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You're my pretty baby

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  The first time Tony meets the boy, he's instantly enamoured. How could he not be, when Peter's the living embodiment of sin-- looking like his dirtiest fantasies came to life, to grab him by the hand and tug him down the fiery path to hell? Tony would eagerly follow that lithe- undeniable of a child- body, all pale gangly limbs under ripped jeans and hoodies, chocolate-warm hair mussed artfully to fall over glassy syrup eyes; and the coy little minx knows it.

  "F-fuck, that's a good boy, that's an angel," Tony growls, hips snapping forward erratically, thighs quivering with the exertion of not moving, not slamming brutally into that velvet wet heat tight around his cock. Peter kneels between his legs with his hands clasped on his lap as though to fucking pray-- little chest trembling with choked breaths, mouth stuffed full of Tony's dick. The boy's drooling all over, pink lips stretched thin over the thick girth of him; spit dribbling down his chin alongside tears. Tony swipes a thumb through a salty track and sticks it into his mouth, humming appreciatively. Peter gurgles around his cock and sinks a microcentimeter lower, stuttering breaths fanning across the thatch of dark curls between Tony's legs; his throat spasming around the wide length of cock shoved in it and sending a dark shudder up the older man's spine. "Look at me," he hisses, and wide brown eyes immediately focus on him, glazed pupils blown so wide, dark lashes fluttering so coy; Tony comes with a shout and a snap of his hips, driving Peter backwards and sending him sprawling onto his back. White-sticky cum spills out of his mouth down his chest.

  "Watch it," Peter yelps, gasping and hacking up globs of saliva and pre-come onto the floor, choking so hard for a second Tony fears he's about to throw up. But he recovers fairly quickly, breaths sharp as swollen red eyes peer up, still wet with tears. "Oh fuck, that was so hot Mr Stark." Peter had stopped calling him that a long time ago as a form of formal respect, after his insistence; the both of them find that they still enjoy the title immensely in bed, though. Wrapping a hand around Peter's arm, he attempts to tug him up onto the couch-- the boy unprepared for the sudden movement, knees sore and legs wobbly from his extended kneeling position on the floor. He stumbles a little, crashing into the low coffee table and sending a box and its contents flying everywhere.

  Breaths still falling short, Peter hauls himself up beside Tony, collapsing into the cushions as the man bends down to pick up the mess. "Shit," he rasps out, voice hoarse and absolutely wrecked. It makes Tony grin, expertly tapping the lopsided photographs into a neat stack in his lap. "That good, huh?"

  "Oh shut up," Peter huffs. "Give it here."

  "What are these, anyways?" Tony asks, genuinely interested as Peter grabs the papers from his hands. The boy seems to have sobered up, flipping through them.

  "Pictures. Of my parents. May just dug them out from the attic," Peter mutters, then smiles a little as he holds up a photograph. "Look."

  It's small, and Tony clutches it, bringing it closer so he can see: there's a man and a woman huddled together, dressed in long dark coats and smiling into the camera. They're in a park, and it's a nice picture, really; but something's off about it, somehow, and Tony can't place his finger on it. It's weird, and he squints down at it, furrowing his brows.

  "What is it?"

  "I don't know.... something just seems. Familiar."

  "Could it be the background? The park?" Tony feels the teen scoot closer, breaths fanning over his shoulder. "Have you been there?"

  "No..." Trailing off, Tony runs a finger tentatively across the two small faces, the hard lines of the man's face, the woman's flowing hair; their joined hands.

  He freezes.

  Shit.

  Oh, shit. Oh fuck no. Nononono.

  This can't be.

  Fuck.

  "What is it?" Peter repeats, and Tony feels the couch dip beneath him, as though the floor's about to fall under it.

  Fuck.

  Swallowing the blind panic, Tony turns to face the boy. Takes in his debauched appearance, still-flushed cheeks. White stripes of cum clinging to the bridge of his nose; lips swollen and shiny with spit, so fucking red from how hard Tony had fucked it just barely five minutes ago.

  Oh, hell.

 


 

 

  Peter is, God save him, only fourteen when Tony first set eyes on him; at a school tour of Stark Industries, clutching a book file to his chest and gazing about the Tower with a bright sparkling gaze. He chatted in a loud and clear voice, pitched adorably high, about conservative reversible technology and how it powered most of the equipment here. How fascinating, this brilliant little boy; so very intelligent yet at the same time, undeniably naiive. Tony continued watching as the child skipped over to a particular exhibit, pressing his small palms up to the glass with a wondrous gaze, before he finally steps out of the shadows to introduce himself. "Hello there."

  The boy peered up at him with disbelieving eyes, face frozen in shock; before his mouth slowly tugs into a toothy smile, wide, childish, a little shiny... and oh, oh. Now that Tony's closer he can see the wires and clear brackets in that little mouth, across pearly white teeth. This little angel's wearing braces, Tony realises as a dark shudder travels down his spine simultaneously; that doesn't help at all.

  "Y-ou're Tony Stark!" His voice is a lilted lisp as he exclaims in wonder, cheeks flushed rosy red. "Oh, my god , oh wow--"

  "Nice to meet you," Tony had replied, reaching a calloused hand out for skinny fingers to grip reverently. "I saw you earlier, at the front hall-sounds like you really know your stuff, kiddo. Interested in being an intern here, by any chance?"

