#carelessendgame

Peter is beautiful. A true masterpiece, a David walking amongst Quasimodos. The most brilliant creature Tony had ever set eyes on.

But Howard Stark's words still rang through his mind every time he looked at that alabaster skin, those plump lips and those honey eyes.

If you can't think of a way to improve something, you've failed.

It begins with Extremis. He grows hard watching Peter thrash and cry on the table, watching that cream skin glow gold and red.

He fucks Peter through the first hour of it. He's do hot inside that for a moment Tony wonders if he'll simply burn right up. But his boy is like a Pheonix, alight in the flames and stepping from the ashes as strong and vibrant as ever.

For a while, it's enough.

Then one day he stares a little too long at the Soldier, and it breeds an idea.

It's been done before, he knows. The Weapon X program only ever bred one result, but what a result.

Peter screams and cries and begs and then steps from the churning waters the perfect antithesis to Tony.

Tony is metal on the outside, a shield, a shell. Now Peter is metal on the inside.

He gives him a reactor, too. Cracks open his chest and forces it in. Drapes himself over the boy when he's still unconscious and just holds him, just to feel their hearts pressed together.

Next, he thinks, he'll pry open that beautiful mind and see what he can tinker with there.

I have absolutely no idea what I do to deserve beautiful things from you Jensen, but I love and roll in them all the same.

I adore you, and fair little could ever repay the joy you've brought into my life, but hopefully this gift makes a start.

Merry Christmas, Daddy! ❤

@carelessannie

My Mate, My Life, My Monster

Tony, put out, slapped at him with his stetson. "C'mon. Look at that little colt. Tell me you wouldn't."

Barnes shook his head again. "Everyone wants a piece of Parker, but that's one mean yearling you don't wanna try and wrangle. Stuck up little Princess wouldn't even spit in your direction."

"Mm, I'd let him spit on me alright," Tony smirked, ignoring Barnes' gagging as he watched the slender youth ahead of them.

The boy was crisp and preened, as if his clothes had never seen the inside of an arena before. Stood next to a well rounded, glossy Warmblood, he wouldn't have looked out of place at the Windsor Display.

"Stick to our side of the yard, Stark. Prized flesh like Parker is way outta your budget," Barnes advised him, tugging his cinch tighter before tugging on the reins of his stocky, black mount.

As if he'd heard them, Parker glanced their way, giving Tony a preview of a curved jaw, bright eyes and a pink little mouth. Tony put on his best winning smile and winked, and Parker turned his nose up and spun on his heel.

Tony didn't mind all too much. Fillies were known to play hard to get. He could wait.

Besides. It gave him the perfect view of that round little ass as the boy marched away.

“What was that?”

Peter turned around quickly, taking in Steve’s unimpressed expression, “What was what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Peter,” Steve readjusted the straps on his helmet again before giving up, pulling the whole thing off with a huff, “I saw you looking.”

"Oh," he muttered after a moment, caught between wariness and delight. "Oh, Parker is not going to like that."

Swinging the halter and rope cheerfully, he continued towards the second field where Licurgo was, for lack of a better way to describe it, flirting.

Speak of the devil - the sense of being judged was almost tangible and Tony turned his head to see a pert little ass and an upturned nose marching parallel towards the fields with him, so intent on letting Tony know he didn't care for his presence that he hadn't yet noticed the way his precious little trust fund pony was all but wrapped around Tony's 'backwater hick horse.'

Tony leaned against the fence with a cheerful smirk and waited. Three... Two...

"What the fuck is your horse doing to Bal?!"

One.

"I believe its called bond-building grooming," Tony answered smugly, head cocking as he eyed the yard's star English pupil. Peter was staring with abject horror at where Balagur and Licurgo had their necks entwined, nibbling away at each other's fur in a friendly display.

Peter's cheeks had already obtained an affronted pink flush the shade of cotton candy. The stick up his ass seemed to grow in size, lending his spine a ramrod straight air.

"Look at them being B-F-F's," Tony cooed, shooting Peter a shit-eating grin.

"Shut up," Peter demanded crossly, arms folding and cheeks darkening. Over Peter's shoulder Tony could see Bucky heading straight for them, obviously anticipating that this would bubble over into another of their famous spats.

"It's not a big deal. I'll bet if we go back a few pages in their pedigrees they're even distant cousins."

"Oh please, you wish Licurgo had any of Bal's blood," Peter sniffed at him, shooting him a scowl. His cheeks were the color of roses now, dusky and hot. His brows had pinched down into what Tony liked to call his Regina George bitchface.

He pursed his lips.

"You know... Its not uncommon for bachelor stallions to form intimate bonds. Maybe they're lovers."

Bang went that pretty faced bomb.

Sheer outrage took over Peter's face and he squealed in fury, lunging for Tony. A set of strong arms wrapped around his waist and bodily hauled him off the floor like a scruffed kitten, the prissy little brat writhing and hissing in Bucky's arms.

"Whoa-hoah there, spitfire," Bucky laughed as he lifted Peter up, holding him against his chest and taking waddled steps backwards so Tony was out of range of those slender, deceptively powerful legs.

"I'm going to collect my homosexual stallion now. Toodle-pip," Tony announced cheerfully, slinging the rope over his shoulder and vaulting the fence as Peter yowled behind him.

(Find the first part here)

The worst part was— after Peter calmed down enough to finish training for the day, he could already notice a difference in Balagur’s attitude. His sweet, pure baby usually gets a second wind in the afternoon, eager to perform and even becoming more affectionate as the end of the day draws near.

But instead of excitable energy, Peter actually found himself correcting Bal twice when his posture slumped forward, deflating in a long sigh.

Once, he could understand. He pushes hard, and knows that even a stallion as fine as his Russian trotter will need a break from time to time.

Twice, and Peter was growing suspicious. He guided Bal through a series of exercises, and almost fainted to notice the horse practically dragging his feet around turns, the rhythm of his steps barely in cadence.

Balagur— Peter’s prized, award-winning and meticulously trained stallion— was throwing a temper tantrum.