money moves - Chapter 1 - yougottaletgo (2024)

Chapter Text

I don't dance now,

I make money moves

Peter never planned to be a stripper. It kind of just… happened.

He got a job as a server at a nightclub when he was nineteen. He was desperate for money so he didn’t think twice about what kind of club it was. Not that he cared. The place turned out to be fairly sketchy but it paid the bills and was close to his dorm. Plus, Peter quickly made friends with all the dancers and bartenders, so he was having fun, really, running around with drinks and collecting tips and staying out of trouble.

Until one night not one but two of their male dancers didn’t show up and the boss was yelling into the phones and stomping around the back rooms aggressively when Peter was unlucky — or lucky, in retrospect — enough to get into his sight.

Peter didn’t agree, at first. But Toomes was a scary dude, no one of the staff really knew what his deal was and whether he was actually in the mob or just liked people to think that he was. He backed Peter into a corner and eventually squeezed a shaky nod out of him, with a mix of begging — “Please, Pete, you know we have a party for an important client tonight, I can’t let them down,” — threatening — “Either do this or get your sh*t and get outta here and I’ll make sure no one else in the city hires you!” — and his version of sweet-talking — “Pretty twink like you? They’ll shower you with money! I’m doing you a favor!”

It didn’t quite occur to Peter what he agreed to until he was in the dressing room, light-headed from the overwhelming smell of perfume and the chitter-chatter of the dancers getting ready, catching up, singing along to the music playing in the background. Peter would often hang out here so the atmosphere wasn’t new but this time it was different, this time he was one of them. A shot of vodka in one hand and a can of hairspray in the other, he was doing his best to stand still and not freak the hell out while MJ was putting eyeliner on him with an expression compared only to a surgeon performing aortic dissection repair.

“Take the shot,” Natasha commanded when MJ paused to get some more makeup from her bag. Peter did and Natasha immediately poured another.

“No-no, I’m good…” Peter tried shaking his head, throat burning, but Natasha just laughed, nudging his hand.

“My first time I was so drunk I couldn’t stand. It helps, trust me.”

“How did you dance if you couldn’t stand?” Peter asked, logically. He could barely move without bumping into things when he was sober.

Natasha exchanged a look with MJ and they both burst out laughing. Not ominous at all.

“Oh, please, you’re not even wearing heels, relax,” MJ sighed, shaking up a bottle of something alarmingly shiny. “Come on, tiger, shirt off. We’ll make a professional out of you yet."

Half an hour later Peter took one glance at himself in the mirror — naked except for a pair of tiny denim shorts Gwen fished out of a beat-up drawer in the corner, his body covered in glitter, eyeshadow turning his eyes unrecognizably sharp and a hint of sparkling blush accenting his cheekbones — and he looked… good, he looked good, he looked the part and that was just—

“I can’t do it.”

“Sure you can, babyboy,” Natasha sang, handing him one more shot. A half-full one, this time, thank god.

“Let’s go, gotta teach you some dance moves!” Gwen squealed, turning the music up.

“Here, that’s my lucky charm,” MJ pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, putting a velvet choker with a black dahlia on his neck, the light scratch of her long nails brushing his exposed skin sending goosebumps down his spine.

By the time Toomes banged on the door Peter was so drunk he couldn’t stop laughing and so intoxicated with the energy he genuinely wanted to dance.

Toomes was right, after all. They showered him with money.

They showered him with so much money that he never wanted to stop.

***

Tonight, two years later, feels like a déjà vu.

It’s a different club now, a much nicer one, quite upscale, all slick monochrome interior and dim neon, right in the heart of Manhattan.

Switching from serving tables to serving, well, his presence significantly improved Peter’s financial situation — he rents his own place now. It’s a small apartment, nothing fancy, but it’s cozy and has everything he needs. He only works a few nights a week but still makes enough money to cover all his reasonable expenses and some unreasonable, too — like that ridiculously huge TV that barely fits on the wall but is so worth it. Star Wars binges and gaming sessions with Ned are now on a whole new level.

He’s helping May out, too. Of course, “grants” and “doing homework for rich kids” can’t explain a lot of money and he can’t bring himself to either lie to her any more or, worse, be honest about where the money comes from. So he buys her groceries every week and takes her out for dinner and gives her nice gifts once in a while and sets the rest aside to buy her a house, one day, and a trip to Europe, and a car. One day, when he’s not doing this anymore and can say truthfully that she has nothing to worry about.

Not that he’s in any crazy danger, but he’s not delusional. It’s not the safest job in the world.

Still, it’s better here, at Silver Star. Peter came here with MJ a few months ago after Toomes went completely off the rails. Natasha had left months before that after she had finally saved up enough to open her own dance studio, and as happy as they were for her, her absence was a push they needed to finally move on, too.

Bucky, their new boss, is an angel in comparison. Tall-dark-and-handsome, soft-spoken, well-mannered. The first night they worked here Peter watched him personally kick out a guy who put hands on a dancer, and then Bucky proceeded to quietly approach every single staff member on the floor, including pleasantly-shocked Peter, and ask them if they felt comfortable and if anyone was giving them any trouble he should know about.

“No, Sir. Everything is good so far,” Peter smiled, not really sure how to react.

“Just Bucky, please. You’re from Vulture, right? I do things differently here. If someone breaks the rules and you’re not enjoying yourself, you let me know, alright?”

“What if they break the rules and I am enjoying myself?” Peter said only about half-aware that he was flirting. It’s a professional trait that he learned to fall back on while interacting with older men who have any kind of power over him. He couldn’t really help it.

Bucky gave him a slow I see you smile for his efforts. “No sex for money on the premises. Whatever you do beyond them is not my business.” His icy blue eyes lingered and Peter had to bite his lip because, well. Because. “I would like you to be safe, though. Here, or not here.”

Peter nodded. He felt safe, even if not from his own stupid heart.

***

“You have a crush on Bucky,” MJ informed him a few days later. “I like it here, Parker, do not have a crush on our cool new boss who doesn’t smell like beef jerky or call me brown sugar .”

“I don’t have a crush on Bucky!”

Peter had a raging crush on Bucky.

For a whole week, until he found out that Bucky was happily married to a human equivalent of a golden retriever named Steve, who was actually the head of security here and just so happened to be out of town. So Peter’s love dreams crashed and burned, but he moved on quickly because it really was good here, it would be a shame to ruin everything with unnecessary drama.

Months go by and things go their course: most of his nights Peter stays up late drowning in papers and lab work and projects, loving and hating every second of it, tired but still passionate, still inspired. It’s his third year and he finally sees his academic goals and scientific dreams become a reachable reality, visible just over the horizon.

And the other nights — he gives lap dances for money shoved by strangers under the rim of his shorts, twerks on top of tables in VIP rooms for money thrown onto his naked back, smiles and winks and flirts his way through countless strangers. He’s gotten good at it. Not that he’s anything special. He’s been getting a hang of pole and taking occasional dance classes with Nat here and there, so he might not be exceptional but he’s decent enough to feel good about himself. The confidence is still a work in progress, and some nights he still needs a shot of something strong and a pep-talk from MJ, but he’s getting better at this part of it, too.

Peter’s life now is so different from what it used to be, so different from what he expected it to be — in a good way. In a strange way. He’s come a long way from the kid who had to pick between a textbook and a week’s worth of food and always picked the textbook. From the kid who blushed and stuttered when someone looked at him with too much attention.

Tonight, though, all this progress feels in vain.

“Did you say Tony Stark ?” Peter repeats after a pause filled with dull ringing in his head.

Bucky gives him a calculating look. “Peter, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to—”

Peter lets out a hysterical laugh. Bucky arches an eyebrow.

“Oh, no, I— I want to! I want to, definitely, I just, uh… Tony Stark, you said? Like, the Tony Stark?” Peter wheezes, suddenly out of breath.

Understanding dawns on Bucky’s face and he rolls his eyes. “Wait, you’re an engineering student. Let me guess, you had a poster of him in your childhood bedroom?"

Peter has a poster of him in his current bedroom. Mostly for nostalgic purposes, but… he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy looking at it. Also, yes, Tony Stark is his number one celebrity crush and role model and… it’s Tony-f*cking-Stark .

Bucky runs him through the details — party of six, VIP-lounge, they're meeting for business so Peter and Yelena will mostly be there for background entertainment. Nothing Peter hasn't done before.

Except the Tony Stark part. That he definitely hasn’t done before. There are a good amount of celebrities here and it’s always nerve-wrecking because Peter could never kill off that shyness completely, but it’s also exciting because, ugh, rich and famous people throwing money on him and his friends? That’s pretty fun, whichever way you look at it.

But he didn’t care much personally for any of the ones he encountered before. MJ almost lost her sh*t that one time Childish Gambino stopped by. Well, she did lose her sh*t. Peter had never seen her that emotional before or after — but only in the dressing room. Natasha taught them both well — whatever it is, leave it in the dressing room. MJ got the rest of her mom’s medical debt paid off after that night.

Right now, though? Peter isn’t sure he’ll be able to shake the nerves off. On his best day he could only dream to have an ounce of MJ’s stoicism. His hands are shaking as he walks fast through the dim-lit backroom halls and it feels just like it’s his first night, all over again, anxiety and excitement bubbling inside into an overwhelming co*cktail.

“Tony Stark is coming to the VIP tonight and Bucky picked me to go,” Peter tells MJ as soon as he finds her, just starting to get ready. He has to breathe through his nose and not make any sudden movements or else he’s going to freak the f*ck out. And he can’t freak out. He agreed and Bucky asked him multiple times if he’s sure and Peter said yes, yes , of course he’s sure. Shake ass for Tony Stark? No biggie. Sign him up.

