I’m thinking international spies AU where tony is CIA and peter is the new recruit nicknamed “the spider” and they bump into each other on a mission that’s proposed from both of their handlers, causing them to work together to lure their target (bonus points if peter’s conducting a honeypot mission and surprises tony with his “skills” then proves his nickname as one of the most deadliest things on the planet) 💗
Omg Idk if this is what you were thinking of. I got carried away. I did things I shouldn’t have. Forgive me!
Read here on AO3.
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Peter is an adult, but it isn’t explicitly stated. Daddy Kink. Smut below. Human trafficking. Alcohol. Guns. Racism. Stay safe. 8.3k.
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Tony is one mile out from the pick-up destination when the track phone in his pants buzzes. Shifting it free from his pocket, he takes his eyes off the scenery, content that Happy knows where they’re headed, and opens the message.
F: date compromised. someone new will be waiting at the pick up. codename ben.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tony mutters. He begins mashing buttons, longing for his StarkPhone and the extra wide virtual keyboard. This 2001 bullshit predictive texting can’t keep up with the foul things he wants to say to his handler, F. The F stands for fuck you, Tony! Obviously.
T: Negative ghost rider. I’m aborting.
F: do NOT abort the mission. ben is waiting.
“Christ on a cracker,” sighs Tony.
“Problem, boss?” Happy asks, glancing up at the rearview mirror.
“Just overworked and underappreciated, Hap.”
Happy rolls his eyes. “I know what you mean.”
Tony laughs and makes a note to himself to give the man a raise. In the ten years that he’s been doing these gigs for SHIELD, Happy has been the one constant in a sea of changing marks and methods. “Tonight is the curtain call. If I make it through this, I’m officially retiring. After that, I’d say you’ve definitely earned a raise and some vacation time.”
They arrive at the pick-up point. In his head is the image of a young woman, red haired, with an overly youthful face—he knows that SHIELD wouldn’t give him a minor as his date, that the young appearance is just for bait—but whoever she was, she isn’t the one who will be waiting. Tony doesn’t even have a picture of this guy, not even a description. He’s going to look like a fucking idiot, wandering around looking for his date.
But he needn’t worry. There standing at the curb dressed to the nines in a black tuxedo, hair slicked back, is a young man who could easily pass for 16 years old. In his fancy clothes, he looks very out of place on the grimy New York street—little fool was supposed to be waiting inside.
Happy pulls over at Tony’s request, and Tony steps out of the car. He knows how he must look: dressed to kill (literally), tinted glasses on, polished and sharp like a knife. His reputation does more than precede him. It rolls him out a red carpet judging by the way the kid’s mouth drops open and then mouths his name: Tony Stark.
“Ben?” Tony asks.
The kid closes his mouth. The lips are thin but well shaped, the eyes far too wide and gleaming, jaw defined. It looks like he is a conglomeration of manhood and boyhood, teetering on the cusp between the two worlds, and it makes him sick to know that he was probably chosen for this reason, because his boyish looks will appeal to the people at the party. Tony and the boy are nearly the same height, but Tony must have fifty pounds on him. This is who’s meant to be his help? Don’t they know the kind of job he’s heading to, the kind of danger they’ll be facing? F must hate this kid to be throwing him to the sharks like this.
“I’m Ben,” the boy says. He’s got a cute little cracking voice.
Tony holds open the door like a proper gentleman would when all he really wants to do is shut it in his face and tell Happy to drive on. Ben shuffles in and over to make room. On the back of his neck, his hairs have fought against the hold of the gel and turned into little curls. It might be the cutest thing Tony’s ever seen—fucking goddamnit.
Once they are in the car, Happy pulls away from curb. Now they are heading to q the target destination. No matter how many times he pulls these gigs, he feels as nervous as the first time. Capability has nothing to do with it, because he knows how even the most seasoned agents can slip up. Complacency kills.
“So what the hell are you doing here, kid?” Tony asks, trying to avoid how his nerves make his stomach clench tighter than a clutched fist. “We’re not headed to a birthday party. Did F tell you what you were getting into to, or did he promised you a balloon animal or a funfetti cake to dress up and hang off my arm all night?”
Ben snorts, unbuttoning the top button of his jacket. “Yeah, he’s going to make me a great big pair of clown shoes. I’m sorry—I’m just—I can’t believe it! You’re codename Iron? Tony Stark works as a SHIELD spy? Gosh, I’m such a fan. Actually, I’m feeling a little lightheaded, could we crack a window? Please, Mr. Driver, sir?”
“Happy, crack a window,” Tony says. He can’t help but be charmed. His ego—sizeable as it is—is absolutely the way to his heart. But he sees in the kid’s eyes that he means it, the glossy dazed look of a superfan. “Look, kid, I’m flattered. I just expected a more seasoned partner. Not Doogie Howser in a tux.”
The happy-go-lucky attitude slides off of Ben’s face. “I’m codename Spider.”
Tony laughs. Even Happy snorts up front, trying to cover it with a cough. If Ben is offended, he doesn’t show it, resting an elbow on the windowsill. It is just getting dark, streetlights turning on, and the warm glow against his face makes him look even more youthful.
“You’re spider.”
Ben hums.
“You’re the spy who singlehandedly stole back Duccio di Buoninsegna’s Madonna and Child from those Congressional clowns who had it stolen from the Metropolitan? The hacker who made it through SHIELD’s firewall five years ago to expose interdepartmental assassinations and turned the entire place on its head?”
