Just desire
Peter often wonders how very differently his life would have turned out if he’d been taken at sixteen, the target age for children. Would his childhood naivety granted him enough faux courage he could fake his way through the first few months of the relationship, until he eventually became comfortable enough not to pretend and could use experience rather than lessons?
Because he’s read the books. The guides. Studied the photos, and the facts. He knew all the clinical directions, but he didn’t know how to apply them to this exact moment without seeming robotic and methodical. He’s never done this before, as was evident with everything he’s done thus far in this relationship, but reminding Tony of that- again- felt far too painful and embarrassing for Peter to even entertain the thought of doing.
He licks his lips and pears up at Tony from below his lowered lashes, hoping the man wasn’t watching him and had miraculously fallen asleep but, upon the discovery of two brown eyes (previously) boring into the top of his skull, locking with his uncertain gaze, Tony smirks.
He believes he’s won.
Determined, Peter unbuttons Tony’s pants and gets his zipper halfway down- with surprisingly steady hands, when, suddenly, Tony’s right hand is shooting out to still Peter’s. “You don’t-” his voice is thick, low. Tony clears his throat and tries again, subtly shifting below Peter’s touch. “You’ve proven enough. I’m not going to force you to do this, Peter.”
The implication of care hangs there, somewhere in his words- a retraction of a dare, a refortification of freewill and consent. Peter knows that Tony’s simply doing it to save them both the embarrassment when Peter's clumsiness turns up no orgasm and just wasted time, but something deep within him still stretches and flutters at the words, at the look on Tony’s face- hard with determination, all serious and grim.
Tony may not desire Peter, or even respect him, but a small part of him is still human enough to not become the monster Peter was prepared for.
That Peter feared him to be.
Peter can feel Tony’s heartbeat from where he’s still touching him on his thigh, can feel how fast and frenzied it is. A part of him wonders if it’s from fear- a fear of being touched, a fear of allowing Peter's mouth so close to something so precious and delicate to him- while a larger part prays it’s out of excitement.
The stupid part of him just goes ahead and blurts out, instead of removing his hands and taking his out, “I can do it, sir.” He moves his hand from beneath Tony’s and resumes unzipping his zipper. “Let me do it.”
Because, apparently, now Peter wants to find the courage to touch him.
He honest to god feels like he’s going to throw up, but he tries his best to bury all of those emotions, to hide them behind thick walls of denial and stubbornness. Tony can push him away at any moment; he can tell Peter he doesn’t want this, that he needs to go upstairs and think about what he’s done, about what he’s going to do, but he doesn’t.
He sits there, silent, studying Peter as the boy shakily tugs Tony’s pants open and stares at the bulge in his boxers. His cock wasn’t even fully hard yet, it was only at half-mast, and still- the size ot it is quite impressive, has Peter’s stomach clenching in remembrance, and his mind reeling at how in the fuck that ever fit inside of him.
The noise of Manhattan dies around them, silenced to enunsiate Peter’s trembling breaths and Tony’s own loud ones. Their eyes lock, and in a breath, Peter watches as Tony’s gaze shifts, wavering, before something settles there, in the brown depths; an acceptance, a reluinquishment.
He slides down the couch a bit further, spreads his legs a little wider, arrogance absent as something settles over them, an air of understanding, of patience and equality.
“Go slow,” Tony murmurs, and his voice sends a shiver down Peter’s spine; has his stomach rippling with some foreign sensation that he finds oddly enjoyable. “We can take this slow, okay?”
Peter nods. He takes a deep breath, wets his lips, then does the only thing he can think of doing at the moment, and delves right in.
Tony gasps, his cock twitching in Peter’s hand at the first touch, and Peter has to swallow back a squeal when he can feel it grow in his palm. It’s warm and heavy, thick and long. The head of his cock was a soft, rosy color- a stark contrast to the dark, velvety skin enclosing his shaft. It felt like Peter was gripping textured steel swathed in silk, each individual vein throbbing against his palm as he just sat there, admiring the length of which has granted Tony plenty of public attention.
So famous, so desired, so yearned for; and there it was, in Peter’s hand, growing in his palm, throbbing against his fingers.
Uncertainty rears its ugly head, and Peter’s eyes immediately turn to Tony for assurance, for guidance- only to find the man has his eyes closed, confliction and lust warring on his face.
Peter frowns, fingers twitching around Tony’s shaft as he turns his attention back to the task at hand, mind blanking on everything he’s ever learned in the past; on the proper etiquettes and protocols. He’s never had an actual living, growing, human cock in his hand before, his own aside, and it was a little…
Weird.
To have had so much fear over something so… it definitely wasn’t small, but in comparison to his own fears, it was tiny. He’s allowed it to have so much control and dictation over his life, and it truly does not even live up to all the hype.
He stares at it, hard, willing it to do anything, even twitch again, when, suddenly, there is a sigh from above him. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”
Peter jumps, his hand unintentionally tightening around Tony’s shaft, and the man hisses- hand flying up to grasp Peter's wrist. “Jesus, Peter- it’s still connected to my body.”
“Fuck- of course they’d pair me with the fucking prudish Virgin Mary.”
Peter's cheeks flare hot as embarrassment cascades through his body. “Sorry,” he mumbles, immediately correcting his grip, relaxing both fingers and his spine so he’s not so stiff and rigid. Unsure if he’s allowed to try again, he looks up at Tony, tongue poked out between his lips, and asks- “Can I try again, Tony?”
Something hot suddenly hits Peter’s finger, and when he glances down, he watches as cowper’s fluid blurbles out of the slit of Tony’s cock, the clear substance rolling slowly down his shaft.
Peter’s brows furrow.
