Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11560332.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Marvel_Cinematic_Universe, Spider-Man:_Homecoming_(2017), Spider-Man_-
      All_Media_Types, The_Avengers_(Marvel_Movies)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Parker/Tony_Stark, Iron_Man/Spiderman, past_Pepper_Potts/Tony_Stark
      -_Relationship
  Character:
      Clint_Barton, Pepper_Potts, Ned_Leeds, May_Parker_(Spider-Man), Steve
      Rogers, Tony_Stark, Peter_Parker, Natasha_Romanov_(Marvel), Hydra_-
      Character, Michelle_Jones, Victor_von_Doom
  Additional Tags:
      Pining_Peter, Peter-centric, Post-Captain_America:_Civil_War_(Movie),
      Post-Spider-Man:_Homecoming, Angst, Peter_Feels, Possibly_Unrequited
      Love, Hurt/Comfort, Age_Difference, fantasies, Tony_is_40_something,
      Bitterness, Slow_Burn, BAMF_Peter_Parker, Protective_Tony_Stark,
      Doombots, Peter_is_reckless, Tony_is_no_better, Virgin_Peter, Friendly
      Ned, protective_May, Secret_Crush, Not_Iron_Man_3_Compliant, Tony_still
      has_the_arc_reactor, Jealousy, Awkward_situations, not_quite_phone_sex,
      Masturbation, Voyeurism, peter_is_16, Protective_Peter, Minor_Character
      Death, Canon-Typical_Violence, Canon_Divergence_-_Captain_America:_Civil
      War_(Movie), Super_Soldiers, Attempted_Sexual_Assault, Rape/Non-con
      Elements, caring_Tony, Morphine-induced_confessions_(of_a_sort)
  Series:
      Part 1 of Iron_Webs_to_Covet
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-07-20 Updated: 2018-03-30 Chapters: 9/? Words: 24110
****** The Gift of Me ******
by Sparcina
Summary
     There’s a very good reason Peter hasn’t taken Mr. Stark up on his
     offer. It’s the same reason he can’t sleep at night and takes what
     Mr. Stark calls ‘fucking unnecessary risks’.
     Love. And it hurts like hell.
Notes
     There’re not enough SpiderIron fics by far, which is why I've somehow
     ended up writing about this pairing instead of posting more
     Frostiron.
     Additional tags to be added.
***** The Thorn to My Rose *****
Chapter Summary
     Peter knows it’s one-sided, but it doesn’t make it any easier.
Peter knew he’d made the right call by refusing the new suit, and his own set
of rooms in the brand new Avengers headquarters. At least, that’s what he told
himself as he walked back to his aunt May’s apartment and his 'old' suit,
shoulders hunched, cold and altogether miserable.
He couldn’t have accepted Mr. Stark’s offer. He’d wanted to, badly. To be that
closer to the man he’d admired for years, always ready to answer a call,
hiscall… He would have given away a great deal for the privilege of basking in
that formidable presence. He would have been his shadow, his bodyguard, the
partner Captain America had never been: a loyal soldier who would obey every
command without demands of his own.
Peter rubbed the heel of a palm over his eyes and sighed. He would tie a ribbon
around his neck in a silent offering in Mr. Stark’s office if he’d thought it
helped. He wanted…
… and that was exactly why he’d said no.
Of course, not being an Avenger officially didn’t mean he wasn’t called on
Avengers business. Every time he saw that caller ID flashing on his cellphone
(he’d taken on seeing the numbers everywhere, including the clock in his maths
class, the lines of code on his computer, just as every coffee he drank late at
night reminded him of those brown eyes, too observant and blindingly
beautiful), his heart would do this funny squeeze. The ache would be back. And
that was when he didn’t see the man face to face.
He had it bad. Very bad. He hadn’t kept count of the times he’d jerked off to
the thought of Mr. Stark asking for his mouth on his, for his mouth on him(heat
flared beneath his skin), but he was pretty sure it was more often, and more
intense, than any sexual experience he’d ever had. Being a virgin at his age
sucked, but being a virgin rooting for Tony Stark sucked even more, because
there was no chance in hell that his mentor would ever seek him out for
thatpurpose.
“Damn it.” He kicked a pebble, biting down his lip as he felt water on the tip
of his nose. Right, rain. He was a spider; rain didn’t matter, and it suited
his state of mind very well.
He started to jog, thinking it would help him clear his mind. He should have
known better: Mr. Stark was anchored deep into him, his smile, gazes and
touches imprints in flesh memory. He ran in the middle of one deserted alley
after the other, relishing in the feel of rain pouring over him. Who could see
the tears then? He couldn’t tell himself where the rain begin, and they end.
“You just don't do anything I would do... and definitely don't do anything I
wouldn't do.” Still he could hear the voice, a warning wrapped in a joke. Warm,
like everything about that man. And yes, paternal.
If it’d merely been a crush, or simple lust, Peter would have manned up and
said yes to that offer. After all, you could live in close quarters with the
object of your fixation and dismiss the desire. After a time. With a lot of
efforts and even more masturbation, especially at his age. Peter would have
suffered through daily hard-on and perpetual frustration if it’d meant he could
stay close. Watch and covet, enjoy whatever shade of affection Mr. Stark chose
to give him.
Affection.
Fists balled to his sides, Peter launched skywards and reached for the wall of
the apartment building, fingers and toes instantly sticking to bricks. With a
thread of spider silk, the window to his bedroom opened a crack, enough for his
slim body to slide in.
Affection. Peter slammed the window close behind him. It echoed the pounding of
his heart, hard and radical.
He didn’t reply to his cellphone when Ned called, didn’t open his emails. He
just toed off his shoes and kicked them under the bed. Anger, especially
wrapped in desperation, had never been an easy foe to fend off. Not for him,
anyway.
Affection. Love.
What he felt for Mr. Stark went way beyond the interest he’d shown Liz. Whole
orders of magnitude beyond, actually. Liz was a beautiful, sweet girl. He liked
her, still did, but not in the way he longed for his mentor.
“I’m so fucked,” he croaked in the dark, sinking slowly into his bed.
                                       *
That night, he dreamt of Mr. Stark. He dreamt of Mr. Stark quite often.  
“Hello, Peter.”
A warm hand made its way down his lower back, setting on a hip, squeezing.
Possessive. All the air in Peter’s lungs left him.
“Can I…”
“Shh…” The voice was every bit as warm as the hand. He felt a line of naked
skin pressed to his side. Was Mr. Stark naked? Was he naked? He heard a chuckle
close to his ear, and shivered violently (ecstatic) as the hand that worked
wonders cupped an ass cheek. Teeth sank in the shell of an ear as whispers rose
into the thick air of the room. Bedroom?
Not knowing how he’d ended up in Mr. Stark’s lap and certainly not caring as
long as he stayed there, he twisted his head around, eager to see those dark,
knowing eyes. He hoped the pupils would be blown, like his were.
“Kiss me.”
He didn’t know who had said the words, but suddenly he was caught in a hungry
kiss. Mr. Stark worked his mouth like an instrument, and his lips tasted like
copper and the suit (how did he know how the suit tasted?), an agonizing
marriage in wonder, tantalizing that had him instantly addicted.
“I don’t know what I would do without you,” said a deep voice. Peter’s breath
caught as those lips closed on his chin, teased a collarbone, and his hands,
those agile, wonderful hands, they went lower and touched…
                                       *
He woke up to the sound of his alarm clock. School, he thought, still caught in
the texture of his dream. His cock throbbed from where it arched over his
belly. Flat belly. A teenager's belly, and body. How could Mr. Stark ever look
at him like this? The thought didn’t subdue his desire, as if his body wished
to punish him, somehow. He was hard as a rock, close to his climax, and he
hadn’t even touched himself (consciously at least) yet.
With the back of a trembling hand, he wiped the tears he’d shed as his
subconscious had fought against what he knew to be real.
His heart was breaking, and he couldn’t do anything about it. Nobody could.
The reason was simple: he loved Mr. Stark, and no matter how much Mr. Stark may
care for him, it wasn’t with that all-powerful love that drove a sane man to
insanity.
                                       *
“That’s great work you did today, kid.”
Peter coughed and blushed simultaneously as Mr. Stark clapped him on the
shoulder. Kid. Peter knew his feelings were one-sided, but hearing the man call
him kidjust twisted the proverbial knife in the wound. Nevertheless, he smiled,
because loving someone didn’t mean you got what you wanted, only that you
should make the other person as happy as possible. And it’d been Peter’s new
life purpose for a while now to make sure Mr. Stark got from him everything
that he could possibly want.
The other Avengers (minus Captain America and crew) settled in the living room.
Barton was already sprawled on one couch all by himself, a drink in a hand and
his bow in the other (Peter had a moment to wonder if the archer slept with
it). Once he’d somehow regained his composure, Peter made a beeline for the
only one person chair in the room, thinking that he deserved, at least for now,
a small measure of reprieve. Mr. Stark was a tactile person, he reminded
himself, feeling how his shoulder still tingled from the small, casual touch.
Peter loved it, as much as it hurt him to have him so close, and yet so far.
“You don’t look so good, kid. What’s wrong?”
Peter almost jumped out of his skin. Mr. Stark had appeared out of nowhere, and
instead of a friendly pat, he’d decided to sit on one of the arms of his chair.
A tanned hand brushed against his arm, and Peter had to suppress a very telling
sound nobody needed to hear, especially the man practically leaning towards
him.
Damn it.
“N-nothing.”
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” the man drawled, crossing his legs as if he was
used to choose the least comfortable sitting option in any given room. “You
look out of sort, and I’m not the kind of man to ignore my teammates’ needs.”
“You don’t…” Teemmate. Needs.Peter fought back a blush, struggling for words.
“It’s all right, Mr. Stark. I’m…” He was getting desperate for an excuse now.
“… tired. School, you know?”
“I know, yes.”
Did he? He looked at him sharply, one eyebrow lifted in consideration. Peter
schooled his expression into innocence. He had the face for it, his aunt once
told him, making the both of them laugh.
He didn’t feel like smiling now. Not while Mr. Stark looked like he could see
past every wall Peter built around his feelings. If he knew… Peter didn’t want
to imagine what his reaction would be, didn’t want to think about it long
enough to decide if mockery or pity would be worse.
“You want something to drink? Non alcoholic, of course.”
Peter winced. A reminded of his age, again.
“No, thanks.”
Mr. Stark had stopped typing on his Stark Pad, but he was still tilting his
glass of scotch this way and that, one elbow propped on a hip, as if playing
with his glass helped him think. Peter tore his gaze from that hand; while it
wasn’t making his pulse spike like his face did, those strong and calloused
hands still fed too many fantasies (whatever you need from me, Mr. Stark,
please) that he’d better turn his attention elsewhere, let’s say the floor. It
was a nice floor, black tiles that had never figured in a dream of him kneeling
for the man still watching him, of course.
Don’t look at me, he wanted to say. He was a breath away from pleading for the
direct opposite. See me. See what I would do for you, if you’d let me.
Enough, he chided himself. He cleared his throat, hoping the blush could be
blamed on the typical embarrassment of being the sole focus of Mr. Stark’s
attention.
“I’m fine, really.” He really wished for a drink now. “Kicking asses is fun,
but there are always risks, and…”
“Risks you shouldn’t take so lightly, kid.”
Was he imagining things or was Mr. Stark closer to him now? He was too warm.
Peter needed to get away.
“The kid is good,” Barton said from across the room. “Everyone has to take
risks, Stark.”
“Not him, he doesn’t,” Mr. Stark replied with authority.
I’m not a child! The words lingered just behind Peter’s lips. A familiar
frustration bubbled up in his chest. He forced it down, away with all that
painful force of a love.
Mr. Stark touched his shoulder. Again. Peter closed his eyes, gathering his
strength.  
“We shall talk again, Peter.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Stark.”
He exhaled slowly. Now alone on his seat, Peter tugged his knees close to his
chest, feigning fatigue. The others had stuck a conversation about their latest
fight. Barton mentioned Rogers, and Peter saw how Mr. Stark tensed, froze in
the process of pouring himself a second glass. Peter pictured himself going to
the man and reaching for that white-knuckled hand. To soothe him. To help in
any way he could.
To love, and have him know he was loved.
He got to his feet. “I’m going home.”
Mr. Stark’s attention was back on him. “You want a lift? I could…”
“No, s’all right.”
Lies.
“See you around.”
They were all looking at him now.
“You don’t have school today,” Ms. Potts pointed out, smiling sweetly. She was
so nice to him. Peter wondered if “You could stay for dinner, if you want.”
“We will order…”
“Something healthy, for a change."
Mr. Stark pouted. Peter averted his gaze. While Ms. Potts and Mr. Stark weren’t
together anymore, he didn’t dare imagine her reaction was she to find about
about the private wishes of her ex-boyfriend's protégé .
“I have homework. But thank you.”
He smiled. Another lie. Squaring his shoulders, he walked out of the building,
feeling a painful tug as part of his heart stayed behind.
It was all lies.
***** Your Guardian Angel *****
Chapter Summary
     Mr. Stark demands that he stays behind. Peter has not become a
     superhero by following orders.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
With a bounce in his step, Peter strode into the living room. The others were
already there, Barton adjusting his newest and favorite quiver on his back,
Rhodey shouting orders on the phone, Widow sheathing another blade underthe
heel of a platform boot...
His eyes skipped the rest of the team to land on Mr. Stark. Already in his
suit, faceplate up, the man caught Peter’s searching eyes and smiled. The
smile, albeit pretty, didn’t quite reach his eyes. Peter swore inwardly,
already knowing that whatever Mr. Stark was going to tell him, he wouldn’t like
it one bit.
“Hey, kid.”
“Mr. Stark.” He barely caught himself in time. Tony, he’d wanted to say. Tony,
he would think at night, as he lay alone in his bed, yearning, hoping. God knew
the man had told him often enough to use his given name, but Peter couldn’t.
When he said ‘Mr. Stark’, it came out as respectful, polite, with the necessary
implied distance. He was too used to the name for the it to betray him now.
‘Tony’, however… Four letters, private and hot as he touched himself at night,
thinking of the forbidden attraction that simply wouldn’t fade. A lover’s moan,
a suitor’s confidence. Mr. Stark didn’t deserve the embarrassment, not after
everything he’d done for him.
So Mr. Stark it was. For better or for worse, Peter knew that he couldn’t use
the man’s given name to his face without shedding at least part of his feigned
indifference. He also knew that once he used it, even once, he would need to
say other things, and then there would be no going back. He wasn’t sure he
would survive the shame.
Talking of shame… “What?” he blurted out.
“I said,” Mr. Stark repeated impatiently, “that you will have to sit that one
out.”
“Why?”
“Don’t go all monosyllabic on me now, kid.” The faceplate descended over the
his face, hiding brown eyes Peter loved and feared in equal measure. They held
knowledge, those eyes, and depths of mesmerizing powers.  
Peter squared his shoulders, trying to come up with a reasonable argument as he
drew himself to his full (pathetic) height. He knew he was ridiculous even
before he did it, but desperation was a cruel master. “Ok, so why can’t I
come?”
“Too dangerous,” the artificial voice replied.
“Seriously, that’s your excuse?”
“It’s not an excuse.” The suit’s eyes lit up. They were nothing like Mr.
Stark’s eyes.
Peter missed the voice most of all, but he was too busy being incensed to mourn
the change. “But I want to come.” Childish, his mind supplied. He told it to
shut up. “I can help.” Now he sounded desperate; hardly better. “I’m fully
equipped.”
