Chapter Text
“I don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“The appeal.”
Peter scrunched his nose as he watched another set of girls fawning over Jake Golding, vying for his attention as though the likes of Mr. Rogers didn’t exist in the same ten-mile vicinity.
MJ followed his gaze, tipped her sunglasses and side-eyed him. “Most people don’t want their partner old enough to be their parent.”
“Its like drinking off-brand Coke when the real stuff is right there,” Peter defended, gesturing toward the Civil Studies block, where Mr. Rogers resided in all his glory. All six-four, hunky blonde goodness of him. The relatively new teacher was both the best thing about and the bane of Peter’s dwindling high school days.
“What’s wrong with Jake Golding besides the fact that he’s, y’know, not forty?” MJ asked, turning back to her magazine.
“He’s just… Like, his arms are all scrawny, right? And he’s all baby-faced and his voice still breaks when he hit puberty four years ago, and you know he doesn’t know where the clit is.”
MJ’s sidelong and extremely judgemental stare had returned. “You’re a scrawny-armed babyface who hit puberty four years ago,” she reminded him. “You do know where the clit is, though.”
“Damn right. Its a badge of honor,” Peter puffed out his chest, then tapped his finger on her magazine page. “You should get that shirt. It matches your eyes.”
“Its four thousand dollars.”
“And I’m sure like, Target or something do a very reasonably priced replica,” Peter nodded.
“You’re a dork,” MJ sighed affectionately. “Come on, free period’s almost over and you’ve got Mr. Hunky next.”
“Shit. How’s my hair?”
A week past his eighteenth birthday, Peter Parker discovered his hot, hunky, blonde teacher was in fact married to the universe’s other hot, hunky, blonde technically-a-teacher.
“I’m going to fucking kill myself,” he lamented, throwing himself down on the grass near the lunch hall.
Of course Mr. Rogers was married. And of course it was to the likes of ‘just call me the other Mr. Rogers’ and his stupid, broad, delicious shoulders.
Who the fuck even had that much time for the gym, anyway?
“Shouldn’t you be happy?” MJ asked, thumbing through her homework. “Now you’ve got two hot blondes to be a little pervert over.”
“No, now my chances of a super hot secretive forbidden romance are literally zero,” Peter whined, slapping at her leg.
“Weren’t they like, literally zero before?” Ned greeted as he joined them, passing out the sandwiches he’d volunteered to brave the lunch queues for.
“Not helping,” Peter sighed, taking his beef and pepperoni and biting with mulish rage. Sure, his dream was unrealistic, but most dreams were. That’s why they were called dreams. Nobody ran around talking about chasing your realities or whatever.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Ned muttered, leaning into MJ’s side. “But I think Operation GPPL should commence.”
“Operation what?” Peter asked.
“Operation None-Ya Business,” MJ shot back, thumping Ned in the arm. “Some people just say things that are things.”
“I understand none of this.”
“You’ve got a pretty face, kid. With that in this life, you don’t need to understand anything,” MJ pet his head.
Three weeks after Peter’s birthday, they were studying in the library during Friday’s free period when MJ threw a balled up paper at his head. “Oi, dweeb. We’re going out tomorrow. Try to dress less Howard Walowitz and more Timotheè Chalamet.”
“I’m like fifty percent sure I know what that means and a hundred percent sure I don’t own anything to that standard,” Peter answered, turning his page.
“I know you’ve got an ass under those khakis. Anything that shows it off,” she ordered.
“Isn’t Timotheè known for catwalk-esque femme-masculine fashion? I mean, alongside his incredibly sharp jawline,” Ned piped up.
They stared at Ned in unison, who blinked back guileless. “What?”
“Actually, y’know what, that’s a totally acceptable blip in heterosexuality. Saturday, be there or I’ll punch you in the dick,” MJ dismissed.
“You know that’s only like, five percent of a plan, right?” Peter asked, but he was, as usual, ignored.
They did eventually manage a full plan, which left Peter with only the crisis of staring down his wardrobe, phone in hand, squinting between it and his wardrobe with increasing doubt. Absolutely nothing he owned was even remotely close to the red carpet outfits he was looking at. MJ hadn’t even told him their destination, so it wasn’t like he had any idea what he was dressing for, either.
Surely if they were just going to Denny’s he didn’t need his tits out?
Like most of the people his age when faced with a difficult problem, Peter simply chose to pretend it didn’t exist at all and deliberately didn’t look at the lethal way MJ stared at him as she buckled herself into the car afterward.
“Its giving more disobeying nerd than style icon,” she observed, and he tightened his grip on the wheel.
