His heart aches for May.
The days following Peter’s arrival were nothing special. He stayed locked up in his room, day in and day out, watching as night fell and morning rose perched at the end of his bed in his cold, empty room with warmth so absent it stemmed far beyond just a lack of heat but rather a lack of human connection. He’s yet to be granted phone privileges, and he’s heard nothing from May or his friends. Helena was the only friendly face he’s seen as she filters in and out of the scene, making his bed and tidying his room while also delivering his meals and clothes.
His closet door is open now, rows of untouched clothing visible with imaginary dust accumulating on the shoulders and sleeves. Peter was to change daily, yet nobody but his mirror and Helena saw his outfits. He wasn’t allowed to leave his bedroom- Tony made that clear. Helena tried to offer him as much comfort and company as she could, but Peter loathed it. He wanted to remain strong enough not to accept her pity.
No matter how nice it felt.
It wasn’t until his fifth night here, trapped in his own self-made solitude on the brink of insanity, that he got courageous enough to explore his floor of the tower. It wasn’t a direct disobedience to Tony’s command, exactly. He was exiled to his room to explore himself- and he figured what better way to get to know himself than to explore who he was now intended to be? To merge past, present and future so seamlessly.
There were so many unused rooms just on this floor, and Peter begins to wonder if Tony really was embarrassed or ashamed of their pairing- considering how secluded he’s made Peter. There were at least ten rooms identical to his own, three fully furnished offices and- the most interesting, a small den that, when approached, opened up into a small little personalized library with shelves and shelves filled with books. The lone, white, overstuffed chair in the corner of the room screams Peter’s name, and he makes a mental map back to this room, knowing the worlds trapped in the spines of these books would be his only company for the next few weeks.
He still couldn’t bring himself to touch himself. He got a hand down his pants, felt the soft prickle of his pubic hair scratch across the palm of his hand, then he dissolved into a full fledged panic attack and abandoned his efforts.
The furthest he’s gotten was a soft erection after watching Tony, what appeared to be Captain America, and a few new recruits run drills in the field visible from Peter’s window. He’s always thought of Tony as an attractive man- but now, given the direct permission to admire and explore the terrains of their partnership, he could admire and be completely enamored by the man’s beauty. It was a justified stalking session.
Hard muscles met tan flesh, and warm brown eyes with crows feet completely drew the ensemble together with Tony’s sweat dampened hair glued to his forehead with his product loose and breaking the bonds of his carefully tousled style. He was a gorgeous man, and Peter’s body seemed to appreciate the sight of Tony, all hard and sweaty, glistening in the sun with a cinder block balanced precariously on his shoulder from sheer core balance.
He’s spoken to the man only a handful of times, most unpleasant exchanges, and he already misses the sound of his voice. Part of him wishes to be requested for dinner- another part of him wants to swallow his pride and submit to his submissive side and just crawl back to Tony on all fours and beg for the man's guidance because Peter can’t do this alone.
Tony can’t help him either, apparently.
One thing that’s made abundantly clear is Tony’s busy schedule. Helena tells him everyday of Tony’s plans, and he knows she does it just to make Peter feel included in the loop but it just hurts to be at the end of the telephone game. Tony didn’t care if Peter knew what his plans were- hell, he probably didn’t care about the boy at all.
In and out, in and out- all hours of the night footsteps trekked to and fro above Peter’s head, some thundering and some timid, while others were more calculated and timed precisely. He knows, some deep part of him, that it was the Avenger’s above him, but nobody will confirm that for him and he’s too big of a coward to explore beyond his floor.
He’s not even that comfortable with the thought of leaving his room, let alone evading the personal and private space of the World’s mightiest heroes.
He wonders if they know about him.
Tony was, inside or outside of this building, obviously the leader here, that’s one thing that was made abundantly clear. Not just because of the fact that it was his tower; but Tony was evident in the way everyone carried themselves. His presence was so large, so daunting, it clung to people’s auras and stuck with them no matter where they traveled. It was a persuasive guidance, Peter noticed. Some appeared just as powerful as Tony, yet in the man’s presence they were stifled like a suffocated fire.
