Lounge Singer Peter, Mob Boss Tony part 2
You can read part one here.
Spending the slow, languid rolling heat of the summer months cooped up in a basement and covered with blood is so wrong it should be criminal.
But still, what’s a man to do?
Tony closes the basement door behind him and relishes the heat as it streams in through the windows. The decrepit coolness of the dank basement has been denying him the bliss of summer. And that’s not the only thing it’s been denying him. Picking up the sleek, velvet black box resting on the side, he heads upstairs.
The door to his bedroom is open, as are all the windows, and the white curtains blow gently as the breeze rolls in. All is silent bar the chirping birds and lying; still dozing on the satin bed, is his own songbird. Tony takes a moment to admire him. He likes admiring his things. Especially his prettiest things. Peter’s almost swallowed up by the pillows and the thick, silk covered blankets as he lies above them, but he’s still as elegant and delicate as anything. He’s in one of Tony’s white dress shirts, and that’s all- no underwear, Tony knows this from fucking him hard this last night- he’s sprawled out, face down; skin flushed pink all over, warm in the heat.
The tension leaves him, and he heads to the bed and strokes his fingers through chestnut curls. “Wake up, baby,” he murmurs, and Peter’s brown eyes blink to awareness.
He smiles as soon as he sees Tony, his softest, most pleased little curve, and he reaches out a clumsy hand to take Tony’s where it rests in his hair, and twine their fingers together.
Far, far too sweet and soft for this world. That’s why he’s with Tony. Ruling over the darkness is the only way to keep Peter safe from it all. Toe the lines, as it were. The eye of the hurricane. Tony’s always liked life on the edge. “Morning,” Peter whispers, snuggling back into the pillows like he might go back to sleep.
Tony chuckles. “Oh no you don’t, song bird, I have something for you. Sit up for me now.”
Peter obeys. He always does. He sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and immediately blushing when he spots the velvet box in Tony’s hand.
He’s so shy. “I have a present for you, little sparrow.”
Peter ducks his head and swallows. “You didn’t have to-“
“Peter.” Tony cuts in warningly, and the boy reaches out to take the box with grateful fingers.
“Thank you,” he says instead, peeking up at Tony through his hair; likely gauging if Tony is upset with him like the last time Peter tried to deny a gift. Peter can’t stand it when Tony’s upset with him; he cries like the world’s ending, but Tony isn’t mad. He leans down to kiss Peter’s forehead lovingly.
“Open it,” he urges.
Peter does. His fingers undo the gold clasp and he pulls open the lid.
There, on the black satin, is a string of white south sea pearls. Peter stares, his lips parting in a soundless gasp of awe, and he looks up at Tony in disbelief. “These can’t…these can’t be for me.” He whispers, but Tony doesn’t scold him because that’s not a decline in Peter’s voice, it’s disbelief.
“Oh, they’re all for you.” Tony smiles, pulling the pearls from the box and gesturing for Peter to tip his head back. The boy does; eyes still blown wide and pupils huge. Tony lets his thumb trace over the boy’s pulse point, before doing the clasp around that slender neck. He pulls back to admire it.
In the sunlight, the pearls glisten with a radiant lustre. Peter’s pink skin shimmers with it. Luxury suits the boy almost as well as Tony’s teeth marks do.
“I thought you were getting tired of diamonds,” Tony teases, “thought you might like some of the rarest pearls in the entire world.”
Peter-
faints.
Tony is immediately alarmed until he realises what’s happened, and then he laughs, and sits on the bed and waits for Peter to wake up. It doesn’t take very long, and when he does, his hands fly to his neck and he lets out a gasp. “It did happen,” he whispers to himself, and Tony rolls his eyes. Peter turns to him, one hand still lying reverently over the pearls around his neck. “These are- oh, Mr Stark,” he sobs, and wraps his arms around Tony and engulfs him in a hug.
Tony smiles, and holds his boy close. “They aren’t as precious as you.” He murmurs, and Peter nuzzles into his neck. “But I think I deserve a little something in return, don’t you?”
Peter nods eagerly, pulling back and waiting for instruction.
Tony would like to warm his cock down that tight little throat until Peter was squirming with discomfort. He’d like to lie there and have the boy ride him; just watching until he fell apart above him- but the morning’s been too bloody, and the work has been too hard, and all he wants it to lie in bed and listen. “Sing for me, songbird.”
Peter goes crimson (he would have, no matter what Tony’d asked him to do. It’s endearing). “What shall I sing, Sir?”
“My favourite.”
Peter does.
No body is purely good or purely bad. Everyone is mixed together. Tony has a lot of good, he also has a lot of bad, but most importantly, he likes living right on the cusp. Right on the edge of it all. Now, he’d never put Peter in danger, but there’s something to be said for having the boy tucked in under his coat, shaking as Tony puts a bullet through somebody’s head.
Peter sobs at the sound, and buries his face into Tony’s chest, trembling, and Tony grins, holding him tight.
“There, there, baby,” he clucks, motioning for his guys to clear the body away as he guides his boy back to the car. “It’s over now. Nothing to be scared of anymore.”
Peter still quakes, but his sniffles are less pronounced. Still, he’s glued to Tony’s side for the rest of day; glittering in his diamonds and his pearls. It’s nice, to have someone rely on him for protection. Protection from the evil, protection from the dark, protection from the thunder storms that roll too close on summer nights.
He likes having something to protect.
He likes it that Peter needs him.
He’s not sure whether that’s good or bad, but as the boy starts kissing down his neck-
he decides he doesn’t much care either way.