It is a biggie.

Peter sent MJ a TikTok of Tony Stark walking down the street edited in slow motion the other day, the emojis he used describing his feelings about that video are between him, MJ, God and foreign government spies monitoring their messages only.

It is a huge, giant biggie.

Thankfully, MJ gets it. She screams and immediately puts on her game face. “Your career has been leading to this moment, Peter Parker,” she points a finger right into his face. “You got this.”

They spend the next hour getting him ready, physically and, mostly, mentally. At some point, Peter starts spiraling, obviously, expectedly. “What if he, like, asks for someone else? He can do that, right? He can definitely do that, oh my god,” Peter bounces on his feet, attempting to shake it off, literally. “I won’t survive, MJ, if Tony Stark doesn’t like me it’s all downhill from there…”

“He’s just a guy,” MJ rolls her eyes. “And he’s like, fifty years old. How many fifty-year-old dudes do you have drooling over you every night, paying your rent for a dance? He’s no different.”

Tony is forty-two, and Peter is pretty sure he is different. But she does have a point so he clings to that.

Yelena shows up ten minutes before showtime, an energy drink in hand and yesterday’s makeup still on. “Заебись,” is all she says upon hearing the news that she’s up to dance for Tony Stark tonight. Peter has learned to understand it means something like “good”, although she uses the same one-word reactions in completely different situations sometimes so it’s hard to say. He likes Lena, she’s chill and fun in a no-bullsh*t kind of way. Her presence there with him will be a huge comfort.

They share a round of tequila shots. Lena cringes hard but tugs at MJ’s hand when she goes to put the bottle away.

“Wait. Между первой и второй перерывчик небольшой,” she fills their glasses again and Peter can’t help but smile as a warm wave of nostalgia hits him, followed by the electric buzz of the night ahead taking over. He really should introduce her to Natasha some time soon, he has a feeling they will hit it off, and not just because they speak the same language.

MJ laughs, raising the glass. “Bitch, I don’t know what you’re saying but I feel you,” she nods and Lena nods back, eyes sparking. They drink, laugh, and hype each other up. Lena is all dressed and ready in so little time that Peter can still feel the burn of alcohol in his throat when she winks at him, “Let’s go, Petya,” — heavy accent and contagious energy — and Peter knows he’s as ready as he’ll ever be.

He’s going to dance for Tony Stark. And he’s going to give it his f*cking best.

***

At the lounge entrance they find Steve talking quietly to a big serious-looking man holding a tablet. “Hey, guys. They’d like you to sign a non-disclosure agreement,” Steve explains as the man holds out the tablet that Peter takes with shaking hands. “It’s a standard procedure with clients of this level, so it’s nothing to worry about, alright?” Steve gives a little smile in reassurance.

It’s definitely something Peter will be worrying about, later, but he nods and looks at the document. It’s multiple pages, like, too many pages. The words are cold legalese and Peter can’t really comprehend any of them but non-disclosure is pretty self-explanatory, he figures. Either way, the anxiety of it isn’t nearly high enough to make him back down — he fills out his full name, address, date of birth, and signs the bottom of the page quickly before passing it to Lena.

She looks at the screen and then at Steve, the expression on her face suddenly unusually vulnerable. “It’s not gonna go anywhere, I promise,” Steve assures before she even says anything.

Lena nods, her exposed shoulders visibly relaxing under the black satin straps tied in an elaborate pattern over her back.

She puts down her signature, and they go in.

***

Tony Stark, when he walks into the room leading a small group just a few minutes after Lena and Peter get situated, looks and sounds and feels exactly like Peter imagined. No, scratch that, actually. Better, a thousand times better. Because it’s real. And no amount of slow-mo red carpet videos or MIT guest lectures Peter’s seen could’ve prepared him for the way he’s entranced right away, completely and irreversibly — by Tony’s confident stance and raspy laugh and the inescapable energy of his presence.

Tony gives a short courteous nod at Peter and Lena in greeting as he walks in, not breaking his conversation with the following party — in fluent Japanese. Peter didn’t know he spoke Japanese, but it’s not that surprising. Something that is surprising, though — Tony’s cologne is different than what Peter imagined. Not that he deliberately thought about what Tony Stark might smell like. (He absolutely did.) For some reason, Peter expected it to be something warm — wood, leather, dark chocolate, smoke, whiskey. It’s not. It’s fresh and cold like winter air, chemical, sharp, and Peter is already losing his mind before the guests are even finished sitting down on the crescent-shaped couch, with Tony, of course, taking the middle spot.

Peter is a professional, though. He starts dancing.

Something that becomes clear pretty soon — Peter is unmistakably tipsy and it was absolutely the right decision. The best one. He’s warm and loose inside, focusing on the music easily, catching the flow and riding it, song after song. Before he knows it, the jitters are dissipating and Peter’s fallen into just the right state of mind to maybe, hopefully, get the best out of this night. Even if all it ends up being is this — knowing that he’s doing a good job being a pretty thing for Tony to glance at as he’s, undoubtedly, making some important business moves.

It is very much a work meeting, just like Bucky had said, so for a while everyone seems engrossed in the conversation, not paying much attention to either Peter or Lena. There are papers and checkbooks spread on the table in between the co*cktail glasses, still mostly full. Peter has no idea what they’re talking about, which is probably for the best — less data for his background anxiety to find something to latch onto. Whatever it is, Tony sounds hot as hell saying it. His watch and a couple rings on his fingers glint in the low neon light when he flips through the pages, then fishes a cigar out of an elegant wooden case before dropping it casually right on top of the document he was just pointing at. God, Peter might be performing right now but he feels like he’s the one on the edge of his seat, a mere anonymous audience member lucky enough to witness the show of a lifetime that is Tony, just… existing.

Still, totally head over heels or not, Peter stays focused on his movements and does all in his power to play it cool when he feels someone’s eyes on him. Which starts happening more and more often. It’s tempting to look back, catch the gaze of who’s watching — what if it’s Tony? what if it isn’t? — but it’s not time for eye contact, yet, and Peter’s worked enough business meetings to know that timing matters. The least he needs is anyone getting an impression that he’s trying to intrude or peek into their documents.

So Peter keeps watching Tony’s hands in stolen glances when he can’t help himself. Tony fidgets with a lighter as the bitter spicy smoke of his cigar fills the space, adding to the heady atmosphere. When he gives up the lighter, he starts tapping his fingers on his knee to the beat of the song — Peter makes sure to match the movements of his body to the rhythm. Sometimes, when Peter dares to look up after all, he catches Tony laughing at someone’s words, or nodding along in reply, or just listening intently, eyes on his companions — but Peter could swear, deliriously, that Tony had just looked away.

The feeling of someone watching never ceases, palpable on Peter’s skin like a physical touch. But then again, Peter is still fairly intoxicated and pretty much undergoing an existential crisis all at the same time so he might be imagining it.

Finally, the group begins to exchange handshakes and soon enough — Lena and Peter are not just background entertainment anymore.

Tony grins as he says to no one in particular, “Let’s celebrate,” and the party agrees with excitement, switching to English. Lena winks at Peter as she slides down from the pole, already zeroing in on the guy who waved at her for a lap dance.

"I'm sorry we ignored you two for so long," Tony is looking straight at him and it’s truly a miracle Peter’s legs don’t shake as he hops off the small stage and walks towards the couch. Tony reaches into his inner pocket and pulls out a thick stack of cash in a paper band, fresh from the bank. Peter tries not to look but he’s pretty sure it’s hundreds. Oh, that’s right, he’s about to make a sh*ttone of money. That little detail honestly slipped Peter’s mind, he’s still processing the cultural shock of being so close to Tony. Which is already a reward in itself, as far as Peter is concerned. "C'mon, sweetheart. We'll make it up to you," Tony smiles, probably misreading Peter’s brief moment of hesitation. Or maybe not misreading at all — judging by the mischief in the corners of his eyes. Peter makes himself nod, trying to work the dumb grin threatening to take over his face into something remotely seductive. Get it together, Parker. That might be the best man in the goddamn world, but it’s still just a man. You know what to do.

"It’s a pleasure, Mr. Stark,” Peter hopes he doesn’t sound as nervous as he feels. He uses the drop in the music to slide to the floor, continuing his dance there — for everyone to see but really just for Tony.

"Oh, you can call me Tony, baby,” Tony smiles in appreciation. “Would you like a drink?”

Peter would love a drink. The buzz of their pre-shift shots is still there but starting to fade, so a little boost to bring down the newly-spiking anxiety is a welcome idea.

In no time, the table is cleared off of documents and filled with a fresh arrangement of beverages. Dancers shouldn’t be drinking with clients, technically, but it’s more of a suggestion than a rule when it comes to VIP parties. Plus, Peter’s not gonna turn down a drink from Tony Stark even if it gets him fired. He has his priorities straight, thank you very much. Lena is already stealing a sip from a guest’s glass — tugging at his hand until he tilts it for her, too, rather than just taking it herself, which seems to delight the guy to no extent. Peter catalogs that move to try it out sometime. On Tony, preferably.

Peter suspects the natural progression of things would be Tony asking him for a lap dance, any moment now. The way Tony’s looking at him, speaking directly to him, asked to be called Tony… Peter’s brain is refusing to comprehend any of that at the moment — but it must mean Tony likes him, right?

