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They'd met at the after show get-together for those who were important enough to be in Tony's presence. Peter had taken to grabbing a drink even though he wasn't old enough to do so, since his Father never cared anyways, when he suddenly was caught red handed.
"You're barely old enough to grow stubble let alone drink young man." Peter would hear from behind—and upon turning, see the dark eyes of Tony Stark, the man his Father constantly raved about.
"Mr. Stark—I.." Peter began to defend the drink that now resided in his shaky grip, when Tony tsked and reached forward.
"I won't tell, as long as I can have it, and I don't catch you trying it again," Tony murmured with command under his breath coupled with the smell of whiskey already wafting off his tongue, causing Peter's nostrils to burn.
"Capiche?" Tony followed up, sternly looking down and into his worrisome gaze.
Peter handed the fancy glass over, watching as Tony downed the drink with fever...and for some reason, it made his gut burn and cock twitch in his expensive pants.
"M-Mhm. Yes sir." He would muster through his sudden and strong coursing arousal. He had known the man ever since he was a little kid, but he...Peter swallowed.
Peter, now freshly 17, was fully aware of his reasons for fascination with the pianist.
He wanted the older man to discipline him with that harsh gaze and strong-husky voice.
He wanted him to slap him and tell him to do better, because his Father sure as hell never did.
"'Sir'? psh.." Tony waved his words off and took a glance at Peter then, no doubt noticing the soft flush that he felt cascading over his cheeks in response to his intrusive thoughts. "You look to be running a little hot, Peter." and suddenly Tony was reaching forward—pressing the back of his hand to Peter's forehead.
He touched him.
Was it the alcohol that took down Tony's inhibitions? Was it the dim lighting and voices of people that were clearly not paying attention to the two in the dark corner touching? Feeling?
Peter's breath hitched and his eyelashes fluttered a bit as Tony leered closer, his expensive dress shoe pressing into Peter's own.
"You feel awfully warm. You sick, boy?"
Peter shivered at the tone...low, rough...adult.
"Only sick in the head," He gulped, staring up into Tony's eyes, "Sir."
The man leaned closer, moving his hand to now cart through Peter's hair and down to his shoulder for residence. If only for a moment Peter felt as though he might.. just..
kiss him.
Quick and heated in the dark corner of the after party—his father only seven or eight feet away.
But the moment never came. He only ever felt a hot breath and whispered words against his burning skin.
"You better check yourself, Peter. Not everyone is well enough to resist that." and with a harsh squeeze to his arm, Tony skulked away without another word to rejoin a conversation he had no intention of contributing to.
Peter stood, breathless and hard in his pants. He reached up, letting his finger's run over the warmth that was left from Tony's touch and thought to yell at the man. He didn't want Tony to resist him.
He wanted Tony to hurt him. In a good way, of course, but he wanted to feel the pain he knew Tony's hands could give.
That harsh leather belt the older man wore would do well against his backside—or around his neck like a collar.
Peter could tell the other man was bothered as one hand was shuffling in his pocket, and the other, around a glass that had suddenly appeared via a passing worker, shook.
His tired eyes and dark circles that hung below them told Peter that he only had so long to try. Only had so long to attain that for which the world fell in love with. A clear obsession from coast to coast—but Peter was here. Not sitting at home by the radio on the counter.
He held no recording of the man's work as he only ever heard it before him in play.
Peter knew what he wanted. And he thinks he knows what Tony wants, too. He could sense it. Feel it. Nearly taste it.
— — —
As the after-party neared its end and those who hadn't already trickled out throughout were heading out the large double doors to their rides, Peter couldn't help but scurry after his Father.
"Mr. Stark, it was truly a pleasure to hear your work again and to speak with you afterwards at that." Peter watched as his Father's soft hand reached out and met Tony's which was a whole heck of a lot rougher.
"I hope my son has not bothered you tonight. He can be quite the pest at times." Which, he wasn't. The only reason his Father saw him as such was because when his Mother died, he had nowhere else to go and his father wouldn't have dared to adopt someone to carry on the 'family business'. Peter merely scoffed at his side and felt a harsh elbow hit his ribcage some odd seconds later, kicking the air right out of his diaphragm. God he despised the man.
