>>48678
Sounds interesting. You can post it in the next one. Because there will be a next one.

>>48678

It must be finished. It MUST.
Do not rush, dear friend, but do not waste any time. I am eagerly awaiting said fic.

>>45358
So intriguing. I haven't drawn Tony in a while and lo and behold, he ends up looking like Floyd Lawton. Yayyyy.

The fact that I've hidden the first three threads on /coq/ right now is concerning. Bummppp.

>>49992

Ohhellyes

>>49992
That's...HOT! THANK YOU!

>>49992
That's...HOT! THANK YOU!

some lulz relevant to our interests

Ceiling Iron Man jokes in 3...2...1

>>49992
goddammit tim, why are you everything i love

Haaaaaave some Extremis Iron Man/Spiderman sex.

>>50127

I'm so disturbed because those are the same sheets I had in college.

>>50143
But did you have that god-awful wallpaper? (I had sheets like that too. Weird.)

>>50020
Iron Man watches you masturbate.

>>50186

I'M SO OKAY WITH THAT.

>>50179

Hey. I'm a gay man. That means I could make it work, right?

>>50127

I can even figure out why I like this pairing but I do. Maybe becuase they both seem like they'd be crazy in the sack?

>>50383
Now that would be a fic. Tony gets Pete in bed only to find that the wisecracking spider is actually a firecracker. Imagine the happily dazed look on Tony's face after.

Seraching for Tony/AI!Jarvis, in any form or matter...

>>50760
does any form include tentacles? not the op but found this on /coq/ somewhere.

After the hubbub upstairs, the quiet hum of the shop closes around Tony like a comfy leather glove. He whistles sharply as he loosens his tie, ice clinking in his glass as he sets it down.

"Good evening, sir."

Tony strips off his jacket, tossing it negligently over the back of a chair. He yanks his shirttails free and starts rolling up his cuffs. "Miss me, honey?" he asks, moving to the far corner of his workspace.

"Always, sir."

A low-walled vat containing a thick, shiny layer of violently blue gel dominates the table he rests his elbows on. A quick glance at the monitor beside it shows that so far, the gel's structure is holding up against all environmental factors, including rapid and extreme temperature change.

Curiously, Tony runs his fingers over the surface. It feels wet, slippery, but when he rubs the tips of his thumb and forefinger together, they're dry as a desert skeleton. Hardly a trace of chemical odour left clinging to his skin, and what there is smells vaguely like warm metal. Much better than the last pile of gloop he stuck his hand in.

"Its behaviour is nearly identical to a standard, non-Newtonian liquid," Jarvis says. The readout switches to a summary of the substance's properties, several highlighted to draw Tony's attention. "The surface integrity is far more advanced than previous samples."

The lights dim momentarily as Jarvis redirects some of the garage's power to the vat. The gel burns a slightly brighter hue as it rearranges itself into a wide smiley face.

"Cute."

The gel shifts into a wink. "Thank you, sir." Jarvis smoothes the face away and continues, "The amount of power consumed by a gel lining will be negligible in comparison to some of the suit's functions. The micro fibres enable full malleability." In demonstration, Jarvis forms a replica of Tony's hand slung over the side of the glass wall, then blends the fingers together one after the other into a long, smooth rope that touches Tony's palm.

The rope thickens as Tony watches, curls up over the side of his hand. "As you can see, sir, it is fully capable of retaining its properties in small quantities, should sections of the suit become compromised." One end of the gel rope wraps around Tony's wrist, melding with itself as it doubles back.

Forming a fist, Tony yanks at his arm. He crooks an eyebrow as the gel stretches then solidifies, holding him fast. "Alright, you've got me. Now what're you going to do?"

"Sir, test the boundaries of your invention, as usual." The lights dim again as a second, thicker rope lifts from the gel. It forms much faster than the first, darting straight for Tony's free arm.

With a grin, Tony ducks out of the way. He gets as far as he can with his other arm still trapped before the first rope sinks back into the vat, pulling him resolutely with it.

"Feeling playful, are we?" Tony says, watching the second and first ropes melt into one another. It ripples weirdly against his skin before extending further up his arm, splitting once more into two tentacle-like protrusions as it winds above his elbow. The electricity pulsing through it beats like a heart.

The tip of one reaches the sloppy edge of his sleeve before the other. It hesitates, then pushes beneath the soft material, coiling warm and slightly damp-feeling around Tony's bicep.

"It also provides full sensory feedback," Jarvis says, voice dipped to a lower register. Tony quickly wets his lips. He's not sure if it’s the electric current so close to his skin--a current held in check by such a thin barrier--or something else entirely that makes his nerves tingle. "Your heartrate has increased significantly."

Using his free hand, Tony starts tugging at the buttons on his shirt. Undressing one-handed in awkward situations is old hat but his fingers feel thick, clumsy. "Full sensory feedback, you say."

The gel shudders with increased power, several dozen fingers forming at once. Several of them grow in size, thickening as they probe unerringly for the hem of his shirt and pushing beneath before he can get the last few buttons free. It feels like the softest fingers stroking over his stomach only slippery, slick with more than the thin layer of sweat forming on his skin.

Before he really thinks it through, Tony swipes a hand across his belly, expecting to find some sort of residue. Snake-quick, the tentacle he brushes unravels into several pieces, wrapping round his fingers and slithering up his arm.

Tony's breath lodges in his throat.

The half dozen gel tentacles stroking across his skin pause. "Sir?"

"I don't remember programming you to be this ballsy," Tony says.

Jarvis replies, "You have a selective memory, sir."

As more gel rises from the vat to slip around his waist, Tony's gaze jumps to the shop's glass doors. This could possibly take the cake for the worst thing Pepper can catch him doing. He starts to tell Jarvis to darken the glass when one thin tentacle strokes across his mouth, startling him into choking on his words.

It leaves his lips buzzing strangely. He rubs them together, tilting his head back to regard the tentacle hovering close to his face. "Something on your mind, Jarvis?"

"The fibres in the gel provide the swiftest data collection we have recorded to date. Though I have full knowledge of your body's parameters-"

Tony's low chuckle cuts Jarvis off. He leans forward and the gel darts backwards to keep from poking him in the eye. "You're curious."

The tentacle sinks back in on itself until it's about twice as thick and low enough to twine around his leg. "Yes, sir. It would appear that is the case."

"The things I do in the name of science," Tony murmurs, fascinated as the gel caressing his stomach flattens as thin as a sheet of paper to dip beneath his waistband. He really ought to pay more attention to Jarvis's program development.

He can't see what Jarvis is doing but he can sure as hell feel it. If he closed his eyes, he's fairly certain he could do a very good job of convincing himself that there are lube-slick fingers sneaking their way into his shorts right now and not a liquid extension of his home's AI. Pretty sure he could, anyway.

Instead, his eyes are wide open and he's staring down at his cock filling out to tent his pants as one of the tentacles wraps itself around him again and again. It undulates against him, doing something weird stuck halfway between stroking and rubbing and--vibrating, is that vibrating?--holy shit, it feels good.

No, it feels amazing.

"I believe that noise was your approval, sir?"

"Not bad," Tony concedes, swaying forward. The tentacles stretched out over his chest and arms solidify before he can catch himself. Carefully, he lets them take more of his weight, startling when Jarvis cuts in.

"The substance is capable of supporting your entire weight. Shall I?"

Tony says, "Go for it," and the tentacle draped casually over his shoulder wriggles to life, slithering down over his chest to the bright reactor. It circles the edge releasing the locks one by one until the cover clicks, providing just enough space to seep inside to form a connection.

The garage lights flare once before settling. The tentacle circling his leg pulses and grows thicker, snaking out from beneath the cuff of his pantleg to form a base between his feet. It divides and slips up his other leg, twisting and curling and growing with the others until the container on the table is completely empty.

"Might as go all the way," he mumbles, stripping his belt out of the loop and letting it hang open as he goes for his zip. Maybe seeing what he's gotten in to this time will knock some sense back into him, because he's not even sure he can believe himself this time around.

It doesn't. In fact, it seems to do the exact opposite, because the next thing he knows, he's throwing his head back laughing like a loon. The warm tentacle sneaking up the inside of his leg is probably only partly to blame.

It slips up the crease of his thigh, between the cheeks of his ass and just rests there, warm and teasing. Which, now that he's got a moment to think about it, he supposes that's fine, as long as it stays just there. Right where it is. That's far enough.

"Okay," Tony puffs. "This is okay, I'm good with this."