“This is my sense of style and I am happy with it,” he declared.
“Your shirt says ‘I’m suffering but I make it look bougie.’” She gave him a judgemental once-over. “Its lying.”
“Alright. That was uncalled for,” Peter pouted, tugging his hoodie tighter around himself to block his shirt from view. “Don’t make me turn this car around.”
“It hasn’t gone anywhere yet,” Ned piped up from the backseat, leaning between them.
“It can’t go anywhere if I don’t know where to make it go,” Peter replied pointedly, folding his arms.
“Just shut up and start driving,” MJ slapped at his shoulder. “I’ll tell you when to make turns.”
And she did. All through the darkening streets, onto side roads and around half-blocks and into an area Peter, for all his eighteen years in Queens, had never been to before.
It was quieter around here, the buildings ranging from non-chain fashion stores to exclusive nightclubs and fancy looking takeout places.
“Pull over here,” MJ instructed as they cruised by a long stretch of road. Peter did, and bounced out of the car to join her when she exited onto the sidewalk, stuffing his hands in his pockets and looking around.
“Alright, alright. Its feeling upper class mom of two on a girl’s night out,” Peter hummed, bouncing on his toes for a moment before he struck off walking. MJ reached out, snagged him by the jacket and pulled him the other way, marching him down the street.
“So like, where are we?” Peter asked after a few moments, reeling when she stopped suddenly.
“We’re here,” MJ announced, her grip loosening on his jacket.
“We’re here!” Peter intoned agreeably. And then— “We’re here?”
Here was… Where? He frowned, looking up at the red-gold-black front of the building they’d stopped before. It was a club, clearly, maybe, and the name rang as vaguely familiar.
“We’re here. Operation Get Peter Parker Laid has reached its base of operations,” Ned declared.
“Operation what?” Peter’s head whipped around.
“A.K.A Operation Stop Talking About Our Teacher’s Dicks Or I’m Going To Kill You,” MJ added.
“That doesn’t really have the same ring to it.”
“Give me your hand,” MJ demanded, and before he could so much as blink she’d grabbed him by the wrist, jamming a thick, solid band around it. Peter peered down at his wrist and the strip of red that adorned it, the glitter of a gold, metal insignia flashing under the lights.
“Are you pimping me out?” Peter squinted.
“Not in this area. The cougars would chew you up and spit you out like cheap gum,” she answered mildly, adjusting the bracelet. On the opposite side of the insignia there was a gold barcode. Peter jiggled his arm as MJ took a step back. She observed him critically, then pointed behind her. “This,” she began, “is an exclusive club for people of certain interests. Its membership only and stuffed full of older men who’ll stick their dicks in you as many ways as you can think of.”
“Oh, nasty,” Ned blanched.
“Its a what and they’ll what?” Peter bleated.
“You have ears. I bought you a six month membership. It should be prime real estate for aging men with experience.”
“Am I supposed to be able to process any of this?!” Peter flailed. “Why would you enrol me in a sex club!”
“Because you’re a whiny almost-virgin who’s consumed all 542 pages of PornHub’s ‘Daddy’ category!” MJ countered.
And.
“I told you that in confidence!” Peter hissed.
“Sorry, dude. She kind of has a point with this one. You want a fine wine in a store full of fruit juice. You gotta be willing to shop elsewhere,” Ned soothed, wrapping an arm around him and kissing his cheek.
“I’m barely even eighteen. They might not let me in,” Peter tried.
“The website accepted your info,” Ned shrugged, pointing to the bracelet. “They wouldn’t have sent you one otherwise.”
“Home,” Peter muttered. “Home. We are going home. Right now.”
“We’ll be right there with you,” MJ snagged him again. “Come on, Parker. Think of all the Daddy potential inside. All the Mr. Rogers-es just waiting for a flexible little nerd like you.”
Peter stared at her. Stared at the door. Stared at her again. Huffed. “You really think there’s hot men in there?”
“Its New York. There’s hot men everywhere. I mean, we’ve got Bruce Wayne.”
“Mmm. Bruce Wayne,” Peter and Ned sighed dreamily in unison.
“Your heterosexuality is so thin I can see through it to the screaming homosexual trapped on the other side,” MJ sighed, looking at Ned, before she pushed Peter towards the door again. “Come on. Put on your big boy pants and go maybe get laid.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I could get kidnapped!”
“Pfft.” MJ flapped a hand. “They’d bring you back in an hour. Once you start talking nerd stuff its over for them.”
“I’m still not walking into a random porn club,” Peter argued, but as always MJ was both stubborn and possessing of the ability to somewhat lovingly bully you into things, and so mere moments later he found himself with his hands on the doors, sucking in deep breaths.
