Summary:Suffering from amnesia that eradicated all memories of his past, Peter is forced to learn to survive underground in a nuclear shelter with a cranky man after waking up in a post-apocalyptic world. The teenager will soon realize that the hardest thing to surmount is neither the end of the world, nor the loss of memory, but cohabitation.
Were they really worthy of being humanity’s last hope?
Mob Boss Tony sparing his rival’s spouse, Peter, because he discovers that the kid is pregnant. He can’t kill a pregnant omega. He can’t.
He’ll wait.
Though, he didn’t expect to fall in love with the chained brat hidden in his basement.
i need this so much.
Tony would not only fall in love with the brat chained in his basement, but also with the unborn child
And Peter would do anything do protect himself and the baby, including acting in love
So like… who’s writing this? Please i need to be tagged.
OMG, @longlivestarker, this is what I had considered writing if I ever had to make a whole story about it (I might just do it, this plot sounds so good).
In the beginning, Tony would lock Peter in the basement of the mansion he shares with the men and women of his gang with the firm intention of killing him as soon as he gave birth. The child would be given to a shelter, and no baby would be killed by his hands or his orders.
That was the original plan.
He made sure for many weeks and months to personally care for the omega in his basement. Bringing him food, water, clothes… He never hid his intentions from his captive. Peter knew what was waiting for him at the end of his pregnancy.
“Eat.” Tony would ask in the second week as the boy embarked on a hunger strike.
“I won’t let you keep me alive like a pig doomed to slaughter. I want to choose my death.”
“You’re going to kill this baby if you don’t eat.”
“Don’t you dare call me a criminal. You’re the one with the gun.”
With this, Peter spat in the alpha’s face. Tony waited for a moment, silently, then straightened up, wiping the saliva that soiled him before rolling up the sleeves on his forearms.
“I think it’’ll be just fine as long as I don’t hit the belly, right?”
.
Months later, long, long conversations later, as Tony walked down the steps with a lunch tray, he immediately smelled the distress pheromones. He didn’t miss the heavy beads of sweat on Peter’s forehead as he squirmed in the corner of the room, struggling to look normal, pain written all over his face.
“Pete, you…”
“I’m fine.” he huffed.
“Oh my god…”
“I’m fucking fine.” Peter exclaimed louder.
“You’re giving birth.”
Tony would feel his heart stop as tears would roll down Peter’s cheeks.
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?”