Tony was the man in charge, the leader. He dominated everyone, it seems, and it fascinates Peter how the pitch in people’s voice lowers and highers when speaking to the man. (He listens often.) How the recruits, even with Captain America another notable presence instructing their movements- only ever divoted in the direction Tony suggested. He was inarguably in control.
It made Peter understand his stubbornness a bit, maybe. Definitely his arrogance.
It also made him have a newfound respect for Tony, one he was blind to before because of ignorance. To instruct and direct so many people has to be a lot of pressure, yet Tony does it effortlessly daily. He shoulders the weight of so much and Peter is surprised he’s not more corroded by the world; by the people, than he currently is.
Being Spider-Man, a small city slinger with mediocre missions felt like too much for Peter. And yet there sat Tony, instructing the entire world without lifting a finger.
He was in awe of him even more so now, even with feeling smothered by the man and locked away like a modern day Rapunzel. He was beyond antsy and needed to do something- anything to entertain himself but asking permission for such a task was way more intimidating a task than he cared to admit.
So, he’d much rather just wither away in his room than face Tony alone again, knowing the man now knows his most intimate truths. The time has given him plenty of opportunities to reflect on himself, his desires, and his mistakes. Not that he’s confronted any or came up with any valid answers or solutions- but he still addressed they existed which was progress.
Today was day Eight, little more than a week of being ‘captured’, the terminology Peter has chosen to fit his narrative, and he’s dressed for the purpose of a public appearance yet he knows his feet will never grace the sidewalk outside. He was summoned for dinner, something that hasn’t happened since the dreaded night all those days ago, and his nerves shine through as he twists and shifts in his chair; pulling and tugging at the sleeves of his sweater to hide his hands, then pushing them up to bunch at his elbows to better expose his pale arms.
It was a toxic cycle none of the wait-staff cared to break or comfort, so Peter kept at it, with his big toe tapping at the solid floor beneath his feet and his hands simultaneously smoothing across the silverware when he wasn’t obsessing over his sleeves. He didn’t know the nature of this meeting, but he assumed it wasn’t anything good considering Tony hasn’t even acknowledged his presence since exiling him.
Peter felt like a fucking ward, not a husband. Not that history could decipher a difference between the two, that is. Peter wasn’t sure he would either, anyway.
Food is laid out before him, an entire feast compared to his trays Helena brought him, and he can feel the steam rising off of each dish; breath in the translucent trails of vaporized water and feel as the flavors exploded across his tongue in punches of savory gravy and buttery rolls. It smelt, and looked, more like a home cooked meal that Peter was accustomed to during Thanksgiving and Christmas, and not the typical richer palette meals Tony was accustomed to.
Not that Peter was complaining. He was just terrified to discover what the occasion was.
Instructed not to eat- to not even peek at the Turkey carved into chunks of beautiful white meat, Peter feels even more tortured now than he has the past week. He’s been deprived of his required calorie intake and requesting way more food than a teenager his size could possibly eat would be a bit suspicious, so he’s just allowed himself to silently starve. His fast metabolism required he eat at least twenty thousand calories a day and, well- here, without giving up his identity? That would be impossible.
He imagines he can see his ribs even more prominently, now, too. Not that he wasn’t tiny before, because he was. He was just more leaner than anything.
When the double doors opened and Tony came strolling in, all casual and business like with his work-attire on but his tie pulled a notch or two looser, Peter immediately bowed his head, ever so submissive and obedient. “Hello, sir,” It seems Tony has come to an understanding and was allowing Peter to call him sir, even if it clearly bothered him.
Tony flinched but didn’t acknowledge Peter and instead silently took his seat. The room picked up speed immediately, and the statued people previously surrounding Peter dethawed and moved towards their respectful positions. In a flurry of movements, both Peter’s and Tony’s plates were filled and the room was cleared of all people but them.
The door closed with a finalizing click.
Across from him, Tony cuts a piece of turkey more appropriate for a bite size and looks up at Peter with his fork extended in the air, almost expectant. “Well?” he asks, waving his fork before positioning it between his teeth and using his lips to drag the meat off the prongs- almost tantalizingly slow with his eyes locked on Peter. He chews thoughtfully before continuing. “I expected an update regarding your... status. How have you progressed?” That’s what the meal was. To soften Peter up.