“Go,” Ned urged him solemnly, a hand on his shoulder. “Go forth, young one, and become a man.”
“Yeah, I’m not gonna say anything like that, so just get in there before I drag you in by your tiny boy balls.”
“And you’ll be right with me, right?” Peter asked faintly.
“We’ll be right with you,” MJ assured.
Peter was ten steps into the hallway when he realized three things:
- The ''artwork'' on the walls was, in fact, dicks-out pornography.
- Someone further down the hall behind a closed door was either really enjoying their drink or really enjoying something Peter didn’t think could be done in a public space.
- Ned and MJ were not, in fact, right behind him.
“Nope!”
Peter turned, bolted, and ran smack into the closed doors, rebounding with an offended yelp. He peered through the glass at Ned and MJ. The former wore an apologetic look and the latter’s was set and stern.
He rattled the door. “Guys. Guys, let me out,” he tried, glancing over his shoulder like his desperation might draw them in like sharks to blood in the water.
“Not until you’ve seen at least one dick that isn’t on a screen!” MJ shouted back.
“I’ve been in the high-school locker rooms!” Peter shrieked, rattling the door again. “Ned! Ned. Bestie. Man of my life. I’ve seen your dick. Tell her I’ve seen your dick! You can’t lock me in here!”
“I’m sorry, Peter. She’s got me by the balls,” Ned answered meekly. “Like, metaphorically. But she did steal my limited edition LEGO Issue three-oh-three Batman and is holding him hostage unless I do this, so.”
“One dick, Parker,” MJ cut in threateningly. “Because I swear to god if I have to listen to you talk about being the filling in a Rogers-Odinson sandwich one more time I will kill myself and haunt you as penance.”
“I’m not spiritual!” he yelped, throwing himself against the door as hard as he dared. It shuddered and Ned cursed but they were leaning their full weight against it and two to one were not good odds.
Shit.
Okay.
One dick. He could do that. He could peek through the door, find someone who was in the buff then run back to MJ and claim his freedom.
Fine.
Fine.
He turned, squared his shoulders, and marched for the door. If he slowed down or second guessed it he was honest to god gonna throw up, so he didn’t. He set his hands on the sleek gold handles of the red door, threw himself inside the small gap and plastered himself back against their closed solidness, panting.
He was in.
He was inside a sex club.
He turned his head slowly and met the eyes of the security guard, who stared back with rampant amusement.
“Wrong turn?” the man quipped, and Peter offered a shaky smile.
“I need to see a dick.”
The man’s brows slapped his hairline. “Well. You’re certainly in the right place. Unfortunately for you, this place is both eighteen only and pri— Where did you get that?”
He gestured to the band around Peter’s wrist and he raised it feebly. “Uh. Birthday present?”
Giving him a calculating once over, the security guard made gimme motions. “Band and ID.” He held out his wrist, presented his ID, and after an inspection that was, in Peter’s opinion, dramatically intense, the man hummed. “Well. Happy birthday and welcome to The Red Room.”
The Red Room was an apt name for it, though there was a healthy amount of black and gold to be found too. It was modern-classy, all smooth glossy panels and comfortable seating, and—
Naked people.
Everywhere.
Well.
At least he’d fulfilled his end of the deal.
“Oh my god,” he said faintly, leaning back against the door. Where did he look? Where should he look? What were the looking rules in a… In a… A sex dungeon?
“While we do encourage breathplay here, kid, for fuck’s sake inhale.”
A solid hand clapped on his shoulder and rattled his teeth, but it worked. He sucked in a sharp inhale, exhaled, and straightened. This was fine. The music was actually kinda good, the penises could be ignored, and there was an almost fruity scent to the air.
“Go on,” the guard gentled, nudging him away from the door. “Welcome to your whole new world, Jasmine.”
A little dazed, Peter muttered his thanks and took a few more steps into the room. Now he’d kind of gotten over the shock of it, all that was left was rampant curiosity. The building was deceptively large, big enough for two seating areas, a large stage and a bar space. The naked people on stage weren’t really even doing anything; just giving some sort of display. He ventured closer, peering around. There was a decent amount of people, though it was by no means crowded. It felt almost kind of… Cozy probably wasn’t the right word, but something similar.
He was so busy looking around he didn’t see the approaching figure until the man stopped in front of him, legs spread and arms folded. Peter blinked, tipped his head up, and promptly had an Error 404.