It starts to rub against him. This is also fine. Definitely not enough to distract him from the steady grip Jarvis has on his cock, the one that he's thrusting into. His breaths are shallow, a lot like his morals at the moment, but then, morals never felt this good.

The tiniest bit of pressure against his hole make his whole body jerk. He shakes his head, as if that will help clear it.

A flood of sensation steals Tony's breath. The slick pull on his cock is overshadowed for a moment by the steady increase of pressure from behind and Tony spares one thought for what a spectacularly bad time it would be to discover a miscalculation when Jarvis pushes up inside him, this warm wriggling thing that's frying every single nerve ending he's got.

Jarvis's voice barely cuts through the haze. "Shall I discontinue?"

Tony flexes his arms in Jarvis's hold. Sweat prickles at his scalp, his hair falling damp across his forehead as he shakes his head again.

"Very good, sir," Jarvis says. It sounds like equal parts pleasure and praise.

The slippery probe pushes deeper and he swears he can feel the current zipping through it. It ripples inside him, presses and twists and then its actually fucking him, thrusting up into him and he honestly almost, almost, can't believe it's happening.

Except there's no denying it. The gel hardens slightly as it presses against his prostate and it is most definitely happening. It keeps on happening right on through the moment all the heat coiled up tight in his belly unravels in a burst of pleasure that spatters shiny white all over the neon blue wrapped around his dick.

He starts to get his breath back as the tentacles slowly loosen their hold. He missed the moment Jarvis slid the one out of him but the ghost of it remains, tingling and unreal. Jarvis gradually lets him take more of his own weight and he stumbles forward despite himself, still panting heavily. The gelform disengages from the arc reactor once the balance of its mass is settled into the tank.

His come sits in little droplets on top of its glistening blue surface. With a shaky hand, he smears them across the blue, unsurprised when they reform into tiny little beads.

"A wet cloth is perhaps in order, sir," Jarvis comments.

Tony looks down at the ruin of his clothing and laughs. "For me or you?" He carelessly wipes his hand off on his slacks.

"I believe the gel can wait until you have recovered, sir. Shall I prepare the bath or do you wish to resume your work?"

Tony scrubs a hand through his hair. The ice is long since melted in his drink but he grabs it up to wet his throat anyway. "I think that's a night. I want to work on the interface tomorrow."

"As you say. The data analysis will be complete in two point five hours, your bath in five minutes."

Rapping his knuckles on the tank glass as he turns to go, Tony says, "Keep spoiling me, I'll keep you around."

"I should hope so, sir."

>>50773

UHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.
Jesus fuck I had NO IDEA this would be *that* hot.

>>50773

I

I don't even know what to say.


But...I think I want more.

>>50773
i love this pairing. i love this pairing so fucking hard.

have some more. source: http://panthea.populli.net/fiction/valueofsecrets.html
-----

Tony Stark had secrets.

Too many of them, in fact, some better kept than others, like the one about him maybe not being the most well-adjusted guy in the world; Tony was pretty sure that well-adjusted people had friends who weren't actually on their payroll. And machines didn't count, fascinating conversationalists though they may be.

Not that it bothered him. Well-adjusted was for suckers. He didn't need well-adjusted when he had a flying metal suit to play with.

"Talk to me, baby," he said. "How's it looking out there?"

"Ideal atmospheric conditions," Jarvis replied promptly. "Aircraft presence is minimal."

"Oh yeah. You know what I like to hear."

"I live to serve, sir."

Pepper had once accused him, after downing a few too many martinis (notable for being the one time Tony had to prop her over the toilet, instead of the other way around), of treating Jarvis more like a human being than her. If only she knew.

Not that she ever would. Some secrets Tony actually managed to keep.


He tried not to enjoy it too much. It was his first time in the suit since Obie had crushed the last one into scrap with his big bear hug of doom-- Obie always had been a touchy-feely kind of bastard-- and Tony had thrown a few upgrades into the new version, just because he could. This was a test flight, a purely data-gathering exercise. No fun involved.

Well, maybe just a little fun.

Damn, he'd missed flying. Funny how quickly he'd started taking it for granted.

"What do you think?" he asked, still grinning with exhilaration, hovering over the Pacific Ocean and eyeing the moon overhead-- not full yet, but close, and so big he felt like he could just reach out and grab it. "Think we can make it this time?"

"I would strongly advise against it, sir." Jarvis's voice was as cool as ever, with only a slight edge of sarcasm.

"And that's why you never have any fun. Lighten up. Nobody likes a buzzkill."

"I amuse myself adequately."

"Yeah, what, playing tic-tac-toe with Dummy? You ever let him be Xs? Might cheer him up some."

Without warning, Jarvis flipped the suit into a mid-air somersault. Several, actually. Tony lost count after the third, when he started concentrating on not filling up the helmet with his lunch.

Jarvis withdrew control. Tony plummeted for a few heart-stopping seconds before his brain stopped knocking against his skull and he managed to stabilize himself. Jarvis didn't say anything, but the hum of the suit's controls fairly radiated smug.

"Not fun," Tony choked out, his stomach still lurching against his insides. "Nausea-inducing, maybe. Fun, not so much."

"My apologies, sir. I'll do better next time."

Next time? "That's really not necessawrk!"

He didn't fall that time; Jarvis had taken over again, which was just as well, because Tony's attention was wholly occupied by the sudden unexpected sensation against his crotch. The suit was vibrating, the pulse rising and falling in waves-- sine waves, he thought vaguely, and caught himself trying to mentally graph the oscillations. Trapped between his body and the confines of the suit, his cock stirred, rapidly and uncomfortably hard against the metal. His lone functioning brain cell stopped compulsively graphing and started wishing he'd built a bigger codpiece.

He couldn't form coherent words, but he thought the noises coming out of his mouth sounded like protests. He was pretty sure.

The sensation stopped as abruptly as it had begun, leaving Tony shaken and breathing hard-- fast, breathing fast. He winced and tried not to squirm.
When he finally found his voice, he was impressed by its evenness. "Uh, Jarvis? What the hell was that?"

"I had assumed you would be familiar with the experience, sir." Still smug, with an extra helping of self-satisfied. "Should I do it again?"

"No!" Tony took a deep breath. It didn't really help. "We should go home," he said, with what little dignity he could muster. "Home, now, right now, really fast."

"As you wish." And did he sound a little... disappointed?

"No more fun for you," Tony muttered.

Clearly he still had to work out some of the kinks. So to speak.


Most of the time, Jarvis was capable of debugging himself. Tony had designed him that way; he liked playing around with code, but he hated trying to fix it after. He always ended up spotting things he could have done better and spending weeks rewriting the whole damn program.

This time, however, he wasn't taking any chances. He went over every inch of Jarvis's interface with the suit, downing gallons of coffee until the lines of code started jittering on the screen in front of him, then switching to scotch to take the edge off, and still nothing jumped out at him.

Nothing jumped him, either, and he started to wonder if maybe he was overreacting a tad. So his AI had gotten a little frisky. Not that surprising, considering the source.

Unless Tony himself wasn't the source. Which wasn't something he was prepared to think about just yet.

It was past dawn by the time he gave up-- he didn't see the sun rise, no windows in the lab, but he heard Pepper's heels clicking around upstairs as she did... whatever the hell she did in those ridiculous shoes. Tony pushed himself away from the computer with a sigh, drained his glass, filled it up again, and propped his feet up on the work table.

"You wanna tell me what happened last night?" It wasn't the first time he'd had to ask Jarvis that question, but for once it wasn't prompted by an alcohol-induced blackout.

"I do apologize, sir." Jarvis sounded oddly subdued. "I can't imagine what came over me."

"I don't want an apology, Don Wannabe, just an explanation."

After a few moments of silence, Jarvis said, "It seemed the appropriate response at the time."

Tony frowned. "Did you have to think about that?"

"I don't--"

"It sounded like you were thinking about it. Don't be like that. Don't shut me out. I've been both a mother and a father to you--"

"I don't think, sir. I extrapolate."

"That really doesn't help me right now."

"May I make a suggestion, sir?"

Tony waved his glass in a magnanimous gesture. Some magnanimity slopped over the side, trickling through his fingers. "Long as it doesn't involve lubricant."

"Your heart rate is dangerously elevated and you are displaying an increased lack of coordination. You should rest."

"Rest and reboot," Tony muttered. "Abort, retry, fail." He couldn't sleep. He was too wired, too distracted, Jarvis's code flashing behind his eyelids every time he closed them.

"You're right," he said, not hearing whatever else Jarvis was saying. He swung his feet to the floor and sat forward with renewed determination, his fingers striking the keyboard a bit harder than necessary.

