Archive of Our Own ^beta

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It’s been a wild fucking night. First, there were those fans. Then, the strippers. And then… And then the explosion. In hindsight, Peter thinks as he sits atop the smoking wet remains of an NY uptown celebrity lounge, he could have been better at preventing it all. In hindsight, Peter also thinks that Mr. Stark is the sole man to blame for the carnage. And, well, speak of the damned devil. The Iron Man suit, likely a drone of Tony’s own creation, appears in front of Peter, hovering on the jets at its feet in line with the edge of the roof where Peter’s legs are dangling.

Peter scrambles to push the two unnamed blondes’ heads out of his lap and immediately makes a snappy attempt to cover his twitching dick with his still-gloved hands. Not fast enough, apparently, because there’s a chorus of digital laughter from the suit’s mouthpiece, and when the boy looks over to blonde 1, there’s a string of saliva (or possibly pre-come) attaching her bowed head to his lap. Both girls giggle and make no attempt to hide what they’ve been doing, or their particularly generous breasts, from the newcomer.

At loss for an explanation, or an excuse, Peter gulps.

“Please don’t tell Aunt May?”

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Peter still wasn’t satisfied with his current predicament. It was certainly a most bizarre thing to say, and even more bizarre to mean. As a barely-legal teen, his night time activities included going out and masquerading as a superhero, saving folks, and occasionally getting blown by Tony Stark. He should be more than over the moon.

Though as Peter’s late-night excursions with the Iron Man happened more frequently, he needed more and more. And not just of sex, though he could do with more of that, but of intimacy. He barely knows the man – the only things he knows they have in common makes up a short list of superhero stuff, shared interests in inventing and the sciences, and dead parents.

Peter starves to get inside Tony’s head. Deep, deep, permeating the thoughts deep. Wishes to know everything about the man, the essence of genius, undisclosed desires, et cetera. Wants to get emotionally deeper than he is in Tony Stark’s throat, understanding and knowing so much more about the man than what his dick looks like, the expression his face when he comes.

Peter sighs and looks out to the night. His wishes go unheard by Queens.

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MJ is lighting up another joint out by the time Peter comes back to himself. It’s sunrise, light leaking through the blinds. He lifts an arm to shield his eyes and finds himself looking down at his own naked body, cock flaccid and leant against the inside of his thigh. The world is still a blur, but Peter figures he’s alright.

MJ is sat down on the rug of her bedroom floor, for whatever reason. She’s in his unbranded, plain black boxers. A sliver of sunlight stipes across the side facing him, across her breast, almost highlighting the way her nipple stands to attention in the smoked-out room.

“Want anymore pot?” She muses, hitting the joint. She noticed him waking up, so she must be only a little high. He shakes his head no when she looks over to him, and she shrugs and leans to reach the coffee table to tap out ash in a nondescript ashtray. Peter’s still woozy so he’s not hyper-aware of what the movement does to her breasts. He’s not completely oblivious, though.

“You look beautiful.” He blurts, then wishes he hadn’t. The smirk she aims at him is deadly, inhumane.

“This mean you’ve forgotten about Mr. Stark?” And yeah, he really wishes he hadn’t. Peter kicks sheets from his ankles and sits down beside her on the floor, somehow unashamed of his own nakedness.

He plucks the joint from her fingers, and really, it’s the only answer she needs.

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It’s probably the most ballsy thing Peter has done, but whatever. They’ll cross that bridge when he’s not grinding up on Tony Stark wearing skin-tight womenswear shorts. I mean, the man had offered to take him clubbing, right? And Peter would totally be disappointed with himself if he didn’t at least try to take Tony home.

And wow, he really shouldn’t be disappointed with himself. Because there’s hands on his waist and lips at his neck, and okay. This is new.

Tony’s dancing with him, grinding against him. Dick hard, hands controlling the motion and Peter has no choice but to ride with it, to drop and press his ass back when a hand on his back pushes him forward and a hand on his hip keeps him rooted. He manages a hair-flip on the way back up and is relieved when it doesn’t whip the man in the face. Tony spins him, and wow, that’s the front of his badly-fitting shorts against Tony’s suit pants, and ouch, whoever knew that women’s clothes would be so unforgiving on the aroused male crotch?!