“Good times,” Ben says, smiling.
Tony snorts. “First rule of the trade, kid? Lie small. Say you’re codename Shield, or even Arrow, that guy’s enough of a fucking dunce for a green boy like you to pass off. Not even a civilian off the street would mistake you for Spider—”
The blade slips out from Ben’s sleeve. When it presses against the exposed skin above Tony’s dress collar, it is warm from where it was pressed against the boy’s skin. The car swerves as Happy panics, reaching over to the console where a handgun is—
“Call him off,” Ben says softly, breath fanning against Tony’s face, smelling of peppermint.
“Calm down, Happy,” Tony says. His throat is dry, but he doesn’t swallow. He doesn’t want to give this kid the satisfaction. “If you swerve anymore, I might get my throat slit on accident.”
“Listen to me,” Ben says, adjusting his grip on the handle of the blade. His other arm is looped through the seatbelt, pulling it so tight against the older man’s chest that he struggles to take full breaths. “I’ve got nothing to prove to you. Spider, Shield, Arrow, I don’t give a fuck who you think I am. Tonight you can call me Ben. Tonight we’re taking down the biggest human trafficking ring in New York, and I’m the only backup you’ve got. Making sense?”
“Perfect sense.”
Ben pulls back and glances down. “Are you—fucking hard right now?”
“Truthfully? Painfully.”
“Jesus Christ,” Happy mutters from the front seat.
Ben laughs even as he licks his lips. “You’re a pervert. I guess you’ll play the part tonight well enough. It is just an act, right? You aren’t really in the business of buying sex from trafficked kids?”
“Don’t even joke,” says Tony, frowning. In his mind are images: kids anywhere from 8-16 being sold into sexual slavery, many of them immigrants in the United States and unable to understand English. Tony can’t imagine the fear, the pain, the degradation. “I couldn’t sleep for days after reading the file on the things that happen where we’re going. I don’t think I’ve ever accepted an assignment so quickly.”
“Aren’t you worried?” Ben asks. The mocking curve of his lips contrasts with the demure kid who climbed into the car. Obviously they lost that kid along the way, somewhere between the curb and where they are now. More than likely, Tony pushed him out the window with his foot-in-mouth disease. Manslaughter—though Tony doesn’t mind. “It will get out one way or another, that Tony Stark was at this party. People will think you really are a pervert.”
“That’s why I’m perfect for the part. Unfortunately, old billionaires do tend to be perverts. I’m sure we’ll encounter some other people there from Forbes’s Wealthiest list. But after we get the information we need tonight, I’m coming clean to the public about my after hours activities for SHIELD and heading straight to retirement. I see an island in my future, with golden sands and clear water and bottomless mimosas.”
Ben looks positively smitten and sold by the picture Tony paints. He rests his head against the headrest even though it musses his gelled hair, watching Tony’s mouth while it moves. Maybe it’s a good thing that codename Pepper was somehow compromised. The chemistry between him and Ben looks to be a two-way street. “That sounds amazing,” the kid says lowly.”
“Room for two on this island, boss?” Happy asks.
The moment shatters. “For you, Happy, always,” says Tony, though his eyes don’t leave Ben’s. “ETA?”
“Five minutes, boss.”
“Should we talk shop, Ben?”
“Let’s.”
Tony pulls out a StarkPhone from the breast pocket of his jacket. He holds it in his palm and waves a hand over it. “If the audience will take a moment to examine this ordinary looking cellphone—not so ordinary looking actually, much more streamlined than Apple and Samsung dreams of these dimensions, okay, right, sorry—you might be correct to guess that it is no ordinary cellphone!
“Your average cell has the maximum storage capacity of twenty-four to one hundred twenty-eight gigabytes. But we know that the data we’re going to be copying from the internal servers at the hotel will be much, much larger than that. Luckily, this phone is capable of holding up to a terabyte. SHIELD has estimated we’ll be pulling in about half that in gigs.
“Luckily, that won’t be much of a problem. F had another agent call ahead and the Ritz-Carlton we’ll be at boasts ethernet cables and hook-ups in each room. A cell to ethernet adapter will have us downloading that speed faster than you can say Bob’s your uncle.”
Ben smiles. “Ben is my uncle.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Ben—it’s my uncle’s name. My real name is Peter.”
Tony smiles. The kid is foolish to give his real name, especially just moments away from a place where Tony identifying him by his codename is key to maintaining their cover, but he gets it. The kid wants intimacy. He feels the connection, and he thinks that he needs to offer the information to forge it stronger. It makes Tony soft, even as it worries him.
He reaches for the boy’s hand and rubs a thumb across the knuckles. His skin is soft and smooth. “Ben,” Tony emphasizes, squeezing the smaller hand. They share a look of understanding, and he can almost see Peter slipping into character, like putting on a different set of clothes until he is BEN, shy, fifteen, probably groomed to be Tony’s sex-toy. The thought nearly makes him sick.
“Location is the biggest issue,” Tony continues. “If I didn’t need an ethernet cord, I’d go into any bathroom, lock the door, and download the files I need. But that would take hours, and we don’t have that kind of time. To work unnoticed, we’ll have to be in a hotel room. There’s only one reason why the two of us would be there. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Peter turns so red that he looks tanned in the dim lighting. He shifts, pinching the fabric of his dress slacks between his fingers to pull them away from his crotch and okay, okay, Tony’s not going to look because the kid might be in character but Tony isn’t, yet, and checking to see if the kid is hard? That’s—that’s pushing some boundaries. “Mr. Stark, if we’re in a hotel room, won’t they think we’re having sex?”
