Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/ works/11621955. Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Underage, Rape/Non-Con, Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence Category: M/M Fandom: Spider-Man:_Homecoming_(2017), The_Avengers_(Marvel_Movies), Thor_ (Movies), Marvel_Cinematic_Universe, Spider-Man_-_All_Media_Types Relationship: Peter_Parker/Tony_Stark, background_Tony_Stark/Pepper_Potts, background Peter_Parker/Liz_Toomes Character: Ned_Leeds, Tony_Stark, Peter_Parker, James_Rhodes Additional Tags: Confinement, Depression, Peter-centric, Tony-centric, Comforting_Each Other, Sleeping_in_one_bed, Nightmares, Angst_and_Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy_Ending, Fights, Panic_Attacks, Slow_Burn, Protective_Tony_Stark, Protective_Peter_Parker, Prison, Food_Deprivation, Water_Deprivation, No Privacy, Post-Spider-Man:_Homecoming, Post-Captain_America:_Civil_War_ (Movie), Not_Iron_Man_3_Compliant, Tony_still_has_the_arc_reactor, Jarvis is_still_there, Embarrassment, Partial_amnesia, peter_is_16, Tony_is_40 something, Age_Difference, Fuck_Or_Die, sort_of, Dubious_Consent, Oral Sex, Anal_Sex, Rough_Sex, Blood_and_Violence, Both_Tony_and_Peter_are_the victims, Peter_Needs_a_Hug, Tony_Needs_a_Hug, Non-Consensual_Drug_Use, Aphrodisiacs, Multiple_Orgasms, Top_Tony, Bottom_Peter, Gore, Minor Character_Death, Self-Hatred, Suicidal_Thoughts Series: Part 2 of Iron_Webs_to_Covet Stats: Published: 2017-07-26 Updated: 2018-02-28 Chapters: 7/? Words: 17507 ****** Compromises in the Dark ****** by Sparcina Summary Tony and Peter are made prisoners, with no memory of how it happened and no clue as to what will come next. The cell is too small, the silence filled with monsters, and they only have each other. It will have to be enough. Notes This is dark, folks. Get that teddy bear out of the closet and have a tissue box handy. Tags will be added as the story progresses. NEW: This story is a work of fiction, and I don't approve of rape, torture or pedophilia in real life. If I get one more disobliging comment, I'll start moderating. Now, for those of you who can't seem to read tags and just want to annoy the hell out of people, go and read something else. Thank you. ***** The Cell (Peter's POV) ***** Chapter Summary Peter wakes up alone and afraid. He's an Avenger, thought, and Avengers can't afford to be afraid. Chapter Notes How is this my life? O_o I had a dozen Frostiron fics waiting on my computer before seeing Homecoming (beside the four novels I’m working on, of course) and now… well, I’m writing SpiderIron instead. I blame this new fic on RDJ, Tom Holland, and all of you enthusiastic readers <3 See the end of the chapter for more notes Something was wrong. The room was bare except for a small bed, a matching nightstand, and a red carpet that stood out like a pool of blood on the grey tiles. Everything else was white: the walls, the ceiling, and his hands trembling in front of his face. The smell of fresh paint was too strong, the room too small, and it was all wrong. This was not how he’d gone to bed last night. Cringing as if expecting a blow, Peter scrambled to a sitting position. But why would he expect to be hit? What had happened? His eyes traveled about the room, taking everything in, and widening... He wasn’t alone in the room. Relief flooded him once he recognized who it was. “Mr. Stark!” His voice sounded hoarse, as if he’d spent a lot of time screaming. Maybe he had. He scrambled to his feet... and barely resisted the urge to sank to his knees. The throbbing headache just behind his right eye was a clear invitation to crawl out of his skin, or perhaps curl into a ball for the next eternity or two. The dried blood he found at the base of his neck, and the coppery taste coating his tongue, twisted his nausea into agony. Panic bloomed into his chest so fast he was left panting. He didn’t remember how he’d ended up here. Couldn’t. In this impersonal room, this cell, where the only source of light was a halogen bulb dangling precariously from the ceiling. And it kept flickering. Peter had never been afraid of the dark before, but the combined effect of nausea and the growing suspicion that he suffered from amnesia caught him like a blow to the chest. He doubled over, expecting to throw up, but his stomach was empty. Fuck. The silence, eerie in face of his ignorance, seemed to draw shapes on the wall, mysteries that could kill, if fear was a bow and imagination a speeding arrow. No, he thought, hugging himself. He couldn’t stay like this, paralyzed, like a sixteen-year-old caught in a bad spot. He was an Avenger, even if he hadn’t been given the title officially. More importantly, though, he didn’t know where this was, had absolutely noclue as to how long they’d been there, and Mr. Stark, the reliable person in the room, was still as a doornail. “Mr. Stark?” he tried again, taking a hesitant step towards the bed, as if not to jolt the man awake. He was breathing, right? He could see his chest rise and fall under the thin fabric of his shirt. He looked down at himself and exhaled shakily. He wore the same grey, worn shirt, and an identical pair of black linen pants. He was barefoot. He didn’t want to be barefoot in this place. The light almost flashed out of existence. Peter froze, half in a defensive crouch, forearms lifted to protect his face, and waited either for the darkness to swallow him or the light to stay on. After a final epileptic show, the light stopped flickering for good. It even seemed to get brighter. Peter rubbed the heel of his palm into his eye and shuddered. Two steps later, and he’d reached Mr. Stark on the single bed. The man looked peacefully asleep. His hair was a sticky mess, and it was partly burnt over an ear. An angry line marred his right cheek, and his lower lip had bled, but beside those superficial wounds, the man appeared whole. Anyway, it wasn’t as if Peter had a first aid kid handy. It was only then that he noticed the absence of door. His headache shot pain straight into his bloodstream, and he collapsed on the bed beside Mr. Stark. He tried to think past the voice screaming ‘prisoner!’ in his head, but the headache kept getting worse, and his lungs couldn’t seem to draw enough air. He laid a hand on a broad shoulder and shook it. “Mr. Stark?” His voice sounded pleading, young… very much like he was feeling right now. He didn’t know it yet, but those were the only words he would utter for many hours to come. Calm, first. But he would scream later when panic rode him. “Mr. Stark?” The silence was deafening. * He must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing he knew, he was lying on the carpet once again, one arm twisted awkwardly under his head to cushion it. The headache had receded, but there was fresh blood at the tip of his right index finger. Peter stared hard at the droplet trickling towards his open palm. Had he prickled himself in his sleep? He touched his throat, reassured that the hand of his nightmares wasn’t trying to throttle him anymore. He was pretty sure the average Avenger wouldn’t break down into a situation such as this. In fact, the rest of the team was probably trained to handle themselves in even more dangerous, maddening cases. Well, he wasn’t. So he shivered, hands white-knuckled over his calves as he rocked back and forth, seeking a place of comfort in his swirling mind. It was not easy to find, not with all those question circling around his excuse of self-confidence like sharks, and Mr. Stark still asleep and impossible to rouse (he’d tried, god, he’d tried). There was nothing useful in the room (this cell, corrected his treacherous mind): he’d made sure of it the last time he’d been awake, hunting every corner for anything that could be used as a weapon. He’d searched Mr. Stark too, cringing as he did so, but the man had nothing on him either. His search for a door had been fruitless, although he’d felt every centimeter of wall he could reach twice, trailing his short nails in the vain hope to find a crack he could dig in to widen. He’d knocked on the floor tiles, one after the other, several times over, listening for the telling sound of a hollow space like they did in the movies. Peter mustered what was left of his energy to stand and stare at his surroundings. Thinking. Trying his best to be an Avenger. Ok, so Mr. Stark and he had been made prisoner; on that everyone was clear. He didn’t know where they were, when or if they would get food and water (a more pressing concern, even if he was too anxious to feel hunger yet), and who was behind all this. What he knew amounted to very little, but he still had his wits about him, so he lowered himself to the bed once more and cupped Mr. Stark’s face, turned it slowly to one side and the other. He, too, had dried blood on his nape. And fresher blood at the tip of one finger. Peter released Mr. Stark’s hand with a gasp, realizing he was squeezing it hard enough to cut his circulation. Fuck. Double fuck. Fuck to the power ten. He steeled himself for yet another tour of the room. He might as well make himself useful while nothinghappened. He shivered. * Hours later (or was it mere minutes?), he leaned his brow against the infuriating bland wall and slowly counted down from ten. He really missed his suit, and Mr. Stark would probably miss his own when he woke up. He was thinking more clearly now, and the less hazy his thoughts became, the faster his heart pounded. Like a time bomb. He might not remember how he’d ended up here, but he has a clear memory of the battle yesterday. Or was it the day before yesterday? He’d been fighting a fresh wave of Chitauri warriors, courtesy of Earth’s new archnemesis, Thanos. Iron Man had been against Peter’s participation in the battle, but even with Loki’s help (that had been interesting for the time it’d lasted), the Black Panther, the Hulk, Vision and Iron Man hadn’t been able to hold their own. And Peter… He’d done his homework, so he’d gone to give them a hand, so to speak. New York was hiscity too, damn it. He liked how attuned they’d all become to one another. How the Hulk would send a flying vessel his way, to be caught in his webs. How he, himself, would trap a dozen or so Chitauri warriors into a small alley, where Iron Man would blow them to pieces of alien tech. He liked how dependable he’d become. An asset. Except that assets didn’t get kidnapped, and didn’t have their memories tempered with. Unless it was the blow he’d gotten to the head that affected his brain, which wasn’t much better in the long run. He rubbed his hands over his arms. When had the room gotten so cold? For the sake of being thorough and warming himself up a little, he went through the cell again.   This time around, he searched for cameras, but either the enemy was very good at hiding them, or they hadn’t bothered. Maybe all this was a mistake, he mused, hope flaring in his chest. They could have been forgotten somewhere; a lost cargo, to be opened in a century or two. Still he went on searching, because it was the only thing he could do. He was more methodical than desperate now, not that it got him better results. When he became too tired and too hungry to move, he was also very cold. It wouldn’tr do, to go back to an uneasy sleep on the carpet. Whatever. Gingerly, hoping that Mr. Stark wouldn’t mind too much, he stretched out on the bed next to him. The warm radiating from his body already made him feel better. His stomach stopped trying to cannibalize itself, and his teeth even obliged him by stopping chattering. His jaw ached. Every muscle in his body ached. “Good night, Mr. Stark.” He felt stupid talking alone, but nobody would ever know. Still shivering, he pulled the only sheet over the both of them and tried to let go of his fear. It was so cold. He ended up burying his freezing hands between his knees and his face into the crook of Mr. Stark’s shoulder. Fear was cold, he suspected. If he could relax, all the ice building around his hope might shatter. He sighed and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for Mr. Stark to wake up and tell him there was no reason to be afraid.  Chapter End Notes Tony is next, with enough anger to match Peter's quieter brand of panic. ***** Back to Square One (Tony's POV) ***** Chapter Summary Tony has been kidnapped enough for two or three lifetimes. And what was Peter doing here? Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes Tony usually went to bed alone, when he bothered at all. He’d been known to make exceptions, or rather, one exception, singular: Pepper. She'd been the only person he'd ever allowed to sleep in his bed, even on the nights when they didn't have sex. He had trouble shutting down his brain long enough to get some rest, especially with company, but with the kind of perpetual insomnia that plagued him, it hardly mattered if Pepper shared his bed or not. The problem was, the person curled up against his side was definitively not Pepper. Alarm bells started ringing in the back of his head. Their call melted away the last remains of sleep as realization struck him: this bed wasn’t his.It wasn't his bed in HQ, nor in one of his five houses scattered around the world. It was too hard, too small, and the person plastered to his side, the warm beacon that had roused him from a deep slumber... They were too lithe, too young and too muscular (in other words, not quite his preferred type), and while Tony had taken his pleasure with men in the past, he was in a relationship now, with a woman. As if waking up in an unknown place wasn't bad enough already, he felt weary and nauseous (concussion, his brain offered belatedly to expain the pain at the back of his head). He cracked an eye open, expecting Rhodey's new apartment, perhaps, or some place equally boring which his other senses couldn't identify on their own. Maybe he'd gone to bed completely wasted again, with an equally drunk 'friend'. At least he still wore all his clothes. He'd promised Pepper he would go easy on the alcohol, and he wasn't prone to cheating, not in the last couple of years anyway, but sometimes he was just really bad at keeping his promises. As for the other person in the bed... He sat up so fast his head spun. Never mind the company. A cell. He was in a fucking cell. It took him all of three seconds to realize that he wasn’t having a nightmare. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Scrambling to his feet, he arranged his body into a fighting stance, not caring if his muscles protested. He would fight the enemy, be it Hydra or another stupid terrorist organization. He didn't know who to blame yet, but it was only a matter or time before he... His thought process stopped entirely as he turned back to the bed. The small frame of the kid was hunched on itself, soft limbs like porcelain folded against a thin chest. His brow was covered in sweaty bangs, and long lashes fanned over eyes which, Tony knew, would be the same brown as his own.  Peter. Peter Parker. Tony groaned in dismay, swallowing back the urge to punch at something. Chris, the kid was barely eighteen... or was it seventeen? The suspicion that it was more like sixteen nagged at him for two horrible seconds. No kid, regardless of their age, should ever find themselves locked up in a cell. He himself had ‘visited’ his fair share of them as a teen, but that was because he was Tony fucking Stark, the heir to the business throne of Edward Stark. He knew the game, and he could handle it, but the kid... He was only there because of him. Wasn't he? He had to be. Why else could they have ended up bunked in a windowless, doorless cell together? Panic bloomed in Tony's chest. Pain followed, as if he'd been punched from the inside out, right through the hole where the heart reactor ought to be. Used to be? No, was; he felt the edges of the wound with a trembling finger, brushing the glowing reactor, all the while wondering. He rummaged through his memories, but to avail. His brain was totally reliable, and perfectly organized, but there was only a dark emptiness where answers ought to be.   He stared at his hands in horror, as if they held the key to the disappearance of the last few… whatever it was he’d missed. He was hungry and thirsty and on the verge of a panic attack. Apparently, going to the psy (namely, Bruce) for a few sessions in anxiety management after the Chitauri attack only helped to a certain extend. He couldn’t break down, he told himself over and over as he paced the room. He had to hold it together, because this, here, wasn't merely about him. Peter. "Fuck." He rubbed at his temples, trying to breathe, in and out and in and out again, slow, he had to breathe, to relax, and ignore the mad pounding of his heart... Just as he considered hitting a few walls, a painfully young face peeked over the cotton sheet, tired eyes immediately widening in awareness (and a healthy dose of relief, Tony noted with even more stress). What was he going to do? "Mr. Stark, you're awake!" The kid scrambled to his feet, almost tripping over the blanket in his haste. His hair was tousled every which way, and an ugly bruise was slowly darkening over his right eye. There were deep purple bags under his eyes, eyes too bright and puffy, as if the kid had cried (and probably did). Tony knew he didn't look any better, in a shirt one size too small and pants too long. A prisoner’s clothes. “Hey, kid.” He tried to smile and failed. How could the kid stand so damn proud and naively expectant? His hope was brighter than the light, he was brighter, and Tony was afraid to meet that challenge. Chris, he hated being a disappointment. "Peter." What the hell had happened? He didn't ask the question out loud; it wouldn't do to show the kid how little he knew. Should he hug him, then? It was tempting, but a little voice in Tony's mind sneered that it would only end up with him crying in frustration. Embarrassed with himself, he cleared his throat. "You ok?" "I… I think so." The kid touched the bump at his right temple. For the second time in as many minutes, Tony wondered if he should offer a comforting touch. It was in his nature to want and touch people; as a playboy, sure, but also as a man with a superhero complex, and a mentor. Wasn't he Peter's mentor? Fuck, his head hurt. In the end, it was Peter who closed the remaining distance. His hand found his and fuck, it was cold and small and delicate in his own calloused one. Innocence looked up at him, still hoping for answers, still wishing for a miracle. Tony had none. He let Peter work out his stress by squeezing the blood out of his hand with his superior strength. The pain helped, in a way; everything became so much clearer.     "Do you know what they want?" he asked in his most business-like and panic-free voice, not wanting to upset the kid (and lose one hand in the process).   “No.” It sounded so final. Peter began to fiddle with the hem of his grey shirt as he told him about everything he'd found, which wasn’t much, and everything he'd tried to find. Tony led him to the bed so they could sit. There was no point in staying up when they both looked, and felt, so worn out. Never one to focus his entire attention on one thing or person at any given time, Tony nevertheless found himself listening to Peter religiously. The kid hadbeen a busy little bee while Tony was busy sleeping off the drugs. He fucked hated drugs he did not choose to take, moreover when it led him to wake up in a prison cell with a blank space in his mind.   "There are no doors or windows in this cell, but sometimes, they will create a matter rearranging doorway. I’m not sure how many of them were opened, but I saw it happen twice. It's always at the same spot," he clarified with a jerk of his chin towards the white wall opposite them. "On the other side, there’s some of room that also leads to nowhere. I cannot stand in that place, but it's at least one meter in width and length. Once I found a bucket… and a couple of hours later, there was a plate waiting.” With a dejected look, he leaned down to retrieve a plate from under the bed. Too busy panicking for the two of them, Tony hadn’t noticed it. Not that it was worth a second glance, or appealed to him in any way. His stomach, the traitor, growled. "I kept you a half." Tony eyed the plate, an unappetizing pile of grayish crumbles ran through by a spoon, with a healthy dose of suspicion. It looked downright nasty, and going by the smudges left on part of the plate, Peter had not left Tony a half, but more likely two-thirds of their meager fare. "It isn't much, and it tastes foul, but it helps with the hunger," Peter offered simply.   Tony waved at the plate. His stomach went on growling, but he wasn't the egoistical asshole the media tried to turn him into. "You eat some more first." "But..." "You need it more than I do." Not wishing for a nice conversation to break into an actual argument, Tony took a tentative spoonful. It was exactly what Peter had said: good enough to puke. He forced it down anyway, perfectly aware that his favorite restaurants didn’t deliver in hell, no matter what spice-shy people claimed about shawarma. Under the kid's watchful eyes, he even took another bite. Swearing inwardly at their jailors' lack of cooking skills (it always beat breaking into tears), he finished his share, not wanting to encourage the kid to skip a meal. Peter polished the rest of the plate so fast Tony cringed in sympathy. He remembered growing up, and being hungry. The kind was thin enough as he was… and yet here he was, acting all strong and determined. "Have they given us water yet?" Tony asked lightly. "No." It sounded like a question. The kid looked down at the empty plate, then at their linked hands. Tony hadn't even noticed that they were still touching. "But I'm pretty sure they'd taken samples of our blood at least once." He wiggled his index finger, brushing it against the back of Tony's hand. The warmth of it was welcome. How could he be so cold when he felt so feverish? Tony suspected the cold had more to do with learning that someone had prickled his finger in his sleep than the actual temperature in the room. The dizziness he’d hoped to get rid of came back with a vengeance. Peter cocked his head to the side. "You thinking Hydra?" "I'm thinking a lot of things, and that's a distinct possibility.” Tony squeezed his hand before letting go, ignoring the way the kid's mouth opened in protest. The kid was quite eager to protest, he'd learned, which was one of the reasons Tony found him so damn interesting. Peter Parker didn’t let other people walk all over him. "Why don't you rest some?" “I’m not tired… but if you think it’s best…” The kid folded his hands in his lap and lifted his chin as if awaiting the next order. His relief at having Tony take over was blindingly obvious. The hope from earlier had subsided to a dull light that tugged at Tony's heart. Hope was a double-edged sword Tony sensed dangling over their heads. He ran a hand through his hair and gritted his teeth. He just couldn’t stay sitting for any length of time, could he? "Don't take it the wrong way, but I will have a look around. I know you already searched the place, and I'm sure you did a good job, but I just want to make sure we..." "It's ok. "A wan smile tugged at the kid's lips. "I understand." * A portal finally appeared in the wall. Tony estimated two hours had gone by, even if it felt much longer to his frantic mind. Two fucking hours, and he had nothing to show for it: no tool, no instrument that could be turned in a weapon, nothing. He'd hoped to find at least one camera, and his skin had crawled worse with every further failure. They were watched, of that he was two hundred percents sure. It was what these people did. At least in Afghanistan, Tony could talk to his captors. There had been his fellow cellmate, Yinsen, to whom he could talk as well. A physician whose whole family had died at the hands of the very same terrorists who'd imprisoned Tony along with SI firepower, and had saved his life not once but twice. And now he was dead. Peter would not die, Tony swore to himself, feeling a delightful certainty sooth the raw edges panic had left in his chest. Tony would keep him safe.  "Mr. Stark?" A portal had flashed to life on the farthest wall, revealing the small room Peter had mentioned earlier. Well, room might be too strong a word: the space was high enough for a very small dwarf, and barely large enough to fit Tony's body. Fortunately for him, he only needed to stretch an arm through the portal to grab the glass of water. Slowly, he lifted the glass to his lips and sniffed. Nothing. Most poisons and drugs were odorless, though, so it didn't mean anything. Still, he had to try. His throat was painfully dry, he needed coffee and answers and his suit and fuck, if he could get at least one of those things... Letting out a strangled moan, he took a slow sip, rolling the liquid around in his mouth. It told him nothing more than that he'd expected: lukewarm, stale, with an aftertaste of chlorine, and something spicy. Holding the glass close to his chest, he reached for the empty plate and put it back into the small thing on the other side of the wall that dared call itself a room. "Mr. Stark? Can I have some?" The kid's voice was hoarse, and his lips were chaffed and bruised. Tony wanted nothing more than to give him the rest of the water right away, but he took his time going to the bed, careful not to lose a single drop of the precious liquid. "Soon, Peter." He saw the kid reach the right conclusion and sighed in relief. He would have hated to explain himself while he tasted blood in his mouth, the blood of a fight yet to come, one he would carry on until death did them part. "Soon," he murmured again, cradling Peter’s hand and rubbing circles over his knuckles. A full-body shudder ran through the kid. Tony closed his eyes as it spread into his body, simultaneously appeasing and painful.  