I'll submit.
“Spill.”
Mj sits down across from him, an expectant- no, determined, look on her face as she slides a small styrofoam cup of steaming hot cocoa across the table to him. He eyes the mountain of melting whipped cream garnished with a dusting of cinnamon. He reaches for it, swirls the thick chocolate wafer sticking out of the cream, and shrugs.
“What do you want to know?”
They’re in a relatively empty cafe on the opposite side of Manhattan, waiting for Ned to meet them so they could go out to lunch. After they managed to lose their paparazzi tail, Mj made an executive decision of stopping off here and Peter wasn’t really in the mood to argue. Any place outside of the tower was welcome.
He was just grateful the other patrons of the cafe were all elderly; people too out of tune with the media to know exactly who Peter was. It helped him blend in. Helped loosen the ball of anxiety the earlier crowd, and Tony, had planted in his chest.
But he refused to give any more thought to the man. He knew what was waiting for him when he gets home; knew there was no doubt going to be another scene, but that anxiety could wait until later to consume Peter so fully.
Right now, it seems, Mj had other plans.
“Why don’t we start on why that sweater is drowning you?” Mj says, accuses, and Peter’s hackles immediately rise. He looks up from his hot cocoa at her, nearly flinches back from her heated gaze.
He sniffs, shrugs again, and attempts to swallow down his immediate hostility to Mj’s statement. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” when, in truth, he knows exactly what she’s talking about. What would have fit him just last month, or even when Tony had his measurements taken, now drowned him. The lavender sweater was loose on his shoulders, threatening at any moment, at any sudden movement, to expose a clavicle; hanging around his waist like a flared dress rather than a form-fitting knit. His pants, jeans, were held up by the grace of God and a really, really tight belt.
But, in the face of her accusations, Peter would plead ignorance. He’s not been able to hold his tongue well these past few days, and he didn’t want to wrongfully take his anger out on Mj over her innocent worry.
Mj’s eyes narrow, and the dart of her tongue across her upper lip, chasing the lingering stache of whipped cream, is really contradictory to her attempt at intimidating the truth out of him. Peter, with a rolling stomach, sips at his own hot beverage for something to do.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Peter. Don’t play dumb.”
“Really, Mj, it’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing, Peter! You’ve lost a dangerous amount of weight. You look unhealthy.” He shies back from her words, from the truth, and burrows down deeper into the soft cushion of his seat, hoping that if he shimmies down deep enough the bench will just eventually swallow him whole and he won’t have to deal with this confrontation.
Or intervention? Is that what this is?
“Is Tony starving you?” Mj asks, leans in to heatedly whisper it across the table. Her eyes are wide and the set of her mouth is grim, letting Peter know she knows her assumption was already accurate, but he still shakes his head.
“No.” It comes out a soft, pitiful squeak. “H-He’s not starving me. I just don’t- I’m not really hungry anymore.”
Mj scoffs. “Please, Peter. You expect me to believe that bullshit? Just three months ago you were eating two large pizzas for dinner just to keep up with the demand for calories.” Her eyes narrow even further, and she shakes her head decidedly, “No. No. You’re lying to me.”
She’s not going to let this go. He knows that, can feel it like a sinking stone in the pit of his stomach. He assumed when she meant talk, that they’d be talking about his failing marriage and his incapabilty of making Tony happy, not his own failing body.
He sets down his cup, too nauseated now to even think of fake sipping it, and gazes out the large window to his right. Cars pass by in a blur while groups and couples meander slowly down the sidewalk. He catches the occasional man in a suit; his heart jumping at every single one like they were his h- Tony, and when enough time has passed that he no longer fills that stone so boldly in his stomach, he sighs and looks up towards the sky. Anywhere but Mj.
“He doesn’t know.” Peter whispers, admits to the wall of glass, to the cloudy sky. “He doesn’t know about my increased calorie need, and I can’t just casually mention it to him. No normal person, breeder or otherwise, needs four thousand calories a day, Mj. I-” he cuts off, pauses, his heart lodging itself in his throat and strangling him at the idea of Tony finding out his secret identity, of his newly bestowed role being stripped from him; his breeder idenity, his ability to have children, and being forced into the life of a hunter. He turns to Mj, then, urgent hands sliding across the table with his eyes wide and pleading, desperate. “I can’t tell him. I can’t risk it. Please- please don’t say anything.”
However unhappy he may be, and however much he may hate Tony, he still wants children. He still wants a future. Becoming a Hunter stripped that from him; striped him of his rights and his reproductive abilities. He wouldn’t be allowed a family, children. He’d, day in and day out, be left to his own internal misery and just expect to be honored his life was now at the mercy of an Elite. After all, it was an honor to protect them, no matter what it costs.
He feels like he’s going to throw up.
Mj meets his slide, her own hands easily capturing his trembling fingers in a grip. She flips Peter’s hands over, palms up, and engulfs his fingers in a firm, reassuring hold.
“Hey, hey, Pete, I need you to breath-” she demonstrates how, inhaling to the fullest ability her lungs can manage; expanding them so fully Peter can see the sudden rise of her breasts, then she exhales it slow and he doesn’t realize he was hyperventilating until his own lungs ache in response to her slow, purposeful breathing.
He gasps in a large lungful of air, feels light headed and dizzy and so very, very weak as he squeezes her hands back desperately.
“Good, good, nice and slow- in and out.” She talks him through it for a few more seconds then, when she’s sure he’s settled enough, she offers him a weak smile. “There, see, we’re fine- everything’s fine, Pete, Tony won’t find out anything. I promise.”
He sags, fully, into his seat- the fight he’s held on to for the last couple of days, that will to live, evaporating as the severity of his situation settled full-weight on his shoulders. His body feels drained.
He looks up at Mj, imagines he looks as helpless as he truly feels, but he doesn’t have the strength to hide it anymore- so he instead hides himself, and looks down at their intertwined hands. The most human contact he has had in weeks. Her touch settles him, comforts him. “I don’t know what to do.”
“That’s why I’m here, remember? We’ll figure this out. We always have.”
Something deep within Peter’s chest aches at Mj’s words, at the veracity of her statement, because it’s true. Here he’s been, isolated for a month, made to believe he’s fighting alone and not a single person was in his corner, when that was the furthest thing from the truth. No matter the situation, Mj was always there and they always figured it out.
