Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10637856.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Spider-Man:_Homecoming_(2017)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Parker/Tony_Stark
  Character:
      Peter_Parker, Tony_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Watersports, bladder_desperation, Hand_Jobs, Light_Dom/sub
  Collections:
      Smut_Swap_2017
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-04-23 Words: 1583
****** Hold It ******
by d_b_w
Summary
     When Mr. Stark tells Peter to hold something, he holds it.
“Hold that.”
One Saturday a month, Mr. Stark let Peter assist him in his laboratory. Mostly
Peter was relegated to fetching and holding things, with the occasional foray
into ducking and covering.
But since those things tended to be pieces of the Iron Man suit, Peter was okay
with not even being trusted as much as DUM-E.
(And sometimes the ducking-and-covering involved Mr. Stark pressed hot and
heavy against Peter’s back, his goatee scratching the nape of Peter’s neck,
which was definitely, definitely worth having to spend the next half hour
positioned carefully on the other side of the workbench, hunched over and
trying not to give his traitorous crotch any friction.)
This particular Saturday, Peter had been holding two pieces of plating at a
very awkward angle way longer than normal. Mr. Stark kept muttering and
adjusting Peter’s hands and muttering some more, and that would be great,
really, except that Peter really kind of had to pee.
He tried to shift a little, subtly, to press his legs closer together, but even
that tiny motion caught Mr. Stark’s attention.
“Hold still, kid. This is important.”
Peter swallowed hard and nodded. He could feel a bead of sweat rolling down his
back, between his shoulder blades, and had to fight back a shiver.
More muttering, another minute adjustment of Peter’s position, and then Mr.
Stark picked up the thing he absolutely refused to let Peter call a sonic
screwdriver again. At first all the touching had been a good distraction –
fighting back arousal in the workshop was something Peter was very used to –
but sometime in the last fifteen minutes even the smell of Mr. Stark’s cologne
wasn’t enough to keep Peter’s mind off his bladder.
He just. . . he had to go, and he couldn’t, and Mr. Stark said “important” and
Peter wanted to be good, to help, but he needed to pee.
He must have shifted again, because Mr. Stark sighed and looked into his face
again. “Look, if you can’t do this, I’ll get DUM-E over here. . .”
“No! I can do it! I promise!” Peter knew his eyes were too wide, frantic all
out of proportion with the threat, but he pressed the pieces of plating closer
together again and straightened up even as his bladder quaked and threatened to
spill at the movement.
Mr. Stark’s returning gaze was coolly assessing, but after a minute he warmed,
his mouth twitching up into a half-smile. “All right. But let me know when it
gets to be too much.”
Peter nodded and tried to look confident that that wouldn’t be necessary.
It was totally going to be necessary. Peter tried taking shallower breaths so
the waistband of his jeans wouldn’t press so tightly against his stomach; he
tried doing long division in his head; nothing helped with his desperation at
all, and when the next wave hit he felt a little bit leak out into his pants.
He made a sound, something too near a whimper to ever admit to, and Mr. Stark
was looking at him again.
“I’m keeping it steady! Look! I’ve got this!”
That smile again. “Yes, I see that. You’re doing good. You sure you don’t need
a break?”
“No!” It came out a squeak, but Peter was determined not to let Mr. Stark down.
Besides, the leak had to have made some room, right? He could wait a little
longer.
Two minutes later, Peter leaked again. He didn’t think he made a sound that
time, but Mr. Stark still paused to study him for a moment. Peter made himself
stop biting his lip, though his attempt at a reassuring smile felt weak and
almost nauseated on his face.
A third leak quickly followed, and a fourth one, longer, that Peter actually
heard hissing into his pants for a mortifying second. Peter squeezed his eyes
shut, unable to look down and see how visible the stain must be.
Mr. Stark’s warm, calloused hand on his shoulder startled a fifth leak out of
him, but there was no censure of Peter in his voice when he spoke, only
encouragement. “We’re almost done. Just a few minutes more.”
Peter jerked his head up and down in something approximating a nod and willed
himself not to tremble. He could do this.
