Mafia boss Tony sends his son Peter away at a young age to live with his aunt and uncle. Every month he goes to visit his son. Maybe he takes Peter somewhere nice like the movies or Central Park. Without fail, their nights together always ends with Tony balls deep in a sobbing Peter. A support check arrives for Peter the next morning.
Oh fuck me I love this prompt. Ty anon
Warnings: Age unspecified Peter but IMPLIED very underage, incest, noncon, creepy dark bio dad!Tony, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT.
“You’ve grown.”
The boy sinks lower in his chair, attempting to hide behind the other side of the table. He still hasn’t looked Tony in the eyes once since he picked him up from the Parkers’. It goes beyond Peter’s regular shyness - the boy is fidgety, morose. A typical teenager, maybe. Except that he’s not.
When Tony gives him an impatient look, Peter meekly shrugs, responding without responding. He’s always been a very quiet boy, but the silent treatment is especially irritating. Tony takes a sip of his wine in an attempt to crush the feeling. Their visit’s only just begun. It’s too early to fight.
When the waiter comes to refill his glass, Tony says, “And one for him, too.” Peter looks up, shocked, adorably concerned, but the waiter doesn’t bat an eye as he fills the empty wine glass beside his iced tea. This isn’t the first time Tony’s brought his son here. Even if it had been, everyone knows they’d lose a lot more than Tony’s business if they dared refuse his request.
Peter stares at the glass once the waiter leaves. Tony smiles at him as he sips his own, but the boy’s gaze is fixated. “Drink up,” he orders softly, watching the worry deepen on Peter’s handsome face. He doesn’t move. “Drink it, Peter.”
The boy’s hands shake as he lifts the heavy glass to his lips. Everything about it reminds Tony how young his son is - the way his face scrunches up at the taste, the way he carefully lifts the glass by the bowl with both hands, not trusting himself to use the stem. The way his hands look terribly, unbelievably small, his fingers short and thin as they wrap around the wide bowl beneath the rim. He truly is just a little slip of a thing. Bigger than last month, sure, he’s at that age. But only just starting the long ascent into adulthood.
It’s only been a month since they last saw each other, but already, Peter’s hand-me-down clothes are fitting just a little better than they were before, not as loose and baggy around the ankles, not hanging as low down his thighs. The Parkers tried to dress him up, as they always do, but they seem to have some aversion to using Tony’s money to buy his son nice things. The button-up shirt and dress slacks they wrapped him in are clearly Ben’s, trimmed and hemmed amateurishly to fit tighter on Peter’s skinny body. Any charm the look has is only attributed to the fact that it’s Peter wearing it.
“Apparently I need to take you shopping,” Tony muses, mostly to himself. “Drink, Peter. We’ll have a different wine when dinner is served.”
Peter takes a long, deep breath through his nose and lifts the glass to his lips again, then steels himself and gulps the rest of the burgundy liquid down. Tony chuckles, pointedly not mentioning that the alcohol is going to hit him much faster now, and lets the boy go back to sulking, tense and silent, in his chair.
—
After dinner, Tony loads a wobbly, light-headed Peter into his car and drives him to the Hall of Science. Peter is a little more animated as they walk around and take everything in, but Tony suspects that’s mostly the alcohol’s doing. The boy still hasn’t said much and he shies away when Tony wraps an arm around his shoulders, flinching at the contact. Tony buys him a little souvenir at the giftshop and ruffles Peter’s hair when the boy mumbles a quiet thank you.
They don’t say a word on the drive to the hotel. Peter’s never once asked why Tony doesn’t bring him to the penthouse during their visits, and Tony’s in no hurry to tell him. If the Parkers have told his son what he truly does for a living, behind the scenes, Peter’s never acted differently for it. He’s still the same sullen little boy he’s always been.
The room Tony rented is a bright and vast penthouse suite that costs more money per night than the Parkers pay for their monthly mortgage. The California King bed stands in the middle of the main room like a centerpiece, drawing your gaze to it as soon as you walk through the door. Tony suspects that’s not the reason Peter hasn’t taken his wide eyes off it. He stays huddled in the foyer, fidgeting with the toy Tony bought him at NYSCI, looking terribly lost.
Tony pours himself a glass of scotch at the bar and pulls his tie free from his neck. “Come here, Peter,” he calls gently, watching the boy teeter and debate whether or not he should obey. In the end, he knows there’s nowhere else to go. He keeps his head down as he shuffles his feet forward into the room, like he’s dragging himself towards his father.
Tony sips his drink and looks the boy over. He’s growing up. Every month he gets more beautiful, his features filling out to define his gentle face. If he resembles anyone in their family, it’s Tony’s own mother, with that soft head of hair and big, dark bambi eyes.
