Peter rushes by as fast as he can, not looking up from the floor. His dad is the last—almost the last—person he wants to see right now. Or that he wants to see him.
But his luck is just as shitty as usual, so of course Tony’s sitting in the living room when he gets home. He probably wasn’t actually waiting up—after all, Peter’s home way too early—but he was still there, and Peter’s one hundred percent sure Tony noticed him crying. He always notices stuff like that.
He flings himself onto the bed and curls up and hides his face, and hopes he can hide his sobs too. He wants to just disappear.
“Kiddo? What’s wrong?”
Peter shakes his head, even though he knows his dad can’t see it. He sniffs. “Nothing,” he tries, but it comes out all wavery.
There’s a sigh. “Alright,” Tony says. “Fifteen, okay? And then we’re talking. Or I’m talking. Whichever,” and Peter hears his footsteps move away from the door.
Fifteen minutes to hide and cry alone before his dad comes back and tries to help sort things out; that’s their rule. They can both have some time to themselves to freak out, but no isolating. No hiding things for too long.
It’s not a bad rule, and most of the time it works out okay. Fifteen minutes, or twenty, or even thirty is almost always enough for Peter to calm down and actually want Tony to hug him and listen to him and say everything will be alright. But this time… it doesn’t matter if Tony waits fifteen days; Peter’s still going to feel just as horrible and awful and disgusting and broken and—
He curls up tighter and cries harder and doesn’t even notice when time’s up and his dad is already sitting next to him on the bed.
“What happened?” Tony asks softly, his hand coming to rest on Peter’s head. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
Peter shakes his head and tries to swallow back his tears. It doesn’t really work. He knows what’ll happen; Dad will try to fix things, because that’s what he does, and he can’t fix this. Nothing is ever going to fix Peter.
Tony’s quiet, waiting him out, gently stroking his hair. He’s never patient unless Peter doesn’t want him to be; it’s so unfair.
“It’s just,” Peter finally manages, “it’s— it’s my stupid, horrible body and I hate it so much, and I’m never— no one is ever going to want me and I’m broken and—” He hears Tony start to say something and just barrels on because he’s about to start crying again and won’t be able to say anything. “I’m so pathetic and it’s never going to be right, I’m never going to feel right or look right or be a real man and it’s horrible and I hate it, I hate it so much, I hate—”
He chokes on his words and can’t say anything more but it doesn’t matter. What else is there to say?
“Whoa,” Tony says, his hand going still. “What? Peter, that’s— you’re not pathetic, kid. Someone is going to want you, I promise. A lot of people are, you know, I don’t know why anyone wouldn’t. And of course you’re a real man, what— who’s been telling you this shit?”
He’s got a hand around Peter’s wrist then, tugging his hands away and Peter shakes his head again, curling forward more until he can hide his face against his dad’s thigh instead. Of course Tony would say that; he has to.
“There is nothing broken about you,” Tony says sharply. “Not a single thing, Peter. Seriously, did someone actually say that to you?” He pauses; “Did Darren tell you that?”
Peter’s not going to answer that, because he doesn’t want to think about the look on Darren’s face when he’d said— when he’d gotten up and looked at Peter and—
“That fucking asshole,” Tony says, and Peter twitches. “I hope you punched him in the face. Or the balls. Or both.”
Peter can’t help the weak, gasping laugh that comes out of him. Of course that’s where his dad’s mind would go. Darren said something awful, so he’s trash in Tony’s eyes. And— and he is trash and Peter shouldn’t care what he said, but it still hurts, it still makes him feel sick and small inside.
“No,” Peter says, muffled against the bed. “I broke up with him.”
Tony’s hand smoothes down his neck to his shoulder, squeezing it. “Good riddance,” Tony says, his voice dark, angry. “I mean. I’m sorry, baby. I am, I know that has to feel terrible. But you’re going to be so much better off without him; he didn’t deserve you for a second.”
Peter’s quiet, blinking into the dark space between his dad’s leg and the bed. Sniffs hard; he doesn’t really want to get snot all over his dad’s pants. Darren didn’t deserve him, and Peter’s going to keep telling himself that over and over, in hopes that maybe one day it’ll start to feel true. And Darren was wrong about some things—about a lot of things—but. But not everything.
“He was right, though,” Peter whispers, and he can feel his dad tense. “I am broken.”
“No,” Tony says. “No, you’re not. Nothing about you is broken, kiddo. Not one single thing. Darren doesn’t know anything and you don’t need to listen to anything that came out of his mouth. Why would you believe him, huh?” He rubs Peter’s shoulder, and his dad— his dad is amazing and loves him so much, but he doesn’t get it.
“What on earth would make you think you’re broken?” Tony says.
He doesn’t want to say, doesn’t want his dad to know, to think he’s broken too. It’s not— he tells Tony everything, everything, but it’s still… embarrassing. It’s still awful.
Maybe he should, though. Maybe he should just, get it over with. It isn’t going away and he doesn’t think it’s ever going to at this point.
“I can’t—” he says, and stops. Hugs himself a little tighter. “I— I can’t. I can’t come,” he whispers.
There’s a long, awful moment of silence. “Oh, baby,” Tony says, finally, oh so gentle, like he’s trying to soften the blow. “Peter, no. That doesn’t make you broken. It doesn’t mean anything that you couldn’t come with him. Fuck, considering how he acted? I bet he was terrible in bed too. No wonder you couldn’t.”
“No,” Peter says, “no, Dad. It’s— I can’t. I couldn’t with MJ either, or Flash, or Marcus. I can’t do it right with anyone.”
He can hear the breath Tony takes, and then Tony’s hand is in his hair again, petting him. “That still doesn’t make you broken,” he says. “Seriously, Peter. Tons of people have a harder time coming with someone else a lot of the time. You don’t have to be ashamed of that and it’s not your fault, okay?”
“See,” he adds, lighter, like he’s trying to make a joke, “this is the problem when neither person has a lot of experience. You don’t feel like you know how to fix it, and they don’t either, but it can be. If there’s just something really specific that works for you, you might have to sort of… direct them a little more. You know, tell them how to do whatever it is that works when you’re alone.”
Peter’s heart sinks. For a moment, for a really long moment, he thought— he actually thought that maybe his dad was right. Maybe he was overreacting and things would be okay. ‘Cause Tony knows stuff, so he’d know what’s wrong, right?
But what’s wrong is Peter.
He bites his lip and tries not to start crying again. He just needs to get his dad out of the room, make him think Peter’s okay now. He needs to say— to say something, to—
“Peter?” Tony says. Hesitates. “Uh. You— you have come by yourself, right? At least once?”
Peter opens his mouth; tries to say sure, or of course, and just. Can’t.
“...oh,” Tony says, barely a breath.
“See?” Peter tells him. “I told you. I told you, Dad. And now— even you think I’m broken because I can’t.”
“I don’t,” his dad says. “God Peter, I don’t think that for even a second.” He sighs. “Sometimes it’s just… harder for people. I know the way everyone talks about it, and— porn and such, that all makes it sound so easy, but it isn’t always true. It doesn’t make you broken.”
“But I want to,” Peter whispers.
His dad pets his hair some more, silent.
“Have—” Tony says after a bit, and then cuts himself off. “Sorry, nevermind.”
“It’s none of my business.”
Peter tilts his head back a bit, enough to barely see his dad’s face. “What isn’t?”
Tony looks down at him, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “I was just going to ask, uh, if you’d… tried a couple things.”
“Oh,” Peter says, and he can feel his face getting hotter. But— “Um. Like what?”
“If you were having trouble before you were, well, with someone else,” his dad says, “and then that didn’t go as you hoped, it’d be pretty easy to get psyched out enough to make it even harder. And if any of them—” Tony’s jaw tightens. “If anyone was an asshole about it, that just made it worse, didn’t it.”
