Peter's been way too lucky, lately.
His last bad night on patrol was over a month ago, resulting in a pretty minor bullet-grazing. Fixing his suit had been the worst part of that encounter.
This time, though, Peter's sure there will be significantly worse consequences as he takes in what he can see of the spotless, sanitarium-style room he's woken up in, the impossibly strong cuffs strapping him down spread-eagle on a hospital bed...and the whole 'naked except for his mask' deal.
He's laying face-up and his head's not strapped down, but he doesn't bother looking around long for any objects he could use in an escape, weapons or otherwise; it only takes a few tugs against his restraints to realize he won't be breaking out of them on his own. The knowledge has his heart jack-hammering in his chest, because the strength of those cuffs means there's a good chance he knows where he is, or at least, who has him.
A crackling sound emits from a small black circle at the center of the un-textured white ceiling.
"Hey, Charlotte's Web."
Peter stiffens at the familiar voice.
There's a soft chuckle. "How do you feel about playing doctor?"
"Will she record...everything?"
Tony nods absently, flicking away another holo-screen of stats.
"Yeah, kid. Everything. That's the point of the study. If FRIDAY knows everything, I know everything, and the suit'll be ready for anything."
It makes sense, but Peter still feels a little nervous about it. None of the tests so far have been anything close to invasive--mostly just wearing stick-on sensors while he does active things; runs on a treadmill or climbs walls--and he does trust the billionaire. Tony's been nothing but good to him since they officially met on the MIT campus those few weeks ago.
Peter catches the words 'Tactile Sensitivity' before the new screen gets flipped away.
Peter makes a sound, something he refuses to acknowledge as a whimper, and his face flares hot behind his mask. Another quiet laugh drifts down from the ceiling.
"Pulse up, temp rising...Are you afraid?"
The smirk is obvious, even if he can't see the owner.
"No," the voice continues, "I don't think you are."
"FRIDAY, can you--can you disable the recording? For, like, fifteen minutes? Please?"
He's sitting at the foot of the bed, gripping two handfuls of the down comforter at the edge of the mattress.
The room Tony gave him to stay in for the overnight portion of the study is as cozy and welcoming as a hotel room (which is to say, not very much). It definitely feels as anonymous as one, and that illusion of privacy and alone-ness isn't really helping him resist.
"I'm sorry, Peter; you're not authorized to override or shut down the recording."
Peter squeezes his eyes shut. He can ignore it. He can.
...He caves. The need's too strong.
His pants and boxers end up shoved halfway down his thighs, and he wraps a hand around himself.
The door opens, and Peter hears someone step inside and shut it behind them. Footsteps tap across linoleum, stopping at the end of the bed.
"Oh," Tony says lowly, "you're definitely not."
Eyes facing resolutely upward, Peter listens to the genius make his way around to stand beside him.
Something brushes feather-light across the tip of his erection, and he gasps involuntarily. The gasp turns into a quiet moan when that something begins paying deliberate but gentle attention to his leaking slit.
Peter shuts his eyes and bites down on his lower lip. Struggles not to arch his hips into the contact.
Tony hums in interest.
"Love seeing how far down that blush goes."
"Fuck, Mr. Stark--Tony--"
Peter gasps the name out as quietly as he can, imagines it's Tony's hand he's fucking instead of his own.
Imagines Tony crooning filthy, sweet nothings into his ear as Peter slides his cock in and out of the slicked channel of the genius' hand.
--You're a slut for this, Pete, I knew you would be.
--Say it. Say you're a slut for me.
"I'm--I'm a slut for this--for you," he groans out into the silent guest room.
--Good boy. Make yourself cum, sweetheart. Make a mess.
He gasps Tony's name again as he tenses up and spills over his own fist.
"I did some of my own research after you left," Tony says, casually.
The something--a fingertip, Peter's 99% sure--does a few more small sweeps over the head of his dick and then stops, pulling away entirely. Peter whines at the loss, but he still doesn't tilt his head to look.
"Did you know," the genius says over a dull clicking sound, a case being opened, "that spiders have heightened sensitivity to touch?"
Peter wonders if this is how a heart-attack feels.
"It's an oversimplification," Tony continues, "See, Pete, a spider's touch sensitivity is fine-tuned--"
There's a short, plastic click, and then buzzing.
"--to pick up vibrations."
"I watched the recordings."
Peter pauses as he's reaching for a cereal box. It's brief, but he knows Tony notices. He...wanted Tony to notice.
Grabbing the box down from the shelf, Peter pours himself a bowl. It's Frosted Mini Wheats, his favorite. The billionaire started stocking it in his personal kitchen after the first few times Peter'd slipped into the penthouse and crashed on the couch after patrol.
"Did you," Peter says mildly, taking a bite of cereal. He still doesn't turn around, doesn't want Tony to see the pink that's surely bloomed across most of his face.
When Tony doesn't say anything immediately, Peter nearly looks over at him, nearly loses this game of chicken they've been playing for weeks.
Neither of them speak. Peter stubbornly eats his cereal at the counter, listens the continued tapping.
Eventually, the tapping stops.
"Do you trust me, Pete?"
"Thank you, but 'Mr. Stark' is fine."
Peter struggles a little, puts pressure on the restraints. Whines at the lack of give.
Tony tuts at him.
"Save your breath, sweetheart."
He does trust Tony. Trusts the forty-year-old genius to take care of him. Of his secrets. Doesn't matter that there was a little hero worship mixed in there, too, at first; Tony never took advantage. After his guest lecture, when Peter had come to him at the tail end of all the other student admirers, the older man had been warm and professional. Talked to Peter like an equal, despite the nearly twenty-year age difference.
And when Peter took a chance and called him after a particularly rough patrol, Tony collected him and brought him to the tower, no questions asked. Aside from whether or not he needed serious medical attention.
