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The penthouse hummed with conversation and the clink of glassware, warm light from the overheads making everything soft-edged and golden.
The party was winding down, and Tony was fine.
Completely fine.
Peter laughed at something Ned said. Head thrown back. Throat exposed. The long pale line of it caught the light, and Tony could see the flutter of his pulse there, rapid, visible, countable if he stared long enough.
He was staring.
His fingers had gone white around the champagne flute. Not champagne. Sparkling cider. Because he was a responsible adult who didn't drink at a teenager’s birthday party.
Former teenager. Peter was eighteen now. Legal. An adult.
Tony's grip didn't loosen. He just took another sip.
The cider was too sweet. Thick and cloying, coating his tongue like it was trying too hard to be what it wasn't. His jaw ached. When had he started clenching it?
"You're staring."
Natasha materialized at his elbow like the assassin-shaped nightmare she was. Tony's shoulders jerked before he could stop them.
"I'm supervising." He set the glass down too hard. The crystal rang against the marble, sharp and accusatory. "It's my tower. I'm allowed to supervise."
"You're staring at his throat, Tony."
"I'm supervising his throat. For safety reasons. Vampire prevention." His mouth was running on autopilot, filling the silence with noise because the alternative was admittance.
“You never know. Could be vampires."
Natasha's expression didn't change. Somehow that was worse than if she'd laughed. Worse than if she'd called him out directly, named the squirming thing in his chest that he refused to look at.
"Sure, Tony."
She drifted away, and Tony absolutely did not watch Peter for the rest of the party.
He watched the room. Strategically.
May was by the bar, one hand on Steve's arm, leaning in with a smile that made Steve's ears go red. Flirting. Definitely flirting. Peter was going to stroke out when he noticed. Tony filed that away for later. Popcorn. Front row seat.
Sam and Bucky were arguing in the corner, shoulders brushing, voices low. Typical. Someone needed to lock them in a closet. Maybe he'd mention it to Natasha.
Pepper had cornered MJ by the window, gesturing with the intensity she usually saved for hostile board meetings. MJ's face was doing that flat thing, unimpressed, but there was a twitch at the corner of her mouth. A smirk she was trying to hide. Whatever Pepper was selling, MJ wasn't buying, but she was entertained by the pitch.
A few more minutes of increasingly emphatic hand gestures, and Pepper threw her hands up. Caught Tony's eye across the room.
He gave her his most sarcastic thumbs up.
She flipped him off. But she was grinning when she did it.
God, he loved that woman. Just not like that. Not anymore. Not for years.
The rest of the Avengers were scattered around the penthouse in various states of relaxation. Thor holding court by the snacks, arms wheeling through some Asgardian war story. Clint teaching Ned to throw cards into a cup from across the room. Bruce in the corner, nursing a ginger ale, wearing the expression of a man who would rather be literally anywhere else.
Fair. Bruce always looked like that at parties.
It was a good night. Normal. The kind of night Tony should be enjoying.
His eyes drifted back to Peter.
Don't.
The curls. The way they caught the light, bronze and gold where the lights hit them. The laugh still dying on his lips, mouth soft and wet.
Don't.
The strip of skin at his hip. His shirt had ridden up. Just an inch. Maybe two. Enough to see the cut of muscle disappearing into his waistband, the shadow of his hip bone.
Tony's hand tightened around nothing. He'd already set the glass down. His fingers curled into his palm instead, nails biting crescents into the skin.
He's eighteen. He is eighteen.
The word tried to surface. The one he'd been choking on for years.
Tony swallowed. Unclenched his jaw. Took a breath. Forced his shoulders down from where they'd crept toward his ears.
Peter wasn't his. Peter had never been his. Peter was a kid Tony had recruited into a war zone and almost gotten killed and then spent eight years trying to make up for it by building him suits and watching him from a distance that was supposed to feel like enough.
It didn't feel like enough.
Never had.
Across the room, Peter turned. Caught Tony's attention. Grinned, gorgeous and open, like Tony was the only person in the room worth smiling at.
Tony's chest seized. Too small. His ribs were too small for everything he was trying to contain.
He looked away first. Fought the urge to run out of the room.
Pathetic, he thought. Fifty-three years old and pining after someone who was in diapers when you were already running your own weapons empire.
Someone who trusted him. Someone who looked at him like he was worth more than his bank account and the next great tech leap. Like he was his own personal hero instead of the disaster in a suit he actually was.
He needed to get a grip. He needed to let this go. He needed to let Peter go.
The cider, when he picked it up again, tasted like nothing. Like the absence of everything he actually wanted.
An hour later, the tower had emptied out.
May had kissed Peter's cheek and headed home. The Avengers had filtered out in twos and threes, leaving behind the detritus of a party and a silence too big for the space. The sorrowful quiet that pressed against Tony's sanity and made him want to fill it with recklessness.
The need to fill his life with sins like stay. Never leave. And mine.
Peter was by the elevator, pulling on his jacket. MJ and Ned flanked him like the chaos gremlins they were, already bickering about something.
Tony stayed where he was. Hands in his pockets. Knuckles pressed against the lining, fingernails biting into his palms, because otherwise his hands would reach for Peter's collar. Straighten it. Let his fingers brush the skin underneath.
"You sure you don't want Happy to drive you?"
Peter grinned.
That smile. Tony had watched it grow up. Watched it go from nervous hero-worship to easy warmth that made his throat close up every time it was aimed at him. A promise Peter didn't know he was making.
"We're fine, sir." Peter's eyes were shining. Happy. Young. "It's just a club. Very legal. Very boring."
"Uh-huh." Tony stepped closer. Not too close. Responsible distance. Adult distance. The space between them was a physical thing, charged and heavy. "Remember. Nothing I would do, nothing I wouldn't."
Peter's grin widened.
"That little grey area," he finished, voice warm with the familiarity of a shared joke, and laughed.
The sound hit Tony like a punch to the sternum. Bright. Warm. His.
"Have fun, kid."
The word tasted like ash. Like char scraped off the back of his tongue. Like every lie Tony had ever told himself about what this was and what it wasn't.
Peter's smile flickered.
Just for a second. A crack in the brightness. Loss, maybe. Disappointment.
Tony was projecting. He had to be projecting.
And then Peter was stepping into the elevator, MJ and Ned crowding in behind him, and he was throwing a wave over his shoulder like nothing had happened. Like Tony hadn't just watched his smile fracture and done nothing about it.
"Night, Tony!"
The doors closed.
Tony stood there. Staring at the brushed metal. His reflection stared back, warped and unrecognizable, a funhouse mirror version of a man who'd just done the right thing.
The right thing.
He'd done the right thing.
The silence pressed in again. Too loud. Too empty. The ghost of Peter's laugh still echoing off the walls, and Tony's hands were still in his pockets, still curled into fists, still aching with the effort of not reaching for everything he wanted.
He turned and walked toward the lab.
He was fine.
Three hours later, Tony was under the hood of a '67 Shelby GT500, grease up to his elbows, AC/DC rattling the windows.
The lab smelled like motor oil and hot metal and the acrid char of the circuit board he'd burned through last week. Familiar. Safe. The smell that meant his hands had something to do and his brain could finally, finally shut the fuck up.
The car was a disaster. Some moron had tried to modernize the engine without understanding a goddamn thing about the original architecture. Bypassed the fuel injection system entirely. Slapped in aftermarket parts that had no business being within fifty feet of a classic Shelby. Tony had spent the last two hours undoing their blasphemy, and he was grateful for every one of them.
Engines made sense. Fuel systems had logical problems with logical solutions. Torque ratios didn't look at you with big brown doe eyes and make you want to do things that would get you arrested in most states.
His fingers closed on empty air where the wrench should have been. He grabbed it on the second try, palm slick with oil.
Fine. Totally fine.