The man wasn’t that tall but he stood in a manner that made him seem endless. He was dressed in black slacks that clung to the shape of his thighs, a deep, red silk shirt Peter wanted to rub his face against that stretched and rippled over toned arms, broad shoulders, and—
And shit. Mr. Rogers who?
This man.
This man invented the word Daddy.
He looked like he belonged on a Vogue cover, fluffy jet hair swept up in a quiff that flopped over on a few of the topmost strands, matching dark stubble flecked with the barest hint of grey that had been trimmed like some sort of geometric pattern. Everything about him screamed I’m better than you and respect your elders.
“Enjoying the show, munchkin?” the man crooned, one brow arching sharply as he let his arms slowly unfold, taking a step forward. Peter took one back, and another, matched by the man’s advance until he was backed against the wall.
“I—”
Rough fingertips pinched the cuff of his hoodie sleeve and slowly pulled, lifting his arm between them so the fabric shifted and revealed the red bracelet with its gold insignia. The man tipped his head around, looked at it, then slowly dragged his gaze up to meet Peter’s.
“Stole Mommy’s jewelry, boy?”
“I—” Peter tried again, squeaking a little before he coughed.
“Ah-ah.” The man’s voice was low, deceptively soft, and he clicked his fingers between their faces. “Its way past your bedtime. This is an adults only playground.”
“I’m an orphan and the bracelet was my birthday present and I really, really have to go,” Peter yelped, sliding sideways out from the man’s gravity and bolting for the door. The security guard slouching against it barely had a moment to sidestep before he was out, down the hallway, bursting out onto the open street and straight into Ned.
“We have to go,” he beseeched, shaking Ned like a ragdoll before pushing him towards the car. “Now. Now. We gotta go, we gotta go. Anywhere there isn’t naked people and Daddies and what I’m pretty sure was a chastity cage being used as a tips jar.”
“What did you do?!” MJ demanded as she slipped into the car, barely getting her buckle in before Peter was stamping on the accelerator, thankful that in this area of town at least, traffic wasn’t so bad.
“That man was not like Mr. Rogers!”
He’d done his best to put the fiasco of his birthday present behind him, honestly, but apparently neither his dick nor his brain had agreed to that plan and for the last two weeks Peter had been tormented with HD replays and fantastical re-imaginings of a sleek, red-based room and a man with the Devil’s glitter in his eyes.
Even when staring dreamily at Mr. Rogers’ arms, he couldn’t help but envision crimson silk, the flow of expensive fabric over a solid figure. How it had moved like water.
"Oh, for God's sake," MJ, disgusted, grimaced at him. "You have no right to moon over him anymore, chickenshit."
"You're so mean to me," Peter whined, kicking her chair leg. "I can look. I just…"
"Don't have the balls to touch," she finished. "Yeah, I know."
"You don't get a say in this, blackmailer," he hissed, kicking her chair leg again.
"I can't believe I gave you a solution to both our problems and against all odds you made them worse."
"Call it a Parker talent," Peter muttered sullenly.
Every other night since the club he'd dreamed or daydreamed about the man. Nameless, a fantasy himself almost, a brief page note in the book of Peter's life.
But god, what a note.
A man like that had to have experience like no other. Oozing confidence, authority.
Audacity.
Who was he to accuse Peter of sneaking in? And theft too! Two crimes, and the man hadn't even so much as known his name yet.
Peter huffed.
Sneakily Googling porn in your early teens was one thing, but who did this man think Peter was? Some kind of mastermind felon who happened to know exactly what the bracelet was, where and how to use it?
Rude.
Sure, Peter’s face hadn't really gotten the memo he was a full-fledged adult yet, but so what?
Automatic criminal guilt?
"What's wrong with your face?" Ned mumbled, taco crumbs clinging to his lips. "Why's it doing that?"
Peter had escaped MJ's ire at lunch, her heading to band practise and Peter sitting with Ned in their usual spot. He was beginning to feel targeted, honestly.
"It's a face. It does things," he intoned, savaging his own meal.
“You look like that time Flash beat you at the spelling bee.”
“He cheated!” Peter cried, kicking the grass. “And I’m not a… A… Jasmine!”
Ned blinked at him for several long moments. “I mean… Honestly? You’ve always struck me more like a Belle. Maybe Lilo.”
“Does that make you Nani or Stitch?”
Peter couldn’t get it out of his head, though. Red silk shirts and golden insignias, Disney Princesses and low lighting and years of experience honed in age.
Because see, sure. Boys his age had some kind of appeal about them. They were pretty, soft, fresh. There was a vibrancy about them, but so often the appeal was all visual. When it came down to it…
It was just never as good as Peter wanted it to be.