“And you’re my responsibility. Your aunt is a very frightening woman, Peter.”
At last, his name; but that was the only thing going right about this
conversation.
“Mr. Stark, I am perfectly able to…”
“You will do as I say.” The tone was hard and merciless.
Peter lifted his chin, lips drawn into an angry line. Iron Man and Spiderman
held each other’s eyes for what felt like an eternity, and Peter knew it was
another test. Of what, and to what end, he wasn’t sure. He ached to protest
further. He wasn’t Mr. Stark’s responsibility; he had to make that clear.
Simmering just below that ache was the urge to flip that faceplate up and go
for that kiss. He felt himself shiver in anticipation and broke eye contact,
stepping back to be on the safe side.
“Stark!”
“Yes, I see it, Barton.”
Orange light flashed in the distance; an explosion. It sounded closer than it
was.
Peter felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You will be well protected here. You.
Stay. Here. Understood?” Before Peter could protest that Mr. Stark was histo
protect, the man added: “Friday, keep an eye on him, will you?”
Peter rolled his eyes. He tried to relax, but every muscle in his body tensed
anew the Avengers left the room.  
Minus him, of course. He could hear Ned’s voice, telling him that yes, it
sucked to be sixteen.
“Friday?”
“Yes, Peter?”
“Is there any reason why I should stay behind?”
“Mr. Stark had weighted the pros and cons of your participation and decided
against it.”
“Well, no shit.” He started to pace the room, too nervous, too angry, itching
for the action he wouldn’t get. Frustration tasted foul in his mouth. How could
he have convinced Mr. Stark that he needed him? That heneeded him? “Why,
Friday?” What if he sounded petulant? Only the AI heard him. “I want to know
why.”
“That I can’t tell you, Peter.”
He came to a halt, stunned. Puzzlement tasted bitter-sweet taste; some
improvement at last. “Is it because he hasn’t told you why or because he told
you not to tell me?” When the AI failed to answer, Peter slammed his fist into
his open palm. “A kid,” he snarled. How could he ever forget that it was the
only thing he would ever be to that man? He tried not to let the anger win,
because it wasn’t fair for Mr. Stark, it wasn’t his fault if he didn’t,
couldn’t, love Peter.
Anger won this round. Taking out his suit with shaking hands, Peter jogged down
two floors and stormed into the gym, where he got his fists reacquainted with a
punching ball. Watching his arms stretch and curl in front of him reminded him
of how frail and young he was, and while it depressed him a little, the
satisfying sound of his gloved fists hitting the ball made up for it. He worked
himself into a sweat, delivering punches and kicks as hard as he could, for a
long as he could, barely noticing the ache slowly creeping up into his muscles.
An hour into it, and he couldn’t tell if the wet patches on his cheeks were
tears or sweat.
“Friday,” he panted, “update on the fight?”
“Of course, Peter.”
The large screen on the wall lit up with pictures of the battle. The first
Avenger to appear was the Hulk, who punched his way through a department store
chasing a two-feet-tall Doombot. Peter whined in dismay. Doombots, really? How
was that considered a threat to his spidery person? Rubbing at his temples, he
sat down on the training mat and watched the screen raptly. Doombots. They’d
fought Doombots before. Actually, it was their most common foe, just after
Hydra and right before aliens on vacation.
And he was damn good at fighting Doombots, thank you very much.
Still, he followed the fight in silence, wishing all the while that things were
different. That he was older, maybe. And taller. More… imposing. He could have
dealt with being singled out if there had at least been a purposeto it. He
could…
No, he chided himself, hugging his knees to his chest. He was getting ahead of
himself once again. If Mr. Stark had told him to stay at headquarters, he must
have had a reason. When you respected someone, you couldn’t doubt each and
every one of their decisions.
Especially if you loved them on top of it.
“Friday?!”
All of a sudden, a bright light flared in the middle of the screen, right where
Iron Man had been caught flying by the cameras only seconds prior. Peter jumped
to his feet. “Friday. Talk to me!” Panic had crept into his voice; it ought to,
with how it’d replaced the blood in his veins. Adrenaline was nothing.
“Mr. Stark is not injured, but the Suit is losing power,” the AI announced in
clipped tones.
“That’s it, I’m going.” Peter ran to the door and yanked it open, climbing up
the stairs two at a time. The next door opened automatically, and Peter called
the suit to him with one snap of his wrist. He put it on in record time; Ned
would have been impressed.
“Mr. Stark…”
“Mr. Stark,” he snapped, “needs my help. Don’t try to lock me in, or it won’t
be pretty.”
The threat was mostly empty, so he expected more resistance as he ran towards a
window. He braced himself for impact, but the glass slid sideways a fraction of
a second before he could smash into it.
“Thanks, Friday!”
Hanging tight on the spider silk thread he’d thrown at the top of a nearby
tree, he crossed the sky like one of Barton’s arrows. Intermittent explosions
acted like a beacon to his frantic heart. Mr. Stark, falling, and him… He ws
too far. Always too far. He had to hurry. He felt how the abused muscles of his
arms and shoulders protested as he tried to break the sound barrier (or
something like that).
“Fuck!”
A beam of light had gone right through one of his threads, turning it into
ashes. Shooting obscenities at the Doombot already heading back towards Iron
Man, Peter asked his own suit for a change of beat.
“The explosive kind, please.”
A spider silk time bomb flew at high velocity towards its target. Peter didn’t
detonate it yet; he yanked the organic ball back at him, Doombot included, then
hurled the package sideways, in another Doombot’s direction.
Pretty explosions happened on impact. It would have been prettier, of course,
if Iron Man hadn’t still been in danger of hitting the ground a good fifty
meters below.  
“Mr. Stark!” he called on the com. “Mr. Stark!”
“Bloody hell, kid!” A hoarse, deep voice, that hung a grin on Peter’s lips.
“What have I told you?!”
“You needed help.” Peter thought he sounded very reasonable. Almost casually,
he sent another spider silk time bomb in the midst of a Doombot armada. “So I
came.”
“There was a reason I told you to stay put!”
Peter grimaced at the voice shouting straight into his eardrum. Stark
Industries ear plugs and mics were of the highest quality.
“Focus, Stark.” That was Barton. “We’re far from done here.”
“Don’t you think I know that?!”
Peter dove for Mr. Stark… Just before he could catch a metallic wrist, the Iron
Man suit went back online. Peter quickly jumped out of his way, trapping a
Doombot in a sticky web as he turned the corner of an apartment building. He
didn’t know this part of town, but he wished he had the means to buy his aunt a
place here.
“Kid…”
Peter sent a duo of Doombots flying into a garbage bin. He covered them with
spider silk for good measure, and waved at a couple of teenagers hiding nearby.
“Need a lift, guys?”
“KID, WATCH OUT!”
The next thing Peter knew, pain flooded his right arm, and it was his turn to
plummet to the ground.  
Chapter End Notes
     I have some twelve chapters planned now because you rock! I will
     update as fast as I can, but there’s another multi-chapter SpiderIron
     I’ve started writing (and a SpiderIron OS, and twenty Frostiron,
     etc.), so you might have to wait a little. Please be patient :)
     PS: I might (might) be able to post the first chapter of that other
     SpiderIron tonight (crosses fingers).
***** Stitches to the Wrong Wound *****
Chapter Summary
     The wound is ugly, but the stitches are pretty. Very pretty.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"You haven't listened to a word I've said, have you?"
Peter shot Ned an apologetic look. He'd been so lost mind-wandering that he'd
completely forgotten his friend's presence.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said… ah, never mind.”
“If you're sure,” Peter mumbled sheepishly, rubbing at the long red slash on
his forearm, his most recent gift from the city’s villains. The wound went
deep, almost to the bone; he'd screamed as the sharp metallic appendage had cut
through skin and muscles. If he hadn't pried himself free from the Doombot in
time... Shivering uneasily, he pressed his thumb into the thickest part of the
wound. It hurt, but it was a good kind of hurt. And the stitch marks... They
were pretty. Very pretty.
Ned waved an arm in front of his face. Right. He was daydreaming again.
"I'm sorry, really." Peter sighed, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt lest he
went back to play with the stitches. "I guess it's been a rough couple of
weeks. I will make it up to y…"
"It’s ok, don’t worry." Ned gestured at the wound Peter had been busy touching,
adoring, for the past half hour. "I know you've got a super immune system and
everything, but that looks downright nasty. No wonder you keep wearing those
long sleeved-shirts, even though you hate to cover your arms."
Peter bit back a smile. There was one exception to the sleeve rule, of course:
his suit. And even more so the improved version Mr. Stark had created for him.
"It's not as bad as it looks." It really wasn't, with his extra healing powers.
Someone screamed outside. Ned jumped to his feet, looking panicked; Peter just
tensed as he located his suit, readying himself to put it on and fly through
the window if need be. The gentle laugh following the scream, though, convinced
him that his help wasn’t needed this time. Still, he got a good look at the
street just to be sure.
“So, you want to tell your best friend what you did over that ‘last couple of
weeks’”?
“I…” Was there anything he could say to Ned that wouldn’t rub him the wrong
way? He’s been so secretive about his life as Spider Man lately. Or, more
accurately, about his life as a superhero moonshining as a pathetic teenager in
love with the most formidable of them all. He was still struggling for a casual
version of ‘no, thanks’ when May saved the day by calling for dinner.
Biting back a sigh of relief, Peter turned away from the window. “Want to stay
for Mac & Cheese night, Ned?”
The other shook his head and snatched his backpack from the floor. “Thanks, but
no thanks. Your Aunt is pretty scary since she discovered her little boy is
Spiderman… ow!” He grabbed the pillow Peter had thrown at him and sent it right
back at his face. “You know you can tell me everything, right, Peter?”
“Right. So you can let the whole school know about my private life again…”
“I already told you I was sorry!”
“I know, Iknow.” Peter patted him on the shoulder. Really, he wasn’t angry. He
was just… He stared down at the stitchwork on his forearm. Very pretty indeed.
Ned grabbed the doorknob. “I’m serious, Peter. About talking.” And he looked
serious, too, with his brow furrowed and his hands palms up, pleading for the
trust Peter wished he could offer him. But not this time, not about this. What
he felt was too precious, too… breakable.  
He caught himself before he could kiss the stitches, like he’d done countless
times last night, and the night before that. Ned was not easy to creep out, but
Peter was pretty sure that worshipping his wrist would be too much, even for
his friend.
“Thanks, Ned.” Looking apologetic was becoming a specialty of his. “Another
time, perhaps.”
                                       *
Mr. Stark had notbeen happy.
“I would bend you over my knee and spank you, if I hadn't learnt firsthand how
little effect it actually has.”
“No threats to my patient,” Bruce protested. “You sure you don’t want
painkillers, Peter?”
“Yes, Mr. Banner, I’m sure.” Peter squirmed on the examination table as he felt
a faint blush crept up his neck. Ok, so he hadn’t expected Mr. Stark to be so
handsome when anger rode him. There was also the empty threat he’d made, about
spanking, and the mere idea of it did very embarrassing things to his body.
Peter knew about BDSM (which fifteen-year-old fantasizing about an older man to
which he felt inclined to submit didn’t?), but he’d never imagined that this
particular kink would be a turn on. Fortunately for his pride, and the sake of
appearing indifferent, the pain in his arm was intense enough for his erection
to subside.
Mr. Stark dragged a stool to the examination table and sat down, eyes ablaze
with fury. Peter’s stomach did that attempt at roller coasting its content
again, but no hastily-formed apology fell from his lips. He compromised: he
wouldn’t tell Mr. Stark he was sorry (which he absolutely wasn’t), but he also
wouldn’t reach for that hand splayed on the table, so close to his thigh that
Peter could almost feel the heat.
“It’s not so bad.”
Banner snorted; Mr. Stark snarled.
“Really, the kid’s all right,” the doctor said from behind one of the numerous
computer screens in the room. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter made out long
strings of data. “Beside that gash on his forearm, which requires a couple
stitches, he’s in better shape than any of us, including you, Stark.”
Peter’s eyes widened in worry. “Are you ok?”
“Of course I am.”
Peter would have punched him if he hadn’t suspected that the wound he could
smell (blood and metal, acrid; coconut, sweet; and spices he couldn’t name, but
wanted to sprinkle on his bland love life) was in the general area of his
chest. There was the arc reactor to consider, too. He swallowed back all the
questions he wanted to ask. He knew, he just knew that further attempts at
getting answers would only be deflected. Mr. Stark didn’t like it when other
people, especially his teammates, worried about him. Which was exactly why
Peter had to keep tabs on him, as discreetly as he could.
He tensed slightly as Banner crossed the room with the necessary material to
fix his wound.
“Scoot over. You’re scaring him anyway.”
The pleading look Mr. Stark sent Peter’s way shouldn’t have been so cute.
“I’m not scary.”
“He’s not scary,” Peter agreed wholeheartedly. Only his love for the man was,
but he wasn’t about to say that out loud. Banner still eyed him with enough
suspicion to quicken his heartbeat. Mr. Stark cocked his head to the side,
looking appraisingly at him, and Peter wished Jarvis could interrupt the
staring contest with annoying business news.
Mr. Stark looked away first, tugging at his goatee. He really looked awful.
Like I-should-have-gone-to-bed-three-days-ago kind of awful. “You know what,
Brucey? I’ll do it.” He gestured for Banner to hand over the thread and needle.
“What you should do is sleep, Stark. And you’re hardly qualified.”
“You think?” Mr. Stark gestured at his own chest. “Afghanistan is at least two
doctorates in medicine. Give me that.”
“If you promise to straight to bed afterwards.”
“Yes, mom, now stop badgering me. You’re keeping the kid waiting.”
Why was it that Banner could get away with ordering Mr. Stark to sleep and he
couldn’t even jump in a fight to save the day? Or help the day, at any rate?
Banner retreated to his computer, apparently convinced that his skills were no
longer needed. Peter stared hard at his own knees as he lifted his throbbing
hand for Mr. Stark to fix. He felt like a doll, the very fragile kind made of
porcelain that one wrong move could shatter.
“My face’s over here, kid.”
The warm voice made all the hair on his body stand on end. Peter was grateful
for the blood loss, or he might have turned scarlet otherwise. The fact that he
was still able to get flustered a little was bad enough as it was. His breath
hitched as Mr. Stark gently took hold of his arm. Their knees brushed. Peter
had to remind himself that he couldn’t simply sit in Mr. Stark’s lap to make
the job easier.
Like it would make anything easier.        
The silence stretched as Mr. Stark worked the needle’s tip into his flesh.
Peter bit down his lip not to hiss; no matter how qualified the man was, and
Peter really thought he was, the pain was still highly unpleasant, accelerated
healing or not.
“So,” Mr. Stark said casually, jerking Peter out of his thoughts. It stung
where the needle fit yet more thread between the bloodied edges of the gash.
“It looks like you can’t even follow the simplest directives.”
Peter barely suppressed the urge to laugh. Hecouldn’t follow orders? The
correct reply, ‘Pot calling the kettle black’, was really tempting. Last time
he checked, Mr. Stark was the prime example of someone who had orders but did
whatever he wanted with them, only agreeing to them if it suited him.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, who’s talking, right?” Mr. Stark chuckled.
“I didn’t…”
“You’re an open book, kid.” He shook his head, not looking up from his owns
hands doing magic on Peter’s arm. So smooth, so sure. Everything about the man
was. Peter had to avert his gaze before his desire advertised itself and
betrayed him.
Then the words actually registered.
“I’m n-not,” he stuttered. “I’m really not,” he said more firmly.