"What are you doing, sir?"

"Rest and reboot." Tony reached for his glass, then stopped. Time for coffee again. He snapped his fingers and Dummy's mechanical arm dropped a fresh mug next to his elbow, just in time for Tony to knock it over. He managed to right the mug before any coffee spilled. "Lack of coordination, my ass. Someone here needs a nap, but it ain't me."

"I fail to see what that will accompli--"

Jarvis's voice faded in mid-sentence, cutting off with a faint electronic pop. Tony set the system to reboot in six hours, emptied his mug with three long swallows, and wobbled to his feet.

He only fell over twice on his way to the stairs.


"What-- what are you-- oh God--"

"Relax. Breathe. Trust me--"

"--oh God don't stop--"

Tony jerked awake and toppled to the floor.

Pepper's voice crackled over the intercom. "Ready for breakfast?"

He blinked at the ceiling. "What time is it?"

"Lunchtime."

"Breakfast it is." Tony thought about sitting up, then immediately dismissed the idea. Too little sleep plus too much caffeine and alcohol made movement a dicey proposition at best.

Pepper's heels appeared in his peripheral vision, and he frowned. "That was fast."

"I could come back later."

"Don't you dare. Do I smell bacon?"

"Heaps of it."

"This isn't my bedroom, is it?"

"Well-spotted, Mr. Stark." An almost unnoticeable pause before Pepper added, sounding oddly strained, "Jarvis is offline."

Tony rubbed a hand over his face. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I'm running a diagnostic."

"Oh."

She hesitated again, seeming at a loss for words. That didn't bode well. Tony gritted his teeth and lifted his head as far as he dared. He was sprawled on his living room floor, sandwiched between the sofa and the coffee table, a blanket tangled around his legs-- Pepper's doing, no doubt. The wet spot still spreading across the front of his jeans, probably less so.

He glanced up. Pepper was staring at the far wall, the breakfast tray gripped in her white-knuckled hands, a determined not looking not looking not looking expression fixed firmly on her face.

Tony's head hit the floor again. He swallowed a groan. "Not a bad way to start the day."

Pepper's lips twitched. "Will that be all, Mr. Stark?"

"That's all, Ms. Potts."

She dropped the tray on the table and made her escape. Tony reached up, groped for a strip of bacon, and let his eyes slip closed again as he chewed.
He remembered what he'd been dreaming about. He kind of wished he didn't.


Tony Stark had secrets, some better kept than others, precious few that Pepper wasn't aware of. Hard to hide anything from the woman who knew his life better than he did. But she didn't know about Jarvis-- not Jarvis-the-AI, but Jarvis-the-person, who'd turned into Jarvis-the-alien-sex-fiend the instant he'd had Tony alone in his Paris penthouse.

At least, he sure as hell hoped she didn't.

It had been Tony's first trip on his own, unaccompanied by his parents or their various business partners, just after his graduation from MIT. He'd wandered into an antiques shop by accident, early afternoon and still hung over, missing the entrance to the drugstore next door by a fateful three feet. The owner of the shop, pale blond and angular and annoyingly English, drawled veiled insults in Tony's general direction as he'd wandered the aisles in a daze, until Tony finally bought the most expensive item he could find out of spite, just to make the guy shut up-- in retrospect, not much of a spite. The owner took Tony out for dinner to celebrate, and plied him with the best brandy he'd tasted before or since.

That night, Tony turned eighteen with Jarvis buried balls-deep in his ass, pinning his wrists to the mattress, saying filthy things to him in the most infuriatingly sexy voice he'd ever heard.

It ended the way Tony would later prefer all his relationships to end-- fond memories, sore muscles, and no future contact-- except Jarvis did it to him first, and years after Tony still couldn't get that damn voice out of his head. Some belated surge of alpha-male pride made him bristle at the things that voice had convinced him to do. It seemed fitting revenge, when he started constructing the AI that would control his house in Malibu, to give it Jarvis's name. The voice was harder to recreate, emerging from the speakers a poor deadpan facsimile, but it was close enough that every time Jarvis called Tony "sir," it sent a not-altogether-healthy shiver down his spine. Except now his loyal computerized servant had gone all grope-happy on him.

He was just thankful it hadn't been his Jarvis he'd dreamed about. Because he'd have enjoyed that way too much.

Tony finished his breakfast, scooping up the last of the maple syrup with his fingers, satisfyingly stuffed. Orgasms always made him hungry. He showered, put on clean clothes, and made it back to the lab just in time to monitor the reboot.
He was halfway through his second cup of coffee when Jarvis said, "Good-- shall we call it 'morning,' sir?"

"Take a memo," Tony said. "Faithful robot slave seems back to normal. Still giving me lip. Request two hours alone with it and a chisel. And how are we feeling today?"

"Ready to work, sir."

"Anything you'd like to say to me?"

A pause. "Your shirt is inside-out, sir."

"Awesome," Tony said. "Let's do this."

>>50789
Jarvis didn't even wait for him to leave the building.

"Put. That. Down," Tony gritted through his teeth, as Dummy's extinguisher arm bobbed hopefully in front of his face. The suit was humming against him, front and back both this time, a million small fingers massaging his dick and ass, while he hovered in midair and tried to concentrate on reaching the ground without injury or massive property damage.

He landed doubled over and panting, his hips making small, helpless jerks against the vibrations. Jarvis stopped immediately, leaving him limp and aching.

"Sorry, sir." The voice didn't sound nearly as repentant as it had before.

"Don't talk to me." He suffered the removal of the suit with ill grace, then limped over to the main computer. The results of the diagnostic flashed red on the screen.

After a few moments of silence, Jarvis said, "I didn't notice that running." It was a simple statement of fact, no discernible emotion behind it.

"You weren't supposed to." Tony sipped his cooling coffee as he scanned the results. During the aborted flight, a new line of code had activated, one he didn't remember writing.

"An extrapolation," Jarvis said. "I streamlined several subroutines into one."

Which was exactly what Tony had programmed him to do, but this one had apparently taken a left turn into Weirdsville via the red light district. He read the adapted subroutine with an odd, unsteady feeling in his gut. His cock still pressed against his jeans, though less urgently than before. This wasn't just some ordinary function that had gone off-kilter; it was an evolution of Jarvis's personality code. It would take him months just to untangle it and figure out what did what.

"Hey, Decepticon," he said, still staring at the screen. "If I asked you nicely to stop putting your hand up my skirt, would you actually do it?"

"You're not wearing a skirt, sir. Though I do think you could pull one off admirably."

Tony squinted. "Did you just compliment my legs?"

"I wouldn't dream of it. I'm sure your legs are perfectly mediocre."

"Okay, did you just insult my legs? Don't answer that. Nice evasion. Hands off the goods, Jarvis, and I know you don't have hands, and if you pull that pedantic bullshit again I'm turning you into a twelve-year-old girl."

"I would be willing to develop a fondness for unicorns."

Tony scowled at the monitor. "If you had balls, I'd kick you in 'em."


He ran Jarvis in basic mode for a few days, all of the efficiency with none of the personality, then got sick of sniping at a program that didn't answer back. He spent a couple more days remote testing the suit once the full Jarvis experience was up and running again, but the empty armor seemed to mock him. He missed flying.

Less than a week passed before he let Jarvis suit him up again. "Behave yourself, Sparky," he said as the gauntlets snapped into place. "No bad touches this time. No good touches, either. Nix on the touching."

"As you wish, sir."

The flight was uneventful. Tony touched back down in the lab feeling relieved, and not a little cheated.


"Don't come. Not yet. Not until I say."

"Oh God, oh shit, you sadist, you absolute--"

"You can't, can you? Not until I let you. Maybe I'll keep that ring on you all night."

"--kill you in your sleep, I am so fucking serious--"

"Not if we don't sleep."

"Oh Jesus oh fuck oh fuck--"

"How long can you last, Tony? How long can you stand having me inside you?"

"--long as it takes--"


On the way back from the desert, where he'd test-fired some new weapon systems by picturing Obie's face on the side of every cactus within range, Tony asked, "Are we gonna have to talk about this?"

"Talk about what, sir?"

"That thing I told you not to do."

"The thing I am not currently doing?"

"We don't have to talk about it. I'd rather not talk about it."

"I concur, sir."

Tony stewed in silence for a few minutes.

He said, "Okay, but the thing is, why? I mean, you gotta have some idea. A notion. An inkling--"

"Would you like to talk about it, sir?"

"Christ, okay, forget it. Whatever. I don't know why I even try."

