Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/882380.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Avengers_(2012), The_Amazing_Spider-Man_(2012), Marvel_(Movies)
  Relationship:
      Loki/Peter_Parker
  Character:
      Loki_(Marvel), Peter_Parker, May_Parker_(Spider-Man)
  Additional Tags:
      Crossover, Kink_Meme
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-14 Words: 5004
****** Swinging From the Side ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     When Loki comes looking for revenge, he doesn't go straight for the
     big guns. He follows the smaller targets, like the little suburban
     bumpkin that the Avengers have adopted into their fold.
     For the Spider-Man Kink Meme on LJ.
Notes
     This is the other thing I wrote for the Spider-Man Kink Meme. Prompt
     is here,, and there's another fill under it that never got finished
     which saddens me deeply. :( Again, I wrote and posted it a while ago
     but I figured it could have a second life on AO3.
The instant he entered his house, he knew. There was the buzzing at the back of
his head, the hairs of his neck gone all prickly, a stillness to the air and a
blanket of silence that was impossible without soundproofing the Parkers could
never afford. The biggest worry now was that the family car was parked out
front.
Peter shed the backpack and whisked out his webshooters. Aunt May didn’t know,
not yet, preferably not ever, but he was not taking chances. Something had gone
very wrong in his house. He almost called out for her but thought better of it.
He opened the door quietly enough when he came in, he could still have some
element of surprise. Softly but swiftly he surged forward. The stairs weren’t
worth the risk, so he took to the wall to avoid springing any creaks and groans
from old battered wood. He scuttled upward, praying under his breath.
The door to his Aunt May’s bedroom was slightly ajar. Enough that he could see
her feet on the bed, one over the other as if lying curled on her side. He
traversed to the roof and gently, with great hesitance, he pushed the door open
with two fingers.
She was asleep. Coiled in the fetal position and still in her work clothes,
hands clapped together under her cheek. Peter watched her for a moment, the
steady dread still not dissipating until he realized what was wrong: she wasn’t
moving. Not a hair.
His spider senses pulsed. He dropped down to rush to her side and still
couldn’t see anything amiss in the room, reaching for her shoulder to shake her
awake. “Aunt –“ He stopped with horror. What should have been soft cotton and
skin was as hard as stone. “Aunt May?!” He tried to jostle her. Touch her
cheek, make a wrinkle in her shirt. It was the same woman, real as day with
pores in her skin and wispy hair spilled over the pillow, but she was as still
as a statue and just as unyielding. He couldn’t move her.
“How like them, to take in a stray.”
The voice came from behind. Peter whirled around and found a man he had never
seen before standing perfectly centre in the door frame. He was tall, regally
dressed for an age long past in green robes and golden metal, with a pale face
formed by high, proud bones. His eyes were blue and they sliced through him
even though the stare was lazy, as if Peter were nothing more than a speck of
dirt. His hair was long, slick and black, and Peter’s immediate impression was
of snakes spilling from the crown of his head.
“Who are you?” Hot fury rose in his cheeks and curled his fists. “Undo it.
Whatever you did to her, you turn it off right now.”
“Of course, one must wonder whether there are any standards to be had at all.
You’re hardly a Stark, certainly not a Banner or a Romanoff. You wouldn’t even
be qualified to sweep the ship.”
Peter’s fists clenched further, the nails boring into his skin. It was
unbelievable. “You’re talking about the Avengers?”
“Clearly.”
“Then go take this to them. What are you doing here? Do you even know me? What
have I ever done to you?” Livid, he pointed to his Aunt, frozen on her duvet.
“What has she?”
“Not a thing. Don’t throw a fit, I was merely extending her a courtesy. She’ll
be free the moment I am gone.” Suddenly he was not at the door, but at Peter’s
side and patting Aunt May on her head. He froze to the spot, stunned. “I
thought it best to spare her all of this nasty business, poor little thing.
Worked to the bone since your Uncle passed.”