On Peter’s next exhale, something unclenches in his chest, making breathing just a little bit easier.
He peaks up at Mj from below his clumpy eyelashes and offers her a tremulous smile. “What’re you going to do?” He asks, purposefully redirecting the conversation towards a more humorous terrain to keep that simmering panic attack at bay. It was their default; that little edge of comfort they would always retreat to when the moment became too serious. “Sneak me in several boxes of pizza a day? I think Tony would eventually start to get suspicious.”
Not that he ever paid any attention to Peter, anyway, but Mj didn’t need to know that.
Mj smirks, and she squeezes Peter’s hands one last time before pulling away and grabbing her coco. “Something like that. I was thinking more along the lines of sneaking you out everyday and returning you in a food coma, but I’m sure Ned could figure out a way to break into Stark’s system and make it so we could come in and out unnanounced.”
“I have the same security clearance as Tony, if that helps anything.” Peter offers offhandedly, not really sure it would help matters much but figuring it was worth mentioning. With Friday a constant presence, his security clearance meant literally nothing when his every movement was shrouded by anxiety and the fear of being caught.
Mj, mid sip- chokes on her coco. Brown liquid shoots out her nose, down her shirt and across the table. She vionently coughs for a few seconds, warranting them a few curious glances from the other customers, but at Mj’s waving hands and coughed reassurances that she was okay, they want back to their business while the two of them attempted to mop up what they could with a mountain of papery napkins.
They did nothing, and ended up just creating an even bigger, soggier mess, but Mj was still determindely pushing around the soaked napkins, making the puddle even bigger, when she decided to suddenly reach over and slap Peter with her free hand.
“What the fuck, dude!” she hisses, ignoring Peter’s gasp of hurt- more of a noise to stroke her ego, but it did mildly alarm Peter that Mj’s feasible slap did kind of hurt. “That’s not something you just fucking announce when im in the middle of taking a drink, Peter.”
He watches her with wounded eyes, rubbing at his stinging shoulder, trying to hide his worry beneath playful betrayal. “I didn’t think it was that important. Besides unrestricted lab access, what else can I possibly do with it?”
Mj looks positively miffed. “You can’t be serious.” She says, pausing her movements. Peter feels like he’s missing something very, very large and possibly important. He wrinkles his nose and shrugs, and Mj throws her hands out in exasperation, droplets of coco flying everywhere. “Dude- you have the same fucking security clearance as Tony fucking Stark. You do understand how insanely over-powered that makes you, right? We’ve operating out of Ned’s bedroom for the last several years; imagine what we can do in a place that can survey literally the entire fucking world. Peter- everything is literally at the tip of your fingers.”
It seems like, when it came to Tony, he was too focused on the what if’s and the can’t haves, that he became blind to his own potential. To the possibilities of being married to the most powerful man alive, according to New York Times.
Unlike Tony, Peter wasn’t in this for what Tony could do for him.
But maybe he should be.
Peter sniffed and jutted his chin, refusing to think about any of that right now. On how he, in turn, could use Tony. “I still don’t understand how this is pertinent to our current conversation.”
“I mean, it’s not, but it doesn’t hurt facts, either. I’m sure we can figure out a way to delete video footage and logs so there’s no evidence of you coming or going, but I was talking more along the lines of your-“ she pauses and glances around, a quick, sweeping survey to make sure nobody was listening- “other activities. Starks Technology is the most advanced technology in the world, and it’s all accessible to you. We can finally build you a suit! Start helping more people, rather than relying on an occasional ping from the police scanner. Think about it, Pete, this can be big.”
She’s right. It can be big. It has the opportunity to be everything he’s ever wanted for himself, at least for his alternate identity side. He wanted to help people on a much grander scale. The occasional robbery and house fire were nice, yeah, but he wanted more- bigger, and this was that exact opportunity he’s been hunting for.
It’s a shame it’ll never work. Not with Friday watching him as she does.
The excitement he felt bubbling up at Mj’s speech, died down. “It’ll never work.” He mumbled, running a finger along the rim of his drink. It was lukewarm by now, and still looked highly unappealing. At Mj’s furrowed brow, Peter explains. “Tony has an AI ingrained within the Towers- possibly the entiery of New York. She keeps track of everything at every single moment, me included. Even if I could manage to find a way to delete the records of me coming in and out, she’s under programmed obligation to relay everything I do back to Tony.”
He doesn’t realize how that sounds until after it comes out of his mouth.
Mj’s face immediately contorts into one of concern. “That’s a bit much, Pete, isn’t it?”
And he doesn’t know why- doesn’t understand it, but her uncertainty to the situation has a sudden vicious need to defend Tony, rising to the surface. “He’s protective.” Peter argues, folding his arms across his chest. When he realizes that he’s not only looking, but sounding, like a petulant child- he clears his throat and immediately uncrosses his arms.
He has absolutely no reason to protect Tony. The man was going to murder him tonight, anyway. Peter owed him nothing.
And yet; “Tony’s line of work is dangerous,” Peter offers as explanation, seeing as his previous one was weak. “Powerful men attract powerful enemies. His constant surveillance is for his benefit as much as it is mine. Friday, the AI, makes me feel safe, I promise.”
Mj still looks unsure about the entire thing, her eyebrow twitching when Peter called the AI a name, but she nods anyway- relenting if only for Peter’s benefit, he knew. “If you’re sure.”
Peter’s not. He’s really not. He was pulling excuses out of his ass and only hoped they sounded reasonable, but he was glad she didn’t dig too much.
Obviously Friday did make him feel safe, but more often than not, he dreaded her presence. He knew wherever she was, Tony had a constant eye on him. A little bird to relay everything back to him. It made him feel antsy and uncomfortable; to be constantly watched and monitored. Like a rat running around a glass aquarium.
“Why don’t we talk to Ned when he gets here?” Mj suggests, perking up. “I’m sure there’s something we can do- override her commands, maybe, to make it so she doesn’t relay everything back to Tony, just enough to make it not so suspicious.”
Peter nods, brain already attempting to formulate a plan even if he’s not entirely convinced. He latches on to Mj’s suggestion, using it as a form of distraction. Tony was smart; insanely smart, actually, and he knew it was going to take a lot more than just him and Mj to find a way to outsmart him, but he had no doubt that with Ned helping, they’d figure something out.