Peter swallows. Thinks of the first time he hadn’t— and MJ— she hadn’t been upset and angry or anything, but she’d been… worried. Had thought it was something she did wrong and Peter just didn’t know how to tell her it was all him. “Yeah,” he whispers.
“But by yourself, there’s a little less to worry about?” Tony says. “So. Look, kid, if I say something really obvious it’s not because I think you’re stupid, okay? You know I don’t. I’m just throwing out ideas.”
“You ever try porn? I mean, porn that you actually like, not just something random off the internet.”
Peter barely keeps from rolling his eyes. Of course he’s tried porn. “Yeah, Dad,” he says. “But. Uh, there’s not a lot that’s really. That’s with people like me.”
Tony rubs his thumb over Peter’s temple, gently. “I getcha,” he says. “I’m sorry, baby.” He’s quiet a moment. “You’re probably going to laugh,” he says, “but are you really turned on when you try? Not sort of in the mood or thinking about it, but incredibly turned on? Already wet— uh. Do you? Get wet enough, I mean.”
Oh god, this really is embarrassing, but— Peter darts a glance up; his dad isn’t quite looking at him, and his cheeks are a little red too. He’d thought it before, hadn’t he. Give his dad a problem and he immediately starts trying to solve it.
“I get wet,” Peter mutters. “Uh. I get. Really wet. I don’t think that’s a problem. And I think I’m really turned on? It feels like it, like I just want to— uh.”
“So you get close?” his dad asks, and he looks like he’s completely lost in thought. Peter nods against his thigh. “Is it easier to get close when you’re touching your cock?”
“Easier than what?”
“Uh— than when you’re with someone?” Tony says. “You doing it yourself versus them doing it.”
He doesn’t really know how to tell his dad that he just… doesn’t, a whole lot. Not by himself, because he already knows how it’s going to end and it’s not worth it. “I guess,” he mutters.
“What about penetration?” his dad says, and it’s super not hot put that way. And not something Peter likes to think about anyway. “Compared to a handjob, say. Better, worse, or about the same?”
Peter bursts into giggles. “Sorry,” he manages when Tony looks down at him, baffled. “It’s— it’s not an eye exam, Dad.”
Tony blinks at him for a second and then starts laughing himself.
“You totally can’t help yourself, can you,” Peter says, relaxing a little. “You see something wrong and have to fix it. I don’t know if me not being able to come is something you can solve, Dad.”
“That’s not what I’m trying to solve, baby,” Tony says. “The thing I really wish I could fix is you being sad.”
Peter closes his eyes, scrunching them tight to try and keep from crying again. Scoots up and wraps his arms around Tony’s waist, clinging. “I really wish you could too,” he says.
They stay like that for a bit, quiet; Peter’s starting to feel tired, worn out from everything. He just wants this day to be over.
“Okay,” Tony says, slowly, “this is… really stepping over a line, I know. But— could I, uh… watch? Just once?”
Peter can’t breathe.
“It’s only to see if I could suggest something,” his dad goes on. “Not saying you’re doing anything wrong! But I have… a lot of experience, so. Uh. Peter?”
Seriously, Peter can’t breathe, or move, or anything. Can’t believe what he’s hearing. His dad would actually— would want to? What?
“Shit,” Tony mutters. “Shit, god Peter, I’m sorry. I knew that was too much, I did. I didn’t mean to— can we just pretend I never said that?”
“Yes?” Peter says, his heart pounding. “Not, not yes I can pretend that. Um. Yes you can. Can watch.”
His dad makes a weird, strangled noise. “Ah,” he says. “Peter? Are you sure?”
No, he’s totally not sure, but it’s not because it’s his dad. It should be weird, right? But he trusts his dad, completely. It’s the thought of Tony seeing him fail that’s just awful.
Peter nods. He pushes up, away from his dad and ducks his head. “What should I…”
“How would you normally do it?” Tony asks. “I mean. However you’re comfortable, kiddo.”
Peter bites his lip.
It’s super awkward, scooting around and pulling off his pants and trying to find some way to get comfortable, his dad sitting off to the side and sort of not looking at him, sort of staring, these sidelong glances that make Peter feel nervous and weird.
He leaves his shirt on.
His dad doesn’t say anything as Peter rolls over onto his back, hands on his stomach and legs still together, curled to the side. Doesn’t say anything as Peter sucks in a shaky breath and tries to relax even a little. Tries to think about something that will actually turn him on, but it’s really hard to think at all when his dad stands up and moves to the end of the bed, settling on it and looking at Peter over his knees.
He just. He just has to go for it. Right?
It feels so weird as he slides his hand down, barely tucking them under the waist of his boxers. So, so weird, knowing his dad is watching him. He— he’d let MJ watch, once, while he watched her, and it had been… weird then too.
His dad clears his throat, and Peter’s gaze jerks to him. “Uh, baby,” Tony says. Nods at Peter’s hand, fully inside his boxers now. “I don’t have x-ray vision.”
“Oh, uh. Right. Yeah,” Peter says, hooking his thumbs into the waistband and pushing them down. God, he can’t believe he’s doing this, that he’s taking these off in front of his dad, that he’s going to let his dad watch him do… that.
He shoves them over his knees and wiggles, trying to kick them off the rest of the way; his dad catches his foot and holds him still as he tugs them off the rest of the way, and his hand feels like a brand against Peter’s skin.
It’s. It’s a little hot. Maybe he won’t have to try as hard to think of something that’ll turn him on.
He draws his other foot back and it rests on his dad’s knee for a moment before it slips off to the side, Peter’s legs parting around him. Normally, he has his legs spread wide, but— he swallows. He said he’d do this.
It takes everything he has to let his legs relax, spread out and expose himself like that.
His dad makes this sound, this sharp sucked in breath that ends with a hitch; this was a mistake, fuck, this was such a mistake, he can’t— Peter grabs the hem of his shirt and yanks it down, trying to cover himself. Why did he think he could let someone—even someone he trusts as much as his dad—see that?
“Hey,” Tony says, “you don’t have to do that, it’s fine.”
Peter turns his head to the side. “You— you saw it and then you—”
“Oh, baby,” Tony says, his hand coming to rest on Peter’s knee. “I’m sorry, that was just—” He sighs. “You’re really pretty.”
“What?” Peter says, his head jerking back to face his dad. “What? It’s not— you don’t think it’s weird?”
“What?” his dad says, echoing him. “Weird? God, no, why would I? Wait,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Alright, who told you that? Who?”
“I— it, it doesn’t matter,” Peter mumbles. “I know I’m not— it’s not normal, I’m not—”
“You’re gorgeous,” Tony says, and it floods Peter, this hot wave from his toes all the way up to his neck, making his breath catch and his fingers tingle and his dick harden. No one’s ever called him that.
“Peter,” his dad says, low, waiting until Peter looks right at him. “You’re gorgeous.”
He is not going to cry, he is not— he’s not.
It’s a little easier to let go of his shirt, though, to stop trying to completely hide what he looks like down there. A little easier to slide his hand further down until it’s touching his hair, but then he freezes, unable to go any further.
His dad gives him a minute, and then another, his thumb rubbing slowly over the inside of Peter’s knee. “Would it help to close your eyes?” Tony says. “Just pretend I’m not here?”
Like that’s even possible. But— he can try. He closes his eyes and tries really hard not to think about his dad at all, not the slow, even breaths he can hear or the warmth of his dad’s hand or the faint, lingering smell of his cologne.
He still doesn’t really know how to feel when he touches himself, sometimes. Sometimes it’s okay, it just feels good, but other times… other times it makes him feel sick and sad, makes him want to forget everything.
Not this time, though.
He goes slow, just brushing his fingers through his hair at first, barely skimming his skin, back and forth, until he’s almost throbbing, needing to be touched. Even then, he goes slow, tracing his finger around his dick without touching it directly, rubbing small circles just above it, hood pulled back taut. It’s nice. It’s really nice.