Wrong.

f*cking wrong, obviously, because over the course of the next hour or so Peter gives so many lap dances that the cash under the rim of his shorts starts to feel a bit itchy — and none of them are for Tony. Who seems to be enjoying himself nonetheless, but he hasn’t taken his initial interest in Peter any further, letting the others enjoy Peter’s company.

Peter tries not to feel disappointed, or at least not let it get to his head. Turns out, it’s surprisingly easy when at least two other guests seem completely enticed by him, getting more so the more they drink. Basking in attention and money is hardly a chore, Peter reminds himself as the anxiety of Tony not engaging with him sips in. Peter is still close, of course, closer than he’d ever thought he’d be. Maybe he should start listing off his favorite of Tony’s theses and inventions, maybe that’d get Tony to pay any more attention to him than flirtatious smiles and glances that don’t seem to lead anywhere…

And the glances don’t stop, either. Peter catches Tony looking — when someone is pouring champagne into Peter’s mouth as he kneels on the floor for them, which feels like a bizarre nod to a frat boy party except for the bills sticking to the skin of his chest, covered in spilled champagne. Tony is having a conversation with the man next to him at the moment — but he’s looking.

He is looking when Peter performs his backwards lap dance routine on another guest, which basically concludes to twerking in front of the guy’s face. Natasha taught him that one. “Helps when they’re ugly,” she had said. Also helps now, because when Peter carefully looks to the side he watches Tony’s gaze focused on his ass. It takes a lot of effort to not break the rhythm.

But Tony wouldn’t be just looking if he actually liked it, right? But also, he wouldn’t be looking at all if he didn’t like it, right?...

Peter tries not to dwell on it too much. He’s blissfully drunk, now — on the alcohol and money and attention alike — and he’s having fun. It’s loud, laughter mixing with the music and adding to the electric atmosphere, and there’s so much cash on the table and on the floor and everywhere around them that he and Lena can both buy cars tomorrow morning. Lena probably can’t drive, or at least can’t get a license, but at this rate they might be able to just buy her one, too. Tony’s presence alone leaves Peter light-headed, even if Tony seemingly wants nothing to do with him. It’s okay. And even if it’s not, the night goes on.

Later, when Tony catches Lena’s eye and nods at his lap, Peter doesn’t freak out with jealousy, nope. He won’t. Not at all. Someone is currently fixing a line of co*ke on his abs so he can’t freak out, anyway. Lena gives Tony just about the mildest PG lap dance Peter’s ever seen, because she’s a real one. Peter knows they’ll laugh about it later, it will all be a funny story. Remember that one time my biggest crush showed up and paid me no attention? Wasn’t that hilarious?

Still, mild or not — Lena is f*cking hot, so Peter can’t blame Tony for the quiet appreciation in his eyes as he watches her bend to the music. Peter can’t help but look at him, transfixed, can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to have these vigilant brown eyes fixed on his body—

Peter is watching, so he’s caught like a deer in headlights when Tony suddenly looks up and meets his eyes. Busted , Peter thinks, feeling feverish, but doesn’t look away. His stomach tickles when the guest snorts the co*ke, and he’s sprawled across the table like a damn meal and Tony is looking him in the eyes as he tucks a hundred-dollar bill into Lena’s bra.

It occurs to Peter, probably later than it should’ve, that Tony—

Tony’s playing with him, isn’t he?

He’s toying with him.

f*ck.

Oh, he totally is.

The realization is intoxicating and anxiety-provoking all at once, and Peter giggles pathetically when more co*ke is being dropped and lined up between his pecs. He’s really too ticklish for this, but it’s just another thing he had learned to turn off.

Tony is still looking at him.

f*ck it.

“Would you like some, Mr. Stark?” Peter says, light and playful, giddy with the belated recognition and refusing to let his anxiety talk him out of it. He hopes Tony telling him he could use his first name was a permission, rather than a request. Mr. Stark just rolls off the tongue and fits the dynamic so well, Peter can’t help it.

Tony’s smile widens. It’s ridiculous. It’s not Peter’s co*ke so there’s no reason for him to offer it like that. It is his body, though, and hopefully Tony reads between the lines — pun totally intended — that this is what Peter is actually offering.

“No, thank you, baby,” Tony replies, sweet like honey, and then, “Would you like some?”

Tony’s eyes are so intense. Peter’s probably imagining it, all of it, he’s probably just drunk and misinterpreting it all and is about to get himself f*cked up for no good reason. But. f*ck . Tony is so —

Peter pretends that he’s doing it because it’s all part of the game, not because he wants to. Certainly not because he’d reply yes to anything Tony asks him. What is he supposed to do, really, say no ? To Tony Stark? And regret it his whole life? Um, yeah, right.

“Милая, можешь лечь мне на колени?” Tony’s saying to Lena all of a sudden, before Peter manages to reply in any way besides biting his lip, which seems to be a good enough answer for Tony— Also, how many languages does this man speak? He has to stop getting hotter or Peter will not make it to the end of the night, Jesus Christ… Lena squeals and giggles, breaking character completely, her usual cool mask falling off for a moment. Honestly, Peter can’t blame her. Tony has this effect on people. “Хозяин-барин,” Lena winks back and turns around to lay down across Tony’s lap.

Oh. Oh . Okay.

So Peter does a line of co*ke mixed with perfume and sweat and glitter off of Lena’s sternum while everyone is cheering and Tony smiles like the devil himself and the smell of his cologne is heavy in the air around him, mixing with the remnants of smoke and making Peter’s head spin when he leans into Tony’s space over Lena’s body. She seems to be enjoying herself, her hand brushing Peter’s hair playfully, and it calms Peter down, a bit. It’s not his first time doing co*ke. Well. Maybe, like, the second. But he snorts it like a pro, just like in the movies, running on sheer adrenalin of the moment.

Peter hears and watches Tony say, “Good boy,” and then — everything is sort of a blur, for a while.

The music keeps playing, now sounding louder than ever, the bass falling perfectly in rhythm with the beat of Peter’s heart — and Peter keeps dancing, sweeped up by the hurricane of pure energy hitting his system with the drug.

***

When Lena exclaims, speaking up to be heard over the party’s drunken chatter, “Boys, let’s go meet my friends, yeah? Do you want to meet more pretty girls?” Peter is still high and the blood is still pumping loud in his ears but the world is more or less stable now. He doesn’t understand what’s going on, though — not at first. Not when Lena whispers, “Good luck, Petya!” in his ear as she’s walking towards the door, tugging one of the overexcited members of the party by his tie like it’s a leash, the rest of them following eagerly. Not even when the big grumpy dude — the one who handed them the NDAs to sign — half-steps into the room, nods somewhere behind Peter and steps out.

Peter turns, dumbfounded, and— Tony is still here, sitting comfortably on the couch with no evident intention to move. Everyone else is gone. It’s just them. Oh. Oh, f*ck . Is he alone with Tony Stark right now? The kaleidoscope of lights and music and airborne euphoria Peter was caught up in suddenly screeches to a halt. Oh my god. He’s alone with Tony. He’s alone with Tony. Peter’s going to have a panic attack. Or faint. Or cry. Or laugh, hysterically. Or pop a boner, like, right now. Oh, god.

“Would you— would you like to join your, uh, companions?” Peter hears himself say. Was that sentence authorized by his conscious brain? Probably not. That department seems to be shut down, anyway, which is just as well. Peter shakes his head, hoping something switches on in there that will make him say things to keep Tony around instead of pushing him away.

Tony smiles. “No, kid. I’m right where I’d like to be. Wanna keep me company?” he says calmly and takes a sip of his drink. Peter feels like he’s about to either jump through the wall or faint, after all, Victorian lady style, but he nods, his legs taking steps towards Tony on their own will.

“What can I do for you?” Peter asks, slipping into a role and letting the autopilot take over. Yes, alright, whatever brain cell was responsible for that can stay in charge. If he allows himself to actually think about it he will stumble all over Tony in a clumsy mess and like, forget which muscle to flex to make his ass jiggle just right. So no thinking, no-no, no thinking. Thoughts off, instincts in.

“Give me a dance, sweetheart. You’re good at it, I was watching you all night.”

“I know.”

“I know you know.”

“Did you… did you like what you saw?” Peter has no right to sound and feel this shy when he’s settling over Tony’s lap, his knees bracketing Tony’s thighs. A slower song comes on as if on cue, perfect timing. Peter starts swaying gently, keeping his hands to himself for the time being, testing the waters.

“Someone likes words of affirmation, huh?” Tony teases, but it’s good-natured, almost warm. His eyes glide down Peter’s torso, slow, studying, down down down — Peter makes sure to flex his abs and buck his hips up to meet Tony’s gaze as if it’s a physical touch. And it might as well be, judging from the burning sensation left on Peter’s skin just from a look alone. So that’s what it feels like. Mind-blowing.

“There wouldn’t be your whole college tuition on the floor right now if I didn’t like it,” Tony muses, meeting Peter’s eyes again.

Peter laughs, genuine, knocked out of him. “I’m on a scholarship, actually, but…” Peter feels absolutely insane but he decides he has nothing to lose. He adds in the most put-upon sarcastic tone he can master: “Thank you, so much . I really appreciate it. It means a lot.”

Tony laughs, too, head thrown back and everything. Peter uses the moment to slide his hands onto Tony’s shoulders, shifts closer ever so slightly, drawn in like a moth to a flame.

“You know, you’re quiet but feisty, kid. I like it. What’s your major?”