Tony swallows, throat clicking. “That’s kind of the point, kid. Hopefully it will buy us enough time to download the files we need, rumple our clothes, and skip out of there to safety. Understand?”
“Yessir,” Peter says.
The kid has incredible characterization. Tony will give him that.
“Pulling up, boss,” says Happy. From the outside, it doesn’t look like the Ritz-Carlton is hosting a party. It’s a private affair, one the public will not be privy to. Invitation only. Happy pulls up to the front and comes around to open their doors.
It’s Tony’s turn to slip into a different set of metaphorical clothes: the clothes of a disgusting, sleezy man. A predator. A monster. The persona settles like oil over his skin as he steps out into the warm night. He reaches back for Peter’s hand and the boy is there, eyes wide and trusting, lit up by the lights of the hotel.
“C’mere, baby,” Tony says. “Daddy’s got you.”
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The Ritz-Carlton has two rooms for larger parties. One is a ballroom. He has been several times, and he finds that it is most similar to the ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton in Riyadh. It is large enough to hold a thousand people, with a chandelier as the focal point of the room. Every entry point is an arch with the most exquisite molding. As a man who appreciates luxury, even he feels awed in its presence, small when his steps don’t echo on the carpeted floor.
This, however, is not that room. They are ushered to an elevator that leads to the top floor. Someone checks Tony’s ID before he’s allowed entrance, but the man doesn’t even ask for Peter’s. Then they pass through a curtained off doorway and they are in. The room floor to ceiling windows giving a breathtaking view of the city. There must be a hundred people here, ladies and gentlemen decked in their finery. There aren’t any minors here—but Tony knows that’s because they are more than likely in the hotel rooms below. Waiting.
“Go to the bar and get me a drink, baby boy,” Tony says. His hand slips down over the curse of Peter’s ass and the boy blushes, nodding. “I’m going to go and greet the host.”
Peter looks so small crossing the room, always moving out of other people’s way, timid and meek. A deep part of Tony hates it—hates the meekness, hates the seed of fear it plants in his heart for Peter, even capable as he is, to be among these predators—but he pushes that part down and begins to search for Rumlow.
Rumlow owns the hotel. It is the only reason why they are here: the man is disgustingly rich and equally bold. The hotel acts as a front, a headquarters of sorts. He pimps out boys and girls in the rooms, hosts these disgusting parties in the penthouses, and (notably) keeps all the files on his clients and victims on the hotel’s encrypted server.
When Tony finds the man, Rumlow’s eyes double in size. Tony is not just the richest man here, he is the most well-known, the most likely to be recognized out in society. He’s a goddamn public figurehead—just like the Congressman in the corner. No one is disguised, no one even tries—because here is it trusted that they are among their own disgusting kind.
“Tony Stark,” Rumlow says. The men and women around him are silent, sharing anxious, excited glances. Tony Stark is in the trafficking trade! “I have to admit, I didn’t think you’d show. It happens. Someone will reach out for an invitation but be too afraid to take it in the end.”
“Poor bastards,” someone says.
Tony shakes Rumlow’s hand. It’s pure self-control that keeps him from squeezing until the sweaty fingers in his grip break. Stay in character, he urges himself.
“It’s been too long since I’ve indulged—and if there’s one thing everyone knows about me, it’s that I love to indulge.” Everyone laughs. He slips into the headspace with ease, becoming a dark caricature of himself. A warm presence appears by his side and he glances down, almost in shock, to see Peter there. He’s holding a scotch on the rocks. Tony takes it, hoping no one else notices his shaking hand. “Thanks, baby boy.”
“Who’s this, Tony?” Rumlow asks. “Introduce us.”
Peter plays the part, looking down at his shoes. Tony lets his hand slip from where it was firmly against the boy’s back, smoothing it over the curve of his ass.
“This—” he has to stop himself from introducing the boy as Peter. “—is Ben. My little amuse-bouche. He’s accompanying me tonight.”
Rumlow frowns even as another woman offers her hand to Peter, insisting he kiss her knuckles. “You didn’t need to bring your own entertainment, Tony. I keep the hotel well stocked. Can’t I tempt you with some of my wares? I have a lovely selection from Pakistan. Consider it a gift.”
“I prefer white meat.”
There is more laughter all around.
Rumlow claps him on the shoulder. “I understand. I’m sorry I don’t have anything more to your tastes. There’s another shipment coming from Latvia as we speak, maybe we can convince you to come to next season’s event?”
Tony down his scotch in two gulps even as his stomach rolls. He feels like a dragon that is preparing to breathe fire, smoke coming from his nose and ears. The pleasure he will feel watching these men and women turn to ashy bones in the clutches of SHIELD and the US government—he shivers with it. “I think it’s safe to say that I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Can we speak in private for a moment?”
“For you? Of course.”
They find a secluded corner of the room up against the windows and Rumlow points out Central Park, the Upper Bay, Central Park just below them. Like they’re tourists and he’s a guide in jorts on top of a double-decker bus pointing out all the important sights. Peter looks earnest and attentive, eyes huge, breath fogging the glass. Rumlow is charmed by him; Tony can tell. The hand he puts on the back of the boy’s neck could be mistaken for friendly—if it weren’t so fucking possessive.
