Peter called MJ the minute he walked out of the meeting room. His heart was pounding, adrenaline flushing through his system. He had woken up that morning thinking he would lose his job at SI and had already started morosely updating his resume, hesitating when he reached the section about why he left his most recent position. He didn't think "loved the feel of my boss's hand on my cock" would guarantee future employment.

"We're going to Fuse tonight," MJ announced happily after Peter updated her on the outcome of the HR meeting. "I'm just glad we'll be happy drinking instead of sad drinking. Want to go shopping beforehand? Get something cute?"

Peter remembered the damage his newly purchased leather pants had recently caused and laughed. "No, I think I'm better off wearing something I already have. The more boring, the better."

Ned met them at the nightclub wearing the same style fedora he had worn since highschool. Peter smiled, remembering how they had crashed Liz's party sophomore year…then frowned when he remembered how her father had been arrested later that year for murder and attempted robbery.

MJ wore a short black dress and had insisted on pre-drinking, already sloshed on miniatures of Malibu—which Peter had steadfastly refused to drink ever again—and was already accepting a dance from a stranger, having barely walked in the door. Watching bemusedly as she staggered off, waving energetically back at Peter and Ned, the boys made their way to the bar to order beers and shots before finding an empty table off to the side.

"So you're alright, Peter?" Ned asked, friendly hand on his shoulder.

Peter nodded and took a sip of his beer. As much as he hated to admit it, MJ was right about the drink markup. "I'm fine. Thanks, Ned." He sighed and finally let himself relax. "I'm just glad this week is finally over. I'm looking forward to a very calm weekend. No drama. Come over tomorrow, and we can play video games and eat snacks all day."

Ned had stiffened in his chair. "Sorry, Peter. I think your weekend plans may have just changed." Awkwardly, and without explanation, he took his beer and beat a hasty retreat away from their table.

Tony grumbled unhappily as Pepper herded him behind a red cordon and into a private table but perked up when he looked over the whiskey options, eagerly ordering a bottle of Laphroaig.

"Don't even think about drinking that whole bottle, Tony," Pepper scolded, ordering a Cosmo for herself. Happy stood at the cordon, looking menacingly at anyone who moved too close.

"I wasn't," Tony lied.

Patting his arm tenderly, Pepper comforted, "Tony, you know everything worked out for the best today. You're no longer that reckless youth of your past who could get away with doing anything or anyone. Your actions have consequences, for better or worse. Besides, you knew the boy for one night. You can't tell me—"

Tony's eyes snagged on a familiar face near the bar. "Pepper, you picked this place at random, right? There's no way anyone could accuse Peter or me of planning this, right?"

"What are you—?" Her eyes landed on Peter's face, and she grabbed at Tony's sleeve as he stood. "Tony, no!"

Over his shoulder, he mumbled, "HR said if we met up, it should be somewhere public. Besides, Pep, I promise to keep my hands to myself." A definite lie.

As he approached Peter's table, he saw his friend scramble away and appreciated the privacy they would have. "Hey," he greeted, hoping for casual but coming out breathless. Even in jeans and tank top, Peter was absolutely stunning.

Peter turned slowly toward Tony, blinking like he believed he was dreaming, a shy smile creasing his lips. "Hey," he answered. "Aren't we supposed to have a chaperone?"

Jerking his thumb behind him, he indicated Pepper. "We'll be okay if Pepper's here. It's kind of in her job description: attempt to keep me out of trouble." His hands tensed, eager to run along Peter's toned arms or down his thigh. This was a stupid idea. He never should have—

"Peter, I'm really sorry about—"

"Please don't. I don't regret last Friday night, and if things were…different…" He blushed and smiled shyly up at Tony through dark eyelashes. "I still have your shirt," he confessed.

Tony felt his heart stutter. This boy would be his undoing. He leaned closer, let his teeth drag on the shell of Peter's ear. "Yeah, baby boy? You wear it? Touch yourself while thinking of me?"

Shivering, Peter leaned into Tony's chest. "I stopped wearing it because I didn't want it to lose your scent if I had to wash it."

"You didn't answer my second question."

And suddenly, Peter was pressed into him, lips on his, hands sliding under his shirt, tongue slipping into his mouth. Tony's hands clutched Peter's ass, pulling him closer, grinding into him as his dick filled out. "I can get you another shirt, baby boy, if that's what you want. Would you like that? Hold it to your face as you fist your cock, thinking of me…" He thought about slipping his hand into Peter's pants, but Fuse generally frowned on that sort of thing. Maybe he'd invite Peter back to his house—

A strong hand on his shoulder had him regretfully pulling back from Peter, and Happy's face frowned down at him.