He cups the boy’s chin, thumbing over his bottom lip. Peter’s eyes are already glazing over with tears. It makes Tony’s skin itch, all the little hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Peter has always been so receptive to him. Always reacting. Feeling. Submitting.
He takes the back of the boy’s head to hold him still, grip tightening ever so slightly as he leans down and kisses him.
—
Harsh, labored breaths ghost over the pillows Peter’s face is buried in. Tony trails kisses over his shoulder blades, hips still gently rocking as he rides out his orgasm. Peter’s knuckles are bone-white as they clutch the sheets, strangling the soft material for all he’s worth.
Tony pants against his son’s back. The silky clutch around his softening cock is absolutely divine; warm and dripping wet where they’re still sealed together. Peter’s back trembles as he struggles to hold in his hiccuping sobs, making his tight skin dance across Tony’s lips.
“My good boy,” Tony sighs happily against Peter’s glistening skin. He kisses him again and grinds his hips against Peter’s ass, grinning when the boy whines and shivers. “Did you get off, honey? Did you come for Daddy?”
Peter gives him a stiff, curt nod, but when Tony wedges a hand beneath his hips to his pelvis, he finds his cock still hard, the tip leaking. He clicks his tongue in disapproval and wraps his hand around the boy’s shaft. “Peter. Why are you lying to me? It’s obvious you didn’t come.”
“I don’t want to,” Peter slurs into his pillow, pleading. “I just wanna go to sleep now, Dad, please.”
“That would be rude,” Tony scolds, pulling back so he can roll the boy over. Peter is quick to bury his face in his arms, trying to hide his tears, as if it’s the first time he’s ever cried during sex, and not the norm. “Let Daddy make you feel good.”
The whimper that leaves Peter’s pink little mouth when Tony swallows him down is gorgeous. He encourages Peter’s hips to rock upwards, rutting against his face, until the broken sobs turn to pleasure-filled groans. Tony trails his lips up to the head of Peter’s pretty little cock and back down, sucking hard, smiling when Peter’s hips stutter, his orgasm fast approaching.
He pulls back in time to let the boy finish all over his cute little belly. Peter’s labored breaths return to quiet sobs, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip hard enough to pierce the skin. “Don’t do that,” Tony says, pulling Peter’s lip from his teeth with the pad of his thumb. “You’ll leave a mark, Pete.”
Peter drops his arms from his face. His eyes stay glassy with tears and glued to the ceiling as Tony wipes the come from their bodies with Ben’s old dress shirt.
“I’m going to give you a little extra this month,” Tony says as he tosses the filthy shirt away. “I want you to use it to buy something nice to wear for next time. Don’t let May talk you into buying something big enough to grow into - I’m going to give you extra for a tailor, too. I want you to see one before I pick you up next month. Got it?”
Peter says nothing, his gaze still stuck to the ceiling. The goddamn silent treatment. Tony snaps his fingers in front of the boy’s face and says, “Pe-ter. I’m talking to you. Did you hear what I just said?”
A shiver wracks the boy’s body. He turns his wet-eyed gaze back to Tony’s face and nods, sullenly.
“Good. And you’re going to be a good boy and do as Daddy says?”
There’s a beat of hesitation. Then another nod, Peter’s lips parting so he can softly mutter, “Yes, Daddy,” before closing his eyes and turning away.
buckytony, E, college au, pwp. Tony wakes up with Bucky’s cock in his ass and they fuck. that’s it that’s the fic.
Light filters through the curtains, splicing across Tony’s face. It jerks him awake, and that’s his first sign he’s not safely ensconced in his own dorm. Blackout curtains cover his windows end to end, a ‘Tony Stark Essential’ Rhodey had said, when he put them up. Tony gets him a ridiculously overpriced, obnoxiously sweet caramel concoction from Starbucks every morning to convey his undying gratitude.
Point is, he’s spent the night in a stranger’s bed. Wouldn’t be the first time.
Tony goes to turn, intending to bury his face in a pillow and fall back asleep, but that’s not quite what happens. Instead, the dull ache at the base of his skull sharpens to a clear pounding, making him groan aloud, the beginning of what feels like the worst hangover he’s had in a long time made worse by the sunlight piercing his eyes.
But even with the force of his headache, his focus is quickly diverted to the burn and the stretch in his ass. Tony goes from half-sleepy to wide awake in seconds, clenching instinctively around the half-hard length buried inside him. It’s only then that he notices the press of a warm body behind him, breath hot against his neck. He wiggles back into the heat unconsciously, hips undulating as arousal makes its way through him like a tidal wave. It’s brief, fading in the face of his hangover, and he whimpers, desperate for something to make it better.
