#peep bucky in zeus’s bed

[cagestark]

Hi I saw you wanted some prompts and how about Hades!Tony and Nature God! Peter fluff. Them Meeting for the first time and falling in love. Them in Tonys Dark castle having dinner. And Then Tony Not going to be so Peter has to make him. Maybe even some smut ;) ALL OF DIS IN ONE. ( Some Daddy Kink. ) P.S I saw you dont write Dark!Tony so just make Tony normal but he's still Hades. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ cause you don't need to be dark and mean to be the king of hell.

You asked for *some* smut and *some* daddy kink but it really just…jumped right out. It got carried away with itself, I was just stuck along for the ride. I hope this is remotely something that you asked for and that you enjoy! Leave a prompt anytime, this was a joy. And it definitely needs a pt. 2… 

Hades!Tony is dying. He picks up Dionysus!Peter, because that’s the perfect cure. Or at least, the best way to die. Some notes here: I know little about Greek mythology, but I do know that everybody is everybody’s relative. Not in this. Consider familial relationships to be explicitly stated, and if not stated, then non-existent. No incest here. Peter is, like, ancient too. Probably still too young for the antis. I really made the mythology my own too lmao. Sorry.

Read here on AO3.

5k. Daddy Kink, ahoy!

-

Everything comes to an end, and thinking that he would be the exception had been a very mortal move.

Tony, who is sometimes called Hades, stands looking into an ornate mirror. The room is dimly lit, but the evidence is impossible to overlook: there is gray in his beard and at his temples. He turns his head this way and that to see it from every angle, frowning deeply. When had those lines begun to bracket his mouth when he smiled or frowned? It must have happened gradually for him to have not noticed before, subtle like sands slipping down an hourglass.

He’s been in this general form for five decades now. Being nearly as old as time itself can get dreadfully droll if stuck with the same appearance. Like most of his divine kin, he likes to switch it up every century or so. Illusions can help, but even without the extra influence, a deity’s appearance changes over time. Humans evolve in that way, their brow bones receding, noses thinning and figures lengthening. In many way, the gods evolve too.

This carefully cultivated visage contains no illusions and was the result of centuries of time leaving their influence on him, an amalgamation of his preferences and his personality. The eyes, dark, as he prefers. The hair, soft and thick and (previously) black. His lips are full, fit for seductive smiles and sinister snarls. And even if, as the years had past, this face had grown—not older, he won’t say older, let’s say more mature—it was just a reflection of his changing disposition. Even the god of the Underworld had to put away childish things sometime, he told himself.

Except now, something about his disposition is turning him gray. It’s giving him crow’s feet and joints that ache. Some part of him, even if subconscious, is getting old.

He is dying.

-

When he steps out of the ground at the base of Mt. Olympus, it is hot and dry and so fucking bright. The tinted glasses he wears do nothing to diminish the sunlight that blinds him for several long moments, no matter how he tries to blink himself used to it. Illusions are firmly in place to disguise his aging appearance.

The acropolis is visible once his eyes have stopped stinging: it’s large and ugly, and the stables smell like shit because even immortal horses defecate. The horses in the Underworld don’t—they’re dead and lovely.

Everywhere he goes in the palace, someone tries to stop him. Seeing his brother in the flesh is an entire affair, and he hasn’t sent any message announcing his arrival. It’s been centuries since he’s even set foot above ground, so he tries not to sniff indignantly that no one recognizes him. Sick of being interrogated, he makes himself invisible (it’s a crime though—he looks so cut and handsome in his three-piece suit) and strolls leisurely all the way to Zeus’s chambers.

Zeus has a handsome mortal man in his bed, as he is wont to do. They make a lovely picture, both muscled but one blond and the other dark and long-haired like mortal women prefer. Tony is jealous, standing over their naked, entwined forms while they slumber. It looks comfortable. But how ever do they keep from sweating all over each other?

The snap of his fingers ends his invisibility and startles Zeus into wakefulness. The last time he saw his brother, the god looked nothing like this. Now he is the picture of mortal desirability: blond with cornflower blue eyes, a well-shaped face. Is it an illusion he wonders—but no, not possibly. They can’t maintain illusions while they sleep or lose focus.

“Must you break in every time you visit?” Zeus asks. He stands to dress himself, and Tony gives him the privacy by seating himself on a solid-gold armchair and unashamedly ogling the brunet still sleeping in his brother’s bed.