He thought he heard a melody, faint in the distance. Humming to himself, the kid rested his head on his shoulder, prompting him to wind an arm around his waist. So warm. Tony thought it good that Peter was warm. Warm meant well. He, too, was warm. And getting warmer… Before he knew it, they were both lying on the bed in a tangle of limbs. Tony let Peter bury his face in the crook of his arm before going back to that dark place within him.   Whoever it was who'd put them here, Tony would find them and make them pay. He was the Merchant of Death. How odd, that the surname used to irk him so much; it was strangely fitting, in this new version of hell. Chapter End Notes This story could be anything between ten and twenty-five chapter long; it will all depend on my muse (I am almost done writing the first chapter of a third multi-chapter Spideriron fic, *sighs*). Tbh, I didn't plan anything but OS in this fandom, but as there are so many 'long' stories I'd like to read that don't exist yet, someone (*looks around*) has to write them. Chapter 3 is on its way, slowly but surely :) ***** Murky Waters (Peter's POV) ***** Chapter Summary A first week goes by. Peter is worried that their captors might be easing them into mental breakdown... and there is that embarrassing moment he really could have done without. Chapter Notes I'm sorry for the long wait, but I can't seem to find time for anything beside work! The next SpiderIron to get an update will be The Gift of Me, unless you all decide you want this one updated first. Enjoy! See the end of the chapter for more notes Without a cellphone or a watch to keep track of time, seconds became hours, and days a first look at eternity. Nights turned into days, which turned into nights, which became an endless flow of interrogation marks in the fourth dimension. Peter never knew for sure when, and for how long, he slept. Of course, he hadn't followed a regular sleep schedule before their kidnapping, and he knew from Ms. Potts that Mr. Stark considered sleep even less useful than he did. Letting go of the paranoia and the anxiety long enough to rest was a challenge they both responded to reluctantly. Peter felt vulnerable, wasvulnerable when he slept; his prickled finger attested to that. He still had no idea (well, no certainty) what his blood was being used for, but even more terrifying than the ignorance were the possibilities… endless possibilities as to what purpose they served, why they had been chosen to rot into this cell.   His poor sleeping issues at least offered a welcome distraction whenever his thoughts strayed too close to methods of torture. At times, the prospect of spending the rest of his life here, which was getting more realistic every day he didn’t wake up in his bedroom, filled him with such dread he feared he would actually throw up. But he couldn’t afford to be sick. Not in such a small, enclosed space, with his childhood hero watching over them… “They sure take their sweet time.” Mr. Stark blew a huff of annoyance from his spot on the floor beside him. They were both sitting cross-legged, facing the wall where the portal always materialized. It was mid-morning, Peter told himself. It was mid-morning, and he was waiting for May to join him in the kitchen. She would prepare pancakes, and he would laugh as she flipped golden pastries in the air with an expert twist of the wrist. Saliva flooded his mouth as he pictured the buttery taste, the fruit jellies, the chocolate spread, the maple syrup… He’d much rather lose himself in happy memories than count the minutes until the portal appeared. Only one glass of water, and Peter liked breakfast. He absolutely didn’t get why some would willingly skip it. Only one glass of water, for the two of them. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter watched how the bored expression on Mr. Stark's face twisted into an angry frown. He could not blame him one bit; to share what little they wore them both down. They had argued at length when Mr. Stark first declared that Peter was to drink more than his share. Wasn't Mr. Stark more vulnerable, with the arc reactor so easy to twist off his chest, and the simple fact of his age? But Peter had let him win the argument, not because he thought the other was right (Mr. Stark was very much wrong), but to avoid more of that anger directed his way.   He felt hollow enough as it was. No, he couldn't afford dissidence in their precarious position. He would be reasonable, even if Mr. Stark wasn't. He would be reliable. He wanted to be reliable. Perhaps Mr. Stark would stop considering him a kid then, and actually share his plans. Because he had to have a plan. Yet Mr. Stark kept his thoughts to himself. They hadn’t talked much after Day 1, and the silence, only broken by small shifts in their positions, small noises of disquiet, and snoring, slowly rubbed him raw. Not that Peter had tried to talk much either, but that was because he didn’t want to distract the one person bound to help him get out of here. For lack of talking, he stayed strong. Watched. On the rare occasions Mr. Stark fell slept, Peter was suddenly privy to a lot of tossing and turning, of whimpers of fright he had zero doubt Mr. Stark would be very ashamed to learn had ever left his mouth in his cellmate’s presence. Such an uneasy sleep may be constructed as the ‘mere’ sublimation of Mr. Stark’s agitation when he was awake, but Peter sensed something different at work, a sort of… fragility to the man he’d worshipped as a kid, and still did as a teenager. How Iron Man had flown with purpose, how well he’d fought off Thanos’ new wave of insect-like soldiers, how he’d blasted to ashes one of their smaller vessels, which had meant to pin Peter to a building and carve his way through his chest, how he’d saved his life again, and again, and again… Heroes did that. But heroes had weaknesses and nightmares just like everybody else. The portal let off an electrical hum as it materialized, jostling Peter out of his thoughts. Mr. Stark let go of his goatee (he'd been pulling at it so often since they'd ended up here Peter was surprised there was any hair left) and reached for the glass. His tired, blood-shot eyes met Peter's. "Drink." Yes. Peter wrapped his fingers around the glass and drank greedily. Mr. Stark's eyes flickered to the water, and Peter could almost sense his thirst in his own throat, worsening his own, like a hand pressing against his windpipe. When he coughed, he hastily closed his mouth around the rim of the glass so none of the water would escape. It tasted peculiar, like every time. Peter had stopped worrying about it after the second glass, more concerned about survival than chemicals, even if chemicals, technically, could kill. While he didn’t know what their captors wanted, if was not their deaths. Not now anyway. Peter liked his lips, trying to salvage every last droplet of precious liquid before handing the glass over to Mr. Stark. They both watched the wall in front of them, and the hole through which the glass had appeared. Peter wondered what Mr. Stark was thinking. He was presently considering a very unappealing scenario in which their captors slowly took everything away from them, including their water. The bed. The food. The ‘bathroom’. Perhaps they were simply there as entertainment, to appear in a documentary depicting how far human beings could fall, how savage and merciless they could become, once everything was taken away from them. Peter held on to the quiet certainty that he wouldn’t become a monster. He didn’t knew why or how, but he would retain his sanity, his humanity. That was the meaning of reliable. Goosebumps broke all over his back and neck. He twisted his head around, but nobody watched him. Well, no one he could see.  “You ok?” Mr. Stark appeared concerned. Peter shrugged, scratching the back of his head. He sensed the start of an itch, and wondered if their cheap clothes were to blame. “Yeah.” He took the empty glass from Mr. Stark’s hand and set it back on the other side of the portal; they’d learnt early on that should they fail to return it, the next one would come much, much later. In an hour or so, a bucket would be available at this exact spot. Peter didn’t care if he had to twist and crouch awkwardly over it to relieve himself. What bothered him was not even the absence of doors between Mr. Stark and himself; they were both guys, it shouldn’t matter. It was embarrassing, yes, but nothing compared to the knowledge that they were both watched every. Second. Of. Every. Day. Without end, without mercy. He licked his parched lips, still hoping for the lingering taste of water. It tasted sweet, somehow. When he’d told Mr. Stark as much, he’d expected questions, but the other had only mumbled something about spicy, patted his knee, and returned to mentally dissecting their situation for an out. “You sure you ok?” Mr. Stark had moved on the bed a few minutes ago, where he now lay sprawled, the fingers of one hand drumming on the side of the mattress. He appeared relaxed, which Peter found odd. Perhaps the man had burnt so much energy worrying and planning he had none left to be fidgety. Peter drew his knees to his chest, circled them with his arms, and hummed. “Yeah. You ok, too?” He felt awkward and stupid for asking, but Mr. Stark’s easy answer dispelled his unease. “Couldn’t be more fine. Just miss Jarvis. Can never quite plan my day around without him.” Peter’s eyes widened slightly. Was Mr. Stark in a talkative mood? The surge of relief that hit him made the imaginary pancakes pale in comparison. “I miss Karen, too.” “She’s great, right?” “She’s the best.” Mr. Stark clicked his tongue, propped himself on his elbows and looked down at Peter. “I’m very proud of you, you know.” “Whatever for?” “Well, for not screaming and running in circles, I guess?” Peter snorted. He wished it sounded less artificial. “It’s not going to help.” “That’s for sure.” Mr. Stark grinned then, and Peter was so envious of his ability to change expressions at will. “It could be worse, I’m well aware of that.” “Worse?” “I could be stuck with Rogers.” Peter didn’t quite know how to answer to that. He wasaware of what had happened in Siberia, and could say in all honesty that his respect for Captain America had dropped to chilly levels that day. He should keep Mr. Stark talking. For the first time, he considered the act of exchanging sounds a source of warmth, and felt reluctant to let go of his newfound blanket. “It could be better, too.” Mr. Stark arched an eyebrow. “You could be with Ms. Potts.” Peter couldn’t help it: the grimace he got in return was just too funny, and he burst out laughing. He was so tired felt tears spill on his cheeks, and he rolled onto a ball on the floor, one fist covering his mouth. “Yep. That pretty much summarize how ideal that would be,” Mr. Stark declared with a dramatic gesture, rolling his eyes. Much too soon, the serious mask was back on. “I don’t think you could have struck a better deal, kid. I’m going to get us out of here.” “I know you will.” Peter said it so fast, but he believed it with every cell of his being. Mr. Stark winked at him, before rolling to his side and stretching his arms. “After all,” he said in a lazy tone, “can’t keep you away from your lady for too long… What, did I say something wrong?” Peter had been in the process of wiping the tears when he’d frozen, heart lurching painfully. “I… We… I’m not sure she will want to see me again, after what happened with her father. The role I played…” He rose too quickly. The room (the cell, the damn cell) spun in vivid colors around him, the white of the walls, the red of the carpet, of his own blood, of their blood mingled on the tiles, their twenty fingers prickled so often, so deep, they lay still in a pool of it, forever caged, forever gone… “Kid. KID!” “I think I…” Peter fell to his knees. Before his head could hit the floor, a strong arm wound across his waist, supporting him. Beads of sweat rolled down his brow. He blinked them