Maybe not what he wanted, or Mj hoped, but something.
“I hope so.” Peter breathes, pouring every ounce of hope into that small seed growing inside of his heart. He was tired of being cooped up; he wanted to run, and be free, and be Spiderman. He wanted that little taste of freedom back, and he’d do almost anything to acheive it.
He just refused to give up his life with Tony, no matter how much he hated it.
Peter picks back up his hot chocolate, not really craving the overly sweet beverage but needing something to do- and he takes a sip. He doesn’t miss the sad look and soft eyes Mj gives him over the rim of his cup, he just chooses to pretend it doesn’t make him feel as sick as it truly does. He doesn’t want her sympathy- he didn’t even ask for her solutions. He knew he truly needs both, more precisely the former rather than the latter, but it still made him nauseous.
He hated being looked at like- that.
Like he was broken.
____
Peter’s feet are dragging behind him as he makes his way towards the elevator. The lobby in the Tower is full of people, but he is too focused on keeping his heart inside of his chest to really notice any lingering glances. After their cafe trip, they met up with Ned and went to a local chinese place, followed by ice cream, and despite how adamant his friends were about him gorging himself on food, Peter only managed a little bit.
He couldn’t stomach more.
He was too antsy about facing Tony to really care about getting any food in his system, even though he knew he desperately needed it. He felt lightheaded from it. Both Ned and Mj kept giving each other these weird looks during lunch, ones he was sure they thought he didn’t notice- as well as concerned looks directed at him, but he didn’t have the mental capacity to reassure him, once again, he was okay when he didn’t even know if that was true himself.
His friends tried; they really did. They tried to make him feel better, to make it feel like old times. But it wasn’t. Nothing was the same. Tony, even absent from the moment, still hungover Peter like a suffocating cloak he couldn’t just shake off. He tried ignoring the looming fact that, once he got home, he was at Tony’s mercy- tried pushing it to the back because he genuinely wanted just a moment with his friends. But nothing worked.
Tony lived inside his brain like he really, truly owned him.
“Take me to my room, Fri.” Peter says once he is safely in the elevator and the doors close, cutting off the employees waiting in the lobby. Apparently there was some unspoken policy about riding with Peter in the elevator- or not unspoken, just one Peter wasn’t aware of, because every single person who went to board with him paused upon recognition, and immediately scurried backwards- eyes darting everywhere but him.
Whatever. Peter didn’t have the energy to deal with it anyway. He is disappointed Ned didn’t manage to come up with an immediate solution to their situation, even if his friend did promise to keep him updated and that he’d work tirelessly to figure something out. Peter just feels hopeless, and coming back to the tower, empty handed and without a single idea in the world on how he can better his future, only solidified that feeling.
He watches the numbers climb, slowly, the dread in his stomach sinking lower and lower, and reluctantly pushes up off the wall when they hit seventy. His palms are sweaty, and he feels extremely nauseous and warm, like he was coming down with a fever. His reflection glaring back at him in the steel metal doors, slightly distorted, is pale and slim. His skin is sallow, his eyes dead. He looks rumpled in the clothes that drown him- he looks nothing like the arm candy Tony should have on his arm.
He looks-
He turns his gaze away, looks down at his feet, stomach rolling. He feels so pathetic that he wants to cry simply because he wasn’t exactly what Tony deserves. Wants to fucking sob because he looks nothing like how he used to. He’s a shell. A shell Tony intends to fill with himself, and unless they can figure out a way for Peter to steal back some of his freewill, that’s exactly what would happen.
He’d be devoured by Tony. Every single disgusting inch of himself.
He just has to avoid Tony for as long as he can- prays the man doesn’t seek him out for his own sick gratification.
Eighty one.
Eighty two.
Eighty three, his floor.
But the elevator doesn’t stop.
It continues climbing;
Eighty four.
Eighty five.
Eighty six.
Peter feels something akin to red hot irons jabbing into his chest as the realization catches up with him. He slaps at the buttons, realizes that does nothing as the numbers continue their rapid ascent.
“Fri?” He asks, voice squeaky, heavily influenced by the panic he can feel mounting in his body. His head swivels this way and that, looking for anything to help him. Aside from steel walls and metal rails, he was out of luck. Pressing the Emergency shut off button does nothing, either, and he knew then this wasn’t just a freak accident. He must have been requested. “Where are you taking me? My room is on the eighty third floor.”
“Your belongings were moved to the penthouse the night of your wedding.” Friday informs him, so casual with her delivery. Peter sways, catching himself against the metal railing, and sucks in a gasp of air-her words managing to knock the very air from his lungs. “You and Tony are to share a room together. Is there a problem, Peter?”
No, no problem- expect this made avoiding Tony a hell of a lot fucking harder.
Then something Tony said earlier clicks in his mind.
You are to go into this tower, go up into our room, and remember exactly how much you hate me as you reread our contract so you can freshen your memory of my expectations for you.
Our room. Tony had said our room, and Peter had been too focused on being stubborn to even realize it. He was- he-
Oh fuck.
His knees suddenly feel very, very weak, and he can hear his heartbeat echoing in his ears; can’t focus on anything beyond it and the shudder of his shoulders as the cool metal railing digs into the bony ridges of his side. Nerves trip up and down his spine, turning him into a physical livewire, threatening to encase him in a gulf of flames if he sparked one small nerve wrong.
The elevator stops, and Peter exhales a shaky breath, feeling like he’s about to crumble to the slightest breeze. He pushes himself up on unstable legs, feels like a gangly fawn taking its very first steps as he wobbles towards the doors.
Unlike the fawn, though, he’s aware of what predators lurk just beyond his line of sight. What dangers inhabit this world.
He’s never been on the pent floor. He’s never really been on a floor other than his, aside from the lobby or occasionally whatever floor the dining room was on. He’s seen photos of it- who hasn’t, really? But, like everyone else, aside from a select few within Tony’s limited group, nobody has seen the interior of this floor.
So when the doors slowly slide open, ramping up the suspense, and he steps out of the elevator and into the grand, open-floored penthouse, he is taking it all in with new eyes.