“Bio-engineering,” Peter says, blushing. He has no right to blush, either, as he arches his back, leaning away, thrusting his hips in the air above Tony’s crotch to the deep beat of the music.

Tony’s eyebrows fold up with interest. His face is very expressive, and he’s just… so goddamn hot up close that Peter has to constantly bite down the urge to giggle and look away. It's like staring at the sun. If the sun had dark piercing eyes and a devilish smile and ridiculously attractive laugh lines framing his face. If the sun was a genius scientist Peter had been looking up to his whole life. If the sun was also an unhinged billionaire playboy whose naked photoshoot was the staple of Peter's puberty. Staring at the sun would be less painful than looking straight at Tony, with mere inches between them.

“Oh, science major,” Tony narrows his eyes in mock-seriousness, a smirk still lingering in the corners of his mouth. “Did you have a chapter about me in your textbooks yet, or is it later in the course?”

Peter giggles in surprise. God, he’s really gotta cut it out with all the giggling, that’s not seductive. Well, it could be. But not when he’s this sincere. Not like he can help himself, though — he might be in love. He’s going to be in love if this keeps going like this, if Tony keeps making him laugh and making conversation and looking at him like that. No one’s ever looked at Peter with this kind of attention, which should say a f*cking lot, since the amount of attention people look at him with is a straight correlation to his financial gains.

“Yeah, I drew hearts all over it. Had to lie to the library that I lost it,” Peter bites his lip, steering into it — Tony seems to be enjoying the whole devoted fan vibe. Perfect, since Peter is evidently incapable of being anything else but himself, after all. Natasha would shake her head in disappointment, surely.

Tony is smiling, content, smug. The song melts into the next one, a quicker beat — Peter adjusts his stance, and keeps going.

***

"How much do you want for the night, baby?" Tony Stark, Tony Stark , is saying into Peter's ear, voice low and raspy — some unmeasurable, unfathomable amount of time later. Peter’s legs are burning with tension, Tony hasn’t stopped him once, and Peter would rather die than stop unprompted. Tony’s perfectly trimmed goatee brushes Peter's cheek, sending a jolt of electricity down his spine. Peter makes a noise, like people in yogurt commercials after taking the first bite, and he should be embarrassed, really, this is embarrassing — the noise and the fact that his dick is completely hard in his booty shorts, but all his energy is going towards keeping himself upright and off Tony’s lap so, thankfully, not a drop left for embarrassment.

"You want me to dance for you all night?" Peter replies, breathless, stupid. What a stupid thing to say. He's barely even dancing anymore, mostly just— hovering over Tony's body, swaying to the beat. What started as a lap dance a moment, or a lifetime ago — now feels like a gap in reality. The material of Tony’s black dress shirt is smooth under Peter's sweaty hands and Peter kind of misses the suit jacket — that Peter took off and threw to the floor himself, by the way, a moment he'll cherish as the height of his career — because he can feel Tony's muscles through the thin material and it's becoming unbearable.

"I want to f*ck you, sweetheart," Tony drawls, smile turning into a smirk and Peter might die . What is happening, god, did Tony just— This is a dream, there is no way this is real— "But you can keep dancing, too. I'm sure we'll find a compromise."

"I'm afraid that's not included in the services I provide," Peter hears himself say. He doesn’t feel remotely coherent enough to create whole sentences, let alone a response to this, so it’s a surprise that he managed to find any words at all.

"Well, here's your chance for a professional upgrade. Come on. You look like you want that, yeah? Do you want that?" Tony says and Peter has to bite his lip, hard enough to hurt, and close his eyes because f*ck .

f*ck.

Tony hasn't even touched him yet. Not supposed to, and he hasn't tried breaking that rule, which is, frankly, ridiculously f*cking appealing because he of all people would get away with it. But he's just sitting leisurely, elbows up on the back of the couch, one hand lazily holding a glass. He seems unbothered whatsoever while Peter is fighting for his dear life over his lap.

"What's your name?" Tony asks when Peter doesn’t say anything. Peter’s sure his answer to the last question — whether he wants it — would be evident to anyone even way less attentive than Tony.

"Peter.”

f*ck . Peter doesn’t even register saying it until it’s out. He probably shouldn't have said his real name… They usually don't ask, and if they do he says whatever comes to mind that would get him a bigger tip. Lance, Ethan, Sebastian , if the inquirer seems to be more sophisticated, or think of themselves as more sophisticated, anyway. Charlie, Frankie, Mickey , if they seem like they'd enjoy a story of a simple working class boy pushed to strip out of necessity.

Peter has no idea which category to put Tony in. Tony is his own category. Not that Peter has any of the mental capacity for it left, right now. The only thought on his mind if he’s being honest with himself is something along the lines of, What would Tony’s reaction be if I slid to the floor between his legs, right here, right now, and started sucking his co*ck—

He'd probably tip really well, Peter guesses.

"Peter ," Tony repeats his name, as if tasting it like a sip of a new brand of scotch he hadn't tried before. "Would you like to come home with me tonight, Peter? Name your price, anything you want."

It occurs to Peter, a notion emerging somewhere from the back corners of his feverish mind, that Tony is in no uncertain terms begging to take him home, rephrasing the request in different ways as if going through a set of keys, looking for the one that fits a stubborn lock—

This is objectively the best moment of Peter’s life and it feels like a torture, because—

It’s a bad idea. Peter shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t go f*ck Tony Stark for money. He shouldn’t f*ck Tony Stark at all. It’s bad business. Bad etiquette. And also, just as an afterthought, is bound to either break Peter’s heart or kick him in the ass or both, somehow.

The worst part is — it’s not below Peter's morale, not at all. He'd gladly have sex for money, or rather, take money for the sex that he wouldn’t mind having for free. He hasn’t done it before, although he had been offered a few times. Those men weren’t remotely anything like Tony, of course, and he refused without hesitation. And isn’t that the problem, huh?

It's Tony Stark . How will Peter ever move on after spending the night with Tony Stark ? Peter was kind of subconsciously expecting his silly little crush to fade away upon seeing the hero in the flesh. He didn’t expect the reality to live up to his imagination — it never does — and he was wrong, terribly wrong. Tony is everything Peter imagined him to be and more. He’s charming, intimidating, gentle, kind. Emotional. Funny. Peter had been watching him laugh and flirt and command the energy of the room all night, and he must say, in his humble professional opinion — Tony really is just… like that. He’s amazing, he’s everything, and Peter will hate himself forever for getting a taste of this knowing it’s the only time he’ll ever get, and then he’ll be left to look back at it, nostalgic, wishing to return. It’s sad, it’s pathetic. Peter knows how dumb he is, sometimes — he knows it’s exactly what awaits him, if he f*cks Tony tonight.

However…

What’s the other option, here? He’s already gotten too far to turn back. He’s going to look back at this anyway, but what will he have to say about it if he stops now? “That one time I had a chance to sleep with Tony Stark but didn’t ?”

Absurd.

“A billion dollars, and I’m all yours,” Peter says cheekily, grinning with euphoria, hands sliding from Tony’s shoulders to his collar and to the warm skin of his neck. Peter’s joking, of course, obviously. Now that the dam of his indecision and doubt had been broken — he wants this so f*cking much his head is spinning. He wants Tony’s hands on his body, right now, he’ll say anything to get it.

Tony chuckles, low, smiles with his teeth. “Deal.” He goes to take a sip of his drink but Peter catches his wrist, tugs it to himself until Tony gets the point and enthusiastically tilts the glass towards Peter’s lips. It tastes terrible. Peter cringes, Tony laughs — and then uses Peter's brief disorientation to pull him into a kiss, eager, hard, until the world is nothing but Tony's hot open mouth and skillful tongue and short stubble of his goatee burning Peter's chin, slick with spit. Peter gasps, letting himself melt into it, but his ears are ringing so he can't hear himself moan. He's kissing Tony Stark and this is everything, the best moment of his life, this is a moment he's going to look back on thinking, I can't believe this happened to me, maybe it was a dream , maybe it is a dream. Tony is kissing like he is a genius in this, too.

Tony’s hands, warm and strong and so big, oh god, Tony’s hands are on Peter’s thighs, moving in slow strokes from his knees to his ass and back, and Peter whimpers into Tony’s mouth, surprised, and finally lets his body lower down over Tony's crotch and—

"Knew you'd be easy," Tony growls, bites into Peter's mouth. "Had to give them a discount just to wrap it all up quicker, you kept distracting me..."

"Sorry," Peter slurs into the kiss. It's hot and sharp and Peter never wants to stop, actually, they can just make out all night and he'd die happy.

Well, that's a lie. Tony's boner is pressing to Peter's ass. He made Tony hard. He turned Tony on. Oh, god. Peter wants to print this moment out and keep it framed like a diploma. Next to the medal he deserves for not dry humping Tony's crotch like a goddamn teenager. Actually, he's not that far from being one, so maybe he could get away with a little dry humping, here—

Tony smacks his ass and laughs when it makes Peter’s breath hitch.

"Come on, let's get out of here before Bucky-bear gets nervous," Tony announces, cheerfully, and starts getting up, arms coming tight around Peter’s waist. Good choice, Peter’s pretty sure his legs would give out otherwise.

***

They are out of the club and in the car before Peter has time to really ask himself if driving off with a very rich and very powerful man without grabbing so much as his phone is a good idea. Tony makes it known in no uncertain terms that he’d like Peter to stay dressed — undressed — just like this. And he’s running a finger through the middle of Peter’s abs as he says it, pressing him to a wall in the dark hall of the club, so Peter has very little interest in arguing.