But at a club like that… Peter himself had looked, at a glance, like the youngest member. In his brief time inside he hadn’t really noticed anyone close to his age. MJ had been right; it’d been an orchard of mature men ripe for the picking.
And damn it, Peter had an empty basket.
Eight-thirty the following Friday Peter flung the doors to The Red Room open like an unbolted barn in a hurricane.
“I’m eighteen, I have a valid membership and damnit I like older men and I won’t apologise!” he barked, flailing a little when one of the doors rebounded against his shoulder.
It was as he regained his balance that he noticed three things:
- The lights were fully up.
- The club was empty save three people around a single table.
- All three aforementioned people were staring at him.
“Good for you, Jasmine,” one of the men piped up, and Peter realized it was the doorman from that night, sitting with his legs up on the table, cheerfully sipping an alarmingly pink drink through an equally offensive straw.
“Jesus. Did you not lock the door? You never lock the fucking door,” muttered the one next to him, a man twice the size of the other two, with shaggy, fluffy chocolate hair that hung in his eyes and only vaguely hid the fact that his face seemed to be affixed in a permanent scowl.
“Then why do you keep assigning locking the door to me?” the bouncer asked innocently.
“Are we going to do anything about him, or?” the third asked curiously, gesturing to where Peter had frozen in meek embarrassment.
“Ah, he’s harmless. I wanna know about this older man thing anyway,” the security guard chirped, patting an empty seat next to him. “Park ass, kiddo. Scotty’ll get you a drink.”
“One Sloppy Creampie coming up,” the third man gave a salute as he swung up off his chair, jogging toward the bar.
“One what now?” Peter blinked.
“Its a drink. Non-alcoholic, of course,” the guard remarked, gesturing to a large, lit-up board behind the bar.
Sloppy Creampie, Pussy Shaker, MILF Juice…
“Whoever named those has issues,” he quipped as he stepped further into the room, taking a cautious seat between the guard and the second man, who probably hadn’t blinked in the last five minutes.
“Thank you,” the guard grinned proudly. “So. Clint,” he pointed to himself, “Scott,” over at the bar, then; “Buckaroo here. Second security detail. Also possible Russian assassin.”
Clint jolted as ‘Buckaroo’ kicked him swiftly in the underside of the thigh, and the latter grunted. “Its Bucky.”
“Peter. Peter Parker,” taking the drink when it was offered, he eyed it cautiously. It was thick, white, a little sludgy on top with what he desperately hoped was just some kind of actual, literal cream. From a cow.
“Gotta be honest, I didn’t think we’d see you again. Especially not after the boss man scared you off,” Scott remarked as he flopped back into his seat. “I’ve literally never seen someone run outta here so fast.”
“You do got some legs on you,” Clint agreed.
“I, uh. I had. Somewhere to be. Plans.” Peter defended, taking a sip. It was kind of like a milkshake, sweet and thick.
“Uh huh.” Scott didn’t look convinced, but it didn’t seem to dissuade them from teasing him, comfortable ribbing he’d begun to give back as good as he got before Bucky’s eyes flicked up over his head, and;
“Ah, the Runaway Twink hath returned.”
Oh god.
No.
It was Daddy Man. Mr. Hot. Red Silk Shirt and New Kink Unlocked.
Peter tipped his head back and met a set of grit-dark eyes staring down at him. The red silk shirt was absent, in its place a skin-tight, long-sleeved black shirt that had painted itself over every slope and ridge of his abdomen.
“Oh, god,” Peter whimpered.
“What have I told you about locking the doors and not adopting strays?” the man asked, sliding his gaze over to Clint, who made an affronted noise.
“Hey. This one wandered in all on his own!”
“And he’s got something to say to you,” Bucky piped up, rough-low voice sounding amused.
“I do not!” Peter yipped, throwing him an alarmed look. Bucky quirked a brow back, head tilting a little, and shit. Did this place have to hire such attractive people?
“He so does,” Clint added, and Peter deflated.
“Well I’m always interested in customer feedback,” the man behind him drawled smoothly, stepping in sideways and perching on the edge of the table.
Fuck.
He really was hot.
Folded arms, one bent leg, muscular body turned in toward Peter. Up close he smelt like pine and mint and Peter could see more of the salt-pepper flecking his facial hair and temples.
Suddenly, Peter didn’t speak a fucking word of English. Eventually, Scott took pity on him.
“He’s eighteen, a member, and into older men,” he commented, patting Peter’s knee. “To summarize.”
“Who’d’ve been able to guess?” the oldest man responded, arching a brow and raking his gaze over him. “The revelation of the century, truly.”