He is cautious as he walks forward, eyes darting in a quick, survical scan around the room- just an assessing sweep to attempt and memorize the layout, purposefully noting the openness to it. How, despite the many items littered around the space, it still doesn’t feel as cozy and personal as one would expect an apartment to feel. He notices the landing pad, second, and the missing helicopter- then, just as he’s tipping his head back to try and really gauge the scope of this place- the ceilings are tall, he notices it.
The figure sitting on the couch, in the near darkness, the flickering lights of Manhattan acting as a backdrop behind him, framing his silhouetted figure, aiding in the animosity of his artful sprawl. It looks casual, in the way he is draped across the designer couch, but Peter knows better. Can see the purposeful arch of Tony’s spine; can see the intent bleeding into the tick of his fingers across his lower stomach.
Tony’s been waiting for him.
Peter gulps.
He can feel sweat accumulating at the nape of his neck; can feel the shaky vibration of his own heart, and how, with the palpitations, he is slammed with a sudden wave of dizziness and accompanied nausea. He sways in place, uncertain of his ability to hold himself up right now, with his vision flickering in and out, but he refuses to take a step forward, to take that initiative and invite Tony’s wrath.
He can hear Tony swallow, and that live-wire feeling is replaced by a fine tremor that traces up and down his spine. Anticipation crawls across Peter’s skin. His senses adjust to the low lighting, to the lack of sound. He hones in on the gentle beating of Tony’s heart, can see the tap, tap, tap of his fingers on his stomach as he deliberately waits; dragging the moment out longer, riling Peter up further.
“I’ve texted you.” Tony announces, aiming for casualness but his voice is like a boom of secluded thunder, how loud it was in the otherwise deadly silent room. Peter flinches back, away from something that wasn’t physically there, just a noise ringing in his ears, and feels silly for doing so. “Several times, in fact.”
It’s nine fifty eight. Peter hasn’t missed curfew, he knows that much, but beyond using his phone as a clock; he hasn’t done anything with it. It was left in the car, while they talked, both in the cafe and the restaurant. Peter hadn’t explained to Mj exactly why they needed to leave them, but he feels like she has a vague understanding now, what with her newfound knowledge of Friday and Tony’s actual capabilities.
He glances down at it, turning it just enough the dim lighting of the phone casts a blue light across his face; blinding him for the moment it takes before his eyes adjust, then he notices the thirteen text messages from TS and his bottom lip trembles.
“Was it fun?” Tony asks, and he’s moving, now, rocking up from his reclined position so he’s sitting, elbows on his knees- eyes locked on Peter.
Peter’s throat feels dry, his tongue thick. He feels physically incapable of uttering a single noise, either in protest or acquiescence, but he’s also aware just standing here is going to make matters worse for him. He shifts on his feet, his hands squeezing into fists at his side as he wills his nerves to just calm down.
Tony feels dangerous right now. A coiled anger- cold and calculating.
“Yes.” He manages, a mere whisper. His eyes flicker off to the right, towards the helicopter landing pad, and he wonders- if an escape was necessary, if he’d survive jumping from this height without his webslingers.
He knows, either way, he’d jump.
Tony’s humm is loud. Peter can feel it vibrate every inch of his body, focusing on his core, and he shivers, wrapping his arms firmly around himself- an effort to hide as much as it was to hold himself together. He feels like he’s going to shake apart at any second, and Tony has yet to even truly say anything.
“Did you tell them?” Tony stands, and Peter has to fight the urge to take a step back. He’s still so far away from him and yet, he feels miles too close.
“What?”
Tony rounds the couch, bringing them that much closer, and Peter’s hands are shaking. He tucks them tightly underneath his armpits, but it does nothing, just causes his whole body to finely tremble as this panic creeps across his chest, squeezing.
“How cruel I am.” Tony sneers, a cruel smile on his lips. It’s oddly fitting, and funny, to Peter how, in the limited lighting, Tony’s eyes both look dead and full. They glimmer, and they shine- and the artful toss of his hair and the loose tie around his neck encapture the handsome playboy persona Tony has presented the media for years; but, in the same breath, it illustrates how everything he is, and everything he does, is just an act. His gaze is empty, and yet, it says everything as another step is taken, as the smile turns into a sneer. “Did you tell your friends how I treat you so very poorly?”
Peter gulps, wanting to turn his face away but fighting the initial reaction, lest he be punished worse. “I-I didn’t tell them anything.”
“No?” Another hum, inquisitive in nature as he advances closer; so close Peter can feel it, the chill of his proximity, feel as it leeches away his own warmth until he’s a shivering mess standing in the threshold of their apartment.
Behind him, he can hear the chime of the elevator as the doors finally rattle close and the dim lighting from the flourescents in the elevator disappear; basking them fully in darkness, aside from the shimmering lights through the glass wall, leaving Peter fully at Tony’s mercy.
“I expected your friends to come and save you.” Tony says, and there’s a tremor to his voice- a, Peter doesn’t dare say fear because there’s no way that was accurate, but- “I thought you wouldn’t come home.”
He doesn’t respond. He’d considered it, not coming home. Ran through every single scenario that could possibly generate, and not a single one of them left him feeling satisfied. Half of them weren’t feasible. Spending his life on the run, in hiding, felt like no way to live- even with his reality being- well, this.
Tony closes the remaining distance between them in three hushed strides and then suddenly, he’s there, in Peter’s space, sharing his breath, stealing his courage. He’s taller than Peter; hovering over him, formidable and daunting. Despite how many times they have been in this same exact position, Peter is convinced he will never get used to it. His insides will never not guiver in genuine fear at being this close to Tony Stark. Smothered by his shadow.
“Did you want to leave, Peter?” Tony whispers above him, a slivered crack appearing in his so carefully crafted persona and Peter knows he doesn’t imagine it- can hear it. Fear. “Did you want them to save you from little old me?”
He latches on to it. To Tony’s fear- feeds it. He doesn’t understand it, not one bit- Tony has said countless times that Peter is nothing to him, means nothing, but the confusion that swamps him is quickly shoved aside and instead he focuses on how he can use this against Tony. Hurt him in any way that he can.
“Yes.” is his tremulous response. His fingernails dig into his palm, biting into the sensitive flesh until he can feel each individual pop as they pierce flesh, and he’s shivering so violently his teeth chatter. Tony is still so close, but he is motionless. He doesn’t twitch even a finger; he’s just hovering, staring- almost… expectantly.