away, and swore to himself it was not tears this time around. He could hear his ragged breathing, and as much as he wanted to calm down and get it over control, he couldn’t stop the sheer panic that spread through his limbs with lightning speed. What if they werestuck here for the rest of their lives? Mr. Stark’s voice seemed to come from far, far away. “…an you sit? Think you can sit? Come, I’ll help you sit.” He’d always knew Mr. Stark was strong, but even their harsh conditions here hadn’t put a dent in that formidable strength, it seemed. Mr. Stark gathered him into his arms and placed him on the bed, still warm where he’d lain moments before. “Put your head between your knees,” he instructed. “P-panic… attack,” Peter gasped. He felt too shaky to be ashamed. “Yes.” Mr. Stark’s hand was warm on his nape. “S-sorry…” He felt so cold, so damn cold. He’d felt cold from the moment he’d been shoved into that cell, and Mr. Stark was the only hope he had, a candlelight's glow in the dark universe his fear painted for him. He’d heard that Thanos’ world could drive a man mad for its all-encompassing emptiness… “I’m sorry,” he repeated, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat. “I didn’t mean to-” “It’s ok.” The calloused fingers had starting massaging the tension away. Peter leaned into the touch. He hadn’t known he’d craved it until he started being coaxed into abandon. “Inhale.” He inhaled. “Exhale.” He did. He followed the simple instructions, all the while basking in that warm sense of security Mr. Stark provided just by his presence, his fingers digging into the tense muscles, touching knots, untying them, deep inside of him. “You’re doing well.” A hand in his hair, ruffling it. “Good boy.” Peter didn’t have time to school his expression, but Mr. Stark was looking elsewhere, his attention clearly caught by a new idea. Peter sighed inwardly, grateful for the small mercy of keeping his sudden blush for himself. Those words, good boy,held no hidden meaning coming from Mr. Stark, but considering that they were the ones Peter had hoped to hear from Liz, should they ever get past first base… He tried to sleep for a long time, but every time he closed his eyes, a strange fever struck him, that neither the single sheet or the room’s temperature could explain. He watched Mr. Stark as the man paced the room, and then proceeded to stretch and do some push-ups. Watched him, and wondered what their captors planned behind their hidden cameras. Wondered why he couldn't recall how he'd ended up here, in this cell, with Mr. Stark sweating and panting as he trained, shirtless, all those taut muscles on display, and oh, Peter felt very, very warm, and he wanted... wanted... When he fell asleep at last, it was with Mr. Stark’s back to his, and a definitely pleasant taste on his tongue.   Chapter End Notes I wonder if that taste mean something? (*winks*) Next chapter will be told from Tony's perspective. ***** Confidences in Limbo (Tony's POV) ***** Chapter Summary Two weeks into their imprisonment, Tony becomes slightly too ‘distracted’ to focus on his suspicions. Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes The problem with schedules was that Tony didn't care for them, and always did his best to wreak havoc with everybody else's. It’d been the tipping point of many a fight with Pepper, and still was, even if he’d gone to great lengths to actually wake up on time for board meetings and sign Everest-tall piles of contracts whose content was hardly worth his time. He needed all the few years he had left to create, to revolutionize scientific fields in dire need of his genius, and also, of course, save the world from itself and every flavor of alien invasion. Unfortunately, years of drinking himself silly and what Pepper labeled his 'lethal recklessness' would not allow the rest of his life span to stretch past a decade… if he managed even that. And now, prisoner of an unknown enemy, with a kid dependant on him, he wasn't even sure the sun would shine on him tomorrow. He missed his coffee. He missed it almost as much as he craved for freedom, and the knowledge that would lead him, them, under the open sky. He wasn’t too difficult on the specifics by that point. Sandwiched between ten Chitauri warriors and ten other dumb assholes? Bring it on. Face to face with Hydra’s latest bioengineered threat to humankind? Any day of the week.  Their conditions weren’t that bad. After all, it wasn’t like they were cuffed to the furniture or suffering the Chinese water torture, or forced to… No, better not to think about that. They were given food and water. It was the bare minimum, sure, but they were still alive, and relatively healthy for prisoners. The blood they parted with unwillingly during their sleep bothered him, but it could have been so much worse. What did those people want? Two weeks of wondering, and he still couldn’t tell for sure. Money was a safe bet, but unlikely in this case; people who ransomed others, Tony had learnt the hard way in his youth, would have tried to scare them shitless a long time ago. If he was honest with himself, and he tried to be for Pepper’s sake, he wasscared, or he would be more stupid than that traitorous excuse for a captain gave him credit for, but he was scared because he didn’t know anything. He liked knowledge. It was what kept him alive. So, not for money. Weapon enthusiasts, then? Tony would be very surprised if it was the case; terrorists and other warmongers would have offered him means to build something a while ago, not locked him up in a bare room. Had the kid alone been taken, Tony would have considered a pedophilia network. A boring business meeting in Thailand years ago had taught him that lecherous old men did have a thing for young, slender, innocent-looking boys. Tony had shivered in horror upon imagining that kid sold in a dark alley to suck cocks, but thankfully prostitution wasn’t a probable fate either, or else he wouldn't have been thrown into the bargain. Now, he was quite aware of his good looks, and while he could be considered slender if someone was staring at him through one of those fancy mirrors that messed with proportions, he hadn't been young or innocent in a very long time. So they were not here for money, weapons or sex. The remaining options weren't many, and Tony had settled on the most disturbing (and probable) of all. Studying. If logic still prevailed, then the kid and he had caught the fancy of some mad scientist or scientific community, which may or may be not related to Hydra (or to some very suspicious aliens he could have sworn wouldn't survive a nuclear blow to rhe face) Objects of studies… He almost wished some crazy middle-oriental guy wanted him to build weapons again. Beside, why had hebeen taken, and not another Avenger? Let’s say, the Hulk or Vision? They certainly were more interesting from a scientific point of view. Was Loki involved somehow? The god of mischief and double-entendre had sort of helped them fight off the Chitauri now that he had something against their leader, but Loki was crazy… which meant that in another life, they might have gotten alone like a house on fire. It was at times like that, considering Loki’s allegiances and his own role in the grand scheme of things, that he really yearned for a good bottle of scotch. Questions kept coming, answers were long in waiting, and he just didn’t know what to do so the kid would stay sane until they got out. He didn't share his suspicions with him. As a matter of fact, he even lied to his face when the kid asked him if it could be the Chitauri, because yes, it could, but Tony would not be the one to give that kid more stuff for nightmares. It was bad enough that neither of them remembered how they'd ended up here. One second, they'd been defending Earth, and the next, they were reenacting Prison Break, minus the tatoo map and the good plan. * The kid's first panic attack took him unaware. Oh, he knew well enough how to deal with his own breakdowns, but it was another story entirely when darkness swallowed your only source of light. He’d done his best to comfort him while mentally scolding himself for bringing up that girl, Marie. Or was it Lidia? He couldn't remember, and as he stroked the kid's neck, trying to infuse some warmth into the trembling frame, he could feel his own chest tightening. It wouldn't be long before he, too, lost it completely. Intent on postponing that moment as far in the future as possible, he’d massaged the kid's shoulders, telling him to breathe, giving his voice a soothing yet authoritarian quality so that the kid would listen and calm the fuck down. Tony could hardly hold his anxiety against him, but he felt so powerless in this small, impersonal room, without the key memories that would help him figure a way out. When the kid had started to relax against him, his eyes glazed and lips parted on a shaky laugh, he’d forced himself to smile, knowing that his voice would carry the hope he tried not to scare away. "You're doing well." He’d patted the kid’s head, surveying the room. He could spend the next ten years locked in there and never find the damn cameras, and still he would stare at the blankness of the wall every time the back of his nape prickled. "Good boy," he whispered. It was shortly after that episode, perhaps twelve or thirteen hours later, that Tony became aware that his frustrated silence helped nobody. The kid had not been happy during his panic attack, of course, but some light had returned to his eyes when Tony had started talking. So the kid wanted him to talk. Well, Tony could talk. He’d talked a great deal to Yinsen back in Afghanistan, so why had it taken him so long to realize that the kid neededto hear his voice, needed to pretend this was just another day at the Headquarters? Perhaps because he felt responsible for him in a way he’d never felt for Yinsen. So he started talking. After a short while of embarrassing monologues from each side, the two of them found a rhythm. They wouldn't speak about technology and their related projects for obvious reasons. While Tony mourned the lost opportunity (he knew Peter was brilliant), he still found himself smiling at times, amused by the kid's lightning-quick speech and ever changing facial expressions. Damn, but that kid moved when he talked... much like himself, actually. Tony would have found it more amusing if they would have shared those anecdotes over a glass of scotch in his penthouse. Well, scotch for him; what should he give the kid, water? Water. Tony was momentarily distracted during one of Peter's stories. Water was due to arrive soon, and yes, Tony was thirsty, but there was something about the liquid that unnerved him. The taste, for starters. He'd written it off as some kind of drug, and had concluded it was harmless enough, because he didn’t feel any different, but maybe it took time to act. There were plenty of slow- acting poisons in nature, and some perverse drugs designed to drive people mad with… "... so he basically told everyone that I'm Spider Man," Peter concluded, jerking him out of those depressive thoughts. “I totally saw that coming.” He was quite proud of his ability to pick up a conversation at any point and come up with a relevant comment, even if he felt like cringing. Especially when he felt that way. "He's not very good at keeping secrets, your Ned, is he?" The kid's lips twitched in a genuine smile of amusement. All of his features relaxed, as if that awful cell had ceased to exist. Joy shined brightly in his eyes, and Tony couldn’t look away from such an addictive motivation to find the damn exit door.   