To discuss Peter’s sexual drive and intimate familiarity with his body in such a cold, professional way ruined any and all hopes for him romanticizing their experience in any way. It desensitized him in a way; made him more accepting to the fact that Tony was using him for breeding purposes and nothing more.
If only he could get that through his thick skull.
Peter, suddenly too nervous to eat despite practically starving, pushes his serving of mashed potatoes around on his plate and intentionally ignores Tony’s gaze. “I can’t do it,” he whispers, figuring there was no point in lying because, eventually, Tony would figure it out one way or another.
“I’m sorry, what?” Tony leans forward, fork clattering against his plate as he sets it down to give Peter his undivided attention. “Did you say you can’t do it?” Peter nods, too embarrassed to say anything. Tony scoffs. “See, Peter- that, to me, sounds like an excuse. You’re avoiding it because you hope, what- I’ll change my mind? Cause I won’t.”
Humiliated for being so transparent, Peter bows his head further. He never thought about it like that but, yeah, he supposes that’s exactly what he’s doing, in a way. He’s terrified of intimacy because he’s ran away from it his entire life, tethering the two very distinctly different lines together to combine intimacy and romance. In his mind, he can’t have one without the other.
He wasn’t designed like that.
So to attempt and touch himself without being romantically inclined? He just.. Couldn’t.
Peter shakes his head. “No, Sir. I-I can’t. I need help.”
Tony splutters on his wine- choking on his gulpful and maybe Peter could have proposed himself a little bit better. “H-Help?” Tony stutters, voice raspy. “Help like, what? Like encouragement?”
Well fuck. Peter’s face burns hot with shame, but he nods nonetheless. “Y-Yes. I-I do-”
“You need me to tell you how to fuck yourself, hmm? Is that it?” Tony’s voice suddenly drops two notches lower, smooth and languid with a thrilling quality pulling Peter’s stomach knots loose. Unraveling him with a single sentence.
Sudden and sharp, a bolt of an exotic sort of excitement sparks down Peter’s stomach and ceases in his groin. Clenching his thighs together, and biting his lip to combat the surprise moan, Peter lifts his head to look at Tony and finds the man is already staring at him. His eyes are dark; lids low with a pleasantly sensual smile curving his lips in a delicate bow.
Oh- Oh. Peter liked that.
“Words, Peter.”
He can’t fucking talk when he’s forgotten how to breath . “Yes.” it rushes from his mouth so quickly it’s almost mistaken for an audibly exhaled breath, and Peter fears Tony must have mistaken his confirmation for something else because nothing happens for a solid three seconds. Peter can’t go through that again- can’t admit to needing Tony in that way.
But then, with the elegance of a conformed, trained ballerina- Tony rises from his seat. Even across the table Peter still, as always, feels trapped beneath the man and it makes his head feel light, heady by the effects of the man despite words never being uttered.
Unsure of what’s to be requested of him, Peter places both of his palms flat on the table, on either side of his plate, and bites his lip while waiting for further instruction. “You have no idea the things I would do to that mouth, Peter. The things I want to do.”
In a rush, that lightheaded feeling intensifies and Peter feels like he’ll swoon if he doesn’t regain his balance quickly. “Why don’t you do it then, sir?” He’s boldened by that unhinged, dangerously delicious glint in Tony’s eye. Egging him on seemed to be the only logical thing to do, given Peter practically just served his virginity on a silver platter, but it felt so fucking right and, for a moment, Peter felt powerful.
Like he could command the room if he just whispered a plea.
Tony emits this noise- so low, like a groan, but it’s so much more throatier and it rattles through Peter’s stomach; vibrating through his body until his toes curl against the floor and he clenches his thighs together a little more tightly- trying to tame the sudden interest his cock has in the conversation after a 18 year long slumber.
In a daring move, Peter lifts his eyes to find Tony’s and he bites down on his lip even harder. Tony’s just as entrapped in the moment as Peter is, it seems. Just as fazed. “You don’t know what you’re ask-”
A knock on the door cuts Tony off, and before Peter can hear the rest of the man’s thought a woman shuffles in- pencil skirt restricting her movements and making her footsteps short but no less purposeful as she approaches Tony with pure intent.