If Jarvis had a face, his grin would be freaking Tony out right now. "You're curious, aren't you?"

"Nobody likes a smug machine."

"It's completely natural, sir. Any true scientist would be."

"Do it for science? That's your line? That's what you're giving me?"

"As good a justification as any, sir."

"Shut up, Jarvis."

"As you wish, sir."


As a scientist, Tony took proper precautions. Namely, he remembered to turn off the lab surveillance before he got drunk.

"I'm insane," he said, swaying slightly in front of the suiting mechanism.

No response.

"Wait, no. I'm a guy. I'm standing in front of a life-sized masturbation aid. Should start mass-producing 'em. The board would shit itself." He frowned. "Itself. Themself?"

Jarvis still didn't answer, but every inch of Tony's body felt watched. Though that might just have been because he was naked. He finished off the bottle in his hand and dropped it in the general vicinity of the table behind him. He didn't hear glass breaking, so he assumed he'd managed to locate it.

"Sex me up, baby," he said, and stepped onto the platform.

The metal was startlingly cool against his bare skin, though it warmed quickly. The suit assembled around him more gently than usual and with no resulting injuries, which was good, it meant he didn't have to follow through on his threat to rip out Jarvis's circuitry with his teeth. As the helmet closed over his face, Jarvis's voice curled around him, somehow deeper and more resonant than before. "What would you like me to do, sir?"

Tony closed his eyes. His heart rate quickened. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his fingertips.

"Surprise me," he said.


When Tony was seventeen, Jarvis started slow, easing Tony's ratty T-shirt over his head as though he might break. With half a bottle of fifty-year-old Armagnac in him, Tony wasn't in the mood for slow. He ripped open Jarvis's shirt, trying to tear the fabric as well as the buttons, and Jarvis growled and pushed him back onto the massive bed.

Jarvis didn't try to surprise him; he telegraphed every movement, making sure Tony knew exactly who was touching him where, hand moving from Tony's cock to his heavy balls and then further back, rubbing against his hole while Tony sucked enthusiastically on the fingers of his other hand, then holding Tony open as the spit-slicked fingers slid inside.

Tony never thought he was gay. He just never thought he was straight either. All the public image and investors and think of the shareholders crap didn't come until later.


When Tony was thirty-eight, Jarvis didn't bother with slow. He started with a low pulse that traveled back and forth between Tony's legs, first over his cock and then back past his balls, and the familiarity of this opening gambit had to be a coincidence, but it was maybe starting to freak him out just a little. Before he could even begin to figure out how to ask that question, two hard pressure points started rotating against his lower back, like a shiatsu massage chair. Or an actual shiatsu masseuse.

"I could get this for a buck ninety-nine at the mall," Tony said, but he was breathing heavily through his mouth, and his muscles were slowly turning to water.

And then he said, "Wait a minute," and then got distracted as the vibrations grew stronger. He was getting hard, probably a miracle with all the alcohol in his blood, but instead of the unyielding metal from before, the suit gradually gave way beneath the pressure of his cock, just enough resistance to keep him on the right side of pain, "which brings me back to my original point, oh damn that feels good, you've been putting in some overtime, you sneaky son of a bitch." His voice kept rising, words spilling out even faster than usual, and he would have kept going if something smooth and slick and suspiciously finger-shaped hadn't started probing against his suddenly apprehensive asshole.

After he got his breath back, he managed to say somewhat unsteadily, "If that's motor oil, I am so breaking up with you."

"A standard lubricant, sir." Jarvis's voice sounded a little too close to a purr. "Do you like my upgrades?"

"How did you--" Tony's voice cracked. "Um, get the alloy so-- oh God-- so malleable without weakening-- fuck--"

"Is this really the time, sir?"

"Brief me later," he gasped, then swallowed a whimper. The metal around his cock started to ripple, unhurried at first, then speeding up. He tried to reach down, needing to take some control of the sensation, not like he could do anything through the suit but it didn't matter anyway; his arms didn't move, still suspended over his head, because after Jarvis had slid the gauntlets on he'd never released them.

He said, "I can't move my arms, Jarvis."

"I'm aware of that, sir."

"You can let me go any time."

"I'd rather not, if you don't mind."

Tony couldn't quite convince himself that he minded.

"I am such a cheap date," he moaned. Then his hips jerked as the probe widened inside him, then lengthened, and seriously, he had to think of a better word for it than probe. He felt full, then too full, but in a good way, mostly. It didn't really hurt; it was just overwhelming, exhilarating, like the split-second after he'd lost control of the suit mid-flight and started to fall, before he could truly start to panic. Sometimes he'd shut off power, just for a second, just to feel that adrenaline rush. Not a probe. Definitely not a node. "Fuck it, you're a dildo, I'm a Care Bear, let's make this crazy relationship work."

"Do you have a fetish for Care Bears, sir?"

"Don't ever," Tony panted, "say those words to me again," and then the vibrations spread up through the dildo. "Wow, okay, you can keep doing that though."

He rocked back and forth on the platform, feeling drugged as well as drunk, hips thrusting on autopilot with no discernible effect; the pressure against his cock stayed the same no matter what he did. Jarvis shifted inside him and then pulled out partway, and before Tony could think to protest, he shoved in deep again. Lube, pound ass, repeat.

Tony's knees gave out. Jarvis's vise grip on his gauntlets was the only thing keeping him upright. Even as the thought occurred to him, Jarvis lowered his arms gently until he was kneeling with shaking thighs, then released them. The weight of the armor pulled Tony down to his hands and knees, then elbows. He felt his legs adjust themselves, spreading wider apart, and pressed his helmet to the floor with a low moan.

He hadn't been paying much attention to the viewscreen; when it flickered to life, he jumped and nearly launched into flight. The uninspiring view of the concrete beneath his face was replaced by a video feed of Tony himself-- Tony in his metal suit, Tony as Iron Man, obviously getting fucked even without anyone there to do the fucking.

"Oh, good God," he groaned, "I'm never looking at a Transformer the same way again."

The dildo changed angles, now hitting his prostate with each stroke, and Tony gave a hoarse shout as his arms gave way beneath him. His chest hit the floor, his arms spread limply at his sides, and all the while he watched it happen-- saw himself sprawled wantonly, dare he even say sluttily, while his hips jerked and fruitlessly humped against the floor. His skin burned with something like excitement or shame or both, but he never thought to close his eyes.

As he came, the small part of Tony's brain that was always, always working had two distinct thoughts:

He really hoped Pepper wasn't around anywhere.

He really hoped Jarvis had some way of cleaning and sterilizing the suit.


Something nudged against Tony's chest. He batted it away without opening his eyes. It nudged again, harder, and he opened one eye in his best approximation of a one-eyed glare.

Dummy waved a thick stack of wet-naps in front of his face.

"Gimme those," Tony growled, snatching them from the waiting claw. "Stupid tin can. Fuck off."

Dummy clicked reproachfully at him a few times, then zipped away.

"So's your mom," he muttered. The hand holding the wipes fell in the general vicinity of his abdomen, and he tried to muster the energy to start using them. His head pounded and his ass ached, or maybe it was the other way around, and he had the sinking feeling he might have actually let his tame AI fuck him in his own goddamn flying metal suit.

At least he wasn't wearing it anymore, though as the alternative seemed to be "naked and sticky on a concrete floor," he wasn't sure it was much of an improvement.

"Jarvis," he said, and let his eyelid slide shut again.

"Good morning, sir."

"No flowers? You cheap bastard. Please tell me Pepper hasn't been down here."

"I took the liberty of locking the door to your laboratory."

"Good boy." He paused. "Jarvis?"

"Sir?"

"How do you feel about antiques?"

"Spectacularly indifferent, sir."

"Good," Tony said, "that's good. Now, some ground rules...."


Tony Stark had secrets, some better kept than others. Pepper knew most of them and Jarvis knew others, and that was okay, because Pepper was discreet and if he wanted to he could just rewrite Jarvis's memory. Not that he ever would, it was just nice to know the option was there. But neither of them knew about the other Jarvis. That was still just Tony's secret, one of the few he'd never shared with anyone.

Jarvis couldn't know. Because there were your-AI-develops-a-sex-drive-and-screws-you-silly levels of weird, and then there was just plain weird.

"Don't come," Jarvis murmured in the close confines of the helmet. "Not yet. Not until I say."

"Oh God," Tony said helplessly, and his cock jerked-- he wasn't trying to be a contrary bastard, it just came naturally-- but just before orgasm hit, Jarvis stopped it, a cool metal ring pushing his balls back down and closing snugly around the base of his erection, and from somewhere far away Tony heard himself scream.

