Peter wasn’t ready. Physically, or mentally.
Peter follows Tony- anxiety unfurling in his chest like a morning glory flower blooming to greet the rising sun. The dress drags behind him, across the carpeted floor, hushed footsteps silenced as the carpet absorbs each clacking step as he urgently attempts to keep pace with the man who appears to be competing in a fast-walk marathon. Behind him, through the slowly closing doors, the music continues to play as low, barely-audible thumps that contend with the rapid beating of Peter’s own heart.
“We’re leaving so soon?” He asks Tony, too far gone to keep his voice steady, the disappointment at bay, but he manages to reel himself in and not reach for Tony’s hand once he nears the man. “I- but I’ve-”
They’ve reached a private elevator at the end of the corridor, the sleek steel reflecting Peter’s pale complexion. He quickly blinks his eyes up to Tony, afraid of staring at himself for too long and seeing behind the makeup. Of seeing the truth behind the facade.
“We’ve only just begun the celebration.”
“Feel as you must, Peter, but I am doing as I want. Your family are still here.” Tony’s eyes slant to their right, towards the room they’ve just evacuated, still teeming with life and music- as if he can physically see the three people in Peter’s life that he loves, that he craves, that he misses. “Enjoy them while you can.”
While he can.
The clock has begun, his time narrowed down to a specific length and Peter understands he shouldn’t waste it- that he should be grateful for what he’s been given, especially since Tony’s gratitude was far more generous than most suitors, but Peter can’t quell the disappointment bursting in his chest like hot magma. Can’t just leave it at that.
He shakes his head, quickly realizing his mistake when the world tilts to the right. Malnourishment and fatigue is a dangerous cocktail which rackets up his dizziness. “I can’t go without seeing them for so long,” he whispers, admits, pathetic as his eyes find the tips of his shoes barely peeking out from beneath his flowing dress. “I can’t do it again, Tony.”
“You’ll have to. We’re married now, Peter.” Tony says, and when Peter looks up his face is blank, eyes void of any latching emotion which leaves Peter grasping for some sort of reaction, something telling so he can at least attempt and read Tony.
The absence of anything has anger spiking, hot and prickly, in his chest. “That’s not fair.” He rushes to say before he can think better of it, before he can remember his place and expected submission. “I-I’ve done everything for you, Tony. I’m asking for this.. this one little thing.” he didn’t think it was too unreasonable, asking for more time. Asking for something he’d once taken for granted.
Tony blinks, mildly stunned. eyebrows raising like he was just now seeing Peter for all that he’s hidden. “You expect more?” he asks, and his voice- it’s level, toneless, but Peter can hear it. How his voice simmers, how he’s grasping at the thin restraints of control as he takes a step closer to Peter, less friendly than when they’d danced and far more intimidating. The instinct to run, to get away, slams into Peter but he stands his ground, uncharacteristically defiant. “After everything I’ve given you- done for you, you want more?”
Peter scoffs without meaning to, truly lost to the moment and his faux courage. His hands shake at his sides, which he quickly covers by clenching them into fists. “You’ve locked me away in your tower!” Peter argues, voice shaky despite how strongly he attempts to appear. “You’ve isolated me from my friends, from my family, and I’m supposed to what- to show gratitude?”
Maybe Peter took it too far. Maybe he should have taken what he was offered and be grateful for it because, after all, it was an hour of unsupervised company with his family. He could have talked to Mj, to Ned, discovered how to patrol as Spider-man once more without his stubborn husband- the name sends a thrill up his spine, despite the situation at present- finding out.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t realize any of this until it’s too late.
“I think you need to take a minute, collect yourself, and come back to me when you remember who you’re talking to.” Tony snaps. He turns away from Peter then, thick finger jabbing at the elevator button with much more force than it honestly warranted, the line of his shoulders rigid.
Peter’s intoxicated on this newfound courage, too far lost to coil everything back up, not when the very words burned on the tip of his tongue. “I’m just-” he goes to push, to argue further, but it's as far as he gets before he’s grabbed by the arm and shoved up against the rattling elevator doors.
His stomach sinks.
Belatedly, he realizes a hand cupped the back of his head to keep it from slamming into the steel. It’s gone just as quickly.
Peter bites his lip on a sob, hot pressure bursting behind his eyes which he quickly blinks away. He stares up at Tony, into the dead eyes, his own shaky breaths and trembling body betraying his will of remaining unfazed.
Finger’s trail up Peter’s arm, slow and languid, before a heavy palm is pressing against his chest. Rising up, up, up, until those same fingers are wrapped loosely around his neck, just a vague pressure, not a threat. “You come into my home,” Tony begins, and his voice is a dark hiss, words breathed like dew across Peter’s collarbone from the proximity. “Upset the foundation of my life, disobey every single rule I’ve implemented- no matter how simple, and you have the courage to ask for more?”
