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.
Oh, shit. Oh fuck no. Nononono.
This can't be.
"What is it?" Peter repeats, and Tony feels the couch dip beneath him, as though the floor's about to fall under it.
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.
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.
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.'
This was originally posted on my tumblr, but some of you guys suggested posting it here. More porn awaits, and I look forward to your kudos and comments!
Chapter 2: My sin, my soul
This scene was heavily inspired by Lolita, so if it seems familiar that's why. Please approach at your own caution!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
"Peter," he says. "I need to talk to you about something."
The boy tilts his head curiously at him. He's sprawled stomach-flat all over the floor, long sleeves bunching around his elbows, chin propped delicately over his knuckles. Tony's fingers twitch with the overwhelming urge to take a picture of such a precious moment; but then again, every moment with Peter leaves him breathless and in awe of how gorgeous the boy is. "What about?"
Focus, Tony. "It's- it's something important."
"Is it why you've been so distant these past weeks?"
At Tony's mildly concealed look of surprise, Peter rolls his eyes, huffing as he twists his torso, swinging both legs up in the air. They sway back and forth, languidly slow. "Oh come on, I would have to be blind to not notice. I'm not stupid."
"I'm sorry," Tony starts to apologize sincerely, looking down at the boy's stretched, lazed position on the floor. "It's just... this is something serious, Peter. I was just trying to figure out the best way. To approach, this. New development-" Sometime during his speech his words trail off, as Tony starts paying attention to Peter's movements; the way he delicately arches his back like a dancer, Tony's reminded that the teen's dressed in nothing but cotton sleep shorts, a faded blue sweater-- so loose it slips dangerously low to expose sharp jutting collarbones-- and nothing else. Miles of porcelain smooth skin exposed, the lower half of the boy's body completely bare; and Tony is willing to bet down to his last dollar that it's deliberate.
He can't find it in himself to care.
Honey sweet eyes fixated on him, Peter pulls himself into a kneeling position. Tony's breath hitches. He tries, oh he tries... but his gaze refuses to tear away as he watches the coy little thing crawl over to him slowly on hands and knees, hips swaying high in the air, shoulders dipping with every fluid moment. Peter comes to a stop at his feet, softly blinking up at him. Long lashes flutter against his cheekbones.
"Peter..." it comes out strangled; Tony already wrecked at that mere perverse display. "Behave."
"Tell me," the kid murmurs, shifting to sit comfortably on the floor. He obeys, and somehow this makes it so much worse, the way he submits so easily. "Why're you so tense? What's the big problem?"
"It's about your parents," Tony breathes, hoping that the subject would settle Peter; it's a little cruel but it seems to work, the boy drawing his legs up to his chest. "Your mom, specifically."
Glassy eyes peer up at him. Arms hugging his knees tighter to himself, Peter looks smaller than ever-- the much too long sleeves of his sweater pooling down and bunching around his wrists. Tony feels a dark shudder run up his spine, hot and tingly. He forces himself to continue.
"I think... I knew. Your mother." It's so difficult to meet Peter's eyes; Tony doesn't know where else to look. He focuses on the papers on his lap instead. "I recognised her from the picture you showed me at your apartment."
A flicker of something unreadable flashes in Peter's eyes. "You said something looked familiar. Was it-?"
"Yes," Tony takes in a deep, shuddering breath. "I met her many years ago. At some... uh. Event."
It was more of a cocktail party, as a matter of fact. As usual he had way too much to drink, and as usual while completely inebriated he does regrettable things. In this case it's a woman with auburn hair and sharp hazel eyes, breath reeking of alcohol. Her name was Mary Parker, according to the guest list.