Peter barely has enough sense left to register that the partition between the backseat and the driver is firmly up — and then he’s on his knees in front of Tony, and silly things like safety measures and good decisions cease to exist altogether. “Eager, are we?” Tony teases, but makes no move to stop Peter’s hands as they’re undoing the belt of his slacks, steady as ever. Peter’s given plenty of blowj*bs. Never — to a client. Never — like this, in the backseat of a car that smells like luxury, brand new, even though he knows somewhere in the back of his mind that he’s probably a successor to a long line of people who’ve been here on his knees, just like him.

Never, of course — to a figure as pivotal to him as Tony.

So it’s still kind of a miracle that his hands are not shaking when he pulls out Tony’s co*ck — god, it’s big, but not too big, just the right f*cking size, thick and gorgeous, hard as Peter wraps his hand around it.

Peter licks his lips. He is eager, alright. “Can I suck you dick, Mr. Stark? Please.” Peter looks up, catches the moment Tony’s parted lips — still wet from their makeout session in the hall — tug into a smile, almost surprised, or impressed?

“Yeah, baby, go ahead,” Tony nods, shifting lower in the seat. “Asking so nicely— oh, fu— uh… ”

***

Peter moans when Tony’s dick hits the back of his throat, and again, over and over as Tony f*cks into his mouth and Peter bobs his head to meet the thrusts, hungry for it. He moans, or tries to, his throat might be too preoccupied with working through the reflexes, contracting around the head of Tony's co*ck — he's not sure if any sound is coming out, his ears are ringing with white noise, like tinnitus after working all night too close to a speaker with no earplugs in. Air? Overrated, who needs air when there is Tony's co*ck — thick and heavy and amazing, f*cking phenomenal .

"Oh, sweetheart, that's right. Choke on it, you like it? Look at you…" Tony's voice cuts through the fog, low and husky, sending a shudder through Peter’s body. Tony's grip tightens in his hair, the pain of it sends a delicious wave of electricity through him and it spreads like a muscle relaxant, turning his body weightless, pliant, completely at mercy of Tony's hands— His hands, god, huge and warm, one keeping a firm grip in Peter's hair, grabbed in a fistful, unforgiving, the watch's band pressing into Peter's skin where Tony's wrist rubs against his forehead. His other hand — a tender contrast, holding the side of Peter's face gently, thumb coming up to wipe an overwhelmed tear, or sliding down to his lips, teasing, not getting inside, just tracing Peter's lips stretched around his co*ck. f*ck. Peter is a mess, a hurricane of firing neurons spread out between Tony's legs, wishing he could stop the time and stay like this forever, Tony's hands playing bad cop, good cop on his head, Tony's hard dick throbbing deep in his mouth, and all he needs to do is stay here and take it—

Which must be the right decision — of course they come when Peter's brain is decidedly off, sure, why not — because the thrusts go out of rhythm and suddenly both Tony's hands are in Peter's hair, pushing down as his hips jerk up, burying his co*ck deep into Peter's throat. Tony comes with a low grunt and Peter relaxes, lets it happen, not a single goddamn care to find in his mind, blank and overflowing with bliss and pain and pure, top grade endorphins.

For a second, nothing exists but Tony’s body, the sharp smell of his cologne mixing with sweat and musk, his hands — the only thing keeping Peter upright — and a wordless notion that this, deepthroating Tony Stark into an org*sm in the back of his car, this is the culmination act of Peter’s whole f*cking life.

"Holy f*ck , baby... Where did you come from, huh? Heaven or hell?" Tony’s voice floats, deep, wraps around Peter like a surrounding sound system.

"Queens," Peter croaks after Tony pulls out, rubbing a thumb over Peter’s bottom lip like he can’t quite let go. Tony laughs, breathless, and Peter laughs, too, feeling insane, absurd, his jaw hurts and his lips are swollen, sensitive, face covered in tears and come and spit. The car is still moving, or maybe the world is just moving past them, the lights of the city dimmed by the tinted glass of the windows blur in Peter’s eyes. He’s drunk on Tony’s taste, smell, the dream-like vision of him — flushed, grinning, framed by the black leather of the backseat, the city lights just a background to add highlights to his dark eyes.

Peter is dazed, unanchored, until Tony pulls him up, practically manhandles Peter’s willing body onto his lap. "I'm gonna need a minute before the second round, do you want to wait and come on my co*ck, or do you want me to take the edge off now?"

Words, too many words. What is he even saying? His eyes are so f*cking beautiful.

"I'll wait," Peter manages, finally.

"Good boy," Tony licks his neck. Peter is lit on fire, shaking, already regretting signing up for a mission he's not sure he can accomplish, but has to, now, has to be good for Tony. f*ck. He's zeroed in on the feeling of Tony's lips on his skin, the sharp bite of his beard setting every nerve on fire, and then— "Don't worry, I'll keep you entertained, get you nice and ready for me—" Tony is growling like he is the own being tortured, here, and while Peter is lost at sea, drowning in the kiss that Tony uses for punctuation, one of the hands squeezing his ass slides further, fingers brushing his hole with intention. "Please, please— " he sighs into Tony's smile, pathetic and broken and ready to beg. "Please, Mr. Stark ."

"You really like calling me that, yeah? Oh, f*ck— You're trouble, kitten—" A hand is on Peter's face, a thumb tracing his lips, again— he chases after it with open mouth, licking, suppressing the sudden animal instinct to meow, purr . Tony dips his thumb into Peter's mouth, then index finger, then the middle. "That's it, you know the drill, such a good baby," Tony coos as Peter sucks on his fingers obediently.

By the time the car stops moving Tony has two fingers inside Peter. The stretch burns, too tight, too dry — but the sheer fact that Tony improvised and made up for the lack of lube by making Peter lick his fingers is so mind-numbingly hot that it makes the pain worth it. Peter hisses into his neck when Tony pulls out carefully. He tugs Peter’s shorts more or less into place and lands a loud smack on his buttcheek — hard enough it stings, overshadows the discomfort in his ass for the moment as he yelps, looks up, gets blinded yet again by Tony’s smile.

“We’re here. Come on…” Another smack — on the other cheek, a bit lighter. Peter is so hard and so turned on and intoxicated on Tony’s cologne — he’s having a difficult time comprehending. Again, still. Tony touches his chin, just a flick of a finger. It does the trick, and Peter stumbles off Tony's lap and out of the car and then back into Tony’s arms.

***

The unforgiving light of the elevator reminds Peter that he's basically naked, his tiny tight shorts doing nothing to hide his raging erection. And Tony is fully clothed, even his suit jacket is back on — the contrast of it makes Peter let out a shuddering gasp in Tony's mouth, his exposed back pressed to the cold metal wall of the elevator cabin, sending waves of goosebumps down his arms. He knows no one's going to see them here, but, still, he feels so f*cking dirty, god, what is he doing? Running to Tony's house straight off the pole, like a good pet, sucking him off in the back of the car on the way… Peter is in no way a modest virgin, he is a strip dancer for f*ck’s sake, but this — this is a whole new planet of slu*t behavior. A whole new galaxy. The thrill of it is just oil to the flames, Peter’s hands climbing up up up Tony’s arms to his neck, under the shirt, light scratch down the top of his spine—

Tony hauls Peter up and presses him to the wall by the time the elevator’s doors slide open with a gentle ping, but instead of letting Peter hop back down and walk out Tony readjust his grip on Peter’s ass and carries him out. Peter moans into the kiss, holds on to Tony’s shoulders firmer so he’s easier to carry. God, this is so f*cking hot. Peter isn’t exactly tiny, he’s not tall but he is fairly muscular, certainly not as skin and bones as he used to be, but Tony seems unbothered, walking steadily through the shadowed rooms and halls. Peter can’t make himself tear apart from Tony’s lips to look around, are they in Tony’s penthouse in the Stark Tower? Peter didn’t pay attention to the surroundings when they arrived, so— It’s dark, but Peter makes out the sleek minimalistic design, the outer wall is full glass, floor to ceiling, the city bright and distant underneath as they’re crossing through the big expanse of the living room, spacious enough to host a fund-raiser, and… there is something that looks like a disassembled engine on the coffee table. Yep, this is definitely Tony’s place. Tony brought him to his home. f*ck. Peter is seriously never going to emotionally recover from this.

Not that it matters. It doesn’t f*cking matter.

Peter laughs into the kiss, too happy to acknowledge his impending downfall, when Tony props him briefly on the edge of the handrail at the bottom of the stairs, steel and glass glowing in the dark all around. “I’m tempted to f*ck you right here, bent over on the steps for me, but—” Tony’s voice is low, husky, lips sliding from Peter’s mouth to his ear, bite, back to his mouth. “You’ve been such a good boy, I kind of feel obliged to treat you nice, bring you to my bedroom—”

Tony’s words shatter the last standing bricks of critical thinking Peter had left. Tony already called him a good boy so many times tonight, but the effect only seems to be getting stronger. And now with an implication that being invited to Tony’s bedroom is a prize? Good lord. “Please, Mr. Stark—” Peter whines, breathless, repeating yet again the only sentence he seems capable of anymore. Peter’s head is swimming, he doesn't know what he’s even asking for. But Tony gets it, either way — picks Peter back up again and heads up the stairs, his mouth hot and wet on Peter’s throat.

***

Tony’s bed is endless, goes on for miles and miles and Peter is floating in it like he’s lost in the ocean. And Tony is the orca lurking just under the surface, broad shoulders and hard muscle. He’s so much bigger like this, up close and naked, not hidden under a designer three-piece suit. When the hell did that even come off? Oh, wait, that’s right, Peter peeled it off of him as soon as Tony let him stand on his own feet again.