Tony’s next inhale is a sharp hiss. The smell only hits Peter then, like a freight train, his nostrils assaulted with the bitterness of scotch rolling off of Tony in nauseating waves. It was practically oozing from his every pore and, yet, he made not a single miscalculated movement. He was as sharp as he was sober, perhaps even more, both coordinated and intentional with the way he moves, the sway of his hips, the touch of his hands.
He lifts a hand and trails a finger down Peter’s cheek, a gentle carress that burns his bare skin and he fights the urge to recoil from the touch.
“I knew it.”
It’s hissed in his ear, then both Tony and his touch are gone. He’s suddenly behind Peter; slowly walking circles around him, almost exactly how a predator would circle their prey before pouncing.
Peter’s fawn analogy earlier feels a little too close to reality right now.
He circles him once, twice, then on the third go around he’s pausing behind Peter and stepping so close to him Peter can feel the cool metal ring of the arc reactor, even through the many layers of clothing it was tucked beneath, pressing against his back; can feel every point of Tony from the tips of his toes to the tip of his nose digging into the back of his skull, they’re so completely aligned.
“I knew you wanted to leave.”
Peter squeezes his eyes shut, bites his lip on a whimper. He knows if he says the wrong thing, pokes Tony too hard, the man- he’s unstable right now. He may look perfectly put together, but Peter can feel it. How he’s clinging to that lip of control. Peter has never experienced Tony drunk; this side of the man is new and completely uncharted. He didn’t know how to play him, how to read him- not that he had much better luck when Tony was sober.
But it feels different now. Sober Tony was too careful. He’d never hurt Peter- some part of him thinks he’s known that this whole time. But this Tony? The inhiberated version of the perfectly in control man? He didn’t feel cautious. He didn’t feel stable.
“I’m sorry.” Peter whispers, his lips trembling. His eyebrows furrow as he squeezes his eyes shut tighter, his senses completely focusing on Tony to anticipate his every move. He knew apologizing was feeding into Tony’s idealogy that he owned Peter, that he’d done something wrong, but it felt like it was the only safe thing to do at the moment. “I’m sorry, sir. I-I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
Peter wasn’t attuned with Tony in the way that he thought. He was focused on his breaths which were parsing through the hair at the nape of his neck; of the arc reactor pressing solidly against his spine. He was too focused on every which point that they connected. So when a hand was suddenly wrapping around his jaw and squeezing, forcing his head back so it was resting on Tony’s shoulder, their cheeks pressed together, Peter couldn’t help the whimper of surprise he’d let out, nor the sudden twitch of his body from the surprise of the touch.
He was held, suspended by the moment, by Tony, at his very mercy, unable to move or break free. He breathes rapidly through his nose, his heart hammering away in his chest, and across the tall ceilings of this drafty apartment, Manhattan casts shadows of the nightly life in long, haunting drags of black and greys. Peter focuses on them, watches them so intently his eyes burn, and he tries so very hard to ignore Tony’s harsh breathing in his ear, or how his fingers are so very tight around his jaw.
“That’s not true though, is it, Peter?”
Tony’s facial hair burns Peter’s sensitive skin as he nuzzles their cheeks together. Peter’s lips gently part of a soft inhale, each forced breath short puffs with anxiety and fear ensnaring his heart, crushing it with its powerful grip. He squirms, an attempt to get away but it just puts him more solidly in Tony’s grip; has those fingers around his jaw tightening until his jaw aches.
Tony’s other arm snakes around his waist, dragging the lower half of his body back until he was slammed into Tony’s groin. He whimpers again, feels that primal instinct to run spear through his body, but that dormant, long nurtured side of him, the submissive side, slithers to the forefront of his mind. He can fight back. He very well could rip Tony’s arm off the man's body; could be out of his apartment and scaling Manhattan buildings in seconds.
But what then? Where would that get him?
Then it hit Peter like a bolt of lightning. The answer he’s spent the last month searching for.
If he matched Tony’s every movement with equal aggression, they’d get nowhere in this relationship. If he nurtured the wounded, broken version of himself, there would be no growth. But if he gave in? If he just let Tony believe that he wasn’t fighting back- that he was bowing to his every whim, perhaps Tony would stop pressing so hard.
Perhaps he’d start to trust Peter.
Maybe he’d end up loving him.
Peter was good at hiding, at playing pretend. He could play a part very well, if he knew the role he was intended to play. With Tony, he’s always been plagued by the uncertainty regarding his status, his role. He was surrounded by the- ‘what if’s’ and the ‘could be’s’. He held on to that small little niggle of hope that Tony would fall for him, in that month. That the man's disposition would change, and they’d suddenly be whisked away into their happily ever after.
That would never happen if Peter continued to butt heads with him.
The single most important thing they were taught in school was ownership. Submission. Dominance. He had to let Tony believe he owned him; that Peter was submitting to him, giving himself up so completely he held no morsel of freewill left in his body. No fight.
In the short time he’s known Tony, he’s noticed the man likes control. He likes to dominate everyone and everything; he was Captain of the Avengers, was at the top of his field and owned the largest tech conglomerate in the world. Everything in his life he controlled so thoroughly. He owned the fucking world.
Peter just needed to be one of those things. Gain Tony’s trust. Subtly deconstruct the man piece by subtle piece until he could see him clearly- see behind the mask, behind the facade, the persona.
He was going to ruin Tony.
He just needed to ruin himself first.
Peter’s body sags against Tony’s, every ounce of fight leaving him. He was held up solely by Tony’s own strength; heard the soft grunt in his ear as the man adjusted to holding Peter up so completely.
“I’m sorry.” Peter whispers again. He pitches his voice down lower, making it a little less breathy, a little more sure. He brings his hand around and presses it against Tony’s which was splayed against his stomach, encouraging it to press a little more firmer; to feel the ridges of bones, the tales of neglect. He is burning with disgust, but he powers through it, determined now. “I’m sorry, s-Tony. It’s the truth. I won’t do it again.”
Tony’s hum is directly in Peter’s ear. It whispers down his skin in the form of goosebumps, little tingles of pleasure sparking through his stomach, ceasing in his groin. He’s never played this part well; the sexual side of being submissive, but as long as Tony follows along and takes the lead, Peter can do it.