Peter is frozen in place, one arm poised to push Tony away while the other was still balled, useless, at his side. He can’t do anything, fear and panic a contending tidal wave sloshing away within the confines of his stomach, battling with his fight or flight instinct and rather, he just stays rooted in place. Eyes wide, breathes patchy.
And still, with Tony this close to him, with the dangerous glint reflecting in his eyes, once a warm, inviting brown but now nearly a solid black, Peter doesn’t exactly fear him. Somehow, for some reason, he knew Tony wouldn’t hurt him. Physically. His failing instincts, however unreliable these days, wouldn’t have allowed that strong hand such easy access to his neck if it registered the possibility of a real danger.
He swallows, feels the rough drag of Tony’s palm against his throat. The distinct realization of Tony’s complete control over the situation, his effortless dominance, has Peter pressing himself even further against the cool steel door, a futile effort to scramble away. He doesn’t know what to say, the faint simmer of defiance festering low within the pits of his stomach- but the same overwhelming urge to submit, as he has every time before, washes over him.
It’s decided for him when Tony’s finger, almost like it were tapping the keys of a piano, taps very gently against Peter’s thundering pulse point. His weak point. Suddenly, with a rush, all the fight leaves him. He reverts back to comfortable terrains, allowing his stubborn streak to be washed away as he falls to the mercy of Tony’s hands. “I-I’m sorry, sir.” his eyes squeeze shut, a tremor racing down his spine. “I should remember my place and I-I never should have talked back to you. I apologize.”
“I could give you everything, Peter. The world of you would just fuck-”
Tony begins, but before he can continue the loud ‘click’ of a door unlatching echoes down the hallway, the filtering of voices and music blaring into the otherwise vacant corridor as two familiar yet unfamiliar guests leave the room, Peter fairly certain they were two council members he’d been introduced to after the ceremony. Yet more undistinguishable faces from Tony’s busy life.
Immediately, Tony’s hand drops. His face, which had previously been hovering over the space between Peter’s head and shoulder, going characteristically blank as his eyes rove over Peter’s body. A search for anything amiss, anything incriminating.
“Ah, Tony-” a scratchy voice greets them, cigarette smoke and scotch rolling off the man in waves as they approach them. “I was wondering where you’d gotten off to. I was hoping to steal a dance with your wife.”
Peter’s earlier speculation was true- he knew nothing about Tony Stark. Only the glorified, glossed over stories fed to the press. The charismatic man who radiates control and power, who could sweet talk his way into any situation but was never to be underestimated. And Peter gets to watch it first hand, watch as the facade is slowly reconstructed- as piece by piece falls back into place, crafting a blank stare and predatory smile with a simple breath. Regaining the control Peter had caused to slip with his outburst.
Caught in the act, Tony’s eyes shudder with some indistinctive emotion- maybe annoyance-, the trace of his palm down Peter’s arm light and vaguely comforting despite Peter’s heart still racing a mile a minute. “We’ll continue this later.” He says in a breath, a whisper barely audible. It leaves Peter confused, disoriented, yet simultaneously amazed at Tony’s patience. Not even a second away and he was being summoned, followed, expected to merge himself back in the crowd and fit as seamlessly as Peter never will. So much was expected of him and yet, he could never steal a moment away for himself.
But no. Peter was supposed to be angry at him. Not feel sympathy.
Offered not even a moment to calm himself, to reel in his wayward emotions and school them back into submission like Tony had, the imprint of Tony’s hand still a warm band around his neck, the hand falls to Peter’s wrist and he’s drug forward, positioned and on display, with Tony spinning to face the men. Peter at his side with his breaths still shaky. He focuses on exhaling as silently as he can through his nose.
A possessive arm latches around his waist. “Had to steal a moment away with the bride.” Tony quips with his natural charm, his facade effortlessly locked in place as he regards the two men with dead eyes.
Edgar, Peter thinks his name to be, turns to Peter, then, eyes moving over his body. He hums in appreciation, understanding. “Can’t take your hands off him, hmm? I’m afraid i’d be the same if the roles were reversed.”
Edgar licks his lips, eyes hungry. Peter shifts uncomfortably beneath the scrutiny, unintentionally rocking his body closer to Tony’s. More solidly beneath his arm.
Edgar makes Peter’s stomach roll. Every hair on his body is standing on alert, his fritzing senses screaming- danger, danger danger- loud and repetitive in his ears until Peter, with his teeth grinding, has to physically push all of his weight onto the heels of his feet to keep from springing away from the man. Despite his effort not to, he connects the very distinctive dots- the differences that lay between Tony and these men. Pinned against the wall by his neck, and Peter had simply blinked. Standing in the mere proximity of Edgar? His senses were going haywire.