In lessons, it was always taught that precum was a positive sign of arousal. It was often used for lubrication, yes, but a cock often released little droplets of it as a strong indicator of enjoyment. Peter hadn’t moved a single muscle, all he’d done was speak to Tony. He’s not sure what exactly he did, or said, to excite the man- but he was determined to do it again.
Tony eyes him warily, almost as if he expected Peter to, at any moment, either bite, or rip his cock off. He wants to remind him that he’s inexperienced, not a savage. “I’d rather you didn’t if you’re not sure what you’re doing.”
He wants to roll his eyes but, actually, Tony is right. He doesn’t really know what he is doing. He can put on the show, and pretend, and claim the books told him how it was to be done as if he were fulfilling some life-long prophecy.
Truth of the matter, though, is he has absolutely no idea what he’s doing.
“It can’t be that hard?” Peter says, and he realizes a little too late he should have evaluated that sentence in his mind for a moment before speaking it, made himself just a little more sure, because the way it comes out, it sounds like more of a question rather than a statement. Shaking his head, Peter slides a bit more forward on his knees, for a better angle, and adjusts his grip on Tony’s girth.
He is determined.
Tony snorts. “You’re the one holdi- Jesusfuckingchrist.” Tony’s words were a jumbled, rushed mess of nonsense as Peter, refusing to hold back any longer and tired of Tony’s snarky jabs, and curious to the taste of Tony, dives forward and pops the tip of Tony’s cock in his mouth.
He hears, rather than feels, as the man grips the cushions on either side of his hips, the material squeaking in protest.
Peter's nose twitches at the flavor. It isn’t unpleasant, it is just a little salty, and the weight of Tony’s cock on his tongue was odd- his mouth filled to the brim with the man’s arguably most famous body part.
Loved by many, Peter’s mind whispers, a fierce reminder that, while Peter was new to this all, Tony was not. He was experienced. Others have been here, in this exact position, and they, too, knew what they were doing. Treated Tony well.
Done everything Peter could not.
Loved by many, Peter’s mind repeats, but with his cheeks full and his heart swelling, Peter reminds himself, but married to only one.
Invigorated by that thought, by the realization that Tony was his, he gives a testing twirl of his tongue, breath held in anticipation, wanting to hear Tony’s reaction to the slight movement.
The man groans, and the cock twitchs against his tongue; slides further into the envelope of Peter’s mouth.
From down here, all he can see, smell, taste, hear and feel is Tony Stark; completely overwhelmed by the man. The curly hair at the base of his cock smells clean, like something soapy and sharp, something masculine; smell twining with taste as a splash of salt and something musky dances across Peter’s tongue. From every point of which they connect, Tony’s heartbeat echoes loudly back into Peter's body, reverberating to his core, twirling with the mounting heat that’s permeating into him.
He’s not dare look up at the man, afraid of what he might see, but he knows what he feels, what he hears, and Tony’s noises of approval only encourage him, solidifying his certainty in his decision to follow through with this, regardless of his anxieties.
Something settles deep in his gut, Peter isn’t sure what it is, but the knowledge of its presence spurs him on and he takes Tony a little deeper. He tests the movement of his hand too, hollowing his cheeks on the drag up as he moves his hand down. He tries to remember pointers from the book, on exactly where to pull and push and when to suck and when to stroke. He was approaching this in the entirely wrong way, like it was a quiz he was attempting to ace, and not something he was meant to experience, too.
All he can focus on is Tony, though. Praying with every bone in his body that the man was enjoying this, that, despite his extensive experience, Peter somehow compared.
It isn’t until Tony, on Peter's next hollowing of his cheeks and swirl of his tongue, lets out this deep, guttural moan- sounding exactly as if it had been pulled from the very core of his being, that Peter realizes he is doing something good.
He tries thinking less and feeling more, focusing not on his movements but rather the feel of Tony, of the way his body responds to him and his touch. How his cock sits heavy on his tongue, gagging him with every bob of his head. How his jaw was aching and the back of his throat sore. On how, everytime Peter convulsively swallows around the hard length of Tony, the other man’s thighs tremble and he lets out these deep, sweet sounds.
Peter gets so lost to the task, to the taste and the feel, to the idea that he’s doing it, he’s pleasuring Tony, that he doesn’t even realize he lets out a sound without meaning to, pressing his lips as close to the base of Tony’s cock as he can get- pubic hair tickling at his nose. His noise causes an unintended vibration and Tony jerks at this, his hand suddenly in Peter's hair, guiding him, encouraging him as small little noises slip out of his lips in turn.
Peter did that.
A mixture of saliva and precum is leaking from between his lips, creating a slick mess in Tony’s lap but the man doesn’t seem to mind.
“Peter…,” Tony breathes, that grip in his hair tightening.
Peter shivers at the sound of his name, so lust laden and gravely. He moves with a tad more confidence, with a bit more desperation. They’ve found themselves captured in this perfect little bubble, and Peter is willing to do whatever it takes to maintain it. To always hear his name falling from Tony’s lips, sounding like that.
“Peter.” Tony breathes again, a slight edge to his wording, almost a warning. He tugs on Peter's hair, trying to pull him up but Peter isn’t budging. He doubles down on his efforts, wanting to see this to completion.
He’s not sure what’s gotten into him, on why he has this sudden desperation to get Tony to cum in his mouth, but that stupid little voice in the back of his head chimes, ever helpful,
You want proof, and Peter can’t deny that. He wants proof of his success, wants proof that he is wanted.
Tony seems to have other ideas, however. Another tug, another low ‘Peter.’ Until, finally, Peter goes with the tug and lets Tony’s cock fall out of his mouth with a- ‘pop’, quickly giving his lips a questioning smack at how swollen and odd they feel, before he looks up at Tony, only to find the man looking at the wall just over Peter’s shoulder.