The music changed. Back in Black bled into Thunderstruck, and Tony lost himself in it. The rhythm of work. Hands moving on autopilot. The satisfying bite of metal against metal. His mind mercifully, blissfully empty of everything except the problem in front of him.
Not thinking about curls catching light. Not thinking about a strip of skin at a hip bone.
He tightened a bolt with more force than necessary. The wrench slipped, bit into the meat of his palm.
Good. Pain made sense too.
His tank top was soaked through, cotton plastered to his shoulder blades like a second skin. His jeans had grease stains that would never come out. He could feel the grit under his fingernails, in the creases of his knuckles, probably smeared across his forehead where he'd wiped sweat away an hour ago.
He didn't care. This was his space. His cave. His place to not think about things he wasn't thinking about.
He wasn't hiding from anything.
His phone buzzed on the workbench.
Tony ignored it. Reached for a socket wrench instead. The engine needed him. The engine was simple. The engine didn't have a smile that made his chest feel too small.
The phone buzzed again.
And again.
"FRIDAY, mute."
The music cut out. The silence was sudden and too loud, nothing but the hum of the ventilation system and his own breathing echoing off the concrete walls. Tony slid out from under the car, wiping his hands on a rag that was already more grease than fabric, and grabbed his phone.
Peter Parker - Incoming Call
His heart slammed against his ribs. Once. Hard.
Stop it, he told himself. It's just a phone call. You're a grown man. Act like one.
He swiped to answer, leaned against the workbench, aimed for casual. The metal edge dug into his lower back, grounding.
"Miss me already?" He said lightly. Easy. The mask he'd been wearing for thirty years. "Or did you get bored being young and reckless and decide to come back for more scintillating conversation with your favorite—"
"Heeeey, Tony."
Not Peter's voice.
Tony's spine went rigid. Every muscle in his back locked up at once, a full-body flinch he couldn't control.
"DJ?"
"Yeah, sure, why not." She sounded amused and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. "So. You wouldn't happen to know what electives your boy took this semester, would you?"
Your boy.
Tony's mouth went dry. His tongue thick, clumsy, stuck to the roof of his mouth. "I don't. No. Why would I know that? I have better things to do than track Peter’s class schedule."
He did. He absolutely did. He had Peter's entire academic schedule memorized, color-coded in a file he would deny existed under oath.
"Biochemical engineering."
The words landed like a punch to the solar plexus.
He knew Peter had been spending late nights in that lab. Months of dark circles and deflected questions and I'm fine, sir, just a project. Tony had let it go because Peter was entitled to his secrets, because pushing would mean admitting he paid that much attention.
"And that's important at two in the morning, why?"
"Because your dumbfuck self didn't make a move tonight." MJ's tone went flat. Blade-sharp. "And now Parker is absolutely fucked out of his mind on some homemade spider-acid trip from hell and about to bang some old-ass dude from Gotham. That's why."
The world stopped.
Just. Stopped.
Tony couldn't breathe. His lungs had locked up, seized like an engine without oil, and his heart was hammering so hard he felt it in his throat, in his temples, in the pulse pounding in his skull.
"What." It wasn't a question. It was barely a word. Something scraped out of a throat that had forgotten how to work.
"You heard me." MJ's voice was a scalpel, precise and merciless. "Peter swears up and down you really are a genius. I have my doubts. Because if you don't have the brain cells to see that he's been saving himself for your dumbass all this time, then he owes me twenty bucks."
Saving himself.
The words hit him like shrapnel. Lodged somewhere behind his sternum and burned.
Saving himself. For Tony. Peter had been waiting for Tony, and Tony had spent years being noble, being good, being the responsible adult in the room, and now…
His hand was shaking. The phone rattled against his ear, plastic bumping against the shell. When did that start? His fingers had gone numb. His whole arm had gone numb.
"MJ—"
"If you care about losing your little spider-twink to a douchey billionaire with a complex bigger than yours, you better get your ass down here, Stark." Her words hardened into a threat. "And if my best friend falls in love with a fucking bat and moves to Gotham, I'm coming for you. Personally."
A shriek in the background. Ned, high and panicked.
The line went dead.
Tony stared at his phone. The screen stared back. His reflection dark, a stranger's face in the black glass.
Peter. Spider-acid. Old-ass dude from Gotham. Bat.
He was connecting dots. Slowly. Stupidly. Like wading through concrete.
Gotham. Billionaire. The kind of man who showed up at clubs where pretty young things got high and made bad decisions. The kind of man who looked at something beautiful and vulnerable and wanted.
Tony knew that man.
Tony was that man.
But there was another one. One with a jawline that could cut glass and sad eyes that made people forget he was a predator underneath. One who would look at Peter, high, gorgeous, and available, and see exactly what Tony had been refusing to let himself see for years.
Bruce fucking Wayne.
Tony's vision narrowed. Tunneled down to a single point. His knees buckled and he caught himself on the edge of the tool shelf.
He should go. He knew he should go.
His hand was still shaking.
Hell, his whole body was shaking now, fine tremors running through his muscles like fault lines before an earthquake. The phone slipped from his grip. Clattered against the workbench. He didn't pick it up.
Peter. High. With Bruce Wayne.
The image was already forming. Uninvited. Unwanted. Peter in some club, pupils blown, guard down. Bruce's hands on him. Bruce's mouth near his ear, whispering something that made Peter laugh. Bruce touching what didn't belong.
Tony's fist slammed into the workbench. The pain sang up his arm, sharp and grounding. Metal edge biting into his knuckles. Good. Good.
Peter didn’t belong to him. Tony had made sure of that. Had kept his distance, kept his hands to himself, kept kid in his mouth like a barrier every time his imagination supplied worse.
But the thought of Bruce Wayne's hands on Peter's body.
Tony couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but stand there, while his brain played the image on loop. Peter laughing. Peter swaying. Peter looking at someone else the way Tony had only let himself imagine in the dark, alone, hating himself for wanting what he had no right to want.
He didn't go.
Twenty minutes later, Tony was sitting on the floor of the lab, back against the Shelby's wheel well, the metal cold through his sweat-damp tank top. Bottle in one hand. He'd stopped using the glass two drinks ago.
The concrete was hard under his ass. His knees were drawn up, elbows braced on them, and the bottle dangled from his fingers like he'd forgotten how to let go of things.
The lab was too quiet now. Just the hum of equipment and his own ragged breathing and the thoughts he couldn't outrun no matter how much scotch he poured down his throat.
Peter was drugged out of his mind and making decisions he wouldn't make sober, and Tony should be in the suit already, should be halfway to Brooklyn.
But Peter was eighteen.
An adult. Allowed to make his own choices, even stupid ones. Even choices that made Tony want to tear his own heart out and throw it in the Hudson.
Peter's been saving himself for your dumbass all this time.
The scotch burned going down, a trail of fire from his throat to his gut. It settled, hot and acidic, mixing with the bile already churning there. He deserved it. Deserved worse.
The thing was.
The thing was.
Tony had wanted Peter to find someone his own age. That was the whole point. That was why he'd kept his distance, built the walls. So Peter could be young. So Peter could find some nice NYU kid with a bright future and no blood on their hands. Someone who deserved him. Someone who wouldn't drag him down into the wreckage of Tony Stark's disaster of a life.
But Bruce Wayne wasn't a nice NYU kid.
Bruce Wayne was forty-something and built like a tank. Gotham's favorite sad-eyed billionaire orphan with a reputation for cycling through models and socialites and anyone pretty enough to catch his attention like Tony cycled through coffee brands.
Bruce Wayne had demons of his own, skeletons in his own closet, and he was looking at Peter like…
Tony's grip tightened on the bottle. His knuckles ached where he'd split them on the workbench.
If Peter was going to pick an older guy anyway.
If the age thing wasn't actually the barrier Tony had told himself it was.
Then why the fuck wasn't it Tony?
He didn't survive five years without him, lose everything, crack time travel, almost die bringing him back, just to lose Peter to Bruce fucking Wayne.