Tony, somehow sensing Peter’s unvocalized desire to be hidden from their prying eyes, or perhaps it’s simply a territorial display, tightens his hold on Peter and pulls him even tighter against him. Without his consent, Peter’s body relaxes against Tony’s side. “Wife number three not cutting it out anymore, Edgar?”
Peter’s brows furrow, catching the edge to Tony’s words. He’s sure he didn’t miss it, the bitterness in Tony’s voice, the challenging arch of his brow as he stared not at these men, but down on these men.
But no, no. That couldn’t be right. People, men, of Tony’s social ranking viewed women and men the same; as objects. They were toys, breeders, a means to an end and they deserved not the slightest silver of respect. Tony’s distaste was entirely misplaced, or maybe Peter was reading into it wrong. Perhaps Tony was simply jealous because he was stuck with Peter, the virgin Mary, and not someone with more experience. Not someone like Edgar’s wife.
“After they hit thirty, they’re pretty much useless.” Edgar bellows with loud belly laughs, like he’s just said the funniest joke in the history of comedy.
Tony’s responding hum is humorless. “So I've heard.” he says dryly, offering them a tight smile that he probably thinks is friendly. “As much as I enjoy discussing your inevitable adultery, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us- I was just about to escort my bride out to the car.”
The car?
Peter’s head whips in Tony’s direction so fast he swears he gets whiplash, but he can’t read anything on the side of Tony’s face and the man is refusing to look at him. He wasn’t told anything about the car. As far as he knew, he still had an hour- definitely less, now, to mingle with his family. To properly say goodbye.
Sensing the end to a very uncomfortable exchange, Edgar nods. “Of course, of course.” His eyes linger on Peter. Tony catches it then, Peter’s sure of it because Tony’s free arm is draped across his own torso, fingers lightly tapping Peter’s arm until the boy- unsure of what to do, lifts it in offering and his wrist is immediately locked in an iron grip. Resulting in a cross-crossed display of limbs.
“Don’t forget to invite us to your next wedding, Stark. We’ll be in touch.” the other man finally says, his receding hairline offering a patch of shiny scalp which reflects the harsh, white lights as he spins on his heel and heads back towards the doors.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, William.” Tony murmurs, his grip around Peter’s wrist reminiscent of a cobra-grip.
They were left alone once more, far too quickly than Peter would have anticipated, but his mind has latched on to other topics, rather than obsessing over their argument. “The car?” he asks, being mindful to keep his voice low and void of expectations.
Tony’s nostrils flare as he inhales deeply. “The car.” he confirms with a nod, still not letting go of Peter as he begins pulling them in the opposite direction- away from the elevator doors. “I was going up to the penthouse to grab a few necessary items, but I can send Happy back later.”
Peter swallows, looking back over his shoulder as the flap of Edgar’s jacket disappears around the bend of the closing door. “We’re leaving?”
“Yes.” Tony says, curt. “You’d be mindful not to argue, too.”
Something wells up in Peter’s chest, too hot to be disappointment, but too mild to be hatred. It’s bitter, and it’s scorching, and he feels hollow as he’s practically dragged towards the front entrance doors lined with Hunter’s.
It’s only when he’s breathing in the sticky, rancid New York night air for the first time in over a month, that he realizes what it is.
Resentment.
----------
Peter stares out the car window, watching as the looming buildings dissolve into the spotted trees, the city left behind them as falling leaves pattered against the roof of the car like bursts of red flames. Autumn clung to the trees, stripping them bare day by day; reds and oranges a vibrancy of colors Peter’s been denied for weeks.
The last time he felt the wind bristling across his bare skin, it had been dry and sticky. Summer clinging to the last cusp of relevance as August rapidly approached September. One full month, and everything has changed. An entire month, and Peter feels like his entire life has been ripped from right beneath his feet. He missed the end of a season, missed the greeting of another.
He misses New York.
Even with his own desolate reflection blinking back at him, Tony sat to his immediate left with Happy driving the car, Peter can’t shake the nagging thoughts in the back of his mind. The anger, the resentment, the feeling of being scorned. Since adorning the suit, he’s protected the City. Kept it safe even when he was illustrated as the bad guy; as the freak. He protected those who the Avenger’s didn’t deem worthy, those who would never even make it on their radar. He greeted the seasons with the citizens; saved kittens from trees during the summer, walked old ladies across the icy street in the winter. He anticipated the increase of burglaries around spring, when robbers knew tax season was upon them.
Crimes changed with the seasons, and Peter was always prepared. Only now, as he stares at the sinking sun, he’s entirely disconnected from reality.
A month was taken from him, and now he was being pried away from his job. From his sense of duty, by the very man who apparently lived and breathed his work. Peter wonders, with a ting of humor, how Tony would react if Iron Man was taken away from him. If he was told, under no circumstances, could he operate the suit any more.