The shock broke. A mangled yell of indignation ripped through him and Peter
slung his fist at the man, only to find himself slamming into the floor on his
back. The man had barely moved. Caught him by the fist and just twisted. “What
a temper.”
“WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!” Peter flung himself upright and the man had
disappeared again, only until Peter caught sight of the standing mirror and saw
him standing inches behind, eyes boring into his reflection just as sharply as
they did in person. He was flipped around and sent careening into the glass,
little shards of it threaded close enough through his clothes to scrape but not
impale. Lucky him. The man pinned him there with a hand at his throat and slid
him upwards. The shattered glass tinkled and clinked as it fell out from where
Peter’s body had suspended it, and this time he did get a long shallow cut from
a stubborn piece that insisted on staying put while his shoulder grazed over
top of it.
“I am your King,” growled the man through a bitter smile. “I am humanity’s
hope. I am a god, and you are the soil beneath my shoe, you insipid little
maggot.”
Peter’s lip curled. Even afraid as he was when the connection hit (this had
something to do with Thor; it had absolutely everything to do with Thor when
‘gods’ and magic were involved), he couldn’t stop himself from squeezing out a
retort, “We don’t have kings here. Get out of my house.”
His response was the back of the man’s hand swatting him across the face. It
felt more like a baseball bat than flesh and blood. “If you dare speak so
disrespectfully to me again, I will kill her.” The threat sat cold between
them. Peter tried to stop his gasping. “I shouldn’t like to orphan you for the,
what is it now? Second time? Should I count one for each parent? Mother is one,
Father is two, and old Benjamin makes three?”
Then as simple as that, Peter was more furious than afraid. This time when he
punched the man the hit landed. The grip on his neck loosened and he tore
himself free, smug as he nailed a kick to the man’s side. So much for gods.
And so much for his freedom, because by the time he tried for a third wallop
the man had overcome his little shock and slammed Peter’s stomach with his arm.
Peter went down winded, curled up in pain. He was given no reprieve. The man
stood tall, grasped him by a thick lock of hair, and proceeded to drag him out
of the room.
Peter screamed. He kicked, he stuck his hands to the carpet and his feet to
passing wallpaper and took pieces of each with him. It was no use. They
traveled into his bedroom and Peter felt some of the hair begin to tear out as
the man yanked him upward, onto the unmade bed.
“Swine,” hissed the man. “You aren’t worth the food you eat, the air you
breathe.” Peter swiped at him but he caught the arm and hit him in the eye,
making him yelp. Blood trickled from his brow into the cleft of his eyelid.
“Even the hovel you live in would be better suited to firewood than to house a
blight like you.”
“THEN WHY ARE YOU HERE?” Peter kicked, even if it was fruitless and it was his
ribs that paid the price this time. He seethed bitterly before continuing.
“What is your deal? What do you want?!”
The man put his hand on Peter’s throat again, and he thrashed for his life. The
man had come to murder him. It was that simple. It was just a twisted effort to
upset the people at SHIELD, the Avengers, even Thor, who he knew the least of
the bunch. They liked him, they helped him now and then, but none of that was
on par with actually being a member. It was not to the point that he would have
ever expected one of their lunatics coming after him. The man settled over top,
pinning him with weight and force alike and it suddenly struck Peter exactly
how cold he was to the touch. And in spite of the hold on his neck he wasn’t
being strangled. He just couldn’t hear himself yelling anymore.
The hand drew away, and Peter’s lips worked uselessly to shape the sound from
his throat. But there was none. Only air, little gasps and pants. “Much
better.” The man smiled as Peter’s breath began to race in time with his heart
and put his hands to each of Peter’s wrists. Terrified now, Peter fought. He
thrust his head up to batter it against his assailant’s, and missed; he
wrestled to get his legs underneath the man where damage could be done instead
of around the outside, and failed. He couldn’t wriggle his arms out from the
grip, and was losing feeling in his fingers, now his knuckles, down the thin
bones to the wrists, and he screamed voicelessly and tried to bite at the
nearest bit of skin he could reach. He even tied his legs around the man’s ribs
and squeezed, surely hard enough that a regular man’s torso would have popped
clean off, but the man had finished by that time and was free to pry apart his
knees. Peter’s arms felt like dead flesh, weights strung off his shoulders. He
could not move them, not even when the rest of his body shifted and tugged.