Out with it already. The tips of his ears burning with mortification, Tony mutters, "There's no easy way to say this, kid-- I slept with her. Your mom, that is. We were both under the heavy influence of alcohol-"
"You mean you guys were drunk as fuck," Peter interpreted; his voice flat, toneless, no more emotion than one of a computer's. It's disturbing, and it makes Tony want to tear his hair out trying to deduce what the boy's emotions on this subject are; God knows it's shaking Tony's whole world at the moment. Here he is, going near hysterical at the heavy implication of what he's saying, and Peter's still lounging on the floor, elbows flat and shoulders relaxed, stretching his long coltish legs out in front of him, feet flexed almost lazily in the air.
"Don't you understand? I-- we- you might be..." Oh god, Tony doesn't even want to finish the sentence, eyes squeezed shut as he drops his heavy head into his hands, wrecked with disbelief at the mere notion of it. But that's the thing, is that it's only a possibility, isn't it? Because it could all be a massive scary coincidence that all lead to nothing, couldn't it? So what if he slept with her that night. It doesn't have to mean anything; at most just the awkward realisation that 'oh by the way, my dick has been in your mom as well.'
That is, until Tony got that DNA test done.
Something brushes against his leg, the touch soft like a passing afterthought through the rough fabric of his jeans. Tony's eyes flicker open to stare down at Peter, who's now inched closer towards his chair- has he been moving forward all this time?- and that his left leg's stretched in a delicate arch. Peter blinks up at him through a tangled mess of lashes. His bare foot runs slow up and down Tony's calf; eyes are hooded at half-mast.
Tony forgets how to breathe.
Not deterred by his lack of response, Peter shifts closer, hips arching up a little to stretch his lower limbs out further. His legs slip upwards to settle on the older man's thighs in one fluid movement, feet bracketing Tony's steadily growing bulge, now straining against the crotch of his jeans; the whole time never averting his eyes- dark with intent- from Tony's own. They stare at each other, both not daring to breathe; the air between them thick with electrifying tension-- as though waiting for the other to make a move.
Hesitantly slow, Tony reaches with trembling fingers to touch the baby-soft skin of the boy's foot, brushing against the slight bony ridges to grasp at his heel, a thumb running slow over the protruding ankle bone there. The palm of his hand dancing feather light over Peter's heel, Tony guides his foot away to the side, spreading those long coltish legs further apart on his own thighs.
"Sweetheart," the endearment falls from his lips before he can stop himself. "Peter, we can't. We can't."
His words trail off into silence, Peter only emitting a little hum in response. Licking his lips exquisitely slow, the boy sucks a plump bottom lip between his teeth-- it comes away wet with spit, bruised with white indents from how hard he's bit it. Tony makes the sound of a dying man.
God forgive him, he yearns to give into his burning temptation of sinking his own canines into those plush lips, so pink and soft and perfect... oh he yearns to kiss his son's pretty little mouth, swallow the delightful sounds he always makes.
Peter, always so bright, so mature for his years, ends up speaking the words Tony himself doesn't dare say. "You're my father, aren't you?"
Heart beating against his ribcage hard and fast, breaths falling short, Tony nods.
"It'll be okay," Peter mumbles. His feet sway closer again, dancer's toes pointed towards his dad's navel and brushing against the rough zipper of his jeans, running over the rock-hard bulge of Tony's cock. Because Christ, Tony is so fucking hard, arousal pooling deep in his belly and lighting every vein in his body on fire, the crotch of his jeans uncomfortably tight to the point of being unbearable. "Relax. Let me help you."
All the fight drains from his body. Glassy eyes blink up at him as he grips Peter's small, dainty toes to drag the heel of his foot rough across the thick, prominent length of his cock; hips gyrating to seek out friction. When Tony finally speaks again his voice is low and dark, hoarse. "I- did the DNA test. You're mine, Peter. There's no doubt about it."
"I don't care."
"It's wrong. It's so fucking wrong, you... we, we're related by blood--"
"It doesn't matter." His little chin quivers, jaw set with childish determination; Tony can finally see the glittering unshed tears in Peter's almond-shaped eyes. "I don't care," He repeats.
"I'm your father," Tony says weakly.
Honey-syrup eyes shine up at him. "I love you, daddy."