Tony smirks at him as Peter looks into his face, biting his lip. He hardly feels predatory anymore; it’s hard to after someone makes you the prey. A hand slips to grope his ass. The loud moan that slips out Peter’s lips is beyond his control, and he’s thankful for the pulsing bass of the music. And then – and then Tony – the bastard – pats his rear somewhat affectionately and turns tail back to the bar.

That bastard.

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Making out with Peter Parker is like living a free-spirited teenager’s dream. Tony feels young in a way he never has done before, feels free from superhero-ing and business ventures, governments and his own AI’s. He feels timeless and reckless and young, loved-up and romantic-novel, sepia-toned bliss. His classic Camaro smells like new books and sea air, like a lazy summer.

Peter Parker makes Tony Stark feel like a teenaged boy – scratch that, a teenaged girl. Devoted heart and life-long promises, bittersweet taste of innocent love.

The car is parked on a hilltop, overlooking the coast. The sky is overcast, like it’s threatening to rain, but Tony doesn’t have it in him to care. Peter gazes intently at the view from the passenger seat, curled up in an oversized sweater, knees to chest. Tony stares at him, wondering how science could create so much perfection without error, and wonders how he ever could get so lucky when Peter turns to look at him and smiles. Peter’s knees slot down, unfurling from his sweater ball, and he leans across the stick and handbrake to meet Tony’s lips in the middle.

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Coming out as Spider-Man was the best worst mistake Peter ever made. School becomes a meet ‘n’ greet, and everyone who doesn’t fear him respects and worships him. Penis Parker becomes sex symbol, cool kid, all-round revered pupil. Flash practically licks his trainers shiny at the lockers every morning, Ned ends up swamped in cheerleaders at least once a day, and applicants for the Decathlon grow in the hundreds.

Peter will admit, it has got to his head. He wears the suit to school more often than he doesn’t, disregarding the mask, makes a show of saying goodbye to aunt May in the morning while the press swarm the front of the apartment block and goes on far too many one-time dates. He skips school at any sign of a minor crime just for the thrill of swinging around the city mask-less. Maybe Peter enjoys it too much, but there’s worse vices than that. He’s wild, he’s off the rails. Then again, name a teenager who isn’t?

But for all Peter’s power and fame in Queens, he’s still scared shitless when Captain America pushes in the door of his Lit class one day and drags him away by the scruff of his neck, emphasising the meaning of humility all the way home.

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So maybe it hadn’t been clear from the start, but it certainly was now. Professor Stark was a raging pervert. Peter gulped in a breath as his professor upturned his foot, heel in his palm, and kissed the arch. Peter resisted the urge to kick out or convulse, because damn if the feeling wasn’t ticklish. Thankfully, that was all the attention the underside of his foot got before Stark’s hands were tilting his toes downwards again, lips brushing over the top of his foot, up to his shin.

Peter gulps back saliva and looks down to where the man is kneeled on wooden floor while he is sat on the desk. Professor Stark looks back up at him expectantly then, lips wet, eyes dark. Horny. His hands retreat from Peter’s heel then, but fix themselves on the boy’s jean-clad spread thighs. He kneels up more, until his head is eye-level with Peter’s dick. The clammy hands on his thighs stroke down the denim – back up to rest closer to the crease of his legs. Peter’s dick jumps, and Professor Stark licks his lips, eyes fixed exactly where the action is.

“Do you want to blow me, Sir?” Peter asks, quiet and thankfully without stuttering.

“I suppose I should.” And wow, that frown on Stark’s face actually looks contemplative, even if his eyes have already decided what they want to do. “After all, doll.” A pause. A big, calloused hand going for Peter’s zipper. “There ain’t no rest for the wicked.”

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In hindsight, he shouldn’t have brought Peter the Mustang. She was beautiful – a latest model, light blue GT. Starting her up felt like the pleased rumble of a satisfied lover, accelerating felt like she was actively attempting to pin the driver to the seat to ravish them. Tony had fallen for her – but it seemed Peter had fallen in deeper.

Trying to contact his lover had ended only in dial tones and unsuccessful calls – and when Peter finally picked up the phone, he never stayed long. Was always at a service station, or crashing at a hotel after driving all day, too tired to talk or too antsy to get back on the road. Tony feels inadequate.