“We were interested in a room to—play—in,” says Tony.
“A man like you must—work hard, play hard, am I right?”
“Of course.”
Rumlow disappears, talking to the man at the entry way who was checking identifications. When he returns, he has a single key-card pressed between his first two fingers. Tony takes it, wearing a grateful twist of his lips. “Listen. I told them to put some champagne in your room. On the house. No—no, I insist. How else will I make a repeat customer out of you, if I don’t spoil you? Play hard. Feel free to come back up to the party when you’ve finished. I imagine that many of us will filter in and out of the rooms until dawn.
“Oh, and Mr. Stark—please be aware that these rooms are special. Surveyed closely. I hope you understand.”
Bugged, he means. Tony hadn’t expected it, but he’ll make it work. They both will. They haven’t made it this long in this business without being able to roll with some punches.
There is a number on the keycard: 2011. They have to go down more than ten floors to reach the room, and the elevator ride might as well last a lifetime. He feels jittery as the adrenalin fades. The hard part is over, he thinks. The rest of this will be smooth as cake.
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Famous last words.
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“Daddy,” Peter says. The word nearly bowls Tony overs, distracts him so much that he almost misses the boy’s next words: “There’s no condoms.”
Tony stops from where he is loosening his tie. His eyes flicker to where Peter stands by the nightstand. The look on the boy’s face is covertly furious. Combined with the fact that they know the room has been bugged for audio, the atmosphere is…tense. It takes a moment for him to realize that Peter’s not talking about condoms, he’s trying to let Tony know that something else is missing.
The ethernet cord. Of course this can’t be easy. God forbid his last gig before retirement is a cake walk. He’s going to have to earn this one, blood sweat and tears.
“Well,” he says, choosing every word carefully, using both fists to throttle an imaginary Rumlow (Peter’s grin is worth how silly it feels). “We’re in a hotel. I’m sure I can find some somewhere.”
“Could we do it without them?”
Tony swallows. The double entendre of this conversation is not going above his head—probably because Tony is so short, but those are lamentations for another day—could he download 500 gigs via wireless connection? Yes, but it will take much, much longer. Which means much, much longer spent in the hotel room with his much, much younger associate whom Tony is dangerously attracted to. “We could,” says Tony slowly. “But the speed with which I’d finish might be a concern.”
“You know I don’t mind, daddy,” Peter says, lowly. The look he exudes is overtly sexual, comically so. It doesn’t turn Tony on—really. The boy sits on the bed, tosses himself backwards to lay flat. He looks good spread out on the twelve-hundred thread count sheets. Tony has even softer ones at home. Surely Peter would like those better. Suddenly, he is bouncing up off of the bed and towards the bathroom. “I’ll go freshen up.”
Once the door is shut behind him, Tony pulls out his StarkPhone. Still open on the screen is the program he ran to find bugs in the room. The 3D little model glows in each corner of the room, flashing orange, the sign for microphones. He closes the program and brings up what he plans to use to hack into the hotel’s servers. Being on the premises makes it so much easier than it might have been even if he were just outside the doors. He doesn’t bother to look through the files to see what’s what—he’s going to take all of it. Every last byte.
The phone begins his download, and a timer comes on the screen. Two hours, thirty-six minutes.
And twelve seconds.
Fuck.
Peter comes out of the bathroom with his shoes off, tie undone. He points to the phone. Tony gives him the thumbs up. Fuck yeah, Peter mouths.
On the nightstand beside the bed is a pad of paper and a pen. Peter grabs it, humming. He writes something and holds it out to Tony.
You know we have to make some noises right
Tony frowns, glancing from Peter to the paper.
Peter points upward to the microphones. He lets his eyes roll back and his jaw go slack, hips twitching forward to mimic sex in silence. Tony’s mouth goes dry. Okay, he gets it now. He gets it.
And the kid is fucking right. There’s no way that they can sit in this hotel room silently for two hours after bragging to Rumlow about coming up to play. Tony sure as hell hadn’t meant playing checkers. The program on his phone is hollowing out Rumlow’s servers like a pumpkin at Halloween time, but if it doesn’t have time to complete the download, if their covers get blown…
Begrudgingly, Tony nods.
“Do you want to undress me, daddy, or should I?” Peter asks, crossing away from Tony to sit on the white leather couch. Ben is back, voice shy and sweet.
Tony swallows. What a fucking scumbag he is, pretending like this is a chore, like this isn’t already making him harden in his dress slacks. He licks his lips, but his tongue is just as dry. Figures. “You go ahead, baby boy. I’m feeling—lazy.”
His voice is anything but convincing. Tony considers himself a masterful actor, but in this moment, faced with this young man and the unbidden attraction he has for him, he’s choking. He feels disgusting. He feels like the men and women upstairs. Across the room, Peter looks frustrated, motioning his hands, mouth moving though Tony isn’t the best at reading lips. The kid rolls his eyes and stands.
“Of course, daddy. I’ll do all the work.” The pointed look he gives makes it clear that Peter believes he’s doing all the work in multiple facets—and okay, okay. Tony will have to step up his game. He’s a veteran in the field. Time to show the kid how it’s done.