He took another drink. Longer this time. Let it burn.
Because you're a coward, the voice in his head supplied. Because you were so busy trying to do what you thought was the right thing that you let someone else take what was yours.
His phone buzzed against the concrete floor. The vibration traveled through the stone, through his spine, settled somewhere in his chest like a second heartbeat.
A photo. From MJ's number.
Don't look, he thought. You don't want to see.
He looked.
Bruce Wayne, smirking at the camera. That smug, self-satisfied expression Tony had seen across boardroom tables and charity galas and every other place billionaires circled each other like sharks.
And Peter.
Peter in his arms. Bridal-style. Like something out of a fucking fairytale.
Tony did what he always did when he couldn't process. He studied Peter.
The outfit had changed. Gone were the nice slacks and button-down May had made him wear to his party. Now it was skin-tight black jeans, painted on, molded to every line of his thighs. A mesh shirt that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
Tony could see every ridge of his abs through it. The cut of his obliques. The shadows of his nipples, dark through the black mesh.
Peter was laughing. Head thrown back, throat exposed, the same throat Tony had been staring at hours ago. One arm looped around Bruce's neck, easy, comfortable. Trusting.
His cheeks were flushed. Pink spreading down to his jaw, his throat. His pupils were blown, dark swallowing the brown Tony knew so well. He looked high and gorgeous and happy.
Happy in Bruce Wayne's arms.
The caption: Time's up, douchebag. Thanks for the $20.
Tony stared at the photo. At Peter's smile. At Bruce's hands, one under Peter's knees, one wrapped around his ribs, holding him close.
Mine
The word clawed at the back of his throat. Feral. Desperate.
He's supposed to be mine.
The phone screen blurred and the blood roaring in his ears drowned out everything else. His heartbeat. His breathing. The hum of the lab.
All he could see was Peter in another man's arms.
All he could feel was rage.
Hot. Blinding. Incandescent.
Fuck being good.
The bottle slipped from his fingers. Shattered against the concrete. He didn't care.
Tony was already on his feet and walking towards the opening window.
The suit flowed over him in three seconds flat, nanites crawling across his skin like they knew he was past asking nicely.
He didn't slow down. Just stepped onto the ledge and dropped.
The city spread out below him in a grid of light and shadow, the Hudson a dark ribbon to the west, and Tony pushed the repulsors harder than he should have. Harder than was safe. The HUD flashed warnings he ignored, calculating the fastest route, pulling up the club's location from MJ's phone signal.
Wind screamed past his helmet. Cold seeping through the suit, despite the tech.
Mesh shirt, his mind supplied unhelpfully. He's wearing a fucking mesh shirt.
The image from the photo played on loop behind his eyes. Peter's abs through black fabric. The shadow of his nipples. Head back, laughing. Bruce Wayne's hands on him. Bruce Wayne's smug fucking face.
Saving himself. For you. And you just sat there like a coward while Bruce fucking Wayne took what was yours.
Tony's jaw ached. He'd been clenching it so hard for so long his molars were grinding together, pressure building at his temples. His fingers wouldn’t stay still inside the gauntlets. The rage built in his chest, hot and ugly and completely irrational, a living thing clawing at his ribs.
Peter had every right to do whatever he wanted with whoever he wanted.
Tony knew that. He knew that.
But the thought of Bruce Wayne's mouth near Peter's ear, whispering things Tony couldn't hear, making Peter laugh that laugh. His hands on Peter's body were burned into his retinas.
Tony wanted to rip those goddamn hands off.
Two minutes. Two minutes of fury and wind and the lights of Manhattan blurring past, and then Tony was descending toward a warehouse in Brooklyn.
The bass hit him before he landed. A physical thing, rattling through the suit's sensors, vibrating in his sternum even through the armor.
The bouncer took one look at Iron Man touching down on the sidewalk, concrete cracking under the impact, repulsors whining as they powered down, and stepped the fuck aside.
Smart man.
Tony walked through the door like he owned the place. Because right now, in this moment, he did.
The club was one of those converted warehouse spaces that thought exposed brick and Edison bulbs made up for watered-down drinks. Bass-heavy EDM rattled through the walls, the generic beats that all sounded the same after the first thirty seconds. Packed bodies. Strobe lights turning everything staccato, freeze-frame snapshots of grinding dancers and spilled drinks.
The sharp smell of fog machine fluid hit him the second the suit vented. Mixing with cologne and spilled vodka and sweat. The kind of smell that took Tony back to the nineties, to clubs in Ibiza, to a version of himself he'd buried under a mountain of sobriety and good intentions.
This was amateur hour compared to those days.
His HUD scanned the crowd. Tagged faces. Ran facial recognition, names and data scrolling past in his peripheral vision.
There.
Near the VIP section.
MJ, standing with her arms crossed, positioned like she was physically blocking the door. Sentinel mode. Ned behind her, phone out, filming something.
And behind them…
His fingers flexed inside the gauntlets, knuckles aching.
Bruce Wayne had Peter pressed against the VIP booth. Not kissing him. Not yet. But close. Too close. Leaning in, mouth near Peter's ear, one hand on Peter's hip. Fingers spread possessively over the jut of bone. Through the mesh shirt, Tony could see exactly where Bruce's thumb was digging into the dip where hip met thigh. Could see the indent of it. The way the fabric pulled.
Peter was laughing. His eyes were unfocused, pupils blown wide, and he looked gone. Cheeks flushed. Lips parted. The shirt clinging to every ridge of muscle Tony had been pretending not to notice.
Tony's hands curled into fists. His whole body went rigid inside the suit.
He wanted to break Bruce Wayne's perfect nose. Which was irrational. Possessive. And exactly what he was going to do if that hand didn't move in the next three seconds.
His boot jets fired before he made the conscious decision to move.
He landed between MJ and the VIP section, the impact sending a shockwave through the floor that rattled the glasses on nearby tables. The music cut out. FRIDAY, probably doing him a solid.
Suddenly everyone’s attention in the club was on him.
Tony didn't give a shit.
"Wayne."
Bruce looked up. His expression flickered. Surprise first, then recognition, then a flash of darkness that smoothed into that Gotham-billionaire mask Tony knew too well. The one that said I know exactly what you are and I'm not impressed.
"Stark." He didn't move his hand from Peter's hip. "Little far from home, aren't you?"
"Funny." The words came out flat through the suit's modulator. Dead. Stripped of emotion. Probably for the best. "I was about to say the same thing."
Peter blinked. Slow. Confused. His head turned toward Tony like it was moving through honey.
"Tony?"
God. The way he sounded. Slurred and soft, tongue heavy with whatever he'd taken.
His teeth were grinding again.
"Hey, kid." He kept his eyes on Bruce. "Time to go."
"He's not a kid." Bruce's thumb stroked across Peter's hip bone. Deliberate. Slow. Staking a claim he had no right to stake. "And he seems pretty happy where he is."
"He's drugged out of his mind," Tony gritted out.
"He's having fun." Bruce's smile was a knife, sharp and knowing. "You used to know something about that, didn't you?"
Peter giggled. Actually giggled, the sound high and loose and nothing like his usual laugh. He swayed then pressed closer to Bruce.
Possessiveness curled in Tony's chest, hot. Ugly. His.
Bruce's gaze cut to Tony. Knowing. Amused. Then he looked down at Peter, and his tone went soft. Intimate. The performance of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.
"This wouldn't happen to be the 'guy' who didn't want you, would it, sweetheart?"
Peter snorted. "Got it in one, Batsy."
Sweetheart.
Every sound in the club dropped away except his own pulse raging in his ears.
"Interesting." Bruce looked back at Tony, and his expression was sharp now. Calculating. A man holding all the cards and enjoying watching someone else realize it. "He seems pretty available to me. Consenting adult. His choice."
"His choice." Tony stepped forward. "Right. And you just happened to be here. Just happened to catch him at his most vulnerable. Just happened to have your hands all over him."