"Ah, shit," mumbled Tony, stepping back from Peter, who looked deliciously out of breath.

"Guess we really do need a chaperone," Peter joked half-heartedly, blushing as he refused to meet Happy's gaze.

Tony glanced back at the VIP section and noted Pepper's livid face, and he was immensely glad she hadn't been the one to break them up. She would have slapped him.

As Happy steered him towards the door, Tony called recklessly over his shoulder, "I read your research on the arc reactor! I think you might be onto something, with discovering a new, heavier atom—"

"Drop it, Tony," Happy growled.

Peter touched his lips as he watched Happy push Tony out of the club, Pepper trotting angrily behind him. MJ sidled up beside him, grinning beatifically, while Ned tried hiding a smirk behind a look of reproach. Peter repressed a giggle as he imagined them as his little shoulder angel and devil, Ned always the voice of reason and MJ the voice of chaos and desire.

"Really can't blame you, Pete," MJ snickered, nudging him with her shoulder. "He is a serious silver fox. Or…black fox. Is there a word for a hot, older guy with black hair?"

The term "daddy" popped into Peter's mind, and he blushed deeply.

"What was that about the arc reactor?" Ned asked curiously.

Peter downed his beer that had been left forgotten at the table. His body was still flushed from Tony's words in his ear and the feel of him pressed against him, growing hard against his hip. When his mind settled enough that he could process Ned's words, he answered, "Just some research I've been doing. Honestly, I haven't even had a lot of time to work on it since starting at SI. I don't know why Tony was looking at it, or why he'd mention it. Just minor speculation in atomic theory. Plus, you'd need a particle accelerator. Like, a really big one."

And Ned had flawlessly distracted Peter, engaging him further in atomic discussion, while MJ rolled her eyes and trotted back out to the dance floor.

It was nearly three o'clock in the morning when the trio stumbled into Peter and MJ's apartment, offering Ned full use of the couch. Back in his own house, having finally convinced Pepper to give up her lecture and for her and Happy to go home, Tony was already elbows deep in another project, content to drown himself in something mundane until he was forced to return to work on Monday. He had been in this state before, needing to keep his hands and brain busy, rejecting sleep and food and hygiene until he finally passed out from exhaustion, inevitably awoken by anxiety dreams and nightmares.

Before he knew it, his hands had built a drone, complete with its own remote. He chuckled. It was nothing special, but Tony still brought it outside to give it a test run. The sun was already low on the horizon, and Tony was less surprised than he should have been to check his phone and find out it was 6:30 pm on Saturday. After a few minutes, he packed up the drone and headed inside. His brain was buzzing a mile a minute as he threw together a sandwich before heading upstairs and straight into the shower. When he finished his shower, he towel dried, spritzed some cologne, and put on a Black Sabbath shirt.

And nothing else.

Thinking about Peter was easy, and he was quickly hard, having been formulating this plan probably before he himself was even fully aware of it. His hand worked at himself, and he considered getting lube to open himself up. He was all for equal opportunity when it came to sex, but eventually decided against it. Lube was messy, and there was only one fluid he was planning on getting on this shirt.

He didn't mind taking this slowly, though, enjoying every flick of his wrist as he worked his shaft. He'd only seen Peter a few times, barely had a conversation with him, and he was already in too deep. That had always been a flaw of his: falling too hard, too fast, usually breaking his own heart before the other person was even aware of his intentions. It was a cycle, really, and even when the other person was interested, they quickly grew tired of his self-deprecation, endless working hours, and the inability to just turn off and appreciate the moment. He tended to overcompensate with lavish gift giving and absolute body worship, until that became too tiring of a pretense for either of them to keep up with.

"Peter could be different," his heart begged. "You could be different." And wasn't that what always started the trouble? He wasn't meant for relationships, much better with one-night stands. Fuck, he barely had friends, and two of those were his employees, literally paid to stay by his side.

Growling, he realized he had gotten himself depressed enough that he was soft. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. After all, he had been explicitly ordered to stay away from Peter. What good would it do to keep trying to initiate contact with him?

But then he remembered Peter's blushing face, confessing he still had Tony's shirt, and he felt himself perk back up. Besides, Peter wasn't just a pretty face; he was damn brilliant and might actually be able to keep up with Tony. In addition to reading his scattered notes on the arc reactor, Tony had also pulled up Peter's articles he had published while at Barritech, ranging on a variety of topics such as supramolecular chemistry to an almost poetic treatise on symmetry in inorganic molecules. And if Peter's absolutely electrifying reaction to his dirty talk hadn't pushed him over the edge already, then it would be the sheer amount of chemistry and atomic knowledge stuffed in the gorgeous head.

