He wasn’t done just yet.
Peter’s reflection blinks back at him, void of any actual expression except apt curiosity as his eyes rove over the curves and divots of his unnaturally angular body.
The prospect that anybody would ever find him attractive was unfathomable, given his current state. Protruding hip bones jutted out beneath pale skin. His slightly bloated stomach tensing beneath his gaze, highlighting his abs which were much more grossly prominent given the lack of fat his body had. He was all lean and muscular now, ribs expanding visibly with every inhale- sallow skin stretching taut over the bumpy bones to display Tony’s neglect.
Peter looks like a fucking accordian. This wasn’t- he wasn’t supposed to look like this his first time. He was supposed to make an impression, a memorable display that left Tony wanting more. Instead, he was bloated from the spaghetti and pale. Still, he can feel the gaze. Can feel how his body hums in acknowledgement, the buzz settling beneath his skin with a sigh as it basks in the knowledge that Tony Stark was choosing him.
He belonged to someone now.
In the reflection of the mirror, Peter watches Tony watch him. Over his shoulder he can see the shape of the man, the appreciative darting of his eyes as he appraises Peter with the attentiveness a surgeon might harbor during a particularly dangerous surgery. Peter wants to squirm, to hide, to cover up and retreat to safer terrains where Tony isn’t looking at him as if he were attempting to figure out all the ways to take Peter apart.
Peter wants to pretend that the look doesn’t absolutely excite him.
Dark, hooded eyes trace a path down Peter’s bare spine. He can't help but liken the experience to a cold shower- the discomfort of an icy pressure traveling through his spine. His body tenses, regrettably defining the most angular parts of his body as it anticipates the bite of the cold.
While the towel and counter had hid a majority of his body from Tony’s view, there was no hiding now. No running back to the safety of his own room, to the haven he was thrust into amidst the hundreds of rooms in Tony’s tower. He was so far from home, from anything he can cling to for comfort, and in a false imitation of courage, Peter turns to face Tony. No longer hiding within the reflection of the mirror, but rather facing the man head on with his chin jutted in the air.
He refuses to show any weakness, any flaws.
In films, the female prowess was always sexy. Glamorous. Effortless as she seduced her companion with a flash of a leg and the hitching of her skirt. May’s one favorite tv show had a sex scene, which Peter blushed the whole way through, and the main female lead had been clad in a towel. Exotic as she approached her partner, dropped the single layer of clothing in a bold move, and lunged to attack.
In the films, this would be Peter’s opportunity of attack. He should build off the tension, approach Tony while the feeling of foreign inspection was all still so new, and he should use it to his advantage. Propel his tongue down Tony’s throat when the man gasps in surprise at Peter’s sudden initiation, at his sudden excitement. He should do something.
And yet, fear keeps him rooted in place.
“Are you going to say something?” he finally asks, the rise and fall of his chest rapid, his breaths shallow. He feels lightheaded, on the verge of collapsing, but he clings to the last vestiges of strength and can only pray his shaking legs don’t give out beneath him.
“Is that what you need?” Tony asked, amusement alight in his warm eyes. Peter feels his chest tighten at the curious tilt of Tony’s head, expression laden with derision.
The look propelled him from the terrains of his faux courage, of mock bravery. Strips him bare, so much deeper than his simple nudity- has him aching in the place between his first layer of skin and the hard bend of his bones. He was here, for Tony. Stepping so far beyond the realms of his comfort, and he was being mocked for a question? A plea for pity, for sympathy?
It has something bitter and rotten brimming in his chest, tickling the back of his throat. “I-“ his bottom lip trembles, embarrassing tears gathering in his eyes. Perhaps this wasn’t for him, this life- this experience. The idea of love crafted by an adolescent mind starved of such emotions. To be here, now, tiptoeing along the crescent peak of which he's dreamed of for months- years, he wished to take back every silent prayer for a better life, for a husband, for a place to belong.
Because if the world believes here, where he stands pigeon-toed and nude, with his now-husband’s jeering remarks painting his skin with inescapable shame, then he doesn’t want it. It wasn’t for him.
Tony’s movements are sharp, abrupt, as he ticks forward, the reach of his hand not meeting it’s destination before it falls, empty, to curl at his side. He looks as if every word in the world is brimming within him, dancing on his tongue, and the bunched brows of frustration compliment the fragile belief that, for the moment, not even Tony knows what to say. As lost to the moment, to the anxiety of all that’s new- to the hesitant tension, as Peter.
Perhaps Peter read his amusement wrong. Amusement over how ludicrous this situation was, not how painfully inexperienced Peter is.
It rekindles some kind of hope in Peter, has his back straightening in fractured steps- uncurling in a movement so satisfactory his body sighs in glee, a feeling reminiscent to that long, beautiful stretch in the morning. He stretches, and he arches, and every angle of his body is accented by the lights, divots now shadowed, imperfections hidden. He straightens, and he stares, and he’s as determined now as he was the day May told him his happily ever after may never come.
“Yes.” The tremor in his voice betrays his effort of appearing courageous, confident. He wants to backtrack immediately, worried his response was too straightforward- too demanding. But then Tony’s eyes do this thing, where they squint but it’s more a look of exasperated fondness rather than annoyance, with crows feet crinkling the edges and softening the stare.
If Peter wasn’t mistaken, if he was bolder, he’d almost say it held some resemblance to pride. “I can talk.” Tony concedes with a hum, a hum that strips Peter’s body bare of its previous shame and coats him with tiny prickles. “Talking is what I’m good at- what I’m paid to do. I can talk about anything, everything,” his enunciation of the last word makes Peter blink, timidly amused, because for once he’s privy to Tony’s specific joke- knows the man well enough, despite their languid tango of discovery, to know just how much truth rings in those three syllables. Everything.