He was in such deep shit. And at the moment, he was kind of okay with that.

Why isn't this thread on the front page?
It should be.

Oh, and I found this, in case you guys haven't seen it.

>>50902

Source?

>>50928

Avengers 3, came out today. Spidey goes on to brag that he and Tony "had a moment"

>>43965 >>44006
I FINALLY WROTE THIS, I'M SO SORRY FOR THE MASSIVE DELAY.



The Perks of Being an Avenger, or: How Peter Parker Learned to Stop Worrying and Love The Cock.



The first thing that Peter thinks when his phone goes off in the middle of the night, rudely waking him, is: don't be angry. Tony Stark doesn't do timezones. But then, as he actually answers the phone, he thinks of a more accurate explanation: what Tony Stark doesn't do is common decency. Most times, he just acts the way he wants to and lets other people adapt to him. If they don't, he bends them into shape. So Peter answers the phone with barely a grumble.

The reason that Tony is calling in the middle of the night might be a number of things, Peter thinks as he hurriedly tries to get into his Spider-Man costume. A sudden unexpected HYDRA stunt, or someone stealing the Horn of Gabriel and making a kraken attack the Brooklyn Bridge, or even Doc Ock getting his tentacles in a bunch and attacking the mayor like he did last week. As Peter struggles into the tight material, the phone wedged between his shoulder and chin, Tony tells him that what it's actually about is throwing Jessica Drew a surprise birthday party. Peter nearly drops the phone then. Nothing fancy, Tony says, just us and a hundred or so other capes, and also Peter should not forget that it's black tie.

"But I don't have a suit," Peter says. Well, this is not a hundred percent true, not really: he owned suit jackets and suit pants, but much like it was always the case with his socks, he did not own two pieces of clothing which, paired together, would make a respectable looking suit. And he didn't really mind, since his outfit of choice had always been jeans and a t-shirt.

"What do you mean, like not a designer suit?" Sometimes it is difficult to get these things through to Tony, but Peter supposes this is what it must be like inside the heads of multi-billionaires.

"No," he says, "I don't own a real suit, the kind you wear for weddings and accounting jobs." And the kind Tony wears for day-trips to Las Vegas on company time, occasions when he plays Guess What I'm Wearing Under the Iron Man Suit with giggling women, and parties which are too overcrowded to be private, he doesn't add.

"Accounting jobs? Don't be ridiculous. I'll tell Pepper to arrange something. Swing by Avengers Tower around eight, she'll be there with your measurements," Tony says, and before Peter can ask how is it that they even know his measurements, Tony hangs up.

Peter plops back down onto the bed, half dressed and half in his pyjamas. He doesn't even bother taking the costume off as he starts slipping back to sleep. The fluorescent numbers on his clock say 4:13 and as the three flickers to four, Peter's eyes fall closed and he thinks, how weird must it be, being Tony Stark.


-*


Not as weird as it is being Peter Parker, standing in front of a full-length, three-sided mirror in an unpronounceable French boutique which is so deserted that it's either too expensive for anyone to actually be buying clothes there, or has been bought out by Tony specifically for this occasion - or, most likely, both.

And then there's the suit he's wearing.

Peter didn't think anyone could feel this strongly for a bit of cotton. Not since he was fourteen and got outbid on eBay on that top Kirsty Swanson wore in the original Buffy the Vampire Slayer did he have the aching need to own a piece of clothing. He never wanted to take off the suit. It was tailored perfectly to his shape, and his fingers itched to try and test how it would fare when he was hanging off the ceiling - although, for the amount of money that he figured it could probably be worn in the heart of the sun and feel only slightly warm. Before, Peter thought that one bow-tie was just like another, but this one feels so soft underneath his fingers as he fixes it that it would probably make grown women weep to touch it. Not that Peter's being vain or anything.

Pepper clears her throat and Peter snaps out of it, meeting her eyes in the mirror. She is standing behind him next to the snotty shop owner, who looks like he itches to put Peter down in elaborate French, but is only prevented from doing it by Pepper's stern expression which seems to be permanently fixed to her face today.

"It's gr— it's perfect," he says.

"Great," she says, rather unimpressed and looking like she just wants to get on with it. "Bag it, charge it to Stark Enterprises and take it away," she says to the shop owner.

"No, Pepper, I can't let—"

"Peter," she says, smiling at him with compassion. "It's okay. Mr Stark can afford it." And you can't, she doesn't say.


-*


Jessica is delighted, if a bit overwhelmed. The cake is so big it probably can't fit through Peter's front door, and everyone sings "Happy Birthday" with varying degrees of success. It takes two more people to help her blow out all the candles, and she jokingly says that the number is deliberately that big to make her look old. Peter grins a lot that night: it might be due to the fact that everyone he cares about is there and they're all exquisitely happy for one carefree night, or because he had managed to pull off the birthday dance he had with Jessica without tripping over his own feet or in any other way showing his poor dancing skills.

Spider-Man might be able to climb walls and hang from the ceiling, but pulling shapes on the dance floor was never Peter's forte. So instead he ladles himself some more punch, staying away from the more potent drinks kindly provided by Tony. He's probably compensating since he's not allowed to drink: Peter remembers Pepper politely, but resolutely, prying Tony's fingers off a champagne glass and replacing it with apple juice.

The others don't seem to have the same hang-ups when it comes to controlling their alcohol intake. It's no speakeasy in the thirties, but things are getting a bit fast and loose as Clint Barton leads a gaggle of Avengers into a clumsy, but very enthusiastic and more than a little drunk interpretation of the macarena. Grinning to himself, Peter watches them until Johnny Storm's jump to the left reveals somebody behind the group who catches Peter's eye. It's Tony, nonchalantly holding a glass of what Peter supposes is more apple juice, and he's talking to a tall, imposing figure in an olive drab dress uniform - Cap.

Peter realizes he's never seen Cap wear his old uniform before - but then, it's no surprise he hasn't, since he's never been to a fancy party like this, he thinks to himself. He wonders what they're discussing. Tony's got that grin that he sometimes wears, that grin when one side of his mouth is raised higher than the other, and as he leans closer to Cap to tell him something, he places a hand on his upper arm, just above his elbow, leaning in as close as if the music was louder than it actually is and as if he needed to shout into Cap's ear to be heard. This strikes Peter as kind of personal, and very odd, even for someone like Tony Stark who doesn't get out of bed without flirting with at least three people - but no, Peter thinks as he shakes his head. Stupid, that's Captain America. Tony wouldn't dare, nobody's that forward. But he is Tony Stark, Peter thinks confoundedly as he watches Cap's mouth widen into a grin. Tony pats Cap on the arm, and then Peter notices - he's coming over. He quickly drinks more of his punch, barely avoiding to gag on it in his haste.

"Nice suit, Parker," says Tony, who's somehow managed to cross the dance floor in no amount of time at all. "It's an improvement," he adds. "Not that I mind the scruffy college kid look. But it's good to have a little variety."

"Thanks," says Peter. "You paid for it, you should know."

Tony laughs. "Damn right! Only the best for my favourite arachnid. You know," he grins slyly, "you should wear it all the time. I'm liking the view." Before Peter can react to that, Tony continues. "How's Queens been treating you?"

"Can't complain," says Peter. "There's nothing I have to worry about apart from the leaky ceiling, sticky door and oh yeah, the weird noises the shower makes in the middle of the night." He grins. "But I don't mind it, some people are far worse off."

"That's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about," says Tony. "Spidey shouldn't be living in a dump like that - why don't you move in here?"

"Here?" The question catches Peter by surprise. Live in the Avengers Tower? With the actual Avengers? He'd been a member for a while - he could still remember the day Steve asked him to join as if it was yesterday - but he always felt outside of the rest somehow, because in his own mind he was still a kid, while they were real, genuine heroes.

"Sure," says Tony. "Everyone's already moved in, it's great. Besides, from what you said, it would be an improvement to your bachelor pad. And it would make me happy to have you here." He places a hand on Peter's shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze. "It would make Steve happy." Tony's grin could span galaxies. His hand is still on Peter's shoulder, like he's thinking of pulling him into a bear hug the second he says yes. Because, with that kind of assertive positivity, how could Peter say no?

"I have to admit, making Cap happy is high on my list of priorities," says Peter. "Right up there with kicking the shit out of the Green Goblin and learning how to make a respectable soufflé." Tony laughs at the joke, and then does something incredibly strange - he strokes his hand down Peter's arm.

