Chapter Text
Peter gazes at his reflection in the mirror. Frightened, brown eyes stare back at him, hands shaking as they grip on the marble counter. The bathroom is all marble, all luxury and space and decadence. He doesn’t belong here. Peter isn’t supposed to be here. But then again, there’s lots of places he’s been where he wasn’t supposed to. That’s how he got into this mess in the first place after all.
Peter looks down at the blade he’s set on the counter. It’s a deadly sharp but tiny thing, small enough that he managed to conceal it under the sole of his shoe and sneak into the penthouse. His host had been too preoccupied with getting his hands all over Peter’s body, more concerned with getting him out of his clothes to notice anything hidden in them. Peter can still feel the man’s marks on his skin, the bite of teeth on his neck, the gripping bruises on his waist, the swollen soreness of his hole. He wonders how long he’ll still feel those marks on his body even after the man himself is gone from the world.
Peter shivers at the memory. Tony Stark is an incredible lover. The rumours are true.
And now Peter has to kill him.
A few hours earlier
The club isn’t so exclusive that Peter needed a special invite. Besides, he’s pretty enough to be let in without much fuss. It’s not that kind of a place anyway. The bartender doesn’t card him when he orders a vodka coke. She even nods towards a table where some wealthy-looking businessmen are seated smoking over their whisky glasses. The kind of men who wouldn’t balk at dropping a few stacks for a young piece of ass. Peter appreciates the gesture, but he’s fishing for a whale tonight.
They told him he’d know when the big man comes in. He’ll see it in everyone’s eyes. He’ll feel it in the atmosphere, the temperature dropping and tension rising a few notches. They were right. Peter senses the shift in his surroundings and he turns to see him, Tony Stark, walking in flanked by a pair of bodyguards, parting the crowd like the red sea as they head towards a private cordoned off area.
Peter drains his drink. He gets up and makes his way to where the teeming mass of bodies are swaying, grinding to the deafening beats.
His limbs feel lighter from the alcohol, but even without them, he knows how to move, how to advertise himself in a way that promises pleasure and more. More than a few men take the bait and he lets them have a little taste, if only to show his true target what’s in store for him. But he doesn’t let any of them take him away.
Peter dances, eyes fluttering closed, losing himself to the music. He imagines for a few moments that he’s just here to have a good time, to drink and flirt and fuck and with no commitments, no responsibilities. No debts to pay. He imagines himself just like any of those normal twenty-somethings all around him. Young and dumb and carefree.
A strong hand grips his wrist and Peter opens his eyes. It’s one of Stark’s bodyguards.
Peter is guided through the crowd, past the ribboned partition that separates the king from his court. Tony Stark lowers his cigar, dark eyes roaming appreciatively down Peter’s body.
“What’s your name, darling?”
Hook, line, and sinker.
Now
Peter steps back out into the darkened bedroom, illuminated only faintly by moonlight through the window and sleepless lights of the city. He’s still naked. He anticipates the blood spray would be intense, and this way he could just take a shower after he… after he’s done, and everything will be fine.
Everything will be fine.
Peter shifts his grip on the blade’s handle and approaches the bed slowly. Just one quick swipe to the jugular and it’s over.
The man is fast asleep in a lumpy, misshapen bundle under the blankets. Peter reaches out a shaky hand towards the edge of it. Come on now, Peter. There’s no room for hesitation. Just rip off the blanket and one quick swipe and it’s-
There’s a click of a cocked hammer coming from behind him and Peter feels the cold barrel of a handgun pressed to the back of his head.
“Well, this is disappointing.” The voice belongs to Tony Stark. The same smooth, seductive voice that crooned filthy words in Peter’s ear and called him ‘baby’ not too long ago. He sounds genuinely disappointed. “Drop the shiv, sweetheart. Hands behind your head where I can see them.”
Peter does as he’s told. There’s nothing left for him to do. An odd calm washes over him. He drops the knife onto the carpet, not even caring too much that he didn’t get to use it to tear Tony Stark’s aorta open. But it’s over, regardless. He failed.
Tony kicks the knife out of reach then turns on the lights with a snap of his fingers.
Peter blinks against the sudden brightness. He sees the lump on the bed is just pillows arranged to look like a body. Tony must have been lurking in the darkness, expecting the attempt on his life. The man didn’t become supreme leader of the New York criminal underground without some good instincts and a healthy dose of paranoia after all.
As Peter twines his fingers behind his head, he feels the barrel of the gun trail down his neck, tracing down his bare spine like a loving caress, until it nudges right where the cleft of his ass begins.
“Such a shame,” Tony says with a disappointed hum. “So pretty too. I was even thinking of keeping you. Should’ve known the reason I was so drawn to you was because of this something…” The gun is replaced by two fingers, slipping forcibly between Peter’s ass cheeks, into where he’s still wet and loose from their earlier coupling. “This fire in you. I felt that right here.” Those fingers curl viciously inside him and Peter bites down a whimper.