Peter’s on the verge of panting, arousal flooding his body with this foregin warmth that coats him from head to toe. His pants are noticeably tighter, if only a little, and it amazes him how a simple sentence managed to command such a reaction from him. To hear something so dirty fall from Tony’s lips was clearly going to be his undoing.
Embarrassed to have been caught in this precise predicament, Peter crosses his legs and folds his hands in his lap- attempting to hide the very mild situation in his pants without drawing any sort of attention to himself while the two mumble heated together at the head of the table, Peter intentionally not eavesdropping.
He falsely believed the moment they just shared was something, and he doesn’t exactly know what he expected to happen when the pencil-skirt woman left the room. But when Tony turns on him, so quick, so aggressive, Peter is knocked mute with his entire body tensing and preparing for the wrath that was sure to follow the squint of Tony’s eyes- frustration drawing his mouth into a tight line.
“You’re pathetic if you can’t figure out how to get yourself off,” Tony spits, and that definitely wasn’t what Peter expected. He visibly shrinks back at the verbal attack, not justifying it enough to deny or defend himself. He thought that Tony had shown some compassion- some kindness.
Maybe it was just an overlap in his judgement. The problem obviously wasn’t him- but maybe?
Tony laughs and shakes his head, fingers running through his bristled hair and fanning it out so he mirrors a pissed off peacock. “I can’t believe, out of all the fucking people on this planet, I was paired with a kid who screams Daddy issues and can’t even fuck himself.” Tony blows out a frustrated breath, and to Peter’s hot, sensitive ears- burning with humiliation, it sounds like a hurricane pounding against his eardrums.
Peter doesn’t feel the need to correct him on the whole Daddy issue front because, well, of course he knew it to be a valid issue in his life. Losing his father at such a young age, then Ben- it really fucked him up mentally and having a partner who was so much older than him didn’t help. But was it so wrong to seek guidance from the man he was offering his entire life over to? To ask for help? Tony- he thought Tony would be proud Peter was showing an effort.
“What? You have nothing to say to that? No argument? No defense?” The anger rises in Tony’s voice, and Peter’s heels dig into the edge of his chair as his arms wrap tightly around his legs. He digs his face into his knees, his entire body shivering for some unknown reason. “Having some fucking self respect, Peter.”
He doesn’t know what set Tony off, or if he did or said something wrong. He tries to reflect on their entire conversation, and maybe he was too bold- or not bold enough. Did Tony want him to bat his eyelashes? To bite his lip and flaunt his ass? Peter received some lacy panties in his newest shipment of clothes. Maybe Tony expected him to present himself in nothing but the provocative, revealing clothing nightly. To look like the woman in the pencil skirt and, although Peter has never worn makeup, he wasn’t against exploring it.
A glass shattering against the wall draws Peter from his thoughts, and he jumps out of his seat- heart racing and his instincts clawing to the surface after being suppressed down beneath his submission and fear. “I-I’m sorry.” to prove how pathetic he was, tears swell fat and heavy in his eyes and obscure his vision, offering him a kaleidoscope view as Tony tilts this way and that.
He feels nothing like the man Spider-Man carved him into. He feels like the teenagers Flash would belittle and shove in his locker.
Tony is standing, too, hands braced on the table and teeth clenched with anger dominating his face. “Do you ever stop fucking apologizing?” he demands sharply, voice rising three pitches but miraculously not enough to attract unwanted attention beyond this room and Peter shrinks back, drawing closer to the wall and further away from Tony. He’s never been able to handle conflict that well, especially with an authoritative figure.
Footsteps that sound distinctly remimicinset to secluded booms of thunder approach Peter with urgency, and he expects to be grabbed and thrown around- to be slapped into submission until he stops apologizing and just… quits talking altogether. But Tony stops inches away from Peter, breathing heavily through his nose with tremors visible as they race down his fingers and Peter genuinely doesn’t understand what he did wrong.
“I’ll work on it sir,” and he means it, standing bold and unwavering before Tony, attempting to appear strong and unafraid even with tears scratching down his cheeks. He’ll work on becoming the perfect partner for Tony, even if it means breaking himself in the process.