As promised, just a few endless minutes later there was a click and Mr. Stark
was taking the pieces, solid once more, from Peter’s hands. Peter almost lost
everything right then, the sudden shift in his balance nearly enough to swamp
the tattered shreds of his control. He twisted his legs together and bent at
the waist, wanting to bury his hands in his crotch but too embarrassed for
that, so instead his hands stayed clenched into fists on his thighs.
That lasted only a moment, however, because Mr. Stark’s palm coming to rest
gently on the small of his back was just too much – Peter had to grab himself
because now he was peeing, helplessly, his sphincter giving out and only the
clench of his hands on his dick stopping him from completely soaking his
underwear, his jeans, and probably several feet of concrete floor around him.
Mr. Stark just rubbed his back, the opposite of soothing.
“You did good, Peter, now come on, let’s get you to the bathroom. Come on, it’s
not far.”
Peter gasped and squeezed himself tighter as he felt some of the pee force its
way out. “I can’t, I can’t, please, I can’t, help me—“
Mr. Stark patted him, forcing another jet into Peter’s hands, then brought a
hand up to brush Peter’s hair back gently from his face. Peter opened his eyes
again in surprise, and Tony smiled fully at him for the first time all day.
“Okay, I’ve got this. I’ll fix this for you.”
Peter moaned as more trickles made their way out of him, wondering dazedly why
he was even bothering to hold on any longer when he had already wet himself.
His eyes followed Tony as he strode across the room to bang things around in
one of the bigger cabinets. Finding what he was looking for quickly, Peter
blinked and suddenly Tony was back in front of him again, setting the thing
down at Peter’s feet.
Peter’s eyes wouldn’t focus on it for a moment, then they did, and his brain
said “bucket” and his bladder tried to give up entirely as Peter realized that
even with this solution right here in front of him he was still going to pee
himself because he couldn’t even spare the seconds it would take to get his
pants unzipped.
He whimpered again, near tears. “Please, I need, but I can’t, help!”
Tony smiled again. “I told you, I’ll fix this.” And then his hands were on
Peter’s, gently but inexorably prying them apart to get at his fly, ignoring
the renewed stream gushing out of Peter’s dick. It wasn’t fair, Peter was still
holding on with all his might, but still it kept coming out and getting all
over him and all over Tony and—
And then he was free, free of the stiff and cooling denim and in the open air
and pointed at the bucket at his feet and with a last whine high in his throat
Peter gave up, letting himself go like he’d been wanting to do for forever,
relaxing all his desperately tired muscles and peeing full force.
He swayed at the relief, and Tony stepped in closer to his side, the arm that
wasn’t aiming Peter sliding around Peter’s waist to hold him steady. And
suddenly Peter’s senses were full of Tony again, the kindness in his eyes, the
steadiness of his breathing compared to Peter’s harsh pants, the smell of his
cologne overlaying the light, clean sweat of a summer afternoon. The strength
of his arm at Peter’s back and the gentleness of his fingers on Peter’s dick.
Peter got hard so fast he was dizzy with it, and worst of all it cut off his
flow, making the pee he so desperately needed to get out sputter to a halt, so
all he could feel was the pulse of his blood in his dick in counterpoint to the
surging pressure of urine in his bladder.
“No no no no—“ his voice was high and squeaky and Peter couldn’t help the sob
that came out on the last word.
Tony just chuckled low and rumbly against Peter’s side. “Right. Seventeen.”
Peter let out another choking sob and buried his face in Tony’s shoulder.
“Please—“
“I’ve got you.”
And then his hand was moving, curling around Peter’s hard-on and sliding up and
down, slick with Peter’s own pee and so light, so delicate, that Peter cried
out again, the touch too much and too little all at once in his oversensitive
state. But Tony just kept jacking him slowly, barely more than his fingertips
sliding over Peter’s hard flesh, and desperately many and too few minutes later
Peter was coming, spurting watery jizz all over the place, legs barely holding
himself upright as he leaned even further into Tony’s chest.
He couldn’t tell exactly when the jizz turned to pee, but pretty soon he could
hear his urine pouring into the bucket again. Tony adjusted Peter a little so
that his chin wasn’t digging into Tony’s chest, but other than that remained
steady for Peter to collapse into, bearing probably 90% of Peter’s weight as
Peter focused on finally, finally getting his relief.
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