He drops his hand further down, curling into the wetness that’s soaking his hair, slick against his skin. Presses his fingers in until they’re surrounded by warmth and wetness and rubbing so gently at that opening. It’s not always something he wants anything to do with, but it still feels good, even when he’s not quite in the mood for it. Something that Darren had a lot to say about.
No. He’s not thinking about that. He’s thinking— he’s thinking about how this feels good, how he wants more, how— how his dad is watching. How Peter almost wants to show off a little, wants him to see everything Peter can do.
“God, Peter,” his dad says softly. “You always tease yourself like this?”
Peter freezes, fingers jerking away from that spot. “Is that bad?”
Tony startles, gaze snapping from Peter’s hand to his face. “What? No. Hell no, it’s really hot. Uh. Just. Don’t know how you have the patience for it. I sure didn’t when I was your age.”
“I mean,” Peter says. “It’s. I know how it’s going to go, you know? How it’s going to end. I’m just going to wind up all frustrated, so I try to really enjoy everything before that more.”
“Right,” Tony says. “Right. Sorry, ah. Carry on?”
Really hot, Peter thinks, turning the words over and over, and closes his eyes. Dips his fingers back into that wetness and pushes, presses them further in, sliding into himself and clenching around them. He hears his dad suck in a breath.
It gets hard to stay slow as he goes on, just like always. There’s always a point where he can’t stop himself from rubbing his dick, the slickness of his fingers feeling so good; he jerks up into that pressure, wanting more. Needing more, and he can’t— he goes faster, harder, everything in his body drawing up tight, waiting to snap.
He can’t, he still can’t; he shoves his fingers into himself, curling them and searching for that spot that makes him feel even closer, like he might actually come. Finds it and whines when he does, hips working desperately to get him there, thumb rubbing across his dick and trying so, so hard to get past that block, get that last little bit so he can just fucking come.
It grows in his throat, this lump of anger and shame and want, this helplessness and he pushes himself harder, rougher, his gasps turning a little wet, willing back tears. He has to, he can’t mess this up again, not in front of his dad.
He sniffs and shakes his head, but it’s too late; the tears trickle down the side of his face as he yanks his hand away, pressing it against his stomach and curling in on himself as much as he can. “See?” he snaps, his other hand rubbing at his eyes, wiping away that dampness. “I told you. I told you. I can’t, Dad. I’m broken. I—”
“You’re not,” his dad says, sharper than before, cutting him off. “It’s just harder for some people.” Peter rubs at his face; why did he agree to this. He knew what was going to happen.
“Look,” Tony says, slower. “Can I… try something? You don’t have to at all, it’s just an idea.”
“Fine,” Peter says, dully. Why not, just another thing for Peter to fail at. “Go ahead.”
He isn’t expecting his dad to move away, shoving himself further down the bed and almost lying down. Peter pushes himself up on his elbows a bit, staring down at him. His dad reaches forward, thumb and forefinger on Peter, spreading him open; fuck, he didn’t think his dad would actually touch him. Would be looking at him so, so close; he closes his eyes.
Only for them to fly open a second later when Tony presses his face against Peter and licks him. Peter sucks in a startled breath, almost a squeak, and jerks, hands clutching at the bed. His dad licks him again, and again, wide warm swipes up the full length of him. Peter whimpers.
Tony lifts his head, looking up at Peter, and there’s wetness on his mouth. “Is this okay, baby?” he says, a little crease between his brows. Peter’s mouth is so dry he can’t say anything; he nods, over and over like he can’t stop.
Still, he manages a breathy holy shit as it goes on; it feels like his dad’s tongue is everywhere, so warm and wet, firm and pointed as it slips between the thin skin of his hood and his dick. Then soft, broad, gentle little licks along the underside of his dick, teasing the skin around it, trailing down lower and turning hard again, thick, slowly pressing into him until Peter’s pushing his hips up against his dad’s face, desperately trying for more.
He whines when Tony pulls away for a moment, almost reaching for him. Tony grins, looking almost smug but Peter doesn’t care at all. “Still okay?” Tony says.
“Oh my god, Dad,” Peter says. “Yeah, yes, so much yes. Fuck, you are so much better at this than anyone else.”
“Seriously, kid,” his dad says. “We’ve got to have a talk about who you go out with. Or sleep with.”
Peter is totally ready to argue, right up until everything gets knocked out of his head by Tony’s tongue pressing right back into him, licking at him and teasing him and god, there’s no comparison at all; he should have known his dad would be amazing at this.
It feels like he comes up to that edge so quickly, that spot he just stays forever without actually going past. He almost wouldn’t mind staying there this time, not if it means his dad keeps doing that with his mouth, keeps his face buried between Peter’s legs like he doesn’t even need to—doesn't even want to—breathe. Peter’s moaning, soft gasping things that aren’t anything like the noises he normally makes, the whines he tries to muffle because they sound too girly.
He wants this, he wants to come just like this, feeling like this; he tenses, pushing himself, struggling to get there. Rocks up against his dad’s face, faster and jerkier, trying so hard. He’s so close, he is, he can make it if he just, just pushes a little more, just—
Tony pulls away again; “No,” Peter moans, “Dad, Dad please.”
“Wait,” Tony says. “Peter, hey. Take a breath and calm down a little,” and no, Peter doesn’t want to do that. “Look, don’t try, okay? Don’t push for it; just relax, lie back and let it come to you instead of chasing after it.”
Peter huffs because he just— he wants it now, he wants it so much. But his dad is looking at him, eyebrows raised. “Fine,” Peter says. “Okay.”
It’s really hard not to try. Really hard. He wants so badly to go for more, to make everything happen faster, but Tony’s slowed down, gone to these soft, delicate licks, flicking his tongue gently over the tip of Peter’s cock, too light to actually get Peter anywhere. Gone to not even licking at all sometimes, just pressing his face in against Peter’s skin, his breath hot and humid, beard almost ticklish as he turns his head back and forth.
Peter takes gasping breath after gasping breath and then— then sucks in one more. Holds it, trying to block out everything except the feel of Tony’s tongue on him, and lets it out, slow, trying to relax as it leaves his lungs. He settles, legs spreading wider as they go limp; his hand slides into his dad’s hair, barely touching it. This feels… different.
It still builds, though, just like every other time he’s tried, still reaching up and up and up for this thing wants so badly and can’t have. He rocks against his dad’s mouth, slow and almost lazy, every other breath a moan.
Tony wraps his lips around Peter’s dick, pushing back the hood and sucking lightly, his tongue pressed up along the underside and rubbing, back and forth, each time a slight variation. It feels amazing, like sparks across his skin; his hand tightens in Tony’s hair, pressing him closer.
Everything is still building, is going beyond where he usually plateaus; not tipping over, not leveling out, but growing, more and more, Peter panting harshly and starting to squirm, fingers clenched in his dad’s hair. He’s not trying for anything, just waiting and waiting, feeling it build endlessly. There’s a— a spark, a sharp almost pain that feels deeper inside him than where Tony is actually touching him, something that makes his breath catch again and again, until Peter feels lightheaded, the tension in his body ratcheting up bit by bit.
“Dad,” he gasps, the word barely forming. “Dad, Dad—” and this is different, this is almost unbearable, the way it’s building and pushing him up and— and over, oh god, fuck—
There’s this long, unbelievably long moment of nothing, of complete, utter stillness and silence and breathlessness, where Peter feels pulled so tight in every possible direction he can’t do anything except dig his fingers in harder, and then it snaps. Crests and sends him falling, clinging to the bed and Tony and arching up so hard he thinks his spine must be about to break, and then crests again and again, his body jerking with each catch and fall, over and over. He’s panting, unable to get in even half a breath, head throbbing and heart pounding away, drowning out every other sound.
And then, almost as quickly as it snapped, it stops. He collapses, everything feeling a little numb and heavy and not quite connected to him, his hips still twitching slightly as he can feel himself still clenching inside. He stretches out his hands, fingers stiff, and realizes with a horrible start that he’s still shoving his dad’s face into his crotch.