“Did I break in last time? I distinctly remember knocking—”

“You knocked the door off the hinges.”

Tony scoffs. Nearby is a golden platter of grapes. He knocks the grapes to the floor and tucks the platter into his suit jacket, all while Zeus’s back is turned.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company? I like the facial hair, by the way. You always were a quirky one.”

He waves away his illusion. Zeus flinches as if instead of a middle-aged mortal there is now an ancient hag sitting in his bedroom. Tony hates this. Hates the blow to his ego and vanity. He attempts to conceal his embarrassment with sensationalism: “I am dying.”

They sit together, knees nearly touching. The room is quiet though all the windows are open letting in a breeze and endless sunlight that is beginning to give him a headache. Despite all they have been through together (and trust him, it is a very long and sordid history rife with jealousy and violence), they are brothers. This is familiar. It is comfortable.

“Why, Hades?”

“It’s Tony. I go by Tony.”

“You and your aliases. Tony is positively mortal.”

“You should try it. Shall I call you Steve?”

“I’d rather you didn’t. Quit avoiding my question.”

Tony sighs. He uses a trembling hand to rub at his eye beneath the glasses, trying to stave off the growing headache. There isn’t any clever quip he can give, so he just tells the truth. “I have no idea.”

“No idea,” Zeus mocks flatly. “The only way we can die is by choice.”

“I am aware.”

“You are killing yourself then. Slowly. Dramatically—though I’d never expect you to do anything expected. So tell me why you want to die.”

“To my knowledge…I don’t know. Whatever this is, it goes deep. I haven’t made any conscious decision. I have of course been bored. Doing anything for a millennium could take the joy out of it. It’s not necessarily a happy job, the one that I have. But I don’t—I don’t think I want to die. And yet,” he waves a hand at himself.

“We have healers here, well versed in magic too. Maybe you’ve been cursed. Spend some time here, we will get to the bottom of this.”

“I’d rather not spend a moment more in this sunlight than I have to,” Tony says honestly. “But it seemed responsible, to tell someone. To get my affairs in order. Someone else will have to rule the Underworld when I’m gone.” The thought gives him a strange relief.

And maybe that is why he’s dying.

When he goes to leave, Zeus catches his arm. Despite his own reputation as the drama queen of the family, Tony can testify that Zeus is a close second, proficient in tortured expressions. “Brother. Please stay.”

“No. But thank you for asking.”

“Then—take some time off. Something!” Zeus calls after him.

On his way out, he doesn’t bother turning himself invisible again, only replacing the illusion of youth—let the guards know that he slipped past them. It’s good for their egos to be taken down a notch. Just as he’s passing the stables, he nearly collides with a smaller figure. Looking up at him, nearly drowned out by the sunlight, is a lovely mortal-looking boy with a wreath of gold curls, skin golden and freckled. He’s dressed in typical Olympus fashion, a light and loose tunic secured by a belt around his trim waist.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry—” the boy says, turning red as a pomegranate. His voice is fragile and cracking. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”  

“A bad habit,” says Tony. He licks his lips. “Tell me you aren’t on your way to my brother’s bed. He’s already got a lovely little cock warmer up there, and I’d hate for your feelings to be hurt.”

The boy’s mouth opens and closes several times like a fish. “Your—brother?”

“Tall, blond god? Always looks to be on the verge of tears?”

“You’re—Hades.”

“Tony.”

“That’s a mortal name.”

“Nothing about me is mortal kid.”

“Oh—I didn’t mean to insult you,” he says. “I quite like it. To be—well, honest. I like the name Peter. It’s much less of a mouthful than Dionysus.”

Tony nearly removes his sunglasses. This sweet, soft little creature hardly looks like the god of nature—but to be fair, they have run in different circles for, well, ever. “My apologies, Peter. I mistook you for a mortal.”

Peter’s smile is beatific, bright as the sun. “That’s alright. It’s the curls, isn’t it? I can’t quite get rid of them. I’m not very practiced at illusions, really. I spend most of my time alone or with the animals, and they don’t quite care what I look like. To be honest, I’m just glad to be rid of the horns I had eight hundred years ago.”

“Horns are so twelfth-century.”

Peter laughs, and no wonder this boy is in charge of all the cute woodland creatures. Tony’s pretty sure that there are butterflies—at least, a particularly large species of moth, something with wings—fluttering around in his gut just as the sight of him. In the back of his mind, he still sees Zeus and his lover, pressed chest-to-back, sleeping peacefully. Peter looks like he’d be easy to hold: a head smaller, thin and willowy.