Bruce's eyes went cold. Predator-cold. The sad billionaire orphan mask slipping to show what underneath, looked a lot like Tony's own reflection.
"Careful, Stark."
"Or what?"
Tony was close now. Close enough to see the faint lines around Bruce's eyes. The grey at his temples. Close enough to smell his cologne, something expensive and smoky and probably custom-blended because of course it was.
Close enough to put his fist through his face.
"You going to stop me? You going to fight Iron Man in the middle of a club?" Tony's voice dropped. Dangerous. "Over a teenager you just met?"
Bruce's mouth curved. That infuriating half-smile that had graced the cover of every tabloid in Gotham. "I don't think that'll be necessary."
Tony clenched his fist. The nanites pulled back from his knuckles, leaving bare skin. FRIDAY, reading his mind again. Or maybe just his vitals, his heart rate spiking, his blood pressure through the roof, and knowing exactly where this was going.
“Then you’re losing.”
He reared back and punched Bruce Wayne in the face.
The crack of impact was deeply satisfying. Knuckles connecting with cheekbone, the shock of it traveling up Tony's arm, Bruce's head snapping to the side.
When he looked back, there was blood on his lip and murder in his eyes.
But he didn't move. Didn't retaliate. Just stood there, one hand coming up to touch his split lip, blood smearing across his fingers, and smiled.
"Feel better?"
"Getting there." Tony said as the rest of the suit retracted, nanites flowing back into the housing at his chest, leaving him in nothing but sweat-stained jeans and a tank top that had seen better days.
Tony reached past him, grabbed Peter's arm, and pulled.
Peter stumbled into him. Warm. Solid. The mesh shirt doing absolutely nothing to hide the heat radiating off his skin. He smelled like sweat and alcohol.
Tony's fingers dug into his arm. Possessive. Claiming.
"Tony?" Peter was blinking up at him, still confused, still out of it. "What. What's happening?"
"We're leaving."
"I don't," Peter tried to turn back toward Bruce. His body twisted in Tony's grip, shoulders pulling, and Tony's hand clamped down harder. "Wait, I was talking to—"
"You're done talking."
Peter's jaw set. Even drugged, even gone, that stubborn Parker streak surfaced. Tension running through him, spine straightening, the same look he got when Tony tried to bench him from a mission.
"You can't just—"
Tony grabbed him around the waist and threw him over his shoulder.
Peter yelped. "Tony! What the fuck!"
"MJ." Tony nodded at her. "Thanks for the heads up." He was gonna buy that girl a car.
She smirked, phone already aimed at him, probably recording this entire disaster for posterity. "Try not to break him. I need him functional for our study session Tuesday."
Tony turned and walked through the club.
Peter was squirming on his shoulder. Cursing up a storm, fists pounding against Tony's back, thighs tensing against Tony's arm. Every head in the place turned to watch. Every phone came up to record.
Iron Man hauling a screaming teenager in mesh through a packed nightclub like a sack of potatoes.
Pepper was going to kill him.
Tony kicked through the front door, the metal banging against the brick wall hard enough to dent, and deposited Peter on the sidewalk. Peter stumbled, caught himself, and immediately tried to dart back inside.
Tony tapped his chest. The suit flowed back over him in an instant, and he caught Peter around the waist before he made it two steps.
"Let me go!"
"Not happening."
He threw Peter back over his shoulder. The boot jets fired. The line of people waiting to get in screamed and scattered as they shot straight up into the night air.
Manhattan glittered below, the River a slash of black. The air cold and sharp and clean after the fog-machine stink of the club.
Peter was yelling something into his back. Fists pounding against the suit, the vibrations traveling through the metal to Tony's spine. His body warm and solid and alive against Tony, squirming, fighting, very much present.
Tony couldn't hear him over the rush of air.
Didn't want to.
Mine, the possessive caveman part of him snarled, hot and feral and finally, finally off its leash.
They landed on the tower's private platform, the impact jarring through Tony's knees.
He set Peter down. Not gently.
The nanites retreated, flowing back into the arc reactor housing, leaving him in just the sweat-soaked tank top and jeans he'd been wearing in the lab. The night air hit Tony's sweat-damp skin like a slap. Cold. Sobering. Not sobering enough.
The scotch was still warm in his veins. Still loosening things that should stay locked down.
Peter was windblown. Wild-eyed. His hair was a disaster, curls sticking up in every direction, and the mesh shirt had twisted during the flight, showing a strip of stomach that Tony's stare went to without permission. His cheeks were flushed. His pupils were still blown.
He looked furious.
"What the fuck, Tony!"
"Inside."
"No!" Peter's voice cracked on the word, pitched high with outrage. "You can't just kidnap me from a club because you don't like who I'm talking to!"
"I didn't kidnap you," Tony gritted out, barely holding himself together by his fingernails. "I brought you home."
"Same fucking thing!"
Tony grabbed his arm. Fingers closing around the muscle of Peter's bicep, feeling the heat of him through the mesh. Tight, solid, like he could hold him down with one hand before he shoved the thought away.
"You're drugged." He hauled Peter toward the door. "You're making bad decisions. We're going inside."
"I'm fine!"
"You're not fine." Tony tightened his hold. "You made spider-acid and took it at a club and threw yourself at Bruce fucking Wayne."
Peter yanked his arm free, stumbling back a step. The loss of contact burned like a wound.
"So what?" Peter's chin came up. Defiant. Beautiful. Infuriating. "I'm eighteen! I'm allowed to make my own choices!"
"Not when your choices are stupid."
Peter laughed.
It came out ugly. Raw. Nothing like the party, the photo, or any moment Tony had hoarded like a dragon with gold. This laugh had teeth.
"Oh, that's rich." Peter's eyes were wet at the edges. "Tony Stark calling my choices stupid."
Tony's hands were shaking again. The scotch was making everything too close to the surface, all the things he'd buried clawing their way up his throat.
"Shower. Now."
He grabbed Peter again, gentler this time, or trying to be, and steered him through the penthouse to the master bathroom.
Past the party debris still scattered across the counter. Through the darkened living room where Peter's birthday banner still hung, mocking him.
Peter fought him the whole way. Not hard. Not like he meant it. Just enough to make his displeasure known, arms twisting, feet dragging. The mesh shirt sliding under Tony's palm, the heat of Peter's skin bleeding through.
Tony's brain was doing the thing. The thing it always did around Peter.
Cataloging.
The curve of his shoulder. How his spine moved when he twisted. The strip of skin at his lower back where the shirt rode up, the dimples there, the dark trail of hair disappearing into his waistband.
Tony turned on the water. Cold first, then warming, steam starting to curl against the glass.
"Get in."
"I don't need a fucking shower."
"You're sweating chemicals." Tony snapped. "You smell like a nightclub."
And another man.
Bruce Wayne's cologne. Tony could smell it on Peter's skin, clinging to him like a brand. Peter should smell like Tony.
"You're getting in the shower."
Peter glared at him. Water vapor curling around his face, catching in his hair, making the curls go darker. His lips were parted. His chest was heaving.
"Make me."
Tony's control cracked.
He stepped into the shower fully clothed, grabbed Peter by the collar, fist closing in the mesh, and hauled him in.
Peter gasped as the water hit him. A sharp intake of breath, his whole body jerking, and Tony felt the sound in his spine. In his cock. In the part of his head that had been screaming mine since the moment he saw Bruce Wayne's hands on Peter's hip.
The water was warm now. Streaming down between them, plastering Peter's clothes to his body, and Tony was not looking at that. Was not cataloging the mesh shirt as it went completely see-through, clinging to every ridge of muscle like a second skin. How Peter's nipples were visible now, peaked from the cold, dark through the black fabric. Or how his jeans went heavy and molded to his thighs, to the very obvious bulge at his crotch.
Eighteen years old. Hard. In your shower. Because of you.
Every coherent thought evaporated.