He rolls his shoulders, moving to sit on the bed. He tries to imagine a lover—older than Peter, much older—and what he would say to them if they were in this situation. His voice is lower when he speaks: “Slow, Ben. Put on a show for me.”
Peter’s eyebrows raise. He stands up and discards the tie around his neck. Then he sheds the jacket to his tuxedo, and the panic begins to rise in Tony again. He glances over at the phone and only ten minutes have passed. Jesus. Is Peter really going to undress? But even as Tony is wondering, he knows it to be true—the sound of clothes rustling is loud in the room. Maybe the microphones are cheap and can’t pick it up, but more than likely, they can. They have to keep this charade up.
But Tony doesn’t have to look.
He turns to sit on the edge of the bed and resolutely faces the wall. He can hear the dress shirt being tossed aside, and the sound of the zipper lowering is excruciating. Tony’s hard. There’s no denying it. He might not be looking, but his imagination is second to none. He imagines the kid must have muscle hidden under his clothes to be a field agent: all tight and lean and pale and soft—
“How do I look, daddy?” asks Peter.
“Perfect, baby boy,” Tony says without hesitation.
“Daddy, I know you said that I’d be doing the work tonight, but, can I ask for something?”
Tony bites back a groan. “You can ask.”
“Kiss me?”
“Of course, baby boy. Come here.”
Peter doesn’t cross the room though. They thankfully are bought a few moments of silence by the gimmick. When he dares to peak out of the corner of his eye, he sees that Peter has undressed, but is thankfully still wearing a pair of black, non-descript boxers. Still, it’s a mistake. Because whatever Tony imagined could not hold a candle to the real thing. Peter is all lithe muscle. He’s fucking cut, with abdominals that Tony never had even when he was the kid’s age and hitting the gym regularly. His skin is luminescent in the room’s lighting, endless glowing pearlescent skin that Tony can almost feel under his lips, unbearably soft and firm.
Peter sits on the couch, phone in his hands. His thumb moves like he’s scrolling the fucking internet. Beside him sits the blade he pulled on Tony in the car, joined by two others, and a holstered gun. Where the hell Peter had been hiding them, only God knew.
What the fuck is Tony worrying about? This obviously means nothing. He lets himself lean back onto the bed. It’s soft and clean, and if he closes his eyes, he can almost forget everything. The room. The microphones. Rumlow.
That’s when Peter takes it up a notch. Across the room, his breath hitches. Then he gives out a groan that goes straight to Tony’s cock. When Tony cracks his eyes open to glance across the room, Peter is looking at him. The kid smiles and winks, then goes back to scrolling on his phone. “God, yes, daddy,” he whimpers—then he holds up his phone like he’s taking a fucking selfie, lips pouting. He brings the phone back down and he nods once in approval of whatever photo he took. Then he glances up at Tony, looking irritated. “Please don’t stop.”
Yeah yeah, Tony fucking gets it. “So fucking needy, baby,” he says. The mocking tone comes easily.
“Don’t tease, daddy,” the kid whines. Tony’s eyes roll back. How the fuck can the kid be so unaffected by this?
“I won’t,” he promises, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’ll give you what you need, baby, just trust daddy.”
Peter keeps up with the noisy, breathy whines and then a sharp gasp—oh, right there daddy, yes. The groans grow in volume, moans and panting. If the kid glances over, there won’t be any way to avoid seeing how hard Tony is. Cracking his eyes open, he looks over to make sure the kid is still enamored with his phone—
Only, he isn’t.
Peter is obviously in character. His phone is still alight but held laxly in one hand that rests against the couch cushion next to him. His head is tipped back, eyes squeezed shut while he moans enough for the both of them. Panting, the white chest is rising and falling, ribs expanding rapidly, abdominals tensing and relaxing rhythmically even as Peter makes his breath hitch as if in ecstasy. The sight hits Tony in the gut, and then lower. It’s the most sexual thing he’s ever seen, and it isn’t even real. Until he catches sight of the erection tenting the boy’s boxers. Then it seems too real. Way too real.
Tony panics. He sits up, head spinning. Elbows on his knees, he presses his palms against his eyes. God, he can’t do this. He doesn’t want to do this, doesn’t want to be a pervert, but how the fuck can he help it?
“Daddy?” Peter breathes. Against his will, Tony responds to the name, glancing up. Peter is sitting up, alert, concerned. He points to Tony, makes an OK symbol with his hands. Tony can’t even reply, can’t even begin to sign how not-okay he is. The kid crosses the room almost silently. He grabs the pad off of the table, writing even as he asks. “Do you want to slow down, daddy?”
Tony’s breath shakes. He stutters. “Yeah baby. Yeah let’s—just—take our time. Okay? We’ve got all night.”
Peter thrusts the pad under his nose. What’s your deal?
Tony bats the notepad away. But the motion of his hand draws Peter’s eyes down—and down—to where Tony is hard in his pants. Peter’s mouth makes an O in surprise, then in understanding. The look he gives the older man is absolutely devilish. He puts a palm on Tony’s shoulder and even through his jacket and dress shirt, it burns right down to the bone.
Pressing so close that his lips brush Tony’s ear, barely audible, he whispers: “Do you want it daddy?”
Tony pushes him away. Peter laughs, silent. He’s still hard, and one hand comes down to wrap his fingers around his clothed erection. Tony groans. Those lips are back, tongue against the shell of his ear even as Peter’s fingers tangle in his hair, hard, holding him so he can’t flinch away. “Come on, Tony, you’ve got to do better than that.”