All he got for his efforts was a laugh. He didn’t mind so much; when Mr. Stark
laughed like that, like he truly meant it, his whole face lit up. He looked
younger (not that he ever looked oldin Peter’s eyes), and less like a man who
had gone through hell and came back with the highly priced wisdom derived from
pain. Peter was always thrilled to be the reason for that laugh, because as far
as he knew, very few people caused it.
But he couldn’t afford to get his hopes up.
“Can you… you know, tell me what was so special about that fight?” he asked
between clenched teeth. “I mean, we fought Doombots before, so why couldn’t I
come?”
“Because.” Mr. Stark set the needle and remaining thread on the nearest surface
(Peter was surprised to see the stitching was already finished). “Because,” he
said again, his tone scornful and self-depreciative, “I’m doing you a
disservice.”
“A disservice? What disservice?”
“Letting you fight for the team. For me.”
All the air left Peter’s lungs.
“I keep forgetting things like school, and I shouldn’t, you have…” He patted
Peter’s hand (the one attached to his intact arm) as he trailed off, smiling
that awfully bitter smile Peter always wanted to kiss away.
“I have many things to do with my life, amongst which saving the world, Mr.
Stark. I’m not stupid.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
“Then stop beating yourself up.” Peter hopped off the examination table. “The
classes I miss because I’m on Avenger business, I will still pass with flying
colors. Do you think Aunt May would let me do this, any of this, if she thought
I couldn’t handle myself?”
Mr. Stark rubbed the heel of a palm over his eyes and sighed. “I know that.”
Peter thought he sounded tired. Cradling his arm to his chest (there was no way
he was letting anyone put a bandage on that work of art), he let the tip of his
fingers brush against a broad shoulder. Maybe he could blame that sudden lack
of self-control on the tingling in his arm, which had slowly, insidiously
(beautifully) spread to the rest of his body. It wasn’t just lust, though. It
was more potent and complex than that, and he had the sinking feeling he would
never get rid of it. The yearning would always be there, and so would the pain.
But he wasn’t the only one with issues, and Mr. Stark should be his first
concern.
“Are you ok?” Peter hesitated. “I’m sorry I caused you to worry.” When Mr.
Stark still didn’t answer and dropped his chin, shoulders hunched as if to bear
the fate of the whole world, Peter squeezed his shoulder in an awkward attempt
at comfort. He understood him. He understood why he did what he did, and why he
couldn’t stop worrying. The two of them, they were more than human, in both
what they’d chosen to be and what they wanted the future to become.
"Mr. Stark? Whatever it is you're thinking, it's gonna be fine."
"You don't even know what I'm thinking," Mr. Stark huffed back. Then he sighed.
"Sorry, kid. Didn't mean to snap at you."
"It's ok." The pain in his forearm had faded to a distant buzz. "The team might
have lost some of its members, enemies might keep coming at us, but as long as
we stick together, work together, have each other's back, it's gonna be all
right."
Brown eyes caught his then, blazing with intelligence, wonder and puzzlement.
Peter twisted his own arm just so, eager for the pain. It was one thing for Mr.
Stark to know that Peter relied on him and liked him, another one entirely to
admit to feelings that couldn't, wouldn't be shared. They stared at each other
for what felt like a very long time, Peter doing his best to appear unfazed,
and Mr. Stark... Peter had no idea what Mr. Stark was thinking. Too many
impressions flashed through those eyes; it was like watching five different
movies on fast-forward at the same time.
Mr. Stark clutched his chest. Not for the first time, Peter wondered what had
really happened in that bunker in Siberia between him and Rogers. All he knew
what that the Captain had hurt Mr. Stark. It wasn’t much to go on, but Peter
was firmly set on kicking the ass of the team’s next Judas before they ever got
their hands on Mr. Stark. He had vowed to protect that man the day he'd
realized just how deep his feelings ran for him, and he liked to think he was
good at keeping his promises.
                                       *
"I would bend you over my knee and spank you."
Peter recalled the words with excruciating clarity. Eyes fluttering shut, he
placed those words into the crystal box in his mind, the sole treasure room in
the land of his memories. The box contained every gift he’d ever received from
Mr. Stark, be it words or touches, promises or lectures.
It was both a curse and a blessing. Some day, perhaps, he would be able to
listen to those words embedded in crystal, and not feel like he was staring
straight at the sun.
Chapter End Notes
     Smut coming next!
***** One Step Forward, Two Steps Back *****
Chapter Summary
     The gala didn’t go exactly as planned.
Chapter Notes
     I didn't think I would manage two updates this week, but I did.
     Cheers!
The bell couldn't ring soon enough. Peter's hand twitched with the urge to halt
the teacher's rambling discourse and ask if they could leave early. He had a
gala to attend. An honest-to-god gala, to which he'd been personally invited by
none other than Mr. Stark himself, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, and
the source of so many wet dreams and heartaches he'd stopped counting.
The invitation had been issued very casually by text (there were moments Peter
still couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that Mr. Stark texted him):
 There's this boring event coming up next Tuesday, you think you could show up
so I won’t die of boredom? - Stark. Peter had done his best not to get too
excited about it; Ned was enthusiastic enough for the both of them already. 
Peter ran his thumb over the faint scar on his forearm. Dr. Banner had removed
the stitches weeks ago. There hadn't been any attack since, which was only
slightly more surprising than that text-invitation. Peter didn't know why Tony
thought a sixteen-year-old living a double life would fit in with the high
society attending this kind of event, but he was not going to look a gift text
in the words.
Gala, gala, gala, he chanted in silence, feet bouncing in quiet excitation. The
perfect opportunity to be close to his favorite person in the world, and to see
him in one of those sinful suits, which only made Peter more...
The bell interrupted his fantasy before it could truly being. Peter jumped to
his feet, waved at Michelle, shot a quick glance to the blackboard (nothing new
or important enough to note down, as he'd suspected), and stormed out of the
classroom faster than a bullet shot in the vacuum. Which he was, in a sense: a
weapon, a soldier. But tonight, he would only be a teenager who got to pine in
silence.
Not that being a teenager didn’t suck. Peter hated the limitations of being a
teenager.
Going back to the apartment by the roofs would have been faster, but he was
supposed to keep a low-profile. See, he could be reasonable if he wanted to.
Very reasonable, even. The proof of that waited for him in front of Aunt May's
apartment, head bent over his IPhone. Ned didn't notice him until Peter reached
for the keys in his pockets and made them jingle on purpose, but not everyone
enjoyed the benefits of enhanced senses.
"Hey, Peter! You're early!"
"The gala's at seven." Peter shook his wrist, drawing Ned's eyes to it. "It's
five thirty. I'm not early."
Ned hurried after him in the kitchen. "Well, yeah, but that's still one hour
and a half before the its starts, and everyone know that galas don't really
start when they say they do, right?"
"Ned. It's a high-class gala, not the one we attended last year in school that
served home-made punch. I need time to..."
"Prepare? Ohhhh, I see," he said in a conspiratory voice, elbowing Peter
playfully. "You want to impress, I get it."
For one painful second, Peter thought his secret was out. He relaxed slightly
when he realized that his friend only meant ‘to impress’ in the general sense,
not ‘to impress Mr. Stark long enough for him to notice you like a man, and
take you to the nearest bedroom for a more intimate kind of celebration’.
"And what if I am?" he replied dismissively, dropping his backpack on the tiled
floor. "Come on, buddy, something tells me you will need food to survive until
we get there."
As Peter heated lasagna, they chatted about the exams coming up, and of
course, again, that fight against Doombots that had ended up with him needing
stitches. Ned really enjoyed the story of that battle; Peter hated to remember
how powerless he had felt as Mr. Stark had plummeted to the ground, so far,
almost unreachable…
He managed to move the conversation to safer grounds, namely: the gala.
"You mean to tell me that Mr. Stark invited you to be nice?" Ned summarized,
eyes going wide.
Peter caught the plate he’d been drying before it could fall from his hands.
"I said, and I quote, ‘so I won’t die of boredom’. Mr. Stark hates galas." Even
knowing it was true, Peter still couldn’t shake the feeling that boredom alone
didn’t explain it. Why invite him of all people to make the party more
bearable? Was he really Mr. Stark's last choice? Unless it was out of an
embarrassing sense of duty? Peter quickly covered the tremors in his hand (and
the plate that subsequently dove back into the hot water) by laughing. It
sounded genuine enough. "So we will try and enjoy ourselves, yes?"
But Ned was giving him that considering look Peter had come to dislike so much,
because it mean the wall he'd erected between his feelings and the world was
not as invisible, and invincible, as he'd first thought.
"Spider-Man has not been outed yet, right?"
"Right." Where was Ned getting at? Peter turned entirely towards him, the lone
plate in the sink forgotten.
"I mean." Ned shrugged. "Why invite me as your plus one? Not that I'm not
flattered and everything, but we're both into girls, so you could have used the
occasion to, I don't know," and the tone on which he said those last words
clearly inferred the direct opposite, "invite someone else, like Liz?"
Peter winced. Right. There was more than one thing he was keeping from his best
friend. He cleared his throat. "Liz’s out of town, remember? Plus, I don't
think she really wants to talk to me. Furthermore," he added, lifting a hand to
forestall the question he could already sense on Ned’s lips, "Liz is into
girls. Seriously, Ned, what are you complaining about? You threw a fit last
week because I have so little left for our usual time together.”
"I'm not complaining!"
"Then stop acting like you’re trying to and get ready. You have your tux?"
"Like if I could forget something so important. We’re going to a gala. I’m
famous!”
“Oh, shut it.”
*
His tie refused to cooperate. In the back of the taxi, Peter forced his fingers
to relax lest he shredded it to pieces. After all, he only owned the one tie.
He’d often imagined that Mr. Stark would be the one to adjust his tie for him.
He'd spend plenty of times, both in his own bed and at school, fantasizing
about those calloused hands on him as every piece of clothing was arranged to
Mr. Stark’s liking. Of course, Mr. Stark would have selected the suit and the
tie. The colors would be red and gold, like the suit, or a dark brown, to match
the man’s eyes, and mark him as his.  
Peter began tugging on his tie again as he wondered if Mr. Stark was the kind
of man to send his lover commando to a public event.
He shook the thought away. There was no point in torturing himself over what he
couldn't have. He was supposed to be reasonable, after all.
"Stop that."
Ned looked from over his phone. "Uh? You said something?"
"Just talking to myself." Again.
He gritted his teeth as the taxi took a sharp turn and jumped over a bump in
the road. Mr. Stark, of course, had offered to drive him. Peter was sure Mr.
Stark’s driving skills far outshone his current driver’s. He was also convinced
that sitting in an enclosed space with him for more than five minutes, even
with someone else present, was a little too much like pulling the Devil's tail.
The image, of course, didn't help.
"We've arrived, sirs."
Peter fought with Ned over who got to pay, happy for the distraction. He could
afford it, after all: even as an unofficial Avenger, he was been paid good
money for patrolling the city.
"Come." Once the smile was on, it was easy to fool himself into pretending it
was euphoria, and not dread and tension, spreading through his chest. "Let's
rock that gala."
                                       *
The gala was everything he'd expected. Classic music played live by a
professional orchestra, beautiful women in long evening dresses swirling
gracefully with men clad in tailored suits that might or might not have cost a
year's tuition at MIT, and a buffet of gargantuan proportions that offered
twenty varieties of caviar, but not a single bowl of pretzels.
Peter walked around the high-ceiled room with Ned in two, impressed in spite of
himself. Much to his embarrassment, tens of judging gazes surveyed him, putting
a tag price on his clothes. Some of the guests smirked, and one even asked
Peter if he needed directions to the nearest exit.
Peter kept his back straight and his smile in place. Knowing he would mingle
with the high-end part of the society tonight and actually doing it was light-
years apart. He did his best not to stutter (and not to swear when he did) and
was pretty confident in his ability to see the evening through when Ned caught
his elbow by the buffet table. Unsurprisingly, his friend hadn't budged from
there since their arrival twenty minutes ago.
"You should try those." Ned fit a little cake whole in his mouth while he
handed another one to Peter. "Ey rr lishoos."
Peter took a bit; of course, it was excellent. Checking his watch, he wondered
where Mr. Stark was. Peter was supposed to make the night easier for him as
live entertainment of some kind (he should really stop thinking about the X-
rated version of live entertainment), but he could hardly accomplish that if
the man didn't show up.
"Good evening."
A red-haired woman in a sublime red dress that was as form-hugging as it was
thin glided to him in vertiginous high-heels. The color contrast should have
been awful, but on her the deep red of silk just complimented her long, snake-
like curls.
She looked a bit like Ms. Potts, both in looks and the way she smiled, so Peter
extended his hand in turn.
"Uh... Hi, how are you?" Really smooth, he thought. Really smooth, Peter.
Not sure what to do when the woman didn't shake his hand, he struggled for a
moment before taking the quiet it and pressing his lips to the perfectly
manicured hand, like they did in the Bond’s movies. The gesture earned him a
delighted laugh. Peter’s smile turned more genuine, and a little puzzled as
well. Was he imagining things or had he just been chosen as the next prey on
that woman’s long list of conquests for the nights? He wasn't sure he minded
the attention. It wouldn’t get far, because one, he wasn’t into women, and two,
he had another function to attend to.
Which brought him back first circle to where was Mr. Stark?
Another twenty minutes later, and Peter was engaged in a passionate debate with
the woman (they had yet to exchange names). As it turned out, she was not
merely pretty, but also stunningly brilliant, which showed more and more as
they discussed chemistry. Peter was just starting to be confident that the
seduction game between them would not go further than the most basic elements
when she caught his hand and led him to the dancefloor.
It was already filling with couples. A dozen crystal candelabras hung high over
their heads, gleaming brighter as a valse started.
The woman winked. Peter let her place his hand on her own body.
"Do you mind?" she asked, lacing their fingers together.
Peter was confused. "To dance?"
"No, to be led."
That seductive purr would have shot straight to any man’s groin and rendered
him speechless, ablaze with need; the woman was stunning, with a brilliant mind
to boot, and Peter was not entirely gay, even if he had a clear preference.
With the kind of libido that kept him awake at night to jerk out to fantasies
of Mr. Stark kissing and touching him, calling him a good boy, such a good boy
for me, he ought to be making a fool of himself trying to get into the woman's
panties.
He might have, if his attraction to Mr. Stark had been purely sexual in nature,
and a fleeting thing that time could discourage.
He wondered if he would ever forget his crush long enough for it to feel less
like a curse, and more like a blessing.
And that was when Mr. Stark entered the room.
Peter missed a step and would have ended up kissing the floor if not for the
prompt reaction of his dancing partner. Who was leading him. Right. Peter's
smile was hesitant as he thanked her, and made it clear that no, he didn't mind
being led at all.
The music was suave and slow, and the woman's body a magnetic heat as it
undulated against his. Peter couldn't have ignored its appeal more easily.
He turned his attention back to Mr. Stark, taking advantage of the man's
searching eyes to study him and covet. Like usual, he appeared to have come
straight out of a fashion magazine, this time with a black and dark red tux
that emphasized every muscle and sharp curve of his body. Knowing he wasn’t yet
that far into Pathetic Land, Peter forced his eyes upwards and focused on his
face instead. Of course, it created a whole new set of problems, mainly for his
heart, which was busy digging its way out of his chest.
His breath caught as those brown eyes settled on him, alight with amusement and
relief.
"Hey, kid!"
