#''motherfucker i'm from jersey'' runs through my head sometimes i love him

[mcmorare]

do you ever think abt a certain character and you just Know that if their show/series/etc was more popular people would go crazy with them

[starkercrossedlovers]

Hell of a Girl

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Ok so I know there’s a TON of Mafia!Tony out there, but I’ve yet to see 1920’s mafia tony and flapper/singer Peter and I NEED IT.

So....here ya go dolls 😘

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Time to be done with you

Feels good when I wake in the morning, let the sun come through

Tony leans back in his chair and listens absently as one of his men tells something to him about that Jersey motherfucker Toombs and his ambitions getting too big to stay on the other side of the river.

It’s getting to be a problem, one that he’s going to have to deal with, and he already knows it’s going to mean a loss of life. He tried to avoid getting innocents hurt, doesn’t kill wives and kids like some bosses do, but sometimes, a message has to be sent.

I'm not thinking 'bout you

Feeling good when I look in the mirror, my skies are blue

He orders another Rickey and slips the girl a few bills folded up, winks at her with no real intention behind it and settles back in his chair to watch as his men get a well deserved night off.

Women, booze and dancing are in copious supply, but Tony Stark is known for his cool head and colder bed. Not many last more than a night, and though it’s a lonely prospect, it’s safer.

Attachments mean weakness, and weakness can be exploited.

Slept all night for the first time

In months, I'm finally where I wanna be

And all my dreams are coming true

The voice of the singer draws his gaze to the stage for the first time that night. This song isn’t one he’s heard before, and the throat it’s rising up out of is pale, swanlike and delicate.

His brows furrow as the singer swings toward his side of the room, surprise shooting through him at the beautiful boy dressed in a flashy gold dress, barely covering his pale thighs. Shiny heels give him an extra few inches and crimson stains his Cupid bow lips, tantalizing even from across the room.

So how does it feel to know, you messed up?

You messed up, you messed up

Bet you feel so stupid that you played with my heart

The boy sings with passion, the song a clear venting of some anger with a former lover. He sways and closes his eyes as he pounds a fist against his chest, eyes flaring wide as he continues singing.

I don't care to see you, I don't care where you are

I know you didn't think it comes back around, oh

Karma, karma, karma, she's a hell of a girl, oh, oh

The boy grins as patrons hoot and cheer, blows kisses before continuing, and Tony, Tony’s lost. He knows his men are talking and drinking around him, but all he sees is this pretty little dove, singing it’s heart out, and he wants.

You messed up, you messed up, you messed up

All of your friends say you

Hang out all hours of the night 'cause you're so alone

He manages to wave down a waitress and ask for the name of the singer, but she just shrugs and tells him she only has a stage name for the kid—Grace.

As Tony watches him sing and dance across the stage, he thinks that’s a good name for the boy, because every movement is deliberate and full of emotion, each lyric designed to wrench the heart and burn the soul.

But loving me is overdue

Shoulda done it when you had your chance, now look at you, oh

So how does it feel to know, you messed up?

You messed up, you messed up

Bet you feel so stupid that you played with my heart

He sends the waitress to get the owner, slips him enough dough to make his eyes widen and demands that the boy come see him when the set is up.

I don't care to see you, I don't care where you are

I know you didn't think it comes back around, oh

Karma, karma, karma, she's a hell of a girl, oh

One day here then you're gone

I waited so long to find love on my own

Left when I needed you

That's how they always do

Well baby, so long oh oh

He smirks at the lyrics; he’d never leave a beautiful dove like this, he’d keep him safe and at his side, singing just for him. He’d make the prettiest sounds, Tony thinks, spread out across his bed, lipstick smeared on his skin and pretty dress rucked up around those slim hips so he can mess up that creamy skin with his tongue and teeth.

So how does it feel to know, you messed up?

You messed up, you messed up

Bet you feel so stupid that you played with my heart

I don't care to see you, I don't care where you are

I know you didn't think it comes back around, oh

Karma, karma, karma, she's a hell of a girl, oh

He catches the boy’s eye as the song winds down, lifting a brow as the corner of his lips quirk, smirk widening as a flush rises to those creamy cheeks.

It comes back around

When the song ends and the applause quiets, the boy curtsies and hops off the stage, manager at his side instantly, hand at his back as he’s guided over to Tony’s table. The boy meets his gaze halfway across the room, wide and assessing, intelligent too.