Tony’s pause is tense, weighted. It’s a long moment of anticipation, filled with stares that are far too scrutinizing given Peter’s lack of attire. Peter’s heart is once more a hummingbird trapped within his chest, vibrating, searching for an exit but always missing it’s opportunity as it flaps angrily against Peter’s ribs.
Finally, finally, Tony sighs a sigh and waves his hand, dissolving the tension just as quickly as he erected it. “But I have a feeling you have something very specific you want to talk about, Peter. Don’t you?”
It’s a question. A question. Peter is so embarrassingly transparent and he hates how easily Tony saw through him, saw a direct question was easier for Peter to navigate than an open sentence that left far too much at stake, left far too much opportunity for thought. When an answer is expected, demanded, Peter can do it.
His dry lips part, a tuft of a breath escaping, before he closes them. His tongue escapes the seam, drags across his bottom lip in a slow cadence he doesn’t realize to be potentially erotic until he notices Tony’s gaze is fixated on that specific point of his body, then he opens his mouth again.
“Yes.” Another simple answer, another direct opportunity for Tony to reroute the conversation and direct it towards planes he’s more familiar with.
Just when he thinks he’s in the clear, answering Tony’s question with a semi-reasonable response, Peter’s brain does this thing, sort of short-circuits when Tony’s eyes lock with his and he sees there, transparent as it’s no longer hidden beneath the veils of indifference, an unbridled desire which flickers and burns and douses Peter with flames.
“And?” Tony goads with a smirk, confidence rolling off the tense set of his shoulders. “What do you wish to talk about, Peter?”
His name is said in a purr, drug out with a tongue curling around the syllables with an intimate knowledge Tony has no right claiming he harbors. It strikes a chord, nonetheless, to be spoken of- to, with a voice a few notches away from being literal gravel, and he suppresses a shiver which wants to twirl down his spine.
He swallows, hands fidgeting at his sides with nothing to do, nothing to hold on to, and he wishes he had his towel. Had a layer of protection, a layer to hide behind. “I-“ a squeak, which is a noise Peter hasn’t made since puberty, but Tony smartly doesn’t react to it. He clears his throat and tries again, tries summoning back his courage. “I need you to take the lead.”
Tony’s lip curls at the edge, a smile that’s frayed but still distinctly a smile, and he nods. Something softens in his eyes, perhaps understanding- perhaps pity? Regardless, he does as Peter requested and takes a step forward, purposefully slow to translate his intentions and give Peter the opportunity to tell him to stop, then another when his advancement is simply met with a still body riddled with anxiety and nerves.
If Peter was smart, is he wasn’t so focused on the trek of Tony’s feet or, previously, his stupid face, he’d pay mind to his nudity and have enough decency to be embarrassed about it. More so than he is, was. But as it is, he stays ignorantly honed in on the curve of Tony’s shoulder and how it’s growing closer, than the obviousness of his vulnerability.
Tony is patient, kind, as a hand lands solidly on Peter’s bare shoulder. It sends his body in a frenzy, has his entire nervous system fritzing out as enormous butterflies awaken from their dormant slumber to flap away in his stomach.
Peter stays still, breath held, chin jutted upwards to not hold eye contact with Tony, but rather fixate on the bow of his lip. “We’ll go slow.” Tony whispers, and Peter suddenly feels fragile standing before the once Merchant of Death.
He feels brittle. Like one wrong move and Tony will just… break him. The irony isn’t lost on him, given his heightened physical strength opposed to Tony’s no-less-intimidating strength, but he still feels so small and minuscule when Tony’s shadow is cast over him like this.
He nods, afraid that if he speaks his voice will give away just how terrified he is.
The hand is light, cautious, as it brushes up Peter’s shoulder, across the naked expanse of sensitive skin, dips into the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder and continues up, up, up until it’s cradling his jaw.
It burns of intimacy. Mocks Peter with lies, with perfect lies the gentleness crafts with Tony’s every touch adding to the fuel. His hand feels so right there, so perfect, with fingers curling to caress the nape of Peter’s neck and a thumb pressing firmly against the underside of his chin.
He never realized how large Tony’s hands truly were, how long his thick fingers are, until now. Until their framing his face with no clear intent, Peter’s trust oozing out of him with his spider-senses dormant and painfully tolerant to Tony’s dangerous proximity. These hands are dangerous, have done things unimaginable- and yet, Peter finds himself leaning, a minuscule movement, into the touch with a sigh that sounds more like a breath.
He’s ached for this.
Lips find the curve of his jaw, first. Pressed so lightly it feels more like a pulsing brush of air than actual contact of skin, but then they’re dragging across his skin, leaving a fiery trail that makes his insides quiver, and they’re pressing more firmly to the corner of his mouth.
Peter’s teeth clench, his hands balled into white-knuckle fists as he fights every instinct in his body to move, to react, to do something. To leave. He instead closes his eyes and gives in to the persuasive wisps of Tony’s proximity, allowing it to silence his war, the raging of anxiety as it clashes with desire and longing. He focuses on every point of contact of which they touch, and accounts for a new addition as the tips of Tony’s toes brush Peter’s as the eldest man shuffles forward for a better angle.
He wasn’t sure what he expected. Years of denial and pent-up anticipation left him aching for… something amazing. Something toe curling. But never in his wildest dreams did he ever think a kiss to the corner of his mouth would ever feel so gratifying. So… pleasantly overwhelming.
He bows to the onslaught of stimulations, to the way Tony’s stubble burns across his cheek, and thinks that maybe, maybe he can do this.
