Archive of Our Own

For the record, Tony’s not deaf. Not permanently, if he can help it. Just a quirky side effect of a skirmish that should’ve been a cakewalk but resulted in a brief dance with a neurotoxin-peddling offshoot of Hydra that danced right back. The neurotoxin, not Hydra. No boogie-woogie for those goons; they folded faster than a two and a seven in Texas hold 'em. Sadly, not before Tony got a quick whiff and hit his head on the way down.

Six specialists and Bruce have failed to fix Tony’s issue and left him with a vague almost-promise that his hearing might return like a long-lost dog finding its way home. Probably. Eventually. For now, though, he's stuck in a silent disco without the disco, and in the absence of the auditory cues, the world doesn't actually shrink; it sharpens. Who would've thunk it, huh?

He has misplaced one sense and accidentally tripped over another. And, what do you know, started picking up on things. The way Natasha's eyebrows pinch when she’s pissed, or the rhythmic tap of Steve's fingers on the table being Morse code for impatience. That, and how all of the above seems to happen when the two are in the general proximity of each other. Intriguing, but still basic, even though Tony has never noticed that before. Couldn’t hear it over the glorious symphony of his own genius, obviously. That or, as it turns out, the ever-loving echo chamber of his own voice.

However, it’s still brutally unfair that the man who crafted the most sophisticated listening devices the world has ever known can't hear shit himself. Then again, if life gives you silence, you learn the art of lip-reading. Or, you know, coerce your girl Friday to brush up on her speech-to-text and spoon-feed it right into your lenses.

But optimism or not (more often not), it’s a fucking graveyard for noise. For instance, no more language of beeps and boops in the lab that Tony took for granted. And don't even get him started on music. It's very gutting, but Tony’s not about to bitch about it. No, he’ll just brood and tinker because vocalizing frustrations is so last season.

All in all, it’s pretty much being inside of a vacuum flask, hearing sucked out, relying on sight. Less than ideal. A royal fuckfest of sensory deprivation, let’s call a spade a spade.

Plus, and here’s a really concerning bit, after the kid is back from college for the winter break and settled in his room at the compound, there comes a moment when Tony starts to suspect that even his sight is flipping him the bird, planning a mutiny, and laughing at his expense. 

That day in the lab, on the shiny surface of things, it’s all systems normal, or at least as normal as you get in the bizarre hush of Tony’s current situation. He's knee-deep in research, ready to high-tech his way out of this if his ears don’t get their act together soon.

Meanwhile, Peter, fresh out of the academic slaughterhouse and seemingly over his freakout about Tony’s disability, is also doing a deep-dive into the miracles that are hearing aids. Except he’s supposed to be brainstorming his future PhD if he wants to beat Tony’s record, and not doing the legwork for Iron Man 4.0 for the ears. That’s alright though. Maybe even touching—the kid slacking off from his big and bright future in favor of helping Tony sort out his little problem is not what’s alarming.

But what really starts to grind Tony’s gears, and he means really gets the mental machinery creaking, is how much time Peter suddenly spends looking at him.

And it’s... a lot.

Not just your garden-variety concerned glances or the usual "is he gonna blow something up again" stares either. Nope. The kid had his eyeballs on a swivel permanently fixed in Tony’s direction from the second he stepped into the lab, dragging his sleepy ass to his station, and gratefully accepted Tony's endless supply of coffee. It is a full-on, unblinking, I-could-paint-you-from-memory levels of not even subtle side-eye, and its most certainly fucking weird. 

Although that’s not the point at which Tony starts to question the reliability of his vision, by the way.

At first, it's just distracting.

Tony powers through, already planning to throw in a few unnecessary upgrades to the prototype he’s working on, because—fuck it—why make a hearing aid when you can make a nanotech augmentation that could probably score higher than Peter on a physics test? He's calm, mostly (has been moderately calm for weeks now), his fingers flying across the holoscreens in the lab, pulling up data faster than he can process, since slowing down means thinking, and thinking means admitting that maybe, just maybe, he’s a tad out of his depth here. The possibility of the hearing not dragging its tail back is… terrifyingly unpleasant. And it's a real possibility, since there's nothing actually wrong with his ears, but let's not go there.

Then, having the kid burn holes not just in his back but also in his side, face and predominantly over-the-workbench body parts, gets a bit insulting the longer it goes on. Please, Tony isn’t spiraling. Tony is fine. Nothing that a few billion can’t fix. Hell, if it comes down to it, he’ll revolutionize the fucking field. At least that’s what he tells himself. And will, dammit, keep telling himself.