A week later, he finally manages to get through to Peter for some quality talk time. Peter’s at a motel and is sure eager to get back on the road with his very appropriately named baby-girl, Sally, but Tony finally takes priority over the damned car.

He’s got a hand around his dick within minutes of the call starting, watching Peter’s hands jerk his own over a video call. “Finally want me, baby?” He muses to the boy, and Peter whines and shoots more precum over his fingers.

“I’m in Santa Monica,” Peter breathes, and, oh God, how could Tony be so stupid?! “Give me your address, I’ll be there in half hour.”

The idea of his baby boy driving all that way too see him is just too much; Tony groans and spills over his palm.

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Everywhere King Stark’s fingers touch him, Peter’s skin sets slight. He’s strapped to the bed, wrists tied to the headboard with leather riding straps, the black silk of his petite skirt hitched up to the tops of his thighs. The King’s fingers are firm, almost bruising on the inside of his thighs, as they’re pulled apart. The skirt hitches up higher and Peter tries to buck into the contact, gasping. He’s sweating heavily, just from being taken apart by his Majesty’s hands on his legs, his chest, his sore, reddened nipples.

“Anyone ever done this to you, whore?” His King speaks and Peter gasps and shakes his head, tears prickling in his eyes. “Well?” The King snaps, and digs his fingers in harder on Peter’s thighs, leaning over the boy. Peter blinks away the tears and shakes his head furiously, looking up into his King’s eyes. He feels his dick drip more pre-ejaculate into the thin material of the skirt, and is so confused as to why the King’s rough treatment of him turns him on more.

“No, your Majesty.” He gulps out and knows he’s said something right when the King smiles down at him, but without a hint of mirth. A hand leaves his thigh and Peter whines as the contact ceases, can’t hold back a mewl when it slips under the silk of his skirt to wrap around his dick. The King leans further down over him, uses his other hand to leer over Peter and whisper into his ear.

“Good, because I’m going to ruin you for anyone else who does.”

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Mr. Stark’s hands spread over his chest, find purchase firmly in his shoulders. Peter gasps, balls-deep inside the man, and gasps some fucking more. It’s unbelievable. So tight around his dick, pressure and pleasure and warm, wet heat. His virginity is gone, nothing to be said or done now. And then – and then. Flexing muscles around his cock, and Peter feels like he’s going to go off at any moment.

“Mr. – Mr. Stark, I-”

“Kid.” And oh god, that’s so dirty. “Peter, just give me-” Another flex, and Peter whimpers, feels wooden headboard splintering beneath his fingertips. “Fuck, that’s hot.” Tony murmurs out from underneath him, and Peter cries out and tries his best not to buck his hips. He really does try his best, but his best is apparently not enough – his hips move shallowly and Tony groans like he’s been punched.

“I’m so – ah! – So sorry, Mr. Stark!” He manages, and really he could be sorry for anything. Legs wrap around the back of his thighs, tug him closer. His hips buck involuntarily again, and Tony lets out another noise.

“Oh, god, please, fuck me.” Tony pants and Peter feels more wood splintering from the headboard as he looks down at the man’s face and begins to screw him into the mattress.

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Peter gasps as he pours the lube into his palm – it’s cool and sickly-slippery, but it will warm up soon. He re-caps the bottle, lays it beside him, and angles his phone camera just so that it will catch his oiled-up musculature and hard cock, obscene and lube-glistening already. Maybe what he’s about to do is just a little risky, and maybe a lot stupid. Mr. Stark might be in a board meeting, or in company of good friends, and God only knows what would happen if he opened Peter’s text in front of Pepper. Or Steve. God help him if Steve sees this.

Too late. Peter wraps his lubed palm around his slick cock, humming for the way that the sheer amount of lube he’s used makes his fist feel like the vice of a soaked pussy. His hand glides so easily over his dick, and he can strip it fast, so fast he might as well be fucking into his fist like it were a pussy.

 It’s an effort to stop, but Peter convinces himself to do it, lips sealed over his own noises of aroused protestation. He has a plan he has to adhere to, after all. The picture message he sends off to Mr. Stark is an image of his fingers cupping his cock at the base, holding it vertically, head dripping and red.