And the way he felt under his hands and pressed against him hadn't felt too bad, either.

His mind drifted back to that night at Bottom Feeders, how pliant and eager Peter had been for him, how fabulous his cock had felt over those incredible leather pants. His mouth watered at the idea of one day sliding that cock inside, stroking it with his tongue and letting the head slam into the back of his throat. He could imagine Peter's fingers tangling in his hair, slamming his hips forward hard enough Tony's mouth would bruise, gagging on that perfect cock. Afterward, he'd lay Peter down and take his mouth to his asshole, tongue spearing inside, getting Peter wet and working him open. Maybe slip a finger inside, probing him until he came hot and hard into the blankets.

Tony's fist was working himself faster. Having intended to take it slow, he couldn't hold himself back as he imagined taking Peter in every possible position and Peter taking him as well. He imagined being bent over a project in his lab, Peter coming up behind him, and thrusting deep inside. He considered again taking out his lube and maybe a toy, pretend it was Peter preparing him, but once again decided against it. His dick had formed a plan and didn't want anything to ruin it.

Once more he thought about how Peter's body had responded so effortlessly to his dirty talk, panting so sweetly in his ear, grinding his ass backwards into Tony's cock. How flushed he had been both times Happy pulled them apart, bottom lip reddened from where he'd been worrying it. How wondrous he would look spread out on Tony's bed, cheeks tinged pink, porcelain skin bruised from Tony's kisses, cock red and leaking, bouncing enthusiastically against that flat stomach…

Memories of Peter's breathy gasp of his name reached his ears, and he came, trying his best to angle the shots towards his shirt but too blissed out to do much more than grunt and toss his head back. When he came to minutes later, he smiled down at the mess he'd made of the shirt. Carefully, he pulled it off before folding it into a tidy bundle. Finding a pen and paper, he penned a message:

For when your other shirt loses its scent.

T.S.

He found a small box in his workshop and carefully tucked the shirt and message inside. On a wildly inappropriate brainwave, he withdrew the note and scrawled his personal phone number at the bottom before replacing it and taping up the box. Now when this whole thing exploded in his face, Peter would have his private cell number to release to the press. Shaking his head, he wrote Peter Parker on top of the box in Sharpie before heading outside with the drone.

Looking up Peter's home address was a breeze, but programming the drone so it would get through security and land exactly in front of his door on the fifth floor was trickier. It was nearly midnight before Tony released the drone and package into the skies, so exhausted that he had a moment of panic when he thought he forgot to program the drone to return.

"Fuck it, I'm going to bed," he yawned.

Ned was leaving Peter's apartment at nearly three in the morning. The two of them had been in the middle of programming one of the robots Ned had snuck home from work so it would perform silly office pranks, giggling like the overgrown children they were, when MJ came to kick him out of the apartment.

"You've been here for twenty-four hours, Ned. Go home."

Ned glanced at his watch and blanched. "Shit, I promised my mom I'd stop by her house tomorrow morning." He hastily ran his hands over his pockets, checking that he had everything, before tucking the robot under his arm. On his way out the door, he stumbled over a small cardboard box. "Peter, it has your name on it…"

Curiously, Peter took the box from Ned, turning it suspiciously over in his hands. There were no shipping labels or any other identifier on the box, other than his name scrawled across the top in Sharpie. Part of his brain warned against opening strange boxes from unknown senders, but curiosity won out. He took the box back to his room and closed the door behind him. He ran a pair of scissors against the tape and pulled a note from the box. His heart slammed against his rib cage again and again as he read and reread the short note. With shaking hands, he lifted the shirt delicately from the box, jaw dropping at the obscene white stains against the front. Tentatively, like he risked breaking this dream, he pulled the shirt to his nose and inhaled deeply. Sage and sandalwood greeted him warmly, wrapping him in their tight embrace.

The number scrawled at the bottom of the note caught his attention, and Peter entered it into his phone, accidentally pressing dial after he had saved it. Flushing bright red, he made to hang up, but a sleepy voice was on the other end leaving Peter with no choice but to answer.

"M—Mr. Stark…" Peter stumbled breathlessly, wondering why he didn't call him "Tony." This was a stupid idea, calling him. What should he even say? "Th—thank you for the shirt…"

A deep rumble sounded from the other end, and Peter thought he heard rustling fabric. Was Tony in bed? Peter shivered and had to sit down, feeling light-headed. "Peter." Tony's voice was raspy, deep, and Peter found he liked the sound of it against his ear. "Did you put it on?"