The showerhead was the expensive rainfall kind he'd installed three years ago. For no one but himself. He'd never brought anyone here. This was his space, his cave, his place to be alone with all the thoughts he couldn't have.
And now Peter was in it.
Soaking wet. Furious. Close enough that the heat radiated off him even through the water. Close enough to count his eyelashes if he wanted to.
He looked like an angry wet cat. A very attractive angry wet cat that Tony wanted to pin to the wall and devour.
Tony pressed Peter against the tile instead. Held him there, palms flat on his shoulders, arms locked, keeping distance between their bodies because if they touched, if Tony let himself feel…
"Sober up."
"I'm not drunk."
"No." Tony said. "You're high on your own bullshit. Which is worse."
Peter's eyes searched his face. Darting back and forth, reading him, seeing too much. Water streamed down between them, caught in Peter's eyelashes, dripped from his jaw. Tony's tank top was soaked, heavy and cold against his skin, clinging to him. His jeans were ruined.
He didn't care.
"Why are you doing this?" The last syllable wobbled. Smaller now. Vulnerable.
Tony's fingers dug into Peter's shoulders. Feeling the muscle flex beneath his palms.
Because you're mine. Because the thought of Bruce Wayne's hands on you made me want to commit murder. Because I've wanted you since the moment I saw you and I've been a coward.
"Shut up." Tony sounded wrecked even to his own ears. "Don't say anything. We'll talk tomorrow. When you're sober."
"I'm not waiting until tomorrow, Tony!"
"Too bad."
Peter shoved at him, and Tony caught his wrists. Peter twisted, tried to break free, and Tony's body reacted on instinct.
He spun Peter around. Pressed him face-first into the tile, pinned both wrists above his head with one hand. The other arm wrapped around Peter's front, a solid band across his hips, holding him in place.
Peter went still.
His breath came fast and shallow, the sound of it loud even over the water. His back was a long line of tension against Tony's chest, shoulder blades pressing through the wet mesh. Tony could feel his ribs expand with every inhale. Could feel his heart pounding through the thin shirt between them.
And then Peter shifted.
Just slightly. A roll of his hips. Pressing back.
Tony tightened his grip on Peter’s hips and froze.
Peter was hard.
Not just half-interested. Fully, achingly hard, cock straining against the wet jeans, pressing against Tony's forearm where it banded across his hips. Hot even through the jeans. Thick.
His ass pressed back against Tony's hips in a way that had to be deliberate. A slow grind, denim against denim.
Tony's breath punched out of him.
"Peter."
"You feel that?" Peter sounded ruined. Like someone who'd stopped pretending. "That's what you do to me. That's what you've always done to me."
Tony's hand tightened on his wrists. His arm flexed across Peter's hips, his body pushing him harder into the tile. Pinning him.
"Every time you stand too close." Peter's hips rolled again, grinding back against Tony, and Tony's cock throbbed in response, filling, aching. "Every time you touch me. Every fucking time you call me kid and it comes out like baby."
"Don't."
"Don't what?" Peter laughed, the sound bitter, broken. "Don't tell you the truth?"
He twisted his head, cheek pressed against the tile, looking at Tony over his shoulder. Water streamed down his face. His lips were parted.
"You want to know why I made that compound? Why I took it tonight?"
"Peter."
"Because I needed to be brave enough to do something about this." He ground back against Tony again, hard, deliberate, and the edges of Tony's world blurred.
“Because I've wanted you for so long I can't remember what it feels like to want anyone else. Because I thought if I could just," His breath hitched around the syllable. “If I could just get over you. Find someone else. Move on."
"And Bruce Wayne was your solution?"
"He reminded me of you." Barely a whisper now. Raw. Exposed. "Dark hair. Brown eyes. Older. That same stupid cocky confidence. I thought," A shuddering breath. "I thought maybe if I just…"
Peter pressed back further against Tony's chest. Tony could feel the ridge of his spine, the flex of his muscles.
Tony stopped breathing.
"I can feel your heartbeat." Peter's voice was barely audible over the water. "It's so fast."
He was right. It was hammering against his ribs, against Peter's back, giving him away with every beat.
"Peter."
"Why won't you touch me?"
Tony was barely hanging on. Fighting against muscles that he couldn't control. Peter was so close. Wet. Warm. Looking at him over his shoulder with those big brown eyes like Tony was everything, like Tony was the only thing that mattered. If he let go he was going to fuck Peter Parker through that goddamn custom tile wall.
"I'm too mad right now." Tony gritted the words out through clenched teeth. "I'm angry at you. And I don't trust myself."
Peter's face crumpled.
Fuck.
He was supposed to be the adult. He was supposed to protect Peter from this. From him.
"Peter…"
"No, I get it." Peter pulled away. Or tried to. The tile was slippery and Tony's grip was iron and he didn't go anywhere. He just turned in the circle of Tony's arms, chest to chest now, and Tony could feel all of him. The hardness pressing against Tony's thigh. His heart racing.
Tony let go of his wrists. Held him by the shoulders again instead, keeping him at arm's length, because if he let Peter any closer…
"I get it." He said thickly. Wet. Not just from the water. "You're mad. Now that you know what I want, what I've thought about, what I've done."
"That's not—"
"Let me go." Peter cut him off and tried to move past him.
"Peter—"
"Let me go, Tony!" Peter shouted over him and shoved at his chest, heels of his palms connecting hard with Tony's sternum. The impact traveled through him rattling his teeth. "I want to leave. Just let me leave. I'll go stay at May's."
Tears were mixing with the shower water now. Tony could see them, salt cutting through the clean spray, tracking down Peter's cheeks. His face was blotchy. His lips were trembling.
Tony felt like the worst person alive.
"You're not leaving."
Peter laughed. Broken. The sound of something dying.
"You can't keep me here."
"Watch me."
Peter's eyes flashed. Fierce and desperate burning through the hurt, the defiance that ran bone-deep surfacing even through the tears.
"Why? Why are you doing this?" His voice cracked again, went high, broke on the word. "You don't even want me, Tony! I got the message. Loud and clear. Years of ‘kid’ and ‘boundaries Parker’ and acting like I don't exist as anything but a responsibility."
Tony's fingers pressed harder into his shoulder.
"But now you won't let anyone else have me either?" Peter laughed again, the sound tearing out of him. "Fuck you, sir."
The word hit Tony like a slap.
Sir.
The way Peter said it. Dripping with hurt and want and years of unfulfilled need. It curled around the edges, sharp and bitter and aimed to wound.
Tony had heard Peter call him that a thousand times. In the suit. In the lab. In his dreams, where it sounded very, very different.
"You don't know what you're talking about." He was hoarse now. Hollow.
"Then explain it to me!" Peter's hands fisted in Tony's soaked tank top, knuckles white, yanking him closer. The distance Tony had been maintaining collapsed, their chests pressing together, Peter's cock hot and hard against Tony's thigh.
"Tell me why you look at me like that and then…” Peter shook his head. “Years, Tony. Six suits. You showed up to every fight. Every. Single. Fight. But you won't, you can't even—"
"Because if I touch you I won't be able to stop!"
The words ripped out of Tony. Raw. Ragged. Years of need finally spilling over, the scotch loosening everything he'd kept locked down, and he couldn't stop it now. Couldn't shove it back in the box.
"Because I've spent eight years trying to be good, Peter! Eight years trying to do the right thing. Eight fucking years of trying to pretend I don't want to bend you over every available surface and fuck you until you can't remember your own goddamn name!"
Peter went still.
His hands were still fisted in Tony's shirt. His chest was still heaving. But his face?
His face had gone slack. Lips parted. Eyes wide.
Tony was breathing hard. He'd said too much. Way too much. And Peter was staring at him.
"Then do it."
Tony short-circuited.
"What?"
"Do it." Peter's words were steady now. Sure. The tears had stopped. Hunger burned in his eyes now. Hot and demanding and certain. "Stop being good Tony. Stop doing the right thing."