“Peter, not to be annoyingly cryptic, but I’m a little short on time to properly woo you. How would you like to slip through a nice cozy hole in the ground and come home with me to warm my bed?”

The young-looking god looks aghast. One finely-boned hand clutches at the neck of his tunic. “You mean—to the Underworld?”

“That’s the one. Great garish gates, lots of unworthy souls lying about. Not in my castle though, I keep a clean place for a bachelor—”

“I. Well. Yes. I’ve seen nearly all there is to see above ground. Are there plants, there? What is the geography like?”

They link arms. Peter’s skin is warm from the sunlight even through Tony’s suit. They could not look more unalike in dress, and the looks they receive from other patrons and deities as they leave Olympus are wary at best and malicious at worst. Tony isn’t fazed: most creatures hate him. Animals. Mortals. Gods. It’s a tough line of work.

And he feels so tired.

The kindness of Peter’s touch rejuvenates him though. They make small talk that Tony can barely concentrate on. He’s too busy contemplating the positions he might bend Peter into, the noises he might make, how Tony might spread him out over the massive bed in his estate and worship him. Pun intended.

They reach the hole Tony sprung from. Here is where Peter gets nervous, trepidation naked on his face. The boy bites his lip rosy, crossing his arms like he is cold in the sunshine.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Tony says. He winks. “Bit of a tight fit though. Might have to hold on to me.”

They wrap their arms around each other. Peter is nearly the perfect height for Tony to rest his chin on the boy���s crown on curls, and up this close he sees its absolutely threaded with flowers and clovers. The pollen makes him sneeze, but he hardly minds when there is an attractive body pressed against him from chin to chest to hip. He can’t even remember the last time he was touched—when Zeus grabbed his arm in passing, but before then? Ages. Lost in his thoughts, he hears Peter muffle his gasp against Tony’s suit as they sink underground.

It is much cooler here, where the sunlight doesn’t reach. All light is dim and flickering. From the earthen ceiling hang a myriad of roots reaching their tendrils down towards the sprawling domain of the damned. They are just outside of Tony’s castle—more of a mansion really, much more modern and stylish than those gaudy human monuments of stone. A river, water like ink, runs around the perimeter, silent.

Peter stands looking all around. He is very handsome when lit by flame, skin even more golden, eyes so dark they look black. The roots from above absolutely tickle him and he reaches a hand up absently as if he could grow tall enough to reach them. The flesh on his bare arms and legs prickles from the cool temperature, nipples pebbling under his thin tunic.

“Is this the Styx River?” Peter asks, mouth agape.

“Sure.”

“Really?”

“No. This is actually the Lethe—don’t touch the water.” His stern voice has Peter snatching his hand from the surface of the river, clutching it to his chest. Tony softens. “I’m sorry. But while you’re here, it’s safe to say that most things aren’t good for you to touch. Or drink. Or eat. When in doubt, just ask me.”

“As you wish,” Peter says. Even in the flickering light, Tony can see he is blushing, head hanging like a scolded child.

“Would you like to go inside?”

-

If Peter was awed outside, he seems even more floored by the interior. The ceilings are vaulted. There is artwork from every era in solid gold frames to decorate the walls, because Tony considers himself a patron of very nice things. The floor is of black marble that glistens in the candlelight. The general opulence is probably excessive, Tony thinks, especially to a god who lives simply in nature.

“This is incredible,” Peter breathes. “It’s nothing how I thought it would be. There are stories, you know. About how the Underworld is a terrible place and Zeus will banish you here if you misbehave.”

“To be fair,” Tony says, guiding Peter up the winding staircase. “You’ve only seen a fraction of the domain. It is probably just as terrible as all the stiffs up-top make it out to be. But—to be honest—”

The words catch in his throat. He’s never found himself wanting to be so honest before.

“Yes?” Peter prompts.

They are stopped outside Tony’s bedroom door. He decides he has nothing to lose by opening up to the other god, and if he doesn’t, it’s entirely liable that when he dies, no one will ever have known him. “To be honest, I try to avoid it. Tartarus, the Mourning Fields. Places where the souls suffer. It gives me no pleasure. I guess I’m a poor excuse for a god, here.”