His stomach rolls at the thought, the thought of him giving in, relinquishing his control, and he feels sick with the sudden too-intimate contact, with Tony surrounding him- coiling around his body with hands and lips and- and. It feels like earlier. It feels like- the panic is there, is thrumming away beneath the surface, mockingly reminds him of how less-than-gentle these same hands had been when they shoved him against the elevator, held him in place, restricted his movement and stripped him of his freewill.
Tony wasn’t the man Peter envisioned. He knew this. But… His- the gentleness of his hands, now, clash with the memories from earlier and it leaves Peter confused. Confused and aching, the traitorous arch of his body completely contradicts the tightness of his chest.
And yet;
Tony’s hands are insistent, startlingly gentle as he coaxes his body, urging Peter backwards the moment the plush duvet tickles along the back of his knees. “Lay down, Peter.” Tony encourages, words a hot heat pulsating across the dampness of Peter’s skin.
Peter goes, gently guided, his head cushioned by a memory foam pillow that immediately indents with the shape of his head, offering him no real inclination abilities. His hands brush across the still tucked in place duvet, across the expensive expanse of the grey material before they pause on either side of his hips, bunching the material there until his fists are full of nothing but the soft fabric- offering them absolutely no possibility of touching or exploring terrains not offered to him.
The absence of Tony’s body heat has left the prominent chill in the air apparent as it basks Peter’s body in goosebumps, his fidgeting toes curling down into the mattress as Tony moves up and over him, strong arms barricading his impossibly small body. Tony hovers over him, then, shared breath and hovering lips. He’s imposing in all of his glory, in the tautness of his body, in the restraint shown dancing along the corded muscles in his arms.
Peter wants to reach out and explore, to feel what he’s never before allowed himself to feel, drunk on the sudden courage brought on by Tony’s uncharacteristic patience- care. But years of insecurities and disgust well in his stomach, filling him to the brim with doubts and seconds guessing until a hand, rough and firm- callouses painting a story everywhere they touch, settles on the side of Peter’s face and suddenly, suddenly, none of it matters anymore.
Only Tony matters.
The panic settles as if it were never there.
His eyes flicker up. “I-I don’t know what to do.” His admittance coats his body in shame, chasing away the chill. It reels him back to the day he told Tony he was a virgin, to the disappointment and disgust his revelation brought. He’s scared Tony will react the same, and will draw away from Peter, from the slow tango of their melding bodies.
Instead, the silence basks them with the anticipation of unspoken words, unfulfilled duties.
Tony looks intrigued by something, whatever his eyes are settled on and it takes a moment of silent reflection before Peter realizes he’s staring at him. He only comes to this conclusion when, with an almost inaudible huff, Tony’s thumb drags across Peter’s bottom lip. Mesmerized, not disgusted.
It was almost a caress, yet too chaste to hold any meaningful depth. Except- “What do you want?” Tony asks, and his voice sounds thick. He’s not mocking as he asks, not feeding into some self-satisfied idea of humor in ridiculing Peter back into submission. He sounds genuine, which catches Peter off guard. This wasn’t for him.
Tonight, pushing aside his comforts and doubts and general feeling of being ill-prepared, it was for Tony. His entire life has been in preparation for this and Peter- he can’t. He can’t be in charge. Lesson after lesson, class after class- it was for the specific goal of pleasing Tony. Bowing beneath, submitting to- conforming to the ill-conceived idea of fragility that breeders are held to.
Peter wasn’t weak. He wasn’t fragile. But at this moment, he doesn’t feel strong either.
He moves to roll away, from underneath Tony and his barricading arms, not realizing how patchy his breaths were until a hand is pressed firmly against the center of his chest. “Peter,” Calm, patient- hand insistent as it once again urges him back. That same hand begins to rub in a circle, over his sternum. Almost as if Tony knows a simple touch with Peter’s heightened senses can silence even the wildest of thoughts. “Breath, Peter.”
He sucks in a breath at the command, heart thick in his throat. “I-I can’t.” he forces out, eyes squeezing shut tightly. The foundation of his life was crumbling away beneath him and he thought, he thought Tony would be the steadying hand he needed, the guidance. He can’t be in charge, expected to know what he wants. Only Tony. “I have to, I-” and he almost does it, almost uses his strength to push Tony up and off of him, away, but that hand is more determined now as it moves up, presses more firmly against his sternum, a thumb on one collarbone while the tips of his fingers overlap the other.
“Peter.” Tony’s voice is hard, contradicting the soft circling of his thumb against Peter’s collarbone. Peter’s body freezes beneath him, taut as a bow-string, awaiting the command to leave, to disappear, to get as far away from Tony and out of his sight as fast as he can. Tony must know, now. Must see what Peter’s dealt with for the last month. The fear, the dread- the overwhelming anxiety that ended with his head in the trash can. He’s going to realize Peter is so far beyond the reasonable grasp, broken beyond the chance of being fixed.
It never comes.
Peter’s breaths are coming in fast and sharp through his nose, his eyes squeezed shut so tightly he can feel moisture collecting in the seam. “I’m sorry.”
Tony’s sigh is weighted, yet absent of irritation. It sounds sad. “What do you need, Peter?”
And finally, the right question. Peter can answer this one, can claw his way out from beneath the dirt. “You.” he whispers, so painfully soft his voice cracks on the single syllable. “I-I need you to tell me what to do.”
Tony nods, Peter can’t see it but he can feel the way Tony’s body tenses and moves in the appropriate response to a head nod. “Okay.”
The air is punched out of Peter’s chest, and it takes every ounce of control in his body not to startle at the.. the kindness. “Okay?” He expected to be told off, shoved away, commanded to pack his bags and leave because Tony doesn’t want a toy that’s broken.