They were stuck perfectly in place on the mattress. Just like his sleeping Aunt
down the hall.
“Now that we’re done with tantrums, I will answer your questions. You, little
spider, are utterly inconsequential to me. You are weak and worthless.” Peter
felt his legs go limp, starting at the knees where the man held them wide. It
was much swifter than what had happened to his arms, but not the same effect at
all. He could still feel them and they were moving, but they had gone sluggish,
as if he was wading through molasses. He was panting just trying to raise them
off the bed. “All I want is a small portion of your time. There is one purpose
you can serve, you see.”
That put a pause on Peter’s struggles. Because even as his mind rushed to
disembowelment, limbs being torn off, teeth ripped out, and even worse fates,
there was a niggling at the back of his mind that dismissed them all. His eyes
went from the wicked curve of the man’s smirk to the way he was settled in
between his legs. How his arms were bound, his voice cut off. His spider senses
were going, but the man was not aiming for any kind of kill.
No, he was reaching down instead. He snatched Peter by the belt, never once
letting his eyes break their mutual stare.
Things started to make too much sense then.
Peter yelped (or he intended to) and shook his head fervently no, trying to
lurch his body to the side or wrest the man’s grip off. Neither happened. Twice
his heart stopped as he saw the man’s index finger slice through the belt like
butter, then ever so delicately flick the button off of his jeans.
It was impossible. Even as Spider-Man had become part of his life and he spent
his free time getting beat up and kicked around, he did not once think about
this. With regards to Gwen, yes, sometimes he got scared for her or what might
happen should the wrong people figure out that she knows him, but himself?
He shook his head harder. It wasn’t. No, this was was something else entirely.
It couldn’t be happening, this was just some other form of torture. There would
be a knife coming shortly, or more magic. Something else. Something normal. His
mouth turned desert dry as his jeans were tugged down his hips and he tried to
lift his legs again. MOVE MOVE MOVE, he thought as furiously as possible. But
they still worked in slow motion, sweat beading at his forehead and he wasn’t
sure if it was from effort anymore.
His underwear followed and his heart leaped to his throat. He clenched his eyes
shut and tried his damnedest to heave, to shove, to rip his arms free. But cold
fingers slipped around him even as his mind shrieked that it wasn’t going to
happen, slid up and down even as what little of him could move spasmed in
horror. And as the touch went up, then down, up and down, each time Peter’s
mind was dragged kicking and screaming a little further away from sanity and a
little closer to the present. To the impossible.
To the very possible.
“Ah, so you are untouched.” He swiveled his thumb deftly over the head of
Peter’s cock, as if he had done this a hundred times before. Peter wailed
soundlessly. He thrust his face as far to the side as possible and hid in the
pillow, shame sick and his head pounding with nauseating strength. His spider
senses had become his own worst enemy. The man took the turn as an invitation
to lean forward and whisper delicately into his ear, “Then why do they keep you
around, I wonder?”
Peter whipped back forward so quickly that the man narrowly missed his nose
getting knocked off. By now he was ferociously red in the face. He struggled
hard against the spell, so much so he would have woken the dead had his voice
still been working, but all he could do was mouth the most emphatic fuck you
that had ever been. He tried to butt the man’s forehead again but came half an
inch short, and was wrenched back to the pillow by the hair.
The man seemed not to care about any of this rebellion. He pumped Peter slower,
more languidly, and pulled his hair back so that his mouth had no choice but to
open and his throat was laid utterly bare. “It’s not as if you are so fetching
they would want to savor the moment when it comes. You’re a very cheaply put
together boy. And you would be so eager to please them, you would leap for the
chance if they asked you, wouldn’t you, pet?”