“That’s good.” The man grunts in his ear, the natural sway of their bodies only prominent to Peter now. Or perhaps it wasn’t a natural sway, more of an alcohol induced sway as Tony’s intoxication catches up with the man. “So good.”
He ticks his thumb up, presses it into the hollow of Peter’s cheek where he pauses for a moment, a breath, then he’s tracing it down to find the curve of Peter’s lips. He applies pressure there, against Peter’s bottom lip, whispers another- “So good, Peter.”
Then he’s pulling away and Peter very nearly falls to the floor. His knees are shaking and his shirt is skewed. He can still feel the pressure of Tony pressed against him, taste the saltiness of his thumb against his lips where they still tingle from his touch.
Tony’s trek back across the room is slow, purposeful. His feet do not drag, his legs do not tremble. Every step is precise, every movement calculated. He sits back down on the couch, legs spread, hands splayed across his thighs. Peter watches him, panting, and Tony matches the stare with dark, hooded eyes.
“Kneel.” says, and he nods towards the space between his legs, his artfully messy hair just a touch on the dishevled side tonight, as if he’s ran his fingers through the carefully coiled strands until the gel broke loose and the hair fell away to do as it pleases. A single strand falls, curls over his forehead, rests above the furrow in his brow. When Peter does not move, does not make even the slightest inclination that he’d heard Tony speak, there is the sudden sharp, ear-splitting sound of flesh hitting flesh as Tony slaps his thighs, hard, and bellows in a voice that brokers no room for argument; “That was not an offer, that was an order. Kneel, now.”
His voice vibrates with raw, unrestrained power and authority and it makes Peter jump.
He needs to submit.
He shuffles a step forward, notices only then the skewed table in front of Tony, a single glass of melted ice on it; turning the droplets of remaining scotch into a watered down amber color, and his stomach sinks. This was planned, before he’d even arrived here. Tony has sat alone, with his own thoughts; his own ideas, and waited for Peter to come home. Brewed in his anger, in his turmoil.
He knew, all along, that Peter would give in to him.
“I thought you were leaving today.” Peter says, makes the mistake of speaking anything other than a breathy apology. It almost breaks the moment, the fragility of what Peter’s attempted to correct, but luckily Tony’s glossy eyes seem too distant for the man to be completely coherent.
“You were not permitted to speak,” Tony growls, and something uncoils in Peter’s stomach; something warm and foreign, like a little niggle of- he can’t even put his finger on it. It was the same feeling he got the other night, when Tony was soothing him as tongue and fingers took him apart. “Kneel, now, before I make you.”
This. This is what Peter has been preparing for since day one; what he was aiming for tonight. The structure. The commands. The rules. The discipline. He has had it ingrained in his mind in preparation; to take whatever punishment his partner sees fit, and take it with gratitude. He wasn’t to fight against them, he was to submit to them.
Submit.
Submit.
His knees crack against the hardwood floor as he falls, without thought, directly in front of Tony. Stripped once more of his dignity, of his morals. He’s shaking and shivering, and he feels as if he can not get a full breath in, but he does not break character. Does not push Tony further than he has already.
“Head down.” Tony commands, and Peter immediately follows instructions, the base of his spine tingling with that same foreign warmth. He wiggles in place, has to blink away the stars floating in his vision at the loss of oxygen because, fuck, breathing feels impossible. He chants inside of his mind, a montra of sorts, that he needs to submit, submit, submit. Giving Tony control would only benefit them both in the end, Peter knows this; knows he can play Tony well if he just stops pushing Peter away.
“You’re such a good boy when you listen,” Tony purrs, and there it is- the slur. The however-many-glasses-of-scotch finally makes its appearance in his speech, and Peter closes his eyes to the realization, trying to pretend like none of this was really happening. Like he wasn’t willingly handing himself over to Tony to be punished, just on the off chance that he can ruin Tony in return.
He holds still, waits, the praise slamming into him so violently it nearly makes him gag; one of the first nice things Tony has ever said about him, to him, and it was all because he was fucking drunk.
He tries so very hard to ignore it, how warm it makes him feel- knows it’s only shallow words that hold no real meaning or depth to them, but they’re still nice to hear. However laden in fantasy they are.
“You could be such a good boy for me, Peter,” Tony whispers, and Peter feels the shifting of air across his face before the actual tug of his hair as strands dangling in front of his face are captured between Tony’s fingers and slightly tugged. He feels him pinch his hair, rolling it between his two fingers, and Peter’s toes curl in his shoes as the sharp bursts of pleasure roll through his body.
He’s not meant to be enjoying this. He shouldn’t be enjoying this. He hates Tony. He hates every inch of the man. He’s doing this to win back control, to figure out Tony in return. His presence disgusts him. His touch disgusts him. His-
And yet, that pooling warmth spreads through his stomach and he can’t remember why he shouldn’t enjoy it; why he hates Tony. All he can remember is why he doesn’t want him to let go, on why it feels good as his mind chants,
Yes
Yes
Yes
And his traitorous body chants,
More
More
More.
“Don’t you wanna be good for me, Peter?” Tony asks, and a violent shiver rips its way through Peter’s body.
He wants to sob. It was all play pretend- he was fitting into that role Tony wanted.
But it feels too good.
He nods, and bursts of white lightning explode behind his eyelids as the movement of his head causes Tony to pull his hair; coating his scalp with little prickles of pleasure Peter can feel crawling down his spine. He wants to be good- so fucking good, if only it means he’d feel like this- forever. That his body would feel praised by this man, and not used. That he’d never forget, not for one second, that despite their differences, Tony will always be capable of making him feel like this.
He’s panting, seconds away from melting into Tony, from submitting so fully to him. He feels pathetic that all it takes was a little hair tugging and a few words to make him lose sight of his goal, but it feels- it was nice to feel wanted when this last month, he’s felt anything but. He was playing a toxic, dangerous game, and he fears he’s losing.
He didn’t have a chance at all. Not a single chance.
Tony has him held on this precipice, balancing him so very dangerously on that edge of no return, and Peter cannot find one ounce of fight left within his body. It feels so good, Tony feels so good, and-
Suddenly, the hand is sliding around his skull, a full caress, and then those same fingers, gentle just seconds ago, are weaving through his hair- grabbing a full handful, and ripping Peter’s head back.