He leaned in. Lips brushing Tony's ear, breath hot and damp, and Tony could smell him now. Under the nightclub. Under the fog machine and the sweat and Bruce Wayne's cologne. Just Peter. Clean and sharp and achingly familiar.
"Fuck me until I can't remember my own name."
Fuck it.
Tony's hand shot up. Fisted in Peter's wet curls, yanking his head back, exposing the long line of his throat.
Peter gasped. His back arched, pressing into the grip, and the sound he made would haunt Tony for the rest of his life.
Tony kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't sweet. It was unhinged and devastating, all teeth and tongue and years of denied want finally free. Tony kissed him like he was starving for it, like he'd die without it, like the world was ending and this was his last chance to taste something good.
Peter tasted like cheap club vodka and cherries. Tony licked into his mouth, chased that taste, swallowed the sounds Peter was making.
Shock. Relief. Want.
And then Peter was kissing back.
His fingers tangled in Tony's hair, nails scraping against his scalp hard enough to sting. His body arched into Tony's, chest to chest, hips to hips, cock pressing against Tony's thigh with shameless pressure. His legs wrapped around Tony's waist when Tony hiked him up against the tile, thighs clamping tight, ankles locking at the small of Tony's back.
"Tony," Peter gasped between kisses, the word half-drowned by the water still streaming down on them. "Tony, Tony—"
"Shut up." Tony bit his lower lip. Sucked it into his mouth, as it swelled between his teeth, tasted copper where the skin split. "Fuck. Fuck. Do you have any idea?"
Peter rolled his hips. Ground his cock against Tony's stomach, the friction not enough through two layers of soaked denim but enough to make Tony see stars.
He lost his train of thought entirely.
"Tell me." Peter begged, the words ragged. His head was still wrenched back by Tony's grip in his hair, his throat exposed, and he was looking at Tony through his lashes like he was the answer to every question. "Tell me how long. Tell me everything."
"Since the beginning." Tony's hands were everywhere. Peter's hips. His ass, squeezing through the wet denim. The small of his back, tracing the bumps of his spine. "Since you opened that door in your shitty apartment and looked at me like I hung the goddamn moon."
His hand slid up Peter's side. Found his ribs through the mesh. Watched as they expanded with every breath.
"You were fifteen years old and I wanted you so bad I couldn't think straight." The confession came out raw. Gutted. "Do you have any idea how fucked up that is? How wrong?"
Peter sobbed.
Actually sobbed, the sound torn out of him, and his hips jerked against Tony's stomach, cock throbbing.
"I don't care."
"You should."
"I don't." Peter rolled his hips again, harder this time, grinding against Tony with needy, frantic movements. "I've been jerking off to the thought of you since I was fourteen. Before we even met. Do you know how many times I came with your name on my lips?"
Tony groaned. His head dropped to Peter's throat, mouth open against the wet skin, tasting water and salt and Peter.
"Fuck, Peter."
"I used to watch your press conferences and touch myself."
Fifteen. Peter had been fifteen when Tony started doing those. Fifteen years old, alone in his room in Queens, watching Tony on a screen.
"Used to imagine what your hands would feel like." Peter's nails scraped down Tony's back, leaving trails of fire. "What your mouth would feel like."
Tony should be disgusted with himself.
He wasn't.
He was so hard it hurt, his cock straining against his jeans, aching for friction, for pressure, for Peter.
"Press conferences," he repeated. "Which ones."
Peter's laugh was breathless. Surprised. Like he hadn't expected Tony to lean into it.
"All of them." His hips rolled against Tony's stomach. "The Stark Expo. The Senate hearing. That one where you told the reporter to go fuck himself." A gasp as Tony's teeth scraped his collarbone. "That one was my favorite."
Christ.
Tony had been forty-five at that press conference? Forty-eight? Peter had been sixteen.
He definitely should be horrified.
He kissed Peter like he was trying to devour him instead.
"You want to talk about fucked up?" Peter was gasping now, words coming out in fragments between Tony's assault on his mouth. "Press conferences, Tony. Press conferences."
Tony's last thread of control snapped.
He carried Peter out of the shower, water dripping everywhere, pooling on the tile, soaking through the bathmat. Peter's legs were locked around his waist, his arms around Tony's neck, his mouth still fused to Tony's like he'd die if they stopped kissing.
Tony didn't stop.
Didn't stop kissing him when they hit the doorframe, Peter's back connecting with a thud that made him gasp. Didn't stop when they stumbled through the bedroom, nearly tripping over a discarded shoe. Didn't stop when Peter's back finally hit the mattress.
Tony was on him before the bed stopped bouncing.
The sheets were going to be ruined and Tony didn’t give a single solitary fuck.
It was his mattress. His sheets. The California king he'd slept alone in for years, that had never smelled like anyone but him and engine grease and the loneliness that came from wanting someone you weren't allowed to have.
Peter was going to smell like him now. Peter was going to smell like nothing but him by the time Tony was done.
The air from the open bathroom door was cold against Tony's wet skin.
The bedroom was dark except for the Manhattan skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
He bracketed Peter's hips with his knees. Grabbed both wrists in one hand, slammed them into the pillow above Peter's head. Peter gasped, spine arching off the mattress.
"Last chance, kid." His voice came out scraped raw, sandpaper over glass. "Tell me to stop and I stop. I walk out that door and we never speak of this again."
He didn't mean it. Couldn't mean it. The word stop wasn't even in his vocabulary anymore, had been yanked out of his brain the moment Peter had said fuck me. But he had to say it. Had to give Peter the out, even if he was already struggling with the effort of not taking.
Peter arched up. Tried to grind against him.
"Don't you fucking dare."
"Peter."
"I'm eighteen, Tony." Peter's eyes burned, fever-bright in the dark. "I've been waiting for this. Dreaming about this."
Peter had been dreaming about this. About him. About Tony's hands on his body, Tony's weight pinning him down.
His cock throbbed. Painful. Aching.
"Tell me." He didn’t sound like himself. Too low. Too gravelly . "Tell me what you dream about."
Peter's tongue darted out, slicking his lower lip. His wrists twisted in Tony's grip, testing, Tony squeezed until Peter's breath hitched.
"I think about you holding me down like this." His wrists twisted again, testing. Tony tightened his grip. Peter's breath hitched. "I think about you calling me kid while you fuck me. I think about you making me beg for it."
Jesus Christ.
Tony's hips jerked without permission, grinding down against Peter's thigh. Peter's cock jumped in response.
"Keep talking."
"I finger myself in the shower and pretend it's you." Peter said filthily. Sexy. The kid who called him Mr. Stark was gone. "I imagine you bending me over the workbench in the lab. Pinning me with a suit and making me take it while you tell me what a good boy I am."
The sound Tony made wasn't human.
The feral thing in his chest had broken loose. The hungry, desperate want that had been chained up, rattling against the bars every time Peter smiled at him. The cage was open now, and Tony didn't have any interest in shoving it back in.
"I want you to wreck me." Peter was still talking, hips rolling up in fluid little circles, seeking friction Tony wasn't giving him. "I want to feel it for days. I want to not be able to walk tomorrow without thinking about you inside me." His voice cracked. "Don't make me wait anymore."
"You're going to be the death of me."
Tony kissed him.
Not gentle. Not sweet. He tasted the copper on his tongue from the shower, and bit into his lower lip again. Reopening the wound. Peter whined, the sound swallowed between their mouths, and his hips bucked up off the mattress.
Tony dragged his mouth lower. The hinge of Peter's jaw. The soft skin under his ear. The junction of his neck and shoulder, where the pulse was hammering so hard Tony could taste it against his lips.
He sucked. Hard. Hard enough to bruise, hard enough to leave a mark that would be visible for a few hours at least. Peter keened, a high desperate sound that Tony felt in his spine, and his whole body jerked beneath Tony's weight.