“Please, sir,” he begs, his hand keeping up with the same speed he’s maintained this entire time. He flicks his wrist and swipes his thumb over the slit, gathering the evidence of Tony’s arousal, and Peter's own saliva, to slick the movement of his hand. “Let me taste you, please.”
Begging was good. Begging was proof that Peter was to Tony as he promised himself earlier; submitted. Here he is, begging for the other man’s relief with his own completely forgotten. His body, in this moment, was completely neglected. Tomorrow, when this was all said and done, he’d somehow convince himself of this exact thing; that he’d done this to prove to Tony that he was done fighting.
He’d forget all about his carnal desire to taste the man. To devour every last inch, every last drop, until he was filled with nothing but Tony Stark.
The fingers in Peter's hair spasm, and Tony’s hips buck off the couch. “Fuck. Peter- fuck.” Tony sounds hoarse and positively wrecked and Peter did that. Peter, the Virgin Mary, the inexperienced weirdo, he did that. “Say it,” Tony insists, and in any other situation Peter would have the mental capacity to recognize the desperation in Tony’s voice; would register how, to anyone else’s ears, it would sound as if he were begging.
But Peter doesn’t right now. All he can focus on is getting his mouth back on Tony, on how the desire is so strong it’s nearly painful- so before he can even pause and think to reflect on Tony’s question, wonder why he would need Peter to say anything, he relents and asks;
“What?” His hand is slick as it slides up Tony’s shaft, creating this obscene squelching noise. “Say what?”
“My name.” Tony groans, his entire body growing tense beneath Peter’s hands.
“Si-”
“Not Sir, no- my name, Peter. Say it.”
Peter may not have access to his full mental capacity, but he has access enough to be confused by the request. His hand doesn’t stop its movements, but it does slow down, his face pinched with confusion.
“Your name?” He wants to ask, knows another version of himself would be brave enough to. “Why your name?”
But he’s not brave. He’s not that other version. He’s a coward. He’s submissive. He will do anything Tony asks, as long as the man asks him like that.
No. Instead, he lowers his head down just enough he’s hovering over Tony’s cock, mouth positioned to swallow him the moment he was granted permission, and he felt oddly powerful, poised as he was- hand and mouth and tongue taking Tony apart as the man once had done with him.
He closes his eyes, uncertainty ringing in his core, and he whispers across the head of Tony’s cock; “Please, Tony, let me taste you?”
The first string splatters against Peter’s lips, hitting him with such force droplets ricochet off of him. Peter quickly, greedily, opens his mouth and swallows Tony’s cock in one go, the rest of his release shooting hot, thick cords down the back of Peter's throat, filling his mouth up so full he feels like he was going to explode with it but Peter dutifully swallows, keeping up the pace of both hand and mouth as he sucks Tony dry.
He boldly chances a glance up and finds Tony is already watching him, stealing Peter's breath away.
The gaze is intense and dark and raw, electrifying in its entirety; it is a moment of pure, unfiltered vulnerability and desire written in the lines of his face, in his blown pupils, until, in just a blink, it is all gone and Tony’s head is tipped back, exposing the elongated curve of his neck, his bobbing adam’s apple.
The violent clenching of Peter's stomach shocks him.
What was that.
When he feels Tony start to soften in his mouth, he gently pulls the man's cock out and sets it down, rocking back on his heels. His lips are swollen and his mouth and chin are covered in a mixture of semen and saliva which is dripping down onto his heaving chest, but he can not feel a single bone in his body.
He is buzzing. His ears are ringing. He isn’t sure if he went without oxygen for too long, or what was wrong, but he feels either three seconds away from passing out, or from- he’s not even sure. He’s never felt like this before. The muscles deep in his stomach are tight and knotted, and his groin feels odd. The blood in his veins are singing, his heart pounding. He feels like one wrong move and he’s going to combust into a tiny million pieces.
“I don’t-” Peter shakes his head and offsets his balance, falling to the side. He barely manages to catch himself by shooting out a hand, but something definitely feels wrong. He doesn’t feel in danger, he just feels… disoriented? His eyes snap up to Tony, fear dominant in his heart right now, and the man is watching him with a guarded expression, eyes and countenance unreadable but firm.
“Peter?” Tony asks, brows furrowing, head tilting, a hand held out in preperation like it was prepared to catch him if he falls, but Tony doesn’t care, right?
Tony doesn’t care.
Perhaps Peter has pushed himself too hard today, he decides as the ringing intensifies, as this sudden mind-splitting pressure is felt at the base of his skull. He pushed himself too far, too fast, with minimal strength in his reserves and this, with Tony, was just the icing on the cake. He felt weak getting home, what made him think that this was a good idea?
It’s only then that he’s made aware of the deep, angry throb between his own legs. He looks down, both offended and disgusted, to find the front of his jeans have been assaulted by his own leaking precum, and there’s a very obvious bulge tenting the material.
He’s never felt more betrayed and confused by his body before in his life.
“I’m hard,” Peter whispers, mortified, his cock answering in kind now that it was acknowledged with a sudden, jarring twitch.
Tony suddenly scoots forward on the couch, bringing him closer to Peter as he skillfully tucks his flaccid cock back into his jeans.
“What? I didn’t hear you, Peter. Speak up.”
Peter swallows thickly, the taste of Tony still heavy on his tongue, and tilts his head up to look at the man and away from his offending appendage.
“I’m hard,” He repeats, embarrassed. “I’ve never gotten hard without being touched before.” Peter admits in a small whisper. He doesn’t care how pathetic it makes him sound. Even the night of their wedding, however much he did try to enjoy it, his own pleasure wasn’t at the forefront. He thought he’d enjoyed it then. That sex wasn’t bad, that, with Tony taking his time, he had enjoyed it, but back then, felt nothing like right now feels.