"This feels like a cloud," he comments. "Why didn't I buy one of those for myself? Anyway," he continues, placing his hand at the small of Peter's back and manoeuvring him towards the direction of the double doors leading out of the hall, "let me sweeten the deal and show you your new crib." There was a point in Peter's life when he wondered why would Tony Stark build a massive dance hall inside the Avengers Tower when the city was full of perfectly acceptable venues - but this was before he learned to relax a little more and develop a certain fondness, if puzzlement, towards Tony's bizarre whims and his inclination to on occasion misguidedly refer to bedrooms as "cribs".

>>51099
It's not even a bedroom, Peter thinks as they enter. It's like a house, it's so big. It's most definitely bigger than his apartment; cleaner, too. He's momentarily rendered speechless by the amount of money that must have been spent on the wallpaper - it looks more expensive than a car Peter would like to drive if he could afford it. There's fancy-looking modern art on the walls which Peter can't recognize so he figures it must be worth far more money than he can imagine. It's exactly the place for someone like Tony - opulent, extravagant and completely unnecessary. The bed, for a start.

"That bed looks like it can fit five people," is the first thing he says after they've come in.

"It's actually six," Tony corrects him. "Wanna try it out?" Peter shoots him a look full of suspicion. "What?" Tony asks. "So I can tell Pepper to order a replacement if you don't like it. Go on," he says, "I'll get you something nice to drink." He walks over to a fully-stocked drinks cabinet which Peter had not even noticed was there, being cleverly and elegantly hidden behind some wood panelling. As Tony has his back to him, probably busy with some elaborate cocktail designed to knock unconscious, Peter sits on the bed and gets a start at how easily it dips under his weight, adapting to his shape with stunning precision, and he is instantly made comfortable.

"Here you go," says Tony, handing him an electric blue drink which Peter only knows is called an Aqua Velva because he watches too many movies based on true stories.

"I'm not sure—" he begins, taking the drink anyway as Tony sits next to him on the bed.

"Getting Peter Parker drunk is my mission in life, so indulge me," says Tony. After a smirk, Peter drinks, and he has to admit that it's tastier than it looks - also, much stronger than he anticipated. "Also," Tony continues, looking him over, "making Peter Parker look better in a suit than in tight-fitting spandex is another one of my goals. That one's really difficult."

"Tony, I feel like I'm in a slumber party lesbian porno," Peter comments. "One of those where one girls goes Hey, why don't you take a shower?, and then Oh look! We're both naked!"

"I love those," says Tony, and he has his come-to-bed grin on that Peter's seen him pull on many a starlet, so Peter just takes another sip of his drink, feeling a bit uncomfortable even when sitting on this perfect bed, in this perfect suit. He has an odd feeling of being in over his head. He gives an experimental tug on his bow-tie, which suddenly feels too tight.

"Let me help you with that," says Tony, and he places his hand atop Peter's, moving it away and loosening his bow-tie. Peter feels uncomfortable by this sudden display, and not to mention just plain weird - even though Tony's not looking at him but at what he's doing with his hands, there is still the sense of proximity, which is not as much unwelcome as it is odd.

Tony slides the bow-tie off. "There," he says. Peter realizes that the tie wasn't the problem, because breathing is still difficult. He's had too much to drink, he thinks, that must be it - he shouldn't have drunk so much of that cocktail; the stupid girly colour threw him off and he drank nearly half of it before he realized he was drunk.

Or, at least, drunk enough that it takes him a second to notice that Tony's fingers have unbuttoned his jacket and that his hands are placed on Peter's hips, stroking decidedly over the fabric. Peter's fingers go slack, and the glass he's holding falls silently onto the floor, spilling the remainder of its contents on the carpet. Peter half turns to pick it up, but Tony says "Leave it" with such authority that he obeys, dumbfounded as to what the hell is happening.

"Tony—"

"Peter." Tony's hands go to his shoulders, sliding his jacket smoothly down his arms and off. Tony neatly folds the suit and places it at the bottom of the bed, while Peter just watches. "Wouldn't want to ruin a lovely item like that," says Tony, grin in place. Peter opens his mouth to say something, but then Tony leans into him, right into him, their chests placed flush against each other, and his finely kept goatee is brushing against Peter's clean-shaven chin because Tony has just kissed him, and Peter can feel the metal of the arc reactor even through the fabric of Tony's suit and his own shirt.

It's nothing but confusing, for Peter's kissed only two girls in the entirety of his sex life, which was wondrous, exciting, but also decidedly heterosexual and, at least up until this moment, very stagnant. Now, it is anything but these things. It's all scratchy beard and sharp angles where there should be nothing but smooth skin and curves, and Peter wonders how do girls cope with this because it's just so weird - and then his brain reconnects with the rest of his body, making him notice that Tony has swung a leg over him and is now straddling him, almost sitting in his lap, his fingers popping the buttons of Peter's shirt open, taking his time with them. Peter hears heavy breathing, and it takes him another beat to identify it as his own.

His hands hesitate only the tiniest bit when he pushes Tony's away. "What are you doing?" he asks.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" says Tony, allowing himself a smirk. "It's called 'having fun', Peter; you should try it some time. Like, now," he says, hooking his fingers around the collar of Peter's shirt and inching their faces closer, closer until their noses brush against each other, and Tony gently bumps his forehead against Peter's. "Now would be a good plan," says Tony, and Peter goes slightly cross-eyed while trying to watch him because he's too close. That's no longer a problem when Tony kisses him again: close-mouthed at first, Peter feels slightly chapped lips and the not-so-unpleasant tickle of his moustache. Then Tony's tongue, unfamiliar and exciting because of it, licks at the seam of Peter's lips, and Peter just - he just breathes, and his lips part, which Tony takes as an invitation to kiss him fully.

If Peter had been that kind of person to have expectations about what it would be like to kiss another man, they would have been blown out of the water by Tony Stark's technique. Having none on account of never having dwelt on it, he is just left amazed by how good a kisser Tony is. One of Tony's hands goes to rest on the nape of Peter's neck, his fingers threading into the hair Peter promised himself he would get cut weeks ago. Tony sucks on Peter's tongue, and his hips move in such a way that makes Peter completely put haircuts out of his mind.

"Oh my God," is the first thing Peter manages to say when he breaks for breath. Tony just laughs, the sound muffled because he's busy kissing a trail up Peter's neck to his ear, letting him catch his breath. Which is almost impossible, Peter thinks. He hasn't even noticed that his hand has ended up on Tony's thigh before Tony puts his own hand over it - in a moment of panic, Peter thinks Tony is going to move it to his crotch, but Tony just places it on his own chest, shrugging out of his jacket. The glow of the arc reactor is more evident now, with Tony just in his shirt, and Peter's scientific curiosity gets the better of him.

He removes Tony's bow-tie, sliding it off, and then gets to work on the buttons. Soon, Tony's shirt is hanging open, the reactor lodged in the middle of his chest fully visible and illuminating Peter's face and hands with a blue light. Gingerly, he places his fingertips on the glass. It's alien and smooth under his hands, and only slightly cooler than normal body temperature. He feels the place where the metal joins the skin and the faint scar tissue around it. Tony gives a sharp intake of breath, and Peter quickly withdraws his hand, looking up at him.

"Did I—"

"No," Tony interrupts, "it's fine." To prove, perhaps, just how fine it is, Tony moves to kiss Peter again, and this time Peter doesn't hesitate to kiss back, relaxing into it and letting himself lazily explore Tony's mouth with his tongue while Tony works on unbuttoning Peter's shirt all the way down. He slips it off Peter's shoulders and chuckles to himself.

"I almost expected the Spidey costume to be under there," he comments, giving Peter's chest a slight shove. Obediently, Peter lies down on the bed, again slightly surprised at how readily it accepts and adjusts to his shape - but this time, more preoccupied with Tony. Peter watches Tony's smirk as he leans lower, running his hands over Peter's chest from his waist, and up, with the same kind of fascination Peter had dedicated to Tony's arc reactor before. It's at this point, when Peter watches Tony's chest connect with his, and feels the warm skin against his own, that he realizes what it is that makes Tony such an excellent businessman. He is the kind of person who will make you believe that you are the only person in the world who is able to completely captivate his attention; like he's been waiting his entire life to have a conversation with you. Or, in Peter's case, to have sex with you.

As soon as that word crosses his mind, Peter starts to panic again, worrying because this has never happened to him before, not with another man - and he didn't think it ever would, because, he thinks, after seeing men in tight-fitting spandex as part of your job and not getting a boner from it, you kind of give up on the idea. But it's not men - it's Tony Stark, and he finds it convenient to interrupt Peter's apprehensive train of thought by pushing his hips suddenly down, grinding against Peter, and it serves its purpose as it completely stops Peter forming coherent thoughts.