Tony abruptly withdraws his fingers with a repulsive squelch and slaps them on Peter’s ass, trailing a streak of lube and cum on his skin.
“Turn around,” Tony orders.
Peter obeys. He makes himself look into Tony’s cold, brown eyes. They’re beautiful eyes. Deep and soulful, framed with thick lashes. They’re the kind of eyes anyone can easily fall in love with. Peter wants them to be the last thing he sees.
But the gun is nowhere to be seen. Tony is shirtless, but he’s put on some pants. The gun must be tucked in the waistband behind him. Still easily within reach so Peter doesn’t know why he does this, but he runs.
His legs move before his brain could even argue what a stupidly bad idea it is. He reaches for the doorknob but it sinks into the wood behind a hidden panel, disappearing before he could even touch it. He grapples helplessly at the seams, trying to find an edge he can grip and pry open with his small fingers.
A shot goes off and the wood splinters right next to Peter’s head, making him gasp.
“Get back here, Peter,” Tony says, sounding weary.
Turning around, Peter sees Tony seated on the bed, leaning against the headboard, looking utterly relaxed. The gun is still in his hand but he’s just holding it casually, like it’s a natural extension of him.
Tony pats his thighs, indicating for Peter to come sit on them.
Peter resigns himself to his fate, approaching the older man on shaky legs. Climbing back onto the bed on which he sold his body is harder than he thought it would be. He wishes Tony would just kill him. He hates all these mind games, hates being toyed with like a naive little plaything. But it’s what Beck likes about him, he supposes.
Peter fits perfectly on Tony’s lap, the circle of the man’s waist fits just right in the space between Peter’s legs. He’s so tired. He wants to let go, wants to lay his head on that toned chest in front of him, close his eyes and die that way. Would Tony give him that?
“Oh look at those tears,” Tony coos, wiping Peter’s wet cheeks with a calloused thumb. “You’re so pretty when you cry, darling. Are you trying to seduce me? It’s working. It’s working again, I should say. You already have seduced me, haven’t you, baby boy? Fucked me real good. Got me all helpless in my own home.” He runs his hand down Peter’s chest, touching him all over, just like he did before. “You’re just my type too. Young and pretty and soft everywhere. A perfect little angel.” His large hand comes to a rest between Peter’s legs, cupping over the flaccid cock there. “What’s turned you into a killer, huh?”
Three days ago
“It’s not that hard, Parker. Look, you just do a little bit of this,” Quentin Beck slits the throat of a wide-eyed gagged man whose arms are being restrained on either side by a pair of his goons, “and you’re done! Tony Stark is dead. I get what I want. You get what you want. We all go home happy.”
Beck’s goons drop the dying man onto the concrete floor, gurgling and spluttering blood all over the floors of the warehouse until he stops moving. Peter can’t take his eyes off him.
“And my aunt?” Peter asks.
Beck waves a dismissive hand. “Never heard of her. Never heard of her dead, debt-filled husband either. Never heard of no Parkers. Well, except for you, of course. Pretty thing like you? I can think of a few things you’ll be good for. But you’ll start clean.” He chuckles as he approaches, leaning in close, his nose brushing against Peter’s jaw. “Well, not that clean. I’d imagine Stark’s gonna wanna do the kind of stuff to you that won’t come off with a good scrub.” He nips at Peter’s neck and the younger man can barely restrain a flinch. “But I’m willing to overlook that. If you succeed.”
Now
If Peter succeeded. Which he didn’t.
If he had succeeded and didn’t end up in jail for homicide, he’d probably be trapped, naked in Quentin Beck’s arms. But he failed, and now he’s trapped, naked in Tony Stark’s arms. Way down inside, where Peter is really depraved, he thinks he prefers it this way.
“And how much do you owe him?” Tony asks.
“Twenty thousand dollars.”
Tony sighs. “That’s how much the bastard’s paying to have me killed? I’m gonna rip out his eyeballs and make him watch himself get torn limb from limb.”
Something about the casual way Tony threatens violence makes Peter shiver. That or it’s the cold of the giant bedroom. He wishes Tony’s arms were back around him, that he’s lying back on the warm bed with the older man’s broad, solid body pinning him down.
Tony cups Peter’s face, tilting his chin up to look into his eyes. “Beck’s a fucking street rat. He’s paying you trinkets to kill a prince. It’s the only thing he has. Me? I got a whole fucking kingdom, baby. Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”
Peter searches the man’s eyes, looking for a trick there, the kind of illusions Beck likes to weave around him. “And what do you want?”
“I want you.”
Simple. Honest. Direct. Peter likes that.
“I want my aunt safe.”
“Done.”
“And I want Beck dead.”
Tony’s grin is dangerous. “I’ll kill him myself and drop him right at your feet, baby.”
Peter kisses him, signing his soul over to the cold devil in the ninth circle of Hell, but he’s never felt more warm and alive.