Eventually, he shook his head, and the spell broke. The kid reached for the water through the portal that had just materialized and handed him the half- empty glass after he’d taken his share. The spicy taste, Tony realized, had definitely grown stronger; it flooded his mouth and slid down his throat, warm and pleasant, strangely titillating. He locked eyes with the kid again, and saw the same contentment etched on younger features. How odd, he thought, that he’d never noticed the kid’s eyes before. Blue. Beautiful. That kid would grow into a handsome man, if those fine features were any indication. His body, as far as Tony could see, was well proportioned. Lithe and well-built, subtly muscled. That white skin appeared soft, and for some disturbing reason, he found himself licking his lips. Longing. Those blue eyes had never left his face. The kid’s cheeks were slightly flushed, his lips parted, still wet from the water. Tony cleared his throat, quite sure he should be upset, but his head was filled with cobwebs, and his loins burned... “Have I ever told you about my father?” Under absolutely no circumstances would he talk about twice-damned Howard, and yet he found himself opening up so fast and so easily, like he only ever did with Rhodey or Pepper or a fucking good bottle, that he almost felt dizzy. He told the kid about his father’s unrealistic expectations, about his favorite boy (damn Rogers and his Terminator boyfriend to the bowels of hell), about his death. He’d seldom met such a good listener. Peter looked at him as if every word mattered, as if giving his attention to him was worth being trapped in a cell. So Tony gave it all to him: his father’s intolerance, Obi’s treason. He didn’t use humor to soften the emotional blow to himself, didn’t care if talking about Pepper hurt. Pain was good. Welcome, even, in a place so empty that this kid might very well be the only thing worth looking at, listening to, touching… He looked down at their linked hands. He didn’t remember moving to the floor, but it felt so good to touch another human being. To share warmth over confidences. “Aren’t you tired to listen?” he asked after a while. The kid shook his head. Tony lifted his chin with a finger, examined the bruise over his right eye. It was healing nicely. Without knowing why, Tony leaned to press his lips to it. The kid shivered in his arms. Thinking he was cold, Tony suggested they got into bed. They'd taken on sharing the bed at pretty much the same time every 'day' some time during the second week. At first, Tony could barely fathom why the kid would want them to share that excuse of a bed; it was small enough for one already. A few nights of sensing that the kid relaxed whenever he joined him under the single sheet had encouraged him to try it more often. If he couldn’t get them out just yet, he could at least make sure the kid slept relatively well… as well as a prisoner could sleep in the cell of an unknown prison. That night, Tony fell asleep with the kid’s face buried in the crook of his shoulder, and hell, who was he to deny them a little comfort? When small fingers curled in his shirt and a thigh pressed between his own, he didn’t fight it, didn’t want to, couldn’t. Something was wrong, sure, everything was wrong in this place, and yet when Peter's sweet scent hit his nostrils, something uncoiled deep within him, a hunger left unnamed that reminded him of a hunter closing in on his prey, and tasting victory in the air.  Tony frowned, but the strange heat spreading into his tired body refused to go away. His arm tightened of its own volition on Peter's side, and he could feel his fingers soaking up the warmth from the youth's body. The kid whispered a few words that Tony didn’t catch. They were so close, so warm together. Where had gone all that cold from before? As always when faced with a problem he couldn’t solve and was neither life- threatening nor overly interesting, he simply ignored it. “Sleep tight, kid.” His hand inched closer to a soft belly as his mind spiraled into exhaustion. Chapter End Notes Dub con starts in the next chapter. All I can tell is that it's neither Peter nor Tony's fault. I want to hug them both now <3 ***** Have Mercy (Peter's POV) ***** Chapter Summary It can't be helped. The betrayal, however, is real. Chapter Notes Two updates in one week, I almost can't believe it myself. DUB-CON AHEAD: be warned! See the end of the chapter for more notes Peter was dreaming of a warm mouth on his cock. “Liz,” he moaned, back arching and hands fisting in the sheets. “Oh, god.” He didn’t dare open his eyes just yet; the sensation easily superseded anything he’d ever experienced. Not that he’d explored much beyond some hurried solo time in the last couple of years. He didn’t even rememberbringing up the subject with Liz, especially after what happened with her father. And yet here he was, lying on a small, uncomfortable bed, with his girlfriend on her knees on the floor, working his cock with gusto. If heavens existed, it had to be that mouth, right here. Peter became aware of the wanton noises coming out of his own mouth, but he couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. Liz was humming as she worked his shaft, in approbation, he thought. Encouraging him to lose his mind, and spill himself in her mouth? Hadn’t she called him a good boy not so long ago? Perhaps that was the reason she was rewarding him? But they had not even kissed once! protested a little voice in his head. Were where his manners, how could he- “Oh, fuck!” She’d taken him all the way to the root and swallowed. Peter let out a harsh exhale and dug his fingers in the sheets, drilling holes in the mattress in an attempt to focus that formidable strength of his elsewhere. He didn’t want to hurt Liz, never wanted to hurt anybody, but the tip of one of his fingers burnt. It was hard, impossible, though, to focus on so small a disagreement, when Liz’s mouth danced on him like that. He should be afraid. He remembered that much, but it was so hard to do anything else but lie on his back and take it, enjoy it. Lust thickened in his veins with every play of tongue and lips, it was an actual, physical presence beneath his temples, beating like a displaced heart, enhancing every noise coming out of his partner’s stuffed mouth (oh god, oh god, oh god-), transforming the mere brush of fingers into searing want. He parted his legs as far as they would go and cried out as nails pierced the tender skin of his inner thigh. The mouth on his cock sped up its rhythm. “YES!” Something fabulous uncoiled from deep within him and reached his extremities between one breath and the next. An invisible dam he hadn’t even known existed within him broke in a million pieces, letting undiluted pleasure flood everything that he was, had been and would ever be. He came with a roar, trashing on the bed like a masterless puppet while he spent himself deep into his girlfriend’s throat. He came so hard he heard her choke at the final snap of his hips. He thought of apologizing, but the idea deserted his mind like a traitor. The only object of his focus was that mouth still locked on his cock. The knowledge that Liz had swallowed every drop filled his groin with renewed arousal. He whimpered at the cool sensation of a tongue licking him clean. Part of his body alerted him that he should rest, but how could he stop now that he’d risen so high already? Peter squeezed his eyes shut even harder. If this was a dream, he didn’t want it to end. If this was real… But it couldn’t be real, could it? The bed wasn’t right; the scent of that place, even worse. He wasn’t in his apartment, or at Liz’, but did it really matter? He’d just climaxed, and he was fully hard again. That wasn’t right, even for someone his age, he thought, right before a feverishly-hot body pinned him down, and another cock touched his. Another cock? This wasn’t Liz! Opening his eyes, Peter jerked to a sitting position, his superior strength allowing him to push back a full-grown man. Mr. Stark. Peter’s eyes widened. Traveled between their bodies, taking in their matching erections. Mr. Stark’s eyes were all pupils, flooded with so much greed Peter froze like the proverbial rabbit in front of the headlights. His breath hitched. Mr. Stark had just sucked him off. Peter was so embarrassed he expected his cock to deflate instantly; instead, it twitched, as if every chemical reaction happening within his body right now only fed his arousal further. He was so, so turned on, by everything. Mr. Stark’s eyes on him, hungry, dark eyes, tugged at that part of him that cared only for food and coupling, survival in the most sensual sense. It scared him, the potency of his desire, of his needswelling from just a look. And that fear only fueled his arousal. This wasn’t right. Not right, he repeated himself even as his mouth watered at the sight offered to him. Fuck, but he wanted, but no, he couldn’t want this, he didn’t even like men, and Mr. Stark didn’t think of him this way, did he? Peter pushed his fingers in his eyes, trying to clear his mind, but he might as well try to see ten feet in front of him in a blizzard. Or wake up when he already was awake. He felt Mr. Stark’s calloused hands (how could he have thought they were Liz’s for even one moment?) on his shoulders and arms, caressing, coaxing the fire of arousal higher. His thought process grinded to a halt. “Mr… Mr. S-Stark-” “Peter.” The man’s voice was hoarse, and for a moment, Peter thought that it might be from what he’d just done to him. “Never thought you’d be so pretty. Perfect.” “I-” Mr. Stark mashed their mouths together. Peter didn’t even have time to wonder properly at the burnt of facial hair when he felt a tongue push against his lips. He hesitated but one moment, and almost regretted his yielding when that hot tongue licked inside of his mouth, spreading the taste of his own cum everywhere, but Mr. Stark’s reputation as a playboy didn’t stem from nothing. The man knew how to kiss, and even if Peter had never once imagined being kissed by him, he could understand why some people would willingly sell their souls for one night with this man. The man. Peter tried to push him away, only to discover that both his wrists were trapped between their heaving chests. Panic started to rise, only to sputter like a wet firecracker and recede in the wake of sharp, all- encompassing lust. He tasted blood in his mouth but relaxed in Mr. Stark’s grip, enslaved by the marvelous skills that were bestowed upon him. He’d never had his tongue sucked before. It was quite enjoyable. “’Want more,” he found himself whispering when they parted for air. Mr. Stark peppered his face with kisses. “Want more of you too, kid. Everything.” Peter found himself lying on his back. It felt a little silly to wear only his shirt, and Mr. Stark was fully naked anyway. He struggled out of his last piece of clothing… and froze when he saw Mr. Stark move forwards to straddle his chest, furiously pumping his cock. His cheeks were dark red, and his eyes… Peter didn’t recognize them. There was neither care nor affection in them, only a swift determination and ravenous hunger Peter feared all the more for how it mirrored the beast clawing its way inside of himself.   “I don’t- can’t-” He wasn’t sure what he meant to say. What couldn’t he do? Fuck, but he wanted Mr. Stark like he’d never wanted anything in his life. He had to have him. So why being afraid? Why care if the room wasn’t his own, if he couldn’t recall how he’d gotten here, if men usually- Mr. Stark cupped his chin. His thumb caressed his lower lip, digging into it. “Have to get it wet, so it’s easier. Forgot the lube somewhere.” “Lube?” Panic rose again, but failed to take over the lust. They weren’t doing this, fucking, were they? He didn’t want that. He didn’t think he could live if he didn’t get Mr. Stark inside him. Didn’t want. Couldn’t. Wanted… “That’s it, kid, open wide.” Curiosity felt alien. Still, Peter obeyed and tried to make room in his mouth (his jaw already protested) for the head of Mr. Stark’s cock. Mr. Stark’s cock. Mr. Stark’scock. He was sixteen. Mr. Stark was a friend, and a mentor of sort. They fought enemies together, they didn’t… “Such a pretty sight. So eager.” A small, pitiful part of him wanted to protest and scream, but it was so tiny; it wasn’t worth listening to it, was it? Peter blinked, and a first tear ran down his cheek. Mr. Stark fitted another inch of cock in his mouth, praising him, one of his hands still on his chin, guiding him. Peter started to choke. Was this how it felt, to give a blow job? Mr. Stark sure sounded like he’d enjoyed getting down on him earlier, so maybe Peter was doing something wrong. Desire nevertheless lit his skin everywhere he was touch. He was salivating so much. “Fuck yes.” Mr. Stark started fucking his mouth in slow, shallow thrusts, but it didn’t last; before Peter could actually start and enjoy the intrusion, Mr. Stark drew back. Peter started to prompt himself on his elbows, but Mr. Stark shook his head. “Not enough.” He shook his head again, harder, as if he, too, struggled to dislodge whatever it was that made them yearn for- “It’s the water!” Peter choked. “The water they g-give us. There’s an aphrodisiac in it.” But Mr. Stark wasn’t listening. He took hold of Peter’s legs and hooked them over his shoulders. “No!” This time, the panic was powerful enough for Peter to jump out of bed and put some distance between them. He. Did. Not. Want. This! They had been drugged. Mr. Stark’s lips curled into a knowing smirk. In a moment of clarity, Peter realized that his own metabolism probably processed the drug faster, allowing for his real self