#petertony
OK so I’m trying to actually write this for real, but it’s become a little unwieldy and non-linear so i’m posting it as a braindump to help push me on:
Post NWH, Peter needs easy cash and all the under the table jobs he’s been getting aren’t cutting it (pizza delivery, irregular odd jobs like helping people move) and he stumbles into being a stripper at a slighty-above-seedy club – the kind that pays him under the table because he just keeps what he gets during dances but the kind that also has a pretty good bouncer out front, so the clientele isn’t the worst.
Turns out everything the bite enhanced wasn’t just good for being a friendly neighborhood superhero: it makes him a pretty amazing stripper. He picks up the pole work like he did swinging from buildings; a little practice, a few face plants and awkward moments, and then it’s as easy as anything else.
Just like in this new version of his life where no one knows him, he’s anonymous at the club. Just like Spider-Man, he also tends to attract a crowd.
(“Do a flip!” someone shouts one night, with Peter at the top of the pole, arched back and hanging on by one hand, every muscle taught and the lines of his body on display. And Peter smiles, beatific, and flips backwards off the pole, two rotations in the air before he’s landing at the edge of the stage. It’s a record night, his tight lamé briefs stuffed with cash sticking to his sweat-slick hips and the curve of his ass.)
It becomes easy. Patrolling in the early evening and sometimes after his shifts, glitter and smoke under his suit but the adrenaline of a good night keeping him awake and alert. The water-stained drop ceiling above Peter’s closet in his shitty apartment ends up stuffed with cash in ziploc bags.
It’s still easy, even, when the news breaks that Mr. Stark is back. The details aren’t public knowledge, and Peter longs to know how it happens, but what matters is something is now right in the world again – even if no one knows Peter, still, he feels lighter after the news.
He doesn’t seek out Mr. Stark, assuming he also has no recollection of Peter Parker, and if Peter keeps an eye out for a glint of red and gold while he’s patrolling, it’s just to see if Mr. Stark at least remembers Spider-Man. (He never sees the suit, so it doesn’t matter. In fact, even with Mr. Stark back, there are no reports on Iron Man at all anymore.)
Peter has settled into his new normal, over a year into his stripper gig, and now on stage at a much nicer, fancier club (that still agreed to keep him off payroll if he gave a bigger cut to the house). It’s a few months since Tony Stark rejoined the living, Peter’s passed his GED but hasn’t sent in any applications, the cash he’s been saving up growing each week and starting to weigh on him.
He hears two familiar laughs one night at the club. One loud, boisterous – not unlike most clientele after a few drinks, but it’s early in the evening, and the club is relatively quiet between sets. The other is more reserved. Unmistakable.
The boy is the loveliest creature Tony has ever seen, his delicate features so faerie-like, his slim hips swaying to the beat of the heavy bass of the song playing in the club Tony has taken as his own, his head thrown back onto the shoulder of his dance partner just behind him, lips parted, throat bared. He can’t be more than nineteen, Tony estimates, the remnants of baby fat still clinging to the boy’s cheeks, eyes wide and bright in the strobing lights.
Tonywants, and he willhave - one way or another.
He directs a nod to his bodyguard, and Bucky lifts an eyebrow, but moves forward nonetheless, toward the beautiful boy in the center of the dance floor, a path being made for the assassin-turned-soldier-turned-personal-security. When Bucky reaches him, Tony sees the kid tilt his head at the former soldier, watches him move from his previous dance partner when Bucky quirks a finger and attempt to wrap his arms around Bucky’s neck; one hand captures both dainty wrists, presses them to a strong chest as Tony’s observes, Bucky leaning down to murmur a few words into the boy’s ear, then nodding over at Tony as he pulls back, urging the kid to walk with him to the private booth.
(Tony is delighted at how easily the boy obeys, how trustingly he follows Bucky to Tony, no struggles or protests or screams; he’s too beautiful for Tony to bruise for disobedience - perhaps he won’t have to.)
Bucky’s hand (the flesh one, Tony notes) is still gripping one tiny wrist, so small that the Brooklyn man’s thumb and middle finger overlap just a bit. (Tony’s cock twitches at the sight, at the thought of pinning those little wrists above the boy’s head as Tony fucks into that gorgeous body hard enough to break him.) Bucky gestures for the boy to slide into the booth, slowly releasing his grip, then steps back, just outside of their line of sight, giving the illusion of privacy.
“I’m Peter.” The boy’s - Peter’s - voice is soft, breathy, as lovely as the rest of him. Straight, white teeth nibble at a full bottom lip, careful enough not to ruin the rosy shade of color painted onto it, as he continues, “You’re, um- You’re Tony Stark.” It isn’t surprising in the least that the boy knows who Tony is; after all, Tony owns three quarters of the city, including the club they’re sitting in.
Tony offers a sharp smile, taking a sip of his scotch, relishing in the burn of the liquor as it settles into his belly, warm and light. ”Smart boy,” he praises, watching a warm flush of pleasure creep over Peter’s face and - oh. Now that the boy is close, now that the black lights and strobes and the distance are non-factors, Tony sees his eyes, honey and caramel and whiskey swirled in two pools of innocence and curiosity.
(Tony wants to ruin that innocence, indulge that curiosity, keep him filthy and needy in Tony’s bed until he grows tired of the novelty of such a sweet thing.)
Peter, cheeks pink, looks back in the direction he and Bucky had come, a little nervously, but not as if he’s prepared to bolt away, frightened as a rabbit.
(Trusting and beautiful and possessing almost no sense of self-preservation. Just Tony’s type.)
Taking another draft of his drink, Tony reaches out, grips Peter’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, putting his attention back on Tony where it belongs. “Looking for your boyfriend?” he asks lightly, swirling the amber liquor in its glass.
Peter giggles, a tinkling sound heard even over the bass of the music, high and sweet. “Harry isn’t my boyfriend.”
Smile still sharp, Tony lifts an eyebrow. “A friend, then?” He allows his thumb to slip up, to nudge just under the swell of Peter’s lower lip, avoiding smudging the makeup there.
“He wanted a dance to buy me a drink,” the boy tells him, and soft eyes lined with kohl, dotted with small, pink jewels at the corners, widen just a smidgen, landing on the glass in Tony’s opposite hand.
Tony hums and the smile shifts into a smirk. “Here, sweetheart,” he says, lifting his glass, nudging it against the other’s mouth while he releases the boy’s chin. “You can have mine.” Those plump lips part (Tony imagines them opening for his cock, a rosy ring sliding down his length until the boy gags, tries to pull away until Tony forces him back down, shoving himself to the back of that warm throat, saliva dripping uncontrollably from the corners of that beautiful mouth) as Tony tips the drink back, Peter taking a too-large swallow and coughing, making Tony shift in his seat. There’s an imprint of his bottom lip on Tony’s glass that pleases Tony unreasonably.
Peter’s eyes are watering when he looks back up at Tony (and, oh, the images that pulls to the forefront of Tony’s mind), but he’s licking his lips, sniffling as he tries to decide whether he likes the taste or not. After a few moments, he must come to the conclusion that he does because he shuffles closer to Tony on the bench seat and looks up with those eyes (doe eyes, Tony thinks - his own personal Bambi) and asks so sweetly, “May I have some more, please?”
(Yes, Tony will have fun with this one.)