It was unfair how fast Mr. Stark got the crowd to part for him. Peter tried to
wave back, and get him to come closer, to ask if he was ok, because Mr. Stark
wouldn't be late if he had Peter waited for him, because he was a good man,
even if he was not his good man, but every word in his vocabulary go stuck in
his throat.
Peter got no word out, and the room started to spin a little when Mr. Stark got
closer. Still, a good ten meters remained between them for a while, considering
that most guests seemed to have noticed the man's presence and had swarmed
around him to talk and charm. Peter felt thoroughly dizzy under the watchful
glance directed his way. It was obvious in the man's posture that he tried to
go to him, and that the flock of pretty birds had better get lost. Still, he
talked and charmed back with ease, surveying Peter with those dark eyes,
smiling with them, and asking questions Peter felt underequipped to
contemplate.
That man really had a way with his eyes, as if he could see through things and
people, and Peter wanted him to see him, to see through him, past that wall of
shame and indecision (he’d been so sure before, but every day a stone tumbled
down the masks and polite smiles). If only he was older, less innocent in Mr.
Stark’s eyes, perhaps the man would want to make the dreams come true, and pull
Peter into his lap, and brand his mouth with his own, and, and…
Eventually, it occurred to him that Mr. Stark might be looking at his dancing
partner, not him. After all, she was the prettiest creature in the room after
the main guest.
"You're quite good at this," the woman complimented him, jerking him from his
depressing thoughts.
Peter dipped his head in a bow. "Thank you."
He spun around, guided by his partner, and found himself pressed to a pair of
firm breasts. A second later, he faced Mr. Stark again.
The man had flicked open the first button of his jacket and was still talking,
still watching them, her. It was that considering look again, the one he
usually reserved for his most interesting projects down in the lab. Peter
couldn't help the flush warming up his cheeks, coloring his throat. Even
knowing that Mr. Stark's focus was likely on the long-legged goddess on his
arm, that intensity touched him deeply. His knees grew weak, but the woman was
strong and steady, and they danced on and on and on until Peter thought he
would collapse so fast the room was spinning around him. His skin felt too
tight, and his heart pounded like a war gong. Sweat run down his spine like a
parody of the living ghost he invited at night. His palms were sweaty, too, on
the woman’s body. He didn't want to touch that her. Why was his mind so
uncooperative, so weak? He knew nothing would happen to make the ache go away,
so why hold on and suffer?
He blinked back tears of frustration. He'd been doing so well lately (such a
good boy, Peter - no, he wasn't thinking that, not again, not now anyway).
Perhaps he needed more action, now that the Avengers’ typical enemies had
decided to take a vacation. An excuse to sublimate away all that want and that
love that ate at him.
He could have kissed every single member of the orchestra when the song ended.
With an impatient huff, he took a step back and let go of the woman’s hand. A
chemist, right in here element. He  felt completely clumsy in comparison.
" I have to go."
"Of course."
Still feeling Mr. Stark's eyes on him (weren't they on the woman?), Peter
elbowed his way through the crowd of dancing couples until he reached the
buffet. Those eyes were still watching him from the past straight into the
present of his undoing, with his own hunger refracted in their centers.
His phone bleeped with a text.
Sorry I'm so busy. But at least it looks like you're having fun :P Stark
Peter did his best not to grin like an idiot. It took him three tries to get
the letters right.
Thanks for the invite. Do have fun, too. And try the cupcakes. PP. A light
tone, humor; this was how friends interacted. This was what he should do. This
was right.
Then why did it feel so wrong? His stomach heaved. With trembling fingers, he
picked an artful cupcake straight from Ned's hand and stuffed his mouth full.
"Hey, that's mine!"
"Yours looked tastier. Pick another one.”
Ned didn't look appeased by the endless selection on the table.
"Are you ok, Peter? You look sort of... flustered. Ah." He winked at him. "Was
dancing with that work of art so overwhelming?"
"You should try dancing sometimes."
"Like a beautiful woman would ask me to." Ned gobbled another cupcake. He, at
least, was enjoying himself.
Realizing that eating was the last thing he should be doing on a queasy
stomach, Peter said something vague about going to the bathroom and left the
hall. Some time alone usually helped sooth the ache. He would splash water on
his face and meditate a little. Everything would be fine.
He was just turning the corner into a deserted corridor when he saw the red-
haired chemist again. Backed up against the wall, one leg wrapped up around a
man's waist. The red dress rode up to her thigh. The man's hand shoved the silk
the rest of the way up before moving inwards, impatient and purposeful. His
pants, Peter could see, were unzipped, showing a hint of hard...
No.
Peter stumbled back with shock. Of every guest that this woman could have
chosen to pursue, of every guest that Mr. Stark could have decided to divest of
their clothing, it had to be each other.
Why did it have to be her? Why couldn't it be him?
The egoist voice he'd muzzled for so long roared in rage, wiping out every
rational thought. He had to get out of here. Had to leave, had to breathe, but
every lungful hurt, with how vivid that picture of treason (it was no treason,
no treason!) still burnt bright beneath his wet lids.
He found an empty room and locked himself in. In matter of seconds, he’d pulled
his pants and underwear down to his knees. He was so angry, at himself, at that
woman (but not at Mr. Stark, couldn’t be angry at him), and yet he was
throbbing with need, as it anger only fueled his leashed desire. He began to
stroke himself fast and hard, his mind already reeling with what he’d not quite
seen, and couldn’t unsee.
Mr. Stark, feasting on that woman’s neck, fingers pumping between her legs.
His suit pants unzipped, showing a hint of hardness, feeding his own
imagination for weeks to come.
Temptation. A curse that cut deep within him, and tore down the rest of his
wall.
He cried but he didn’t care. He’d tried to be good, to ignore the need, but it
would not go away. He sobbed as he squeezed the base of his cock with
unnecessary strength, picturing stronger hands on him. Pleasure flooded him
like it always did with thoughts of brown eyes and calloused hands, and Peter
stifled a moan, banging his head back against the door hard enough to see
stars. Crack.Traitor, he thought, picking up speed, rubbing his slit on every
stroke. His body was the most cruel of all.
His hole spasmed with the need to be filled, and more fantasies surged forth,
of a body holding his own, a finger preparing him, Mr. Stark, at last, taking
care of him. Precome leaked against his shirt. He felt so warm, so ready, for
all that he couldn’t have. He tried hard not to whimper his name, but the more
he kept it in, the more it wanted out.
“Mister… S-Stark…”
His phone rang. Swearing between moans, Peter fumbled with one hand in his
pocket. The caller ID read Stark.
Damn it. Damn it all to hell. It’d been less than five minutes; were they
already done? Not quite able to simply let go of his cock so close to
completion, he wedged the phone awkwardly between his shoulder and ear.
“Yes?” He sounded out of breath. Part of him hoped Mr. Stark would notice, and
wonder why.  
“Peter, where are you?”
“I’m…” It was a pretty good question, that didn’t seem to matter in the end.
“Something’s just happened. Get your ass back to the reception, we have to
leave.”
Was Mr. Stark angry or worried? Peter couldn’t tell, and he was still hard, but
worry gnawed at him.
“What is…”
“Just come,” Mr. Stark said, clearly worried this time. “We might need your
help.”
Peter only heard ‘I’, ‘need’ and ‘you’. His cock softened in his hand as the
rational part of his brain overrode all those baser instincts let loose.
“I’m on my way.”
Mr. Stark had already hung up. Peter quickly put himself back into his trousers
and left what turned out to be a small living room. Of course he would answer
the call, every call made by this man. He would take anything he could get,
even if it was only a pat on the shoulder and a cheerful thank you. Or a
disguised plea for help.
He really hoped he would get to kick some asses tonight.
***** Shades of Grey *****
Chapter Summary
     Captain Rogers is back, and Peter feels very protective… and less in
     control than ever.
Chapter Notes
     So sorry it took so long, but I have so many fics going on, and books
     that will get published soon, and another job on the side... Hope you
     enjoy!
                                        
He was a mess on the ride back to the headquarters. He felt stretched to the
breaking point, too warm and too cold and unable to think straight. The
lingering lust and anger he'd failed to push back at the gala held his reason
hostage as they expanded beneath his temples in a formidable headache.
Feeling torn was nothing new, but the absence of will to keep the sensation
locked away was. He couldn’t wait for the blessed day his love would stop
hurting. Earlier, he’d hoped reaching majority would help, but he was too close
to it, in a sense, to believe the lie now.
He pressed his brow to the window, but there was nothing interesting outside;
only rows upon rows of towers and apartment blocks. Mr. Stark had ushered him
in one of his cars without a word of explanation, patting his shoulder before
heading to another car himself, a sport model that he would drive himself, it
seemed.
Peter threw his head back against the cushioned seat, hands limp in his lap. It
was for the best that they rode separately. The mystery of whatever forced them
to leave early drove him a bit mad, but in the deeper pool of craziness he'd
hollowed out for himself loving the most inaccessible man in the world, it was
just another drop. Another itch he couldn’t scratch.
He spent the first ten minutes answering Ned's texts. No, he hadn’t been
explained anything yet, nor as he sick (not in that sense anyway). He'd been
called away on Avengers business, that was all he knew, or rather hoped. Ned
concluded the exchange with a cupcake emoji.
Peter then proceeded to get some answers.
What is it? PP.Three words, simple. Nothing superfluous, only business, like it
should be. He exhaled slowly as he waited for Mr. Stark to reply... before
remembering that the other was driving. Tony Stark might own a patent to
driveless technology, he would never miss an opportunity to take the wheel of
one of his luxurious sport cars.
When his phone bleeped, Peter almost had a heart attack.
Avengers business.
"At least I've got that right," Peter mused aloud, scrolling down the screen to
read the rest.
Really didn't expect him to come back so soon, if at all.
Peter's heart lurched painfully. There was only one person Mr. Stark could be
referring to.
You mean Captain Rogers.
That would be the one, kid.
While distracted by his anger at the use of that nickname, Peter still had
enough brainpower left to wish he could see Mr. Stark now, and the expression
that went with those words. To touch his shoulder in silent compassion, because
his own ignorance of the events in Siberia was not entirely complete; he could
sense an open wound festering, and he wanted to heal it, to kiss...
He wanted way too many things.
We will deal with him, he texted after a few minutes of switching back and
forth between hot rage and cold disdain. He felt almost calm again. Almost.
ETA 3 min, was the answer he received.
                                       *
Steve Rogers, alias Captain America, stood in front of the Avengers
headquarters. The guilt, if not the cause for it, was blatantly obvious in the
way he held himself, broad shoulders slightly hunched forwards, chin dipping.
He was wearing a simple white shirt and light blue jeans ,and there was a hole
in one of his shoes, the one he kept using the tip to dig in the pavement (his
grave, Peter wished). Through the deep pockets where he'd tucked his hands,
Peter could spy splotches of pale skin. Part of him wondered why Captain Rogers
wasn't showing his hands, as was the custom when you showed up on a former
friend's doorstep for an apology. Unless his purpose for being here was not of
the peaceful variety, of course.
The other part of him tensed like a hot blade plunged in cold water. Mr. Stark
turned his back to the sport car (this suit's jacket really was sinful, hugging
every curve, showing every muscle, a frame for perfection). He, too, had his
hands in his pockets, but unlike Rogers, his stance was a proud one, his
shoulders square and chin held high in defiance. He didn't hesitate once he was
out in the open, striding towards his visitor, Widow and Barton close on his
heels, freshly returned from wherever-it-was-they-had-been-training.
Peter's car was last to arrive, so he was last to join the group. Spotting Mr.
Stark taking the lead, he took off at a sprint to join him, entirely oblivious
to Barton’s incredulous expression and Widow’s slightly darker expression.
“Mr. Stark, wait!”
The man, however, wasn’t listening to him. Peter swore under his breath and
almost threw webbing at him, to keep him from moving too close to Rogers (did
he really have to stand a mere meter away?) In the end, though, he decided
against making a scene and merely came to a full stop just behind Mr. Stark.
The warning to step back in the brown eyes suddenly turned his way didn’t come
close to make him change his mind., even if the hint of red around his mouth
reminded him that Mr. Stark was not his, neither to defend or kiss.
But they were friends. And friends protected each other.
"You should call your suit," he whispered.
Mr. Stark glowered.
"And you should step back."
"What's the purpose of bringing me along, if I can't help?"
"I don't mean to interrupt you, guys,” drawled Barton, “but I think we should
deal with that first.”
Mr. Stark's scolding expression vanished, replaced by a total lack of feeling
or purpose that could only mean one thing.
Rogers must realize it as well, because he seemed to shrink where he stood.
"Barton, Romanov, Stark… and you’re Parker, right?”
Tony held one arm to the side, blocking the Captain’s view of Peter’s face, or
maybe preventing him from stepping forwards, and endangering himself in the
process. The cold dread in Peter’s belly vanished, replaced by a warmth he felt
so grateful for he had to hug himself to feel more of it.
"Rogers.” Mr. Stark sounded bored. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Let me
guess," he added, his hand raised to forestall the oncoming interruption. "Is
your lover in need of technical assistance? Perhaps to unscrew himself from an
uncomfortable situation?"
"Not helping," someone muttered. Peter thought it might have been Widow.
Rogers, however, merely pursed his lips. "We need to talk."
"I have nothing to say to you."
"Perhaps, but…”
"Why don't we take that inside?" Widow suggested in clipped tones, gesturing
towards the door.
Mr. Stark nodded. Just before scanning his hand he shot Rogers a last venomous
glance.
"Can't say it's nice to see a man who tried to kill me back on my doorstep. Do
come in, please."
The last bit was dripping with sarcasm, but Peter only heard the first part.
Only the foreboding, impossible words that he knew could only be the truth.
A man who tried to kill me.
Goosebumps broke all over his skin.
Well, he thought, following suit after Barton and Widow, eyes never leaving the
man who'd tried to kill the one he loved. Now he knew the truth, and he would
make sure Steven Rogers, one of his former childhood hero s turned enemy, never
had another shot at hurting what he considered his, in the deepest corner of
his heart.
                                       *
Peter was still trying to digest this explosive bit of information as he paced
back and forth in front of the double doors leading to Mr. Stark's private
quarters. He'd requested, no, ordered, to come along with him. Mr. Stark,
perhaps too tired to argue, had just told Friday to upgrade Peter's credentials
for one hour. He probably wished to avoid Peter pestering him later on, on the
hope that a little time in the penthouse would distract the kid long enough for
him to calm down.
Peter had forgotten how to calm down. He'd locked the blazing fury he could
feel searing through his every nerve ending in a neighboring cell to the one
harboring warmer, tender feelings. After all, he was pretty sure none of the
Avengers would let him jump at Captain America's throat justto avenge Mr.
Stark. Not that he got how they all acted that there was nothing wrong with
welcoming an almost-murderer in their midst.
His nails dug bloody crescents into his palms. Peter let out a rough exhale. He
should let Mr. Stark alone, and wait by the elevator. Sure, the quarters were
huge, at least from what he'd seen a few minutes ago, but...
A chill crept up his spine as a dreadful hypotheses took form in his spinning
mind. Mr. Stark’s private quarters were huge. More than one door, or secret
passage, must lead to the master bedroom. What if Rogers' return and guilty-
ridden expression were merely a ruse to get to Iron Man and finish what he'd
started in Siberia? Peter could have punched himself for being so naïve. For
deciding that Mr. Stark could protect himself. Obviously, Mr. Stark would
protest that Peter was the one in dire need of protection, but Mr. Stark was
alone now, or perhaps not, Peter could picture only too easily those big hands
wrapped around his neck, squeezing the life out of him, and Mr. Stark blue face
with his mouth agape, his body limp against the wall. There would be no more
sneering, no more flirty, dirty promises whispered to a red-haired chemist, no
more hand stroking between trembling legs, no more looks directed his way,
looks he didn't always know how to decipher, looks that filled his nights with
alternate realities and split his days into hard moments and harder segments,
and he couldn't let that fade into nothingness, couldn't think past, couldn't
think...