Two hours in, Tony is psyched out enough by being constantly watched to shoot Peter a what-the-actual-fuck look, only to catch him beaming a too-bright, slightly shy smile. Tony tries not to overthink it. He tries damn hard. Unfortunately, every time he glances up, there’s Peter—looking a bit too long, making it all kinds of awkward, and generally being an absolute nuisance, all while going about his business as if nothing unusual is happening.

A few more hours, and Tony offers to start wrapping up for food early, being driven livid. He’s buzzing with theories, none of which have to do with auditory tech. No, these are all about deciphering the new and peculiar sheer amount of looks Peter's throwing his way. 

Maybe the kid's worried, maybe it's pity, or hell, maybe Peter has been harassed into spying on Tony by a well-meaning but very overbearing team. (On a side note, Tony would very much prefer for it not to be pity. Tony does not do pity, not even on mute. Pity is not just insulting but also incredibly fucking annoying.) It could be anything. 

But most certainly not that in the absence of all other distractions, Tony is simply finally paying attention back.

Because, see, Tony has another problem. A large one, which, in the grand scheme of things, still has a capacity to fuck with his life almost as much, if not more, as an inconvenient temporary deafness.

Look, if Peter's newfound hobby of staring was a regular lab occurrence, Tony would've clocked that shit ages ago. He’s not just some fly-by-night genius; he's got observational skills, at least when it comes to the kid, that make Clint look myopic.

So. Tony's problem. The actual problem. The problem. Is that he might be (for sure) so desperately in love with Peter that it's pathetic, or, as he might admit under substantial duress, utterly fucking pathetic. Inside, he’s basically a walking, talking disaster area—emotional debris everywhere. So, he would have noticed. 

This isn't just a passing fancy; it's a full-blown, red-alert, all-systems-fail infatuation. You know, the sort where every cell in Tony's brain is supposed to be tuned to literally anything else, but instead, there's a constant background process running, one that’s endlessly looping footage of Peter's half-smile or that adorable way he scrunches his nose when he's deep in thought. He never misses the way Peter's hair flops just so over his forehead when he's bent over a blueprint, or the precise manner he taps his fingers when he's excited about a new idea. Tony didn't need to lose his hearing to see that. If anything, Tony's been working overtime to ignore all those things, or, at the very least, make sure others and Peter himself don't pick up on just how much of Tony’s bandwidth is being spent obsessing about this kid.

So, let’s cut the crap—Tony's not just into Peter; he’s gone. He's head-over-metal-heels, might-as-well-write-sappy-songs-about-it kind of gone. For years now. Ever since the kid initially went off to college and then came back for his first break. All grown up and—

Let’s not go there either, keep it strictly PG, since even Tony’s bank account can’t fund that much therapy. 

And, yes, Tony is aware that him falling for Peter isn’t just inconvenient; it’s involuntarily signing up for emotional seppuku. The kid's brilliant, funny, and looks good in spandex—a triple threat that could send even a saint into a tailspin on a good day. And, so, so, out of Tony’s age bracket, especially given their history. But, yeah, Tony’s no saint.

That said, being hopelessly, categorically smitten does not mean dumb-as-fuck. Right?

So what fresh hell is this?

Dinner is a steamy affair of takeout boxes, aromatic enough to drown out the metallic scent that usually permeates the air. It's meant to be casual: just him, Peter, in Tony's Roadster, and the latest episode of whatever show has caught their mutual interest. In this case, one Tony refuses to name out of dignity—he's not admitting to anything that might drop his IQ in public opinion, not even under duress, no matter how substantial. It's a sucker punch to his pride just acknowledging he knows this show exists, let alone that he has been watching it via Netflix party every other day with Peter while the kid was away.

Tony's cramped up in the driver's seat, elbows knocking against the steering wheel as they dig into the highway to high cholesterol. The savory tang of lime and peanut hits him; taste, at least, isn’t something his treacherous senses have screwed him out of yet.

The familiar intro rolls in with a catchy tune that's designed to hook you deeper than any neurotoxin could, drill directly into your brain and lay eggs there. Good stuff. Tony can practically hear it, rotting his brain without the need for the audio input.

That's when the staring kicks into overdrive again.

Peter, fused to the passenger seat, is all eager eyes glued on Tony as if he’s the last piece of edible tech on Earth. It's unsettling and fucking unnerving when you're trying to slurp up Pad Thai without wearing it. Every bite Tony takes feels scrutinized. Chopsticks to mouth, chew, swallow—hell, he almost expects Peter to start taking notes instead of keeping an eye on his own carton.