“Yes, Peter, we can go slow. I’ll- fuck, I’ll tell you what to do.”
It’s as if the earth tilts on its axis. Peter’s nod is fast, eager, way too quickly agreeing to what Tony says in the fear the man will retract the statement. He opens his eyes when he feels the bed shifts, and watches as Tony pulls back and away, sitting on the side of the bed by Peter’s left hip. He never expected to find patience beneath the hard exterior of Tony Stark, yet the man continues to surprise him. Feeding him, clothing him. Calming him when the night was supposed to be about Tony, not Peter’s own comfort.
By law, Tony could take Peter either way. The boy was his property now
It takes a moment, for Tony to presumably regain his barings, before he’s standing up. “Lay down.” he instructs, the smooth slide of fabric against fabric raising the hairs on Peter’s body. Tony’s pants are slid off, falling to the floor with a silent, thump, before they’re kicked aside.
He can still barely breath, heart beating a fast staccato against his ribs, but he manages to listen to Tony and resumes his previous position. Head down, hands fisted in the rumpled duvet, toes dug in tight to the mattress. He can do this. Listen when being directed.
“Would you like to see?” Tony asks, his back still to Peter. Unsure of exactly what he’s asking, Peter’s head tilts, eyebrows furrowing. He tries to peer around Tony, without moving, but all he can see is the curve of Tony’s arm, tan skin kissed with the soft lighting in the room.
“See?”
“Yes.” Tony turns back to him, the pink, puckered scar standing out proud and prominent on his chest, the arc-reactor illuminating like a beacon of light in the otherwise dim room. Peter’s breath catches in his throat, but Tony doesn’t pause there. He lifts up a tie he must have picked up off the floor or something, presenting it to Peter as if he wasn’t the main show Peter wants to spend the rest of his life looking at. “See. Is your vision a big factor into your anxiety? Or will taking away a sense unsettle you further?”
Peter licks his lips, mouth suddenly drier than the sahara desert. He shakes his head, creating friction beneath his head- his hair no doubt going to be matted beyond belief after tonight. “No.” he whispers. “I- it doesn’t bother me. But I want to see.”
If anything, it would heighten his already sensitive senses. His sight, already adjusted to the low lighting, followed Tony’s every movement like a hawk. If he were to have that taken away, his other senses would adjust to the deprivation and heighten everything else. Making the drop of a pin sound like thunder to Peter’s sensitive ears. He can only imagine how hay-wire his body will go with touch and, no. He’s not ready to explore that aspect of his life yet, refusing to introduce spider-man into this experience before he’s even been able to experience it as Peter Parker.
Correction. Peter Stark.
The tie is folded and left on the foot of the bed. Tony nods his head, lips pursed in consideration. He seems far more coherent in this brief exchange than Peter’s ever seen him, more invested.
And that’s what does it. Not words of affirmation. Not reassurances. Just the simple idea that a man who’s literal brand was taking things fast, having absolutely zero patience, was willing to push everything aside and aid Peter to the best of his ability during the biggest night of Peter’s pitiful life. Sure, kids younger than him have done this. Have been faced with the same dilemmas, the same fear. Tony was once a virgin, too. Probably a lot more eager in his experience, yet he doesn’t tell Peter that.
He’s attentive in a way that’s disengaged. Careful and cautious while also being demanding and rough. He expects so much from Peter, but he’s working with him to achieve his goal. To make this pleasurable.
That’s what has Peter sinking beyond the point of return.
_________
The moon is too bright from where it’s streaming in through the glass wall, cutting across Peter’s nude body in flickering pulses of the pale light; hindered every few seconds by passing clouds. His body is sore, in a way he’s not familiar with but also isn’t entirely uncomfortable with. A stretch of his legs reveal a pleasant ache at the bottom of his spine, a place he literally felt like he was splitting in two just hours ago with Tony moving above him, in him, a pace far too quick for Peter’s inexperienced body, but at the time he hadn’t gave a single care.
Tony was soft, in a way Peter didn’t anticipate. Understanding in the way his hands caressed Peter’s body, in the way his fingers prepared him. The lingering tingles of anxiety leave breathing just a little bit harder, but he feels fine.
Tony’s soft breaths of sleep help paint Peter’s calm, helps keep him relaxed as he takes note of his body. Sweat has left him gross, tacky. Semen is drying on his stomach in patches, in him in globs, and while Tony seems unaffected by the world around him, Peter can’t find the comfort of sleep. He can’t shake the unease brought on by Tony’s actions.
The man has, time and time again, claimed to not care. To feed literally zero thought into Peter’s well being, even having gone as far as ignoring his presence to the best of his ability for an entire month, and yet with panic consuming Peter at even the slightest of touch, Tony had taken action. Calmed him, cradled him in a way that was more mentally than physically. He reassured, and he calmed, and he set a pace Peter could control without being overwhelmed.
Peter saw a side of Tony Stark tonight, that he never would have thought to be hidden beneath the layers.
He’s built up the idea of sex, of intamacy, in his head throughout his life- ideologies tarnished by Tony’s less-than-ideal take on their relationship this past month, and that was the root of his problem. His fear wasn’t of intimacy, it was a fear of displeasing Tony. Of disappointing him.
Peter’s subconscious built walls around his frail mind, convinced him his body was incapable of the act of intimacy when it was really just afraid to venture outside the perimeter of Tony. What if he found himself enjoying something, crafting up expectations, then having to squish it flat the very moment he found out Tony didn’t enjoy it? If all of his sexual experiences begin and end with Tony, that leaves little room for disappointment. For growth or experience Tony won’t approve.