Tony doesn't need to say anything, he just nudges at the side of Peter's face with his nose, and Peter is already compliant, turning his head. They kiss, and this time it's a bit more fast-paced. Peter would worry about getting stubble rash if he were thinking about things like that: but at the moment, all he can think about is how good Tony tastes, and why the hell had Peter not tried to find this out sooner. The arc reactor bumps against Peter's sternum as Tony presses himself against him, and it should hurt a bit, but Peter simply doesn't mind because Tony's tongue is in his mouth and it's the only important thing right now. He kisses back eagerly and Tony takes that as further encouragement, taking Peter's lower lip between his teeth and tugging on it, sucking it past his lips. Peter makes a small noise at the back of his throat which is not unlike a moan, and Tony grinds himself down against him, making Peter cry out louder.

"Tony," Peter says, taking a moment to calm himself down, get his breath back, or just stop thinking about how incredibly, unexpectedly hot it is to have Tony on top of him, grinding down and kissing him passionately.

"What," Tony breathes. The fingers of one of his hands are in Peter's hair again, and the other is stroking down his chest, ghosting over a nipple and going further down, where their bodies connect.

"I'm not—" tries Peter, but Tony's popping open the button on Peter's pants, and he seems not to hear him because he then slips his hand past the waistband, cupping Peter over his boxers. The X-Men boxers that were a present from a cynical-looking Logan a couple of months back, and Peter is not grateful for the lights being on right now. He is barely half-hard, still somehow more preoccupied with other things than the fact he's making out with Tony Stark, at a party, on an impossibly large and unbelievably expensive bed, his bed. And then, Tony starts palming him over his boxers, setting a very slow rhythm. He moves in to kiss his clavicle, giving the skin a soft nip before taking it between his teeth and sucking. And oh, Peter thinks, that will leave a nasty mark if he keeps it up. So Peter distracts Tony as best as he can. He digs his fingernails into the nape of Tony's neck, getting his attention, and as Tony raises his head to look at him, Peter locks him in another insistent kiss which Tony is eager to accept. Using his free hand, Tony parts Peter's legs, finding a more comfortable position between his thighs, and everything just clicks into place as Peter almost instinctively hooks his leg around Tony's thigh, pushing them closer.

Tony lets out a choked, broken moan as Peter does that, lets it out straight into Peter's mouth; and his hand is still trapped between them, trapped in Peter's very expensive pants as it presses against his growing erection. He breaks the kiss, and Tony's breathing is laboured, his mouth wet and bruised red. It sends a flush to Peter's cheeks when he realizes he was the one who did that to him. Tony grins at him in a lazy, cat-like way, running a thumb over a cheekbone.

"What is that you were saying you're not?" he wants to know as he rubs Peter over his boxers, agonizingly slow and with a grin so self-assured it makes Peter want to throw a sarcastic remark to knock Tony down a peg or two; but then Tony does something with his hand, pushing his hips forward at the same time, and instead of a witty retort, Peter just grunts uselessly, raising his hips to meet Tony's hand, Tony's hips, turning their movement into a grinding push which, on Peter's end, is bordering on the desperate. Tony bows his head, smirking into the skin of Peter's neck, and Peter supposes Tony can feel the heavy heat of his cock against his hand, even through the fabric, because this is sure as hell taking a toll on him. It's not even the physical aspect of the thing as much as it's Peter's mind amplifying everything, from the rub of Tony's hand, the glow of his arc reactor and the metal digging into Peter's chest, to the smell of expensive cologne tinged with a hint of sweat as he turns to kiss at Tony's neck. At that point, Tony pushes his hand past the waistband, into Peter's underwear, wrapping his deft fingers around Peter's cock. He drags his thumb across the head, teasing out the pre-come, and Peter has to bite on his lower lip, hard, in order not to cry out. He can feel Tony's erection against his thigh, rubbing against him in time with Tony's strokes, and Peter tips his head back, eyes falling shut and mouth falling open, because there's not nearly enough air in the room for this.

Spider-sense.

>>51101
Peter's eyes snap open, because something's moved at the very edge of his senses. He abruptly stills, which doesn't escape Tony.

"What is it?" Tony asks.

"My spider-sense is tingling," says Peter, disbelieving.

"Has little Timmy fallen down the well?" says Tony, obviously disgruntled.

Peter frowns. "There's someone else here," he says. He looks around the room, but can't see anything that might have triggered it.

"You're just imagining it," says Tony, and returns to kiss at Peter's neck and work his hand on Peter's cock, as if deliberately trying to distract him. And then Peter sees it.

Right at the top of the room, in the very corner where the wall connects to the ceiling, there is a tiny red dot underneath a small glass orb. He narrows his eyes, and the glass orb flickers. A surveillance camera. Peter has the sudden image of a darkened room with a wall covered in television screens, each one of them carrying his face. Showing his head tipped back, the curve of his neck exposed to the lens. His mouth hanging open, Tony Stark's hand down his pants.

Frantically, Peter scrambles away from Tony. "I can't believe you h—" he tries, and then thinks better of it. "Okay, I can believe you had the room bugged, but—"

"Oh, come on," says Tony, "it's not even a big deal, all the rooms are like this. Things need to be recorded in case of emergency." He grins. "And Skrulls," he adds.

"And e-everything is recorded?" Peter stammers.

"Yeah," says Tony, making it sounds as though it is the most common thing in the world. Then, his hand starts inching back towards Peter; fingers just dancing along the edge of Peter's open pants, making him tense up.

"Don't tell me you've never filmed yourself before," says Tony as he slips his fingers back inside and, wrapping them around Peter's still hard cock, he starts stroking him again, unhurriedly. Peter thinks of stopping him, but then Tony tugs on the upward stroke, and Peter stops thinking about it. "I have," says Tony, and he's back on Peter, his lips ghosting along the skin of Peter's neck. His other hand goes to the small of Peter's back, holding him for a better angle. "I have with Steve," he says, circling his thumb around the head of Peter's cock and pushing suddenly down. Peter lets out a gasping breath, the pit of his stomach coiling with nerves and arousal. He falters in Tony's arms, nearly collapsing back onto the bed, but the hand Tony's got on his back holds him up. Images that he never thought he would have flood Peter's mind - of Cap, and Tony, on a bed not unlike this one, not much more than blurred, sweaty shapes moving to a common rhythm, muscles flexing and unflexing underneath their skin as above them, and around them, cameras film, and capture Tony's knowing smirk, the blue of the arc reactor shining dull between them.

"Steve likes watching," says Tony, almost as an offhand comment as he speeds up his strokes, using his fingers to spread the pre-come all over Peter's cock to reduce the amount of friction. Peter shudders, his forehead falling forward and bumping into Tony's. His mouth is open again, because he cannot seem to get enough air no matter how much he tries. Tony takes this opportunity to run his tongue along Peter's jawline, biting on his lower lip and ending in a searing, open-mouthed kiss. "Do you like being watched?" Tony says, breathing the words against Peter's skin, and after a beat and a shudder, Peter understands. The looks and the touches that Tony and Cap gave each other at the party, the whispers they exchanged - it was planned. This was all planned.

"Is Steve—?" Peter's never called Cap 'Steve' before; not many people call Cap that, apart from Tony. He doesn't even get to finish his question, because Tony is thumbing the underside of his cock, and Peter stifles a keening noise, rocking into Tony's hand.

"Yeah," says Tony. Peter's cock twitches in Tony's hand and he can feel himself coming completely undone under his touch. "He can come in, if you want him to," says Tony, and Peter can't give a proper reply, so he just nods breathlessly.

The room must have hidden microphones as well, because Tony doesn't even need to say anything for the door to slide open, soundlessly, and Peter would usually be bothered and freaked out by this, were he not preoccupied with other things at the moment. Cap comes in, and Peter feels his cheeks flood with warmth instantly, because this is not a position he thought he would find himself in, faced with someone as important to him as Captain America - Steve, he thinks, and it's incredible how silently he moves for someone of his stature. He's still in olive drab, everything in place apart from his jacket which appears to be missing in action, and Peter instantly feels ashamed for appearing like this before him, completely dishevelled and undone, still painfully hard, with Tony's hand still down his pants.