Halfway through a particularly stubborn noodle, Tony snaps. The noodle flings its last stand against the side of his seat, leaving a streak of sauce.

“Jesus fucking Christ, what?” he explodes, probably louder than socially acceptable. Volume control isn't exactly on the menu when your ears have decided to take a sabbatical.

Peter flinches, blinks, flashes red, and has the audacity to give Tony that innocent 'who, me?' look. You know the one. The kind that could give Bambi a run for his money. Tony's annoyance flips into high gear. His scowl deepens, his chopsticks soundlessly clattering down into the box as he puts the carton on the dash, leans back, arms crossing defensively.

“I mean, can you not? For five seconds? If I start choking on a peanut, I’ll be sure to flail dramatically. Promise.”

That gets him another look. He knows that look—Peter's about to morph into the apologetic, babbling brook version of himself which he never quite outgrew. Tony wouldn’t be able to hear it, but he sure as shit knows it's coming. It’s written all over Peter’s about-to-spill-over face.

“Pete," Tony sighs, attempting to infuse his voice with something softer, but it’s a challenge that he’s not sure he’s acing, "I get it, you’re concerned, or whatever this is—fascination, morbid curiosity, my tragic downfall playing out in real-time. But can we just—" He gestures vaguely between them, his fingers sketching invisible lines in the air, "—not do this whole intense eye contact thing at least while eating? It’s weird, it’s creepy, and honestly, it’s making it hard to remember why I even like Pad Thai.”

Peter nods, his shoulders slumping, head down, and starts picking at his food with less enthusiasm than an actual kid sorting through a pile of healthy snacks at a birthday party would. 

Ah, shit.

"Okay, okay," Tony gives in. "What is it? Either cut it out or narrate what’s gnawing at that radioactive spider-brain of yours. And use small words; I’m trying to watch the show here."

Not that Tony is. Watching the show, or reading the subtitles. Tony waits.

Waits while Peter's mouth is doing the fish-out-of-water routine—open, close, open again. Nothing comes out, though, at least nothing that Friday bothers to convert into text, leaving Tony, ugh, deaf to whatever pearls of wisdom Peter's trying to drop. Although the kid's eyebrows do knit together in frustration so tangible, Tony’s concerned they are about to start smoldering. Which has Tony recalibrating his expectations for how this conversation's supposed to tank.

For another twenty seconds or so, there are no bell rings, not a jingle, not a chime. Just more of the same, with Peter’s eyebrows going up, down, a twist here, a furrow there. Peter's silent, Friday’s silent, and Tony's about to go out of his goddamn mind with the quiet.

Then, a flicker of something crosses Peter’s face in a lightbulb moment that seems to dim just as fast. His lips move—ah, sweet visual input!—mumbling something at last. Friday dutifully transcribes the gold, but it’s so haphazard that Tony wonders if his AI’s developed a glitch:

"[Nat said you’ve been staring.]" It pops up on Tony's lenses, and it’s not exactly the Rosetta Stone he was hoping for.

Tony does a full NASCAR lap around that phrase, finding zero pit stops of sense. He blinks. Twice. That’s it? That's the cryptic message decoded from the frustrated flaps of a superhero’s jaw? Of all the things that could have explained what’s been happening, this nugget is what landed? Tony flails, not just mentally but physically, with a shrug.

He rifles through his mental file cabinet, flipping through folders labeled 'recent interactions with Natasha,' 'possible accidental creepiness,' and 'times I might have stared without realizing.' Sure, he’s been a bit more observant when it comes to everyone who is not Peter lately, but forgive him for having to, you know, look.

That’s just rich, considering.

After that, Tony actually stares, a million synapses firing in confusion.

Peter stares back. With wide eyes, maybe expecting some sort of epiphany to strike Tony. But all Tony's got is a mounting sense of what-the-actual-fuckery, and his only response is another blank, slightly idiotic shrug.

Tony's confusion must paint quite the picture because Peter's expression shifts—from frustrated to hurt in less time than it takes for Tony to cycle through his three default settings of disbelief, irritation, and outright denial that whatever’s going on is his fault.

Peter's face falls—crumbles really, and all Tony can do is throw his hands up in the universal sign of 'what the fuck?' because, seriously, what the fuck?

"[Forget it]," appears on the display of Tony’s lenses, Peter’s voice likely laced with that exasperation Tony usually finds less than endearing in less baffling circumstances. His tone, even unread, has the weight of a disappointed sigh Tony’s heard too many times.