“Not enjoying someone else’s suffering—that doesn’t sound like a bad thing to me,” Peter says. They are standing nearly chest to chest, Peter staring up at him with huge, naïve eyes. His thin lips curve into a soft smile. When Tony reaches up to tuck some curls behind his ears, the ears are just barely pointed at the tips. Peter shivers, like it tickles.

“You’re wrong,” Tony says lowly, turning the doorknob and throwing open the door. “But I appreciate you saying it anyway.”

Tony’s bedroom is befitting a dark prince. The bed instead is a huge four-poster, golden, with silks and a canopy so fine and sheer it looks like black spider silk. When Peter sits there in his tunic, flowers in his hair, he could not look more like a lamb being willingly led to slaughter. He looks fit for debauching.

Underneath is there is a sense of urgency for Tony. He thought he had all the time in the world, but now he knows he doesn’t. If things were different, he could take his time. Woo the nature god, win his affection and then his body. But now things are different. It calls for boldness. “Are you interested in sex with me, kid?”

Face red: “You keep calling me that. I’m thousands and thousands of years old, Tony.”

“You’re right—would you like to have sex with me, Peter?”

Peter’s blush deepens but he nods, already half-hard. Divine libidos.

Tony loosens his tie. His honey eyes track the dark god’s every movement. “Can I tell you how this is playing out in my head?”

Peter nods again.

Tony removes the tie and folds it gently over an armchair with four chimera feet sculpted out of onyx as the legs. “I want to take my time and take you apart. I want to taste you, suck on your hot little tongue, leave bruises on your neck. I’ll kiss and mouth every last inch of you except for your cock. Then I’ll put you on your elbows and knees and eat your little ass.”

Peter is panting silently, eyes half shut while he examines every inch of skin exposed as Tony unbuttons his shirt. The tunic does nothing to disguise how hard he is, and one soft hand reaches down to palm himself, to Tony’s immense pleasure. He undoes his cufflinks, tony gold seeds, sitting them aside. “I want to tongue you open until you’re wet and soft, until your cock aches so much it’s fit to burst. I’m going to worship you. Destroy you. I will be your god, all before I even get my cock inside you. How does this sound so far, Peter?”

“Goooood,” he breathes, tilting his head back. His eyes close but then open, wider, like he’s afraid to miss a single moment of what’s in front of him. So fucking adorable.

“Then I’ll open you up with my fingers, very carefully. Slowly. I won’t lie to you Peter, it will be very hard. For me. Having my fingers inside your tight little ass will probably have me wanting to blow my load as it is. It’s going to take incredible self-restraint, but don’t worry,” Tony says, unbuckling his belt. “I think I’m up for the challenge.”

Peter groans, dropping down to recline back on one elbow. His other hand is no longer jerking himself off through his tunic, is instead just clutching at himself, face twisted in the sweetest pain. “Please don’t stop,” he begs so sweetly.

“The same goes for you. Keep touching yourself, Pete. It’s turning me on.” Like it pains him, Peter whines as he resumes, much slower than before. The sound Tony’s belt makes as it comes free from the loops is almost sensual and then he sets it aside. “Once you’re ready—past ready—I’ll put my cock in you. Maybe I’ll let you decide how you take it, whether it will be on your hands and knees or maybe on your back, pressed in half, nowhere to run or hide from me. Maybe you’d like to ride me. Could you be brave, darling? Could you sit on my cock?”

Peter says something unintelligible. Tears slip from his eyes, glinting in the candlelight.

“What is it?” Tony asks, tender.

“Can—May I please cum?”

Tony coos. “You sweet boy, asking daddy for permission. Lift your tunic, rose. Let me watch you.”

Face burning, Peter lifts his tunic. Beneath is his cock, of decent girth and length, flushed and wet, the head nearly purple with desperation. One soft hand reaches down to cradle his balls, and the other resumes jerking himself off, moaning unreservedly at the first touch of skin-on-skin.

“Go on. Cum on yourself.”

Peter does, reclining flat on the bed, back arching into a lovely bow. His cock spurts endlessly, the god’s mouth open in a silent scream of ecstasy, toes barely long enough to touch the floor and scrabbling to find purchase as he shakes and shivers.

It’s the most beautiful thing Tony can remember seeing, and he’s seen almost everything. By the way the boy is panting, Tony wishes he had some water to offer him; however, he knows that anything he eats or drinks will tether him here to this dark world. And if there’s any other thing he knows besides, it’s that Peter belongs above in the sunlight.