He pushes Tony flat on the bed and climbs him.
“Jesus,” Tony mutters, already panting. His heart feels liable to burst out of his chest, and he can’t control the helpless thrusting of his hips when Peter drags his erection over Tony’s. The kid is all hard muscle, heavier than you’d think, a solid hot weight pressing Tony into the mattress. Peter straddles Tony’s lap and plants his hands against the older man’s chest, throwing his head back and moaning like he’s having the best sex of his life.
“Please, daddy, can I undress you?”
Tony shakes his head, lips pressed tight, even though he knows that he has to open his mouth, has to respond and keep the charade going for anyone who might be listening. Then there are fingers tangling with his, prying them open from the brutal fist they’ve been curled into. Peter presses their palms together, laces their fingers. Against his will, Tony opens his eyes.
This is okay, Peter mouths. He looks softer, less sex-kitten. His smile is sweet and maybe real. I’m okay with this, he mouths, lips exaggerated to help Tony follow along. He points. Are you?
It’s that soft hand in his that convinces him, the thumb brushing against his own. Peter brings their joined hands up and presses a silent kiss to the back of Tony’s, and it’s so fucking genuine and earnest.
Tony nods. “Undress me, baby boy.”
Peter beams, all joy and teeth. He helps Tony sit up and then attacks his clothes, tie thrown over his shoulder, jacket pushed off of broad shoulders, buttons hastily pulled free. When he reaches the holstered gun that had been hidden under Tony’s clothes, he slows, removing it carefully and setting it aside on the night stand. His eagerness returns when he reaches the erection in Tony’s pants, choosing to shift back so that he can mouth at it through the fabric. Tony squeezes his eyes shut, groaning. God, the kid’s mouth burns. He can almost feel the wet heat through all the layers of silk and cotton, the rough pressure of the younger man’s tongue.
“Come on, kid,” Tony grits out, balls aching. “Undress me already.”
Peter looks up at him, mouth red and wet, eyes huge. His voice is breathy and high when he says, “Yes daddy, whatever you say.”
Tony’s belt gives a satisfying slick sound as it is wrenched from his beltloops. Peter holds the leather between both hands while looking it over from one end to the next. He tests the strength of it, biceps bulging, then snaps it against his own bare arm, letting out soft trembling breath. When he swallows, it is audible. The kid wavers between exuding sexuality and maintaining a charming naivete. Tony isn’t sure which has him wanting to blow his load more.
At last, Peter sets the belt aside and thumbs at the button of Tony’s slacks. He drags a firm thumb down the zipper which runs along Tony’s throbbing erection. Breathing through his nose, Tony struggles to keep his head clear, to not lose himself to this lust. Then Peter is pulling his pants down, dragging the silk boxers down also. The cock that springs free is nothing to be ashamed of: long, thick, and red with arousal, the head damp and sticky with precum.
“God, daddy,” Peter whines. “I want it.”
The boy slides off of the bed, hands resting on the firm, softly-haired thighs to pull Tony to the edge. His mouth is open and waiting, wet and hot and the most inviting thing Tony’s ever wanted to thrust into—but he’ll lose it. He has to reach out to fist Peter’s gelled hair, wrenching it back until his throat is exposed—and the kid still stick his tongue out, making the most pitiful, desperate noises, like if he doesn’t get Tony’s cock in his mouth it might kill him.
If anyone is going to die, it will be Tony, he thinks.
“Not yet, boy,” Tony says. Peter melts, stops straining against his grip, and Tony relaxes his hand to pet at the messed hair. “Youthful exuberance—not that I’m complaining. But some nuance would be nice.”
Peter blinks, eyes dazed. “Nuance. You—you want it slow? How can I—God, daddy, I can’t even think. I want your cock so bad. Please can I taste it, sir? Just the tip?”
Tony groans, cock jumping. He tightens his grip again and can feel the way the boy is relaxed, willing to be pulled and pushed at Tony’s whim. Through his teeth, he says: “Needy boy. Just the tip. Stick out your tongue.”
The picture the boy makes is pornographic: tongue extended, eyes closed in trust and anticipated ecstasy. Using his free hand to grip his cock and hold it steady, he brings Peter closer, smearing the leaking tip across his tongue. Mouth open as it is, there is no way he can muffle the high, helpless sound that comes out of his throat. Peter’s tongue fucking chases Tony’s cock, and Tony’s weak. He’s fucking weak. He brings it back and lets him off the leash a little so that Peter can take it into his mouth and suckle. The younger man’s eyes are still closed like this is the closest he’s come to Elysium, and the knowledge brings Tony right to the edge, balls drawing up. He pulls back again and Peter sounds wrecked.
“Daddy,” he whines, drawing out the word. “Please let me suck your cock, please? I’m a good boy, aren’t I?”
“The best boy, baby,” Tony says, voice low. “But daddy wants to play with you first. Can you be patient and let daddy have his fun?”
Peter’s eyes crack open, whiskey-brown and wet, cloudy with lust and whatever headspace he’s falling into. He hums, smiling, and crawls up onto the bed. Fit as he is, he still looks so tiny. All except for his cock which strains obscenely at the boxers he’s still wearing, the front soaked with precum.
“Lay back,” says Tony.