Now he feared he would actually be sick. Whether it was more magic or just the
poison of the words themselves, Peter was now picturing Tony Stark crouching
over top of him. Thor. Nick Fury. Doing the same thing, pulling his hair the
same way and tugging his cock and all with the same dispassionate, hateful
stare. Prickles and sharp pangs at his scalp told him he lost more hair as he
wriggled loose, just enough to clench his jaw and lips so the bile wouldn’t get
out. His belly gave an unholy lurch.
“So what then? Do you sing for them? A little songbird for the soldiers? Do you
play the lyre?” The slick touch was getting to be altogether too wonderful.
Peter squirmed and whimpered out little puffs of useless air as pleasure
invaded an already too occupied mind, his body shaking with the effort to cope.
“Do you dance when they ask? Do you play maid or do you play cook? Do you play
their fool? I think that would be your best talent, certainly. Perhaps you may
not be aware of it yet.”
He had not cried. Peter was now in an agony unlike anything before in his life
and on the verge of orgasm and riotous vomiting at the exact same time, and yet
he had not shed one tear. But now they were coming. He could see their faces,
he could see each one with the shock and displeasure the minute he had been
forced to unmask in front of them. Natasha’s heavy frown, her insistence that
he quit on the spot. Tony rolling his eyes and drawling, “Are we running a
daycare now?”, pity from Steve, disbelief from Clint. Nothing that had happened
since between them seemed real anymore.
A hiss of laughter told him that he was too late. The man had spotted him
crying. Somehow the tears had leaked everywhere all at once and Peter couldn’t
ebb the flow if he tried. “Oh, I do believe we’ve hit the mark. You are an
expert jester, Peter Parker, you must give yourself some credit. Saving the
world in a costume you sewed from scraps and old shoes. Swinging about on your
homespun trapeze, protecting your city one bumbling drunkard at a time. All
this before you’ve finished school! They must get such a thrill out of you.”
He let go of his cock. Peter wheezed, part of him screaming at the injustice of
it and the rest of him terrified beyond reason. He writhed, wishing it could
just end. Just let the man touch him for a moment more, let him spill out the
worst orgasm of his life, and leave him to drown in humiliation like he so
clearly wanted. But instead, the man hooked his fingers around the hem of his
pants again. With supernatural ease, they were ripped clean off and Peter was
left bare from the waist down.
“Such a thrill, indeed, but let’s see what we can do to polish you up for
better stations.”
That hand went to worse deeds. Peter, who by now was all sweat and tears and
aching cock, thrashed his hardest as the man slipped a cool and suspiciously
wet finger down low. It traced the rim and Peter knew then he still had worse
to come, so he fought and he fought and he fought –
And quite suddenly, his legs sprung to action. Even with the spell restraining
him somehow the push of fear and hatred and pure animal fight won out. The man
went sailing into the wall from a battering ram of a kick, leaving Peter
gasping at his luck. The man slumped the floor in a sit, blinking wide and
dumbly like a dog whose snout had been swatted. Peter was frozen just watching
him.
Until he realized he was still very much pinned to the bed and only his legs
had been liberated. He was suddenly a flurry of limbs on the sheets. With a
great heave he finally managed to swing his feet onto the wall and stick them
there, curving his body into a C until he began to stretch, stretch up and the
mattress was seemingly magicked to the bed frame and the bed frame to the
floor, but if he could just pull hard enough the spell might snap on his arms
too.
It was all too good to last. With a cruel and echoing thwack Peter’s side
exploded in pain and his feet lost their grip on the wall. His body slammed
back into the bed. The man was panting lividly as he seized him by the wrists
and twisted them, flipped them over and pinned them again so that Peter was
screaming silently with a mouthful of cotton and his ass exposed to the air,
legs dangling off the edge.
“YOU INSOLENT WRETCH!” The man cracked his fist into the back of his head and
Peter nearly wiped out, his vision swimming and bile returning with a
vengeance. His erection withered as the rest of him throbbed in pain. “I’ll
fuck you like the miserable dog you are, and then I’ll kill your imbecile Aunt!