“I’ll never tell you no,” Tony admits, shedding the last of his clothes as the boy recovers, body jerking belatedly. “But I have to admit, I do enjoy the way you ask to cum so prettily. Can you ask me in confidence, darling? Could you ask your daddy, your god, to let you cum?”

“Anything,” Peter pants. His long fingers scramble to undo the belt at his waist and then he sheds his clothing in one fell swoop. Underneath he is all golden skin and tight muscles. His cock is half hard, cum glistening on his abs like the tears on his face.

“A terrible thing to promise,” Tony says, kneeling up into the bed. Hand flat on Peter’s chest, he ducks down to lick a flat line through the cum on his abs, groaning at the taste and the way Peter’s cock twitches. “Where did I say we would start, little rose?”

Peter doesn’t even blush, eyes half lidded with pleasure. He rises up onto his elbows, mouth open and ready.

The kiss is absolutely filthy, tongues entwining, the taste of cum between them. Tony licks into the softest, sweetest mouth he’s ever known, tangling his fingers in dark curls. He tugs a little and Peter’s head tips back with a soft whispered groan, the pliancy going straight to the dark god’s cock. It’s like all the strength is sapped from the boy who just holds his mouth open obediently while Tony explores it with his tongue, running it along the teeth, pulling back to suckle and nip at his lips.

Tony takes his time, as promised. He kisses and sucks at every inch of Peter’s golden body, tonguing the nipples into tight, pleasurable points and sucking at each abdominal that appears when the boy tenses. Lovingly, he cleans the stiff cock of its previous load of cum, perfunctory, before moving on. He sucks bruises onto the tanned thighs and kisses the delicate inside of his wrists.

“Roll over, darling,” Tony says. “Up on your knees and down on your elbows, for me. Spread your legs—a little more—yes just like that. Show me that pretty ass.”

Peter rolls at the first spoken word, movements languid. The expression on his face is blissful, and Tony might mistake it for sleepiness if the hard cock hanging between his thighs wasn’t dripping down onto the black sheets. His submission is so lovely and complete, Tony falls in love with him a little.

Then he spreads the god open and licks a broad stripe over his opening, letting the saliva pool in his mouth to lubricate his journey while he tongues at the tight little opening, coaxing it to submit as sweetly as its owner. The noises Peter makes go straight to Tony’s cock: whimpers and whines and breathy exhalations. Tony lets one thumb rub at the boy’s hole, barely slipping in while he ducks down further to mouth at the sensitive balls. He lets his thumb massage and catch on the rim, tugging gently, while he pulls back briefly. The puddle beneath the god is obscene. Peter’s cock looks downright painful.

“Why aren’t you touching yourself, little rose?” Tony asks. “Your little cock looks like it hurts.”

“I—May I?” Peter asks, turning his neck so that he could flash his dark eyes towards Tony’s.

“It’s your cock, Peter, you don’t need to ask me. Or is it mine now? Does your cock belong to daddy?”

Peter rocks back, fisting at the sheets. “Yes,” he groans. “Yours, daddy. May I touch it? Please?”

Tony shuts his eyes. He has never been lucky. In his first game of chance, he got the losing lot, receiving domain of the Underworld. But what luck he must have had today, to bump into this sweet doe. He can hardly believe it to be true. “Please, touch yourself. As fast or slow as you like.”

Peter chooses fast as Tony’s goes back to licking him open. His hips don’t know what to do—fuck into his fist or press back towards the hot tongue inside of him. Tony sinks a finger inside, and it slips in easily. The god under him keens high in his throat, deciding yes to arch his back more and give the dark one more access, content to just grind into his own palm.

The second finger doesn’t go in as easily, but it seems that Peter enjoys it more. Perhaps he likes the burn of being stretched open. One soft crook of those fingers has him nearly shrieking, asking for permission.

“Of course,” Tony says. He wants to shut his eyes, it all feels so good, so overwhelming—but he doesn’t want to miss an instant of the boy beneath him. He leans back to watch Peter’s mouth slacken in ecstasy, breaths stuttering as he grinds to completion against his own hand, hot cum slipping through his fingers. “Beautiful,” Tony says, pressing a kiss to the boy’s back. “Absolutely beautiful.”

This time, Peter draws his own hand to his mouth and licks the cum away, humming contentedly. Tony’s own cock aches, desperate for the slightest pressure, but he ignores it, softly fucking his fingers into Peter, drawing them apart to prepare him for a third. When he presses in, Peter sighs joyfully, looking absolutely fucked out, smiling at nothing and no one.