But tonight Peter discovered sex wasn’t so bad. It was… fuck. It was better than he could have imagined.
Peter throws a glance over his shoulder as he slowly eases his way out of the bed, just to confirm he’s not disturbing Tony, and quietly creeps towards the door. The action is made easier since, the moment Tony came, he pulled out of Peter and away, becoming completely disengaged and Peter didn’t need mind reading abilities to physically see as the walls once more became erected within Tony’s mind.
He’d been given an hour, and it was more than Peter can ask for.
There was no touching, no cuddling; no after-sex care. Just the sound of Tony’s harsh breathing turning into soft snores while Peter took silent assessment of his jelly limbs to ensure he was still completely intact, the lingering ecstasy of an orgasm leaving him deliciously numb for hours.
His grin is wide, incredulous where it smears across his face, and Peter quickly ducks his head before the moon can see it and softly closes the door behind him, leaving a wall between him and Tony. Asserting some distance that helps Peter’s mind clear just a little bit more.
He’s not naive enough to believe what happened tonight, how Tony behaved, will become a new norm, but he also believes he’s owed the opportunity to bask in the feelings, the emotions generated, for as long as he can.
Returning to the bathroom he’d just showered in a few hours prior, Peter brushes his teeth- the faintest hint of garlic still lingering, and does a quick wipe-down with a wet washcloth before he slips his dirty boxers back on with a wrinkled nose. He knew how unhygienic it was, but given he literally hadn’t a moment's opportunity to prepare, they would have to do.
His reflection reveals nothing when he watches himself in the mirror. He looks a little blotchy, with red cheeks and very faint love-bites standing bold on his pale skin at his neck. They are almost completely gone now. Healed by his abilities, but they weren’t too prominent before so he didn’t think Tony would pay any mind to the lack of his marks branded across Peter’s skin.
He feels different, in a way that’s invigorating yet sour. He’s still a bit sore, still treading on the edge of a panic attack from his earlier antics and anxiety, but he didn’t physically look different. And he wasn’t sure if that made him happy or not.
Rather than dwelling on the unchangeable, Peter turns off the bathroom light and retreats to the hallway.
The freedom to explore the compound wasn’t exactly revoked upon their arrival, and given that Peter’s literally a Stark now and probably legally owns half the place, he finds it only right he’s allotted some sort of exploratory rights.
So, he explores. Originally, he thought they were at the avenger compound- a stupid thought considering he was pretty sure that wasn’t in New York, but exploring the place reveals that not to be true. It’s some sort of abandoned location, a warehouse re-designed into a massive make-shift hideout for the Avengers. It was probably the original compound, used before their new one was built.
It was no wonder Peter felt like he was walking through a ghost town.
The top floor, where they currently were at, was a combination of bedrooms and bathrooms. Taking the staircase back down to the living room, Peter poked around there- finding there to be a large weaponry room off to the left side of the elevators- an obvious addition for the less… supernaturally inclined of the group, with courses and obstacles lined up for practice. It was a gym, though… not as updated as the one as Stark towers. The one Steve and Tony used to train the new recruits.
It only strikes Peter as odd, then, that Tony was training the recruits at the tower- in a room designed to mimic an outdoor training field but much less expansive, rather than flying off to wherever the actual Avenger’s compound was. Peter never actually paid mine to the fact that, although Tony was absent a large portion of the time, he’s never left for longer than a day.
His Iron Man duties, his obligation to the Avenger’s, to the world- surely they would have called him away, called him to action. And yet, Tony remained in New York despite having multiple other obligations.
Peter likes to think that means something.
The second floor had the gym, kitchen and living room. All boring things that didn’t excite him much, though he did make it a point to take an apple from the fridge. He wanted more, needed more, but his stomach didn’t agree too much with the idea of food at the moment.
The red flesh of the apple tears easily beneath his teeth, the sweetness a tart combination in comparison to the mint toothpaste Peter had used. The sad fact of the entire thing is, Peter can’t even remember the last time he’d eaten an apple.
Let alone retrieve food for himself.
He shakes the thought off and takes the elevator down to the bottom floor, intending to explore it only to find a receptionist area and stuffy-looking offices/meeting rooms. It seems as if the only interesting thing in this tower is floors above Peter, sleeping soundly and unaware of his wife who is exploring a territory not permitted while munching on an apple.
Peter still feels… different.
He finds a door at the end of one corridor. Surprisingly finds it’s unlocked, too, but he wonders how little that has to do with poor security and how much to do with the silent humming of Friday he can hear hovering just out of the picture. He was just thankful she didn’t wake Tony up and notify him of Peter’s nosiness.
But upon opening the door, he’s met with a dark staircase that leads into a seemingly endless void of nothingness. “Fri?” Peter asks quietly, foot hovering on the top step with his apple core clutched tightly in his hand. “Is there any way for you to turn on the lights down here?”
Despite how little communication Peter had with the outside world, he still had Friday to lean back on. He was pretty sure she had a set list of things Peter couldn’t request or ask, because the moment he asked her to dial his aunts phone a few weeks back she suddenly disappeared and didn’t return to Peter’s bedroom until the next day- but it was still nice to converse with somebody.
He’s gotten… okayish with her, far more comfortable than Helena is, but it was still odd to think that some artificial intelligence was essentially watching, gauging, his every move and anticipating what he would do before he did it, just to offer a solution.
The light flickers for a moment, unsure if it wants to stay on, but then it beams brightly up at Peter and illuminates the front of his body with the bright white light. Peter smiles, small. “Thank you, Friday.”