And he’s not even been touched.
He wants to cry. He’s both embarrassed and- what? Turned on out of his mind? He’s not sure why he’s ashamed to tell Tony this when, just seconds ago, he had the man’s cock in his mouth. It just feels dirty admitting it. That his body, thought to once be broken, worked just as everyone else's.
He bows his head and sniffles, shame creeping into the forefront of his mind and chasing away that electrifying feeling of arousal.
“I’m sorry.” he says, hoping an apology would be sufficient enough to wipe away the mistake of getting hard when he was only meant to please Tony- to do to him as he asked, and take nothing in return. He’s not even sure how their night ventured in this direction, but he regrets it all.
“Unzip your pants.” Comes a voice, Tony’s voice, a low murmur- raw with residual pleasure. Tony’s feet spread apart, visible in Peter's line of sight, and soon a hand is joining the picture as Tony grips Peter by the chin, sending tingles down his jaw and up his skull, making his skin prickle. He tips Peter's head back, forces him to look up at him.
“You’re going to touch yourself, Peter, and I’m going to help you.”
His stomach rolls. Peter shakes his head and scoots back, immediately regretting both actions as his head throbs and his jeans create friction against his cock, squeezing a hiss from his throat as pleasure tingled through his groin.
“No.” he says, shaking his head vehemently, mentally preparing himself to launch himself out of the window. Earlier he refused, now it seemed like his only option. He couldn’t- he wouldn’t. “I-I won’t.”
Tony’s eyes narrow, and that muscle in his jaw ticks, the one that lets Peter know he’s trying to be withholding, to be gentle and patient, but that he’s making it so very hard to be. “You wear defiancy like an armor, Peter, are you aware of that?”
Peter bites his lip, cheeks flaring hot. What happened to all his false bravado and promises? His supposed devotion to Tony, his desire to submit- his plan? How easily it was for him to crumble not even an entire hour into it.
He looks down at his hands, at the trembling in his fingers, and shakes his head. “I will do anything, Tony, anything- but please, not that.”
“Why?” Tony asks, and he sounds curious. There’s the squeaking of the couch as the man stands, and then he’s walking towards Peter. “What is so wrong with your body, Peter, with touching yourself?”
Peter gulps, but he doesn’t answer. He stays staring at Tony’s shoes, heart skipping a beat with every inch they advanced on him; with every resounding step forward.
“Are you afraid?” Tony whispers, and despite the tone of the situation, he does not sound taunting. He just sounds genuinely intrigued. “Disgusted? Ashamed? Why won’t you touch yourself?”
Peter curls his hands into fists, resting them on his thighs, refusing to answer for the simple fact that he doesn’t know.
He doesn’t know.
He doesn’t know why the act of intimacy is like a shot of poison in his system. On why his body rebels against it, specifically when it is a solo act. He does not know why he wants to rip off his skin every time he thinks about his cock, or sex, or the fact that he will have to partake in these activities if he wants a husband or children.
He doesn’t know, and Tony will not accept that for an answer.
Tony crouches so they are on the same level, and still, Peter keeps his eyes on Tony’s shoes, jaw clenched, nostrils flared. He’s willing away the pressure forming behind his eyes, keeps attempting to swallow the lump in his throat, and yet, despite it all, he is still painfully hard.
“Peter.”
He doesn’t look up.
A lone finger trails across his jaw bone, curls at his chin, a simple touch amplified by his senses and careening towards a touch too overwhelming, but still pleasant. “Look at me, Peter.” The finger encourages him gently, attempting to get him to lift his head but he will not budge.
He does not know why he is being so childish and stubborn, but a small part of him knows, knows the moment he looks at Tony, really looks at him, his resolve will crumble and he’ll forget his own free-will and do whatever it is this man asks. Whatever he desires.
Even if it means tying himself to his own burning stake.
Again, though gentler this time- in a voice so soft, so unlike any tone Peter has ever heard Tony use, he prompts- “Look at me, Peter.”
And so, he does.
And what he finds staring back at him is not at all what he expected.
He thought he’d find some humor there, dancing in Tony’s gaze. Perhaps a smirk, perhaps a cruel leer. But instead, he finds an amorous gaze, laden with the faintest hint of concern. Pity lies there, in the undercurrent of his stare, but it is not dominant; it is not demeaning.
“Did somebody hurt you?” that soft voice implores, Tony’s eyes searching Peter’s. He can tell the man is looking for something, anything, that would breathe some reason and sense into this entire situation, but Peter knows he will not find anything because there is nothing there to find.
There is just the truth of a mentally broken boy, who hasn’t the faintest idea why he is the way that he is.
“No.”
Tony’s eyebrow twitches, but his features quickly resettle on impassive, a master in the art of self-control and masking. This close, face to face, Peter can smell the alcohol on his breath. It’s overwhelming and almost nauseating, but it’s oddly soothing, too. A comforting anchor in a turbulent sea.
Tony’s finger is still curled beneath his chin when he finally asks, “Would you like me to show you?”
The Tony, now, crouching before him- and the Tony of just forty minutes ago, do not coincide at all. It was like night and day, winter and summer. One minute he was cold, the next he was hot, burning Peter and everything within his close vicinity. This is the Tony that Peter has always craved, the one he will bow beneath, submit to. This is the man he has chased, and cherished, and desired.
It just hurts to know that, after all they have been through, it’s taken sucking his cock to get him to show a little bit of decency.
Peter’s breath stutters in his chest, and his eyes flicker over Tony’s face, attempting to read the man, his intentions- but he was practically raised with cement walls erected around him at all times. Hiding his true emotions comes as second nature to him, and whatever Peter sees now, whatever he thinks he sees, is exactly what Tony wants him to see.
And that terrifies him.