Tony Stark was the second person he'd trusted with his secret identity, and the genius had done nothing but provide him access to his lab and give him a safe place to crash when Peter needed it.
"Yeah," Peter says, putting his spoon down, turning to face Tony.
"Yes, Tony. I do trust you."
The billionaire smirks at him, eyes dark, and heat pools low in Peter's stomach.
"Then I have a proposal."
Peter's outright trembling as the end of the toy drags torturously light and slow up the inside of his left thigh. Closer...closer...it's so close, feels like it's a hairsbreadth away from where he wants it, needs it--
He almost sobs when it's removed completely.
"Oh, Pete," Tony says, almost reverently, "Barely anything and you're already soaked. You slut."
A shiver rolls through Peter's body at the word, and he bites down on his lip again desperately to hold back another whine.
The vibrator returns to touch down on the inside of his right knee. He groans.
As Tony slides it back up along a path that mirrors the first on his opposite thigh--just as lightly, just as slow--Peter thinks he might actually cry. Tony's right; hardly anything and he's already about to fall apart, a pathetic mess under Tony's hands.
This time, the toy stops at the end of its trail, but doesn't pull away. Peter pulls against his wrist restraints in an effort to distract himself from the urge to shift his hips.
"What--uh, what exactly do you have in mind?" Peter asks. His mouth is so dry it's hard to get the words out.
"A surprise. For you. In the name of the study."
Peter nods slowly. "Okay..."
"No impact play," Tony says calmly. He's not even looking at Peter now, just scrolling through something on his tablet. "Nothing extreme, nothing dangerous. You'll have a safeword; that's non-negotiable."
The billionaire finally glances up. "In the interest of full--" he pauses, "--of enough disclosure, it would be...intimate."
"I--I figured," Peter manages.
At the first sense of vibration under the head of his swollen cock, Peter cums abruptly, three warm jets along his stomach, up to his chest. Through his rushing heart beat and ragged breathing, he hears the buzzing stop, and Tony's low, impressed whistle.
Gentle fingers brush the edge of Peter's mask, and Peter lifts his head so Tony can pull it all the way off. When he lays back down, Tony's leaning just slightly over him, smirking.
Peter shuts his eyes, swallows thickly. Nods.
"Remember your words?"
He nods again.
Tony tsks quietly.
"Words, kid," he says, amused, "I need to hear you say them."
"Red for stop...green for good...yellow to slow down," Peter rasps out. His breathing is just beginning to steady, but he still feels like he's been running.
A calloused hand cards through his hair, massages his scalp. Peter shuts his eyes as a moan slips out without his permission.
Tony huffs a quiet, affectionate laugh.
The hand slips from Peter's hair, and Peter hears and feels the older man shift back to stand in line with his hips. There's another click, and the buzzing starts again.
"FRI, darling," the inventor says, nonchalantly, "be a doll and start the counter, for me, please."
Peter tenses, lifts his head sharply.
It's been almost a month since he's seen Tony, and Peter's beginning to think nothing's going to happen. All the texts they've exchanged--and they've been few and far between, a sharp contrast to the weeks prior to their last meeting--have been short and perfunctory on Tony's end.
He tries not to be disappointed; it's Tony Stark. The guy could have literally anyone he wanted. Maybe he just didn't feel the need to follow through on an encounter with a semi-experienced twenty-two year old kid. Just because he'd looked at Peter like he wanted to completely devour him the one time doesn't necessarily mean anything.
Mid-swing, Peter hears a cry from below, changes direction.
Tony's probably busy, Peter reasons as he drops down into an alley and what sounds like a garden-variety mugging, and it's not like the billionaire owes Peter an explanation, anyway--
The alley's empty, except for a small radio on the ground, still pumping out high-definition, very realistic sounds of a violent physical confrontation.
Something stings his neck, and he barely manages to sling a directionless strand of webbing before he drops and everything goes dark.
"I can't, Tony, please..." Peter begs.
He knows he's a mess, in his mind--everything is hot and overwhelming but so fucking amazing in a terrible kind of way--and on the outside--tears down his face, sticky all over his chest and stomach and thighs.
"Shh, Pete; you can, sweetheart. One more. Come on. Just one more."
Tony's voice is comforting and infuriating and grounding all at once. The genius had ceased the excess touches ages ago (only because Peter had begged him to stop when even fingers carding through his hair or trailing lightly down his limbs became too much to handle), but the older man hasn't stopped talking. Sweet, encouraging, filthy words; warm endearments and oh so satisfying degradation.
Peter makes a desperate, wordless sound, tries fruitlessly to twist away as Tony draws the vibrator up from the base of Peter's shaft back to the head.
For a moment it's a continuation of the same torture of the last however-long-its-been, and then Tony moves away.
Struggling to lift his head, Peter stares down the sticky wreck of his torso in time to see Tony lean down and sweep his tongue over the head of his cock at the same time the vibrations crank up to a frankly unholy level.
"How're you feeling, kid?" Tony asks.
It's kind of a big question, Peter thinks.
He's in the vee of Tony's legs, reclined against that broad chest while they lounge together on Tony's obscenely large bed. There's no tension whatsoever in his muscles, he had the most satisfying nap he's had in maybe years, and he's absolutely stuffed from the veritable buffet of aftercare-appropriate food. Tony's been checking and gently massaging his wrists and ankles, even after his healing factor made quick work of the faint red marks left by the restraints.
He feels loved.
...Or like he's still coasting on the oxytocin rush of eight consecutive orgasms.
"Um. Good. Great," Peter says finally, flushing slightly.
Tony hums, and a hand slides into Peter's hair, calloused fingers scritching lightly at his scalp.
"We'll try for nine, next time."