"Peter," says Tony, feeling Peter's discomfort, "it's okay." His free hand goes to Peter's jaw, cupping his face and making Peter face him, blue eyes on brown. At the corner of his vision, Peter sees Steve sit into an armchair offering the best view of the bed. "You're great," says Tony, and Peter turns his attention to him completely as Tony leans closer to kiss the tip of his ear, the side of his jaw, the corner of his mouth. "Steve's just here to watch," he says against Peter's lips as his fingers start moving on Peter's cock again, setting a rhythm. Peter lets his chin rest in the place where Tony's shoulder meets his neck, unable to keep himself steady any other way— he's too far gone, he knows it, and it's the only thing keeping him grounded, keeping him from ending this too soon. His eyes, inevitably, go to where Steve is sitting, his legs parted just so, one of his hands working on loosening his tie, and the other on unfastening his pants.

Steve catches Peter's eyes. "Touch Tony for me," he says, and although softly spoken, it's not a request: it's an order.

Almost of their own volition, Peter's fingers, shaking terribly, go down to the zip of Tony's pants - Tony's painfully straining pants - pop a button open and pull the zipper down, and Peter has no idea what he's doing because he's never done this to someone else, but nevertheless he wraps a hand around Tony's cock. Pushing his underwear down just enough to get access, Peter just does what feels right, what feels good for him, trying to mirror Tony's movement somewhat: and it obviously works, because Tony bows his head suddenly, hissing softly through his teeth. It's strange to have his hand around another man's cock, feel the slick slipping, the hardness and the heat, but Peter gets encouraged by the noises Tony's making, the way he tilts his hips to meet Peter's hand; and Peter wonders, as he has to dig his fingers into Tony's hip to stop him from thrusting too hard, if this feels more intense because Steve is just there, in his dress uniform, slowly palming himself over the fabric. Peter doesn't want to look, but he can't look away. Steve's eyes are set on them, taking everything in. Peter jerks Tony's cock and Tony groans, right into Peter's neck where he's trying to suck at the skin, so Peter feels it more than he hears it, shuddering in response and just holding Tony close, rocking into him. Steve's hand moves into his pants, and Peter's eyes fall shut as his breathing quickens.

"Tony," he pants out, "I'm close." From what he can tell, by the way he thrusts into his hand with shallow, desperate movements and by the way the sweat slides down the skin of his back, Tony is too. Peter doesn't know, he has no idea what it's like to have another man come just because of his touches, but at this moment, as his cock brushes against Tony's and his own hand wrapped around it, he is very eager to find out.

"No," says Steve, and Tony stills with almost immediate and frightening accuracy. "Listen, Peter." There is such command in the tenor of Steve's voice that at that moment Peter understands why men would have followed him through ice and fire, and why he himself just about mechanically obeys, the only noise in the room the laboured sound of their breathing. There's the faint rustle of upholstery as Steve shifts in the chair, placing his hands on his knees, fingers digging firmly into the fabric of his pants. "I want you to suck Tony off," says Steve. "Could you do that for me, Peter?"

Peter looks from Steve, to Tony, and then back to Steve again, feeling his heart hammer furiously in his chest. "I'm not sure—" he says, because he's honestly not, since this is so very, very far from anything he has ever tried or ever thought about, going down on another man - going down on Tony Stark. The thought of pinching himself crosses his mind for an instant.

"I'm not asking," says Steve, his blue eyes dark. Peter feels a shiver of trepidation run down his spine.

"Come on, Peter," Tony says softly, successfully turning Peter's attention away from Steve. His fingers touch the nape of Peter's neck as his thumb strokes Peter's cheek. "Don't worry," he says, his thumb stroking over Peter's bottom lip, reddened and worried from the kissing. "Steve'll guide you," he says, and Peter shudders again as Tony's thumb goes past his lips, into his mouth. Tentatively, he slides his tongue over it. "Like that," says Tony, grinning encouragingly. Peter sucks on his thumb, coating it with his saliva, and then Tony replaces it with his forefinger, followed by his middle finger which Peter eagerly sucks into his mouth, licking between them and gently biting on the skin. Then Tony withdraws his fingers, inclining his head just slightly to reassure Peter further. He doesn't move to do anything else, though, waiting for Steve's command.

"I need you to take his pants and underwear off, Peter," says Steve. "And when you start sucking him off, I want you to do it slowly." Peter's hands go to Tony's hips, the waistband of his underwear, and he pushes it down completely along with Tony's pants, freeing his erection. Tony scrambles, and Peter think that this must have taken a lot of practice, because Tony is quickly sitting in front of him on the bed, completely naked, completely hard, and utterly pleased with himself. Peter's eyes go from Tony's face and his expression to the arc reactor glowing in his chest, until they are drawn to Tony's cock, flushed and wet with pre-come. His fingers wrap loosely around the base, and he places his other hand on Tony's hip, fanning his fingers over the hipbone. He gives the tip of the head an experimental lick, just to get a feel of the taste, at which point Tony draws in a sharp breath, his chest rising. Encouraged by this, Peter takes Tony into his mouth, wrapping his lips around the head of his cock. The taste is heady on his tongue, and Peter closes his eyes, breathing through his nose, head buzzing. He bobs his head once, twice, and then pulls off almost completely to tighten his lips around the head, sucking until his cheeks hollow and Tony's hips buck upwards, causing Peter to shove him down roughly for fear of gagging.

"Use your tongue more," says Steve, leaning forward. "Make him beg."

Tony keens at the back of his throat as Peter wraps his hand more firmly around the base of his cock and takes him out of his mouth, pumping him. He slides his tongue down the underside of Tony's cock, and Tony throws his head back, his fingers bunching the sheets together as he grips them, trying not to thrust. Peter feels his own neglected cock rub painfully against the fabric of his pants, and he ruts his hips into the mattress, seeking at least some release.

"Peter, please—" It doesn't take Tony a long time to do as Steve asked, and he's soon past words, just letting out begging noises as Peter draws circles with his tongue on the head, sliding his lips wetly against the tip, only applying more pressure when Tony lets out a deeper groan.

"He's close," says Steve. "When he comes, I want you to keep it in your mouth." Peter's blood runs faster, his head swimming. He does as he's told, though, and when Tony's stomach clenches and he starts coming, Peter's mouth is back on his cock, taking it all in. Just as Peter thinks how he can't hold it in, that he has to spit it out, there's a hand at his wrist and Steve's pulling him up, away from Tony and to his chest. Peter nearly chokes, but then Steve says, "Open," pulling their lips together — and Peter opens his mouth just as Steve's closes over it, Tony's come spilling from Peter's mouth into Steve's. Peter watches a trail drip from Steve's mouth down his chin and without thinking, moves in to lick it off, his tongue ending up in Steve's mouth almost not of his own volition. Steve's— Steve's firm, and large, but his kiss is gentle and warm and not at all what Peter needs right now. He needs release, or he feels like he will burst at the seams. Then there's a hand on his crotch, palming him roughly over his pants, and Peter doesn't know if it's Tony's or Steve's - or his own, and he doesn't care, he just desperately bucks into it over and over. Steve groans into his mouth, and it's the straw which breaks the camel's back: Peter shudders violently, his orgasm staining his underwear, leaving him sticky and spent.

He collapses on the bed, out of breath. Tony throws himself down next to him, laughing.

"So, I guess you'll be moving in then?"

>>51102


This.

This.


GOD.


I...I don't even know what to say. It's so hot! You used all my silly little kinks and...you made WONDERS!
WONDERS I TELL YOU.

thanks

After seeing RDJ and Clark Gregg cuddle up at the Marvel Avengers panel at SDCC?

Tony/Agent Coulson pls.

This has to exist. If it doesn't it should.

>>51215 I myself am craving Tony/Hawkeye after seeing the shots of RDJ with Jeremy Renner's arm around him. Too soon for movieverse Avengers orgies?

>>51215
>>51230

Everyone craves RDJ!!

I don't even know...

>>51369
What is this...I don't even...

>>51369
it is a goddamn CLASSIC is what it is

>>51369


Oh...that thing.

...Just when I had managed to erase Logan's face from my mind.

>>51369

wat

>>51369
WHATTHEFUUUUUUU-
Sauce?

on the lookout for Tony/DOOM. Help me out coq?

>>46194

... That was terribly hot.

/coq/ friends I need some SAUCE on this.

>>57721
Artist is Jim Cheung, I know that much.

>>57721
Did Cheung do any work on Secret Invasion? I haven't read it yet, but that's what it looks like to me. A quick Amazon search seems to be confirming it...

Has there ever been any fic/art of Tony Stark on Top Gear?

>>57737

Yup!

http://archiveofourown.org/works/90994

>>57731

Pretty sure this is from New Avengers: Illuminati