“I thought this might calm you down a little,” Tony chuckles, gently pushing his middle finger to join the index in Peter’s mouth. It did calm Peter down, even his anxiety-ridden excited jitters are helpless against full brain shut-off triggered by sucking on Tony’s fingers. Or touching Tony in any way, actually. Or looking at him. Or being in the same room. The effect is multiplied because there is no further purpose to this now but to ruin Peter. Tony’s other hand is rubbing gently at Peter’s ass, fingers coated in the lube from a fancy metal box that was sitting right on top of his bedside table. It smells like lavender with a spicy twist to it. Tony’s finger finally slips past the rim slowly and Peter shakes in anticipation, pushes down on Tony’s hand, chasing for more. “Shh, easy,” Tony chides, his gaze heavy on Peter’s face, probably already ruined with tears and sweat and spit because Peter can’t goddamn help himself.

Tony is different now, in his house, in his bed — a little bit, but Peter notices the calmer feel to his presence, his eyes moving slower, deliberate but relaxed. Everything about him is quieter, more subtle, not for show, urging Peter to pay attention, to hold his breath so as to not miss anything. Tony pulls his fingers out of Peter’s mouth and settles his hand on Peter’s neck instead — not squeezing, just resting, heavy like a collar on flushed skin, fingers open over the base of Peter’s neck as if ready to tighten the grip any moment.

“How do you want me to f*ck you?” Tony says, coarse, adding a second finger with no warning, sliding both in with a steady motion, not fazed by Peter’s hips jerking involuntarily from pain and pleasure alike. “Tell me how you imagined it.”

“Any way you want, Sir,” Peter manages between moans, rocking down on Tony’s fingers.

“I want you to tell me. How did you dream of me f*cking you?”

Tony’s voice is everywhere, he is everywhere. His free hand glides from Peter’s neck to his cheek — Peter rubs his face into Tony’s palm, helpless — then back to his neck, chest, stomach, wraps around Peter’s co*ck for a moment too short, teasing, before traveling back up his body again, leaving him gasping for air, shaking and craving more. “Too many— too many ways to choose— Oh, f-f*ck— Tony .”

Tony is smiling, slow, unbothered. He shifts closer and tugs Peter’s left leg up onto his own shoulder, plants a kiss on his ankle, followed by a bite. His hard co*ck is pressing into Peter’s thigh, and he must notice the effect this has on Peter because he rocks his hips in sync with the fingers — three, now. Peter’s not sure. He stopped comprehending. “I’m going to make you say it,” Tony says. Not threatening, just honest.

It hurts to look at him, the devilish smirk that still somehow feels inviting rather than daunting. Peter almost wishes he was scared, instead, but he’s not. He feels safe in Tony’s arms, against all odds. Stupid. Tony’s eyes are heavy-lidded, focused. He’s so beautiful and enticing and everything, god— Peter did imagine this, of course, he daydreamed about this on more occasions than he’d like to admit, but he’s not special, millions of people daydream about f*cking Tony Stark, and have been since before Peter was born, so—

Then again. Not all of them got a chance to actually experience this, right? So in a way, Peter is special. At least now, here, as long as Tony is looking at him like this, like nothing else exists.

“Face down,” Peter lets the words escape him with a mix of relief and regret. Relief, because maybe if he doesn’t see Tony’s face, these eyes, it will be easier to let this go, after. Regret, because it would be worth it, his heart, his sanity, whatever, it would be worth it. “Please—”

“See, wasn’t so hard,” Tony’s voice is low, the approving tone of it makes Peter’s co*ck twitch desperately over his stomach. Tony notices, still smiling — a hungry shark playing with its food.

Tony fingers him like this, laid out in front of him, spread and open. Then, while Peter is still breathless, his whole body shuddering in shock at the sudden loss of Tony’s fingers — the world flips upside down, and he finds himself on his hands and knees. He arches his back on pure instinct, shaking in anticipation, gripping the sheets for dear life. The tell-tale sound of a condom wrapper tearing is a distant, irrelevant concept, as Peter buries his face in the smooth million-thread-count sheets — they smell like Tony — and prepares to have his life split into before and after .

Tony’s hands are burning hot on Peter’s skin, he pulls Peter’s hips up and then slides a hand over his arching spine to push down between his shoulder blades — Peter responds to every move like soft clay.

“Please —” Peter starts to beg, but doesn’t get to finish. Tony doesn’t give a warning besides his hands gripping Peter’s hips hard enough to bruise — he pushes inside in one thrust and the world stops—

“Shhh, baby, f*ck… ” Tony slurs the words into a groan. Peter is caught in a shock, every cell in his body flaring up, paralyzed with the dull overwhelming pain and total, all-encompassing bliss. Tony’s co*ck feels so deliciously thick and huge inside Peter’s ass despite the thorough preparation, and the stretch is f*cking perfect, mind-numbing until all Peter can do is moan, wordless, muffled into the sheets.

“—been waiting all night for you, kitten, so good—” Tony is saying. He’s not moving, yet, giving Peter a moment to adjust, hands shifting on the small of Peter’s back, keeping him in place but also— comforting? Because he’s so goddamn nice and thoughtful and careful with Peter for no reason, no reason at all, and Peter can’t stand this —

Peter jerks his hips back, not quite ready yet and his body is shaking in protest but this is the lesser evil than letting Tony handle him so slowly and carefully as if matters how Peter feels, as if it’s anything more than—

Tony takes the cue, a raspy laugh mixed with a moan, breathless, approving, taking the bet, taking the bait — he snaps his hips, harsh, like a reminder who’s in charge here, and Peter’s brain goes off .

Tony starts f*cking him in earnest, more force than speed, and Peter whines because nothing is stopping him anymore, he’s reduced to a bundle of firing nerves in Tony’s hands, the feeling of Tony’s co*ck sliding out before snapping back home with a purpose is pure ecstasy, better than the rush of cocaine, better than anything he’s ever experienced or will ever—

“That’s right, just like that, so f*cking tight for me, baby—” Tony is breathing hard, fingers digging into the skin of Peter’s butt cheeks. It will leave bruises, for sure, but Peter wishes for more, wishes Tony did something to him that would leave a scar, a permanent mark, something Peter could keep forever. God, he whimpers at the thought, at the pain and the pleasure, feeling f*cking insane, insatiable, indebted—

Even though he can’t see Tony’s face, can’t see anything but the stars bursting in his head, eyes shut, Tony doesn’t let him forget — he keeps talking, each word landing on Peter’s skin like molten metal.

“Perfect, so perfect—”

and

“Taking my co*ck so well, kid, so f*cking good for me—”

and

“That’s what you wanted, baby, yeah?”

Peter can’t form a word even if he tried but he thrashes his head in an attempt to nod, desperate to please, choking in an attempt to agree, yes, yes, this is everything I f*cking wanted, please, thank you— All that comes out is Tony’s name, distorted into a hiss as Tony grunts, picking up the pace and sliding his hands down Peter’s spine, changing the angle, and it was already too good, unbearable, but now his dick is hitting the sweet spot just right and—

“Oh, f-fu-uh— look at you, can’t even talk, poor thing… That good, huh? I know, I know—” Tony coos, breathless and soft, in total contrast to how hard he’s pounding into Peter’s body, relentless, balls slapping Peter’s scrotum with each deep thrust. It’s getting more and more unhinged, animalistic, and Peter is incoherent, unaware of the string of wretched noises spilling out of him. His own co*ck is hanging heavy between his legs, so hard it f*cking hurts if he could spare it a goddamn thought — not that he can, not that there is any thought left in him at all.

Time and space fade into nothingness, Tony’s having his way with him and this is heaven , and then— “C’mere,” Tony grabs Peter’s hair in a fistful and tugs up, thrusts slowing down into a pause, his shaft buried all the way inside Peter’s body as he manhandles him up, the other hand coming around Peter’s chest and pulling him closer until Peter is on his knees, leaning back onto Tony’s chest. “Peter…” Tony is whispering into his neck, the sharp bristle of his beard sending Peter’s senses haywire and his body trembles on its own accord, bucking back onto Tony’s co*ck. Tony saying his name hits Peter like a bullet and somewhere all the way in the back in his mind there is a need to protest, reject it, it’s not me, you don’t know me, I’m just a body for you, could be anyone, stop— But he arches his back, turns to tuck his face into Tony’s neck, drinks the remnants of his cologne, still so strong it’s altering Peter’s brain chemistry as he lets himself lick it off with the sweat under the edge of Tony’s jaw, feeling the artery there pulsating with exertion.

“So f*cking beautiful, look at you—” Tony snarls, guttural, and he’s back to rocking his hips, f*cking into Peter’s pliant body, his arms wrapped around Peter’s torso so he’s right where he needs to be for Tony’s co*ck to drive in just right. “ Look, ” he’s repeating, his mouth on Peter’s ear, and Peter opens his eyes, powerless to resist. He sees Tony’s hair sticking to his skin with sweat, his eyes dazed and focused in front of him, mouth open, soft grunts escaping with each thrust— Peter traces his gaze — the room around is a whirlpool of dimmed lights and muted shadows — and catches their reflection in the glass wall right across the bed, several feet away and pierced through with the lights of the city. He watches, transfixed, the lines blurring with his own tears as the tension is twisting inside him, getting ready to burst — he watches Tony’s hand slide down, wrapping around his co*ck. Peter squeals, uncontrollable, but can’t look away, watches as Tony is jerking him off fervently, matches the movements to the rhythm of his dick slamming into Peter’s ass.

