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cagestark · 6 years ago

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Permission Chapter 4

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five

This is for thatmarvelstan who had a rough day. Feel better <3

This will now be FIVE chapters long.

Read here on AO3

How do they go on?

That’s a question for yesterday, always for yesterday. Because today, they go on like this: by not talking about it. Tony isn’t sure if Peter even remembers the things he said during his drunken adventures. But Tony remembers, and he thinks to himself that there’s no way that he can see the kid and not see him, not hear him, the way he begged to cum, the way he whimpered Tony’s moniker. Thinking that this will finally force his hand, he orders in for dinner, sets up candles in the penthouse and plans to make an Official Move. Nothing else will do—he’s not ever going to let Peter slip through his fingers, not again.

But when the kid arrives at the Tower, he’s acting like nothing happened. He thanks Tony for picking him up from the bar in Brooklyn and then asks if maybe they could work on the suit for a while. It’s polite, informal but not at all romantic, and Tony can’t help it. He doubts. Maybe this isn’t something that Peter wants, not during the light of day. Maybe this lust is just something he feels at night under the covers in his bed. Why the fuck would Peter want a relationship with Tony? Except for Tony’s money, he doesn’t have much else going for him.

So they work on the suit. Dozens of floors away, a meal goes cold, a champagne grows flat, and by the time Tony arrives back up in the penthouse, the candles have burned themselves out. He cleans up, alone.

He goes on.

The next three times Peter messages him asking to cum, Tony gives back a simple, “Yes, you can cum.” It’s all that needs said. Anything else and he’s at risk of deluding himself.

He’s willing to take what he can get from Peter. The kid is more than capable of providing stimulating conversation, he’s fun to be around. That’s more than can be said for half the population. Maybe Peter isn’t interested in him romantically, but they can still be—Tony gags—friends. He tries to invite Peter over to do friendly things, things he might do with any of the Avengers. That’s how they end up in the penthouse on a Friday night, drinking beer (seltzer for Tony) and eating pizza (with all the toppings except for anchovies).

They talk shop, and classes, and friends. Peter tells him about Ned and MJ and what they’re each doing, and Tony listens, eager for every drop of this kid and his life. Tony wants to know it all, wants to savor it all, because he knows how easily it could disappear.

The movie that’s as background noise becomes inadvertently sexy, and even though they haven’t been paying any more than a quarter of their attention to it while they talk, when the sex scene arrives, the conversation dulls until they are both watching, sipping their drinks in silence save for the noises coming from the screen: pants and wet, sucking kisses, and heavy breaths.

“Look at that guy’s abs,” Tony mutters. “Come on. That’s a criminal offense.”

Peter snorts softly. “That’s one crime I would gladly be the victim of.”

“You and me, both, kid.”

It’s suggested that the woman on screen begins to give the man head, and Tony gets lost in the little things about it: the way the actor’s head falls back, how the lamp from beside the bed casts shadows in his collarbones, the furrow in the man’s brow even as one hand is offscreen and tangled in blond curls. There are noises, for Christ’s sake. Fuck, he misses that for himself.

“FRIDAY,” Tony asks. “Is this pornography? Did you slip the wool over my aging eyes and turn me to the X-Rated channels?”

“This is rated R, boss, which according to the Motion Picture Association of America means that—”

“Okay babe, thanks,” Tony says. He takes another sip from his drink to wet his mouth. He’s hyperaware of Peter next to him, just a couch cushion away watching this with him. The kid is sitting completely still, and Tony can’t tell the expression on his face out of the corner of his eye, so he turns to look and—

Oh. Peter is flushed, mouth just a little parted. His eyes are glossy and glued to the screen, and (when Tony’s gaze naturally falls) he is hard. Completely hard. Unmistakably hard. Tony’s brain does a 404 ERROR. Page Not Found. Then Peter shoves his plate onto his lap (not that the tent in his pants allows for much more than him to hold it awkwardly above his erection).

“Sorry,” Peter mutters.

“Yikes—don’t be. Don’t be! That’s—natural. I’m sorry.” Tony looks back to the screen. Fuck. Now he’s even more aware of Peter, of how the kid can no longer sit still. His breaths are just barely audible, and even though Tony’s head is turned towards the television, he doesn’t see what’s on screen. Every one of his senses is attuned to the younger man next to him.