And there it is—the look. That kicked-in-the-shin, soul-puppy-dog eyes thing that Peter does so well. Tony feels the familiar tug of guilt. Peter pushes his own food on the dash, hand going for the door of the Roadster, seemingly prepared to abandon Tony to marinate in his own bewildered juices.

Confused as fuck doesn’t cut it; Tony’s lost in the sauce without a ladle. Great, just great. Now he’s not only deaf but apparently also an unintentional jerk. 

The blinking cursor in Tony’s brain might be frozen, but at least his body isn't. Before he can even think about what he's doing, he’s grabbing Peter by the elbow and tries to prevent him from leaving, assuming Peter lets him. Tony’s not in the habit of letting shit sit there unresolved. Unresolved shit festers, and he’ll have none of that, no thanks.

And that's the exact moment when Tony starts suspecting that there's something wrong not just with his ability to hear but with his sight also. Mutiny in progress.

Because Peter doesn't just not leave—no, that would be too easy. Instead, Peter looks like—

Shit.

Looks like he's about to do something outrageously stupid. Yup. Bad decisions about to be made.

Tony's treacherous vision zooms in on Peter’s face, catching every nuance. There’s another shift in Peter's expression, a softening around the eyes, a slight parting of the lips that sends a clear, petrifying signal. His body fully turns toward Tony with an unmistakable intent. Surely, he’s not thinking—

Double shit.

Then there's Peter’s hand—the one that starts reaching out as if to wrap itself around Tony's neck and pull him closer.

Triple shit. Is Peter’s brain running on Windows 95 today?

Tony releases the kid's elbow, going through a new set of rapid-fire series of calculations, none of which add up to a good outcome, so he recoils. It’s not subtle; it’s a full-body jerk back, faster than if he had a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. Physics in action, folks—every action has an equal and opposite reaction.

Peter stops, his hand hanging in mid-air. There’s a look in his eyes that broadcasts a thousand words per second—none of which make it to Tony’s lenses because, hell, Friday’s not that advanced.

The silence that follows is awkward-as-fuck, or at least it would be if Tony could hear it. Instead, he watches, paralyzed and just a little noxious, as a myriad of emotions play across Peter’s face: surprise, his own confusion, more hurt, completely devastating and lethal—a whole damn Shakespearean tragedy in under five seconds.

Peter leaves pretty quickly after that. Tony does not stop him. Doesn’t even try. What would be the point? Because, you see, Tony might be, dammit, deaf, but he isn’t blind or naive.

It takes Tony a few hours—hours filled with the kind of pacing that would make a Fitbit weep for mercy—to cobble together the right words. Or close to what he thinks are the right words, since regardless of what he's going to say, and whether it is for Peter's own good or not, Tony is still essentially strapping himself to a rocket filled with emotional TNT while knowing full well he's about to get blown to bits.

He paces, prepares and regrets, in alternating cycles, that he had quit drinking on the day he'd realized he wanted to stick around long enough to see Peter shatter not just his PhD record, but all the other records. Which is fucked up on a cosmic scale. 

Nothing says "I love you, kid, and not in a platonic way" like having harbored fatherly feelings toward the person he’s, well, hasn’t been feeling very paternal toward for a while now. Don’t get him wrong, he still very much wants Peter to win, but his mental gymnastics on the topic of how non-paternal he feels about Peter, sordid details included, would score a ten from a Russian judge.

At a particularly weak moment, he briefly entertains the idea of rebooting his sobriety, but even Tony has to admit that's a nuclear option. Plus, the idea of digging through the wreckage of this disaster zone without a clear head is less appealing than a scheduled software update mid-battle.

Around hour three of his self-imposed exile into the depths of his own self-hatred, Tony slams into understanding that he’s doing that thing again. Overdesigning everything. Maybe he doesn’t need the right words. Maybe any words that don’t sound like they were spit out by a malfunctioning AI is all he needs. 

So he makes his way to Peter’s room, cursing the fact that there is no magical solution (where is a wizard when you need one?) to smooth over the awkwardness or to extract him from the pile of crap he’s landed in. Then he knocks on the door and—

Is slammed in the face with a different sort of realization. This—attempting to talk this shit out—is a massive, massive mistake. 'Cause Tony’s got nothing. One look at Peter's disappointed and not even off-key pissed-off face, and Tony, idiot that he is, has zilch on the verbal front.