And your little blond harlot!” Peter began to holler and plead, body quaking as
he sobbed wildly and tried to turn back to mouth his promises to the ruthless
brute behind him, only to take a second hit to his ear. He crumpled completely
against the bed and the balls of his feet skittered weakly along the floor. The
left collided with an open text book and protractor he had left sprawled out to
finish later, which now stabbed at his toes. The man’s voice was more snakelike
than ever, so much so that Peter half expected real venom to spray at his back.
“Don’t snivel at me now, whelp. Don’t believe for a moment your tears will
inspire mercy. You will learn what it means to obey the gods, no matter how
long it takes for the lesson to penetrate your thick ape skull…”
Peter didn’t let himself open his eyes anymore. He didn’t want to see. He could
barely hear, one ear ringing loudly from the hit and his skull still buzzing,
his ribs on fire and his whole head pulsating with hurt. He could not care
anymore. He could not care as he felt the swish of fabric moving behind him and
knowing the man had disrobed, as lean dagger-like fingers grasped him by the
hips and he felt something wet push in (and he had stopped marveling, stopped
questioning because of course it was some kind of magical bullshit lubricant
that appeared on demand, because he was getting brutalized by a god and no
amount of logic in the universe could apply anymore). It was thick and hot, so
unlike the icy hands holding him in place, and it slid in one agonizing bit at
a time, closer and closer until he could feel the man’s slick hair tickle his
shoulders where he had bent over him and the heat from the groin just a
fraction away from colliding with his rear, and he felt the bed dip to his
right where he moved up a hand to steady himself.
Peter just laid very still and let himself be swallowed whole.
The man did not take him gently. The first thrust was small, but still hard.
Like a slap. The second went further, pulled back further for a worse return.
Peter flinched and curled his toes. The third and fourth and fifth accelerated,
and on the sixth the man rose and put a hand on his spine as he jabbed forward.
Everything that followed seemed to hit deeper, a little faster, and Peter
remained subdued under the simple grip at his hip. His cartankerous old
bedsprings squeaked with every move. And now that the image had been invoked it
was impossible not to feel like a dog, bent over on his own bed and being
fucked by a man. By a god.
It hurt. A different hurt than the rest of him and some small fraction of Peter
was grateful, because the rest was blinding aches and bruises and his spider
sense still raising hell, so even this was a distraction. The humiliation had
dissipated. His dignity had fled him when the man had jerked him off. Peter
just wanted it to be over.
Yet with another roll of his stomach, he realized that the sensation was
starting to get hazy again. What was just plain pain now bled together with a
little sweetness, a strange little quirk that had his cock twitching, that
pulsed just a bit stronger every time the man pushed inexorably into him.
Another push had his body cringing in delight. Peter could have died. Peter
wanted to die. But he didn’t even have it in him to cry anymore, so the new
tears just rolled inertly down tracks left by the old and he bit down on the
pillow. He might not have been able to moan, but the indignity of even a muted
one was unbearable.
The man leaned down again, this time draping his body flush against Peter’s and
he slowed it all down. He pushed in deeper but took his time about it, moving
in and out with a tenderness that sent Peter’s skin crawling. The man’s hands
wandered from his bottom for the first time since they had started. They were
greedy wherever they roamed, squeezing and tickling and stroking, especially
wherever they found scars. Peter had a lot of those nowadays, life as Spider-
Man leaving its brands all over him. Of course one inevitably found its way
back to his hair and tangled in nice and taut. He was coerced into facing his
captor as best as he could. Blearily, Peter let his eyes peel open before the
man could hit him for not looking. Frigid blue met him clear and hatefully.
Peter expected something to happen. He was being rolled against so lasciviously
from behind and so painfully yanked at from the head that he was bracing for a
kiss and a strike in equal measure. But the man did niether. He simply watched.
He studied Peter’s twitches and grimaces, and even the way the groans wrestled
out of him with little more than a parting of his lips and the exhalation of
blank air.