Peter’s halfway into fingering himself open, about to snap a pic of two inside himself for Mr. Stark, when he gets a reply.

Don’t you dare cum. Be there in 10.

Peter hears himself make a noise that sounds like a cross between a laugh and a moan as he screws himself back on his fingers. The phone drops to the bed, forgotten. Mission success.

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The night is dark – which is bizarre for Queens. Hidden away from the light, tucked into a quiet alley, steam emanating from pipes in the walls, tarmac wet and so slick in the sharp, sparse moonlight. Peter gulps, and peels the mask off tentatively. He’s taken maybe a hit or two to the face from the last assault – there’s blood congealed and fresh under his nose, just above his lip, and the sensitivity of a fresh bruise forming around an eye. The suit comes off, and it takes maybe more effort than Peter would admit to avoid tender parts of his ribs.

He’s been jumped hard tonight, but it’s no matter. The pain and the bruising will be gone by first light, anyway.

Before he gets back into civvies, however, a noise behind Peter startles him. Wind whipping, a crash of a dustbin lid to the floor. Peter spins around and agilely bends his knees to crouch in a way that may or may not faintly resemble Spider-Man’s signature. And is faced with –

 A man. More specifically, a crotch. Peter straightens up, trembling just a little, and resists the urge to cover himself with his backpack. He’s naked apart from his own boxers, and can feel the hair on his arms stand to attention. Peter’s scared, even though he shouldn’t be, because the man behind him can’t be any more than a drunkard. An incredibly attractive dark-eyed brunette drunkard at that.

“Smell so good,” The man mumbles, and it’s all the warning Peter gets before arms enclose him and a head ducks to his neck. Peter struggles, using the full potential of his spider strength, gasps aloud when his arms stay pinned to his sides. What the- and is that a tongue up the expanse of his collarbone?!

Peter only stops struggling when teeth sink into his neck.

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The battle of NY ends in chaos and ruin. The sky is lined with armoured brutes, buildings burn, and the helipad of Stark Tower is in the middle of it all. The sky is blackening early from the ash and the rubble, and the thickness of the particles in the air smother Peter. There’s a quiet now that’s somewhat more eerie and more threatening than the screams of the dying and the collapsing of skyscrapers. Loki steps down from a Chitauri ship parked on the helipad, clothes unmarred from the ruin and skin unblemished. The cheek of him…

No one moves, and no one talks. It’s distressing to say the least, because now would normally be time for one of Tony’s quick quips about incompetence and Nat readying herself for a silent assassin’s strike. But there’s nothing – only the sound of Asguardian boots across the cracked tarmac of the helipad. Steve is silent and unmoving, and even for all of his righteousness, he stays down at the God’s command. Blood drips to the floor from his chest – the wound is incapacitating, potentially even lethal.

Bruce Banner sits slumped, head hung low. He’s not visibly wounded, but his body language is a sure enough sign that anger has faded into frustration, frustration to hopelessness. His knuckles green when he clenches them spasmodically, but the colour fades moments later as if even the Hulk can’t find effort. Loki steps over Thor, the first sign of a smirk crossing his features as the god below him moans weakly.

Clint’s hand finds Peter’s ankle from where he is curled in on himself behind the boy, and presses a device into his skin.

There is hope for them yet, the Spider thinks, and gets to his knees.

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It’s a sin to think about him like this, Tony knows. A whole day he’s had to deal with Peter in his vicinity, working around him in the lab. The little, uncertain, “Mr. Stark?” every so often; doe-eyed and fluffy haired, pure and even somewhat obnoxious the moment he gains a shred of confidence.

Tony Stark wants Peter Parker on his knees, his dick painting fluid over the boy’s lips as the boy purses them, looking up at Tony, the murmur of Tony’s surname unbidden in his mouth. It’s intense and stupid, Tony knows, but even the knowledge does nothing to calm him. The lust is so intense that the fantasy is on his mind all the time, like he’s some sexually inexperienced amateur, like he is Peter’s age instead of his own.

Peter leaves following the conclusion to a day in the lab – Tony watches him walk away, his eyes drawn to where the boy is tightest, hottest.