“I should warn you that Tony doesn’t allow people in the basement.” Friday’s voice responds, just as monotone- just as direct. “It is a strictly off-limits area. Not even those with the highest security clearance are permitted to enter without his permission.”
Peter’s eyebrows raise, interest peaked. “Then why was the door unlocked?”
“I unlocked it for you.”
Peter hums, confused, and peers down the length of the stairs. “Seems contradictory of you, Friday. Why would you unlock the door for me if Tony doesn’t allow anyone down here?”
Static fills the air for a moment, like Friday is considering her answer even though that shouldn’t be possible. Isn't plausible. “You have the same security clearance as Tony.” She finally says after a moment. “I am to help aid you in any way that I can, unless it is something Tony has forbidden.”
Peter was already halfway down the stairs when she spoke, too impatient to see if the AI would come up with a believable excuse but at her words, he freezes. Same security clearance as Tony? What exactly did that mean and why did it terrify Peter?
“Forbidden?” Peter parrots, taking the last few steps to the bottom. “What has Mr. Stark forbidden?”
“Unless you would like me to wake up Tony and request his permission to go over the list with you, I am not permitted to say.”
Heart in his throat, Peter lunges forward- like he could physically grab her and stop her, and shakes his head. “No,” he rushes, panicked. “No, that’s alright.”
Just like the man that created her, when there’s no more to be said- no further conversation to be lived, she just falls into silence. It’s quite endearing when she does it, because Peter can feel her humming excitement in the air, waiting for the moment she’s to be put to use once more. But when Tony does it? It’s not as cute. Just frustrating.
Three glass walls surround the room, the black wall a solid white, leaving a narrow walkway at the base of the stairs to enter with sliding glass doors conventionally positioned at the landing. Lab equipment, much like a mirror to the ones at the Tower, fills the room. The glass walls offer the illusion of privacy without actually aiding in the idea, offering a view to whoever ventured down the stairs the crisp paper blueprints unrolled and left, forgotten, on the board to Peter’s right.
He approaches the glass doors, then hesitates. “Am I permitted to enter?” He asks, watches in fascination as his breath doesn’t even fog up the glass despite this floor of the compound being at least fifteen degrees lower than every other room.
“You are.” Friday confirms, the sound of locks unlatching following her words. The glass doors pull apart and slide open, the accompanying hiss of the carefully pressurized and oxygenated room sending a gust of warm, stagnant air over Peter.
He feels nervous, being here without Tony. Surrounded by all this big, beautiful, expensive lab equipment without guidance. It feels wrong. But one step into the lab, with the doors closing behind him with the sense of finality, he can’t help but recognize just how right it truly feels.
For the first time in… god, weeks, he feels normal. To miss something is one thing, but to be deprived of it is another. Peter was doing well in work and as Spider-Man. But nothing compared to how he felt in school, dissecting cells, attempting to figure out how a simple genetically modified spider could contribute to his increased speed, stamina, healing and senses.
He can do that, here. Properly study his cells, his blood- figure out exactly what’s to blame for his mutation. But not right now, and certainly not with Tony just floors above him- prone to find him at any given second.
Part of him recognizes that’s just not him anymore. At least, not at the moment.
His chest aches as he turns back around and leaves. It aches even more when he tells Friday in a soft voice to turn the lights off, and the ache doesn’t lessen even when he finds himself curled up on the couch watching some High School Musical marathon.
He feels different, but in the same breath, he feels exactly the same.
Scared, hopeless and so fucking lost. How is he supposed to find a life for himself, nestled amongst Tony, when he knows himself not to belong? When half of his identity was stripped from him the moment he entered the facility with a bag over his head and some childish excitement of finding his partner. If he were to come clean now, tell Tony the true nature of Peter’s life, the boy would no doubt be thrown to the wolves. Divorced, a black band tattooed around his ring finger to visibly display an Elite had rejected him, and he’d be forced into a life as a Hunter.
A man of his talents didn’t make the cut for Avenger’s, and there’s no way they would allow him to become a breeder. Not with his mutation, even if male breeders were becoming few and far between these days. A rarity.
No. He would be destined to a life as a hunter. Forbidden to have children, to have a family.
Telling Tony meant Peter would lose everything, but staying with the man was guiding him towards the same fate. The only hope Peter had in this relationship, the only salvation, was the idea of children. His own little family, crafted by his very own hands. Spider-Man may be put on a shelf, and his school abandoned, but Peter’s biggest dream always has and always will be to have a family. A partner.
His only hope at achieving that was dutifully playing his part in Tony’s life. Even if that meant losing everything that meant the world to him.
Even if he was just being used.
——
The first thing Peter is aware of as consciousness prodes at his mind, is the heavenly scent of coffee. Rich, dark- a tinge of sweetness. He cracks an eye open, his body splayed across the couch like a starfish, one arm thrown over his forehead while the other hung ungracefully over the edge of the couch, his fingers brushing across the carpeted floor.
He was sure sunlight would be spilling in through the glass wall, but apparently Friday had implemented a window tint and blissfully allowed Peter to sleep in for as long as he wanted.
Sitting up with an unattractive yawn, Peter stretches his arms over his head and marvels at how loudly his back pops before he stands up and goes to investigate, allowing his nose to lead the way. He finds Tony in the kitchen, a picture of perfect-domesticity as he grabs a white ceramic cup and fills it to the brim with coffee.
“Sugar and creamer?” He asks, and it takes Peter a solid three seconds to realize the man is addressing him, his back still turned to Peter though now his shoulder is turned in his direction, almost like an acknowledgement.
“Um-” Peter’s hand smooth down his hair, matted from their activities last night and from sleeping on the couch, but his hope at becoming presentable while in Tony’s presence plumments off the planet when he realizes he’s still in his fucking boxers from yesterday. “Both?”