But it also thrills him.
“Yes.” He breathes, without giving it a second thought. He doesn’t know what he’s signing himself up for, nor does he want to dwell too much on it. All he knows is that Tony is here, alive and present, all kind words and helpful hands. There was no snark, no anger, no cruelty.
Just desire.
And Peter wants so desperately to understand.
_____
Peter’s heart is pounding so hard he thinks it might actually burst out of his chest. The delicate tinks of ice cubes hitting glass were wonderful sensory inputs to distract him just enough he doesn’t feel entirely consumed by his own anxiety, but not enough he could just ignore it entirely. He craves Tony. His touch, his wisdom, his experience.
But at the same time, he is afraid of it. Afraid of how badly he will get burned if he gives in to the man.
He’s just so tired of hiding, and pretending himself to be okay and normal when that is far from the truth. He wishes he had something traumatic to offer as a way of reasoning, of why he cannot stand to be touched. Anything to make him just a little more normal. Even his spider senses would be nice to blame; but they would all be lies. He has been like this since he was just a child; afraid of his own naked body, repulsed by it and anything regarding sex.
The internet condluded he was asexual when he was twelve, but that didn’t sound right, either. Because he craved it; the relationsiop, the intimacy. Just not with himself, by himself. As long as Tony was here, guiding, Peter is fine, he knows he can do it.
Tony said nothing more after Peter’s vocal consent. He’d simply watched the boy for a few seconds before standing, and walking over to the table to retrieve his glass. He is in the process of doing just that at the moment, Peter still knelt on the ground, chest heaving and body tense. He can’t shake the feeling that he is going to mess something up; that Tony’s offer was just an excuse to set Peter up for disappointment and failure.
Another opportunity to humiliate him.
He already knew he wasn’t worthy of the man; has had those very thoughts tormenting him from the moment he met Tony that dreadful day, and yet, the man could have refused him. Could have turned him away.
The fact that he didn’t, has to mean something.
He reached for him when Peter was shutting down, and he isn’t sure what to make of it. Tony… something is different in him, in his gaze. Their argument still lays in the air, fresh and heavy, but it feels as if it belongs so far in the past that it shouldn’t even have the power to affect them anymore.
He doesn’t understand why Tony gave in to him.
He pushes while simultaneously pulling away. He claims to not care, then corners Peter at the mere prospect of the boy never coming back. Fear may not have dominated his voice, but it echoed in his movements, in his actions. He’d been truly afraid Peter would not return, and that eased something inside of him. Had that massive knot of worry loosen just a little.
When Tony approaches him again, Peter’s eyes desperately searching his face, attempting to gauge his thoughts of feelings, he finds Tony’s mask carefully slid back on. The man was inscrutable, yet purposeful, in his prowl.
He stops before Peter, and Peter slams his eyes shut, his breathing coming in short, shallow gasps. He has made a mistake, a terrible mistake, but he fears the consequences he would surely face if he dared retract his consent. Tony was being kind with him for the moment, more like reluctant civility; who’s to say he won’t snap if Peter goes against him?
“Peter?” Tony asks, voice startingly close to his face. He can smell the alcohol on the man's breath. “Are you alright?” He can tell by the strained note to Tony’s voice that he was asking simply to appease Peter, not because he cared, not because he was worried; but because he could not have his toy broken before he’d even had the opportunity to use it.
“Yes.” Peter’s replies weakly, his voice trembling despite his best effort to keep it steady. He’s really not, but Tony doesn’t need to know that.
He hears the sound of ice clanking against the glass once again, closer this time though. He keeps his eyes closed, afraid to face Tony, to face reality when his cock was still weeping prominently in his jeans.
He doesn’t understand how his anxiety hasn’t deteered or lessened his arousal.
Instead, he feels like it’s simply fueled it.
There’s a gentle touch on his shoulder, and Peter has to tense every single muscle in his body so he does not pull away or flinch, his heart giving a painful thud in his chest.
“Open your eyes, Peter.”
Pressing his trembling hands against his lower abdomen, Peter forcefully swallows and does as he’s told and slowly opens his eyes, blinking blearily for a few seconds before settling his gaze on a kneeling- kneeling, Tony.
Not standing, not crouching, not squatting- kneeling, so they were on the same level, eye to eye, person to person. No titles, no expectations…
Just Peter and Tony.
“Here,” The man offers him quietly, holding out his glass of caramel liquid. “You’re going to need this a lot more than me.”
It startles Peter. One thing he knew about the man was his dependance and favortism of alcohol. He simply could not function without it. And yet, he was giving it away? Offering Peter that little branch of inclusivity by gifting him something he cherished so much?
Peter stares at the weeping glass for a moment, wishing to read the secrets hiding within the rolling condensation, but nothing is there, nothing is apparent. It’s just a glass of alcohol, and they are just two men who happened to be married to one another. Tony probably does this to everyone he beds; offers them liquor to loosen them up.
Without a word, Peter reaches out and takes the glass, bringing the soothing liquid to his lips and gulping greedily. It burns, and tastes vile, and will do absolutely nothing with his increased metabolism- but the psychological comfort takes effect immedatiedly and he can feel his anxiety melt away, replaced by a warm sense of gratitude.
It was moments like this, simple gestures of kindness and understanding, that keeps Peter hooked on Tony, on his determination to see the good in him and make the man fall in love with him. He knows Tony to be capable, can see that fact bleed into every single move the man makes; he just wishes Tony would not hide.
A part of him yearns for the experiences he has missed out on, namely his tolerance for booze, but with the way Tony is watching him right now- he decides no liquid in the world will ever make him feel as dizzy.