to peek through the need. Mr. Stark was probably chained within himself. Entirely. Peter shivered in unease. “Hard to get, uh?” Mr. Stark licked his lips. A trickle of blood trailed down his chin into his goatee. “Want to play that game with me?” Peter lifted his hands in a plea. Listen, he thought. Please don’t do this. Fear and arousal wared within him. Arousal won, but Peter was stronger than that; perhaps if he wore Mr. Stark down, the other man wouldn’t have any energy left to pursue him? The cell (the cell, his mind bellowed) was by no means big, however, and Mr. Stark cornered him easily enough. As he was fighting to pry himself free from the rough hands lying claim on his body, he considered simply knocking his cellmate cold. Surely Mr. Stark would thank him later for it? He couldn’t want it any more than Peter did. If he did, it would mean that Mr. Stark was no better than their jailors, and that, Peter refused to believe it. “Stop fighting.” Mr. Stark’s voice took on a pleading note. Peter thought he saw something like fear flash far beyond those two dark pools of want and greed that surveyed his every move, but it might be a mere figment of his imagination. Hope trying to grow in sterile soil. “You want it.” A calloused hand closed on his cock, and yes, despite the fear and the panic, Peter was still rock hard. “And I…” Mr. Stark rocked his hips, dragging his own erection up Peter’s belly, painting it with precum. “… can’t resist you. Want you so bad. Come in the bed, let me have you-” Peter made to knee him in the groin, but the back of his head hit the wall hard. Pain exploded in his skull. He wasn’t sure how it happened, if it was an accident, or the drug in Mr. Stark’s veins hacking the last of his humanity, but it made no difference by this point; he was laid on the cold floor, the top of his head snug against the wall, and Mr. Stark was shoving three fingers into his mouth. Still dizzy from the hit to his head, Peter merely relaxed his jaw; Mr. Stark fucked his mouth until his fingers were all wet with spit, and then he shoved one in Peter’s ass. Peter let out a small pained noise. There was nothing pleasurable about the sensation, but his cock still stood proud, arched over his belly like a reminded that he should enjoy this, and beg for more. He bit his lip until he tasted blood, and after that, he didn’t stop shivering. The wetness at the back of his head spoke of more blood, but Peter didn’t think he would bleed out. Didn’t care. They would get out of here, he chanted to himself to distract himself from the pain as a second finger was added, just as rough as the first. It would be all right. “Will feel good,” Mr. Stark promised, his other hand fondling his balls, caressing his buttocks. He probably couldn’t keep still any more during sex than the rest of the time. Spreading his fingers, he scissored him hastily, trying to loosen the tight muscles. Peter couldn’t relax. It made every twist of fingers that much uncomfortable, but Mr. Stark didn’t relent. Just when Peter thought he was going to add a third finger, Mr. Stark kissed him hard. He also replaced his fingers with his cock. “So… tight. Oh fuck. Oh, Peter-” Peter didn’t fight him. They would get out of here, he told himself. It would be all right. "Peter." The head of Mr. Stark's cock popped inside, and Peter’s eyes rolled back into his skull. The pleasure was all artificial, and even then, it could barely dull the pain. Peter couldn’t see Mr. Stark anymore, couldn't see anything, really, with how hard he was crying. It was too much, too soon, and every inch of that fat cock sliding inside him caused all his body to tense. It made it so much harder, and more painful, but he couldn't relax, no matter how much Mr. Stark urged him to. The squelching sounds of his own flesh parting made him sick. He turned his head to the side, pretty sure he was about to throw up, but Mr. Stark caught his jaw and kissed him again, hard and needy, as he sheathed the rest of his length in one harsh thrust. Peter screamed in his mouth. The taste of blood was everywhere; it was the only scent he could perceive, too, and it gagged him. Mr. Stark swallowed his every scream as he started pounding. Something sticky trailed down one of Peter’s thighs. He didn’t need to look to know what it was. “So… good,” Mr. Stark panted against his mouth, lapping at his bloodied lips between words. “I will get you… off, you’ll see, fuck, you’re so tight, never had so g-god, I love you-” Peter tasted bile… and yelped in surprised pleasure when the cock splitting him open hit what could only be his prostate. “That’s right, beautiful.” Mr. Stark grinned. His hair was plastered to his brow. Sweat shone on his cheeks, parodying tears. “Say my name.” “T-Tony…” And Mr. Stark, Tony, nailed that sweet spot again. Pleasure and pain rose in tidal waves, fighting for his attention. Tony adjusted his legs on his shoulders and leaned over him, bending him in half. Peter’s head hit the wall continuously now. His prostate was now stimulated with every thrust, and Peter couldn’t help it: he climaxed with a cry of agony. Mr. Stark, no, Tony, licked the palm he’s used to smear the cum on Peter’s belly. “Taste so sweet.” Please stop, Peter thought, but the words wouldn’t leave his mouth. His brain wasn’t working properly, and he kept shaking, from a need twofold that burnt his skin at the seams. His head his the wall again and again and again… Tony was ramming into him with so much force, Peter doubted a normal human being would have simply bled like he was. He tried to enjoy it, even did, to a point. Like a wounded animal welcomed the prospect of the final blow, perhaps. They would get out of here. It would be all right. Tony came with his name on his lips. For one moment, his eyes looked almost like his own again, and Peter spied loss there. And questions. So many questions that his own brain couldn’t form anymore. He lifted one hand to caress Tony’s cheek. Tony.It was a sweet name, for someone who could be so sweet, but had forgotten themselves. His hand shook. Tony’s hand shook, too, as it closed on his. “We will get out of here,” Peter croaked. “We will be all… right.” He had no more tears; one rolled down Tony’s cheek. “Can’t stop.” His eyes were wild. He kissed Peter’s mouth with a tenderness at odd with the returning hunger in his eyes. “Can’t stop wanting you.” They were both still hard. Peter felt raw and used, angry and worried, but lust reigned in its new kingdom. He couldn’t fight it any harder, lest he seriously hurt Mr. Stark. It wasn’t his fault. Mr. Stark turned him on his belly, and Peter let him arrange his body. The puppet did have a master; it watched over the two of them, pulling invisible strings, from outside their shared hell. The cold floor was like ice against his cheek, Peter mused, tongue thick in his mouth. Unless it was the bed? He’d lost all notion of time and place, his only tether to reality that warm body taking, claiming, burning with the same lie that branded his. He couldn’t say how many times Mr. Stark had taken him, only that he wasn’t done. Theyweren’t done. Pain was an old friend now. Betrayal, too; a dark, discordant song performed by Mr. Stark’s mouth and fingers on the broken instrument of his pleasure. The betrayal of his own body as it sought yet another note of this music, though, was infinitely worse.   Chapter End Notes I think I need a hug now. Probably you, too. *Hugs* ***** Weaker Than My Dreams (Tony's POV) ***** Chapter Summary If the pleasure is excruciatingly good, why does it feel like he's drowning? He can't stop. Can't. Stop. Chapter Notes Written to this_song, because trance. I thank all of you lovely readers for sharing the burden of angst in this one. Hugs! Warning: still DUB-CON/NON-CON! Tony woke up with a low moan, his hard cock begging for attention. He could feel a lean body pressed against his back. Letting out a sharp exhale, he turned around to meet a very young face, a boy’s face. Instead of filling him with horror (where did that thought came from?), the view caused his cock to swell further between his thighs. He reached for a red cheek and stroked it. “Still dreaming, beautiful?” Beautiful was an understatement: this boy was perfection in the flesh. His plush lips, parted on increasingly arousing pants, begged to be nibbled and devoured; his temples, to become an altar to his kisses; his throat… Tony latched his mouth on that pale column of flesh, sinking his teeth to mark it. So perfect, so innocent; it tugged at something dark deep inside him, a fantasy he’d always contained, and rig- No, thiswas right. Their presence in that room wasn’t some crazy experience to satisfy some aliens’ curiosity, or something else equally ludicrous. He and Peter were meant to end here, to indulge in their mutual desire without the world’s projectors on them. Fame did have its downsides. He caught Peter’s lips in a searing kiss. Delicate hands wrapped around his neck, and Tony took it as his cue to deepen the kiss. Fuck, he’d been living in close proximity with the kid for weeks, at the very least. He couldn’t help it; neither of them could. He had to take care of him, in every way. It gave him relief, and pleasure, to know where the other was, to see his body move, every flexing of muscle, and now… He got to taste every inch of him, to better own him, and protect him from… He wasn’t sure who was the enemy, but Peter was his, and whoever was watching them, whoever had brought them here to be mated, had to realize that. When he let his fingers brush the kid’s hard cock, a buzzing sensation filled his body. Fuck, but the need was so fierce. He gritted his teeth, then tried to relax, kissing his way down the boy’s body, flinging the sheet to the side as a canvas for Peter’s beauty. His knees hit the ground. He was a bit old to be in that position without some kind of cushion, but he couldn’t be bothered to care about anything else but the youth’s arousal. The swollen head, the beads of precum that kept dribbling down, wasted… Tony caught the kid’s wrist into one hand and wrapped the fingers of his other hand around the base of that enticing cock. Thin but long. Perfect. With a hum of satisfaction, he locked his lips on the tip and licked at the moisture. “… oh, god.” Peter was awake, it seemed. With a grin, Tony flattened his tongue on the slit, and pressed hard. The kid’s thighs shook; that was good, very good. He played with the head for a while before taking him in deeper. It’d been some time, but he hadn’t lost the trick, and the kid shook harder, wanton noises praising his skills. Wanting more of those, Tony swallowed him down to the root, fighting his gag reflex with all his might. It was easier than he’d thought. “Oh, fuck! The kid parted his thighs like a whore, and with a growl Tony sucked him faster. “YES!” Tony listened to the kid’s surrender as semen hit the back of his throat. His only regret was that he didn’t get to taste him. But they weren’t done, now, were they? Seeing the kid’s cock harden again, he grinned and leaped on the bed, pinning that delightful creature down. At the sensation of their matching erections brushing each other’s, a soft moan escaped him. The kid’s eyes snapped open. Before Tony could understand what was happening, he was pushed back, and the kid was sitting, shock writing all over his face. He hadknown it was Tony down here, hadn’t he? No, it didn’t matter what he’d thought, as long as he knew, from now on, to whom he belonged. Taking in the heady blush spreading down the kid’s torso, he licked his lips. Damn, but he couldn’t keep his hands off that one for long. “Mr… Mr. S-Stark-” “Peter.” It was so much better now that he was awake. Awake to feel everything. With his heightened senses… Tony shivered. “Never thought you’d be so pretty. Perfect.” “I-” Tony shut him up with a kiss and caught his wrists between their bodies. The kid didn’t really want to flee; he was merely overwhelmed, and who could blame him? Tony Stark was lavishing him with all of his formidable attention, and Peter… Was the kid a virgin? Hit by a fresh wave of arousal, Tony bit down hard on the kid’s lower lip. Eventually, Peter relaxed, and Tony rewarded him by sucking his tongue. He could sense how his partner melted in his hands, surrendered to his mouth, and he thought he might just die of happiness when those sweet words were whispered against his lips. “’Want more.” “Want more of you too, kid. Everything.” He pushed Peter on his back and straddled his chest, hand moving furiously on his own cock. Now that he’d felt that mouth against his, he needed to have it on his dick. Seriously, why was the kid looking