Tony hums, a noncommittal sound Peter realizes is Tony’s default noise, and returns to the counter. “Did you sleep well?”
Peter’s chest is red in the kitchen light, embarrassment flaring hot on his skin as he shifts from foot to foot, still standing in the entrance to the kitchen. “I did.” he whispers, cringing. He was oozing awkwardness. “I-I mean, I couldn’t sleep and I didn’t want to wake you so I came downstairs.” shit. “To um, to watch tv.”
Tony turns at that, coffee cup in hand. He raises an eyebrow, peering right through Peter’s not-lie but also not-truth. “Was the lab up to your standards?”
Peter bites down on his bottom lip hard. “I-” he knew, of course he fucking knew. Friday probably sung like a canary the moment Tony woke up and spilled every detail about what Peter did last night. “I just looked around, I promise. I didn’t touch anything.”
Tony laughs, a sound that Peter is sure he’s never heard before because his stomach plummets at the noise while his heart sings. “God, you’re easier to spook than Banner.” Tony shakes his head and clucks his tongue, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “Everything here, anything you wish to do- go wild. We’re a couple of hours from the City, so you shouldn’t be bothered by anybody outside if that’s where you choose to venture. But you’re more than free to stop by the lab if that’s what you want. If I didn’t want you going in there, you wouldn’t have been able to.”
He sets the cup of coffee down on the counter and slides it towards Peter, a sort of peace offering.
“Thank you, sir.” Peter mumbles, very aware of the fact that not even ten hours ago he was panting that same sentence, over and over again, into Tony’s shoulder as the man pounded into him without relent. Flushing high on his cheekbones at the memories, Peter takes a seat at the bar and sniffs curiously at his steaming coffee mug.
The fact that Tony was not only giving him free-reign, but also indirectly hinting at the trust, however small that may be, that he has in Peter, meant a lot to the boy. They’ve been married a day and this Tony already seems way different than the Tony of two days ago.
It made Peter nervous.
Sipping at his coffee while Tony begins the tedious task of mixing pancake batter, Peter’s eyes travel around the kitchen before they, eventually, find their way back to Tony. He wants to ask him why the sudden attitude change, why he was suddenly being so nice and understanding. But at the same time, he didn’t want to draw any attention to it. Afraid that if he acknowledged it, and made Tony acknowledge it, then it would all stop.
Another part of him worries that Tony’s just being nice to soften Peter up, to make the boy much more pliable beneath his grasp- less difficult. This past month Peter’s fought, albeit not to the best of his ability, but certainly enough to irritate Tony beyond belief. And certainly more than he’s been taught.
They sit in silence, Tony cooking while Peter nurses his mug of coffee, and it feels sort of… normal. A sort of normal that Peter can get used to, drawing comfort from not only Tony’s proximity but also in watching him perform mundane tasks such as cooking or, like last night, even washing dishes. It's comfortable, and it’s warm, and it’s only when he’s swallowing his last sip and Tony is setting a plate stacked with pancakes in front of Peter, that the silence is finally shattered.
“I’ll be going away for the week.” Tony informs him, so casually Peter almost just brushes the words off until their meaning settles beneath his skin. Until his mind catches up to the implication, to the warning hidden beneath the casual delivery.
Did he hear him right?
His heart lurches in his chest, his dormant panic flickering to life.They’ve been married not even twenty four hours and Tony was already leaving. Where did that leave Peter? What was he supposed to do- where was he expected to stay? “What?” Peter asks, and he’s sure the ringing in his ears wasn’t there just moments before.
Tony takes his own plate of pancakes and settles across from Peter, elbow resting on the counter as he leans against it rather than just taking one of the stools from by Peter. Or, better yet, just sitting next to him. “I said I’m leaving for a week. I have business to attend to in California.”
There it was. The reason. The very thing Peter has feared. Tony was being kind to buy Peter’s cooperation. Buttering him up to make the departure less difficult. “Oh.” Peter deflates in his seat, the pancakes before him no longer appetising. “When do you leave?”
“I figured I'd give you one more day here-” Tony says, silver fork waving around the space around them to illustrate he was talking about the Compound. He takes a dollop of butter off of the plate set next to Peter’s now-empty coffee mug and smooths the glob around on top of his pancakes. “Before heading back to New York.”
Peter swallows thickly and nods, fighting down the urge to stand up. “I’ll be going back to the tower?” How could he be naive enough to think their little bubble of perfection would remain intact? Sooner or later the sharp thorns of reality were bound to pop it, shatter the imagery, but Peter didn’t expect for it to happen so soon.
H-He thought Tony was trying. Not to be an ideal partner, romantic. But trying to make this enjoyable. Manageable.
He feels like a fool. A stupid, love-sick fool who was so quick to latch onto whatever Tony was offering him, he didn’t even both to think of any ulterior motives. Tony was gentle, and sweet, and understanding. He was, in the last twelve hours, everything that he wasn’t. Peter was too blinded by his fantasies to see the truth.
Tony wasn’t a loving man. He would continue using Peter, as he did last night. He wouldn’t be gentle, or feed him or make sure he didn’t fucking panic. Last night was a one-time thing and Peter, he feels sick. Tony had been playing him so well.
“For now.” Tony confirms, the plastic bottle cradled in his palm a seemingly exact replica of Peter’s heart. Just as empty, just as transparent, as Tony pats the bottom of the bottle to try and get every last drop of syrup. Of Peter. How could he be so fucking stupid.