“You’re dream, Pete, come for me…” Peter watches Tony growl into his temple, eyes shut closed for a moment before he catches Peter’s eyes in the reflection, a victorious smirk already tugging at his lips when he repeats, “Come for me.”

Peter does.

Everything is swallowed in white noise.

***

There are succulents in Tony’s ensuite, arranged artfully on the little shelves, evidently existing just for that purpose. Peter’s first thought is, plastic plants, really? Huh, rich people are still people, I guess. But then he looks closer — they are real. Somehow, the idea of Tony keeping living plants is more surprising than him having fake ones for decoration. Unjustified, of course, Peter wouldn’t know either way, he doesn’t actually know Tony.

He has to keep telling himself that — you don’t know him, you don’t know him, this is nothing, just a f*ck, he won’t remember your name in the morning, won’t recognize you on a street a week from now, just because he just railed you on a round trip between heaven and hell and back to the real world doesn’t mean you are any closer to him than any other person following a fan account with updates on his public appearances. Peter repeats all this in his head like a mantra until it dulls out the tingling sensation — of intimacy, connection? stupid — spreading inside his chest. The swishing sound of running water helps a bit, too.

Peter pretty much blacked out from his org*sm. He decides it’s for the best. The details of what happened after are hazy, warped snapshots of sensations, vague and half-forgotten like a dream upon awakening — Tony’s mouth open and wet on Peter’s nape, the weight of Tony’s body pinning him down, heavy and perfect, the litany of words Peter couldn’t comprehend and noises Peter felt in his very soul as Tony was f*cking his half-conscious body through the blissful oblivion, fast and rough, chasing his own release and joining Peter on cloud nine all too soon after.

When Peter regained consciousness Tony was running his fingers lightly over his back, smiling. It took Peter almost a full minute of smiling back, basking in it, before he fully plugged into reality, at which point he got so startled Tony actually said, “Are you okay, kid? Wanna grab a shower?” Peter wanted to run, more than anything, but he took the presented opportunity. He must’ve been passed out for a little bit, judging by Tony's damp hair and fresh scent in the air around him. Still, he had no business looking that rejuvenated, like he just took a morning shower after a restful night of sleep, and not a post-sex shower after sipping on whiskey all night and f*cking Peter into the next dimension with athleticism that puts any of Peter’s former lovers twice younger than Tony to absolute shame.

Peter decides he doesn’t want to take a shower, even though Tony said there were fresh towels in the drawers, and that he could use whatever products he wanted. It feels too personal — washing in Tony’s personal bathroom, using his shampoo that’s probably custom designed for Tony’s hair and costs more than Peter’s rent. Too much, too close to the kind of thing that this is not. Peter knows his brain will spurt yet another round of “I could get used to this” type of thoughts, he’s already had about a million of those and they don’t get any easier to shake off. So instead of a shower Peter resorts to cleaning up a bit with hand soap, as quickly and efficiently as he can manage, a ridiculously soft towel burning in his hands. He avoids crossing eyes with his own reflection, and when he inevitably does — the person in the mirror looks like someone operating on factory settings.

He has no idea where the hell his clothes — well, a singular item he had on him — got to, and walking out with a towel wrapped around his hips seems, again, too domestic for his comfort, so he opts to waltz out naked. Whatever, Tony was naked when he woke Peter up, too, so Peter figures it would fit the dress code.

Peter already has the breath needed to say that he’s leaving in his lungs before he even opens the bathroom door, but then—

He finds Tony on the balcony. Turns out, naturally, there is a balcony — or a terrace, more like? — tucked along one of the walls, hidden in plain sight because it’s glass on glass on glass. And, frankly, Peter didn’t take much time to get acquainted with the interior. He’s sure the glass walls aren’t see-through, anyway, and there must be some kind of system that prevents the open part of the room from being seen by the world, because, well — Tony is still naked. He’s leaning casually on the railing, his silhouette framed by the night sky and city lights.

Peter forgets that he was determined to leave. Forgets a lot of things.

“So is there some invisibility shield tech you’re not sharing with the world or will I enjoy your nude photos on my twitter feed tomorrow morning?” Peter drops casually, faking nonchalance as he steps out to join Tony. It’s warm out, but the breeze this high up is still chill enough to send a shiver over his open skin, and the night air actually smells fresh rather than heavy with the notes of polluted streets. I could get used to this. Goddammit.

Tony turns his head like he’s caught off guard — he looked kind of deep in thought, eyes unfocused — but the surprise must be pleasant, his lips immediately tugging into a smile as he gives a welcoming glance up and down Peter’s body. “I guess you’ll find out tomorrow morning.” Tony winks, taking a sip of his drink — amber, ice. Peter doesn’t even like dark liquors but he wants to lick it off Tony’s mouth so bad he almost sways where he stands. “Smart glass, to put it simply,” Tony nods above them. “Redirects light particles, distorts the image. Not legal, technically.”

A part of Peter wants to make a remark that he doesn’t need Tony to “put it simply” for him. Optics might not be his strongest suit, but he would figure it out just fine, at least to an extent. But the way Tony said it wasn’t dismissive or bragging, just sharing a quick explanation. Strangely, absurdly, Peter never feels like he’s treated as someone of a lesser intelligence with Tony. Not that they’ve spent that much time talking, but… In his line of work, he knows people who want to diminish you will easily find ways to do so even if there isn’t much conversation going. Tony doesn’t do it.

Another part of Peter wants to ask, how does it work? Because he’s genuinely fascinated. Or maybe to see if Tony breaks and brushes it off with, “You wouldn’t get it, darling,” after all.

“Did you invent it just to… walk around naked in front of the city?” Peter says instead, settling on flirtatious teasing. Always a safe bet.

Tony smirks. “I like my privacy,” he shrugs. As if simply withholding from nude balcony hang-outs wasn’t even an option.

Peter’s not sure how it happens, exactly — they start kissing. It’s so simple, so easy, too easy for Peter to wrap his arms around Tony’s neck, fingers brushing his soft hair, still a little damp. Too easy to follow the impulse and nuzzle at the side of Tony’s cheek, where a short stubble is starting to ruin the sharp edges of his perfectly shaped goatee. Tony smiles at that, and it’s all too easy to kiss that smile, as if Peter has any right to claim something so personal.

“Why do you have real plants in the bathroom?” Peter blurts out into Tony’s lips. Because it’s easy, too, to be himself, say the silly thing crossing his mind somewhere between I could get used to this and run run run before you hurt yourself more.

Tony frowns curiously. “Why, were you expecting robot plants?”

“...Maybe?”

“Fair. It was a gift from a friend. She said I needed to learn how to take care of something,” Tony shrugs, sharing this little piece of himself like it’s no big deal, like he’s okay with Peter having it. God.

Peter pretends to think about it. It’s so f*cking easy — to flirt, to talk, to kiss — but that closeness weighs on Peter’s heart like an anchor dragging across the ocean floor, trying and failing to catch onto the surface of reality but just tearing it open instead.

“I dunno. You took care of me just fine,” Peter muses in response, and Tony laughs and tugs him back into a kiss.

They keep kissing, exchanging light banter heavy on innuendos. Tony keeps smiling, Peter keeps pretending this is nothing. When the wind picks up, Tony wraps him into a hug — a real hug, not just hands roaming suggestively over open skin — and it makes Peter shake worse than the cold air.

At some point Tony offers him a drink, Peter asks for something sharp and bitter, to which Tony arches an eyebrow with interest. “Say no more.”

Peter is left alone for the few minutes it takes Tony to make that drink. Funny, Peter is as exposed to the entire universe as he can possibly be — bare, nothing between him and the sky above, the city below — but it feels private, like a confessional where he can whisper his darkest secrets. I’m already in too deep, anyway, Peter admits silently. Might as well get all you can from it , the starless sky whispers back in his head.

He downs the co*cktail Tony presents him with in one go, not even trying to pretend that he’s not using it as medicine for nerves. It’s f*cking delicious, just what Peter craved. “Thirsty?” Tony says incredulously, a humorous twinkle in the corners of his eyes.

“Yeah,” Peter nods, catching his breath after drinking a whole glass so fast, “Yeah, I am.” He leans in for a kiss with a purpose, this time. With a desperate, gut-wrenching mission. Tony gasps as their lips collide, and the way he responds feels like he’s trying to calm Peter down — unhurried, his tongue dragging languidly into Peter’s mouth.

“f*ck me again,” Peter begs, cutting that tenderness at the root, clinging to Tony’s body, all warm skin and solid muscle. “Any way you want, please.” He probably sounds overcome, probably showing all his goddamn cards, too vulnerable and honest.

“I don’t know if I have another one in me, kitten. You already gave me a run for my money,” Tony says with a lopsided smirk and an unbothered kind of confidence that shouldn’t be humanly possible for someone who’s saying they might not be able to get it up. Maybe that’s what — that confidence, that perception that nothing can really sway him — makes Peter believe he’s allowed to push back. Just a little. Just enough.

“Is that a challenge?”

Tony pauses, lips parted in soft surprise, eyes scanning Peter’s face, as if reading exactly what could be going on on Peter’s mind. Peter doesn’t really know what’s going on there himself, but he trusts Tony to get the right impression. “Feel free to take it as one. If you’d like,” Tony says after all, a careful tilt to the words, but Peter already sees his eyes going darker with… anticipation.