He jerks his hand away only for it to fall limply to the side. He doesn’t feel like the rest of him could move either, his head still titled back, staring at the ceiling wide eyed. “Holy shit,” he whispers.
His dad laughs, soft breaths ghosting across Peter’s dick; he shudders. Okay, he thinks, okay, yeah, he gets it now. He gets why people want that, why they’d do crazy things just to feel that way, fuck. He knew, but now he knows.
“Good?” Tony says quietly, his chin resting on Peter’s thigh. Somehow, Peter manages to turn his head enough that he can see him.
“Yes,” Peter says. “So, so good. I can’t even— Dad, I— fuck.”
Tony smiles at him, something between smug and fond, wholly self pleased. “See?” he says. “Not broken, baby.”
Peter can feel tears prickling at his eyes. “Dad,” he says, trying to blink them away before they can fall, “Dad, thank you. I didn’t know— thank you.”
“Oh, kiddo,” his dad says, even softer. “You don’t have to thank me for anything. Trust me, it was my pleasure.”
Peter stares at him, his eyes wide and wet and god, Tony hopes he isn’t going to cry, that’s the last thing he wants. But Peter just closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the bed with a thump, his breathing calmer, if still shaky.
Tony pushes up a bit, resting on his elbows as he watches Peter. He’s so relieved; sure, he’d been almost completely sure this would work, but if it hadn’t— if it hadn’t, Peter still wouldn’t have been broken, but Tony doesn’t know if he’d have been able to convince Peter of that. God, it’s awful that Peter thought that at all, that he believed it for even a second.
He knows why, and he knows it doesn’t matter what he thinks, in the end. It doesn’t matter what Tony says, doesn’t matter how easily he accepted it when Peter had haltingly told him he didn’t feel right in his body, doesn’t matter that he practiced Peter and he and my son until they were as automatic and unthinking as the opposite ever was. At least he’s not making things worse, but it doesn’t matter compared to how Peter feels.
And he knows Peter still hates his body most of the time.
It’s… been better over the last year, since Peter started transitioning, but he can still see it, the hesitation, the nervousness when they’re out or somewhere new, the way Peter will catch sight of himself in a mirror or window and his jaw will go tight and fuck, Tony wishes he could fix that and he can’t.
There’s so much he can’t fix for Peter.
But Peter, sniffling against his leg, curled up and insisting that he’s broken, that he believes what his asshole boyfriend—ex boyfriend, thank god—said just because the prick wasn’t good enough or patient enough or un-fucking-judgemental enough for Peter to feel comfortable enough to come? That, Tony can do something about. That, he can fix.
And yeah, it’d broken his heart a little when Peter said—well, refused to say, but silence was as good as an answer—that he couldn’t even on his own, without anyone around to make him feel like shit. It’d killed him that Peter hadn’t ever gotten to have that simple, basic pleasure, but it was still something he could fix.
Something he shouldn’t fix, something he definitely shouldn’t try to fix like… this, but. But if Peter would let him, Tony was going to try, and worry about the what the fuck wrongness of it later. Maybe.
See, here’s the thing. He fixed it, right? Peter knows he can do this now; he’s gotten to feel it for once, and he’ll be able to get there again on his own now, Tony’s sure. Mission accomplished, lesson over. Time for Tony to tease his son a little and get up and get them both cleaned up and probably pretend this hadn’t ever really happened. Because anything else would be— would be so much more wrong than things already are.
There’s a difference between trying to help his son, however inappropriately, and just… just…
Tony swallows, watching Peter’s eyelashes flutter, his eyes barely opening, catching Tony’s gaze before he closes them again and turns his head to the side, cheeks flushing. It’s just that Peter was so hot, coming like that, that he tasted so fucking good, that Tony desperately wants to hear him make those same sounds again and again, wants to see him fall apart all over again.
Peter yelps when Tony shoves his face back in, when Tony licks all the way from the bottom edge of his cunt up over the very tip of his cock; there’s no other word for that noise. Jerks and thrusts up into Tony’s mouth and shudders all over and that’s what Tony wants, that perfect, hungry reaction.
“Dad?” Peter gasps. “Dad, what—”
Tony doesn’t answer; he should, he should stop and ask if this is okay like he had before, needing to know Peter wanted it, but he doesn’t. Doesn’t want to stop licking Peter for even a second, not even to breathe. He wraps his arms around Peter’s thighs and pulls him closer and groans when his son moans, legs going tight against Tony’s grip.
It’s been so long since he’s done this and he’d forgotten how fucking good it is. Somehow, he’s ended up bottoming the last few times he picked someone up, not even getting a cock in his mouth once, and this, this brings back how much he’s missed that.
He licks up along the underside of Peter’s cock, just barely brushing it with the tip of his tongue, slipping around to circle it without quite touching the head. Does it again from the other direction and pulls back for a second to look, to admire the dark swollen redness of it, the way he can actually see it throb as Peter shudders; fuck, his son is gorgeous.
Dives back in, pressing his tongue up and over the tip of Peter’s cock, covering it completely as Peter gasps and claws at the bed. He sucks on it, drawing it in and bobbing his head, pressing it up until it’s rubbing against the roof of his mouth. This was the ticket last time, and— Tony could draw it out, could make his son beg to come, but he doesn’t want to. Not this time. No, he wants to see just how fast he can get Peter to come, now that they both know he can.
“Fuck,” Peter whispers, and Tony loves how he gets all breathy and soft voiced the more wound up he is, like he can’t catch his breath at all. “Dad, I— oh, oh god—”
Fast, he’d wanted to drag another orgasm from Peter as quickly as possible, but now that Peter’s almost there, right up against the edge, Tony can’t help himself. Can’t keep from letting his son’s cock slip from his mouth, darting down to lap at Peter’s cunt instead, the wet, dripping mess of it, smearing across his chin as he presses in and licks it up, just wanting more and more and more. Peter’s salty and musky and something— not almost bitter, almost a metallic edge like he’s often come across, but something sharper, crisper. Like sea air when a storm’s coming in, humid and heavy and almost thick enough to taste on the back of your tongue.
Tony moans, eating Peter out until he can’t, until he has to stop and gasp for breath, Peter squirming and rocking up to meet him, whining softly. “Dad,” Peter stutters out, almost sobs, and he’s not going to make Peter ask for this, not going to let him go without for another minute. He wraps his lips around Peter’s cock and goes for it, faster and harder than before, feeling his son’s body draw up tighter and tighter; there you go baby, he thinks, wish he could say. Just like that, you’ve got it.
Peter gasps, nearly soundless, again, and then there’s silence as he shudders and comes, jerking forward into Tony’s face and nearly suffocating him, legs pressing in against Tony’s grip and he just keeps coming, endlessly, gorgeously. Come is soaking the hair all around his cunt, wet all over Tony’s chin and cheeks and beard, so good that Tony has to close his eyes and just pant against Peter’s cock as he thrusts his own hips down against the bed, hard and wanting and unwilling to take even a moment to take care of himself when it mean taking any attention away from his son.
“Guh,” Peter says as he starts to relax, still twitching up into the air every now and then, when Tony breathes against his cock or brushes the hair around ever so lightly, rubs some of the slick all over his face off on Peter’s thigh. “I— fuck. Fucking— what the hell, Dad,” but he sure doesn’t sound mad.
“Okay,” Tony says, trying not to smile and give himself away. “Better, worse, or about the same?”
There’s a frozen moment of silence, and then Peter jerks against his hold harder, trying to curl in as he giggles helplessly. “Daaaaad,” he groans, pushing up enough to look at Tony; there are tears in his eyes, but just from laughing. He grins at Peter. “You’re— you’re terrible, oh my god.”
“Mmm, that’s not an answer though.”
“Uh,” Peter says, settling, staring up at the ceiling. “...better?”