He would probably feel worse than Peter feels, now. Just as helpless.
The part that hurts the most, Peter thinks, is that with Halloween just around the corner- October breathing down their necks, he won’t get to see all the little Spider-Men running around in their child-friendly fashioned suits. Cloth rather than spandex; silly string rather than web formula. He won't get to experience the motions of living and Tony is too blinded by his arrogance to even hear anything Peter has to say.
He’d pleaded, as they were leaving the tower. Begged for one more moment with May and his friends, just one more second to tell them goodbye. But Tony had been stern, unmoved as he denied Peter the chance. Telling him he’d had his opportunity, an entire hour, and rather than taking it he’d rather spent it arguing a case he knew he would never win.
He still wasn’t sure where they were going, even as the thin trees patched together in a lush thicket, forest lining the roads and surrounding their entire vicinity for miles to come. The absence of viridity soured Peter’s mood even further, the beauty of red and golden leaves not fully appreciated when, half way through the ride, he closed his eyes and allowed his head to rest against the chilled window.
He knew he was sulking. Acting like a child when his heart's greatest desire has just come true, but he can’t help it. Tony was.. He was frustrating, and irritated and hurt Peter beyond comprehension. Peter was sure that, wherever they were going, it was no doubt where he would spend the next several months locked up; treated as a sex slave until he became swollen with Tony’s heir, then forgotten.
He was a glorified trophy. Taken out to be displayed, then once more locked on the shelf for safe keeping until their next grand debut.
He just wonders how, with Edgar’s words sitting heavy in his mind, long Tony will keep him around until he bores of him. Peter was nothing. Edgar certainly thought so and although Peter saw a sliver of distaste in Tony earlier, a question of doubt, he knew now that wasn’t the case. Tony was just like those other men, treated females and males how they were taught to be treated. And Peter’s childish hopes, the ones he clung to while locked away in the tower, dissolved the moment Tony tore him away from his family.
Peter just had to accept that Peter Parker was no more.
He was now Peter Stark, Tony Stark’s temporary wife. It was only a matter of time until Peter got to go back to his family, back to his old life, and he held onto that sliver of hope for the rest of the car ride. The ache in his chest lessening the longer he listened to Tony’s soft breathes, however much he disliked the man at the moment.
So far, being married doesn’t feel like anything Peter expected.
He just needed to get used to being disappointed.
--
The sun was absent in the sky when Peter was woken up, harsh hands shaking him from his restless slumber. His movements were slow, lethargic, as he lifted his head from the window and, with one eye squinted closed, turned to face the intruder. Blearily, his eyes focused on Happy, who was kneeling on the seat Tony had previously occupied. One of Happy’s large hands held Peter’s shoulder, a glint in his eye translating that he would start shaking the boy again if it warranted.
Yawning, Peter swatted his hand away. “Where are we?” He asked despite himself, the ball in the pit of his stomach becoming heavier as his subconscious acknowledged the painful absence of Tony’s presence.
However mad he was at the man, that damned connection was still buzzing across his skin like fucking insects.
Happy set back with a huff. “Compound.” He said, plain, simple- the first proper word he’s ever spoken to Peter.
Nodding like it meant something to him, Peter arched his body forward, spine cracking, before he opened his car door and climbed out. Figured Tony couldn’t even spend their wedding night with Peter, it seems.
Happy met him at the back of the car, Peter’s tired eyes trying to get a scope of the land around them but with his hibernating abilities and sleep still clinging to the forefront of his mind, he couldn’t make out more than a few silhouetted buildings surrounding them, trees and trails littering the ground.
He vaguely recognized the word compound, figuring Happy was referencing the top-secret Avenger’s Compound that had been so far removed from Society it apparently took hours to drive to. Curiosity peaked, Peter made to move around the car and at least explore some of the land while he didn’t have Tony hovering over him, but a hand pressing against his shoulder stopped him the moment he moved to step forward.
“Tony’s inside.” Happy said, like that meant something to Peter. Like it was supposed to reveal the frustrating man’s intentions.
“Okay?” Peter asked timidly, strained ears picking up on the faintest trickle of water. The harder he strained, and the more he focused, he could hear the scurrying of creatures as they ran through the forest; the chirping of baby birds as they curled up closer to their mother’s.
It made his heart ache even more.
Happy’s eyebrows furrowed. He looked at Peter, now, as if he was the stupidest man alive. “He’s waiting for you.”
Peter wants to bark out some stupidly snarky remark about how Happy’s vocabulary was improving the longer he stayed in Peter’s vicinity, but he knew feedback would eventually get to Tony and it would just be another thing the man would be pissed at Peter for.