It's like a dam breaks, and with a dark torrent of power, the tightness in Tony's chest unravels; he lunges forward, the chair screeching back as he covers Peter bodily, arms resting on neither side of his angelic face as he kisses him filthy and wet. The boy's mouth falls open in a rush of gasps and whimpers, lips parting to allow his dad's tongue inside, devour him hungrily. His ankles lock behind Tony's waist, drawing their hips closer; grinding against each other rough and desperate, through the too many layer of clothes. Tony ruts against his young son's inner thigh, driven wild with lust, animalistic grunts falling from his lips that Peter answers with soft mewls in return. Somewhere during all this their eyes meet once again-- father's eyes dark and predatory, child's one hooded pretty.
"Fuck me, daddy. Make me yours," Peter whispers. "Fill me up good, please dad."
And Tony does.
I'm finishing chapter 3 of this, in the meantime if you're unaware there's loads more of these stuff on my tumblr @im-a-goner--foryou!
Chapter 3: Daddy's boy
Just realised I haven't posted this part on here yet, so here is a little filler before I write the next chapter <3 hope you guys enjoy
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
The hotel lobby is extravagantly refined, classy and lavishly designed; the stock picture of high-end luxury, the kind Peter never fails to be captivated by. One would think that after being Tony Stark's 'young lover' for a solid year now he would get used to the constant exposure to upper-class lifestyle already-- and yet the older man is endlessly pampering him with new experiences almost everyday. Peter is an equal mix of wide-eyed amazement and hesitant apprehension as he traipses around the high-ceiling room, admiring the Srawovski crystal chandeliers, the intricate art installation displayed around the lobby, the gold pieces adorning the pillared walls, neck craned in wonder. Tony's watching him amusedly from the front, out of the corner of his eye- Peter is always somehow able to sense when the other man's eyes are on him, which is pretty much every second of the time they spend together- and Peter looks over his shoulder to shoot him a dazzling smile around the dangling lollipop stick in his mouth. At Tony's slight wave of his hand beckoning him over, he skips to the reception desk, having to stand on his tiptoes to lean against the tall counter and rest his elbows on it. Beside him Tony naturedly reaches out an arm to wrap it around his mid-section, steadying him with a gentle squeeze at his waist; Peter leans into his side.
Across the marbled counter, the receptionist peers over mildly at them. "Penthouse Suite for Mr Stark?" At Tony's hum of confirmation, she glances back at the screen in front of her, delicately manicured fingers tapping at the keys. She blinks at the displayed information, then glances up again. "One King bed?"
"Yes," Tony affirms, drumming his fingers against the surface of the countertop-- God, Peter absolutely adores those thick calloused fingers of his; he can almost taste the salty sweetness of skin on his tongue if he imagines hard enough. The lady examines first Tony, then him, then the older man again. Her eyes flicker with something unreadable, then flashes with sudden recognition. With a quick nod, she reaches into a drawer to retrieve a silver keycard, sliding it across the table.
Smiling stiffly and in one deft motion, Tony plucks the card away and palms it, moving to slip it into the breast pocket of his suit-- if Peter had not lashed out in a quick flash of movement to snatch the small object away; at least, that's what he intended to do. Tony, seeming to have anticipated something of the sort from the young boy at his side, swings the card just out of arm's reach at the last second. Curse those fast reflexes, Peter thinks. He pouts petulantly, glaring up at Tony and sure that he looks all but intimidating in a baby blue flannel and standing level to the man's broad shoulders.
A soft chuckle tears his attention away; aross the counter, the lady smiles fondly at them. "Quite the feisty teen you've got there, Mr Stark."
"Oh?" Tony says, just as Peter hollows his cheeks around the hard candy occupying his mouth, rolling it wetly on his tongue before pulling the white stick out with a sloppy 'pop' from between his lips. The red lollipop glistens sticky with syrup and his spit under the warm glow of the lights overhead, and Peter rolls the stick languidly between his fingers. He blinks at the receptionist, who beams down at him with the same tolerant smile one receives after the pedriatrists as they offer you a sticker for being such a good boy. She can't be serious.