The jolts of pain it sends through his body are quickly retranslated into one of pleasure, and Peter has to fight back that pitiful moan tickling at the back of his throat.
He blinks his bleary eyes open, finds Tony’s face is already so close to his; his breath the very same air Peter has already exhaled.
“I could make you feel so good, Peter, so very good.” Tony is whispering now, speaking words Peter isn’t sure he’s even aware of as he fixates on something just below Peter’s eyes- his lips, maybe, and his speculations are proven correct when Tony brings his free hand up and cups Peter’s face in it, his thumb pressing tight over his lips. A mirrored movement to earlier. “So good. If you’d just stop fighting. If you’d just give in to me.”
Peter wants to- he wants to. He wasn’t sure if he was delirious from the rush of endorphins sprouting through his skull, if it was his own sense of self preservation; or if Tony’s words or proximity were really just that intoxicating, but he finds he wants nothing more in the world than to submit to this man.
There’s something unhinged in Tony’s eyes. A delirious shine that unnerves Peter. His lips open on a tremble, and he pants against the pad of Tony’s thumb, feels so completely vulnerable and exposed with his elongated neck bared to him like this. He stares up at Tony, watches him as those dark brown eyes stay transfixed on his mouth, and Peter’s brows furrow in confusion at that shifting look in Tony’s eyes.
Peter’s never seen him so… transparent. So conflicted. It looks as if he wants to do something, to say something, but he is holding himself back, caught on that silly little lip of the same control Peter had thought, just minutes earlier, he’d lacked.
It was clear Tony wanted… something, but he had no intention of taking it.
Peter stretches his neck further, presses his face more solidly against Tony’s palm, attempting to make himself as open and available as he can- wanting to push Tony over that edge and flip this from a moment of punishment, to something… something else. Something where he had control, too. It was a little less daunting when he thought of it like that. As something he could control too.
Even if it was just a lie.
The pad of his thumb catches at Peter’s lips, and his breath trembles against it, nerves and anticipation doing awful things to his stomach and heart, but he does not blink, does not move- wanting to watch Tony’s every movement so he’s not startled once more.
Tony’s brows furrow, and he scoots a fraction of an inch closer.
That thumb parts Peter’s lips further, not a word spoken between them, and the rough pad of his thumb glides over Peter’s tongue, collecting his saliva, and Peter has to fight against his gag reflex to very hard- it’s blowing his fucking mind he’s nearly gagging on Tony fucking Stark’s thumb- fuck everything else, all the hurt and betrayal and scorn- he had Tony where he wanted him, he could feel it.
His lips close around Tony’s thumb, a daring move, and Tony’s eyes narrow a fraction. He stays still a beat, a breath, eyes still focused on his actions, then he’s dragging his thumb out and smearing the wet warmth around Peter’s lips- an acceptance. Tony’s thumb is calloused and rough, evidence of his lifestyle and line of work told in bumps and grooves and Peter- he wanted to map him out. Wanted to read the story of Tony Stark with his tongue and-
Peter’s mouth falls open, and he quickly realizes he is not in control. Somewhere along in his quest of getting to Tony, he’d stumbled and fallen into this- this delirious pool of arousal and attraction. He’d only meant to take a small step forward but rather, he was galloping towards terrains he held no familiarity with and-
Fuck.
The movement of Peter’s lips seems to startle Tony back to reality because he’s blinking rapidly, his thumb has stilled, and that transparent look from before has completely vanished.
Then, like it had never happened, the hand at the back of his skull and the thumb at his lips drop, leaving Peter feeling oddly hollow, and Tony allows them to lazily rest on his spread thighs as he effortlessly falls back into his not-so-casual-now-sprawl.
His eyes flicker up to Peter’s, the dark depth in them stealing his breath, daring him to say something, anything. It was different from the look seconds ago; held a heat that had been absent the whole night. They settle on him with laser focus, and Peter realizes, again, he’s fucked up.
“The next time you go against me, publicly or in private, I will bend you over my knee and belt you until your ass is raw. Do I make myself clear?”
It was the first thing spoken for a long amount of time, and Tony’s voice is low, almost a growl. Peter wants to go against it, wants to fight him as he has every chance he possibly can recently, but he bites his tongue and spreads his thighs further, settling him down just a little lower. They ache from the strain of kneeling for so long, but the pain is a pleasant distraction from the heat of Tony’s threat.
The imprint of Tony’s thumb is seared into Peter’s lips- permanently, he fears, because he can still feel it when he opens his mouth to respond- can taste the saltiness of him so heavily on his tongue. “Why do you care?” He asks, and he’s careful to pose it as a genuine question and not one born out of ignorant defiance. Tony has made it clear he doesn’t care so; why now? It has to be more than just about control.
Tony’s eye twitches, Peter notices it- such a small little micro-expression, but he catches it; waits for a response. When Tony doesn’t move, Peter licks his lips and tries again. “Why do you care where I go? Is it a security thing? Do I need to be more careful?”
It startles Tony, Peter knows it does- it fucking thrills him that it does; that Peter is asking genuine questions and not just lashing out and screaming about how none of it is fair; his life, their marriage, the control. Peter settles back on his haunches, trying to illustrate he is non-threatening or hostile, that he’s passive with the nature of his questions, and Tony, for the smallest of seconds, looks confused.
Peter knows Tony expected him to come home, pitch a fit, fight against the punishment, make it worse, and they’d go to bed angry. But if Peter was going to get anywhere in this relationship, he had to at least try listening to Tony.
Tony leans in a fraction, a glimmer of humor in his eye. “A security thing?” Tony parrots back, voice a low murmur. He rubs his pointer finger against his bottom lip, then smothers his entire mouth with his hand as he cups it over his lower jaw, leaning back and looking away, off into the dark distance. “You’ve mistaken my irritation as a form of concern,” he looks back at Peter, eyebrow raised. “I do not care what you do, or with who, as long as I am aware of it prior to you leaving.”
Some of the tension within his shoulders have dissipated a bit, at least, and he’s not immediately lashing out at Peter- it’s a win. It’s also proof. Control. It’s all Tony craved.