Instead, he billowed out a breath and nodded. “Fine.”
He was led up a narrow walk-way, Happy easily maneuvering around in the dark and Peter knew it shouldn’t surprise him, the silent stealthiness at which Happy moves despite his size. Hunter’s weren’t just randomly assigned. They were hand picked, hand crafted. The best of the best. Trained to be nothing but perfect, and it seems Happy was a stellar student because if it wasn’t for Peter’s strained focus, he would have lost the man a few feet back.
Once inside, with nearly every light dimmed which created a sort of ominous atmosphere, Peter was led towards an elevator- his heartbeat spiking when he recalled the last elevator he’d been by. Given the absence of light, he couldn’t make out much on the lower level. Not that he tried, eyes cast down at the ground as his nerves resumed their relentless march up his spine, apparently forgetting they were supposed to be dormant while he tried adjusting to everything.
The elevator lights were too bright when Peter stepped inside the swaying cart. He had to squint his eyes, fighting off the urge to cup a hand over his face to shield his eyes from the assaulting lights. Happy pushed a button, typed in a code, and the doors closed with a silent- ‘whoosh’ and the elevator began to move.
Despite knowing what was coming the moment Happy left, Peter felt a forced sort of calm. Like, if asked at this very moment, he could take on the entire world and not break a sweat over it. He felt invincible, and he wasn’t sure if it was his cat nap or his own self-preservation kicking in as it attempted to save him from yet another embarrassing moment in front of his, now, husband. Whatever it was, he felt confident enough to lift his head once they left the elevator only to immediately regret it when they rounded a corner and he came face to face with Tony.
The man was standing at the bottom of a steep, glass staircase- a tan sofa and numerous other furniture blocking his path to Peter, and yet Peter felt every ounce of courage zap from his body. His mouth felt try, honed it on the fact that Tony’s suit jacket was gone and his shirt was taut over his shoulders, around his biceps- highlighting every fractured move as Tony folded his arms across his chest and leveled Peter with a stare.
“That will be all for the night, Happy.” Tony said, addressing the man hovering behind Peter while keeping his eyes, steadily, on his rumpled wife. “Feel free to take the next two days off. I’ll send you a list of items I need picked up from the tower. I expect them here, with you, on Thursday.”
“Very well, sir.”
A belated moment of staring later, Peter had a- wtf moment when he realized Tony didn’t cringe when Happy called him sir, yet if Peter were to do it he guaranteed the man would flinch like he’s just been smacked across the face. His face must say as much, because Tony’s dropped into a scowl with a very soft, very subtle shake of his head.
“Not doing it again tonight, Peter.”
Perplexed, Peter blinked. “Doing what?” they still haven’t made a move towards one another, even with the elevator doors closing silently behind him.
Tony lifted a hand, waving it over Peter’s body. “The thing.” he said, very informatively. “Your face always does this thing when you get ready to argue. Well, I’m not doing it. Not again.”
Self conscious, Peter focused on his face, attempting to figure out what the thing was but he came away empty handed and confused. “I-I wasn’t going to argue.” And maybe a bit transparent because, yeah, he was going to argue. When did Tony stay around him long enough to be able to read him so clearly?
Tony’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll check off- “bad liar” on the list of things I know about you.”
Despite knowing it means nothing given everything Tony’s told him, every reminder it truly does mean nothing, Peter’s heart still swells and he asks, breathless- “you keep a list?”
Their earlier fight was forgotten. Tony’s betrayals, and selfishness, and callousness- all forgotten as Peter regards the man in a new, faintly flickering light.
“Not extensive, no.” Tony says, taking a step away from the stairs and towards Peter. “Nor physical. Just a little reminder here-“ two fingers tap against his forehead- “so I remember exactly what I’m dealing with.”
It wasn’t romantic, in any sense of the word. It was an essential admittance of keeping tallies to be prepared for future events, ammunition to use to his advantage, and yet Peter still feels a little less mad at him. The iron clamp around his heart lessens, making it easier to breath.
When the eye-contact becomes too intense, Peter rips his eyes away and surveys the living room they're in. Scarcely decorated, with tan and black furniture- a wood table, and a curtain wall overlooking the blazing forest below them. There was nothing personal, no intimate touch to signify any human person lived here, not even a poorly painted canvas. Just… blank.
His eyes inevitably fell on Tony once more, who was startling closer to him than a moment ago. “Where are we?” He asks, again. Hoping to receive a more detailed answer than- “compound.”
“The Avengers facility,” Tony says smoothly, walking around the tan couch. Nothing inhabits the space between them, now. Just air.
Peter’s brow furrows. “Perhaps I need to reword- why are we here?”
Tony shrugs, and for just a second he looks embarrassed- unsure. It’s gone just as quickly as it was there, a flickering expression which Peter latches on to. “Change of scenery.”