Tony pulls up the next designs for an Iron Spider suit when he’s sure the boy has left. His fingers barely fit in the prototype glove – even on the suit’s loose fabric setting. This fact turns him on more, which Tony acknowledges, is so very wrong.

His hands aren’t small enough to feel like Peter’s would on his dick, and though the density of the suit is more-so than Peter’s current spider-wear, the hand on Tony’s dick is nowhere near foreign enough for Tony to pretend that it isn’t him touching himself. When he comes, it feels like a cop-out.

In his mind’s eye, Peter sits on his heels, open-mouthed, cum dripping from the boy’s plush, red bottom lip – doe-eyed, and hair mussed from Tony’s hands pulling through it.

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There’s blood in the water, swimming through the current like ominous cloud through a stormy sky. The banks are muddied – stained and reddish as Peter’s cream doublet, hanging open jaggedly from the front like an unfastened corset. The boy is panting from across the bank when Tony Stark spots him there, hurriedly tearing off his muddy, bloodstained breeches.

Tony doesn’t say anything – would loathe to ruin a moment like this. The boy has killed before the eyes of God, and is unrepentant. Unscathed. The doublet is torn hastily off as Peter kneels beside the corpse of a familiar villager, beaten and sodden in muddy shirt and breeches. The deceased’s eyes face upwards, as if he was looking to God, and God had stared back. Only the look on his face speaks nothing of placidity; only of shock, and lifelessness.

Tony watches in fascination, and pure horror, as Peter Parker, the son of the village church bishop, pushes up the undershirt of the deceased’s and slices open the stomach with a knife he has to hand. The boy’s face never changes – peacefulness doesn’t even give way to exertion when he rolls the body down the bank, now stitched full of rocks and weighted debris.

Tony watches on, hidden amongst the shrubs on the other side of the bank, with intrigue and amazement. He can’t even bring himself to be repulsed.

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After school – that’s what Tony had said. After school, and they snort lines off daddy’s red Chevy Caprice dash, park up in the abandoned gorge and dance like maniacs to blues. But Peter couldn’t wait til then – he hasn’t used in a month, hasn’t hung with Tony in months, plural, and every second spent not telling Tony about his relationship progression with MJ is eating him up inside.

Hell, right now, Lit is eating him up inside. He can barely remember the number of witches; let alone what they said to Macbeth. He’s dialled up to eleven, restless, and requests to use the bathroom if only for somewhere else to be, somewhere else to go. He opens the bathroom door, and there, splashing water on his face, is Tony. They share a weak smile, albeit briefly.

“I was only gone for a season, Parker, and you already made moves on my girl?” The smile spreading across his friend’s face is infectious – and even though Tony might be a little pissed about what happened with MJ, he doesn’t show it now. Arms open wide, and Peter folds into them willingly, even accepts the noogie when his hair is fisted playfully by Tony’s wet palm.

“Technically, Stark, she made moves on me,” Peter muses, pulling back to grin manically. “Must’ve missed you just that much.” And, well. Peter missed him just that much too. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll both be high enough to accept that truth later.

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When life gives you lemons... You make lemonade. When daddy’s money is inherited... You buy a private jet. Tony Stark is twenty-one and as morose as he is handsome, as frivolous as he is youthful. Weeks blur into months after the funeral, and there’s nothing left to do now but drive himself into the ground like a particularly vengeful stake.

The company stays upright – Obadaih says they’ve actually made more sales now than they have in the past few years. This seems almost unfair – Tony would probably feel a little better if Stark Industries were buried along with his parents under the strain of their absence. It makes him feel like shit that the world just keeps on turning without Howard Stark in it.

He’s been in the jet for 7 hours consecutively now. Led on his back, panting, staring up at the ceiling as if there’s more to look at than cream paint and LED light strips. There was a quick pit stop at an airport Tony hadn’t even thought about learning the name of two hours ago, and there he had swapped champagne for brandy, oysters for French fries; Joanna and Kasey for Peter.

He’ll be in the sky for at least two hours more, and that’s plenty of time for round two with the boy-whore, who’s currently picking up a pill from Tony’s navel with his tongue.

Tony breathes steadily, and feels his skin jump erratically when Peter pulls away, breath cooling over the spit-slick trail. It’s going to be fine, Tony sobers himself, twining his hands in the boy’s hair. Just don’t think about them.