RedRedRedRedRedRed
"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.