The manager blathers through an introduction, cut off swiftly by a sharp hand movement by Tony as he leans forward and peers up at the boy. It’s obvious from here that the pale quality to his skin isn’t makeup, though his lids are lined and his lips are painted.

He’s got the kind of skin that turns golden in the sun, Tony thinks, unlike his own swarthy coloring that get dark and coppery in the summer. Tony imagines running his hands over the boy’s skin, seeing if it’s as soft as it looks and suppresses a shudder of want.

Sips his Rickey.

The boy stares back at him, still. Tony grins suddenly, pleased with the backbone he shows and slaps Cap’s shoulder, sends him and Bucky to the other table so it’s just him and the boy.

“Sit, you must be tired,” he murmurs, waving a hand to the now empty seat beside him.

The boy lifts a brow and casts a glance over the table before taking the seat furthest from him with the fullest part of the table between them. It’s an open act of defiance, and the set to his jaw is another challenge, the spark in his eyes hot and wild.

Tony laughs, harder than he has in a long time and nods, lifts his glass in a toast. “Tough little bird, eh?” The boy just scoffs and crosses his arms, rolls his eyes, and for some reason it makes Tony grin.

Everyone in his world acts with deference, bowing and scraping—“Yes Mr. Stark” “Of course Boss” “Whatever you need Sir”, and it’s enough to put his jaw on edge, because as much as he enjoys the respect he’s earned, he’d like for just one person to treat him as a regular man.

Which, considering he has the Police Commissioner, three mayors and the governor in his pocket, is slightly ridiculous to think he’s a regular man.

“What can I get ya to drink?” he offers, motioning a waitress over once more.

The boy stares at him for a minute and then looks up at the waitress, “Water Angelique, thanks,” he murmurs, voice soft, almost too soft for Tony to hear in the raucous club.

His brows raise, “You a dry?”

The boy shrugs, “Don’t bother me none what other people do, it’s bad for my voice is all.” He takes the water Angelique offers with a soft smile and a quick word in French, their shared laughter and pointed glances at him telling him everything he needs to know.

French is a bastard cousin of Italian so he understands vaguely that he’s being made fun of for his interest in the boy, but there’s no heat behind the words, so he remains relaxed.

“Well I’d hate to ruin such a beautiful voice my dove, where did you learn to sing like that?” he asks, leaning forward to stare at the boy as he sips his water and studies Tony intently.

“I’ve always been able to sing,” the boy finally replies. “Manager heard me out on the street, singin for my dinner, and asked if I’d like a job. I’m here every other Friday,” he tells Tony.

Which explains why Tony hasn’t seen him before—he and the crew usually come in on Saturday nights, but it’s Romanoff’s birthday so they’re here a night early.

“Guess I’ll have to start coming Fridays then,” Tony murmurs, smiling softly.

The boy just hums and looks nonchalant, swallows down the last of his water and gives him a wry little smile, “It was nice to talk to you Mr. Stark, but I’ve got another set soon.”

Tony frowns and leans forward as he stands up, brushes his dress off and shoots Tony a meaningless little smile.

“You know my name, but I don’t know yours,” Tony says, barely resisting the urge to reach out and grab that thin wrist.

The boy studies him for a moment and then surprises him by leaning down and pressing his lips carefully to Tony’s cheek. He inhales in surprise and smells the musky perfume the boy wears and the slightly salty scent of sweat on his skin, hands fisting in the fabric of his slacks so he doesn’t reach out and grab.

“You can call me Grace, like everybody else,” the boy whispers, lips hovering over his skin before he pulls away and shoots a parting wink over his shoulder.

Tony gapes in stunned silence and then grins slowly. So, his dove wants to play.

He can do that.

———————

Two months pass in which Tony comes to the club, sometimes with his crew, other times by himself, always on a Friday. He watches Grace sing, buys him water, learns a little more each time.

He’s 19, an orphan, and has big dreams of being on Broadway someday.

Tony mentions his friend who runs the newest show playing there, offers to put in a good word, and it’s the first time he sees real interest in the boy’s eyes at anything he’s offered.

Two months later the boy greets him with a swift kiss and hands him a playbill, a name circled—Peter Parker.

——————

“Come home with me dove, please,” Tony whispers, lips trailing over the smooth column of Peter’s throat. The boy is between sets at the club and Tony’s been trying to convince him to come with him for ten minutes with increasingly desperate pleas.

Peter just laughs and pushes him away, “I gotta go sing for my supper Mr. Stark, why don’t you go get a Rickey and watch, hmm?”