Tony looks just as defeated as Peter feels. His shoulders hunch forward and he pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. A clear sign of giving in- of all fight leaving his body. “Get out of my fuck out of my face, Peter, before I do soemtning we both regret.”
A hand waved towards the door grants him a clean escape, and Peter takes it without a second thought- vision blurry and heart racing with his entire body trembling but he’s refusing to allow his tears to fall completely until in the safety of his own room.
He passes Helena on his retreat, and her face scrunches in concern but Peter shakes his head no because he knows he won’t be able to hold back the sob pounding at his chest if he accepts the hug she would no doubt offer.
His heart aches for May.
---
Peter doesn’t see Tony again for the rest of that week, but he can certainly feel him. It’s a warm buzz crawling along his skin, stronger whenever he knows Tony gets too close; when he can hear the man pause floors above Peter’s room and just stand there, unmoving, for a few solid seconds like he, too, can sense Peter. Feel him as prominently as a broken heart.
He’s painfully aware of Tony and everything he does- his body on high alert for any sign of the man and he knows it’s pathetic, just like Tony said. That he needs to move beyond his irrational wants, his irrational desires, and work out a way to please Tony when he can’t even please himself.
It’s sheer determination that keeps him from storming through the halls, all the way up to Tony’s floor, and begging the man for his mercy. For his help. Peter- he is flawed in a way Tony was thriving in and maybe- maybe Tony can help him enough to benefit both of them. Peter doesn’t understand exactly where his mental block stems from, or why it’s so stubbornly staying locked in place, but history has proven his every effort has been futile at best.
He’s just so… frustrated.
The night after their incident, Peter had actually considered leaving. Running was possibly the worst thing he could do. It goes against everything he’s been taught; every submissively obedient trait pounded into his skull, but the thought of freedom was so intoxicating he’d gotten as far as opening his window- fully aware Tony would be notified, but then his stomach sank with the realization of never seeing Tony again, or May and his friends. He would constantly be on the run and that.. That wasn’t a life.
Tony could offer him a life, however suffocated it would be.
On the darker days, when he can’t hear Tony for hours and the silence is deafening and his nail beds picked so horribly even his accelerated healing took a few minutes to correct the bloody mess Peter’s made around his nails, he humors himself with the idea that it’s all just a bad dream and he’ll eventually wake up without the buzz or Tony.
But, as the days turn into weeks and they pass at the same slow pace, it isn’t humorous anymore- not one fucking bit.
In fact, Peter is certain sanity has taken back door precedence to the insanity silence has had instilled in him. He no longer knows if his voice works, or if his fingers can write a proper sentence without shaking around the writing device.
He went from working a full time job while attending college and occupying his freetime by swinging around as spiderman- and to have that change so suddenly and drastically? It wasn’t an easy transition and he was convinced Tony was torturing him. Someone has to have noticed Spider-man’s absence and, soon enough, they would correlate Peter’s disappearance with their friendly neighboorhood spider.
Tony must have made the connection and was just enjoying dictating Peter’s own personal hell.
A hell where, most nights Peter doesn’t sleep. Life feels all screwed up and wrong and the only time Peter can anchor himself to a moment is when he feels that restless buzz greet him like an old companion; hovering for the entire night to offer him some sort of company as it jabs and picks at him, attempting to pry beneath his surface and see more of who he is. To discover his uncharted terrains.
He knows the solution to this entire thing lies in an acceptance of his absent sex drive and a rekindling to the fire in his loins. But progressing beyond a quick stroke or some muffled moans as he rocks his hips into his pillow, insistent and restless, with Tony’s face painted across his eyelids like a hauntingly beautiful canvas meant to be hung in an art gallery- just doesn’t seem possible.
It was after the third thrust against his pillow, with his cock swelling to a decent half-length, that nausea and panic quickly consumed him and he was left dry heaving into the small trash can on the side of his bed.
He felt so hopeless and broken.
An entire two weeks pass, leaving only one until the wedding, before Peter finally musters enough courage to speak to Tony. He informs Friday as much, as he dresses in his tightest pair of jeans and pulls the most suggestive top he can find- a loose fitting tank top that somehow frames his body while not pulling any attention away from his muscular arms.