He burst into Mr. Stark's quarters.
"Mr. Stark!"
The door to a small but lavish living room clicked shut behind him. Peter
searched every corner for a threat, and found none.
"Mr. Stark," he repeated, quietly this time. He'd already battled against
Captain America, and didn't relish the prospect of getting thrown across the
room and through a couple walls again, but if that was what it took to ensure
Mr. Stark’s safety... "Mr. Stark?" He felt like he'd spend the whole evening
wondering where Mr. Stark was.
Tiptoeing to the door on his left, he wrapped trembling fingers around the
doorknob and slowly turned it to the right. It didn't occur to him to check
with Friday if everything was all right on the other side; if it wasn't, the AI
would have told him. But then what was he still doing here? It was only a
precaution, he told himself. He was here to prevent anything bad from
happening.
Holding his breath, he gently nudged the door open...
To the master bedroom.
Never in his life had Peter set foot into so luxurious a room. The king-sized
bed (or rather double-king) occupied a mere sixth of the room, and yet it was
tall, impossibly large and overall impressive, with its tens of soft-looking
cushions, its dark sheets and plush red blankets. The tip of one sheet trailed
on the floor at the foot of the bed, as if an invitation to climb in and rest.
Or do other things.
Peter averted his gaze, taking in the rest of the room: metallic designer
furniture, and everything technology had to offer to the one man who developed
it faster than the world could understand it. He checked in the walk-in closet,
eyes widening at the sheer size of it, and the hundreds of pieces of clothing
it contained, but no, Mr. Stark was not there either, and Rogers wasn’t hiding
between a suit.
Oh…
When he would fly back to the apartment a little before dawn, loins on fire and
heart hammering, he would wonder at his poor reaction time. Much, much later,
as he lay curled up in his bed, he would fall prey to shame.
For watching.
For staying.
For enjoying every second of it… and robbing a man he respected, loved, of his
intimacy, without that man's knowledge.
Later, he would try to convince himself that his eavesdropping, no, his
voyeurism, had been born out of a desire to protect, but he was becoming better
at lying to himself.
He would feel so much shame. But now, as he retreated quickly to the living
room, letting the door ajar, he only felt impatience, and a pang of guilt, at
his body’s forceful desire to stay rooted to the spot. Mr. Stark was in no
danger.
He was just coming out of a shower.
Swirls of hot air emerged from what could only be the adjoining bathroom. He
should leave, he thought, at least close the door. But he didn’t. Not even when
he heard Mr. Stark talking into his phone, obviously unthreatened by Rogers.
Not even when it became clear that the call was all business; that much was
obvious from the annoyance in Mr. Stark's tone, and the casual way in which he
toweled himself.
Peter didn't leave. His eyes belonged to the sight in front of him, to the man
who’d just tossed the towel aside, standing stark (ah!) naked in his domain.
Droplets of water ran down his sides and chest, drawing straight lines over the
taut muscles of his abdomen, trickling down in trails of caresses, gathering at
the apex of his thick thighs, where trimmed dark hair framed... Without meaning
to, Peter let out a moan. His erection throbbed in his pants. He could hear his
ragged breathing, tried to bring it back under control, but Mr. Stark had just
turned his back to him, gifting him with the sight of twin buttocks, firm and
round and oh, Peter’s hand was so crisped on that doorknob it was a wonder it
was still intact. He didn't need a mirror to know his pupils were completely
blown. Didn’t need a speech from his aunt, or anybody else, to know that what
he was doing was ten shades of wrong.
He wanted to touch himself.
He didn’t.
Mr. Stark bent to retrieve something in a drawer, and Peter tasted blood in his
mouth. He had leave now. He couldn’t claim he loved that man if he violated his
intimacy and enjoyed it.
He was so damn confused. So damn weak.
On his way down to the common floor, he tried to regain his composure. He knew
it had failed as soon as he bumped into Barton on the way to the living room,
where Barton, Widow, Rogersand Ms. Potts were gathered in tense silence.
"Hey, kid, you ok?”
Mr. Stark, for all the tremendous rage that radiated from his, was all concern
as he turned towards Peter and cocked his head to the side.
“Yeah.” No, no, no… Peter swallowed hard, tried to smile. He couldn't look Mr.
Stark in the eye. Searching for a distraction, he glared at the Captain, who up
till now had apparently been studying him like he was an exotic variety of
something he used to know very well. He refused to look down, not until Rogers
did. Not until Mr. Stark walked away from the doorway, away from him, to direct
all his formidable attention towards Rogers. 
The warmth in Peter's chest was gone. 
***** The Voice in My Ear *****
Chapter Summary
     Captain America (alias Rogers, alias the enemy) has a very good
     reason to be back, and Peter should really listen when he’s told to
     do something.
Chapter Notes
     A friendly reminder: lynched/dead authors can't write.
     On an unrelated note: I'm trying to organize a Spideriron Mini Big-
     Bang. If you're interested, here's where you can find more info:my
     tumblr.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
So what’s happening with the other As? Are we under attack? Should I call May?
That was Ned fishing for news. Peter typed a quick ‘all fine, talk later’
before silencing his phone and shoving it back into his pants’ pocket. The
hasty text was all he could afford at the moment. His best friend would have to
wait. Shame, too, would have to be dealt with later. Right now, Peter was meant
to be a supportive presence, and a protector, if necessary. He still
couldn't believe that Rogers had tried to kill Mr. Stark, but according to Ms.
Potts (and a conversation Peter shouldn't have overheard), Mr. Stark had known
more than his fair share of betrayal over the years.
And now Peter had betrayed him, too. Worried about the man to the point of
obsession, he'd entered his private quarters to make sure Rogers hadn't used
Mr. Stark’s sudden retreat to the penthouse to end what he’d started... only to
walk in on his wet-dream freshly out of the shower, his well-toned body nothing
short of magnificent.
Peter couldn't get that picture out of his mind. Mr. Stark was so much more
than a handsome body, of course, he was the one, there was no denying it now,
but Peter was only sixteen, with teenage hormones on override, and his extra
senses blowing lust out of proportions. He wanted, he loved the man now dressed
in dark grey slacks and a simple black washed-out shirt. There was nothing
simple, however, about the array of emotions lurking in those brown eyes. If
Peter could reassure him, he would. And if...
Stop, he told himself, ordering his hands to stop fidgeting, because Widow
would know something was wrong with him; probably knew already, from the way
her eyes narrowed at him. Peter gulped. Focus, he thought. Prioritize. He threw
his shoulders back to gain an extra inch; not that he could ever intimidate
someone like Rogers with size or bulk, but the guilt and helplessness were
eating at him. He had to do something before Rogers leaped from his seat and
tackled Mr. Stark down.
The decision was taken for him as the door burst open, admitting a weary-
looking Dr. Banner. Everyone startled except Widow, whose expression of boredom
fooled nobody (in that room anyway); she was listening to every word and
watching every minute shift in everyone’s expression.
Dr. Banner dropped a heavy backpack to the ground and ran a hand through his
hair.
"Sorry I'm late, I had an-” His face darkened as he took in the members of this
impromptu gathering. “Oh, hell, you could have told me, Tony."
"And miss the pleasure of seeing regret again on his face? I think not. Plus,
you have enough control not to transform… albeit I wouldn’t mind a show of
strength.”
Mr. Stark must be impervious to disapproving glares, because both Dr. Banner's
and Ms. Potts' were ignored. With an unpleasant smirk that frightened Peter a
bit (and aroused him a lot more), he drained the cup of coffee that DUM-E,
oblivious to the tension sizzling in the living room and cheerful as ever,
handed out to him.
Peter only needed a discreet sniff to know that the coffee was laced with
alcohol, but he said nothing. He, too, would probably need a liquid pat on the
back to deal with an ex-friend who'd tried to dig him an early grave.
“Tony-”
“That will be ‘Stark’ for you, Capsicle.”
Rogers' look of unease didn't falter; if anything, he appeared increasingly
more troubled. Guilty, troubled and... pleading? Peter could hardly what he was
seeing. Baron and Ms. Potts also exchanged perplexed looks.
It was Widow who broke the silence.
"What's wrong, Rogers?"
"Yes, how about you tell us why you bothered coming back?" Mr. Stark chimed in,
handing his empty mug to Dr. Banner, who just rolled his eyes before placing it
on a table. 
"It's about..." There was naked pain on Rogers' face. He rearranged those long
legs of his, looking at everyone and no one. He seemed lost in the past.
"Bucky's dead."
In the tense silence that fell on the room, Widow beckoned at Peter. At first,
he hesitated, now wanting to let Mr. Stark unprotected, but the knowledge that
Widow wouldn't move a soldier if he was needed elsewhere convinced him to hop
on one arm of the sofa… the arm closest to her, and to Rogers.
Why did it matter if Barnes, Rogers’ former best friend, was alive or dead?
He'd sided with Rogers on the Accords and probably fought Stark when Peter
was busy defending his own life. Surely it didn't matter to Mr. Stark if one of
his enemies was out of the picture? Besides, Peter might hate Rogers for what
he did to Mr. Stark, but he didn't think the man completely stupid; Rogers
would not just come back here for scraps of sympathy.
So what was he doing here? What was he hoping to accomplish?
Mr. Stark didn't share his confusion and began tapping one foot, eyes blazing
with fury. The silence was stretching uncomfortably.  
"And why would you think I care whether your lover lives or dies, Rogers?”
Peter was aware that his role as an Avenger (official or not) was to protect
people and keep them from hurting each other. Usually, he followed that rule
without problem, but as Mr. Stark and Rogers rushed towards each other, their
intentions crystal-clear, Peter really wished he could get in between them. To
protect the one man he loved. To knock Rogers off his feet, and land a few mean
kicks and punches. That wouldn't be very peaceful, sure, but Mr. Stark wanted
Rogers to suffer, so Peter wanted it, too.
"Don't."
With his faster-than-human reflexes, he was already half-standing when Rogers
jumped out of his seat and Mr. Stark lunged at his enemy. Annoyed, Peter
glanced down at Widow's hand on his thigh. She wasn't even looking at him as
she spoke, but her tone brooked no argument. "Stay here. It's already taken
care of, see?"
She was right: Dr. Banner had recovered quickly enough from his shock and wound
both arms around Mr. Stark' waist, whereas Barton had retrieved his bow from
one of his hundred secret stashes and fitted a stun arrow to it. His
intervention, however, was no more necessary than Peter’s; as soon as Dr.
Banner backed Mr. Stark into a corner to talk some sense into him, Rogers
backed away, hands held up in peace.
“I’m sorry.”
Peter wasn't fooled by the quiet tone; Rogers looked every inch as furious as
Mr. Stark. He was surprised at his self-control, and had to wonder at the
relationship between Bucky and him. The (very) temporary spark of sympathy he
experienced was nevertheless crushed in record time. Rogers was the enemy.
Peter was on Tony’s side, always. He was his.
“Let me go,” muttered Mr. Stark, shooing Dr. Banner’s away. “I’m not a fucking
animal, not like him anyway.” He glared daggers at Rogers. He was clearly
unhappy, but whatever Dr. Banner had told him must have helped, because he
resumed his previous position and jerked his chin at Rogers. Peter slowly sat
down, mostly to have Widow remove her hand.
Mr. Stark started pacing. He must be impervious to worried glances too, because
he didn’t seem to notice just how much tenser everybody (except Widow, again)
had become in the last minute.
"You have exactly two minutes to tell us why you are here, and ten seconds to
convince me to give you those two minutes.
Rogers started to talk.
He talked fast, hurried into the meat of his story by Mr. Stark's ultimatum. He
reminded them of the frozen super soldiers and the team of scientist that was
working on a cure for their brainwashing, and when Mr. Stark threatened to show
him the way out, spoke of their escape. “How could that bunch escape?” Barton
grunted. "I thought they were dead anyway!"
“I don’t know.” Rogers threw his hands in the air, helplessness written all
over his face. “Buc… Hedidn’t think they could be brought to life either. We-”
“Back to the point!” Mr. Stark snapped.
Peter could see through the anger; he could tastethe pain on his tongue. What
wouldn’t he have given to be able to wipe away the hurt? The distance between
them, a mere few inches, was unbearable. His nails sank in his palms as he
listened to the rest of the tale.
Someone (Rogers claimed he didn't know who) had engineered the super soldiers
back to life and roused Barnes from his cryogenic sleep. Their first target,
Rogers added, had been himself. No, he didn't know why; yes, he believed the
other Avengers were next. Still brainwashed but partly himself thanks to the
time he'd spent reacquainting himself with his childhood friend, Barnes had
been the only one who'd defended Rogers. And now he was dead.
“I didn’t come to ask for help,” Rogers said, trying to meet Mr. Stark’s eyes.
“I came here to offer mine.”
“Leave. All of you.” When Rogers made a gesture to stand, Mr. Stark lifted a
hand. “Except you.”
Dr. Banner protested a little, but it was Peter who made the more noise.
He didn’t think before getting to his feet, didn’t think before he voiced the
thought that ran in a loop. He could hear his blood roaring in his ears as he
took that final step that would bring him between Rogers and Mr. Stark.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Barton looked surprised, and so did Ms. Potts. Dr. Banner showed concern, and
Widow looked like Widow always did, which didn’t mean anything.
Rogers and Mr. Stark turned to him, but only the latter spoke up.
“It’s better if you leave.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Stark, I don’t think it is.”
Peter could sense how everybody’s attention had shifted to him and fought the
urge to squirm. He hadn’t mean to be thatobvious, and yet he didn’t have
another choice. Just like he wasn’t going to obey Mr. Stark when told to stay
back when everybody else was fighting, he wouldn’t let the man alone with an
enemy.
Their eyes met. Peter flinched, but held his ground. He understood what Mr.
Stark was going through; that he wished to prove to everyone, himself included,
that he didn’t fear the man who’d almost killed him. However, he wasn’t wearing
his suit, was making himself vulnerable, and that, Peter couldn’t tolerate.
He hadn’t planned to expose himself, but the urge to protect ran too deep
within him. He hadto do something.
Mr. Stark must see some of that resolve, because he gestured towards the door
and spoke in a harsher tone. The concern from before was back, but so brief
Peter thought he might as well have imagined it.
“I don’t care what you think right now, kid. You’re leaving with the others.”
“Your pride is not worth your life!” Peter shouted.
There was but an inch between them now. Mr. Stark was so warm... and his words
so cold.
“Get. Out.”
“But-”
Peter would have stood his ground, but a hand fell on his shoulder and pulled
him towards the door.
“Thank you, Brucey.” And Mr. Stark turned his attention back to Rogers.
“Come on, Peter, let’s go.”
“But-”
“This is Tony’s home,” Dr Banner insisted, bodily dragging him out of the room.
Damn, but that man was strong. “Friday won’t let anything happen to him, you
know that.”
Peter really wished he did.
                                       *
It was three in the morning, and Peter still wasn’t sleeping. As a matter of
fact, he’d been watching the ceiling of his bedroom for the past three hours.
He felt restless. Stupid, too. And guilty. The mix made it hard to breathe, and
even harder to think.