Eventually he did let his head go, only to grasp his arms instead. Though they
were still numb from tip to shoulder they now lifted off the bedding. The man
withdrew. Peter didn’t so much as fidget as he was hoisted upright like a
ragdoll and made to settle on the man’s lap. He slumped against his chest, head
lolling on his shoulder. The cock was guided back inside him and Peter was
being pistoned again at the hips, this time up and down and with smaller
distance. The rest of him remained draped against the pale chest as deadweight.
Blackness closed in once or twice. Most of the time Peter just stared blearily
at his bulletin board on the wall opposite. Everything was rendered to simply
“hurt” and “fucking”. There was no denying the rise in his cock now.
Finally, some urgency took hold. The man was starting to gasp and go red in the
cheeks. He pushed Peter’s body down as far as it could manage before raising it
up again. It burned by now to move anything down there, but it was not enough
to squash that squirming, quaking thing inside. So different from any touch to
his cock and yet exactly the same effects. Peter couldn’t help himself, he
buried his face in the man’s neck so he wouldn’t have to burn to death with the
heat there, the cool skin (even now, he was so cold) better than a wet cloth to
the forehead. Hot and wet, the man came while still inside him. The sensation
was bizarre. Revolting to the limit.
Even then they weren’t done. Peter was snatched by the back of his neck and
forced to face the man yet again. Though a little redder, the man’s hard
expression had changed very little. “If you are kind and give me a kiss, I’ll
forget about your Aunt. And the whore. Hm?” Peter blinked slowly. The words
registered at about half speed. “Jane was sweet enough to comply. And she never
kicked me either, no, she was much better behaved than you. It is the very
least you can do.”
Violent trembles wracked his body. He was hard again and yet so deadly tired,
and he had no clue who Jane was supposed to be, but he did his best. Peter let
himself lean forward and pressed his lips to the man’s, and was not at all
surprised when he felt a tongue thrown in the mix. So he returned the favour,
opening wider and letting the man slide in and explore him and feeling a little
grateful that he had never actually gotten sick, because that would have made
it all the worse.
When it was done he was unceremoniously thrust onto his bed, prone on his back.
A hand was laid to each of his arms, and they were free but dead just the same.
They had gone numb the natural way while they were bound up under magic.
“I think,” spoke the man contemplatively, and when Peter blinked he was
suddenly fully dressed in impeccable green and gold once again, “that even if
you were lovely and obedient at the end, that your upset at the start has still
gone unpunished.” Here he smiled, chilly as ever, and Peter’s heart sunk as he
suddenly began to dread for Aunt May and Gwen all over again. “I am keeping
your voice. If you want it back, the spell is a simple one. But you’ll have to
visit my brother to get it done.” His eyes began to glitter with wicked
delight. “He does not have the power to cast himself, but if he’s willing to
spare the time he can find some tinkerer in Asgard to do it for him. I do hope
the two of you are on very close terms. He is quite busy, that Thor Odinson.”
Peter’s face contorted. Fury rumbled to life again though his body was long
past the ability to act on it. He would have to go to the Avengers. This was a
psychotic brother-god to Thor, and he was going to have to drag himself up to
the Tower and somehow beg for help and everyone would know what happened. They
would figure it out. It was such a putrid ploy at revenge, swinging at his
targets from the side. Peter didn’t even know this asshole.
With one last horrid grin, the man winked out of existence.
Almost immediately there was a shriek, and an uncharacteristic thudding of feet
on the carpet. Aunt May burst into the room with her hair flying wild, took one
look at her nephew, and burst into tears. “P-Peter…” she whimpered,
heartbroken. She was at his side in a flash and wrapping him in his blankets,
head ducking now and then with the strength of her sobs. “Who was…I don’t
understand!! I couldn’t move! I could hear but I couldn’t move, and he was
hurting you…”
As she enveloped Peter in her arms and babbled in shock, asking questions Peter
could no longer answer, his mind short circuited. He had thought she was asleep
but she had heard everything. Every last thing. The man had lied.
When he finally fainted Peter welcomed the black with open arms, and his Aunt
rocked him back and forth.
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