Peter knew he wasn’t unattractive. After the spider bite, he filled in in all the right ways and he has always prided himself on his physical build. He had abs, and a soft face that translated an open honesty and kind natured heart that betrayed the experience hardening his eyes. He was all the right trauma trapped inside a single body and it, somehow, worked out in his favor enough to make him just the right amount of attractive without breaching the Tony (God) levels.
He expects an answer from the AI immediately, but instead he is greeted by an invisible, vicious wave that hits him through the buzz generated by Tony’s presence and his spine straightens on it’s own accord as excitement and nerves resume the twirled dance up his spine- punching and kicking as they ascend.
Tony was so close , but Peter was prepared. He could do this.
It’s a wonder how he ever managed as Spider-Man and convinced the entire City he was a proper depiction of strong and fearless.
Appearing far more courageous than he truly feels, and losing his entire plan of attack as he leaves his bedroom- every step forward drawing his mind more and more blank until he’s left standing in the elevator with the intent to take down the entire City, but confused on where exactly to begin.
When the elevator doors open, he instantly tenses up in preparation- never having been on Tony’s floor of the tower, much less without his permission. He just hoped Friday notified Tony of Peter’s intentions.
It never occurred to him he wasn’t asked a single time to present himself or clarify his identity. He was just… immediately given direct security clearance to wherever he went and that certainly meant something.
“Tony is in his room,” a voice suddenly says, and he immediately recognises the strong irish accent and relaxes- finding some courage in the comfort of her invisible presence. It’s funny, he thinks blanky, that his entire life he’s been sheltered from the technology of this time and the advancement into a world no longer dimmed by repression or a lack of accessibility to convenience and necessity- and now he was literally surrounded by state of the art equipment and tech that far surpasses what’s currently on the market.
It was one of the first things he made a distinct pro in his arrangement with Tony.
He would, never again, be hidden from the world like May hid him.
Almost instantly he regrets the thought, feeling a pang of sadness and desperation at the memory of his aunt and all he’s lost by agreeing to take Tony’s last name. Just another thing to take on his depleting mood sinking deeper and deeper into a horribly familiar muted sadness he’s become well acquainted with living here.
“He is working at his desk- waiting for your arrival,” she states matter-of-factly and Peter feels a small smile tug at the corner of his lip. Her directness was a warm welcoming compared to how everyone else was constantly skirting around the topic and certain conversations. Around conflict.
“Thank you, Friday,” he mumbles, distracted with watching his feet as he allows his senses to guide the way. His footsteps echo like loud thumps inside his own mind, and Peter tucks his chin tighter against his chest to avoid making eye contact with anyone he may pass, feeling even more nervous now the closer to Tony he draws and the stronger the buzz gets. (a buzz only made evident the night after their argument. As if it was some sort of suppressed tension manifesting into a hyper-awareness to Tony’s presence out of fear and necessity. If he could feel him, he didn’t have to fear him.)
He honestly doesn’t know how he knows where he’s going, but it feels right and he doesn’t feel like asking Friday for confirmation.
Stepping up to the door is an entirely different feeling, and before Peter can psych himself out or convince himself to just do this at a different time- the door is swinging open and revealing Tony, dressed in relaxed-attire with sweatpants hanging loosely off his hips and a AC/DC t-shirt hugging the frame of his body.
It’s the first time Peter has, this up close and personal, seen Tony in anything but suits. Peter’s entire body is suddenly very alert, breathing coming fast as he does his best to look innocent and unconcerned- at least a little less guilty of attempting to orchestrate Tony’s downfall. He hopes it works, though he can’t be sure what with the way Tony is watching him right now. Curious with a bit of annoyance and amusement.
“Friday said you needed to talk?” Tony asks, and the amusement isn’t lost on Peter on how it’s an exact reversal of roles from two weeks ago, when he bombarded Tony in the lab. Only now, it’s Tony out of his element- confusion drawing his eyebrows together. Not knowing killed him and Peter, again, felt powerful for the smallest second.
“Call me pathetic, or-or anything else you want, but I can’t do this by myself. I-It’s, I’m not made like you. I can’t- I won’t.” Peter is stumbling over his words but his delivery is still strong and he pretends to not notice the appreciative trail of Tony’s eyes over his body as he takes in the bulge of muscles tensing in Peter’s arms as he folds his arms across his chest and Peter suddenly feels too.. bare, wishing now that he would have wore something a little more convering.