It’s a disarming look. Dark and penetrating as it pinned him in place. It was intense, despite not a word having been spoken; tension so palpable Peter could feel it pressing at him from every which side. The glass was still pressed tight against Peter’s lips, the ice melting against his upper lip, but he dared not look away; enraptured with Tony’s gaze, caught within him as if he were a helpless fly stuck to a web.
Tony looks as if he wants to devour him.
Peter is surprised to find that he wants that, too.
His next exhale was shaky, chilled. He moves the glass away, setting it on the floor by his knee without breaking eye contact. One moment they’re just staring, Peter completely oblivious to the stampeding of his own heart, and the next Tony is reaching out and pulling Peter towards him, kissing him with a raw, frenzied hunger.
Peter is caught off guard, the force of which they collided extending further than just the clashing of teeth and nipping of lips as they careen backwards and Tony falls with Peter, over him, knees and arms barricaiding him to the floor as frantic lips burn against his own.
It was as if Tony was trying to consume him whole, to capture every single one of Peter’s gasped breaths and claim them as his own. Peter melts into the kiss, surrends to it, to Tony’s insistent mouth, taking just as much as he was giving, capturing, in turn, his own parts of Tony that he longed for and craved.
It was a hunger that went beyond mere physical desire, a hunger that bordered on anamalstic obsession, a hunger that threatened to swallow them both whole.
In this moment, Peter doesn’t care about anything else, not the outside world, not the consequences of what they were doing; not even his own fears. All he cares about is Tony, and this consuming hunger slowly incinerating him from the inside, rapidly spreading outwards.
He kisses Tony back with all the passion and intensity that he can muster, praying the man can feel it, can feel the fevor of which Peter is reaching, feel how desperate and eager he is for the man. He is no longer afraid. He is no longer consumed by his fears. He’s lost to Tony, to the pleasure, to the feel of the man and the taste of his tongue.
The warm weight of Tony pressing against him, smothering him, does not generate the anxiety it once did. Rather, it excited Peter, his body rocking up into the hardness of Tony as his fingers clutch at the man's shoulders, feeling them tense and ripple with every minor movement.
It feels as if they were reaching a cresting peak when, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Tony pulls away, panting, his pupils dilated to the point of pitch black eyes staring down at Peter, a fine tremor racing down his back- felt at the tips of Peter’s fingers. Tony looks dazed and confused, almost as if he’d been struck; his hair tossled, his lips swollen and parted, glistening with a combination of their saliva.
His eyebrows twitch, a look of confusion and wonderment passing over his face for the briefest of moments- gone just as quickly as it had appeared. Peter was sure he looked a downright mess himself, his shirt skewed, his legs spread wide, openly inviting Tony to slot himself in the space between them.
The intensity of the moment had not lessened or faded, even as they just shared breaths. It was as if a dam had been broken, as if all the pent up emotions and fighting and anger and desire that they both had been holding back, feeling, had finally been released in the most catalystic of ways.
Tony raises a brow, a silent question. “Are you okay?”
Peter inclines his head ever so slightly, afraid his voice would not work, a silent response.
“Yes.”
And then, Tony lunges again.
He starts at Peter’s jaw, nipping and sucking his way down until he is gently kissing a trail down the column of Peter’s throat, his hands everywhere as they explore the odd and angular planes of Peter’s neglected body.
Peter lay there gasping, eyes dancing across the shadows on the ceiling, overwhelmed by it all but still craving more. He doesn’t understand what is happening with his body, how everything feels like too much to his senses, each one diverting like a sporadic ping pong ball, bouncing between every point of which they connect, before resettling on the next; but it’s also simultaneously still not enough.
Peter wants to explode with the intimacy of the moment as his hands are allowed to find the top of Tony’s hair and stay there, parting through the soft strands, brushing them back and away from his forehead as Tony’s tongue laves at Peter’s navel.
The boy gasps and arches up into the ministration, chasing the sensation but Tony pulls away with a deep, pleased chuckle.
“Perhaps you’re worth saving after all.”
Peter freezes. He can take the words to heart; can obsess over them to exhaustion, but something is lurking there; in Tony’s gaze, in his words.
Like an invitation.
Like a challenge.
“Perhaps it wasn’t the to-oy- ooo…” Peter begins to say, all breathy words, but Tony nips at his hip bone and he trails off into a soft moan. He writhes beneath Tony, legs twitching with the urge to wrap around the man and hold him in place. “Maybe it was just the user.”
That earns him another nip, though this one was sharper and located right below his navel; a warning.
“Trust me, Peter,” Tony begins, flicking the button of Peter’s jeans open as nimble, skilled fingers make quick work of his zipper, “these hands have seen plenty of toys, and not once have any of them complained.”
“Would you?” Peter counters, wiggling on the floor as the cold air washes over his overheated, sensitive skin. He was doing a damn good job of staying in denail to the moment, to what Tony was doing, and pretending everything was normal as his jeans were tugged at.
“Would I what?”
Peter yelps, Tony’s question enunciated by a hard tug at the boys jeans which resulted in him sliding an inch down the hardwood floor. He scrambles back up to his previous position, cheeks beat red but he was. in. denial.
“Complain? To you?”
“Me?” Tony has the nerve to sound confused, yet humored. “What’s so wrong with me?”
“You’re Tony Stark-” Peter breathes, trying to ignore the fact that the man's name, still a wound stamped across his heart, holds so much power it literally feels dangerous even uttering it. Tony Stark was a dangerous man. He was intimidating, and beautiful and ridiculously endearing, but he was also so many other things, and the fact that Peter has found himself beneath the man once again, all anxiety silenced, really says nothing when it comes to his reputation.
Tony Stark was all of those things and more. He is a world famous billionaire. A genius. A world renowned lover. Iron Man. A literal superhero and an Elite. He has a long list of qualifications, and to disappoint him? Or even admit to the man that he was anything less than perfect?