Peter throbbed against his thigh.
"Fuck." He licked the mark he'd left. Dark already, blooming purple at the edges. His. "Fuck, you're so—"
"Stop talking." Peter sounded destroyed. "Stop talking and fuck me, Mr. Stark."
Mr. Stark.
Peter knew what he was doing. Knew exactly what those words did to Tony. Had probably known for years, the little shit, had been weaponizing them every time he'd said it in the lab, in the suit, at press conferences where Tony had to smile for cameras while his blood went south.
Tony tore Peter's shirt off.
The wet mesh ripped down the middle, the sound obscene in the quiet room. Peter gasped, chest heaving, and Tony didn't give a shit about the ruined fabric because Peter's chest was bare and flushed and his.
Freckles scattered across Peter's skin like someone had flicked gold paint at him. The faint lines of his abs, still expanding too fast with every breath. Dark trail of hair below his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans.
Tony crashed. Rebooted. Tried again.
Eighteen years old. In his bed. Shirtless. Hard for him.
How the hell was he supposed to last?
The hollow of Peter's throat, where his pulse was visible, countable. A siren's call he couldn't resist. The shine of water still clinging to his collarbone. The way his mouth fell open when Tony's thumbs found his nipples, circling, pressing.
"God, Pete." Tony managed, strangled. "You have no idea what you do to me."
"Show me."
Tony showed him.
He reached over his head and yanked his own shirt off. He threw it across the room and kissed down Peter's chest.
He traced the edge of his collarbone with his tongue, tasting water and salt and a chemical-sweetness that was probably the spider-acid still working its way out of his system. Found one nipple with his mouth, the other with his fingers, and worked them both until Peter was writhing beneath him, gasping, hands fisting in Tony's hair and yanking hard enough to sting.
"Tony. Tony!"
"So responsive." Tony bit down gently, felt the flesh giving between his teeth. Peter cried out, back arching. "Been thinking about this. What sounds you'd make. Whether you'd be loud or quiet."
He pinched Peter's other nipple, twisted. Peter moaned.
"Turns out you're loud."
"I can be—ah—quiet."
"Don't you fucking dare." Tony reached down. Palmed Peter through his jeans, pressed into the hard line of his cock straining against the wet denim, and Peter's whole body seized. "I want to hear every sound. Every moan. Every time you say my name."
He popped the button. Dragged the zipper down tooth by tooth, slow, deliberate, watching Peter's face the whole time. Watching as his eyes went glassy, his mouth fell open, and his hips jerked up seeking friction Tony wasn't giving him.
Peter lifted his hips, desperate, wordless. Tony stripped the jeans off in one rough motion, peeling the wet fabric down his thighs.
No underwear.
Of course no underwear.
"Jesus Christ."
Tony stared.
Peter was perfect. Hard and leaking and curved toward his belly, flushed dark at the tip, a bead of precome already pooling in the slit. His balls were drawn up tight, his thighs flexing, his whole body a live wire of need.
Peter was naked in Tony's bed. Under him. Hard for him.
"I was…" Peter's cheeks went a deeper shade of red. Pink spreading down his throat, his chest. "I was hoping. Tonight. That maybe you'd—"
Tony kissed him to shut him up.
Years of pent-up need finally spilled over. Tony licked into his mouth, swallowed the sounds Peter was making, and let his hand wrap around Peter's cock.
Peter made a noise like he'd been punched.
"I'm clean," he blurted when they broke apart, breathing hard. "I've never… I mean, I've never done anything. With anyone."
Tony went still.
"I was waiting." Peter said. "For you. I was waiting for you."
Me.
Tony kissed Peter again, rougher this time.
Years of being good. Of kid and boundaries and pretending he didn't want to pin Peter down and take him apart. And the whole time, Peter had been waiting.
Tony was going to make it worth the wait.
He pulled back, reached for the nightstand, yanked the drawer open. Lube. He always kept lube. Even if he hadn't used it with anyone else in longer than he cared to admit.
"Roll over."
Peter's eyes went wide. Dark. Hungry. He rolled.
Tony shoved his jeans down, kicked them off the bed, finally, and stared at the expanse of Peter's back.
The city lights painted him in blue and gold through the windows, made him look like something sacred. Someone to be worshipped.
All that skin. Unmarked. Untouched. Not a single bruise or scratch or bite mark anywhere, just smooth pale canvas waiting for Tony's hands, Tony's mouth, Tony's teeth.
Tony was going to mark him up until there was nothing sacred left.
"You're fucking beautiful," he breathed, and his hands were on Peter's hips, hauling him up onto his knees before he finished the sentence.
Peter gasped, face pressing into the pillow, ass in the air. Presenting. Like he was made for this.
Tony slicked his fingers. Pressed one against Peter's entrance, felt the muscle flutter and clench.
He didn't warn him. Just pushed in.
Peter choked on a gasp, his whole body jerking, and Christ. The heat. The tightness. The way his body fought it for half a second before giving way, letting Tony in. Tony's cock throbbed against his thigh again, neglected, aching, and he had to bite down on his tongue to keep from losing it before he even got inside him.
"Tony!" Peter cried. His hands fisted in the sheets.
"You can take it." Not a question. Not reassurance. A statement. Tony added a second finger before Peter had time to adjust. The stretch, the resistance, the way Peter's body clamped down and then softened had Tony harder than he’d ever been in his life. "You're going to take all of it."
Peter made a sound like he was dying. His hips pushed back, fucking himself onto Tony's fingers.
"More."
Tony scissored his fingers, stretching, and Peter's body clenched around him, around the slick drag of lube. Peter's thighs were already starting to shake.
Two became three.
Peter made a sound like a wounded animal. His hands twisted in the sheets, knuckles white. His back was a long arch of tension, muscles flexing, and Tony could see the sweat starting to bead at the base of his spine.
He crooked his fingers. Searched.
"FUCK!"
Peter's back bowed, spine curving so hard Tony thought it might snap. His whole body went rigid, and the sounds he made weren't words at all.
Tony did it again.
"Oh god. Oh fuck, that's…"
Again.
Peter's thighs were trembling now. His cock was weeping onto the sheets, leaving a wet spot that was getting bigger with every stroke. His ass was pushing back against Tony's hand, fucking himself on Tony's fingers, desperate and shameless.
"That's it, baby." The words came out dark. "That's it. Take it."
"I'm going to—" He broke off. "I'm going to cum if you keep doing that."
Tony pulled his fingers out.
Peter sobbed.
"Not yet." Tony's hands found Peter's hips, flipped him back over, and Peter went easy, pliant, staring up at him with glassy eyes and parted lips. "You're going to cum on my cock or you're not going to cum at all."
He slicked himself. One rough stroke, and he had to bite down on his lip to keep from groaning because he was so hard it hurt, had been hard for what seemed like hours, and the slick pressure of his own hand was almost too much.
He lined himself up. Pressed the head of his cock against Peter's entrance. The muscle flexed, resisted, then started to give.
"Tony."
Tony pushed in.
Not slowly. Not gently. He sank in to the hilt in one long thrust, felt Peter's body part around him like it was made for it, the clench and the heat and the tightness that wasn't just a word anymore but a physical thing, Peter's body gripping him so hard everything went sharp. Too bright. His vision swam.
Peter's breath punched out of him. His legs wrapped around Tony's waist, ankles locking at the small of Tony's back, heels digging in. His hands fisted in the sheets but his mouth?
His mouth fell open on a silent scream.
Tony stopped. Buried to the hilt. Feeling Peter's heartbeat around his cock.
"Peter." His voice came out strangled.
"Move." Peter begged. "Tony, please, move."
Tony moved.
He pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, reveling in the drag of Peter's body trying to keep him in. Slammed back in. Heard the slap of skin against skin. Peter's whole body jerked, tightening around him.
"More." Peter was gasping now, hands scrabbling at Tony's back. "More."
Tony gave him more.