“C’mon, Tony. Its not nice to assume,” Clint prodded at him, but he was smirking.
Tony.
Even his name was nice. Short for Anthony or Antonio or Antoine, most likely, and shit but it was something Peter could envision himself moaning.
“By all means, this kid breaks out one kink that surprises me, I’ll refund his whole damn membership.”
“So you admit its my membership?” Peter challenged, finding sudden bravery and remembering the entire reason he was here. Tony held his hands up in surrender, smirking a little.
“It seems I do owe you an apology, Parker. Six months paid in full, beginner submissive with—”
“Begi— What? I never said that!”
“Its on your membership profile.”
“My what?”
All four of them were looking at him oddly now.
“How exactly did you come about a membership again?” Tony asked, leaning in. Peter swallowed.
“My friend MJ did it for my birthday. As a present. I didn’t know.”
Across the table, Bucky snorted. “Explains a lot.”
“Forgive my ears their incompetence. You mean you knew nothing about this? You had no say in your own profile?”
Peter pouted. “Well… She didn’t get it wrong.”
“Ordinarily I’d cancel such a membership with prejudice. But… To deny my gallery such a work of art?” Tony mused. It was tailed with a lavish wink and Peter’s cheeks flared red, gaze averting. At his side Scott feigned retching, shaking his head.
“Lay off it, Casanova. Are we starting this meeting or are we gonna tease the twink all night?”
“Can we vote on it?” Clint asked, aiming a faux leer at Peter.
“Cute mascot though he’d be, it’d be unprofessional to discuss business management in front of a client,” Tony intoned, reaching out and plucking Peter’s glass from his hand. He brought it to his mouth slowly, let the flat of his tongue meet the straw first, then sucked.
“You got a way home, kid?”
“I drove here,” Peter answered numbly, watching him lick his lips.
“Well, don’t be a stranger, but hop to it now. Daddy’s got his idiots to wrangle and a business to run.”
Jesus christ and every stone he stepped on.
It was the second fastest Peter had ever left a building.
“Welcome back, Jasmine. Missed us already?”
“Just couldn’t stay away from a good, Sloppy Creampie, y’know?” Peter flashed his band even though it was kind of moot, and gave Clint a grin as he slipped past and inside. It was busier tonight, music a little louder, more people, the bar semi-full. Scott was wearing a mesh shirt and simple leather harness, and he waved when he saw Peter, beckoning him over.
“Shortstack!” he greeted, finishing serving before he leaned on the bar. There was glitter on his face and what looked like lipstick smeared by one of his brows. “Baby’s first real night. You got an order?”
“Surprise me,” Peter grinned. He was actually feeling pretty confident about being back here. The past week since his last visit had been full of research, experimentation and introspection, and The Red Room was, as MJ promised, a good shout at giving him what he wanted.
“One Fingerbang coming up,” Scott quipped, winking as he turned away.
“Seriously. Who named these?” Peter complained as he sat down. He cast another look around and still felt horribly underdressed for the place—most people were in clubbing outfits or bondage gear.
“If you’re looking for Tony, he’s over there,” Scott’s voice popped up by his ear, a layered orange-purple drink set down by his arm.
“I wasn’t,” Peter tried, but he looked anyway. Tony was talking to two girls, older than Peter but probably not by much. They were dressed for a nightclub in slinky latex and chokers, and Tony looked amused as he spoke. They were flirting, clearly, and something in Peter’s tummy started to feel a little funny.
“We’ve got bets on how long you last tonight, y’know,” Scott added cheerfully and Peter turned to him in betrayal.
“Hey!”
Scott grinned. “Go say hi to Tones and stop distracting me, Pretty Face.” Effectively shooed away so Scott could keep working, Peter turned on his stool, pretending very hard that he wasn’t looking at Tony. Tony, who leaned forwards to tweak at one girl’s choker, smirking, winking. She flushed red, giggled, scuttled off with her friend, and Peter took another sip of his drink as he tried to figure out why his tummy felt kind of sore and sour.
“You’re a new face.”
Peter turned, blinking up at the man leaning next to him. He was tall, willowy, with jet hair creeping towards his shoulders. There was a dormant mischief in his eyes.
“I’m legally allowed to be here,” he answered warily. The man chuckled, leaning in a little.
“A valid doubt. Its a pleasure to meet you…?”
“Too innocent for untoward antics.”
That infuriating, lofty drawl again. Peter lifted his gaze, brows furrowing in slight irritation as his company turned, hands lifting in surrender.
“Polite conversation is untoward antics?” he asked.