Peter snorts. “Did the tower bore you?”
“I did it for you, Peter. Figured I’d let you… spread your wings out here. Get a little sun, a little freedom.”
It knocks Peter breathless. He smiles, a feeling so foreign after a month of feeling nothing but dread and discontent. How stupid was he to swoon over one small, kind gesture when it was immediately backed with three negative ones? He was naive to overlook all the bad and focus on the singular good, yet it’s exactly what he did.
“I-“ he was speechless, apples of his cheeks dusted crimson. “Thank you.”
Tony waves it off. He looks uncomfortable. “I needed a break, anyway.”
He was brushing it off, taking away the meaning behind the gesture and despite his effort, Peter’s heart still felt fuller.
“Regardless, I appreciate it.”
Tony’s fingers moved to the knot of his tie, skillfully loosening it before it was threaded over his head and discarded on the back of the couch. A moment of silence passed between them, pregnant with anticipation, neither moving or attempting to say anything until-
“I’m going to shower.”
It was Tony who spoke first, taking pity on Peter, who was nervously shifting on his feet, dressed down to a pair of loose sweat pants and a baggy sweater that Tony had given to him and instructed him to change into before they got in the car. Peter wasn’t foreign to the concept of undressing in alleyways or other places of cover, yet it was the first time he’s undressed in a privately owned parking garage with two men’s back towards him, standing guard while he stripped of the most expensive wedding dress he’s ever seen.
Standing before Tony now, with a full face of makeup and his hair still twisted in the damned flower crown, he felt grossly underdressed. He tugged at the sleeves of his sweater, pulling them down over his palms. “Okay.”
It looks like Tony wants to say something, perhaps suggest, and Peter waits with bated breath- body unsure if he wants Tony to ask him or not. But then Tony sighs, casts a long look out the glass wall, and Peter’s body sags in relief. “The kitchen is there-“ he points a finger behind Peter, down the unlight corridor in which the elevator doors are located, and in the distance Peter thinks he can make out the shape of a counter in the dark. “Feel free to find something to eat. There’s multiple other showers in the compound, this floor exclusively, so you’re welcome to take a shower.”
Peter feels sticky with sweat and makeup, but he has no clothes. He reminds Tony as much, timid so as to not upset him. “I-I don’t have any clothes here.”
“Peter,” Tony says calmly, almost in a tone one would speak to a child with- “it’s our wedding night. Clothing you is counter productive with what I have in mind.”
——
A pressure plants itself in Peter’s chest; a persistent ache that blossoms into a full-fledged pain that centralizes in his core and radiates outwards, sending sharp tingles to his fingers and toes. He paces the living room, the dull thud of Tony’s footsteps a floor above him barely registering in his mind as he attempts to focus on his own breathing. He’s shaky and clammy, his internal organ’s trapped in a blazing inferno while his skin is cold to the touch, sticky.
This was the climax. The end. The literal beginning of their story started off with the idea of this singular night. The build up, however tedious and dull, was for this specific goal and Peter was- his body has been tense with preparation, but his mind was still at war with the idea. The thought of giving himself over to another person, mind body and soul, so irrevocably. There was no do-over’s, no going back. No changing the narrative. This was happening and, according to Tony, this was happening now.
Peter wasn’t ready. Physically, or mentally.
The prickle of pubic hair dusting Peter’s groin was a trail of brown, curly hair- unkempt, giving his lack of proper preparation. He wanted to make a good first impression, to impress Tony beyond reasonable doubt, and dressed in sweatpants and an over-sized sweater wasn’t going to make the impression Peter wanted.
His stomach, at that given moment, decided to make Peter aware of the vacancy a lack of food has left, but just the idea of eating anything when he was so nauseous with nerves, just amplified said nerves until he felt like doubling over and dry-heaving. A quick survey of the living room, just an assurance that he was alone, Peter summoned the last parcel of his abilities to move at an unnatural speed and he barreled up the stairs, taking three at a time, towards a destination unknown.
He was greeted with numerous doors, quick peeks inside revealing separate rooms that branched off into a full-sized living rooms and bathrooms. Most looked vacant, perhaps a lone item like a hairbrush or suit case offering the illusion of someone residing in it, but other than that Peter felt as if he was trespassing in a ghost town. Searching a barren land for any vestige of human life, but it seems he and Tony were alone in this large, drafty facility.
That should terrify him, but it doesn’t.
Footsteps quiet, precise- ear’s focused on the running shower he could hear down the hallway, through the walls, Peter comes across a room that looks absolutely vacant and decides to take his chance. The moment he is inside it, locked in the bathroom with his back pressed against the door and his heart pounding, he decides he can’t do it. Can’t go through with it when he can’t even look at his own reflection when he was naked.