When Peter looked up again, he noticed Tony's eyes were now on him, glaring balls of brown and white that made Peter's cock twitch a bit. He hadn't been able to relieve himself earlier, so making any contact with Tony was damn near explosive.
"No no, quite the contrary, actually." His words came out smooth to Peter's ears, causing his cheeks to burn. "You have an extremely bright kid here..I'd hate to see his talents squandered."
Well, Peter hadn't been expecting that kind of response.
"A growing boy like Peter, with the ability for greatness, needs discipline." Tony said firmly, and as he glanced down, noted Tony's own hand clenching into a white-knuckled fist before ushering it into his pocket and forcing Peter's gaze back up to Tony's own.
"Yeah?.." He heard his Father mutter, raising a brow and pressing a hand to the back of Peter's neck making his squirm. "I suppose if the legendary Tony Stark is saying as such then I must believe him...you have any tips?"
The edge of Tony's lip quirked when his gaze fell down to Peter's, a haze clearly from intoxication (but of what he was unsure).
"I have a few things in mind. If you'd like, I wouldn't care to take him on. Show him the ropes." The man's voice was gruff and insinuating as he reached forward and took Peter's shoulder in hand again after his own Father had let go.
He could have cum just at the idea...gosh why had Tony said it like that? and in front of his Father of all people. He could feel his skin burning under the touch of the world renowned pianist—spark's caught and throat now dry.
"I'm sure you wouldn't mind some time in the house without him, correct? You don't seem as fond as other's do with the abundance of a child." Said Tony, his eye's flickering with something sinister, but his words were only the truth. His Father merely neglected him to the extent he could before others could notice. He was a rich man and yet Peter still saw ribs in the mirror after his showers.
Maybe Tony could help with that? The man clearly could partake in snacking from this evening's—and many other nights—displays.
Peter couldn't help but bask in the warmth of the older man's Possessive grip, his Father now walking towards their coats across the room.
"I merely cannot resist, my dear boy." Tony muttered beside him, and with that, felt Tony's hand remove itself like a snake from a branch to allow for Peter to wrap his coat over his smaller frame.
---
Leaving the large auditorium with his Father at his left and the ghost of a man to his right was something he never figured would occur. The idea that Peter would be attending lessons with Tony...learning from him.
Being disciplined. Oh god Peter was touching himself when he got home.
The plan was clear, and his father couldn't be more excited.
"You better thank Mr. Stark every chance you get, boy. No one has ever gotten the chance to be so close to the man himself and to his estate of all things. His private, estate—Peter you best behave."
Peter could only nod and blush in the damp lighting of the streets as he felt his Father push him along the road towards their ride.
He didn't figure he'd be able to do much else other than that.
— — —
Months later, after his sessions with Tony had become more of a ritual above anything else, Peter wouldn't dare go for a swim at the lake with his friends without a shirt and shorts. He couldn't—no...he wouldn't dare risk anyone knowing what Tony did to him.
What he...asked, of Tony to do to him. The belt marks on his behind—the rose on his cheeks from the slap of the man's hand after a wrongly played key— even the faint cuts around his now softened form from a piano wire.
Peter came every night to the reminder of how precious he was, how cherished and adored he had become in the eyes of a legend. He was glad to see the dark circles and tired eyes would cease for longer periods than before—only coming back when the music did.
Peter wasn't sure what he would do if...if...
"Peter," he felt the sudden nudge of the man himself from beside him, motioning with his head to the stage where a beautiful blonde violinist played a most depressing and cleansing tune.
"Listen." Tony whispered against his ear, now accompanied by a hand wrapping around the back of his seat with Tony's fingers splayed over his smaller bicep.
And oh did he. He listened to the way the music dug into his skin—and burrowed so deep inside of him that he nearly could feel what she did. As if Peter finally understood what Tony meant when he created his music.
Peter whisked his head to the right, staring up at the side profile of Tony, and upon only noticing the soft flicker of light against the tears glimmering on the rims of Tony's eyes, he couldn't think of anything else to do other than turn back to the stage and rest his soft head of hair against the man's shoulder.
It must've been the right choice because he suddenly felt the familiar rough hand rub up and down his arm—soothing fingers running over the expensive attire that Tony had near commanded him to wear.
He had created a dependence on the man that was downright dangerous. He didn't figure Tony would leave him without a fight, though.
Peter had become his muse after all.