#starker fic
AU! where Peter has a twin-brother Tom
ⅅ Ꭿ Ꮢ Ꮶ! Peter Parker x Tony Stark
He smokes cigarettes, wears leather jackets, climbs the walls, and when aunt May doesn’t see him, he paints his lips with red lipstick.
He is on the covers of “Forbes”, wears suits which were made by his order, saves the world in the costume of an alloy of gold and titanium, and his mind is considered the most brilliant in America.
It seemed that these two aren’t alike at all, but they have one goal — to save the world and to save each other from themselves.
Post link
Mob boss!Tony x Escort!Peter
Part 2 || Part 1 is here ||ao3 link
The weeks after the gala were weirdly uneventful– now, it’s not like Peter didn’t enjoy his free time but it was unusual that his weekends weren’t jam packed with bookings during late autumn; when the last of leaves were yet to drop but the temperature had already dipped a full 5 degrees. If not individual clients looking for intimate company, then Peter was definitely hired as a plus one for high profile parties, which were needlessly trendy during this time of the year.
And this left a pit of heavy coal in his stomach. Something wasn’t clicking.
But fortunately (or unfortunately, however you see it), before Peter could go through another downward spiral while looking at his empty fridge, Quentin, his outlandish but brisk ‘manager’ called.
“Hello?” Peter answered, unsure. Quentin does not make a habit to call him personally any longer, it’s always one of his minions at work.
“Parker,” Quentin barked into the cell and Peter could imagine the man’s round, wicked eyes. As a teenager, the first time he met Quentin had been almost disastrous– he objectively knew the man was handsome but the way he had cornered Peter on the busy subway to Manhattan, without an ounce of shame as the other passengers averted their gaze, left a bad taste within his throat. Peter knew, understood it deeply like a freshwater fish, that the man was dangerous, especially when angry. He had physical proof for that statement. “Get your ass ready, don’t over-dress. Don’t under-dress. No formals."
"Sir?” Peter queried.
“Pick up at 6, sharp. You listen to him and do everything he wants. If you still wish to live."
Just as carelessly, the call ended.
Peter’s gut fell through the floor but there was nothing he could do about it now. He was lying bare on the floors of his tiny Queens apartment, the fridge whirring loudly as if it were demanding to get filled, the kitchen tap leaked water and each splash against the sink felt like a precipice into something deeper, darker. He took stock of everything, every little movement in order to keep breathing.
This will be okay.
He’ll survive.
Peter doesn’t know what type of man (or woman) he will be meeting today. There’s a fair chance that it can be a group of people. But the way Quentin had worded the ultimatum, curt without his usual charm, without a second for Peter to decline, with a demand that Peter was sure he couldn’t safely decline if he valued his meagre existence.
He shivered against the cold floors, a niggling thought in the forefront of his mind: the piercing, heady eyes of New York’s most dangerous man, behind purple tinted sun-glasses.
Surely,
Surely it can’t be Anthony Stark?