How could he expect Tony to look at him, knowing how inexperienced Peter was, and want him? Would Peter’s every effort in here, a proper grooming, be futile? Would his efforts be met with disgust? The thought makes his stomach sink.
He can’t think like that, not now. Not when he was clinging to the last traces of courage.
He closes his eyes, face scrunched up so tightly his eyes hurt from the sheer pressure, and he presses up and off the door. Shaky hands remove first his sweater, then his sweats and boxers. His heels, abandoned on the floor of Happy’s car, left his feet aching so, as he removes his white lace stockings, Peter gently squeezes his heels and toes- satisfied groans popping out of his chest and allowing him to momentarily forget his urgent pace.
The flower crown was next. Numerous hair-sprays and gels held it in place, the curly strans of his hair so coiled around the lavender twine that it takes him a few tries to pry it out of place. A moment of quiet reflection leaves him disgusted with himself, his body tenderly sore and sticky with sweat- face caked with makeup and hair dry and brittle with hair products. He was dressed as a barbie today, a real life princess, and Peter wasn’t sure he cared much for it. The experience, or the actual act of dressing up. Heels were fun, dresses freeing, but the aftermath left him aching all over.
Slipping into the steady stream of water once Peter managed to figure out how to turn it on- the shower was way too fucking fancy with several jets lining the walls and a large, rain-showerhead was perched over his head, pouring warm water on him the moment he turned it on, a screen to Peter’s right immediately popped up. It was a temperature dial, prompting him with the ability to adjust the temperature of the water- currently 98 degrees. Fancy. Peter gently taps the screen and rotates the dial, letting the number comfortably rest on a 115 degrees before he’s satisfied and relaxes beneath the jets.
Tony, always a step ahead apparently, has prepared each bathroom with the generic items. Cotton towels sit on a shelf just outside the shower door, so fluffy and soft that Peter could already imagine they felt like heaven. Body wash, a wash cloth, shampoo and conditioner set on a shelf inside the shower. The body wash was a generic vanilla and shea butter, which lathered like butter across Peter’s skin, and the shampoo and conditioner were a tropical coconut scent.
Peter washed every inch of his body three times, then began shaving- which required him to dig around in the shelves hidden behind the glass cabinet wall, naked and dripping water everywhere, until he found a box of unopened razors. A peak inside one of the drawers in his search revealed a hairbrush, a package of tooth brushes, a bottle of mouthwash and a box of toothpaste.
It was only after his skin began to prune and he was clean enough to eat off of, with every piece of hair on his lower body absent, that he felt comfortable enough to step outside of the shower. A towel was locked securely around his waist, another draped over his shoulders to catch the droplets from his hair. Despite not eating anything today, he still brushes his teeth, uses the mouthwash and then attempts to make some semblance of order with his hair which just leaves him looking like a pissed off rooster with the damp, wavy tufts of hair sticking up in random directions despite how many times he tried smoothing them down. His huffs of frustration do nothing to convince them to behave.
Then he was done. The act of making himself presentable complete, only now he had to face the actual act of summoning enough courage to walk out there, in all his naked glory, and present himself to Tony. He stands by what he says, about not being ready. About wishing to cling to the last vestiges of his innocence until he’s one hundred percent, absolutely certain of taking this next step in his relationship. But time was against him.
His clock ran out.
His clothes were left abandoned in a pile on the counter, the bathroom mirror fogged up with steam Peter made no effort to wipe away. He was sure he looked ghastly, all wide eyes and red, irritated skin from being scrubbed raw. When he opened the door, and a gust of cold wind washed over his over-heated skin, reality sunk beneath the protective layers of his towels and Peter felt so fucking nervous he wanted to cry.
Panic bubbled beneath the surface, not acknowledged, but there to give Peter an uneasy feeling as he timidly stepped out of the bedroom and began his quiet descent. Down the hallway and towards the top of the stairs.
Perhaps Peter should have pushed himself further and taken Tony’s advice. Maybe he should have fought against his traitorous body and discovered the reasoning for why the act of intimacy terrified him so much. Left him sick to his stomach. Memories were like a foggy film inside his mind, waiting for the right moment to be unlocked and no matter how much he poked and prodded them, hoping to discover why another’s touch made his skin crawl, he couldn’t reach them.
The living room was empty. Straining his hearing, which pushed a headache to the front of Peter’s temples, he heard the faint rustling of a bag off to his right and with his heart in his throat, Peter clutched the towel tighter around his waist and moved to investigate.
He found Tony in the kitchen, dressed in a Metallica shirt and black sweat pants. The man was searching the fridge, the crinkling of bags the source of rustling Peter had heard. His breathes were shallow now, the feeling of his heart going to explode looming overhead, and yet Peter still soldiered on. He walked further into the room, lit solely by a single light overhead, washing the rest of the room with a faint white while the rest was left to the shadows.