Peter sits his plate aside. “I’ve got—uh—bathroom.”

Tony feels there’s fire just underneath his skin. He waves a hand, not daring to look. “You don’t have to go.”

“Trust me, I really do—”

“Yeah, I can see that. I just meant that—never mind.” Tony bites his tongue. What is he fucking thinking, almost asking Peter to stay? To jerk off beside him? Maybe the kid is just going in there to calm down, splash some water on his goddamn face. Maybe if Tony wasn’t so hopelessly infatuated and lustful, his mind wouldn’t jump to such dirty conclusions.

“What is it?” Peter asks. He sits back down, gingerly.

Tony still can’t look. “It was a stupid idea, kid. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m worried! I mean—I don’t think you’ve ever had a stupid idea, Mr. Stark.”

“That’s a gross miscalculation, Pete, trust me.”

“I’ve got good judgement,” Peter says. “Tell me and let me decide.”

“I was just going to say—if you were going to go take care of that the old-fashioned way, you could just stay. I mean, you’ll be asking me for permission, anyway, won’t you?”

“You—want to watch me jerk off?” Peter’s voice goes high and squeaky. Dogs all over the New York area hear it, and it makes Tony wince. God, the kid is fucking blunt. But that’s a good thing; at least Tony can trust him to call him out on his bullshit.

“See? Poor, very poor idea—”

“You want to watch me?”

Tony’s mouth opens. He closes it. There’s something about the kid’s tone of voice, something that itches at the back of Tony’s brain though he can’t get a finger on it. Against his better judgement, he risks a glance, and he finds that Peter has turned completely towards him until his back rests against the arm rest at his end of the couch, one leg pulled up onto the cushions. He’s still hard. But it’s his expression: eyes lidded, cheeks still flushed (with embarrassment? arousal?). It wipes Tony’s brain clean like an eraser on a chalkboard.

“I—” Tony begins. “Do you—want me to want to watch you?”

“Do you want me to want you to want to watch me? I mean, you had a point. I’d just be texting you in a minute anyway—not that—not that I just last a minute! I mean—fuck.”

Tony can’t help but laugh. Peter scrubs his palms over his eyes, but he’s smiling. It takes some of the tension out of things, and Tony feels himself slipping out of his own skin and into the roll of Playboy. It’s what the world expects of him, and it’s useful here, it’s easy. Standing, Tony crosses to the armchair where he sits, reclining, holding his glass in his hand. He’s a little hard himself, though Peter can’t probably tell that thanks to positioning and the dark pants. He lifts a leg to rest his ankle on his knee.

“Go on, then,” Tony says. His voice comes out low and dark without asking him for his input, but it’s fine. It makes Peter gulp, throat bobbing as he shifts to take up the entire couch. Laying down the way he is, his erection is even more obvious, downright obscene. This is a picture Tony never thought he would see, one that he never wants to forget.

Peter reaches down and gingerly unbuttons his pants, sliding the zipper down over the bump of his full cock. His eyes slip closed until Tony snaps his fingers, the sound like a firecracker in the quiet room. Peter’s eyes widen when he realizes that Tony wants him to maintain eye contact. He whines, tucking his chin to his chest like he can hide from the older man’s bald gaze.

“You can stop,” Tony says. “Any time you want. No hard feelings.”

Taking a deep breath, Peter shucks his pants and underwear down past the curve of his ass, halfway down his thighs. Both hands link fingers, resting on his stomach which is heaving for breath. Tony takes his time examining every inch of Peter: he is average at best, cut, with a flushed cock that curves straight towards his flat belly. He is completely hairless—a personal preference, or another habit leftover from his time with Quentin Beck?

A noise slips from Peter’s throat, luring Tony’s eyes back to his own. The kid’s face looks tortured, eyes fluttering, mouth red and open. His knuckles are white from how he’s clasping his hands together—and oh. He’s waiting for Tony to tell him he can.

Tony nods. Peter’s eyes shut in brief relief, only to open a moment later. One hand drifts down but hesitates. “Pretend I’m not even here,” Tony advises.