“Ugh, I don’t know!” Peter says. “I mean. They were both really good. Really really good. I can’t compare them?” He hesitates, mouth open like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out.
“Well,” Tony tells him, “we’ll have to see if we can do better than that, then.” Peter gapes at him.
“Dad,” he says softly, “you— you don’t have to— why—”
Tony turns his head and kisses the soft skin just above where Peter’s leg meets his body. “You’ve got a lot of these to make up for,” he says. “Why not see if we can get a head start on that?” Glances up after a second, Peter still staring wide eyed at him. “Hey,” Tony adds, “you don’t have to, baby. It’s not— I get it if this was more than enough, if it’s too weird. I’m sorry, I—”
“No,” Peter says. “It’s. It’s not. I just— really? Why?”
“Because you look amazing when you come,” Tony says, and Peter’s cheeks color. “Because I love the way you sound when you’re close, and because you taste so good, and because I want to see you enjoying yourself over and over and over. Because I’m enjoying every second of this.”
And if this is it, if this one time is all he ever gets to give Peter—and it should be, it should—he wants to make it last as long as he can, get as much out of it as possible before he has to go back to remembering all the reasons he really shouldn’t be fucking doing this.
“Peter?” he says, softly. “Yes or no?”
“Fuck,” Peter says, staring at him. “I— of course I want more, Dad. It’s— it feels so good, how could I not?” He swallows hard. “Yes.”
Tony doesn’t bother to answer that, just turns and sets his teeth in the skin of Peter’s leg, just above the crease. Bites, barely, and sucks at it; Peter shivers and gasps.
He can take a little more time this round, if he wants, and he wants.
The last two times, he was gentle, careful with Peter. And he still is—he’s never going to actually hurt him—but he wants to find out how Peter reacts to something harder. If Peter likes anything rougher, likes a little teeth, maybe.
Judging by the way Peter moans when Tony bites down a bit harder and sucks, works to leave behind a nice red mark, the answer is yes.
He nips his way up along the crease of his son’s leg, pinning it down as Peter squirms under his teeth. Even gets a mouthful above Peter’s cock, that swell of flesh just enough to catch; Peter hisses, nothing like he’s sounded before, and Tony lets go the next instant.
“Sorry,” he says, and kisses the same spot. “Sorry, baby.”
“It’s okay,” Peter says. “It didn’t like, hurt, it just…”
Tony kisses a little higher, at the edge of that dark hair, where it thins and trails upward. “I getcha,” he says, and kisses again, higher, his nose nudging against the hem of Peter’s shirt. It’s ridden up as Peter squirmed around, caught up just below his belly button; Tony reaches up and presses his thumbs against that edge, hands resting on Peter’s hips. Raises it higher, just a half an inch, if that, and kisses the skin that’s exposed. Again, the hem settling right above his navel. Kisses that too; Peter shivers without a sound.
He glances up, and Peter’s biting his lip, looking more nervous than turned on. Not his goal, not at all.
“I know,” he whispers. “I know, kiddo,” and presses his face against Peter’s stomach, breathing into the soft hollow of it as the tension seeps back out of Peter.
Lifts his face and darts another glance at his son, and then licks his belly button.
Peter squeals and wriggles under him, stomach quivering as Tony catches the edge of it and nips, just barely, pulling at the skin. “Daaaad,” Peter whines, “nooo! It tickles, that’s not— that’s not hot! Hey!” and pushes at Tony’s head when he rubs his face back and forth, scraping his beard across Peter’s skin. “Not fair!”
Tony grins at him and ducks his head again, Peter sucking in his stomach away from him, but Tony just kisses that spot, soft, and again, lower, working his way back down. Yeah, maybe it’s not the sexiest thing ever, but it did distract Peter, did make him forget all about what was making him scared.
He doesn’t want to do anything Peter won’t actually like.
It isn’t until his mouth is back on Peter’s cunt, dipping into it and catching on the edge each swipe, that he thinks— well, there are other things to try.
Thinks of sliding his fingers into Peter, into the wet heat of him, and seeing if he can make his son come like that too.
No, no, he shouldn’t, that’s— Peter wouldn’t be comfortable with that. He’d said he didn’t like penetration all that much, right?
Actually, he hadn’t said anything about it. And— he’d had his fingers in himself, when he was trying to show Tony what he liked.
Fuck, this is stupid. He knows better. He lifts his head, air cool against his skin. “Peter?”
Tony snorts. Brings his hand up to Peter’s ass, spread over the edge of it, thumb and forefinger on the wet hair right where he’s been licking. “Can I try something?” he says, inching his fingers closer. “Can I— have my fingers in you?”
There’s silence, Tony rubbing slow, small circles along the edge of Peter’s leg, smearing the dampness higher.
“Yeah,” a breathy whisper, and god. Peter is just— his son is so fucking brave.
He takes Peter’s cock in his mouth as he slides one finger in, slowly, torn between focusing on the hard flesh in his mouth, tongue lazily running over it, and the feel of being inside Peter, unbearably hot and slick and open, fuck. He moans, sliding his tongue along the edge of Peter’s hood.
Peter shudders and tightens around him and Tony wants to do everything to Peter, wants to show him every last thing he can think of to get these reactions.
Tony gives it a moment, twisting his finger and working it in and out, little bits at a time; there’s pressure, sure, especially when Peter clenches around him, but he’s not tight, definitely not worryingly so. His baby boy has been letting someone fuck him.
It could be him.
Shit, fuck, Tony thinks, pressing his tongue harder against Peter’s cock; it could be, but it shouldn’t. It won’t, because that’s not what Peter needs from him. Still. He can have this, can slip another finger into his son, things a little tighter, and wiggle them, Peter’s breath stuttering out. Can duck his head and lick at the place they enter Peter’s body, all along that stretched out flesh, lap up every drop that his fingers drag out with each thrust.
He spreads his fingers in Peter, tongue pressing in between them; Peter moans, and everything gets even wetter. Yes, yes, that’s what he wants, that’s what he wants Peter to feel. He pulls away.
“More?” he asks, not even looking up at Peter, too busy staring at the pink of his kid’s cunt, the darker almost red of his cock, stuck on trying to decide which he wants in his mouth next.
“More,” Peter says, almost a demand.
More, more, he can do more, so he presses a third finger in, pushes further, harder, Peter gasping and grinding onto them. Bites just above the swell of Peter’s ass and curls his fingers, searching, sliding in and out slower.
Peter lets out his breath suddenly, sharply, and Tony knows he’s got it.
Not that he’s going to neglect the rest of his son while Tony’s busy finger fucking him; he wraps his lips around Peter’s cock again and just holds him there, sucking at him just enough to tease. He doesn’t want to wonder which Peter actually came from. If Peter can come from this, even.
Oh, he can.
It’s slower than the others, Peter lingering on the edge for longer, but Peter doesn’t protest for a second, doesn’t start pushing harder for more, or faster, or now, not impatient to come, and that’s fucking gorgeous in itself. It’s just as good getting to see Peter surrender, see his son let this orgasm be dragged out of him, as it is to actually see Peter come, to hear him, feel him clench down, over and over, around Tony’s fingers. To feel his cock twitch in Tony’s mouth, swelling even more, Peter nearly whimpering when Tony swipes his tongue over it again.
He waits until Peter’s gone completely still, quiet, before he pulls out his fingers, and grins at the shudder that rolls across Peter’s body. Licks them off, nearly dripping with Peter’s come; there’s a sharp inhale above him, and when he looks up, Peter is watching, eyes wide.
Tony grins at him. “So,” he says.
Peter cuts him off before he can say another word, shaking his head and smiling himself. “About the same,” he says. “I mean. Good? Really good. And it’s… different? But not better or worse.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty variable,” Tony tells him. “I can never predict who’s going to like it that way, honestly.”