at him with such terror? Tony was certainly not backing away now, not after being teased like that. Cupping Peter’s chin, he told him that he hadto suck him off, for his own sake. Tony was a good lover, after all. “That’s it, kid, open wide.” Fuck, he could have killed to have the kid’s mouth around his cock like that. Such pretty lips, stretched wide to accommodate his girth, shy, unexperienced… “Such a pretty sight. So eager.” He pushed the head of his cock inside, encouraged the kid with his hand, with words that he’d told a thousand lovers a thousand times already. The kid’s mouth was heaven, his throat to claim a sin he would gladly repeat, be it with or without a soul. Still, this wasn’t enough, and the kid had no clue what he was doing. There would be time for mouth-on practice later. “It’s the water! The water they g-give us. There’s an aphrodisiac in it.” Water? What was the kid rambling about? He spied something in the kid’s eyes then, a fear so potent it felt like a punch to the face. Water. Drowning. No, this was stupid; he was not drowning, he was taking hold of Peter’s legs and arranging them so that he could fu- “No!” He swore viciously as the kid escaped his grip and put as much distance between them as possible. A game. It was all a game to him. Tony had a sudden urge to slap him hard across the face. This was no child’s game! They needed to fuck, and the longer they waited, the worst it would be, he just knew it. He would slap him, spank him, hit him until… He backed him in a corner faster than he’d expected. The uncomfortable sensation of having his head plunged into water returned, but with the kid so close to him, that warm body displaying all the signs of arousal, of want, the same want that lit up his every nerve, he could ignore the random thoughts polluting his mind. “Stop fighting. You want it.” He grabbed the youth’s cock. “And I…” Suddenly his chest felt too tight, his skin raw. He couldn’t breathe right. For an awful moment, he felt like he was trapped underwater, miles deep under the surface, with no means of escape. The faces of his captors in Afghanistan floated all around him. He tried to breathe through his nose, and water rushed in: in his mouth, down his throat, in his nose… “… can’t resist you,” he said, retracing the conversation in his mind while he rubbed his cock against the kid’s belly. “Want you so bad. Come to the bed, let me have you-” For some unexplainable reason, the kid tried to knee him, and Tony’s control snapped; he grabbed the kid by the throat and slammed his head into the wall. Feel! he wanted to scream, but couldn’t. You can’t resist it, you can’t escape it, you can only, feel, damn you, why don’t you feel… He lost contact with reality for a moment. The next thing he knew, he was kneeling in front of the kid, three fingers in his mouth. Yes, he had to get him all wet, he remembered. He was going to be tight, oh fuck, he hadto fuck him, now, now, NOW… Peter’s reaction to his fingering didn’t bother him so much. His first time hadn’t been the best one either, and besides, who cared? He was drowning- “Will feel good.” He stretched his ass with two, then three fingers. So tight, so good. It would feel even better soon, oh fuck, he was going to come right here and there if he didn’t fill that gorgeous hole in the next three seconds. He kissed the kid to distract him from the pain as he pushed the head of his cock inside him. The friction was amazing; the resistance, maddening. “Peter,” he whimpered. The relief as he sheathed the first half of his cock went beyond words. Without lube, he couldn’t fit more, not yet anyway. It would take some work, but they had time. So much time to enjoy each other... He came so hard he saw stars. Drowning so deep, drowning past redemption- “So… good,” he panted, licking at the kid’s lips. “I will get you… off, you’ll see, fuck, you’re so tight, never had so g-god, I love you-” Sensing how his dick filled with blood, he didn’t leave the warmth of the kid’s ass just yet. He was going to make him feel good, so that he would want more, beg for Tony’s cock like the little whore he was, so hungry for his cock, oh yes, the kid couldn’t hide it, and Tony wanted nothing else than to give it to him, fill him up until that pink little hole was filled with his seed, until the kid couldn’t walk- Drowning- Shaking his head to shake off the parasite thoughts, he angled his hips to press on that tiny, wonderful bundle of nerves hidden within the kid’s ass. The surprised, appreciative yelp pleased him. He drank in the sweat on the kid’s cheeks, and he wanted to lick them, to lick every part of that body sprawled on the floor like an offering. “That’s right, beautiful,” he crooned. “Say my name.” Drowning- “T-Tony…” He snapped his hips forth, once, twice more, hitting Peter’s prostate repeatedly. There was bang-bang-bang sound disrupting the harmony of their mating, but his focus was on Peter’s mouth forming a perfect ‘O’, the obscene, delightful noises of their skins meeting and parting, connecting… When the kid toppled over the edge, Tony spread that sweet semen all over his stomach before licking his hand. He climaxed a few thrusts later, crying out Peter’s name. He blinked furiously then, as pleasure and pain warred in his chest. The sensation of drowning hit him again with full force, and he gasped, sensing a new emptiness where the arc reactor ought to be. Peter’s eyes were wide and red, full of tears, and Tony couldn’t look away, even as the hunger for him, for his skin and his pleasure, tore him apart. “We will get out of here. We will be all… right,” the kid whispered. It sounded like poetry, and Tony’s vision filled with blood. Red all over this pretty face, so much red, and he… “Can’t stop,” he whimpered, kissing the kid slowly, reverently. He wiped the tear rolling down his own cheek. Why was he crying? Right, the blood… No, no blood; just pleasure. He turned Peter on his belly and caressed his length. Mine, he thought, rubbing himself against the perfectly rounds buttocks jutting out to rob him of his sanity. Mine to take, mine to defile… He wasn’t drowning; he was burning, so hot everywhere, and he ached so bad, he hadto fuck the kid again. They fit like they were meant to share intimacy, and belonged to each other. He moaned the kid’s name, his lips ghosting over his nape, as he sheathed his cock to the hilt. The brutal pace he set earned him a strangled sound that shot straight to his groin. “That’s it, so good…” He chased his own release, not bothering to ask Peter if he was alright, barely acknowledging the thought of oversensitivity. He rammed into him with as much force as he could, pinning those fragile-looking shoulders to the floor, discarding every inhibition that had ever made him human. The kid could take it, a little voice whispered in his ear. He was stronger than him. Addictive. He’d been asking for it, sleeping to his side, staring at him with those wide, hungry, expectant eyes, and now he was getting what he deserved. With a savage growl, Tony bit down the youth’s neck. There was a crack, but he couldn’t be bothered to search for its cause. “I’m close, I’m so close,” he gasped. “Fuck, Peter.” He licked the sweat running between his shoulder blades, hands bruising his narrow hips. The kid gasped something unintelligible. “So close…” * It seemed like ages had come and gone, and still he was fucking Peter. It felt so good, so liberating; he didn’t think he could ever stop. * There was water in his lungs, and the maddening sensation of his heart breaking. Tony Stark didn’t care. Tony Stark took what he wanted, and he did, fucking the kid in every position he could think of. Damn, but that kid was bendy. So pretty, even with his eyes closed, and his breathing ragged. He hoisted him on the bed, pushed his thighs apart and pressed his head between them, using his tongue to push his own cum back inside that pretty hole. There was so much semen, but that wasn’t the only thing he smelled and tasted. Blood, he would recognize everywhere. He could see it, taste it. And it excited him, as much as it sickened him. His mind was hazy. How many timeshad he fucked him? Even as the thought of him, and something resembling worry entered his mind, his cock throbbed at the sight of all his seed soiling the bed sheets, white and red, semen and blood, so much life he’d created, they’d created.   And he was drowning- “Love you, love you, love you…” The next time he came, he cried out in pain and passed out on top of a warm body. * He dreamed of water. He dreamed of a cage with neither lock nor key, in which he’d voluntarily gone, to seek redemption. Redemption from what, he didn’t know. * His chest was wide open, his beating heart threatening to fall out of its cavity. He tried to put it back to safety, but his hands were bound, and brown eyes stared down at him, judging. There was no mercy in them. * When he woke up at last, he was lying on the floor. He groaned, rolling to his side. Blood smeared his knuckles, he noted with growing unease. His cock and ball felt like they’d been put in a meat grinder. When he dared steal a look down, he cringed back in horror: his whole length, albeit soft, was covered dried blood. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. FUCK!” He scrambled to his knees, heart pounding madly. Oh no, this couldn’t be happening, what had he done? He didn’t remember eating, but he threw up all over his own hands. If he could have crawled out of his own skin, he would have. Peter’s face was all he could see, the fear in his eyes, the hurt, the acceptance. And Tony… He’d fucked it. Fucked him. He’d put his fucking dick into a sixteen-year-old, he’d hurt him, he remembered the blood so well he could still taste it… He remembered drowning, too. He wished he could choke on his own shame. But first, he had to get the kid out of here, even if seeing his face was probably the last thing Peter wanted, and with reason. “Kid?” His voice was hoarse. Fuck, he even soundedlike a pedophile. Running to the wall that had no door, no window, no hope, he slammed both fists into the hard surface, again and again, howling: “PETER!” ***** Pray for Chaos (Peter's POV) ***** Chapter Summary Peter didn't expect to get out of his new cell anytime soon. His savior was even less expected. "Hello, little spider." Chapter Notes Peter’s finally getting out of here, yeah! Also, GORE (what Peter sees, not linked to Tony), so please read at your own risks. Bravo to anyone who expected what happens in this chapter. Also, a giant hug to you all <3 See the end of the chapter for more notes Peter sat with his back to the wall facing the door. If he hadn’t been still groggy, aching and nauseous, he might have been delighted to finally, finallysee a door, an honest-to-god door, but his mind kept circling back to that dark place his body had been introduced to. Still, he kept his eyes locked on the door, on a possible exit. He was so tired, so… done. How long had it been since he’d been locked up in this awful place? At least weeks, three or four, if he had to guess. It would drive anyone mad to be kept away from the sun so long, without a clue as to what was happening outside. There had been a war raging on, and he had been fighting, and he’d been holed up away from the real world with a man he considered a friend and who had- He bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood. Whoever it was who thought it was a good idea to lock up Spider-Man and Iron Man, he was going to kill them. The fact that the thought of murder didn’t cause him to question his own sanity should have sickened him. It didn’t. He didn’t try to keep track of time, and tried even less to come up with an explanation for his transfer in another cell, one that was completely dark, without furniture, and smaller than the one he’d occupied before. He was slightly worried about Mr. Stark, but a part of him (he did his best to ignore it, to bury it, it was so ugly, so shameful, but it grew within him like dandelion) wanted for Mr. Stark to hurt as much as he was hurting. To be punished, perhaps, for what he’d done. “Fuck.” He hid his face between his knees, but the nausea wouldn’t recede. Remembering where he was, and the kind of sadistic enemy he was up against, he lifted his head and glared at the door. Damn, but he hoped someone, something would come to check up on him. Any excuse to fight would make him feel better, really. He didn’t mind getting hurt some more. Perhaps if he got beaten up bad enough, the pain in his chest would stop bothering him so much? He clenched the muscles in his thighs, feeling how his hole contracted at the tension. Thatpain