The kitchen was massive. All expensive looking equipment with granite counter-tops and swiveled bar-stools. Approaching the counter, and yet to be seen, Peter tightens his hold on the towel until his knuckles were white. It was the only thing keeping him from having a full blown panic attack at the moment.
Tony’s hair was damp. He smelt of cedar wood aftershave. “Stealthiness can be added to the list.” Tony suddenly says, startling Peter from his thoughts. He rips his eyes away from the curve of Tony’s shoulders and moves them to the back of the mans head.
Peter’s heart spasms. How did he hear him. “I thought the list wasn’t extensive,” Peter counters back, woozy. He sways in place before thinking better of it and leans against the counter, his arm pinched beneath the granite and his body due to him refusing to let go of the towel.
Tony’s hum is thoughtful, amused. “Several facts can hardly be called extensive, Peter.” Tony ducks down, bicep bulging as he keeps a firm hold on the fridge door, and pops back up a second later with a large tupperware dish.
He makes a sound, like victory, and brandishes the dish when he turns to face Peter. “Spaghetti,” he informs him, shaking the bowl which causes the contents to slosh around on the inside. Peter can see it now, the deep red sauce with slashes of white from the noodles. Despite his nerves, his stomach perks in interest.
Overlooked but not forgotten, Peter ignores their dicsusson of Tony’s ridiculous list and instead focuses on the food in Tony’s hand. It did pleasantly surprise him, though. He thought Tony would immediately demand sex, not… feed Peter. It settles him a bit, allows his aching shoulders a chance to loosen. “Are you sure that’s even good? When was the last time someone was here?”
Tony rolls his eyes and moves to the cupboard. “Today. I had my chef come here to prepare a few meals to tide us over for the next few days.” he says, retrieving two glass plates from the cupboard. “Unless you wanted to starve?”
The irony in the situation rears it’s ugly head. Peter could eat that entire bowl of pasta and still be starving. But Tony didn’t know that. Would never know that. “I guess not,” he breathes.
Uncomfortable to be dressed in only towels, Peter shifts on his feet. The movement draws Tony’s eyes to him, unintentionally, and he feels the gaze rove over the visible patches of his skin- not covered by the towel still draped around his shoulders, and Peter watches as Tony’s eyes darken. His blood boils.
“I take it you found everything?” Tony asks, dolloping out two servings of spaghetti on their respectful plates. Peter suspects the urgency of his actions were to keep himself busy and not distracted by his practically nude wife just feet from him, and it makes Peter flush with pride.
“I did.”
“Good.”
The conversation falls stagnant then. There’s nothing more to address, to say. Not unless Peter wants to bring up his aunt again and the possibility of seeing her, but he bites his tongue. Tonight- tonight wasn’t about that, however much it hurt him. Tonight was about him proving himself to Tony and losing his title of- “Virgin Mary.” Even if he was ill-prepared.
It stays like that, a semi-tense atmosphere as the two eat their microwaved spaghetti a respectable distance away from each other. Peter, despite how ravenous he feels, is timid and slow as he eats. Knowing the longer it takes him, the longer it’ll be before he’s expected to undress for Tony.
Tony’s finished by the time Peter’s only halfway through his plate, and doing something Peter never thought he’d see, Tony begins cleaning the kitchen. Probably just to keep himself busy, albeit, but Peter assumed he’d leave it for one of his housekeepers.
That is, if he even had any out here. Maybe he expected Peter to pick up all those tedious duties.
When Peter can’t prolong it anymore, he regretfully slurps up the last bite of his spaghetti, garlic a heavy component on his tongue, and quietly pushes the plate towards Tony.
“Thank you.” he whispers, watching the hunch of Tony’s shoulders- the ripple of muscles, as Tony scrubs at the plate. Peter wants to turn now, to run up the stairs and brush his teeth and just hide in the cupboard until all of this blows over. It isn’t an actual option, he knows that, but just for a moment he wants to pretend like he’s not an adult who married to the most elligble Elite, Iron fucking Man, and about to be fucked by said man.
Peter’s chest feels full, and not in the good way.
“You can go upstairs.” Tony says, back still to Peter. “My bedroom is the last one at the end of the hall, up the three stairs. Wait for me until I’m done.”
Peter gulps. “Am I- Do I, am I supposed to, um-” and he can’t say it. His face is burning with embarrassment. “Is there a specific way I’m supposed to wait?”
Tony turns to him then, so slow, so tense. His arms fold across his chest, his eyes searching Peter’s scarlette face. “Naked.” He says, simple, the casual tone doing nothing to abade the intensity of his gaze.
Peter inhales sharply, and his hold on the towel very nearly loosens. “Yes, sir.”
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