Peter says something under his breath—and fuck stupid normal human hearing, because Tony can’t make out what it is. Then Peter reaches out with one thin finger, brushing the pad of his fingertip over the head of his own cock where precum beads. Tony can see from his seat the way the wetness slicks Peter’s finger. When he pulls it away, a line of sticky cum clings like a web between cock and finger, and then the boy brings it to his mouth to lick it off. Tony’s cock jumps, no avoiding the truth that he is hard himself right now. Peter can’t tell from his vantage point, not with the way Tony has his ankle perched up on his knee, but how Tony plans to avoid him noticing afterwards, he has no idea.

Peter returns his hand to brush his lax fingers over his cock, trailing them up one side and down the other. He’s a tease—to Tony, but mostly to himself. It’s clear from the way his cock jumps and spits precum that the kid is painfully turned on, but still he doesn’t take himself in hand. Bypassing his cock, he takes his hairless balls into his palm and rolls them, rubbing a thumb against them tenderly. Then he tightens his grip, tighter, until Tony is wincing in sympathy across the room, until the kid whimpers, gritting his teeth. From the way his cock leaks, it’s a good pain. Jesus, the kid is kinky.

Both hands disappear up Peter’s graphic tee, and it’s clear from the way he arches his back that’s he’s playing with his nipples. Are they the same color as his cock? Tony has to know, so he snaps his fingers again until the kid is watching, ears perked like a dog waiting for directions. After motioning with a finger, the kid gets the idea. He tucks the shirt up under his chin, and fuck is he built. Abs—a literal six pack, better than the one on television. Besides a smattering of hair leading down towards his erection, the kid is hairless even on his chest. Normally, Tony prefers hair, the masculinity of it, but there is no need for reminding. Peter is both masculine and feminine, a soft, hard balance.

His nipples are flat, just a shade lighter than his cock. The younger man teases himself here, too, dragging his fingers back and forth, narrowly avoiding where his nipples have tightened into desperate buds. When he finally drags a gentle thumb over one, he shivers, hips jerking upwards even as a soft little sound escapes his mouth. Tony’s own mouth waters. He clenches his jaw, swallowing it down.

He starts a rhythm of pinching and then soothing the ache with gentle fingers. A litany of noises escapes him, whimpers, whines. The head of his cock goes shiny with precum, and Tony’s own aches between his legs, trapped awkwardly in his pants. He doesn’t touch it—he pays it no mind. Peter’s heels dig into the couch cushion, socked toes curling. His eyes are squeezed shut, but Tony has mercy on him for now. It gives him a chance to not have to worry about schooling his hungry facial expressions. There’s never been a more tempting sight than Peter on this couch, hips twitching with aborted thrusts against nothing but air.

“Could you cum like this?” Tony asks. His voice is rough from arousal, though he hopes it will come off as from disuse.

Peter’s eyes open, glassy and dazed. “No sir,” he says, tongue thick, words slurred like he’s drunk though he’s barely finished a single beer. He looks like he hardly knows what he’s saying, like it’s coming out of his mouth unbidden. “Not unless you told me I could.”

Tony inhales, slow, lets it out slower.

When Peter finally grows desperate enough, he leaves one hand to pluck at his tender nipples and the other smooths down his abs towards his cock. It’s just a little more than a handful, and the noise that is torn from Peter’s throat at the first touch has Tony’s eyes slipping shut. He clenches his fingers, around the glass in his hand and where they are curled into a fist on the armrest. He will not touch himself—this is just, just two friends, just Peter finding relief and Tony (fuck, what the fuck is Tony doing, what are either of them doing?) supervising.

Peter begins a steady rhythm. Sometimes he leaves his fist steady and then jerks his hips up, fucking into his hand. It looks like torture, like the most difficult way to get off, which is probably why a kinky little shit like Peter enjoys it so much. There’s no need to spit in his palm, not when his cock is constantly leaking, lubricating the way. Sometimes, Peter stops altogether and just uses the pad of his middle finger to rub at his frenulum. His cries are nearly constant, coming with every breath he takes. He’s the most beautiful thing Tony’s ever seen.

And there is no way they can just be friends. Not when Tony feels like this. It will kill him, he thinks. And he’ll have to let it, rather than hurt this kid. But those are thoughts he packs up and puts away, because Peter is back to fisting his cock, quicker now, working his hand and his hips.