He fucked Peter like he'd dreamed about. Not slow. Not sweet. Hard and deep and brutal, the headboard slamming against the wall with every thrust, the bed creaking under them, Peter making sounds. Just gasps of choked air, moans, and Tony's name, over and over, like a prayer.
"Eight years." His throat spasmed. "Eight goddamn years I wanted this. Wanted you."
Peter's response dissolved into a moan as Tony changed the angle, drove in deeper.
"Fifteen years old in the back of that car after Germany and I wanted to," Tony's hips snapped forward, brutal. "You fell asleep on my shoulder and I wanted to wake you up with my hand down your pants fingering you open. Wanted to feel you get hard for me. Wanted to hear what sounds you'd make when you came for the first time. Wanted to take every bit of that goddamn innocence for myself and fuck it out of you. Fill you up with my cum while you screamed for me."
Peter's whole body shuddered.
"Sixteen, I watched you in that Spider-Man suit and wanted to peel you out of it." Tony was talking now, couldn't stop, the words spilling out of him like he’d been cut open.
“And then you were gone." Tony's voice broke on the word. "Five years. Five years of wanting a ghost. Of waking up and reaching for someone who'd turned to dust in my arms."
"Tony..."
"Seventeen and you stood too close in the lab and I spent an hour in the shower afterwards jacking off and trying to get the smell of you off my skin."
Peter sobbed. His nails raked down Tony's back, hard enough to draw blood.
"Eighteen and you walked into your birthday party in that fucking button-down and I wanted to rip it off you with my teeth."
"Tony."
"And the whole time," Tony's hips snapped forward, brutal, punishing. "The whole fucking time, you were waiting for me."
Peter came.
Untouched. His cock pulsing between them, painting both their stomachs with it, his whole body rigid, back arching off the bed. Tony felt him clench around his cock, felt the rhythmic squeeze of it, and his vision sparked at the edges.
"Fuck."
He kept fucking Peter through it. Through the aftershocks and the overstimulation and the increasingly desperate sounds. Peter was out of control now, tears streaming down his face, catching in the hollow of his throat. Tony slid his hand up to Peter's throat, traced the salt track, swirling his thumb in the tears. Then wrapped his fingers around Peter's neck.
Not squeezing. Just holding. Feeling the flutter of Peter's pulse under his palm.
Dug his thumb into the juncture. Wanted to sink his teeth into it. Mark him up.
"Mine."
The word ripped out of him.
Finally. Finally. He'd been choking on it for years and now it was out, hanging in the air between them, and Tony couldn't take it back. Didn't want to.
He bent down. Found the junction of Peter's neck and shoulder, right over the bruise he'd left earlier. Sank his teeth in.
Hard.
Hard enough to break skin. Hard enough that Peter screamed, and his cock, impossibly, twitched against Tony's stomach.
"I can't."
"You can." Tony licked the wound. The blood sharp on his tongue. "You will."
He buried himself to the hilt and let go.
The orgasm hit him like a freight train. Wave after wave of it, pleasure so intense it was like dying, and he was emptying himself into Peter, claiming him, filling him up until his own cum leaked out around his cock.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
The word pulsed through him with every beat of his heart.
He collapsed onto Peter. Both of them breathing hard, hearts pounding, skin slick with sweat and cum and blood. Peter's arms wrapped around him, held him close, and for a long moment neither of them moved.
Then Peter laughed.
Soft. Wet. Happy.
"We're not done."
Peter's eyes flew open.
Tony pulled out. They both hissed, the absence sharp and sudden, and Tony could see his cum already leaking out of Peter's hole. Could see the bruises blooming on Peter's hips where his fingers had been. Could see the bite mark on his shoulder, dark with blood.
His.
He flipped Peter onto his stomach.
"Tony, I can't."
Tony pressed his cock against Peter's entrance, he was loose now, slick with Tony's cum. "You will."
He pushed back in.
Peter keened.
It was easier this time. Wetter. His own cum was slick and filthy around his cock, and the thought of it, of fucking his cum deeper into Peter, marking him from the inside out, made him so hard he could barely think.
"I told you." He thrust deep, ground down, as Peter shuddered around him. "I'm going to make sure you never forget who you belong to."
He used the new position to reach for the open nightstand drawer. Dug through it while he kept Peter pinned with his hips, cock buried deep.
"Tony?" Peter asked confused. Fucked-out. Muffled by the pillow. "What are you…"
Tony grabbed the Sharpie.
He straightened up, one hand pressing flat between Peter’s shoulder blades, keeping his head down and his ass flush against him, cock still buried deep inside him. Peter gasped at the angle change.
Tony uncapped the marker with his teeth.
"What?"
"Shh."
He signed his name across Peter's lower back.
Right above the curve of his ass. His signature, the one he'd been putting on contracts and checks and autographs for thirty years. The tip dragged across sweat-damp skin, the letters smeared and imperfect, and it was the most beautiful thing Tony had ever written.
Tony Stark.
His signature. On Peter's skin. In his handwriting.
"What the," He twisted his head, tried to see. "Did you just—"
Tony thrust up into him. Hard.
Peter screamed.
"Tony Stark." Tony's mouth was at Peter's ear, breath hot against his skin. "Right there. In Sharpie."
"Holy shit."
Peter’s body convulsed.
"You like that?" Tony thrust again, ground up into him. "You like the idea of being mine? Having my name on your skin? Everyone knowing?"
Peter couldn't even answer. His head hung low between his shoulders, arms shaking, mouth slack. His whole body was vibrating with tension now, overstimulated. Little punched-out sounds escaping with every thrust.
"Look at you." Tony bit his earlobe. "So fucking desperate for it. Taking my cock like you were made for it."
"I was." Peter said. "Made for it. For you."
"That's right." Tony changed the angle, hitting Peter's prostate on every stroke, and Peter keened. "Mine. All fucking mine."
Peter came.
Dry this time, his cock twitching against his stomach, his whole body convulsing. The sob that ripped out of him was raw and broken and the most beautiful sound Tony had ever heard.
Tony was close. So close.
He hauled Peter up, back against his chest, and wrapped his hand around Peter's throat. His other hand found Peter's cock. Still hard, because of course it was, because Peter was eighteen and enhanced and apparently had no refractory period.
Tony started jerking him off.
Hard. Brutal. His fist tight and merciless, stripping Peter's cock in rough strokes that matched the punishing rhythm of his hips. No finesse. No technique. Just raw need, taking everything he wanted, giving everything he had.
He'd never lost control like this. Not with anyone. Not ever.
But Peter was making those sounds, those broken sobbing sounds, and his body was clenching around Tony's cock, and Tony was fucking into him so hard the headboard was cracking against the wall, plaster dust raining down, and he didn't care. Couldn't care. Could only chase the pleasure building at the base of his spine, hot and urgent and inevitable.
"You know what I want?" Tony demanded. "I want to tattoo you. So everyone who ever sees you naked will know exactly who you belong to.”
Peter gasped.
“My name on your pretty little body. Right here." He pressed his thumb against the base of Peter's spine where his signature was drying. "Property of Tony Stark."
Tony's hand squeezed around his throat.
"You're mine."
He was out of breath. Panting. His hips pistoning, his hand flying over Peter's cock, his grip tightening on Peter's throat with every word.
"You. Belong. To. Me."
They came together.
Tony's vision whited out. Peter screamed his name. And somewhere in the middle of it, the world dissolved into pleasure, like being reborn, like every terrible thing Tony had ever done was worth it for this single perfect moment.
When he came back to himself, they were tangled together in the center of the wrecked bed. The sheets were destroyed. There was cum everywhere. Peter was shaking, crying, laughing all at once.
Tony pressed his face into Peter's hair. Breathed him in.
Sweat. Sex. Blood. His.
"Holy shit," Peter breathed.
Tony laughed. The sound came out rough, broken, lighter than he'd felt in years.
"Yeah," he agreed. "Holy shit."