He tips his head back down and watches as another trickle of come makes its way down the curve of his son’s ass, darting in and licking it up before it can reach the bed. Leans up as long as he’s there and kisses the tip of Peter’s cock; Peter jerks, almost more of a flinch, his breath catching. “Dad,” he gasps, “I— fuck, Dad, it’s too much, it’s—”
“Need a break?” Tony asks, and Peter nods frantically. Well, he can give Peter a little bit of one. He rests his head against Peter’s leg and takes it in, looks his fill at everything between Peter’s legs. “God, kid,” he murmurs, ever so gently tracing his finger down the crease of Peter’s leg. “You’re so fucking pretty.”
Peter doesn’t respond, not this time, but he doesn’t need to; Tony’s watching, so Tony sees how he reacts, cunt clenching like it wishes there was something in it, cock twitching ever so slightly. It’s too tempting.
He can give Peter’s cock a break, Tony decides. Can even give his cunt one too, but Tony can’t stand to lie here and do nothing until Peter’s ready again. He gets his hands under Peter’s ass, across the full span of his cheeks, and tugs, pushing until his son’s legs are up, curled forward on himself.
Spreads him open, every inch of him exposed, and dips his head to that thin bit of skin between holes, barely dividing them. Licks at it, Peter squeaking and flexing under him, and then sets his mouth against it, sucking at it.
“Dad,” Peter breathes out, “Dad, Dad— oh god, oh—”
It’s a great spot, so incredibly sensitive and offering the chance to play with both sides at once; it tastes like Peter’s come and Tony seriously thinks about just staying there, sliding his fingers back into Peter and getting him off again just like that.
But there are other options —maybe better options? At the very least, options Tony hasn’t had a chance to explore yet and he’s going to. He has to.
He lets go of that spot and licks Peter’s ass instead.
The noise Peter makes isn’t a word in any sense, but it’s fucking perfect all the same.
It’s wetter than Tony expected, Peter having come so much that it’s dripped down, catching there and running a little higher too, a tacky trail up the cleft of his ass that Tony cleans up before he goes back to his son’s hole, licking over it slow and broad, taking his time with this.
Tony loves this too, nuzzling into the soft, delicate skin there. It’s almost nothing like eating out Peter’s cunt; there, it’s wet and open, easy to lick into and just waiting to be filled. Here, his hole is so tightly closed, flexing against his tongue and dry, needing to be carefully, gently coaxed along to let him in, teased until it’s just as desperate as the rest of Peter.
The rest of Peter is still soaking wet, but Tony’s already licked up every trace that’s made its way here. His mouth has been watering the entire time he’s been between his son’s legs, swallowing it back with each mouthful of Peter’s come, but now, now he lets it go. Lets himself drool against Peter’s hole, sloppy as he laps across it, as he buries his face there and just presses his mouth to it, moaning and sucking as lightly as he can; still, Peter whimpers and jerks.
He’s opening up, slowly, Tony’s tongue dipping in a little further with each pass, pausing to flick back and forth, to feel as Peter reacts to it unconsciously, helplessly, his hole pushing against Tony’s tongue for more, more. He can give Peter more, can absolutely give him more; he shifts back, brings his hand up until the tip of his finger is resting against that slick spot, starting to slide in without Tony really even trying.
Tony turns his head and bites at Peter’s cheek, hard, at the same time as he presses his finger into his son’s ass, all the way in one smooth, easy move, Peter opening for him like it was meant to be. Peter gasps, chokes, trying to pull away from Tony’s teeth as his ass tightens around Tony’s finger, so much that Tony can’t even move it.
Tony sucks a little harder at his mouthful of flesh, until he’s satisfied it’ll leave a mark, and lets go, eyes dropping to where he’s inside Peter. He twists that finger, slowly, Peter tightening again for a second before he eases, enough for Tony to slide his finger out, press it back in. It’s wet with Tony’s spit all around it, probably more than enough, but you can never have too much, right?
Right, so Tony licks over the edge of Peter’s ass, over his knuckles as they push into Peter.
Peter’s so quiet, just these broken, desperate gasps, the way he’s been getting when he’s right on the edge of coming; Tony really doubts Peter could come from this, but it’d be so fucking hot if he did. He’s still too, only his insides moving with Tony. Still, until Tony pulls his finger out and, in that second that his son’s hole gapes open the smallest amount, darts in and shoves his tongue into that space, pushing as far as he can, flexing it and feeling Peter go tight all around it.
“Daaad,” Peter keens, that stillness breaking completely as he rocks against Tony’s face, trying to force more in just as much as Tony is. Can’t, neither of them can, but it’s wonderful the way Peter’s nearly fucking himself on Tony’s tongue. Tony reaches up, hand sliding over his son’s crotch until it’s touching his cock, thumb rubbing along the top of it, pushing back the hood with each stroke.
If he’d thought Peter was losing it with Tony’s tongue in his ass, adding this only proves Peter still has so much control left to shed. So much that Tony can’t wait to strip from him, until his son is a needy, sobbing mess, so overwhelmed with pleasure he can’t think of anything else.
He can’t keep that up for long, his tongue aching so quickly, but now Peter’s open to him, now Peter’s even easier to shove his finger back into, to add another and watch as Peter works himself back and forth on them, barely letting Tony do any of the work. Tony watches, mouth open and panting more than a bit himself, watches as wetness trickles down onto his fingers. He looks up.
Jesus fuck; without Tony eating it up, keeping it in check, his son’s cunt is overflowing, dripping wet and and shining, dragging Tony in. He dips his thumb down and presses it in, coats it before he brings it back to Peter’s cock, Peter gasping at the sudden smooth slide of it. Gasps even louder when Tony shoves his face back in and laps at all that mess, groaning as he feels it smear all over his face. There’s so much, too much for Tony to keep up with but god, he’s going to try.
He’s trying to do too many things, he knows it, and something keeps falling by the wayside, whether it’s his thumb frozen on Peter’s cock or his fingers going lax in Peter’s ass, or his tongue still as he just gasps against Peter’s cunt. It’s too much to do any of it well, but he can’t stop, can’t pick which one to give up on.
Peter takes the choice from him.
He’s been pushing back against Tony’s fingers inside him, fucking himself on them in short, sharp movements that force Tony’s tongue further into him as well. Has been doing so almost absently, like he’s barely aware of it, but now, now he goes full for it, rocking up hard into Tony’s mouth and just as hard back onto his fingers, tilting his hips so Tony’s thumb slides up over the head of his cock at the same time. Peter moans and does it again, and again, and Tony’s lost all control here, every move he tries to make just disrupting Peter’s rhythm.
He gives in and gives up, bracing his hands in place and sticking out his tongue, face buried between his son’s legs, letting Peter rub against him however he wants, use Tony however he wants as he chases coming. Peter get faster, more frantic, closer, and it takes everything Tony has to not move, to not try and pin Peter down and make him come under Tony’s hands and Tony’s mouth, but fuck, it’s so hot the way Peter is rocking against his face, slick spreading everywhere, how his son is fucking himself on Tony’s fingers and gasping, nearly sobbing out these harsh breaths that just go softer and softer as he gets closer and closer, going silent as he finally comes, arching up against Tony, and Tony’s so hard he could almost come in his pants without a single touch.
Peter’s hips drop, finally, air hitting the wetness all over Tony’s face like a cold shock to his system. He’s as out of breath as Peter, trying to claw back some control, if only over himself. He looks up, and his son’s arms are curled over his head, face buried in the crook of one elbow.
It’s adorable; Tony laughs, and Peter jerks at the breath of air across his cock, whimpering. “Oh god,” he moans, “Dad, Dad, I can’t, fuck, I can’t.”
Squeaks, a moment later, when Tony dips his head and flicks the tip of his tongue over the head of his son’s cock. “Wait,” Peter gasps, “wait wait wait, I— Dad, please!”