Peter does. His cock is even more impressive to see in this position, and it twitches under Tony’s gaze. The kid shivers, eyes heavy-lidded, watching Tony to see his next move. Kneeling onto the bed by the boy’s side, Tony hooks his fingers in the waistband and drags the underwear down, careful not to hurt the cock beneath them.
It’s average in most ways, but perfectly suited to Peter’s slim, fit body. The dusky color shows how badly Peter needs stimulation, and even as Tony watches, a pearlescent drop of cum beads up at the head and rolls down the shaft. The kid’s hips twitch upwards, desperate for the touch of a hand that isn’t even there.
“Patience,” Tony says firmly. He strokes at Peter’s hair, smoothing it back into place. The younger man closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, trying to drain the tension from his own body.
Tony trails his fingertips over the smooth forehead and down the perfectly formed nose. He lets a thumb press against the thin lips and Peter is so pliant and perfect, mouth open to suck at it sweetly and then nip with teeth. Tony flicks him for the sting and he moans, enjoying even that soft pain. Next is Peter’s throat, and Tony rests his hand there—just resting, watching how even the presence of it enflames Peter, the fit chest rising and falling more rapidly. Tony squeezes, every so gently, and that red mouth parts, the breath knocked out of the boy as if Tony were strangling him.
The skin under his fingers is smooth and burning when he drags his hand past the hollow of the kid’s throat, thumbing the harsh collarbones. He can feel Peter’s heart hammering under his palm when it reaches his sternum. To fuck with him, Tony brings up his other hand, silently, and takes Peter’s nipple between his thumb and forefinger, applying the slightest pressure.
Peter shrieks, hips jerking upwards. His babbles are nearly incoherent: “Daddy please—Daddy more, again—God please?”
Merciful, Tony pinches softly, then pulls back to drag his thumb over the peak again and again. Each time, Peter lets out a sound like he’s being killed. His cock takes on a darker hue even as Tony watches, soaking itself. It makes his mouth water, and he isn’t known for his self control—ask anyone—so he leans forward to take the neglected nipple into his mouth, laving it with his tongue to a stiff peak.
“Oh god,” Peter says, drawing out the words. “Oh god please, please, please—”
Tony parts his mouth and drags the firm ridge of his top teeth over the nipple—and that’s it. Peter is shrieking—oh god please touch me, I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it, please touch me, daddy—cock spurting violently. Even with the breath knocked out of him (god, he can’t breath at all, all the space in his lungs filled up with lust and Peter), Tony reaches downward to grab the twitching cock and jerks it firmly. He helps Peter through it, the boy convulsing almost violently, mouth open in a scream that never comes.
“I’m sorry daddy,” Peter whimpers. “I should have waited for you.”
Jesus, he’s sorry? “Can you go again, baby boy? Can you get hard again, for daddy?”
“Uh-huh,” Peter says through gasping breaths, nodding frantically.
Tony glances over at the end table where his phone rests—and Jesus, there’s an hour left. An entire hour.
They—haven’t even kissed.
The thought comes out of nowhere, hits him like a truck. Shifting to lay beside Peter, he reaches for the sharp jaw and turns it towards him. Peter looks fucked out, eyes wet and satiated. The smile he gives is beatific, and it’s like he knows what Tony wants, opening his mouth, pliant and so fucking sweet. The kiss is consuming, tongues licking into each other’s mouths, the sounds soft and wet and Jesus, he’s hard. He’s so fucking hard it hurts.
“We can stop,” he says, so softly into Peter’s ear. “We don’t have to go any further.”
Peter pulls back, eyes more alert. A furrow grows between his brows as he frowns. He shakes his head firmly, makes a loose circle his thumb and forefinger and then fucks two fingers into it again and again. Tony rolls his eyes. But he’s smiling.
“I don’t have any lube,” he says out loud.
Ben is back, the bratty Peter melting away into an innocent, sweet voice that asks, “Will my cum do, daddy?”
Tony snorts. “Yes, baby boy. That will do.”
The cum is still warm, but cooling on the boy’s abs. Tony drags two fingers through it and then brings them down between Peter’s legs to the hole that’s there. He draws up his legs instinctually, feet flat on the mattress to give Tony better access. First, he just rubs an insistent finger against the opening, feeling the natural tension and the unbearable tightness whenever Peter shifts and tenses.
“Come on, baby,” Tony murmurs, keeping his finger firm. “Open up for me. Relax for me. Let me in that tight little ass. It belongs to me, we both know it. Let me in.”
Peter’s mouth drops open, eyes squeezing shut. He clenches the sheets in his fists but his muscles do relax, and Tony slips a finger in. The walls inside are like hot silk, and knowing that he’ll be sinking his cock into that heat soon has his balls aching.
“Jesus, kid,” he mutters. “So good for me. More, baby. Give me more, now.”
A second finger, and Peter whimpers with it. Tony gives him time, softly fucking in and out of him, then gently opening his fingers as he withdraws. Unable to help himself, he pauses to let those fingers search, crook upwards until he finds that spot inside the boy. Peter shrieks again, and it turns into a drawn-out moan. His cock is hard again, resting hot and thick against his abs in the pool of cooling cum.
“More daddy, please,” asks Peter.
“All about you, is it?” Tony taunts. He adds a third finger, probably a little sooner than he should. “Should I just take you now? Shove my cock in your little ass, tear you open?”
“Please,” Peter gasps, eyes opening like it’s the best idea he’s ever heard. “Please daddy, split me open.”