“Mr. Stark—” Peter cries out, voice tortured. “Can I cum? Please?”

And Tony says:

“No.”

@flowersandteeth @starkeroverload @prettyboy-parker @metametalina @st-arker @darkobsidianquill @typing123 @ironspiidey @i-don’t-know-what-this-is @thefaultinourstarker @livingbutnotalivex3 @starkerparadise @anyabxrns @fedupdadtm @alanaaw88 @idntwantausername @softstarkerstuff @kiaorastarker @thirsty-for-starker @thotticusmaxximus @sadbumblingmess @kawaiioverofanimu @katzenbaby1 @css1992 @99stark @spn-samifer @gimme-the-filthy-hcs @inmyfeelxngs @bros-before-ghosts @wandering-night19 @twixen93 @yeahishipthatsowhat @lonleystarker @nanibanani10 @deliciousflapbanditfarm @another-starker-hoe @von—gelmini @babyboy-peterparker @petertonytomrobert @goodtimesstarker @bshamm @nemeiel @audreyintheuniverse @silkystark @iamastarkerfan @plsstopgivingpetertrauma

#starker #nff #author is rushing this because she's here for a good time not a long time #*hides*

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sevi007 · 8 years ago

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A girl, a hero

When Eri woke, there was a moment of shocked disorientation that took her breath away. The room she was in was dark before her eyes, the surface beneath her not quite harsh and not quite soft.

For just a second, an agonizing long moment in time, she was back in her room, the one with the lonely bed amidst unused and unloved toys with which Chisaki and the others had tried to bribe her into trusting them. For a moment, the gentle, kind touch (“It’s alright now, Eri-chan”) was gone, gone, gone and she felt alone and cold and hopeless again.

And then she gasped in her desperate search for air and freedom, and the panic passed away as she becomes aware of the loud voices in her back. It must have been that what woke her from her slumber.

“… school or not, U.A. was attacked by villains often enough already, you want to tell me the girl will be safe there? Seriously?”

“U.A was and will always be a safe space for those who need it, and we are more than ready to protect the girl.”

“Listen to Eraserhead, will you.”

“I’m just saying…”

“Do you have a better option where to put the girl?”

“I think she would be alright at U.A.”

“Yeah, I mean, All Might himself is there, and…”

“He can’t fight anymore.”

“But the boys are there, too.”

“Mirio and Midoriya will watch out for her for sure!”

“They are good, yes, but they are children, are you sure that…”

There were many, too many voices, and Eri pressed her hands over her ears as she had done so often, staring into the space in front of her. Now she remembered – she wasn’t in the room anymore. This was not the dark, lifeless place she had escaped from so many times. This was the office Deku-nii had brought her to, yes? And she wasn’t lying in her bed, either. This was the couch in the middle of the room, where she had fallen asleep on while Deku-nii had held her hand.

Deku-nii?

Lifting her head, hands still pressed tightly against her ears, she looked around with wide eyes. Her hero was nowhere in sight.

Had he left her?

No. He had promised he would stay, he had said so, he wouldn’t… wouldn’t just…

Eri’s bottom lip started trembling as she shook her head, trying to get rid of the dark thoughts. Recalling what Deku-nii had said while he had held her gently, yet tightly.

“I won’t let go, Eri. Never again. Okay?”

That and the memory of a warm, bright smile made Eri’s breaths come easier again, pressure lifted of her chest. Deku-nii would never leave her behind. Neither would Mirio-nii. They probably had only went out shortly, or went to sleep. They would be back.

Eri would have liked to sleep again, too, but she found that she couldn’t. The memory of the room lingered, and the voices in her back, coming from the meeting room table in the middle of the office, were too loud to let her fall back asleep.

Adults were strange sometimes. Loud when they didn’t have any need to be.

A flicker of light caught the girl’s attention, and she shifted, scooting closer to the armrest of the couch to look over it.

The man with the glasses – Mirio called him “Sir” while Deku-nii went with “Nighteye-san” – was sitting in front of his computer, facing in her directions, but his attention fully captured by the luminous screen. He was hammering the keys so loud that it was a constant clacking sound, a bit like a heartbeat. Sometimes he would stop for a second, mutter something under his breath, and then start his clacking again.