  "Oh--" The child says breathily, seemingly paralyzed with wonder. "Oh yes please, that would be; that'd be awesome S-Sir." Peter looked as though he thought he was in some sort of dream, the way he swayed on his toes as if he might topple over any moment; looking up at Tony all disbelieving and grinning ear to ear so wide, showing of all his fucking braces that the older man yearned desperately to trace over with his thumb.

 

  God, Tony feels dirty even now, thinking back about how goddamned eager he was back then to shove a fourteen year old into his knees; how he had looked into child-bright eyes and immediately fantasized of seeing them wet and pretty with tears as he fucked the kid from behind. He's sick, sicksicksick; he knows that. But over the years the crippling guilt he feels fades away to be replaced with something burning hot and coiled deep in his belly instead, stirring his loins in the most perverse way when he sees his own rough, calloused hand clasped in Peter's-- pale, porcelain smooth, so little and fragile in comparison. (Which makes Tony even more of a disgusting pervert, he's aware, but if his sin is Peter Parker he would gladly accept the trip to hell.)

  And then now, now... as though their whole predicament isn't fucked up enough already, this taboo relationship of theirs-- Tony is faced with an awful suspicion that he can't even bear to think about.

  That Peter...

  Beside him his phone buzzes insistently, and Tony groans, burying his head in his hands. God, this teen's stubborn. He's half-afraid Peter'll actually show up banging on his door, at this rate--

  --"You've been ignoring me," A voice pipes up from behind him, and Tony honest to god screams. Reflexively he throws a shoulder back, and it's only because of Peter's spidey senses that he manages to dodge the hit. Tony inhales a shaky deep breath.

  "What the fuck, Parker? How'd you even-"

  "FRIDAY let me in," Peter replies, moving to sit beside him on the couch. "And don't change the subject Mr Stark, I've been calling and texting you since Tuesday and you've been ignoring me. What'd I do?" He pouts, flopping forward onto his elbows on Tony's lap, chin propped on his knuckles, breath fanning slight over the zipper of the man's trousers. Long lashes flutter up at him.

  "You did nothing wrong, but Pete, you need to listen--" Tony begins weakly, but Peter ignores him, warm hands sliding slow and seductive up his thighs to hook around the loops of his belt. "Peter, hold on a minute would you."

  "I can't," the boy whines high in his throat. "I missed you so much, haven't touched you in days; I just wanna feel you inside me again," he pouts, voice lilted high and needy. "Need you so bad Mr Stark, please?"

  "Jesus Christ," Tony chokes out, almost whiting out with the strong spike of arousal that rushes through him at those words. Fuck, this boy would be the absolute death of him, he had no doubt of it.

  Taking his low moan as affirmation, Peter begins unbuckling his belt with fumbling eager fingers, unlooping it expertly and tugging his trousers down around his hips. Tony's hands flutter reluctantly around his neck, as though to shove him off-- then wrap around his chin almost as an afterthought, hauling him closer, up his body. Grinning coy and suggestive Peter leans down, bony hipbone pressing on his torso as he allows the man to drag him up into a wet, open-mouthed kiss. "Mr Stark," he whimpers between gasps of breath, lips soft and plush.

  Tony tugs a bottom lip between his teeth, intending to nip it in retaliation, push Peter off, anything; but that's not what he truly wants, is it? No, what he wants is to run his hands over smooth hairless skin again, to press flush against the body that he yearns so bad, that he has not touched in far too long.

  So he does. He does, thread-thin resolve snapping in his mind as he grips Peter's waist tight, earning a yelp of surprise-- grunting as he heaves up, rolling and flipping the both of them over so Peter's pinned under him, to the couch. The boy's full out gasping now, coyness all gone, reduced back to a desperate horny teen as he scrabbles at the front of Tony's shirt, tugging it over his head. It lands in a heap on the floor, and soon Peter's hoodie follows; then Tony's claiming the kid's lips again, forcing a tongue between them to lick hungrily into the confines of his mouth.

  "Fuck, sweetheart, you goddamn tease," he hisses, dizzy with lust. "Can't resist you. Can't. Too pretty," Tony growls, reduced to single-syllable words as he slides his hand down Peter's underwear, fondle his already leaking cock. His fingers flip down lower, and just as he suspected they come away wet with lube, the boy already having prepped his hole before he got here. All ready for Tony to take. Perfect.

  "Fuck me, Mr Stark," Peter mumbles, hips canting up and back arching, as tempting as always, and of course Tony does, because he's a weak man.

  He fucks Peter rough, the way they both want it, his cock throbbing with need, little growls escaping his throat as he stares down at the mewling, writhing boy beneath him. So wet and tight and warm, ankles locked behind his shoulders, the room filled with the wet filthy sounds of their skin slapping together.

  'I think I'm your father,' Tony thinks loud in his mind, but doesn't speak it out. It should make him feel sick to the stomach.

  It doesn't. His thrusts grow even wilder, more brutal, fingers pressing purple-red bruises into the skin of the wailing boy, Peter screaming "Mr Stark" as he fucks him into the couch.

  'Oh, god. I think you're my son.'