores from his boy, “I love you, too.”