Peter drops to his knees right then and there, on the balcony, with not a single care in the world, his life purpose narrowing down to make Tony feel good, give him more — pleasure, himself, a reason to smile fondly in case this night crosses his mind some time. If all Peter can be is a vague memory, he wants to be one worth remembering.

Tony snickers, at first, delighted, but his breath hitches when Peter wraps his mouth around his soft co*ck with no hesitation, gentle but determined. He sucks on it carefully, lets it out of his mouth to lick and kiss and suck on the balls, and then makes sure to throw a dazed glance up at Tony — who’s staring back, eyebrows drawn together, tense, but lips curved in an impressed smirk. And seeing that Tony really is enjoying it turns Peter on so f*cking fast he has to hold back, reminding himself to keep it nice and gentle when he sucks Tony’s dick into his mouth again, already stirring to life. This? Peter has never done anything like this before, but it turns out easy, too, to let the instincts take over. Peter slides his hands over Tony’s thighs, solid and muscular, squeezes Tony’s thick butt, f*ck, maybe he should just eat Tony out while he’s at it… The unexpected urge makes him moan around Tony’s co*ck, hardening and growing in his mouth. “Yeah, yeah, baby, keep going, so f*cking hot, get d— get me hard, just like that—” Tony mutters, mixes with a moan through a shuddering exhale. The power surge shooting through Peter’s body at the realization that he’s doing this, he’s turning Tony on and it’s working — is intoxicating, mind-altering. Peter bobs his head vigorously, chasing it, until Tony’s hands — god, finally — land heavily onto his head, pushing it down on Tony’s dick in sync with Peter’s movements. “Oh, holy f*ck, kid, what the —” Tony hisses, a choked up laugh, a gasp when Peter swallows down deeper, Tony’s co*ck is now almost fully hard and heavy in his mouth.

Peter loses track of time. Loses track of how many times he’s lost track of time tonight. Is it still just tonight? Or have they fallen into some parallel universe, stuck in this night forever? It’s good to dream. Peter wishes — again, for the billionth time tonight — that he could just stay here forever. With Tony’s hands on his body. With Tony’s smile so bright and real like he actually sees Peter, sees him in a way no one bothered to look before, and if someone did try Peter wished he could hide from them, didn’t want to be seen. But he feels alive when Tony looks at him. Alive and powerful and like himself, all the way. Even now, on his knees on the cold floor of the balcony, ninety-something floors above the city, doing his best to be a fun toy for— his childhood hero? celebrity crush? the world’s greatest scientist? Who is this man supposed to be, again, other than Tony? When did he become just Tony?... The math doesn’t add up, because Peter should feel used, dirty, stripped of his personhood, even, but he doesn’t. He feels pinned to his own shadow, soul to the body, by Tony’s eyes, heavy-lidded with lust but never clouded, always seeing right through.

“Up, up, come on—” The reality crashes back onto itself and Tony drags Peter’s head off his co*ck by the hair, just a touch too forceful — Peter f*cking loves it, Tony pulling at his hair. He also loves sucking Tony’s dick, so it’s only fair that he needed to be pulled away with a little effort. Tony is breathless, catching night air with an open mouth. Hell, Peter is, too. Tony grabs Peter’s hands, his neck, his chin covered in spit, like he doesn’t know what to hold onto — but he doesn’t turn away to walk out and tug Peter behind him, no, he clutches onto Peter and walks backwards into the room, their eyes locked.

“Tony,” Peter says for no reason other than because he can. Tried not to, tried to keep his distance with business-casual and playful Mr. Stark and Sir . All in vain.

Tony walks backwards towards the bed and Peter knows he’s gone, he’s f*cking dead, done for — because Tony sits down on the edge and pulls Peter into his lap, face to face. “Ride me, baby,” Tony groans into the kiss that’s all teeth, his strong hands grabbing Peter’s ass and hauling him closer, until their co*cks are pressed together and Peter whines into Tony’s open mouth, hips jerking involuntarily to chase the friction.

Peter gives in, lets himself be swept away in the gathering thunderstorm of touch, reflections, breeze from the balcony doors left open, alcohol running through Peter’s system in a race with adrenalin, the sharpness of Tony’s beard, the warmth of his hands, the velvety sound of his laughter when Peter shoves at his chest to make him lay down. Peter crawls to the bedside table in a haze, finds the lube and condoms in unlabeled black packages. “Fancy,” he breathes out, back on Tony’s lap, tearing one open with his teeth, hands shaking in anticipation. “Everything about you, just— Are you even real?” Stupid, so stupid, shut up, Parker, shut up— He swallows down a moan, just from how good it feels to wrap a hand around Tony’s thick co*ck, slicking it up— Not gonna bother with himself, this will be enough, and if it’s not — he will like the pain just as well. Anything. “Are you even real, or am I just dreaming? I don’t—” Peter doesn’t dare to look up, suddenly so lost, vulnerable, which does nothing to subdue the burning lust, somehow only makes it stronger.

“I’m real, kid,” Tony reaches out, fingers brushing Peter’s face until Peter meets his eyes, helpless to resist. Tony is smiling, the note of reassurance in it makes Peter want to either burst into tears or bite the hand stroking his face hard enough to draw blood. It gets quiet, almost eerily so, like the eye of the storm. “Come here,” Tony says, simple and final, and Peter does. He shifts closer, his body finally catching on and muscle memory taking over, thank god. Tony lays and watches calmly, arms now folded comfortably under his head, eyes dark and intense, as Peter positions himself, reaches back to line up— Tony licks his lips. “That’s right. You know what to do. Ride me like you imagined it when you were giving me a lap dance.”

God. Peter sinks down on Tony’s co*ck in one desperate motion, and bursts into tears from the pain and sheer, overwhelming joy, after all.

***

It’s pushing sunrise, but the early light is dimmed by the fog, hanging low over the quiet streets, hiding the tops of skyscrapers. Peter’s eyes hurt when he tries to look up, the cold glass of the car window feels like ice on his burning skin, as if he’s running a fever.

Honestly, he might as well be.

Hours since he had his last drink, Peter feels the furthest from sober he’s ever been. Something smells expensive, it might be the car — wait, no, it’s his clothes. f*ck. Is Tony’s detergent just fancy, or did he take a moment to spray some cologne on the neatly folded black sweatsuit before handing it to Peter? Either way, Peter comes to acceptance that he will probably never wash this ever again. Maybe he’ll get some special bag to preserve it better, only wear it on special occasions — alone in his bedroom, to jerk off and cry over how stupid he is, spending the night with Tony Stark as if there was any chance Peter wouldn’t fall in love with him in the mere hours and spend the rest of his days pining.

Not that he’s thinking about it now. He’s blissfully numb to anything but the fading buzz of euphoria still lingering in the pit of his stomach, fragments of the last several hours playing in his mind like sitcom reruns.

“Stay. If you’d like. I’ll make your breakfast. Well. I’ll order you breakfast,” Tony said with a tired smile, like he meant it. Peter just laughed, nervous, scared. Undone. He shook his head even if it pained him, every cell of his being screaming at him to agree. But he already got into that trap once, tonight. Following the white rabbit into a wonderland.

“No, thank you, Tony. I’m gonna— I’m gonna go.”

Peter wishes Tony just let him go as he was, that he didn’t pretend to care. That would be the ultimate walk of shame — walking out of the Stark Tower and slipping into an Uber with nothing on but a pair of dancing shorts, all the fresh hickeys and bruises on display. Maybe Peter wouldn’t feel so heartbroken if he was busy feeling used, humiliated. Instead, Tony’s last name on Peter’s chest stands out in the window’s reflection, white letters jumping out on the black material of the hoodie, bright in the shadowed backseat. The driver already had the partition up when Peter got into the car. Peter wishes he hated it — Tony giving him his own goddamn merch for a parting gift. But Tony didn’t have to give him anything at all. And it’s nice of him to keep new sets of comfortable sweatsuits for unclothed one-night stands. Nice in a ridiculous and obnoxious kind of way that Peter wishes he hated, too. He doesn’t. Tony means well. And Peter feels cared for, like a collectible toy. No, not something you keep… Like an art piece rented for an event, cherished and admired before it’s packaged back up carefully and sent on its way.

The car stops at the backdoors of the club. Peter gets out in a daze, grabs his stuff from the backroom, swipes off all the notifications in his phone without looking at them. Tomorrow. He’ll come up with something to answer Lena’s and MJ’s excited inquiries tomorrow. He runs into Bucky in the hall, of course.

“You alright?” is all Bucky asks, a quick glance over Peter’s body doesn’t pause on the emblem on his chest in a way that feels deliberate.

“Yeah, I’m—” his voice comes out raspy so Peter clears his throat. “I’m good.”

Bucky nods. “I told the driver to wait for you. Or I can give you a ride home, if you’d prefer that.”

Peter has to bite his lip to avoid showing how strangely touched the offer makes him. The club has a staff taxi available to all workers at request, but Bucky never offered to drive anyone personally. Peter is tempted to agree, but— There is no way he would get through it without falling apart. So he declines politely and rushes back out to the inviting anonymity of Tony’s car with a driver who doesn’t care about him, and has probably driven back home dozens of people whose footsteps Peter followed tonight.

By the time Peter is home and has half a gallon of water, three painkillers and two antacids in him, the lines have blurred enough that he doesn’t feel sad, really, or anything. Just empty. He’s playing a reel of Tony — smiling, winking, moaning, being himself in a way Peter had to right to see — in his head as he falls asleep.