was fading ever so slightly, but of course thinking about it brought back vivid pictures of how it had come to be, and Peter couldn’t look at the door anymore, couldn’t keep it all inside, he had to let it out, to let go of this part of himself that was rotting, corrupting what was left of his moral compass... He was on all fours and throwing up while his sickened mind conjured a picture of Mr. Stark’s hooded eyes on him. How his mentor had drunk in the sight of him back in their room, like Peter was a chosen piece of meat he couldn’t wait to devour until all that was left was exposed bone. Mr. Stark had handled him like a mean to an end, had touched him with the kind of savage delight hinted at by distasteful tabloids, had kissed him like Peter held on to a piece of his missing sanity, had fucked him, fucked him hard, again and again and again, not seeing the pain in Peter’s blood-shot eyes as he spilled himself inside him… Peter’s chest heaved. His body wanted nourishment, but he had never been so ill-disposed towards food. He wasn’t even sure his constricted throat would allow for him to drink, especially now that he knew just what kind of drug tended to be mixed in their water. Theirs. They were in this together, and Peter had just enough compassion left to wish for the both of them to leave this place… Bang! Peter recoiled back to his haunches, freezing in the sudden silence that had followed the clamor a few yards beyond the door. It sounded like metal cracking, but much more metal than the one making up a simple door, or even a simple wall. As if a whole part of the prison was being torn apart. BANG! He scrambled to his feet, eyes fixed on the door, one fist balled, his other arm extended, wrist exposed, so that he could use spider silk to slow down whatever came through the door. Just to make sure, he shot a single thread to the doorknob, and yes, still working. He let out a shaky exhale and leaned into the wall, hoping that the tremors coursing through his body from the stress wouldn’t betray him at the worst time. BANG! “Hello, little spider.” None other than Loki stood amidst the destruction he’d just caused, in full battle gear with the horned helmet he was known for. There wasn’t a speck of dust on his green and black armor in spite of the dust floating in the air, and not one strand of dark air out of place. His face was very white, but so were his hands, as he extended them in the universal gesture of peace. Peter congratulated himself for not screaming, and also for staying upright.   “W-What is going on?” “An excellent question from your perspective, I am sure. Come, we must leave.” Peter shouldn’t have been so relieved to see Loki, of all people, but in his limited experience, destruction meant disturbance, change of plans, and Loki wouldn’t just blow the place up if he’d been the puppeteer behind this show of cruelty. “I shan’t carry you,” the god added impatiently. “Either you come with me now and benefit from a limited offer of protection, or you die here. Your choice.” Peter knew better than to try and run in spite of his haste to leave this wretched place, so he took it slow, one step at a time. Left, right, left, right. Forwards. He could do it. The god didn’t comment on his limp and spun on his heels, striding out of the room as soon as Peter went into motion. He didn’t smile, and neither did he try to comfort him, which Peter appreciated. He’d grown used to darkness. If too many good things happened at once, if everyone he met suddenly became nice, he would surely break down. It was like food, his aunt would say: no binging on an empty stomach. God, his aunt... “How long-” He coughed, trying to follow the god navigating the chaos he’d created in his own name. “Thank you. Also, do you know how long- how long I’ve- we’ve been here? And why we are here, and how-” “You’ve been imprisoned eighty-two days,” Loki replied without a lick of compassion. “And you’re both still alive, which hadn’t been expected by the quim.” Eighty-two days. Peter’s throat tightened. “As for how and why, little spider…” He stopped Peter with a hand and caught his chin, tilted his head up until they locked gazes. “Remember.” And Peter remembered. He remembered the fight against the Chitauri, the cruelty of the alien beasts sent by a powerful alien going by the name of Thanos. He remembered how Mr. Stark had insisted he stay at the base, and how Peter had retorted that the team couldn’t afford to be short of any member for that fight. He also remembered Black Panther, Dr. Banner and Vision at his side. The civilians, he remembered, too: headless, armless, legless bodies littering the concrete, ran over by cars driven by equally dead drivers, men and women and children with lifeless eyes… He’d done his best to save as many as he could, and so had all the others, Mr. Stark included, but the enemies were too strong, too numerous, and no one except that crazy council wanted to put a nuke into play again. I will protect you,Mr. Stark had said as he’d blasted to death another Chitauri while Peter glued a pair of warriors to the remaining standing wall of a collapsed apartment block. Peter had shot a couple of spider silk explosives for good measure, and watched the heads of the bastards blow off in a colorful bouquet of brains. And I will protect you. Loki had materialized twice in Peter’s direct vicinity. At first, Peter had thought he had another enemy on his hands, and had readied himself for another kind of fight, but Loki had grinned at him, called him little spider, and killed ten Chitauri with one spell. His second intervention had allowed for both Mr. Stark and Peter to deliver a powerful hit to the enemy. Neither of them, however, could react in time when a second magician entered the game. A woman, a red hair with green eyes and a mad smile. Before Peter could immobilize her in his webs, he felt his limbs turn to stone, and his body collapsed like a house of cards. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Mr. Stark fall under the same spell. He tried to scream, but he couldn’t move his lips, couldn’t move at all, and the sky receded, every light snuffed out, as he fell and fell and fell into oblivion. He remembered. Loki saw the knowledge in his eyes and released him. Peter gasped for breath and clutched his chest, and it suddenly occurred to him that he was completely naked. Stupidly, he opened his mouth to scream, but Loki yanked his wrist with enough strength to break the bones of a normal human being. Snap out of it, Peter told himself, both angry and so afraid he couldn’t seem to get enough air to breathe. He doesn’t look, he doesn’t care. You don’t care. “Why have you helped us… Why do you help us?” “I’m not helping you.” Peter frowned, not understanding, and focused on his feet. Right, left, stumble. Right, left, a hand to the wall, to steady himself. Loki had released his wrist, and Peter almost wished he hadn’t. “Why the blood work?” he tried again. “They took blood from us… why?” “To enhance their soldiers, of course. I’m not sure if it worked, but I will investigate out of curiosity,” the god added a bit hastily, as if to make sure Peter wouldn’t mistake his intentions for caring. “But who-” “The Mad Titan. You know his name, but don’t say it, or I shall leave you behind to fend for yourself. This-” the god gestured to the dark hall, “is all part of his courtship of Lady Death.” “Who?” “Death itself,” Loki repeated impatiently. “He is wooing her. Using the Avengers as the sacrifices is self-indulgence." Peter would have been sick all over again if there had been anything left in his belly. He almost tried to hug Loki, because this was another living being who wasn’t really planning to kill him in the next ten minutes, and he needed the warmth, the comfort, even if he ended up being despised for it. But Loki was walking too fast, and Peter struggled to keep up with him. “There was an a-aphrodisiac,” he whispered, fisting his hands at his sides, anger leaking into his voice. “What was that supposed to accomplish?” “I killed the goddess who’d betrayed us to offer her services to the Mad Titan,” Loki replied with undisguised hate. “Red hair, mad. Rings any bells? The aphrodisiac was a potion she designed herself, to make the path to death as painful as possible, and encourage betrayal and violence, but there won’t be any more of it, at least not in any of the living realms. I beheaded her.” Peter nodded in quiet approval, too tired to be truly horrified by himself. He’d hated feeling so helpless, and Mr. Stark- He rubbed his eyes, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over. He had to be strong, or he would be left behind. “Mr. Stark, where-” His voice broke. Can’t resist you. That’s it, open wide. Stop fighting. Want you so bad. Come to the bed, let me have you. He shoved the memories deeper into his mind. “Do you know where he is?” Loki shot him a piercing glance, and Peter almost recoiled at the fierceness etched on his features. The god wasn’t showing much of what he was feeling, but there was no doubt in Peter’s mind that he felt a great deal. If his own senses were dialed to eleven because of his transformation, how must it be for a being that transcended mortality, whose strength, senses and powers far exceeded his own? “My original plan to use you as cannon fodder might have become obsolete,” Loki said casually, walking faster now, and Peter had to run again. “Cannon fodder?” “You weren’t the reason I came here, obviously. I didn’t even plan to… let’s say, rescue you.” Peter’s brain was working overtime. “Mr. Stark?” “He’s interesting… for a human. And your species needs him to defeat the Mad Titan.” “Can I ask you a question?” “You may.” “Why have you rescued me in the end?” “Because you didn’t do with him what the others did to their… partners.” Peter’s hackles rose in dreadful anticipation. The others? Plural? Others as in… “Partners?” he said faintly. “Do you mean to say- Are the others-” “See for yourself.” They’d just turned into a new corridor, wider and well lit like the stage of a macabre play. Peter stopped dead and stared. They were cells. On all sides. Cells of a size similar to the one he’d been locked in, with similar furniture. They were all see-through, at least from this side. And there were people inside. Dead. Dread settled in his stomach. He couldn’t breathe. He felt as if he wasn’t fully in control of his own body as he walked to the closest cell. “No.” He swallowed hard, forcing down the urge to vomit, as he saw how much blood covered the see-through wall. Dried blood was splattered over the floor and the bed. Black Panther was dead. The former king of Wakanda lay on his back across the bed, unmoving. He was missing one hand, and the angle of his left leg hinted at broken bones. His lips… There was something very wrong with his lips, and his eyes, god, they’d been gouged out, and nail marks covered his cheeks. His cock was missing. Peter collapsed to his knees and threw up. The violence of his retching caused tears to stream down his cheeks. He leaned into the wall, trying not to make too much noise, so that Loki would not be annoyed and abandon him just yet, but then he sensed a hand on his shoulder and was hauled to his feet. “Now is not the time,” Loki chided him. “Offering, we are offerings,” Peter babbled, sobbing uncontrollably. “From a monster who means to take over Earth, to a monster that calls itself Death.” “Not only Midgard, but that’s the general idea.” But Peter was still seeing Black Panther, still thinking of how much worse it could have gone in their cell. They were still alive, if deeply scarred; Peter didn’t think for a minute that Mr. Stark didn’t regret what had happened. He’d seen the truth in his eyes, if not in his words, or his acts. He wanted to reassure him, to tell him he was still his mentor and friend, that he forgave him, because it hadn't been him, hadn't been them. He wanted to hurt him as much as he’d been hurt.   Neither of them could go back to who they’d been before.  Good boy. Sleep tight, kid. I love you. Love you, love you, love you. He wept as he walked in Loki’s steps. He wept because he hurt and he hated, and because he couldn’t remember what love was supposed to be. Love you. Friend. Mentor. Betrayal. He would have longed for the soothing finality of death, and the permanent amnesia it promised, had Death not been an actual monster. Chapter End Notes Next is Tony... and he's not in a good place (but then neither is Peter). At least, there's light at the end of the tunnel... until the next tunnel. *sorry* *not sorry* *all the angst* Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!