Peter bit his bottom lip nervously. "No, sir, not yet…"

Another rumble and another whisper of fabric. "I think I like the sound of you calling me 'sir.' Did you call daddy just to say thank you, or are you going to try on your gift?"

A whimper escaped Peter's lips, and he set his phone to speaker while he wrestled with his clothes, lest he accidentally miss one word Tony said. He pulled the Black Sabbath shirt over his head, running his palm against the stain on the front. Surprisingly, though he thought he'd be grossed out by it, he found himself unbelievably turned on. His cock fought against the grip of his jeans, so he took those off as well.

A hot huff of laughter sounded from the other end of the phone. "Getting comfortable, baby boy?"

Peter snuggled under his covers and took the phone off speaker, cradling it against his ear. "What should I send back as a thank you?"

"I want to hear you moan my name again."

Peter smirked against the phone and settled his hand on his cock. "I think I can manage that." With his left hand, he pulled the shirt up to his nose and inhaled.

"You have a scent kink or something, baby boy?"

Peter smiled shyly. "I don't think so… You just smell really good." There was lube in his drawer, and he squeezed a small amount in his palm, slicking up his cock. Holding his hand in place, he thrust his hips up into his palm, gasping at the sensation.

"You don't waste time, do you?" A snicker, and Peter thought he heard the sharp snap of a bottle cap on the other end of the phone. "Let me catch up, baby boy."

A wet, slick sound filled Peter's ears, and he moaned, louder. "Fuck that fat cock, daddy," he whimpered.

"Jesus, Pete." Tony sounded out of breath, and Peter heard his hand speed up. "You gonna fuck that hole of yours? Slide a finger in there?"

Peter considered it. He kept a prostate massage wand and some smaller dildos in his drawer, but when he thought about having to put Tony back on speaker to manage it, he frowned. "It's kind of hard to do while holding my phone."

"Then do you mind if I finger myself? Pretend it's you preparing me and filling me up?"

Peter's mind whited out as it struggled to process what Tony had said. His past boyfriends had been adamant about being a top, and Peter had just accepted it for what it was. For Tony Stark to imply he'd let Peter fuck him…

He hadn't answered, so Tony asked again. "Yes!" Peter cried. "Tell me—talk to me about what you're doing." His hand moved faster on his cock, eager to imagine Tony preparing himself for the sole purpose of feeling Peter inside him.

"I've got my index finger inside me. Can you hear it?"

The sound grew louder as Tony asked, and Peter's eardrum was filled with an obscene squelching. His body flushed, lightning racing down his spine.

"It's not enough. I'm putting in another…"

A thick veil covered Peter's other senses, his brain honing in solely on the sounds coming through his phone. He could almost picture the second finger sliding in beside the first. His fist matched the pace Tony's fingers set, audible through the speaker.

"Fuck, Peter, I wish this were you fingering me, pressing inside me. You'd fill me up so good, baby boy. I bet even as you fingered me, you wouldn't be able to keep that eager mouth off my cock. You'd swallow me down, aching to take everything into your mouth. You'd be so good for me. Would you have your other hand over your cock, jerking yourself, so hard just from the taste of me on your tongue?"

Peter's hand was flying over his cock, senses filled with Tony's words and the sounds of his fingers working inside himself. "Tony, I can't—"

"I want to hear you cum."

His hips bucked furiously, and Peter came with a low whine chased by an elongated, "Toooonyyy…"

"Fuck," Tony hissed. "Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck…"

Peter's chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath, absentmindedly cleaning up with tissues. He could still hear Tony on the other end, slick with lube, and Peter shivered. "You close, daddy?" he hummed.

"Peter," Tony groaned. "God, I wish this were you fucking me instead of my hand."

Peter clutched the shirt to his face and inhaled. The scent brought back memories of Tony's hands on him, firm, and his cock gave a valiant effort to rise again.

"I can still feel your cock in my hand, how hot and firm it was. Did you know it was leaking? Fuck, how many times have I gotten myself off thinking about how wet I'd made you? Ah, Peter, I wanna slide my fingers into you, feel your pretty little hole clutch around me—ah, shit!"

"Tony?"

Heavy breathing followed by a deep, satisfied groan signaled Tony's release. Peter smiled into the fabric still pulled over his nose. "Thank you for the shirt, Tony."

A low chuckle. "You are so welcome, beautiful."