Eri blinked and shifted a bit closer. Apart from Mirio-nii and Deku-nii, Nighteye had been the one to save her – or at least that was what she had been told, since she had not seen the man in action like her new brothers.

Just as she looked, the clacking stopped, and Nighteye’s head twitched around slightly. Suddenly, Eri found her gaze met with his, the man’s glasses lighting up ominously in the light of the screen and turning entirely white.

It sent a cold rush of shock down her back, and she dove back behind the armrest. Waiting. Hovering.

Perhaps he would get angry at her. Had she… had she misbehaved? Was she not supposed to look, or at least not to be caught looking?

He wouldn’t get angry at her like Father had always been, right?

She waited, with batted breath and racing heart, hands shivering… but nothing happened.

The clacking started again, perhaps just a tiny bit slower than before.

Slowly, carefully, Eri looked over the armrest again.

Nighteye’s gaze was fixed on the screen again, seemingly forgotten about his little watcher as he worked on something.

Did that mean she was allowed to look, Eri wondered. Did that mean he would not be angry… but kind? Like her brothers?

The shadows were pushing closer again. The voices were too loud. She desperately wished for Deku-nii or Mirio-nii, but they weren’t here.

The only one who had saved her and was in the room… was the man sitting behind desk and computer.

Before she could think better of it, with the same courage that had caused her to run away so often propelling her forward, Eri slipped of the couch and tapped across the short distance. The ground beneath her bare feet was cold, but not as cold as back there, and it was only a few steps. In front of the desk, she crouched and crawled under the table’s surfaces, into the space under it. Settling between two long, thin legs.

The clacking above her slowed. Perhaps she had been too forward. Perhaps the adult would now get angry.

But then the sound started again, and the tension in the long limbs right and left of her vanished again.

She felt already saver, Eri concluded. It was also dark and cramped under here, but she was close to what Deku-nii had called a “hero”. (He was very fond of that word, he was.) Heroes, Deku-nii had explained to her, would protect her. They would look out for her, so that she would never have to go back there.

Or… was the man next to her not a hero?

Biting her bottom lip, Eri thought about it. She had not seen the man doing things that heroes do, right? Perhaps she had understood wrong. Perhaps he wasn’t a hero.

She would have to look for another hideout if he wasn’t a hero. Only heroes would keep her from Father, after all.

She could… she could ask, Eri noted. She could ask the man if he was a hero, too, not just a man. But then again, adults didn’t like when she talked. Her caretakers had yelled at her, or reacted annoyed. Father didn’t like when she talked too much, either.

But… but she could ask without talking. Yes. She could write (that thought came with pride, because writing was an adult’s thing, and she could do it).

But for that, she needed paper. And a pen. Or a crayon. A crayon would already be enough.

Scooting to the edge of her hideout, she kneeled, then stretched. Only a pen. And a bit of paper. She would grab it, dive back into hiding, and not annoy the adult. Annoying was bad. So quickly, quietly!

She couldn’t really reach over the desk, being too small and while trying to hide at the same time, but she could pat around on top of the desk a bit with her hand if she stretched just a bit more.

Pat pat pat to the right. Pat pat pat to the left. Finally, her fingers gripped something that felt like one of her crayons and she snatched it, quickly pulling back into her hideout, clutching it to her chest tightly for a moment.

One, two, three beats. Nothing happened. Nigtheye didn’t come look for her, didn’t neither react angry, nor did the clacking of keys stop.

Good.

Again, Eri reached over the desk, patting. Left… no. Right… not, either.

Frowning, she hesitated… and startled when something was pushed gently in the space between her fingers. She hadn’t noticed that the key-hammering had stopped! But before she could hide again in panic, she halted, feeling what had been pushed into her grip.

Paper!

She pulled back, beaming as she saw the little stack of post-it-notes that Nighteye had slipped in between her fingers. Hastily, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration, she sketched the letters one of her caretakers – one of the nicer ones – had taught her not too long ago. This way and that and… there!

Looking around, Eri hesitated. She could just push the note over the edge of the desk, but then she would perhaps make a mistake – throw it down, or disturb the man? She needed to make sure that it was okay to pass the note over.