Fuck, he’d made such a fool on himself, on so many levels.
He should have left when he saw Mr. Stark was all right (and naked).
Should have left along with the rest of the team at Mr. Stark’s request.
Should have…
He rolled on his belly and groaned in his pillow. He was soashamed. Of course
the Avengers wouldn’t let Mr. Stark alone with Rogers if they thought him in
danger. They were all his friends, and Peter was the worst of them. He worried
like a mother-hen and spied on him like a voyeur. Yes, voyeur. He might hate
the word, but that was what he was when it came to Mr. Stark.
Guilt refused to let go of him. He remembered Mr. Stark’s glare vividly. Could
imagine that same glare directed at him for many, many reasons.
I would bend you over my knee and spank you.
Of course the memory would taunt him now. Peter moaned in his pillow, shame now
mingled with arousal. Mr. Stark would always be handsome in his eyes, and with
anger riding him… Peter licked his lips, imagined Mr. Stark’s husky voice as he
told him to remove his pants and called him a bad boy.
Imagined Mr. Stark’s calloused hand raising goosebumps on his bare behind.
Imagined Mr. Stark’s hard cock pressing into his side, and its familiarity
borne of dreams. Smack. Peter’s hips jerked. Mr. Stark would hold back, but not
too much. He would alternate slaps with caresses, and Peter wouldn’t mind the
pain, he would rutin Mr. Stark’s lap, pleading for more, wishing for
forgiveness. If only Mr. Stark would allow him to get him off, Peter could show
him just how much he meant it, and just how much Mr. Stark meant for him…
A growl built in Peter’s chest. Sweat trickled down his shoulder blades. No
matter how much he tried, he couldn’t banish the fantasy forming in his mind;
not that he tried very hard. Still, he wouldn’t give his body the relief it
desperately wanted.
                                       *
After a sleepless night of self-flagellation over what he'd done in the
penthouse, Peter dragged his feet to the kitchen. His stomach was growling, but
he didn’t listen to the hunger, just as he’d dismissed (albeit with much more
difficulty) that otherkind of hunger last night. Eventually, it passed. One
coffee later, it was completely forgotten. He replied to his phone when May
called, and lied through his teeth about yesterday’s night. Her enthusiasm only
made him feel worse, but he wouldn’t burden her with his own… depravity, or
something. He blamed his threefalls on the way to school on his lack of sleep.
He’d never been so happy to see Ned. They spent the first period (maths; Peter
could teach that class) texting each other, and the midday meal together at the
cafeteria with Michelle. They spoke of trivial things, and Peter found himself
laughing as Michelle invented a ridiculous story for the students sitting
around them. The guilt didn’t disappear, but it eased a bit. He allowed himself
one call to the Avengers headquarters, to make sure Mr. Stark was all right.
He was. And apparently, the Captain had left for an errand.
Peter was just waving his hand at Ned in the parking lot after the last class
of the day when he learnt what his errand was.
Rogers stood with his back to the fence, hands in his pockets. He must not have
gotten much sleep either.
Peter adjusted the straps of his school bag, trying for casual. His first words
gave him away.
“Did you hurt him?”
Rogers shook his head. A sad smile played on his lips. “Ton- Mr. Stark is fine.
We’ve come to an agreement.” He looked around him. “This your school?”
“Why are you here?”
Rogers sighed. “Listen… I think we got off on the wrong foot in Germany.”
“And Ithink you made the wrong call by trying to kill your friend.Not that he’s
your friend anymore, is he?”
“You two are close, uh?” That sad smile persisted. “It was… complicated.”
“Yes, and I’m just a sixteen-year-old who couldn’t possibly understand, I
know,” Peter countered, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“I wasn’t going to say that.” Rogers frowned. “Actually, when I was sixteen-”
“I don’t care about your life.”
Rogers lowered the hood further on his head. “I understand. I… came here to
apologize.”
“Really?” Peter shifted the weight of his back.
“Really. You know, sometimes people will do bad things because-”
“Don’t bother. What you did was wrong-”
“I know that-”
“And I will neverforgive you!”
And Peter walked past him, excepting a protest or a touch; neither came. To his
surprise, Rogers didn’t even try and follow him. Just to be sure, Peter stopped
in an alley a few blocks away and changed into his old suit. The last molecule
of Mr. Stark’s scent as he’d built and touched it was long gone, but Peter
still rubbed his cheek against the fabric before putting on the suit.
Flying from building from building did him good. The adrenaline washed away
some of the hurt, and part of the returning shame too. Spotting a kid in a
tight spot, he lowered himself to the ground and scared away the three bums
who’d thought it would be a good idea to intimidate him.
“Thank you so much, Spiderman!” The kid’s smile could have lit half the city.
Peter was in a much better mood afterward.
His aunt texted him a little before seven to let him know dinner was ready.
On my way.
He changed back into his school clothes and took a shortcut. The park was
mostly empty at this hour, mostly because it got such a bad reputation families
and women tended to avoid it, and drug dealers worked much later. Lost in his
thoughts, Peter almost jumped out of his skin when his phone rang.
"Kid."
"Mr. Stark?” His heart raced. “Is everything ok?”
There was a loud clangon the other end of the line. Mr. Stark swore. "Come back
to headquarters, kid.” Mr. Stark sounded frantic, almost desperate. Peter clung
to the phone harder, chest tightening. If Rogers had done anything...
"Mr. Stark-"
"Kid, you have to take cover right now!”
“But-”
“Hydra is after you, so stop fucking interrupting me and get your ass here!”
Peter swirled around, fists balled, and looked in every possible direction for
the oncoming threat that was Hydra. Mr. Stark was now shouting in his ear,
using that awful (endearing) pet-name like a punctuation mark. Listen to me,
kid! You have to fly back to the headquarters, have to, must, do this and that,
kid, kid, kid…
Peter snapped. “You told me to sit a fight out recently, remember?”
“Kid-”
“I had to come and save you!” It was Peter’s turn to shout. Grey clouds were
gathering in the sky, matching his temper. “I might have refused your offer,
but that has nothing to do with my ability to handle myself. I will wait for
you and the others here. There’s no civilian around. I can-”
Peter heard the telltale sound of Mr. Stark’s suit assembling. A shiver ran
down his spine.
“This was not a request, kid.” Someone spoke in the background; Barton, Peter
thought. “There are too many to take out on your own, there would be too many
for me to contain without back-up. God damn it, kid, they are super
soldiers! If I have to ask one more time-”
Peter almost melted at that pleading note. His surrender hovered at the tip of
his tongue. He would never be the one for Mr. Stark, it was painfully obvious;
and yet Mr. Stark was the one for him, and as such, could ask things out of him
that no one else could.
Like retreating in the face of an enemy to save his own skin. Peter closed his
eyes in a moment of weakness, and let the words free reign.
“Mr. Stark, I-”
And then the world tumbled upside down. The last thing he saw was an angry face
blotting out the stormy sky, the last thing he felt was a powerful kick that
broke at least one rib, and the last thing he heard, the very last thing he
could comprehend in his state of confusion and terror, was his own
name screamed in his ear.  
"Peter!"
Everything went dark.
Chapter End Notes
     At least, it's longer than my average chapter? *winces*
***** Obsessions Come in Many Forms *****
Chapter Summary
     Peter wakes up in a very dark place, prisoner of a madman who intends
     to take his revenge on the Avengers.
     He's the tool, and the distraction.
Chapter Notes
     There will be plot, and an ATTEMPTED RAPE, so beware the new tags!
     Also, a second update this week, hurray! (it's now 1:30 in the
     morning, and I have to get up for work in... well, not enough time to
     rest properly, apparently)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Darkness slapped him in the face, a danger without a name, faceless and all the
more frightening for it. Where was he? How…
The next thing he knew was pain. Rolling to his side, he violently threw up.
The right half of his face felt like it’d been hit by a hammer, possibly
Thor’s, and his chest ached something fierce. As he tried to stand, pain shot
through his leg, and he slid right back to the floor. His right ankle was
broken. At least it was still attached, he thought grimly.
He had not the faintest idea where he was, but the place was as dark as a cave.
Even with his superior senses, he couldn’t make out dimensions. Careful not to
put weight on his weakened leg, he reached out with his hands. Nothing. He
dragged himself around the place with his hands and his one good leg, seeking
out a door, a wall, a window, anything. Thankfully, wherever this place was,
the air was warm and dry, and so was the ground, some even concrete surface.
After what felt like an hour of crawling, he touched something vertical. A
wall. In his enthusiasm, he forgot about his ankle and cried out in pain as he
angled his foot to stand.
Slowly, he tried again. His hands trembled against the wall. He managed to
stand, and once he was stable, allowed himself a brief pause, resting his brow
against the hard surface.
The soldiers, he remembered suddenly, tensing up. It was one of them who’d
attacked him… right when Mr. Stark had urged him to come back to base.
Really, Peter had no one else but himself to blame for this mess. Lifting a
hand to the tingling side of his face, he tried to assess the damage. The
barest brush of fingers hurt, but his nose was still straight, and his teeth
seemed all in their rightful places. Both eyes felt swollen, especially the
right one, but he couldn’t auto-diagnose further.
“I see you’ve woken up, little spider.”
Peter did his best to keep his cool as the voice echoed around him, the tone
sharper than a whip’s crack. A moment later, bright lights flooded the room.
Peter blinked furiously and turned around to face the madman who’d orchestrated
his kidnapping.
It was Doom. Dark hair slicked back, the trademark silver line at his temple,
clad in a three-piece suit complete with a tie, he strode away from a pair of
monstrously large double doors.
Towards him.
If Peter’s eyesight returned quickly, his physical strength did not. One look
down at himself showed him that indeed, his right angle was broken, and his
bare chest sported whole hands printed in his skin, violet dark and ugly.
“What do you want?” he asked between clenched teeth.
He saw Doom’s polished shoes stop a few feet in front of him. The telltale
sound of electricity sizzling in the air made Peter flinch. Doom’s harsh laugh
was like a vice at his throat, tightening on every exhale.
“You’re so young to choose a side, little spider. Why couldn’t you let the
adults play?”
“Play?” Peter’s eyes locked on Doom’s. Anger roared in his ears, lending him
the courage he so desperately needed. “Is that what you call your attempt on
Mr. Stark’s life?”
“He should have died that day. I was going to end him… But you had to
intervene.”
“I’m happy I did,” Peter retorted, remembering too late not to be bratty.
Electricity shot through his arm and chest, feeding in loops at the hand Doom
had locked on his wrist. Every nerve in his body vibrated with pain. The grip
on his wrist was the only thing keeping him on his feet.
“You… f-failed,” he said, teeth clattering.
“Ah, but don’t we always?” Doom replied smoothly, almost pleasantly. “I don’t
plan to be so disappointed in the future, darling. I will kill Stark, and every
single one in his team of cheap heroes, and all the blame will be on the
soldiers… soldiers, my dear boy, whom everyone believes to be dead. A hit to
the head doesn’t have to be fatal, you see. I bet yourpretty head wouldn’t be
so easily damaged either. But I’m digressing,” he said, almost chidingly, at
himself.
The next electrical charge drove Peter to his knees. He thought he screamed,
but it might only be in his head; it was hard to focus on anything when the
inside of his veins felt like lave. Tears streaming down his cheeks, he let his
head droop. He couldn’t stop shaking.
“That’s better. More suited to your nature, I believe?”
One of Doom’s feet hit him in the shoulder. Peter rolled to his side, following
the motion. He needed a break, and if Doom thought he was out for the count, he
might get it.
“A spider such as yourself should know better than to seek an alliance with a
group of people who only care about themselves. Aren’t spiders solitary
creatures?”
Peter rolled on his back to avoid the next hit, but Doom may have anticipated
his reaction, and slammed one heel right under Peter’s left knee. Had Peter
been any more human, the bones would have shattered. There was a loud crack,
and Peter started sobbing louder, nails breaking on the concrete floor as he
attempted to scramble back.
He could hear Mr. Stark in his ear, telling him that it would be all right,
that he would get out of this, and meanwhile, Peter had better make the bad guy
talk, so that they could use that information to take him down later. Peter
smiled. It was wobbly, that smile; his whole face hurt.
“What is it you want?!”
Doom’s smile was all teeth.
“What I want, darling, is to make them pay. And I shall start with the man who
owns you. It’s pathetic, really, how you keep following him like a lost puppy.
If you’ve been looking at me like that, I would have bedded you long ago… or I
might not have bothered and just shoved you against a wall.”
The pain and remaining electricity in his system alone didn’t explain Peter’s
heightened dread.  He balled his fists, tuning out the pain of his broken
ankle, of his knee, of his bruised face. The memory of Mr. Stark plummeting to
the ground, his suit deactivated, somehow, by Doombots, death so close, so
eager to whisk him away from Peter, was a wound that ran deeper.
It also gave him strength. He’d saved Mr. Stark’s life; he could take care of
himself.
“You will have to go through me first,” he snarled.
Doom, of all things, looked pleased.
“I thought you would never ask.”
Before Peter could wrap his mind around Doom’s intentions, the madman kicked
him square in the face.
“You’re mad!” He spat blood, aiming for Doom’s face, and was backhanded harshly
for his effort. His nose broke, and his jaw almost followed suit. Peter lifted
a hand to wipe his mouth, and it came away viscous with blood. A lot of blood.
His vision was spotted with black spots, and the more he tried to clear it, the
less he could focus. His lungs couldn’t draw enough hair. “What do you hope to
accomplish by this?”
“To get back at the Avengers. To hurt them. To make the world see them for what
they really are. To wipe the world of Stark’s growing influence. To reap what I
sow, for once. Pick one,” Doom spat.
Deftly, he undid his tie and flung it carelessly over his shoulder. Flicked
open the buttons of his suit jacket, then of his shirt, one by one. Peter’s
eyes fell on the bulge in Doom’s pants, and his heart leaped in his throat. He
couldn’t throw up now, he had to get up, had to…
Doom was lightning fast as he came around here and grabbed a handful of Peter’s
hair. With one knee, he rolled him on his stomach and pinned him into place.
Peter tried to elbow him, even tried to bite, but Doom was stronger, and the
electricity at his fingertips forced Peter into submission. Peter didn’t master
an element, only spider silk. So delicate, so fragile, and ripe for the taking…
At least, that was what Doom whispered in his hear, peeling his clothes from
his abused body.
“P-Please…” Peter didn’t know who he was asking, and what he was asking for.
His face connected with the ground. Pain exploded behind his eyes.
“You will be quiet. I intend to savor my vengeance, and I shall take my
pleasure in silence, little spider.”
Unable to breathe properly through his nose or his mouth, Peter started to
panic in earnest. He bit down his lip to keep in the pleas that wanted out.
Quiet. He should focus on that. Be quiet. Don’t feel. Let it all happen, as if
this wasn’t him struggling to stay alive, but someone else that looked like
him, thought like him, felt everything that he’d ever felt before.
His pants were torn apart. Warm air rushed over his exposed buttocks. Peter
munched on his lip with renewed ferocity, taking comfort in the pain that kept
insanity at bay. Blood trickled down his chin, splashing the floor one drop at
a time. The rest, he swallowed.
Doom positioned him up on all four. Peter sagged forwards, he was close, so
close to pass out. The sound of a zipper going down made every muscle in his
body tense.
He felt so weak, so useless. What was it that Mr. Stark had said?
I’m doing you a disservice.By allowing him to fight. And yet he’d invited him
to be part of the Avengers, hadn’t he? What would he think of him now, naked in
an underground prison, about to be raped by an enemy of the very group Peter
had officially refused to join?