“I was angry.” Peter admits, a little embarrassed but honest. He looks down at his hands resting in his lap, notices little smudges of dried blood but absolutely no evidence of injury. His body managed to heal the tiny little cuts, but not without a price. He feels lethargic and sick. “Y-You hurt me, Tony, and I understand it was really only my own expectations that hurt me, but, regardless, you hurt me. I was angry, and I wanted to get away. So I did. I’m not sorry for doing it, but I promise I won’t do it again without letting you know.”
“Why the sudden change?” Tony suddenly asks him, and it catches Peter off guard- the genuine suspicion in his voice. He thought Tony would be pleased by the sudden turn of events, though he susposses a man in his line of work just comes naturally suspicious. If he really thinks on it, he’d be suspicious, too, if the roles were reversed. It doesn’t matter that he’s asked for love from the very first second of meeting, because if Tony suddenly started treating him in the same manner Peter has begged, he straight up wouldn’t trust it.
Peter allows the question to settle, the silence to marinate, before he dares answer. He tips his head forward, peaks at Tony from beneath his eyelashes, the fluttering of his heart offsetting but not enough to deter him. “I understand my role.” Peter says carefully, watches Tony to gauge his reaction but the man has reverted again- eyes as blank as the walls of the apartment. A persons home is a reflection of themselves, Peter supposes, so it makes sense Tony’s is so… empty. So impersonal. He’s not sure Tony’s ever been honest with himself for one second. “If I comply, it’ll make this easier on both of us. I will have your kids, Tony, and I will do whatever you ask- I will request nothing more from you than what has already been established in the contract. I’ll be compliant, just like you want.”
I’ll submit.
It appears in a twinkle, but it’s gone in the next blink- that same shimmering suspicious lurking just beneath the surface. Tony won’t just trust Peter, he understands he’ll have to work for it. That to tear Tony apart, he’d have to be patient. He’s ready to play the long game, if it means something changes.
Anything.
Peter shifts, attempting to alleviate some of the pressure on his knees, and his thighs spread, tightening the jeans around his thighs, highlighting the curve of his crotch. Tony’s eyes flicker down and linger, and Peter wants to quickly correct his position or even cover himself, but he doesn’t. If he’s going to commit, he’s going to commit.
He spreads them further and smirks at the flare of Tony’s nostrils.
Tony’s eyes snap up, and his eyes capture Peter in their grip; has him freezing mid movement, his sliding hands now balled on his mid thigh and his eyes wide. “A spontaneous change of heart?” Tony asks, his voice heavy and full; almost heady. It makes Peter feel powerful. His body is not at all what it used to be, but it is still powerful enough to invoke some sort of reaction from Tony. Even if he is too skinny. Tony’s eyes suddenly narrow. “I don’t buy it, Peter. What are you up to? If you’re trying to play some mind game and think that I’m going to fall in love with you because you start being some dotting, submissive housewife- you’ve got it wrong.”
Peter’s heart stills in his chest. Deny deny deny. “That’s not it at all.” He breathlessly denies, wondering how transparent he has been in return tonight. Tony has offered him virtually nothing but just how much has Peter offered to him? His eyes dart between Tony and his own lap, and he struggles to figure out a plausible denial until- “Mj explained it to me.” he begins, voice squeaky. “My duties as a… as a wife. I knew it from school, of course, the clinical version- but she explained it in depth. I-I’m not scared anymore, Tony, or ashamed. I-I’m ready to be what you need me to be. What you want. She explained to me that this marriage is for your benefit; not mine. I’ve accepted it. No catch.”
“Prove it.” Tony shoots back with no hesitation, calling Peter out on his bullshit when he was absolutely certain that pitiful little lie would have bought him some time. Tony slides down a smidge in his seat, his shoes sliding further apart, spreading his legs even more, and his hands slid between his thighs, pressing them open. “Show me.”
The brown of his eye was no longer visible; it was pure pupil, pitch black and beady as they gazed down upon Peter, his smirk both daring and knowing- almost as if he wanted Peter to do more, but knew he wouldn’t.
“The punishment?” Peter reiterates instead, dragging back to focus the main point of this night because dealing with that was a hell of a lot easier than mustering up some fake fucking courage he apparently had, and doing to Tony something he couldn’t even do to himself. Damn him and his big fucking mouth.
Flaunting his body was easy. Touching Tony’s was not.
Tony chuckles, a low, raspy sound and he shakes his head. “You’d rather that than to touch me, Peter?” Peter knew that Tony knew he was full of shit, and he was boldly calling him out on his lie. Taunting him. Peter also knew if he didn’t do something about it, his entire plan was going to blow up in his place before he even had a chance to fully set it into motion. Tony shakes his head before Peter can even respond. “No. I can paddle your ass later; tonight, I want you to prove it to me. Show me how unafraid you are.”
He gestures towards his lap and Peter turns his head away, towards the landing pad. If he strains his ears, he can hear honking horns and the slapping of busy feet walking down the crowded hallway. He imagines all that would happen if he doesn’t do this, an apparent paddling included, and then he imagines what would happen if he somehow found enough courage to even just touch Tony.
He’d- what? Suck his cock? He knows the techniques, knows all the apparent sweet buttons on the cock- how sensitive the frenulum was, and how to time his mouth with his hand so perfectly that the smooth glide of hand was followed by the quick, powerful suction of his mouth. He knew where to position his tongue, how to guard his teeth, how to tease the slit and draw as much possible pleasure from the simple act.
He knew all of that and yet, he knew nothing. He had no experience. He had no real idea what the fuck he was supposed to do. He was bound to be clumsy, and messy, and bare his teeth at the wrong moment and-
Then Tony wouldn’t want him.
Taking a deep breath, Peter turns back to Tony, catches the man's gaze and the smugness on his face- and it’s decided for him- if only to wipe that smug look off of his face. He rocks back up on his knees, placing his hands on Tony’s thighs before he can second guess the action. His thighs tense beneath the touch, muscles quivering and dancing beneath the sensitive tips of his fingers. Peter’s breath hiccups in his chest from fascination, and in unison, both he and Tony both take in a large breath.
He peaks up at him, finds Tony’s eyes have never left his face. Tony’s chest is rising and falling rapidly, and there’s that dangerous look in his eye- the one that was both unhinged and intense.
“Here, sir?” Peter asks, and at Tony’s pinched expression and confused hum, Peter daringly rubs his palms up Tony’s thighs a little higher, and pauses, asks again; “Would you like me to suck your cock here, Tony?”