“Hey, hey,” comes as a soft soothe behind Tony, gentle, the voice raspy with sleep. It’s whispered against the sensitive skin of his nape, inducing a full-body shiver. He clenches, unbidden, around the cock inside him, and it’s instinctive, the way the guy’s hips drive forward, brushing against Tony’s prostate. He mewls, high and desperate in the back of his throat. “Shhh, shh, ’s alright, ’m sorry, you’re okay.” A hand pets heavy across his waist, soothing. “Fuck, my head’s pounding. Go back to sleep, sugar, it’s too early for this shit.” The guy shuffles closer, enveloping Tony in heat, nosing into the nape of his neck.
Tony thinks they should probably drink some water, take an Advil—get that cock out of his ass. But the guy’s warm, and comfortable and he’s absolutely fucking exhausted, so he makes a soft noise of acceptance, lulled back asleep by the rhythmic rise and fall of the chest pressed against him.
trigger warnings: extremely dubcon, coercion, mention of drugs/illness
It had been raining all evening. Peter’s shoes were soaked through, and the wind was blowing so fiercely he’d given up on his umbrella. By the time he knocked on Rumlow’s door, his teeth were chattering and he tried not to feel too sorry for himself.
The door swung open and Rumlow looked him over with an appraising eye. Peter followed him into the dingy but dry apartment, his stomach already twisting in knots.
“Didn’t think you’d make it all the way out here in the rain.” Rumlow dug a pack of tablets from one of his drawers, throwing it to Peter.
Frowning, Peter turned the pills over in his hands. “This is only enough for a week,” he said, looking up.
Rumlow popped open a beer bottle. “You’re still behind on the last two payments, Parker.” His eyes were sharklike, watching Peter over the rim of his bottle.
Peter’s heart sank into his belly. “Brock, please…”
“Sorry, kid.” Rumlow leaned back, not looking very sorry. “I can’t lower the price anymore.” He let the silence drag on, enjoying the anxiety building in Peter’s expression. He wanted Peter to ask for it.
Exhaling shakily, Peter pocketed the drugs. “Um.” He looked up at Rumlow, brown eyes wide like prey. It made Rumlow’s teeth itch. “Can-- Um, w- will you… give me the discount?” Even now, Peter’s cheeks burned red. The humiliation was half the fun for Rumlow.
“Anything for my favorite customer.” Rumlow bared his teeth in a grin, and he leaned back against the table, inching his legs wider apart for him.
Peter sank to his knees, keeping his gaze lowered to avoid Rumlow’s eyes. He reached up to tug the waistband down. Rumlow’s half-hard cock bobbed up and he wrapped a hand around Rumlow, firmly stroking him.
“Hold it in your mouth,” Rumlow ordered.
Pushing down the humiliation, Peter leaned forward and sucked the uncut tip into his mouth. He worked at the underside with his tongue the way he knew Rumlow liked, carefully working the length of him further into his mouth each time. Peter could feel him filling out on his tongue. It was an uncomfortable sensation. Rumlow’s cock grew heavier and fatter as it swelled, forcing his tongue flat to the bottom of his mouth and stretching his jaw wide.
“Fuck,” Rumlow groaned. “You get better every time, Parker.”
Doing his best to ignore Rumlow, Peter wrapped his fingers around what he couldn’t fit in his mouth and began to jerk him off with slow, tight pulls. He pulled back enough that he could suck at Rumlow’s head, staying there to catch his breath before he sank back down.
Rumlow let him keep his pace a little longer. He was getting impatient though, petting calloused fingers through Peter’s hair in a mimicry of tenderness. When Peter eventually tried to pull back for air, Rumlow tightened his fingers in his hair and forced him back onto his cock.
Though he’d been half-expecting it, Peter still gagged and his throat convulsed painfully around the intrusion. He pushed against Rumlow’s thighs, whining indignantly. Rumlow groaned, grinding Peter's nose into his hip. "Fuck, that feels good, you chokin' on my dick." He let Peter up with a laugh, watching the boy splutter for air.
Swiping a hand over his wet face, Peter glared up at Rumlow reproachfully.
"Sorry, honey. You’re such a good cocksucker, couldn’t help myself.”
Warily, Peter took Rumlow into his mouth again, bobbing his head a little faster. The sooner he got Rumlow off, the sooner he could get the hell out.
When Rumlow came, he grunted and pushed Peter down on his cock again, forcing him to swallow. “Fuck,” he hissed, letting his head fall back as he spurted cum down Peter’s throat.