“Yeah, okay kiddo,” Tony says, because as fun as it is to torment Peter a little, he only wants it to be a little. He scoots back and looks up at Peter; there’s not a lot to see, actually, with Peter’s arms flung up over his face, hiding it almost completely. Peter groans, dragging it out into something closer to a whine by the end.
“I’m dying,” Peter says. “I’m dead, oh my god. Please tell me most people don’t just. Keep going like this? How can they? I’m going to pass out if I come again I swear.”
“You wouldn’t,” Tony tells him. “And no, not most people; well, probably not. Not most of the time at least. There’s a limit, after a while, and then you just can’t get it up again no matter how much you want to.” Although he doesn’t really know where Peter falls on that scale, but there’s no way he’s bringing that up.
“It’s fun though,” he adds. “Right?”
Peter shifts an arm down, just enough to look at Tony through the crack. It might be glare; hard to tell without seeing the rest of his face. “Is this the kind of fun where I regret it the next day?” he asks.
“God, I hope not,” Tony says without thinking. Realizes a moment later Peter’s probably talking about the times they’ve done something a little too athletic and ache the next day, or the few times he’s been hungover.
“Oh,” Peter says, his arms dropping completely. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean like that, Dad. I don’t. I won’t, I know I won’t.”
Tony smiles at him and hopes it looks more relaxed then he feels, suddenly. “Well,” he says, “it’s fun from my end at least. Lots of fun, watching you squirm and blush and come,” and Peter blushes at that, adorable. “So, so much fun listening to you and tasting you, smelling you—” Peter groans, interrupting him.
“That’s embarrassing,” he mutters.
“I like it,” Tony tells him, plainly; Peter blinks at him, taken aback. “I like how messy you are, how wet you get and how hard and how pretty you beg. I don’t know what else to tell you, kid. There isn’t a reason; I just like it.”
Hesitates, because yeah, it seems like Peter does, but— “Do you?”
“Yeah,” Peter whispers. “I do. Uh.” Covers his face again, for a second, and then drops his hands to his sides, one creeping slowly down until it’s almost touching Tony’s, curled around Peter’s hip. “I. You’re— you’re kind of noisy too,” he says, so red it has to hurt a little. “I like how I can… feel it as much as hear it.”
“Yeah?” Tony says, grinning, knowing it’s going a bit smug but can’t even care.
His son nods, darting a glance at him and then back away, to where his fingers are resting against the back of Tony’s hand now. “It’s… really nice that you— you’re like. Into it? Um. I thought maybe it’d be, just— but. You act like you want to be there. Doing that.”
“Of course I do,” Tony says. “Obviously.”
“They didn’t always act like they did,” Peter whispers, and Tony could just about kill everyone his son’s ever been with.
He takes a deep breath and thinks about saying that, about telling Peter once again that his partners have been such trash— no. Peter’s already looking a little lost again.
“Hey,” he says instead. “I bet you can come again.”
Peter startles. “...really?” and he does not sound convinced.
“Sure,” Tony tells him. “I know, you think you’re done in, but… if I’m really careful, really gentle with you, I think we can get another.” He rubs his cheek against Peter’s leg and smiles at him. “You’re so beautifully responsive,” he says, softer, almost teasing. “So sensitive, and you come so easily when someone knows what to do with you.”
“Uh,” Peter says, breathing a little faster. “Um. Okay. You— you can try.”
“Oh baby,” Tony whispers. “Thank you.”
“What are you even talking about, that’s— ah, fuck!”
Tony grins against the hair at Peter’s crotch, licking his lips after he’d just pressed his face between his son’s legs, instantly soaking himself all over again. Pulls back a second later. “Hey,” he says, Peter blinking at him. “Anything you liked best so far? Anything you want more of?”
Peter stares, his mouth open. “Uh,” he says after a moment. “I— like your mouth best,” he says, glancing away like he’s somehow shy again.
“Got it,” Tony says, and he doesn’t mind getting to focus all his attention back on this one thing. Not one bit.
He takes his time.
Tony meant it when he’d told Peter he’d take it slow, careful. His son is sensitive, just this side of oversensitive, and Tony doesn’t want this to end. And god knows, it’s not like he’s suffering, drawing this out.
Peter gasps at every touch at first, but settles after a minute, eases and relaxes into it, his hips slowly rolling up against Tony’s mouth. Sighs, and Tony echoes him; Peter shivers at that huff of air.
Tony closes his eyes and sinks into it.
Peter hadn’t been kidding about getting plenty wet, and after already coming so many times— it doesn’t really matter how much Tony’s already licked up, he can’t keep up with it. It’s thin and slick and coating every inch between Peter’s legs, down the cleft of his ass and all across the cheeks, smeared up the insides of his thighs even, up nearly to his belly button from where Tony’s pressed his mouth, dragged that wetness along with. His son’s hair is soaked, completely matted together, all the curl of it gone.
It covers Tony’s face as well; sure, his mouth and his chin, his beard just as wet as Peter’s hair, but higher too, across his cheeks and marking the top of his cheekbone, just below his eye. Further, along the full length of his jaw, a smear drying on his ear, and Tony loves it. Loves feeling so obviously used, marked in a way no one could mistake, loves that Peter’s this wet because of him. Because he’s made his son—his poor kid who thought he couldn’t ever, ever come—come so much that he’s outdone anyone Tony’s ever been with for sheer mess.
He rubs his face into it more, not even using his tongue at all, just feeling the slip of skin against skin, the way Peter shudders, cock throbbing along Tony’s cheek. Tony’s face feels so hot, almost raw; he’s going to have the worst case of rug burn ever.
He doesn’t bother with his fingers this time; after all, Peter had said his mouth was better. Just wraps his hands around his son’s thighs, holding them apart, Peter’s legs hooked up over his shoulders instead of off to the sides.
There’s something almost unreal about it, almost dreamlike, the way he feels with his head buried between his son’s legs. It’s like the rest of the world barely exists at all, the sense of the passage of time absent, meaningless. With his eyes barely open, just enough to admire Peter’s cock when he pulls back for a breath, there’s nothing but shadows and skin, nothing but the smell of Peter’s come drowning out everything else, the taste of it coating every inch of his mouth, like it’s the only thing he knows. Nothing but the faint, soft sounds of Peter starting to gasp, starting to moan faintly, the rustle of fabric as Peter shifts, feet sliding against the sheets and fingers curling into them. There’s nothing at all to worry about except the softness of Peter’s cunt against his tongue, the way it clenches when he presses further in, lapping everything up before it can make its way out. Nothing at all except for the firmness of Peter’s cock against his lips, the thickness of it, the way the hood slips back and exposes every delicate, sensitive bit.
It builds so, so slowly.
Builds, and holds, Tony not pushing any further, settling in like he could do this forever— and he could. He absolutely could. But Peter can’t, and with every second he gets closer to pure desperation, even if his movements are still slower than before, even if his gasps aren’t as helpless as they’ve been. It’s like now that Peter knows he can have this, knows he can get there again and again, he’s able to wait for it.
Willing to wait for it, and Tony is going to take advantage of that.
However tightly strung his son might have been the first time, that first desperate reaching for something always out of his grasp, it’s nothing compared to this. Nothing compared to the way Tony gets softer and softer, slower and slower, as Peter arches into his mouth, heels digging into Tony’s shoulders and hands fisted so tightly in the sheets his knuckles are white. Squirms, more and more until Tony has to give up on keeping Peter’s legs spread and press his hands on Peter’s hips instead, trying to pin him down and only half managing. There’ll be bruises on Peter tomorrow, he’s sure of it.
“Dad,” Peter manages, a stuttering dragged out sound Tony barely even registers. “Dad!”
Peter’s legs snap together, tight around Tony’s head and fuck, that’s so hot, so incredibly hot that he can’t get away as his son presses up against his tongue and comes, finally, shuddering and shaking and so tense, with barely a sound. Comes, Tony’s chin growing damper, wetness sliding down his neck as Peter just keeps coming, just keeps getting tenser and tenser, not coming down one bit at all. It’s so, so much, and Tony can’t help himself, can’t keep from tilting his mouth down and licking into that dripping mess, feeling how Peter tightens around him, legs and hands and cunt.