“How do you want me, Peter?” asks Tony. “I promised you that it would be your choice.”

“Let me ride you,” Peter mumbles. Tony’s cock jumps—just the answer he wanted to hear. He’s not sure however that Peter has the strength; he’s looking more asleep than he is awake.

“Are you sure? We can rest now.”

Peter perks up, a little alarmed. “What? No—please. Please, may I ride you?”

Tony groans, smiling. His heart feels soft, like a fruit left to rot. That gentle, cracking voice could ask anything from him, and he might be obliged to agree to it. As it is, he lays prostrate, watching with greedy eyes as Peter climbs above him. The god’s golden thighs are shaking already, but his expression is still blissful as he kneels up, reaching down for Tony’s cock. The first touch after such lengthy neglect has him hissing, pressing his head back into the pillow. Then he feels the unbearable warmth, the wet pressure as Peter lowers himself.

The nature god’s face looks wrecked, mouth open, eyes squinted shut. He presses down but then rises up, chest hitching with breaths before lowering himself again, taking just a little more at a time. By the time his ass touches Tony’s thighs, Tony feels liable to burst, and Peter is hard again.

Then he begins to move, thighs flexing. From his mouth come the most pitiable little sounds: breathy gasps, chants of yes, yes, yes daddy, thank you—please!

“So polite,” Tony says through gritted teeth, trying to prolong the moment. The sleeve around him is so tight it borders painful, but it is a line that Tony loves to skip along. Most arousing is Peter, the obvious pleasure he’s experiencing, the openness in his face and body. He is beyond censorship, beyond self-doubt, and it is the most beautiful and honest thing the dark god has ever seen.

It is exactly what drives him to the edge, and he barely has breath in his lungs to give Peter a warning before he is cumming, head pressed back into the pillow, groaning deep in his chest. Peter makes a wrecked noise, like Tony’s orgasm feels good as his own, pressing a palm on the other god’s chest to give himself more leverage while he rides the cock inside him.

“May I?” Peter pants, legs shaking.

“Yes,” Tony breathes, his eyes closed. This way, he focuses on the sensation: the warmth and wetness around his cock as it pulses with Peter’s orgasm, the hot splatter of cum on his abs, the way he feels warmer in this bed than he ever has before.

He never wants Peter to leave.

He wants to leave with Peter, and never return.

He does not want to die—

And then, Peter is gasping, a sound that can’t be mistaken for pleasure. The warm body on top of him moves away swiftly, and when his eyes crack open, he sees the horror on Peter’s face. Tony sits up, chest tight. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“You—you’re—” A golden hand comes up to stroke beside one of Tony’s eyes, fingertips brushing his temples. And oh.

Oh. His illusions must have fallen when he came.

The younger, more attractive persona is gone. Instead, his true form is left: hairs turning gray, face lined. It’s obvious why Peter is horrified. It can’t be pleasant to go to bed with someone and have them turn into—well, the same person, only twenty years older. Surely, Tony must be a terrifying sight. Or at least ugly.

“Tony, you’re older,” Peter says. His face is softer now without the fear.

“I’m—dying.”

“That—no. You can’t be. You’re—like my god.” The large brown eyes fill with tears that balance there only for a moment before tripping down his cheeks. The sight makes him feel like Charon has taken his ferryman’s pole to Tony’s chest, striking him as he is wont to do with leisurely souls. The tears are white hot when he brushes them away. “Tony, I don’t want you to die.”

He swallows, gathering the smaller god into his arms where he curls and weeps against Tony’s bare chest. Tony runs his fingers through the curls, flicking away a clover with far too many leaves that clings to him. There is a lump in his throat, like he might cry as well—only he knows it’s honesty.  “I don’t want me to die either. Except for when I’m here.. The Underworld is no place to spend eternity. I feel—like one of the damned.”

“Then come away with me,” Peter cries. “You don’t need to stay here. The whole earth is my domain, and I say that you are welcome there. Please, Tony. Come and stay with me.”

His hand pauses its ministrations while the cogs in his mind whir. What would they do…what would anyone do if he disappeared? The souls would continue to filter in—but Tony isn’t the one who decides the unworthy from the worthy, and he isn’t the one who determines punishment or delivers it. Without him there, the Underworld is likely to continue on just as it has since the beginning of time.

And maybe he can continue on, too. Elsewhere.

“You know,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to those curls. “My brother did say I should take a sabbatical.”