It’s a fritzing, of sorts, Peter realizes. An imbalance of his emotions which causes his senses to fluctuate, his ears to pick up on the soft scratching of tiny talons across a dropping tree branch before his senses suddenly divert its resources and Peter can see the blue vein in Tony’s neck which jumps in time with his heart. The clothes, or absence of clothes, leave the scratchy feeling of air across his skin, like tiny needles prickling him in every available inch that the rough, scratchy material of his boxers do not cover.
His body tingles, as the particles in the air shift across his skin in way of greeting as his thought-to-be-forgotten senses stretch. It tingles all the way to the back of his skull, where the numbness slowly ebbs away and he can feel the dormant instincts of his repressed nature rearing its ugly head with loud, blaring warnings. Demanding he turn to leave- to run.
Tony Stark wasn’t a friend. He was an enemy.
The buzz no longer felt comforting. It was dangerous; suffocating.
And it was only now, with his partially restored senses, that Peter can see it all with renewed clarity. No longer hidden behind the naivety of his desires.
Peter can’t help but feel sick at how pathetic he’s been the last month. He’s given away so much, too much- everything, to please Tony. Decided last night to just hand himself over without a fight. And what has the man sacrificed? What has he done besides belittle and bully and degrade Peter? Over and over and over again. Always forgiven, always overlooked.
Peter truly was no more than a pawn in his game. Edgar was right. The moment Peter could do no more for Tony, could offer no more children- he would be of no use. Cast aside for the newer version. For the better version.
Peter’s swallow is loud, to his own ears. The shifting of the air draws dormant particles to the surface, brining with the overwhelming scent of maple syrup and rich coffee the underlying muskiness of sweat and sex that still clung to Tony’s un-washed skin. It burns Peter’s eyes with tears.
“Very well.” He says, so soft the pulsing air almost swallowed it. “If I am to stay, and obey your rules, I expect to receive my end of the agreement.”
The fragility of his heart, finally crumbling way beneath Tony’s relentless grip, was exactly what Peter needed at this exact moment. He wasn’t done fighting. He can have kids, and a family- and a wonderful life.
But he wasn’t giving in just yet.
Peter’s going to fight. The same surrender he felt last night was burning away, and Peter no longer wanted to be the submissive captured beneath Tony’s thumb.
He was going to fight for May, for Ned, for Mj-
For Spider-Man and all of New York. He wasn’t done just yet.
If Peter’s demand startles Tony, he doesn’t let it show. His frustrating neutralness doesn't even shift, doesn’t even crack. He just blinks up at Peter, a string of maple syrup connecting from lip to chin.
“Your what?”
Peter holds himself steady, placing his shaking hands on either side of his plate to keep the tremors at bay. He may be stronger than Tony, but the man still terrifies him. He radiates power, something Peter realized weeks ago, something he still isn’t used to.
Doesn’t think he’ll ever be.
“My-“ his lips tremble when he remembers Tony has seen him naked. Saw him at his most vulnerable as flesh and tongue and mouth took him apart. He closes his eyes tightly, breath catching in his throat. “M-My phone. Your rules stated I would be given a new phone, allowance and curfew.”
“It also stated you would listen, obey, and not snark back. Yet all I’ve received from you is attitude and disobedience.” Tony’s voice is hard, displeased, and Peter’s resolve bows beneath the man. He wasn’t raised to stand against the brick wall of authority, to contend it and make demands. He was to crumble beneath it, to it.
Fighting against his very nature makes him want to cry. “If you would like to revise the rules, you are more than welcome to. But I have listened. I haven’t- I haven’t asked for my phone once. I’ve stayed in my room. I-I-“ and he can’t say it. Can’t voice his vulnerability. But he has to. “I slept with you. I did everything you’ve asked. I just want the same generosity.”
He can feel the movement in the way the air moves, a breeze over the side of his body which basks him in goosebumps, before he even hears the near-silent padding of bare feet across the floor. He can feel Tony pause there, at Peter’s side. Can feel his eyes on the side of his face, the length of his neck- down, across his shoulder and back up. But his eyes remain closed.
His senses go haywire.
“The same generosity?” Tony asks, disbelief heavy in his tone. It’s the same dance as yesterday, just a different day. Tony’s stubble burns where it rubs across Peter’s check as hot words are breathed into his ear. “Your job is to sleep with me. To have my children. I could command that from you and give you nothing in return. I have been extremely generous with how I treat and handle you.”
Handle. Like Peter’s some prized pet, not his wife. “The phone, sir?” Peter grits through clenched teeth, holding on to every bit of possible strength he can to keep himself from crying.
The breath Tony let’s out feels like a dry gust of wind across a desert, parsing through Peter’s hair like the world's softest caress. A hand lifts, Peter’s spider-senses warning him of the potential threat before that same hand is clasping his bare shoulder. Etching into his skin the imprints of Tony’s callouses.
“I don’t know why you fight me on everything, Peter.”
Fight him? Asking for what was rightfully his was fighting? He didn’t argue, didn’t press for more than Tony agreed. He came to terms with the man leaving, departing from Peter once more like the boy truly did mean nothing to him, and all he requested was a small piece of his freedom back.
Curfew, money allowance, friends only approved by Tony.
That was the agreement.
Despite how hard he attempted to keep it in, how tightly he clenched his teeth, how strong his resolve remained- it still slipped out. “Im sorry.”
“You will have your phone by tomorrow, as well as a debit card.” Tony’s hand is suddenly gone, and Peter feels like he can breath. How he ever managed to silence his mind enough to be barricaded beneath all of Tony, he will never know.
The sound of Tony’s footsteps, growing distant, echoes behind Peter. “We will discuss matters of your curfew later. For now, eat. You’re too skinny.”
——-