Can’t stop himself as Peter jerks against Tony’s hold and comes again— or keeps coming; Tony doesn’t know and doesn’t care, because it doesn’t matter one bit. All that matters is the next rush of come flooding his mouth, the way his son’s gasping finally breaks into broken whimpers, louder than he’s been this entire time. The way Peter practically screams when Tony presses closer yet, pushing back up to get Peter’s cock in his mouth, barely sucking it all as his son comes and comes and comes.
Peter’s hands are in his hair, tight, pulling and clenching and it’s useless, it doesn’t matter how hard he pulls if he won’t loosen his legs around Tony’s head; there’s nowhere for Tony to go except back in, lapping up the endless rush of come, so sloppy he can’t control what he’s focusing on at all.
“Enough,” Peter gasps out, “Dad, Dad, please,” and it doesn’t matter, it’s not just Tony keeping this going. It’s just as much Peter, clinging to him and jerking into his mouth, unable to stop just as much as Tony. Tony’s tongue is nearly cramping and he still can’t stop, can’t even as he hears Peter sob, even as Peter starts shaking, different from how he shudders as he comes, even as Peter keens and cries and begs.
“Dad—” the word breaking in the middle as his son completely loses it, thrashing under Tony, curling so tightly around him it hurts. It’s not even another wave of coming, it’s just this long, frozen, breathless moment before Peter shatters, so overstimulated that it doesn’t even matter that Tony’s stopped, that Tony’s doing nothing more than breathing against him, trapped by Peter’s grip. “Dad,” he pants, and again, “Dad, Dad—” over and over, nearly unintelligible between his gulping sobs as Peter twitches, so tense those movements barely register at all.
Peter goes limp suddenly, completely, his legs falling away from around Tony’s head, hips barely jerking up into Tony’s mouth at all. Tony pulls back, shaking a little himself, feeling almost dizzy, hot and soaked and so turned on he can barely think, but it’s not about him. God, that was unbelievable, fucking— of course his son would be able to go again and again and again, would turn out to be the hottest thing Tony’s ever seen.
He turns and kisses Peter’s leg; Peter’s gasping, still sobbing, these huge, wet breaths that catch with every brush of Tony’s lips, stutter and break into some choked, desperate noise that Tony never wants to stop hearing. Part of him wants to lean into it, wants to sink his teeth into the soft skin of his son’s thighs, worry them until Peter’s crying and begging and nearly fighting against him, leaving marks all over them for Peter to feel with every single step.
Peter moans, deep in his throat and so, so quiet, and Tony presses his cheek against Peter’s skin. Kisses it as soft as he can, thumb rubbing over the crease of Peter’s leg, slowly working his way from Peter’s knee to the curve of his ass. Sighs, nuzzling at the wetness coating every inch, leaving a dark shadow on the bed, and works his way back up the other side. Stays there, gently running his hands up and down the length of Peter’s legs and breathes in the scent of him, breathes and slows the beat of his heart and carefully sets aside that desperate need to come, to get Peter’s hands or mouth on him, or to slide right in and feel Peter all around him, feel Peter’s cock rubbing up against his own.
Fuck, he wants it, wants it so much, but Peter’s completely done in and as much as Tony is loving the way his son reacts, pushed beyond his limits, that’s too much. The whole goal was to make Peter feel good, feel amazing, and he’s not going to tip that overstimulation straight into pain just because he wants to get off.
He crawls up the bed until he’s laying on his side next to Peter, head propped up on his elbow and watching him pant. Peter was crying, is crying, tears slowly creeping over the bridge of his nose, down his temple; Tony reaches forward to brush them away.
Peter opens his eyes, the barest slits, eyelashes wet and sticking together. Looks at him, this blank, hollowed out look, like there’s nothing left in his head at all, but it’s not a bad look. It’s not misery, or regret, or fear. “Dad,” he whispers, barely a word at all.
Tony wraps his arm around his son’s waist and pulls him close, holding him tight as Peter presses up against him, head buried in Tony’s chest. Clings, his leg sneaking in between Tony’s, fingers digging into his shirt and his side. “You did so well,” Tony whispers, breathes into Peter’s hair. “God, kiddo, you were so hot, so perfect. Anyone that doesn’t want you, doesn’t want your cock in their mouth as often as possible, is an idiot.”
Peter whines, somehow clinging tighter, his breath hot where his face is pressed against Tony. “Gorgeous,” Tony says, and spreads his hand wide over the curve of Peter’s waist, just tucked under his shirt.
He touches Peter as his son settles, slow, soft strokes across his side, his back, down over his hip, not trying for anything more than the need to feel Peter under his hands. Waits, thinking about tugging Peter up until he can kiss him, can let Peter taste himself in Tony’s mouth, but— but that might be too much. Peter’s still shivering, still breathing too fast and too short, still clinging like his dad is the only thing keeping him in one piece. It’s amazing how long his aftershocks are lasting, how long it’s taking him to unwind; amazing and so, so fucking hot. Tony wants to push him to this spot over and over, as many times as he can, wants to have his son fall into sobbing incoherence under his mouth every single night.
Slowly, Peter’s fingers relax, his body uncurling a bit, heartbeat dropping back down. He rubs his face against Tony’s shirt, more snuggling than hiding, lips catching at the fabric and dragging it across Tony’s skin.
Peter sighs. Tips his head back; “Dad?”
“Thank you,” Peter says, looking right at him, not the least bit shaky. “Thank you so, so much. You’re— you’re amazing. I’m so glad you’re my dad.” He smiles, faintly, his eyes dropping. “You can fix anything,” he whispers.
“Oh, baby,” Tony says. “I couldn’t leave you like that, thinking it was your fault somehow. Thinking it was something wrong with you. There wasn’t anything to fix; you weren’t ever, ever broken, Peter.”
“No,” Tony tells him. Leans in and kisses his son’s forehead. “You weren’t broken. You just didn’t have all the details down.” He huffs, and Peter’s brow wrinkles. “And you apparently have terrible taste in partners,” Tony adds. “If any of them were half decent people, they could have given you this too.”
“Maybe,” Peter mutters, and seriously— Tony’s been trying to stay hands off, but he’s going to start being a little more picky about who gets access to his son. Peter shouldn’t ever be with someone that makes him feel awful ever again. Not if Tony has any say, and— and he will.
“Uh,” Peter says after a bit, after he’s gone almost completely limp in Tony’s hold; Tony had almost thought he was drifting off. “Dad? Do you—”
“Hmm?” Tony says when Peter doesn’t continue, just holding his breath and pressing his forehead harder against his dad’s chest.
Peter turns his head up just enough to catch Tony’s eye. “Do you think that maybe— maybe you could. Maybe you could show me some other things too?”
He’s bright red, all tensed up again, ready for rejection but still putting himself out there, still going for it despite the utter, total, ruinous wrongness of this. Fuck, Tony can’t think at all, his mind static, endless white noise.
Peter blinks; draws a breath, and Tony finds his words. “Of course,” he says. “Whatever you want, baby. Anything you want.”
The relief on his son’s face is heady, filling Tony up and smothering any question about this being the right thing to do. It’s not, he knows it’s not; there’s no doubt about that. But anything that makes Peter smile like that is something he’ll do without any regrets.
He slides his hand up from Peter’s side, over his shoulder and across his collarbone before he sets his fingers under Peter’s chin, drawing him up and tipping his head back just a little further. Tilts his own head down, breath ghosting across his son’s lips. “What do you think about starting with this?” he asks, and kisses Peter before he has an answer, soft and slow, drawn out until Peter shivers against him.
Tony pulls back, and his son opens his eyes.
“Yes,” Peter says. “Please, Dad.”