Alright. Alright, okay. Tony can’t wait a moment longer. He shifts to be kneeling between the boys legs, then reaches for the younger man’s cock, lifting it off of his abs to wipe his hand through the cum there. Peter shifts his hips up, desperate for the friction, but Tony doesn’t plan for him to get this second orgasm so easily. He’s going to work for this one, Tony thinks, letting go of the cock abruptly so it slaps against the boy’s abs.
Slicking his cock, the pleasure is so keen that it’s almost painful. It borders on overstimulation, and Tony thinks that it’s going to be the most exquisite pain he’s ever known. Folding Peter’s legs up until his thighs are against his chest, he reaches down to guide his cock to that warm heat. Just the pressure on the head has him groaning, hips thrusting minutely against his will. He does want to give the kid time to get used to it—Tony’s big, and he knows it—but the sounds Peter makes, wiggling and shifting to fuck himself on just the tip. It’s too much.
He is not known for his self control.
Tony thrusts in in one fell swoop, as slowly as he can—which isn’t very slow at all. Peter keens, high and loud and long, and Tony himself can’t stop a similar sound, lower, just as pained and pleasured. Peter is hotter, tighter than Tony could have imagined, and knowing that the slickness around him is from the kid’s own cum? Jesus, this isn’t going to last long. When he glances over at the end table, he sees that there are only ten minutes left: the download time has improved. Thank God, Tony thinks. Ten minutes will be optimistic.
“Okay?” Tony asks, a hand on Peter’s sternum. The heart beneath his palm is beating fast like a hummingbird’s. Tears have streamed down Peter’s temples to disappear into his hairline. When the boy’s eyes open, they are red.
“God, yes,” Peter says, laughing wetly. “Don’t stop now. Give it to me.”
Tony snorts, adjusting his grip on Peter’s legs. Then he gives it to him. He starts with long and slow thrusts, aiming deep. Peter is groaning words that become indistinct from how long he drags them out, he loses track of what he’s saying while he’s saying it. Tony wouldn’t be surprised to find that the kid is having an out-of-body experience for the way he’s acting. The sounds he’s making have Tony feeling the same way. The friction against his cock is just what he needs. Glancing down, he catches sight of his cock disappearing into Peter’s hole and his balls draw up tight. Not long—not long at all.
“Touch yourself,” Tony grits out. “I want you to cum with me.”
Peter reaches down around his legs for his cock, but Tony bats it away. “Not there,” Tony says. He thumbs at a nipple. “Here.”
Peter groans, gritting his teeth. But he is obedient, resting both hands on his flat chest so that his thumbs can brush his nipples, so softly and sweetly, teasing himself. His mouth drops open again, cock twitching. “I won’t last, daddy,” Peter says in that soft, sweet voice. “Are you close?”
“Yes,” Tony pants. “So close, baby. Keep going. Just a while more. Hold off for just a while more.”
Peter whines, tilting his hips upward helplessly. “Daddy,” he groans. “I won’t be able to help myself.”
“Restraint,” Tony barks. “Control yourself. Don’t you dare cum before me, baby. Don’t you dare—”
Taunting the boy this way, watching his face turn red as he struggles to restrain himself is bringing Tony right to the edge. He wishes that he could leave Peter this way, desperate to cum and constantly on the edge of disobeying him, but the pain in his balls is cresting. He needs relief. They both do.
“—please, Tony!—” Peter cries.
“Yes—yes—now—”
Peter cums almost instantly, pinching both nipples between thumbs and forefingers, mouth open in a silent scream.
Tony’s orgasm comes from deep in his gut, draws up tight in his stomach and it hurts, it really does, he’s been hard for so long with no relief, and then it all reaches the peak: his cock explodes deep inside the younger man, shouting the boy’s name. It lasts forever, his hips rolling and rolling to prolong the exquisite pleasure. The sounds between them are absolutely guttural, and Tony wonders if the recordings of the microphones above them will be in the files, because he’d give anything to hear this again and again, to listen to it with a clearer head when he can enjoy it more objectively.
On the nightstand, the phone chimes. The download is complete. They did it. The files are automatically transferred to SHIELD’s servers after completion. The satisfaction of that strikes Tony somewhere even deeper. With those, hopefully Rumlow and all the other fucking scumbags upstairs can rot in jail. Forever, if Tony has any say it in.
“Tony,” Peter pants. He’s been trying to get his attention. When he looks down, the boy looks more worried than he should for a person who has just had an incredible orgasm.
“What is it? Are you hurt?” Tony asks.
“No—just—what did you call me?” Peter asks, eyes wide, trying to convey something—
And oh fuck. Tony cried out Peter’s name.
He cried out Peter.
There is a commotion in the hallway, the sound of boots on carpeted floor.
“Fuck,” Tony says, rolling off the bed. Peter is up after him, ignoring his boxers, going straight for the gun on the sofa across the room. He flicks off the safety and chambers a bullet, careful to keep his finger off the trigger even as someone bangs on the door.
“Stark, open up!” They’re shouting. Rumlow’s men. Tony’s blown their cover.
This is going to get messy, Tony thinks, loading his own weapon.
He and Peter flank the door, both completely naked. They meet eyes, breath tight with adrenalin, and when the boy nods, Tony nods back in understanding, smirking. They’ll get through this. They’ll be fine. And afterwards—
The door bursts open.