“Again, what is that supposed to mean?”
“It means we’d rather lie than disappoint you.”
Peter hates that his entire body has gone hot with the admission; that he literally feels as if he is going to melt at any second, but it is the truth. Peter, the day they met, would have sawed off his own foot before he dared displease Tony Stark. But it seems all he has to do is exist and he’s already enough of a disappointment.
Something he accomplished long before meeting Tony.
The hands at his boxers still, and Peter does not look down but he can feel Tony’s gaze on his face.
“We?” Tony asks, and his voice is like a punch to the gut. It’s so soft.
Peter’s head slides against the floor as he nods, looking at everywhere but Tony. “We.” He parrots in confirmation.
Peter lets out a loud squeal when his ankle is grabbed and he’s suddenly being dragged down the floor, his legs easily spreading to accomodate Tony’s size as the man slots right between them.
Tony leans over Peter, looming over him with a hand positioned right next to Peter’s head.
From this angle, Tony looks ethereal, bathed in the Manhattan lights, and Peter’s breath stills in his chest.
“Our lives could have been different.” Tony whispers, an admittance in the dark. Peter can barely make out the features of his face; shadows harboring every crevice, hollowing out his cheeks and swallowing his eyes. Something has shifted; something feels different. He doesn’t think they’re talking about Tony anymore, or his reputation. It feels heavy, serious, just as it has every other time Tony has said this exact thing.
“Things could have been different.”
I’ve tried, Peter wants to repeat back to him, just as he’d done back then, wants to scream it. I have tried.
He doesn’t though. He stays silent, watching Tony as the man’s eyes shift; he looks conflicted, tortured.
“That first day, when I asked you if we could make this up as we go; we could have done everything so differently.” He inches closer and closer with every word until, finally, their lips are nearly touching.
The next sentence is uttered directly against Peter’s lips.
“I could have loved you.”
Peter’s heart seizes.
And then, Tony is kissing him at the exact moment his hand slips into Peter’s boxers and fists his cock.
_______
Tony’s POV
There’s a warm hand in Tony’s own, and the sound of soft breathing pulses behind him in taunting waves. He believes, for a moment, that if he keeps his eyes sealed shut, closed to the room, to the reality of it all, that what he knows to be true, what he can feel to be true, is a mere hallucination.
The faintest hints of alcohol still sits at the back of his throat, and he wasn’t that far gone to remember exactly how many glasses he may or may not have had. What he’d meant to be one had turned into two and then, with every passing minute and every ignored message or call from Peter, he just slowly lost track of how many, exactly.
He knew it was not enough to pretend his reality was altered in any way, though. However much he wishes that to be false.
The faintest rush of temptation passes over him, a gentle little whisper of encouragement that they’ve made it this far, all the way to the bedroom; one little look wouldn’t hurt. One little glance-
Peter’s curls are unruly and wild, where they’re fanned out across the pillow to frame his face. A few wayward strands are curled over his forehead, and Tony has to fight the intimate urge to swipe them away. That wasn’t them. That was not the dynamic he has enforced thus far, and despite what he told Peter last night, what he tempted him with, the truth of the matter remains the same.
Tony will never love him.
Even if Peter, lying prone on his bed, head tipped all the way back so the delicate curve of his neck was exposed, gentle breathes that weren’t quite snores, escaping his lips- was endearing. He looks so soft, so calm, so unafraid, and Tony’s heart panges as flashes of that same face flicker through his mind, fractured memories of last night, of nights before that, of betrayal and anger and heartache and pure hatred curled across those delicate features.
He never meant to allow Peter to fall this far. He never thought the boy would. He thought he was pushing him hard enough, keeping just enough of a cruel hand that he would garner trust but not such devote admiration and blind devotion. He never thought Peter would lie beneath him and allow him to defile him as he’d done last night, again, not that Tony hadn’t broken his own promises by reaching out to the boy and touching him.
He never meant to give in to Peter.
He needed the boy to hate him, make this easier on the both of them.
But Peter refused. He is infuriatingly stubborn.
And Tony is a weak man.
Cruelty should be his second nature by now and, yet, Tony constantly finds himself stumbling when he should be striding.
A soft whimper draws his attention, and when Tony looks up, Peter’s face is pinched with displeasure, his lips puckered and brows furrowed. He looks so troubled, so broken and fragile, even in sleep. The fingers in his hold twitch with tremors, and Peter’s suddenly moving, curling into himself completely, withdrawing his hand from Tony’s as he rolls away, to his side, and takes both the warmth and the blanket with him.
Tony feels nauseous.
He wants to stay here, like this, where the world has not yet touched them, where ignorance is blanketing them, and just watch Peter breathe for as long as he possibly can.
But as he moves, Tony shifts too.
He pulls away and slips out of the bed, mindful of keeping his footsteps light and as quiet as possible.
He grabs his phone and slips into the master bathroom, closing the door quietly before he leans back against it, clad still in only his boxers, and calls the only number his trembling fingers knows how to dial.
Muscle memory by this point, he’s sure.
“Hello, Tony.” Pepper greets him only after the second ring, her voice ringing crystal clear and far too chipper for the time of morning.
“Hi,” Tony breathes, still trying to keep that nauseated feeling at bay as he breathes through it, afraid if he speaks any louder he may wake Peter up. Their previous interaction is only a little hazy in his mind, but he is fully aware of what his drunken lips had spoken. All he can think about it Peter’s expression after he’d told him, whispered against his lips like some sinful secret,
“I could have loved you.”
It was hope trampled by incredulity and suspicion.
It was a broken little look.
“Am I supposed to say hello again?” Pepper questions, the familiarity of her voice both comforting and calming as Tony breathes in and out, relaxing into the conjured presence of Pepper and her bluntness. “Or were you going to actually speak?”