“For you, always. Now get. Bambi won’t keep up,” Tony answered, clapping him on the shoulder.
“A shame,” the stranger hummed, turning to wink at Peter before obligingly moving off. Peter watched him go, sipped his drink angrily, then scowled.
“I’m allowed to talk to people.”
“Not people like that. Talking isn’t what he’s after,” Tony quirked a brow, perching in the bar stool opposite Peter. “You’re fresh meat. You’re gonna get a lot of people wanting to be the first to taste.”
“Isn’t that the point of being here?” Peter quizzed. Tony shrugged and leaned back a little, shirt pulling taut around his chest and upper arms. His hair was gelled up today.
“Interestingly enough, sex isn’t the only purpose of a place like this. But my point stands; some of the people here will eat you alive.”
Peter sipped his drink defiantly. “What if I can handle myself?”
He tried not to be too affronted when Tony snorted, smiling to himself like Peter had told a joke. “Don’t try to bullshit a guy on a throne of lies, kid. I can smell the shiny-new of you..”
And shit, new kink unlocked. Peter wasn’t even sure what it was but his dick was paying attention.
“Do you even have a safeword?” Tony prodded.
“You just use colors, right?” Peter asked. Tony blinked at him, muttered jesus christ under his breath, then raised a finger.
“Stay.”
He disappeared and Peter twiddled his thumbs until Tony came back, a stack of papers in hand which he thrust at Peter. “Here. Some light reading for your downtime.”
“You’re giving me homework?” Peter gawked ludicrously. He sifted through them, swallowing at the paragraphs of text and the various diagrams.
“Consider it part of the membership, Twinky,” Tony intoned back, tapping the sheets. “This stuff keeps you safe. Its the bare basics of what you should know. You’re lucky I’m a sucker for a pretty face.”
Unbidden, Peter blushed. He was well aware Tony had been making exceptions for him.
“Fine,” he grumbled, ducking his head and sifting through the papers. BDSM 101, How to Choke Safely, Your Safeword and You, Ene—
“Jesus fucking christ,” Peter yelped, heaving as he slammed the sheets down on the bar. “My god.”
That.
That was a very realistic enema pamphlet.
He looked up, outcry on his tongue, but Tony was already gone.
“If I’d have known kink clubs came with homework I’d have asked for a budgie for my birthday instead,” Peter complained, waving the latest stack of papers Tony had given him. Each visit came with a new set and a not so subtle quiz on last week’s sheets.
“Forty-One Things To Know About Lube?” Scott asked curiously, peering at the topmost sheet. “Huh. I didn’t even know there were that many things to know about it.”
“Neither did I,” Peter muttered, sipping his Flavored Condom sullenly. Thus far Peter’s time in the club had been spent evenly between enviously watching Tony interact with other people and hiding by the bar, scouring the print-outs Tony thrust at him each visit.
“I think he got into the wrong profession,” he added on a sigh, and nearly leapt off the bar stool when a luxurious purr in his ear intoned;
“Oh? And what should I be instead?”
“Minding your own business?” Peter asked sweetly, turning in his seat. Tony was so close Peter could see the darker lines in his irises. He smelt like chamomile and fruit today.
“The brat’s feeling brave today,” Tony remarked huskily, stepping in a little closer. Peter’s heart tripped over itself and exploded, robbing his breath as he leaned back. Tony didn’t stop when he gave, came in closer, until all Peter would have to do is angle his head and they’d be kissing.
“I need to start putting you in line, boy?”
Boy.
Of all the things to send a hot stripe down his spine. Peter’s cheeks felt like a wildfire as Tony stared at him, vague amusement glittering in his eyes. Peter opened his mouth, squeaked, closed it, and looked hastily away.
“Mm, there’s those manners. Some of them, anyway. But a good start,” Tony teased, and then he reached out, patting Peter firmly atop the head once, twice, thrice. “Good boy.”
“Let the kid breathe, asshole,” Clint chirped as he fell into the next seat, kicking out at Tony’s leg. “He’s gonna die of blood loss because it’ll all be in his dick.”
“The kid is right here,” Peter muttered, but nobody paid him any mind. At least, not until;
“You checking out the expo next week, munchkin?”
“Expo?”
“Tony’s demo on fisting. Sign-up only.”
“Tony’s fisti—” Peter hiccupped. “What?”
It wasn’t a fisting seminar, actually.
It was worse.
Worse as in, when he arrived a few hours late thanks to actual homework from his actual school, Tony Stark was seated on the small podium stage, dressed in a suit. Like, an actual suit. An expensive looking two-piece, hair combed, dark red shades on.