At the blank absence of response from him, she turns back to Tony. "This a father-son kind of night for both of you, then?"
Peter chokes none too subtly on his spit, and it echoes around the lobby before blending in with the soft lilting notes of piano music playing in the background. Never faltering a beat, Tony gives him a quick pat on the back, palm heavy and warm against his skin.
"Oh, yes," he replies for the both of them, sounding much too composed in this situation, considering the fact that Peter's still hacking up artificially sweetened syrup from his lungs. Tony's warm, chocolate eyes twinkle behind his red-gold aviator sunglasses-- only he catches it. "It's been lovely, just us two having our fun."
The hand on the small of his back slips downward to actually fucking grope at his ass, right in the lobby of this luxury hotel. Peter feels his mouth go a little slack as he swallows dryly, rearranging the features on his face to something more presentable.
"Your son's an absolute sweetheart," the lady smiles down at Peter, and he has to resist the urge to scream 'I'm sixteen, not six'; if Tony had not picked this exact moment to squeeze the soft globe of him with calloused palms, massaging the roundness of his ass through his skinny jeans-- which, Peter realises in dawning anguish, is quite possibly the worst thing to have a public boner in.
"What do you say to the nice lady?" Tony urges sweetly, nudging his side, and Peter is seconds away from either killing the man or jumping his bones at this reception desk. Possibly both. He stares a little vacantly ahead, clenching his fists so tight his fingernails bite into his palms, and decides not to think about just how fucked up this situation is-- but the man beside him is making it extremely difficult, as a thick finger is currently snaking down the cleft of his bottom to nudge against the base of the smooth red gold plug buried deep in his ass right now, and also because the receptionist isn't wrong at all-- because Tony is his boyfriend-sugar daddy-lover but most of all his actual biological father.
"Peter," the older man's voice is a low warning growl, only audible to his ears; he took too long to answer.
"...Tha, thank you," Peter gasps, much too aware of how breathy his response is, close to a whimper. Away from the lady's questioning eyes Tony presses his thumb insistently on the flared base of the plug, circling it with his knuckles and jostling the rounded tip to nudge against Peter's quivering sensitive walls. He makes a quiet, high sound of mortification, hurriedly shoving his lollipop back into his mouth as a sort of makeshift gag; and just in time as well, Tony shifting to stand behind him in the pretense of clutching his shoulders when below the counter he's rolling his hips in one fluid movement, grinding the clothed rock-hard erection in his slacks into the cleft of his ass. The plug slides in deeper, and then oh, oh the tip is touching his prostate, massaging that sweet little spot in him with every dirty roll of Tony's hips. And suddenly Peter can control himself no longer, this is just so wrong and so dirty it's so fucking hot, and a desperate, needy cry escapes his parted lips.
"Daddy-- d, dad, ah, oh, ohmygod," he keens, blushing so hard it feels as though his cheeks are on fire along with every single nerve in his body, sick pleasure pumping in his veins as he rocks back into Tony, into his daddy. He's drooling around the lollipop stick, Peter realises, feeling the telling pinprick of humiliated tears forming in his eyes; gripping the edge of the counter painfully tight now as the receptionist regards him with an alarmed expression, looking half-horrified.
"It's alright, baby," Tony soothes behind him, gentle and fatherly, slipping into the role of a concerned parent all too well, Peter thinks with a dark shudder that doesn't stop the tightening of the crotch of his jeans-- he feels so sticky, dripping wet already. "What's wrong, are you not feeling well?"
Stepping back, Peter has no time to mourn the loss of Tony's chest pressed against his back until his father is draping an arm around his shoulder in the guise of steadying him, guiding the both of them away from the reception desk towards the elevators. "You'll be alright," his dad promises, voice laced with unmistakable dark lust, "I'll take care of you, my baby boy."
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