Peter fell back as soon as he was released, coughing and wrinkling his nose at the taste. “I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” he said, his voice gone raspy from the abuse.
Rumlow smirked down at him as he put himself away. He gave an unapologetic shrug. They both knew Peter was in no position to really complain. As Rumlow watched Peter unsteadily get to his feet and dust himself off, he lazily took a swig from his beer. “Next week. I need my payment, Parker. And it’s gotta be cash. You can’t suck your way outta everything.” Rumlow’s smirk broadened as Peter’s ears went pink.
“I know,” Peter said stiffly, his jaw tight. He felt the weight of May’s pills in his jacket pocket like a ball and chain. “I’ll have it.” Rumlow gave him a nod, and taking this as permission to leave, Peter pulled his hood back up and left before Rumlow could decide to tack on interest.
As he stepped outside, black clouds thundered overhead and rain pelted down on him. He zipped his jacket pocket closed to keep the pills dry and, shivering with the cold, Peter started the long walk back home.
Hydra Trash Party - Hydra!Spider-Man [Mature/Explicit]
trigger warnings: waterboarding, drowning, caning, dehumanization, humiliation, non-consensual petplay, implied sexual abuse, just an all-around terrible horrible no-good very bad time for Pete
It is better to be treated like a weapon, than to be treated like a dog.
This is what they tell the spy, when they splash freezing water over his head. A weapon has a designated place and purpose. It may stay dry and well-cared for. A dog sleeps in a kennel that smells like piss, and gets only as much food as it’s worth.
Frigid water enters the spy’s lungs and he coughs, choking on what his handler calls his bathtime. He jerks against the leather band wrapped around his throat, and his handler only yanks on the other end of the leash in admonishment. His chest seizes as it tries to expand. The spy stills, and forces himself to stay where he is. “Good doggy,” one of the men says, laughing as they tilt his head back and water fills his trachea.
No amount of training can squash the fear of dying. They taught the spy to hide his fear and keep a stoic face. But they also know that hiding fear doesn’t mean feeling no fear at all. As the splash of water and laughter fills his brain with pressure, the spy bites back a scream.
//
It’s better to be treated like a weapon than to be treated like a dog, because when a weapon malfunctions, it’s gently dissembled, cleaned, and reassembled better than before. When a dog fails to do its job efficiently and well, it receives punishment.
Pavlovian, the spy thinks. He doesn’t know how he knows that word. There are too many things the spy knows but has no recollection of. It’s evidence of his defects. Defects that led him to losing a mark. In the middle of a busy thoroughfare, he’d smelled someone wearing a cologne that reminded him painfully of warm arms and kind laughter. Except that didn’t make sense, because the spy didn’t know anyone who wore that cologne, and he couldn’t actually remember experiencing either of those things. And stricken in place with an odd ringing in his head, the spy had lost his mark. So he gets punished.
His handler circles him slowly, tapping the cane over his palm. “He’s my responsibility,” his handler says solemnly. “If he’s got to be beaten, I’ll do it myself.” The spy shivers. His handler comes to a stop behind him, letting the seconds drag on. His handler knows him better than anyone else on earth. His handler knows he hates the anticipation more than the sting. “The longer the wait, the sweeter the wail,” he laughs in a sing-songy voice.
This is a punishment, after all.
//
One commonality between a weapon and a dog is the muzzle.
Although a muzzle on a gun is meant to silence and on a dog to tame its bite, whatever the intention, the result is the same. The spy doesn’t know what he’s been muzzled for this time - talking back to his handler’s superior or for breaking the nose of the guard who tried to put him in his place. In any case, the result is the same.
The spy gets left in his crate, arms twisted behind his back and a thick mouthguard between his teeth, his jaw clenched shut with his own custom-fit muzzle. He’s left there for more than a day before the men come looking for entertainment. They hose him down while he’s still in his crate. They’re frightened of him after his most recent outburst, so the woven sleeves won’t be coming off his arms tonight.
If the chafing makes him bleed enough, he hopes his handler will make them take the sleeves off before he goes to sleep.
//
(Afterwards, the spy lays shivering on the cold concrete floor, his head in his handler’s lap.
His shoulders are swollen and his wrists rubbed raw, and every part of his body aches. They’d given him another wash after they were done, but he can still taste blood in the back of his throat, feel it trickling warm between his legs. But none of that matters right now, because he’s resting and safe.
His handler strokes his rough fingers through the spy’s hair, fond and merciful. From where the spy gazes up at him, he looks like a god.
Stockholm syndrome, he thinks. He tries not to think so hard, and he just closes his eyes.)
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