He looked.
He.
“Oh, look. Baby’s second sexual awakening,” Clint grinned as he clapped his hands on Peter’s shoulders and steered him through the crowd, pushing him down in a small booth seat quite close to the stage. “Try not to hit your head if you pass out. The paperwork’s evil.”
Peter made a vague noise in answer, bag falling off his shoulder as he stared. If Tony had noticed him come in he wasn’t paying any attention. No, his attention was off on some far wall, not on Peter, not on the mostly naked man kneeling by his thigh, eyes half-closed, a thick and glossy collar taut around his throat. For several long moments nothing happened, and then Tony’s lips moved in a sentence too soft to reach the rest of them. It reached the collared man just fine though, and he shifted, pushed up onto his knees, hands all over Tony as he carefully pushed his glasses up into his hair for him.
“Good boy,” Tony said louder, gazing at him with gentle adoration. He tipped his head ever so slightly and the other man leaned in for a soft, brief kiss.
Something inside Peter cinched, hot and a little bitter. He shifted in his seat, fingers dragging against the table as he considered just getting up and leaving. It was strangely both entrancing and somewhat uncomfortable to witness.
“Open up,” Tony hummed and the submissive leaned back a little, mouth opening, tongue lolling a little. Tony let his thumb slide inside, over the wet pad of it, smearing it over his cheek before he dropped his hand, hooked the collar, and pulled gently.
“D’you think they’re eager enough for it, pet?” Tony asked. The submissive whined, soft and high.
“Mm, I think so too.”
And. Maybe it was just wishful thinking on Peter’s part, but it seemed like Tony’s gaze flit to him for a brief moment. Unreadable and gone in half a second. Tony’s fingers twisted the collar a little tighter, the submissive arching, and Peter realized he was stifling his airflow just enough to matter.
Oh.
“Good. You’re so good,” Tony murmured, easing off the pressure before he shifted in his seat, relaxing back and letting his legs fall apart more. “Get on with it, then.”
Get on with…?
He whimpered aloud and squeezed his legs together when the submissive sank and curled over Tony’s thigh, nimble fingers working at his belt. Surely…?
Tony remained unaffected as the man pulled at his belt, fingers brushing the thick, obvious bulge that strained against his pressed slacks. Peter’s mouth felt sand-dry as he stared, unabashed for sheer lack of thought on anything else. Unsteady but focused hands draw out a thick, mid-length cock flushed dark pink and almost red at the tip, as if Tony’d been hard for a long time, straining and yearning for attention. At any moment, Peter was sure, he was going to wake up.
The sub leans down, mouth open and eager, but—
“Ah, ah.”
Stopped. Tony’s voice was firm but bored, gaze fixed on inspecting the nails of one hand. The other man stopped, tongue lolling, trembling minutely but not daring to close those final inches. In the low light of the club Tony’s skin was golden and cast in part shadow, like a sculpture.
His length throbbed in the submissive’s hand, and Peter wondered how it would feel. Hot? Velvety? Firm?
He was so thick.
If Peter himself was feeling impatient, he had no idea how Tony’s partner felt. He burned with it, lit up from the inside out, a banking inferno he squirmed against, licking his lips slowly. And perhaps it was coincidence, but it was mere moments after that Tony moved his hand, fingers twisting in sandy blonde hair before he pushed the submissive down onto half of his cock, presumably all the other man could fit.
Peter breathed out. Stifled a moan.
Fuck.
Tony looked like he couldn’t care less, like he was on his last meeting of the day and his brain had already clocked out. Impassive.
Part of Peter wondered if he could make Tony pay attention. If, given the opportunity to be in place of the other man, he’d have Tony looking. Cursing. Moaning. Thrusting into his mouth…
The sub made a wet, gurgled choking noise, shoulders hitching, cheeks stretched taut around Tony’s thick girth, drool giving it a glossy sheen in the half-light and Peter was tripping out of his seat as quietly as he could, scrambling past an amused, smug looking Clint and out into the cool air of the night.
He staggered to his car, fell into the seat and after a cursory glance around canted his hips and fumbled with his zipper, hissing as he shoved a hand into his pants. He was hard enough to hurt, hotthrobbingneedy as he wrapped a too-dry hand around himself and squeezed, head falling back, moaning at the heated jolt that sang through his nerves.
A light scrape of his nails, another hard squeeze and a single tight downstroke was all it took to have him folding over, head on the steering wheel as he shook and tensed and felt hot, thick wet spread across his hands and soak into his jeans.
“Oh, god,” he choked out, sucking in sharp, fast breaths.
He was so, so fucked.