Tony bites his lip, hard, and Peter’s hit with the sudden desire to see what Tony tastes like.
There’s a disbelieving chuckle, but Peter doesn’t waver before his gaze and instead sticks his nose in the air in defiance rather than tucking in on himself the second it was made clear Tony wasn’t exactly pleased. Tony stills in his moment of appreciation on Peter’s body, and frowns. “You may be wound up extremely tight, but nobody is incapable of expressing themselves through intimacy. You’re feeding too much thought and negativity into the experience. Just get it over with.”
Said so much easier than done, and Peter wants to just smack some sense into Tony because the man’s ignorance truly can’t make him this daft. “You think I haven’t tried?” Peter asks, mirroring Tony’s frown as he hugs his arms tighter around his body.
“We’re talking about an orgasm, Peter. I’m not asking you to invent time travel.”
“I will,” Peter says all too seriously. “I’ll do whatever you ask of me but please- not this. Not alone.” He doesn’t care if he has to plead at this point. He will reduce himself down to begging and groveling on his hands and knees. He’s not too prideful to admit when he’s lost.
Tony is stunned into silence for a moment that rapidly extends into three. Then five. Then- “Would you rather we wait for our wedding night? I can.. I dont fucking know. Guide you?”
Tony’s nose wrinkles and Peter finds it unfair how, even upset with the man and embarrassed from their last encounter, he can still find things Tony does adorable.
Peter winces, but nods. “If you will,” he whispers shakily, trying not to let memories consume him as their last encounter fizzes to the surface and demands Peter feel and experience Tony’s rage just one more time.
He still doesn’t understand why it happened, or how he can mend the damage done. He’s still as annoyed, confused and.. enthralled? By the entire ordeal- by the man, and he was desperately trying to move beyond that one little fluked moment to see exactly what Tony can offer him.
It seems the man was capable of compassion.
Tony nods but rolls his eyes. “If I would’ve known you were a virgin, I wouldn’t have agreed to this arrangement.”
Annnddd, Peter spoke too soon. Apparently hoping for one civilized conversation was asking for too much. Stubborn or not, there’s nothing he can do to change Tony’s attitude or opinion on him. He would just have to grit his teeth and accept that tony… he was good.
Peter was sure he was capable of good, at the very least.
When it seems nothing more is the be said, Tony goes to turn away but Peter stops him with a hand on the door. “I-” breath Peter. Have courage. “I want my aunt at the wedding. And my friends.”
“Peter-”
“Tony, please,” he pleads in a intentionally small voice. “I-I have done as you’ve asked. I gave up college, and my freedom without a fight. I’ve stayed in my room, faithfully, for nearly a month without complaint. I haven’t even received my phone yet and I- please,”
He holds his breath for an exact seven seconds before Tony huffs and Peter smiles wide. “That entire rant you did there,” Tony says, waving his hand expressively in the air, “wasn’t needed. Your aunt is coming- as well as your friends. The invites were sent out a week ago.”
Peter can’t help himself as excitement floods his body. He claps his hands and jumps up and down, squealing like a high school cheerleader who just got her first car, before flinging himself at Tony.
The man catches him with little more than a grunt, easily taking his weight, and Peter’s hit with the impression of completeness as their bodies become perfectly aligned. It’s the first time they’ve touched so completely, so fully and aligned, and it lasts three entire seconds before Tony shoved him away, but it’s still long enough Peter’s core shakes with the weight and memory of Tony’s arms draped around his torso like they belonged.
The buzz intensifies to incredibly overwhelming heights- washing over Peter in wave after wave. “Let’s not do that again- ever.” Tony says, pulling away from Peter- stunning the boy into silence as he reels to grasp reality when so completely intoxicated by Tony’s proximity; by the sudden attack on his senses as he breathes in Tony’s scent and allows it to anchor the fantasy of the man draped across Peter’s body- arms enclosing his small frame as Tony pounds into him with unforgiving reverence. Thorough but hard. Claiming his mouth, his body- his—
The door slams in his face not even a second later.