“I’m compromised.” Tony admits quietly, really just a breath into the phone that carried little sound. His heart and hands flutter at the admission, and Tony feels his knees buckle but it’s sheer determination that keeps him upright.
“What?” Pepper asks, shocked. Then there’s a gasp. “Tony, tell me you didn’t.”
Tony tips his head back and lets it smack against the door, staring up at the bright ceiling, unsure if he can tell her what he’s done.
Probably not what she thinks but, still bad.
“Why did they pick me?” Tony asks instead, again, for the millionth time since he was presented with the proposition. He was weak, easily influenced, harbored no self control; everyone knew that. Everyone. “Why did- why him?”
Pepper’s sigh is weighted, even over the staticy receiver, and it’s like a punch right to Tony’s gut. “You know why, Tony.”
“Yeah,” he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut tightly as his fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. “I guess I do.”
“You promised you would be fine.”
“I am.” he shuffles his feet a bit, taking a step away from the door for the sake of needing to move, unintentionally putting him in the direct pathway of his mirrors. He stares into his dead eyes and repeats; “I am.”
He comes to an abrupt stop, his knees aching at the movement in remembrance at how he’d mistreated them last night, at how the hard floor had been cruel and it makes him flinch. He frowns at his reflection. “Did I– I mean, how do I stop myself from breaking him, Pep?” he asks, now more concerned than he honestly had the right to be. Guilt burns through him worse than any fever ever had, and he watches his reflection blink, watches him sway, and all he can think about is ‘Please, Tony, let me taste you,’ and, “It means we’d rather lie than disappoint you.”, and the silent conversations where words were not needed and somehow, facial expressions were all they needed despite the constant rejection, and hatred, and disgust; despite Peter’s heart and this relationships being tarnished by cruelty and blatant ignorance, Peter trusted him, and he’s dizzy–
“You don’t.” Pepper says, loud, clear, reminding him of his role in two simple words, a role he detests but is meant to see to the finish line. She sufficiently draws him from his spiraling. “That’s not your job, Tony. Your only job is to-”
“Yeah,” Tony cuts her off abruptly, breathing harshly into the phone. “I’m well aware of what my job is.”
“There’s no need to sneer at me, Tony. I tried talking you out of it. I tried to protect both you and that boy, but you insisted it be you. If you couldn’t handle it, why did you agree?”
Tony fumbles. He could lie. He could. But it feels so wrong; it rises like bile in his throat and he swallows it down, and swallows again just for safe measure. Instead, he hangs his head and retaliates with; “If not me, then who?”
“That’s not the point, To-”
“If not me, then who?” Tony raises his voice, cutting her off again to repeat his question. He can hear Pepper shift over the phone, and he knows she’s attempting to dissect him over the phone, to read his tone, and his words, and his actions. She’s trying to understand him, but she can’t. Tony doesn’t even understand himself. He doesn’t know what is wrong. Just that his head is pounding, and his heart feels heavy.
Silence ensues.
“Exactly.” Tony finally whispers, and he presses his hand against his chest, feels the bare ridges of scar tissue, the thumping of his own heart, of how it screams with each beat how wrong this all was. “I took him on, because I knew nobody else qualified enough could handle it. Steve is too righteous, Bucky too broken. Sam would have caved after the first week and Clint never would have agreed to it. I was their only choice. I had to.”
Pepper breathes sharply into the phone. “Were you though, Tony?” she asks, voice small yet hard. “Qualified?”
Tony is actually afraid of answering that. He feels like he is qualified, feels like he can carry this out to the end, but he knows he is not. Pepper will, too, the moment Tony even tries to say anything other than the truth.
“I gave in to him, Pepper.” Tony admits instead, an answer in and of itself. Peter’s begging to be seen, to be heard, to be treated like an actual person had hurt Tony far worse than any stray shrapnel ever had, and that was an answer, too. The realization kicks that restless fight-or-flight instinct into gear, translates into antsiness and tenstion, anxiety rising and building inside of him like tidal waves.
Pepper’s sigh is like a gunshot. “You don’t-” She hesitates, almost as if she’s afraid to ask him this next question, afraid to find out his answer, but continues- “Do you love him?”
“No.” Tony breathes out, the first truthful thing he’s said tonight. The first thing he’s not had to hide behind half-truths or attempted deflections. He doesn’t have to internalize her question and ponder over his response, because he knows the answer. “No, Pep, I don’t.”
And he doesn’t. He feels sympathy for Peter, and pity. He definitely feels attraction for him, something he obviously, and easily, gives in to at the slightest persuasion. He feels something for the boy, maybe a fondness, maybe some misguided need to protect him, but not love.
No, not love. It could never be love, regardless of what he’d said last night.
I could have loved you.
“Can you finish it?” Pepper asks, and she sounds lighter now, relieved.
Tony’s a good liar. He’s charming and silver-tongued, and he knows how to weave his narrative and his distractions. He knows how to deflect, and derail, and redirect without his other conversationalist realizing they’ve been run in circles. He could also tell her the truth; that, despite his contract, and his integrity, and his promises, his moral compass has decided to join the equation and he just can’t do it anymore.
Won’t.
But Pepper can’t protect him, and Tony refuses to compromise her by bringing her into this so fully. He can call and whine and moan to her, admit that he’s stumbled, that he’s weak. But he will not admit to her that, in the end, he does not believe himself capable of fulfilling his duty.
Instead, he goes with the half-truth. “I will try.”
“We just need one, Tony.” Pep reminds him, tone gentle. He knows she is just trying to be helpful, but her words do very little to actually ease him. “One. Then you can be done, and you both can part ways.”
Tony closes his eyes, disgusted by his own reflection.
“If only it were that simple.”