Carefully, always waiting and fearing to make the man angry, she tapped his leg, just slightly. The breath of a touch.

The clacking stopped, the leg twitched slightly.

Eri tapped again, a bit more insistent, the paper between her fingers rustling against clothes.

A shift in the lean frame above her startled her, but before she could duck, a hand appeared beneath the table edge, stretching out to her.

Eri laid the note on the huge palm, watching as long fingers wrapped around it and the hand was pulled back. Waiting as she heard the rustle above her.

She had settled for one single word, letters a bit wobbly and insecure, but readable.

Hello.

The rustling stopped entirely, and Eri was almost tempted to peek out from under the table to catch a look on the man’s face. Faces, she had learned, especially eyes, could say more than words could. She had always seen when Father had become angry because of the strain around his eyes.

There was movement above her, the clicking and scratching of a pen, and then more rustling as the hand reached out to her under the table again. Handing her her note back.

Carefully, Eri plucked it out from between the long finger – the hand disappearing back up again immediately – and read the letters which still troubled her a bit. She had to read them quietly to herself, mouthing them in tune.

Good evening.

Eri frowned, then nodded to herself. He was polite, just like Deku-nii. That was already better than her “caretakers” who had yelled at her sometimes.

Clutching her pencil again, she took a new post-it and wrote back Are you a hero? and then tugged at the pant leg beside her. This time, there was no hesitation from the man’s side as he reached down and received the new message.

A pause, then the next message, in clear and big letters that made it easier for Eri to read them.

Yes.

You help me?

Yes.

Your like Deck Deku-nii?

After Eri had handed that letter upwards, nothing came back. She waited without success for an answer.

Waiting in the dark, cramped space without anything happening was awful. After a moment without a sound above her, she felt trapped, alone, and full of fear again.

“It’s going to be alright, Eri-chan.”

That was what Deku-nii and Mirio-nii had told her over and over again. But they weren’t here. They weren’t here, and with them gone, there was no light and no smiles to to push back the memories, and what if Father came looking for her right now, and came to take her back, and she didn’t want to go back, never, never, and nobody was here with her besides…

Without thinking, Eri reached out and grabbed the pant leg beside her tightly – not tugging, but holding onto it like a lifeline, fearing that she would get lost in the dark otherwise, all alone – and whispered, urgently, “Please don’t leave me alone?”

I don’t want to be alone anymore.

I don’t want to go back.

Will I have to go back if you leave me?

There was a pause, a break in their interaction, and the note didn’t come back to her. Nothing was said.

Instead, Nighteye scooted back with his chair, pulling his legs back and relocating himself, and Eri was exposed in her hideout all of sudden.

A shadow fell over her, and she screwed her eyes shut, breath faltering and halting as she waited for something.

She had done wrong. He would get angry. He was angry. She had misbehaved again…

A warm hand, long-fingered and bony, landed on the crown of her head, resting there for a moment, before it gently stroked. Once, twice. Warm and reassuring and….

All breath rushed out of Eri as the new and yet familiar sensation flooded through her.

Kind hands.

Eyes flying open, the girl looked up, all open mouth and wide eyes and hopeful racing heart as she tried to decide if to push back into the gentle touch or shrink into herself because it was so new and almost too wonderful.

And there, on the face right in front of her, was a little, tiny smile. It wasn’t bright and wide and toothy like Deku-nii’s or Mirio-nii’s, but warm and kind nonetheless, softening the harsh lines of Nighteye’s face and ever so slightly lighting up his eyes that stayed serious even as he smiled. Making the promise all the more real as he spoke.

“I won’t,” the man’s voice was nothing like the happy brightness of Deku-nii or the booming voices of the other heroes. It was soft, quiet, a bit like Father’s, but softer than that, gentler. “I will stay right beside you, for as long as you want me to.”

And slowly, ever so slowly, Eri smiled, smile blossoming on her face until it almost hurt, as she leaned into the gentle hand of her new friend.

I don’t have to go back

Not when there is a hero.

#so... i did a thing #it's a rushed thing #but it's a thing #*hides*#bnha spoilers #spoilers #eri #sir nighteye #midoriya izuku #my writing #fanfiction #bnha #boku no hero academia

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