Peter’s blood boiled, his whole body shook with revulsion, but he couldn’t land
a hit now, even if Doom lay back and asked for it. He wanted to scream; he
would have, too, if fear hadn’t sealed his lips.
The team might have lost some of its members, enemies might keep coming at us,
but as long as we stick together, work together, have each other's back, it's
gonna be all right.
Those were his own words. He should hold on to them. Hope, however remote and
bleak, still existed, if only he believed. The Avengers wouldn’t let him down.
They fought for each other, even for the youth in their midst. They probably
thought he was too young, or something equally stupid. Too young to fight,
perhaps.
Too young to love?
Rough hands parted his ass cheeks, exposing his hole. What would Mr. Stark tell
him now? Be strong, kid? It’s gonna hurt like hell, but you can take it, you
can survive, you will survive this?
Was he even looking for him?
When the blunt head of Doom’s cock caught at the rim of his hole, Peter screwed
his eyes shut. How peculiar, and yet predictable, that his mind’s focus should
be on the imminent loss of his virginity, a gift he’d intended to offer the one
man who’d never asked for it, and would probably never want it.
He forced the words out. He belonged to the Avengers, even if he wasn’t one of
them. He had to protect the world, even when he couldn’t do anything to protect
himself.
“If you can… raise the dead, why bother with the l-likes of me?”
His voice was hoarse; he didn’t recognize it. Doom’s grip in his hair tightened
slightly.
“I don’t raise the dead, little spider. No one can, not even me. But machines
can be revived. And while I take care of the child the precious Avengers let
out of their sight, my friends can use their distraction to their advantage.”
“What did the world… ever do to you?” His face throbbed as he spoke.
“It made me who I am. And since life isn’t fair, I will have to create fairness
in it myself, starting with you. Here we go-”
Just as Doom’s hips snapped forwards, the double doors were blasted to the
ground.
Chapter End Notes
     Another cliffhanger already? Damn... at least, there's the word
     'blasted' at the end to help you figure out what comes next :P
***** By Your Side *****
Chapter Summary
     Peter got saved by his knight in shining armor, and now he’s a bit
     high. The morphine may or may not make him say things he’d otherwise
     keep for himself.
Chapter Notes
     Thank you so much for your lovely comments and... enjoy!
Peter woke to the sound of two voices, one male and one female, whispering in
the darkness. Stifling a whimper of pain, he turned his head to the side an
inch in a feeble attempt to ease the ache in his back. Moving more, even to get
more comfortable, didn’t seem to be worth the effort. At least, the silky
blankets loosely tucked around his battered body were light and smelled clean.
He didn’t feel clean.
"... a while yet," the female voice was saying.
A name popped in Peter's mind: Ms. Potts. He couldn't see her, couldn't bear to
open his eyes, but her tone soothed some of the stressed strings inside him.
She’d always been so nice to him, Ms. Potts. He liked her, even considered her
a friend, even if she’d got to share intimacy with the man he loved and whereas
he was doomed to go on living with his feelings locked away, and a useless key
weighing him down.
Doomed. Ha! Yes, that was exactly what he was.
"I know that, Pep'," replied the man, no, not the man: Mr. Stark. His belly did
a funny twist that left him breathless. "And there won't be a damned meeting
that will keep me away from him at a time like this. You can tell Barton and
Romanov to go enjoy each other for now."
Pepper's voice became urgent, coaxing. She was good at ignoring Mr. Stark’s
provocative strike. "You need to rest, Tony. I can assure you I'm perfectly
able to watch over him. He's dear to me too, you know. We all like him very
much… including Clint and Natasha. You know this. It’s not because-" She
sounded close to tears now, and Peter moaned quietly as he struggled to
swallow, to breathe. Pictures were coming back to him now, memories of a room
shrouded in shadows, and the monster who'd locked him there, in his lair. The
fear, the pain of electricity burning through his body, the shame of being on
all four, vulnerable, unable to fight, while Doom meant to take what-
Peter squeezed his eyes so tight it hurt.
It was all right. He was all right.
Or he would be.
He started to shiver. The voices moved closer.
"I'm not in the lab, Pep'. I can feel asleep right here in this damn chair if I
want to. But I can't. At least, if he wakes up, he will see a face he trusts."
Peter could swear he heard Mr. Stark swallow. He clenched one hand, then the
other. Unclenched them. He needed something, but he didn't know what yet. More
morphine, perhaps. His enhanced metabolism would break it down faster than if
he’d been regular human material, but it would still help with the pain. The
kind that could be managed with a simple click, that is.
"You think he doesn't trust me?" Ms. Potts protested in hushed tones.
Mr. Stark's reply was too low for Peter to hear, even with his heightened
senses. The sound of Tony's lips on Pepper's cheek and the door closing and
opening, however, was almost deafening.
He shivered harder and thought back on the only highlight of his current state.
                                       *
The next thing to get hit was the man trying to rape him. Peter was so on board
with that.
With a yowl of pain, Doom landed several feet back. Almost instantly, Mr. Stark
raised his hand to fire at him again, but Doom was not a continuous thorn in
the Avengers’ side because he preferred Tom Ford to Armani; he retaliated with
his own weapon of mass destruction, bringing down a part of the ceiling on top
of Iron Man. Peter, who’d broken free from the paralysis spell the threat of
rape had cast on him, swallowed down the pain coursing through his body and
swivelled around on his knees, throwing extra thick strands of spider silk at
Doom’s throat. Meanwhile, Mr. Stark had gone airborne and was now engaged in a
 duel with Doom. Peter continued throwing restraints at Doom, aiming at his
wrists and ankles, and managed to force him back a few other steps, which was
not much, but still enough that the enemy had to split his attention between
Iron Man and Spider-Man.
“Get down, kid!”
Peter didn’t question the order and flattened himself to the ground, whining as
his broken ankle collided with the concrete. The next thing he knew, a
shockwave erupted mere inches above his still body. Doom screamed in agony.
Peter smiled tiredly; he’d forgotten about that new addition to the Iron Man’s
suit, a little 'surprise' that Mr. Stark had borrowed to Coulson’s team the
last time he’d wanted to get revenge on S.H.I.E.L.D and give Fury an aneurysm.
Then the ceiling started to shake. Peter turned his head to the side and saw
Mr. Stark raise both hands in the direction of the breaking concrete. The
explosion that followed the intervention didn’t reach Peter; Mr. Stark hovered
between him and the threat, both threats. Peter could hardly believe the man
had needed his help in the past; he was so resourceful, so cunning, and Peter…
Peter was so grateful to see him.
His hands shook as he struggled to cover as much of his buttocks and front as
he could with his torn pants. He wasn’t sure what happened next, because pain
could be dismissed for only so long, but Doom and Mr. Stark fought some more,
destroying additional parts of this dark cavern as a result. Peter was that
close to passing out when he made out Doom escaping, and Mr. Stark staying
behind.
For him?
“Kid.”
Mr. Stark stood amidst the flames and broken concrete, faceplate up, a deus ex
machina in the guise of an angel. Blood stained his lips, and Peter thirsted
for a taste, a single drop that he could swallow and keep inside him, and
cherish, like a secret altar to the human god he worshiped in secret.
“Peter.” Mr. Stark crouched but didn’t touch him. The goatee Peter liked so
much seemed soaked in blood, but that was probably just the poor light. A
bloody line ran down the right side of the man’s face like a claw mark. Brown
eyes found Peter’s, the steady warmth in them seeping into the youth’s tired
body. “Fuck, kid, I’m sorry I took so long.” He extended both hands.
Peter first thought was that he ought to grab those hands to get up, but his
body refused to cooperate, and he felt gravity pull at him.
"Here, let me." The arms of the suit wound around him, carefully lifting him
off the ground. A whimper of pain wanted to leave his lips, but Peter
obstinately refused to lend it voice. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pressed his
face to the comforting, oh so comforting, cold metal of the suit chest plate.
He could hear Mr. Stark’s breath, could sense his heartbeat, and the proximity
was both a balm and a fresh wound. What had Mr. Stark seen? Did he think that
Peter- Did it change what- Could Peter explain-
“You’re safe,” Mr. Stark said hoarsely, his grip too tight, and just right. “I
have you, Peter.”
The renewed use of his name tugged at something inside him that had gone
dormant since he’d been brought to yield in this awfully dark place.
Hope.
                                       *
Ms. Potts had left the room five minutes ago, after Mr. Stark had gone to grab
another coffee. The man now sat close by, looking at nothing, and seeing
everything, as Peter discreetly drank in his profile. He doubted Mr. Stark
would notice him just yet; he looked lost in thought, and by the way his face
kept darkening, those thoughts must not be of the pleasant variety.
“Kid? Peter? Thanks god you’re awake!”
Guilty as charged, Peter opened his mouth to apologize, but Mr. Stark was not
done just yet.
“Are you ok? Stupid question, I know you must in pain despite your accelerated
healing factor, but-” He laid a hand on the bed just inches from Peter’s hip
and squeezed the sheets. Grief and fear, relief and happiness played in his
eyes like so many actors on the stage of his consciousness.
“I’m- I’m fine,” Peter said slowly. He hardly recognized his voice, but his
words seemed to lighten Mr. Stark’s mood, so he tried again: “I feel… ok, I
guess.”
“You still look like a mess,” the man said, blinking fast, his hand on the bed
moving until it found Peter’s through the sheets. “I wish-” He looked away. His
throat bobbed, and Peter watched, fascinated, as Mr. Stark bit down his lip. “I
wish you’d listened to me.”
“I-”
“I also wish I could have killed the bastard.”
Peter managed to turn his hand around. The sheets were so thick; he wanted the
security of Mr. Stark’s naked palm against his own. The heat.
As if sensing what he was trying to achieve by whining pitifully, Mr. Stark
gently lowered the sheets until his and Peter’s hand met. The gloriousness of
that simple touch brought a sigh to Peter’s lips. He took the glass of water
Mr. Stark handed him and drank slowly, lips locked on the pink straw. It was
probably Ms. Potts’ idea. Or Widow’s. He found himself smiling in spite of the
pain.  
For a while, neither of them spoke. Peter would have been quite content to
spend the next hour or two like this, hands linked, but Mr. Stark had never
dealt well with silence. Letting go of Peter’s hand with a crunched face that
was downright adorable, he made a gesture to touch Peter’s face, but stopped
himself, growled, and put his hand back into his lap. He didn’t quite look at
Peter when he spoke.
“Kid, you are under absolutely no obligation to tell me anything about what
happened… about what- about Doom, what he did, but I think-”
Peter pushed back the straw with his tongue, trying to keep his heartbeat under
control. The last thing he needed was for it to go through the roof, which Mr.
Stark wouldn’t fail to notice with how he was being monitored from head to
feet.
“He didn’t do anything,” he said in what he hoped was a fierce voice. And
because he wanted to wipe the sadness from Mr. Stark’s face (it was not his
fault; how could it be his fault?), he added: “And you’re right. I should have
listened to you.”
He could tell Mr. Stark wanted to argue the first part, and braced himself for
a painful argumentation, but the man shook his head, pinching the bridge of his
nose as he did so. Peter started to relax against the pillows. Mr. Stark had
arrived in the nick of time, he told himself firmly, but he did stop Doom. And
Peter refused to linger on what could have happened if he’d been alone one more
minute with that monster.
“Could I get more morphine?”
“Of course,” Mr. Stark said hurriedly. “I should have asked already. Fuck, I’m
not doing my job, am I? I should be taking better care of you and here I am,
babbling away, while you’re in pain. Fuck. And fuck, I shouldn’t be swearing.”
He laughed nervously, but Peter could say that he was relieved to be able to do
somethingabout Peter’s state. Something nice.
A few moments later, relief flooded his abused body. He let out a low moan of
delight.
“He escaped,” he said, strangely more focused on the issue at hand now that he
was floating, the pain momentarily erased by the drugs. “Doom.”
“Yes,” Mr. Stark replied between his teeth.
“What about the… soldiers?”
“We’re hunting them down as we speak.”
“You regret not being with the rest of the Avengers right now, do you?” Peter
said without missing a beat, bolder than he would have been had the morphine
not removed his inhibitions. “You like to fight, and punish those who deserve
it. Like me.”
“You?” Mr. Stark frowned, and Peter wanted to smooth his brow. He attempted to
sit, but Mr. Stark coaxed him back in a lying position with light touches to
his chest and shoulders. “What do you mean? Sure, you should have listened, and
fuck, you’re getting grounded for dismissing my orders, you can be sure of it,
but-”
“I really didn’t expect Doom to be the one controlling those soldiers,” Peter
interrupted him, switching subjects and not understanding, in his state, why
Mr. Stark appeared so confused.
“He… He told you that?”
“Yes,” Peter confirmed, and then related all of Doom’s boastful speech. And if
he forgot himself and let slip the part where Doom had said that Peter was
following Mr. Stark like a lost puppy and would have fucked him long ago if
he’d looked at him the way he kept looking at Mr. Stark, well, it was the drugs
talking. Still, he had the presence of mind to assure Mr. Stark that Doom was a
self-delusional man who fantasized about fucking little boys against the wall,
and thus that what he said shouldn't be taken as face value.
By the end of his little speech, Mr. Stark looked a bit pale and had hidden his
face in his hands with a few colorful swearwords. Peter picked another topic,
of the firm belief that the flush creeping up the man's neck didn't go well
with the pallor.
“Shouldn’t I be in school? he asked lightly. “Could I have more water? If you
don't mind.”
Mr. Stark left the room so fast Peter wondered if he was going to be sick. He
was starting to worry when Mr. Stark hurried back with a full glass of water,
and Peter smiled up at him gratefully.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. So, school,” Mr. Stark huffed, sinking down in his chair.
“Don’t worry about that; the team told your Aunt that you had a car accident.
And before you ask, we’ve also notified that friend of yours.”
“Oh yes.” Peter blinked twice. “Ned would worry.” His thoughts were going in
all kinds of interesting directions, and he definitely wanted to kiss Mr.
Stark. Except that the more he tried to sit, the more Mr. Stark insisted he
stay under the covers and sleep some more. Peter stopped fighting once a brief
kiss was placed on his forehead. It tingled all the way to his toes. Warmth
pooled in his chest and coiled in his groin. Peter spread his thighs under the
sheets as he felt himself harden. In his mind’s eye, he could see Mr. Stark
kneeling between his trembling legs, one hand on his hip, another nudging his
thighs further apart, caressing his balls, stroking the base of his erect cock.
The anticipated contrast in texture between his own soft, sensitive skin and
those clever, calloused, thick (he gulped) fingers, already drove him a bit
wild.
Mr. Stark would be so gentle when he touched him there. He would massage the
sensitive ring of muscles, praising him as he did so, smiling, eyes hooded with
desire, until Peter begged for his cock, for communion, and Mr. Stark would
give it to him then, would give him everything, just like Peter was willing to
offer himself, body and soul, on a silver platter carved to satisfy the man's
needs. 
He would be so gentle. He would be nothing like Doom.
And they would fit so well together. 
“Kid.”
He was slowly dozing off, comforted by the heady scene playing out behind his
eyelids, and the physical presence at his side feeding the delicious pictures
that would, he hoped, be part of his dream.
“Mr. Stark?”
“What did you mean, when you said you deserved to be punished?”
Peter paused his mental lovemaking with the man sitting right beside him and
tried to come up with a complete sentence. He was drifting, and so were the
words, away from him.
“For what I did to you,” he said at last, voice airy. “Worrying you.