Tony groans and nods, leans back in for one last kiss.

“Whatever you say dove, whatever you say.”

———————

Six months.

It takes Anthony Stark, head of the Italian Mafia in New York City—the most powerful man in the Tri-borough area—six months to get his little dove in his bed, and it’s worth every goddamn day.

—————

“Oh! Uhn! Daddy!”

Tony curses and kisses Peter hungrily, fingers curling inside his lithe body, shimmery dress pushed up around his hips so Tony can stroke his pretty cock without impediment.

His dove is singing now, all high notes, breathy and desperate as Tony curls another finger into him, strokes over that spot within him that reduces him to a sobbing, pleading mess.

He’s made Peter come twice already, greedy for the sounds he makes, and he knows he has to get inside him soon, because that’s the only place he can fathom being when he finally does cum himself.

“P-pleaseeee! Uhn! Daddy!”

Tony covers Peter’s mouth with his, breathing in the punched out sounds he makes as Tony fucks his fingers into him, the lewd, wet sound of it making his gut burn with need.

When his pretty dove is sobbing and blushed pink all the way down to his stomach, Tony pulls his fingers free and replaces them with his cock. They both groan at the press of him into Peter, his rim fluttering as it always does before relaxing and letting him in.

It reminds Tony of how Peter had been slow to fall for him, resistant until Tony had confessed his adoration in a quiet moment in Peter’s small apartment, tucked into Tony’s chest after the older man had made him cum with his hands and mouth. It had taken more courage than nearly anything else in his life had, but hearing his feelings reciprocated by his dove had been well worth his fears.

“More, Tony, more!” Peter demands, lifting his hips to meet his thrust, gasping and writhing beneath him. Tony growls and leaves more marks on his pretty skin, hands pushing strong thighs apart so he can sink deeper, a possessive sound rumbling in his throat when Peter arches off the bed and cries out his name.

“Harder daddy, harder!”

Tony complies because really, his dove gets whatever he wants. Tony just wants to hear him sing.

And sing he does.

Peter sobs and begs, keening as Tony fucks him, teeth leaving marks on his throat and chest, nipples pink and swollen from his mouth, dark fingerprints on his hips forming from his too tight grip.

When Tony puts his hand around Peter’s cock and strokes, the boy’s eyes roll back into his head and Tony watches hungrily as he cums, painting his own chest with stripes of white, thighs shaking around Tony as he thrusts harder into him, cursing at the wet hot clutch of his body.

Tony cries out Peter’s name as he cums, feels the boy shiver as his cum fills him, hot and sticky against his perfect, soft insides. Another pulse of cum spurts out over Tony’s hand and he groans, “Oh dove, did daddy cuming make your cock messy again?”

Peter nods and sobs, hips jolting as Tony strokes him a little longer, seeing if his dove has anything else to give. Shivers run over his body as his cock pulses a few more times and when he’s whining and trying to get away, Tony relents.

Immediately he pulls Peter closer, mouth soft against his, crooning sweetly as he softens within his boy. “Oh baby, daddy made a mess of you huh?” Peter’s breath hitches as he nods and Tony covers his face with tender kisses. “My beautiful dove, you sing so pretty for me.”

He holds Peter until the shivers pass and pulls away, heart wrenching at the soft noise of protest his dove makes, hurrying back with a warm cloth to clean them both.

When they’re clean Peter curls into his arms, humming contentedly, eyes shut and lips curled up gently. Tony pets his hair slowly, pleasure slipping away as he debates telling his dove something that could change everything for them, for him.

“What are you thinking about so hard?”

Tony smiles wryly, his dove knows him so well.

Sighing, he kisses Peter’s hair and holds him a little tighter. “I found the man who killed your Uncle Ben.”

Peter stiffens in his arms and then he’s pulling back with wide eyes, hope brightening his gaze.

“Really?”

Tony nods, unease shifting away as Peter scrambles up to stare at him, looking dazed but excited.

“What are you going to do?”

Tony lifts a brow, “What do you want me to do dove?”

Peter stares at him for a long moment and then looks away, “I want him to suffer.”

Tony nods and reaches up to cup his cheek, thumb stroking over his full bottom lip.

“Whatever you want my dove.”

———————

Weeeeellllll....I hope y’all liked it!! Also, a “dry” is a supporter of prohibition, “daddy” was just gaining popularity as a term between lovers, and while Hell of a Girl is not a 1920’s song, I felt it had a good vibe for how I wanted to portray Peter as a singer.

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