Disobeying. Maybe you should, I don't know, spank me-”
“Kid!”
“… so that I remember, never to let you down again, never to fail you, and
myself,” Peter babbled on, failing to see a connection between the words
tumbling from his mouth and the consequence of their existence. “You should
make it hard, I think. The spanking, I mean. That’s how you should do it, or I
might not- I think it wouldn’t have the desired effect, and it's not like I
speak from experience, but still, it could work. I remember you saying you
don't think this kind of punishment works, but maybe you should try. With me. I
am different, always have been, and I think... What was I saying?”
He heard a choked sound, and then the frantic gurgling of someone draining
their cups.
“You do like coffee,” he chuckled, earning himself a gasp. Mr. Stark’s heavy
breathing as he rose and began to pace the room pleased him for a reason that
both eluded him and struck him as important.
“Go to sleep, kid.” Mr. Stark sounded very, veryannoyed. “You’re delirious.”
Peter meant to refute that last statement, but the mental image of Mr. Stark
mouthing at his jaw, whispering I love you, lulled him to sleep.
***** The Enemy of My Enemy if not My Friend (but I Love You) *****
Chapter Summary
     Peter has to learn to pick his battles, and also to stop blushing
     like a red light.
     An adventure in apples, teasing, and possessive determiners.
Chapter Notes
     Thank you so much for all the love!
The fourteenth day after Rogers' return to the Tower and Doom’s attack on the
Avengers, Peter collapsed into his bed and curled into a ball of exhaustion,
half-wishing he could get into cryogenic sleep for the next decade or so. He
needed his rest desperately, but the more he tried to relax and let go of all
his worries, the less his body cooperated.
After half an hour of turning around in his bed, he rolled onto his back and
punched the wall. A small crack appeared in the plaster, but Peter was too worn
out to feel guilty over his bad taste in redecoration.
"Ah, come on…"
The last two weeks had been hell for more than one reason. First, there were
the nightmares. About Doom, of course, and what could have happened, but also
about Mr. Stark. About Mr. Stark finding out about Peter's feelings and
laughing at him. He kept waking up drenched in sweat, trusting Mr. Stark to be
just right here by his side, telling him that it was all right, that nothing
could ever break the bond they shared, but he was always alone, and always
crying.
Then, there was the time he’d spent in the sickbay babbling (he was sure) about
stuff he couldn’t recall, and it drove him a little crazy (or crazier than
usual, according to Barton, not that the archer’s word was worth much in an
economy based on honesty).
The only parts he remembered with any clarity were being handed a glass of
water chided for his carelessness. He thought Mr. Stark’s hand might have
touched his, but he wasn't sure, and it wasn't like he was going to ask, lest
he blushed and betrayed his secret right here and then.
So what if he’d been a tad more defensive and impatient than usual? Nobody
dealt well with memory loss, let alone people with secrets.
Mr. Stark had assured him that he'd given the team valuable insight as to
Doom's motives and role in the super soldiers' attack. And if something had bit
a been off when he’d given that explanation, if his smile had been a touch too
bright, his eyes moving every which way as if a teenager who moonshined as a
friendly neighborhood Spider-Man couldn't possibly hold his attention for more
than a heartbeat, well, there was nothing Peter could do about it.
Mr. Stark's demeanor had changed since the attack, and Peter’s certainty that
it was linked to whatever he’d said in the sick bay drove him up the walls in a
loop.
To say that he was relieved when he heard his cellphone ringing would be an
understatement.
It was Mr. Stark. In his eagerness to take the call, Peter dropped the phone
twice. He briefly considered punching the wall again, but he wasn’t twelve, and
he’d better keep his temper in check if he didn’t want someoneto find out about
the depth of his affection for a certain billionaire, playboy (he winced), and
philanthropist.
                                       *
He landed on the doorstep of the headquarters twelve minutes later, out of
breath but in better spirits. Even if his heart felt like a puzzle with a few
missing pieces, he would never endanger his friendship with Mr. Stark, and
refuse to help those in need. Besides, Ned wasn’t wrong when he’d claimed that
kicking ass did wonders for the soul.
“Welcome back,” Friday told him in her usual suave voice.
“Glad to see you too,” he said cheerfully.
The door slid open, and Peter rushed through. The elevator was already waiting
and brought him to the Avengers common floor in a blink.
He was determined to be a reliable team member tonight, even if it meant
postponing his intensive study of what exactly he’d said in that drugged
rambling the other day. The prospect of seeing Mr. Stark for the first time
since he’d left his bed (and the headquarters) caused his chest to swell with
bittersweet delight. 
He drew himself higher as he exited the elevator. The team was already there,
most of them ready to go, with Barton arranging a last strap on his suit and
Widow hiding a micro-thick blade in another invisible pocket of her black suit.
Peter’s eyes immediately sought Mr. Stark… only to zero on Rogers.
“What is he doing here?” They both asked at the same time.
An eerie silence settled on the room. Mrs. Potts, who’d been whispering in Mr.
Stark’s ear, bent to pick up a suitcase and scurried out of the room. Peter
would have returned her small wave if not for the fact that the man who’d
betrayed the one he loved stood in their midst, perhaps plotting another
betrayal. Peter didn’t care that Rogers had tried to apologize to him the other
day, or that he’d warned the team of the super soldiers’ intentions. There was
nothing in this world that could convince him to be nice to Rogers, not even
Mr. Stark’s assurances that they were fast friends again.
Not that it appeared to be the case, with how the two men stood with their
backs to each other, stiff and proud. Words must have been exchanged again, and
Peter regretted not having insisted more to come back to the headquarters
sooner.
“You’re ready, kid?” Mr. Stark asked, as if the air wasn’t heavy with
disapproval.
“We don’t need him,” Rogers said in what he probably thought was a polite
voice. “No offense, Spiderman.”
Peter slipped the hood over his head. “Well, I take offense.” Sensing Mr.
Stark’s unease, and realizing he might very well be asked to sit out another
fight because a murderer thought he wasn’t needed, because he was young and
sixteen and still so much better than him in all respects, Peter swallowed back
the protests on the tip of his tongue, instead nodding at every one except
Rogers.
“What’s the plan?”
The plan was, it turned out, to stop a detachment of semi-organic, semi-robotic
aliens whose size ranged from that of a bird to that of a small plane. Peter
was relieved at the opportunity notto face Doom or one of his puppet super
soldier. He really wished to see all of them behind bars, but up till now the
team had failed to apprehend any of them, and Peter could work out a little of
his frustration (and the remaining fear) by fighting those slow moving,
brainless dual-natured beings falling down the sky.
Not fifteen minutes into the battle, his suit was slick with dark goo, and he
already sported a few bruises from a collision with one of the bigger
specimens. Since he’d voluntarily stepped in the way of the alien to allow Mr.
Stark time to incapacitate another plane-sized alien, he didn’t regret it.
“To your left, Parker!”
Peter heeded Barton’s advice and yanked a small creature towards him with a
thread of spider-silk, flinging it over his shoulder into the side of a sport
center. He wasdistracted, and he always was, watching over Mr. Stark at all
times, but with the added responsibility of keeping an eye on Rogers, he didn’t
offer one of his most stellar performances. Mr. Stark scolded him over the coms
because he thought heneeded to watch his back, but Peter didn’t get to reply,
because Rogers had just landed in front of the man with a trail of aliens at
his heels.
“It’s ok, Spiderman, we’ve got it!” Rogers said over the coms.
Peter nevertheless cut through the organic/robotic armada to do his share of
the work while Rogers broke a few down with his shield and Mr. Stark blasted a
significant amount of goo-producing aliens into oblivion.
“We really don’t need your help,” Rogers insisted. “This enemy will be easily
dealt with and isn’t associated with Doom.”
Peter jumped on what ought to be the ‘back’ of one aliens and twisted its head
out of its neck, stuffing a grenade in its chest and throwing the now headless
body into a cloud of its comrades. A dozen or so aliens exploded.
“I wouldn’t use that word so casually if I were you,” he sing songed, pulling
himself towards another roof with a fine white thread.
“What word?” Rogers sounded nonplussed.
“Enemy.”
“Spiderman, I-”
“Stop antagonizing my spider,” Mr. Stark cut in, turning around to kick at a
small alien Peter’s explosion had missed, and Peter felt his lips curl up into
a savage smile. He’d said my. My!
The battle continued on swiftly, and eventually Rogers found somewhere else to
be. Peter tried not to be too obvious in his surveillance, and he thought he’d
done a good job until Widow tapped his shoulder, covered the microphone and
whispered in his ear that spiders were known to be independent creatures.
Still, he was in such a good mood since the use of that possessive determiner
that he went on punching and throwing and pulling with joy. The fact that Mr.
Stark was never really in danger certainly helped.
By the time the sun set over the busy city, the fight was over with minimal
casualties. The look of pride on Rogers’ face made Peter want to punch him, but
he couldn’t be seen as the immature member of their little group. God, he
couldn’t wait to be twenty-one!
He was surveying the landscape of goo below, jumping from roof to roof,
checking if civilians were taken care of, when he spotted Iron Man out of the
corner of his eye.  
“Everything’s ok, Mr. Stark?”
“It’s you I’m worried about,” Mr. Stark replied very seriously. “You took quite
a hit earlier. And I sawyou limping.”
Peter wished he could deny it. “You know I heal really fast. It’s nothing.”
“Kid-”
He knew what was coming. "Would you insist I sit out fights if I had accepted
to be part of the team, officially?"
"Why didn't you?"
Peter had to wonder how long Mr. Stark had wanted to get an answer to that
question. Suddenly, there didn’t seem to be enough place for everything in his
belly, and words just wouldn’t go through his throat. He opened his mouth.
Closed it. His chest fluttered.
"Because..."
"… you want to give me white hair prematurely?"
Peter snorted, and some of the knots relaxed. He considered an answer that
would both protect his secret and satisfy Mr. Stark. It was a good thing he was
so talented at multitasking, or he would have ended up with his face against
some form of concrete more than once making up an excuse.
"I thought it would be better at the time," he said at last. He had to assume
Mr. Stark had cut the communications with the rest of the team. “I was wrong.”
"What if you weren't?"
"I was," Peter gritted between his teeth. His right ankle, doubly fragile after
his little stunt earlier, protested as he landed on the sidewalk by an outdoor
market, deserted but for a few people wearing identical horrified expressions.
"I'm healed now. I can help, and I was called to help. Youcalled me, remember?"
“Yeah, yeah…”
Iron Man landed at his side, knocking a basket of ripe tomatoes to the
side. The helmet flipped up, exposing his handsome face. Peter was glad for the
mask, because he was sure he was blushing from the intensity of the look sent
his way.  
Then Mr. Stark’s face scrunched up in some kind of grimace that Peter wished he
could smooth away with a kiss, or those words that were eating at him. Instead,
he smiled, a bit shyly.
“I still think I’m doing you a disservice, butI’m glad you were having my back
earlier,” Mr. Stark admitted, picking up a heavy, metallic door in the middle
of the street and placing it between two vegetables stands.
“It’s only fair,” Peter said hurriedly, certain he was blushing now. “You had
mine too.”
God, but he loved that man. He loved how easily they could fight side by side,
and talk of anything and everything. He couldn’t stop thinking about Mr.
Stark’s hands on him as he’d stitched that wound that was no longer visible,
about the affection in his expression as he’d sit by his bed after he’d rescued
him.
He loved him so much.
“I think you’ve got a couple tomatoes on the loose,” he blurted out in a poor
attempt to put his traitorous mind back on track.
Mr. Stark snorted and bent to put the fruits back in their basket. "I wish I
could land in my suit like you do in yours," he honest-to-God whined.
Peter crouched beside him to help. Their hands brushed, and Peter could feel
warmth climb up his arm and spread into the rest of his body in spite of the
gloves covering their skins. "And I wish I had the brains to make your suit.”
“I wish you would call me Tony.”
Peter bit his lip. Hard. “I might, someday.”
“Is it because you don’t like the name?” Ton- no, Mr. Stark, insisted.
“No, it’s really just a matter of habit.”
“And age difference?” Mr. Stark suggested.
Peter froze for a moment. “No,” he said firmly. “I’ve known you for years
before we met, and it’s always been ‘Mr. Stark’.”
“Ah, so that’s why there’re twoposters of me in your room.”
“They were a gift!” Peter immediately protested (lied), but Mr. Stark only
laughed, and it was such a joyous, honest, wonderful laugh that Peter stayed
the fuck down, unmoving, lest he threw himself in Mr. Stark’s (Tony’s) arms and
kissed that sweet spot behind his ear that he’d seen Mrs. Potts lick once, back
when the two of them were together.
He remembered Mr. Stark’s moan like it was yesterday.
“I’m sorry?”
Both Peter and Mr. Stark turned towards a plumb woman with a bowl of yellow
apples.
“It’s not much, but if you’re hungry…”
“Thank you, Miss.”
The woman laughed, delighted. With a grin, Peter rolled his mask to free his
mouth and bit into one of the apples. Juice ran down his chin, and he chased
every last drop of it with his tongue. He felt Mr. Stark’s eyes on him, but he
didn’t dare look up just yet, in case it was only his fantasies getting mixed
up with reality.
He ate the whole fruit and flung the core in the park over the street before
allowing himself a look at Mr. Stark.
The man was studying the apple he’d been offered with way too much
circumspection.
“Think of how pleased Ms. Potts will be,” Peter joked. “Here.” He plucked the
apple from his gauntlet-covered hand, split it in two halves in handed one back
to Mr. Stark. “More appealing now? Baby steps.”
Those brown eyes were definitelyon him, and Peter’s lips parted on their own,
welcoming an imaginary mouth, the burnt of a goatee and the hot wetness of a
tongue. His heart started beating faster. He reminded himself in time that
Friday could pick up his life signs from the suit and tried to relax.
Mr. Stark took a first bite. Peter would have given away a lot of things, and a
few chosen body parts (or maybe not, but he was too entranced by the sight to
be very logical at the moment) to lick the juice off Mr. Stark’s chin. He
pictured himself on his knees, asking for a taste, and imagined Mr. Stark
asking him of what.
He gave himself a mental slap. Now was not the time to get an erection. With
his suit, he might as well scream it to the world.
"Oh, but you have brains, kid. Brains and looks. You've got nothing to envy.
Don't try and be me, please," Mr. Stark said casually. It took Peter a while to
connect the dots and remember the last thing he’d said. When he did, he had to
fight the urge to tell Mr. Stark that he didn’t want to be him, but to be
withhim. He knew better, of course, so he got a firm mental grip on the part of
his brain that was running wild.
Widow shouted at them from a nearby staircase. Mr. Stark sighed. "It continues
to amaze me that you don't seem to want a normal life, kid. School, family,
girlfriend."
The tone wasn't patronizing, but the assumption made Peter's hackles rise all
the same. He wished he still had the apple core, to throw at the man's head.
"First off, my grades are off the chart, ok? And I spend time with my aunt,
with my friends-"
"Ok, ok, forget about what I-"
"And there's no such thing as a girlfriend where I'm concerned."
Mr. Stark’s eyebrows jumped. His chin was still glistening with apple juice.
“Is that you coming out, kid, or I am imagining the blush you’re trying to hide
from me?” His tone was light, non-judgmental, and affectionate.
Peter pulled the rest of his hood down and snarled. It was either that, or
dissolving into a pool of shame.
“You did not hear this.”
“Hear what?”
Mr. Stark’s smile was dazzling, and then the helmet was back into place.
Peter wished he could draw well enough to immortalize the face that haunted his
dreams.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!