To make matters worse, Peter steps back from the doorway, his lips pressed into a thin line, and gestures Tony in. Tony, who obliges, automatically stepping into the lion's den.

Well, fuck.

He looks around, and it's not the kiddie park Tony remembers with unironically flattering Iron Man sheets and the chaotic sprawl of LEGO bricks that once made the floor a minefield. Boring bedspread, neatly assembled LEGO sets that could pass for collector’s items on tidy shelves crammed with science books, and only the occasional comic sticking out from between Lehninger's Principles of Biochemistry and Darwin's Black Box.

In a move so cowardly it could win an award, Tony glances back at the door with a flicker of hope even as he stands there, trapped in the center of the room. But it’s closed, Peter is in front of it, and, oh, Tony, you are, in fact, dumb-as-fuck.

"So, let me get this straight," with no way out, he begins, sliding his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants to latch onto at least an illusion of authority. "Nat said I've been paying more attention to what's happening. Staring. Sure. And you, in your infinite wisdom, didn’t cook up a better game plan than to hit me with the ol’ stare-down of your own, hoping—what exactly?—that I'll burst out of my self-absorbed bubble and finally notice the way you look at me?" Tony sighs, shaking his head, absolutely gutted by the necessary but cruel way he has to go about it, improvisation at its worst when faced with a stubborn lock of Peter's jaw. "This is the dumbest thing I’ve heard and I didn’t even hear it. Come on, kid, I—I know. Give me some credit, I’m not that clueless."

Tony does know. Knows that Peter's juvenile crush didn't just pack its bags and sneak out under cover of darkness with those hideously awesome Iron Man sheets. He also knows that it didn't just stay and lurk there, the persistent little bastard that it is, but grew right alongside Peter's lanky frame and brilliant mind.

But just because Tony knows—just because it turns his own mess of feelings into a Gordian knot of epic proportions—doesn’t mean he’s about to drag Peter’s life and name through the mud. Hell, even if they could keep it a secret, and Tony doubts the fuck out of that, he wouldn't want to himself, why do it? Why ruin the kid's chances at happiness?

Not for Tony. Tony, and there is nothing wrong with his self-esteem, is not worth the effort. Not where Peter is concerned. Besides, even if it wasn’t for Tony’s uncanny ability to occasionally doubt his own self-worth, there are still plenty of other reasons not to bite the metaphorical bullet. Reasons he isn’t going to hammer out loud, mostly out of self-preservation, since, unlike a certain someone, Tony is capable of keeping his feelings under wraps.

Or—

"[So what the fuck is your problem then?]" appears on Tony’s lenses as Peter moves his mouth, the text graciously supplied by Friday, who is clearly overdue for maintenance if she is to keep moonlighting as his stenographer. 

—Not.

Holy shit, Tony needs to sit the fuck down.

Tony doesn't just sit down—he gracelessly collapses into what must be the world’s most deceptively uncomfortable chair, which has all the ergonomic support of a cinder block. He hiccups as he settles in, the chair vibrating under the weight of his armored ego more than his actual body. This is what happens when aesthetics trump ass-comfort. Seriously, who picked this crap? Oh right, he did.

An unnerving amount of inertia sets in. He blacks out at least a few minutes in a stupor, and when Peter disappears and reappears with a glass of water, Tony diligently sucks it down as if it’s vodka, wishing it were vodka—not because he’s thirsty, but because he’s trying to drown his befuddlement.

After the water hits, glass empty in hand, he glances up at Peter, who stands over him, two parts still pissed, one part most definitely worried, and if there ever was a moment to make Tony feel every bit his age, this is it. 

A multitude of shits.

"How," Tony starts, then stops. He looks up at Peter again whose eyebrows are doing that thing they do when he's worried but trying to stay mad—yeah, Tony knows that look too, has categorized and filed it under 'P for Pain in My Ass.' 

He knows all of Peter’s looks. In retrospect, it was half-witted to assume that Peter doesn’t know all of Tony’s, now that Tony thinks about it. 

"Was I—" Tony gives it another shot, setting the glass down on the coffee table. The table vibrates slightly too, a small, petty revenge for his current state of discomfort since he can’t hear what has to be an overly dramatic thud. 

Was he really this transparent? 

Then again, and here is the kicker, he probably was, wasn’t he? The thought that he might have been anything less than stealthy about his not-so-slowly shifting feelings toward Peter is laughable. Now.

“[I mean, yeah? You kind of were?]”

Tony risks yet another glance up and he catches Peter frantically rambling: 

“[Honestly, I sort of thought you’d make a move. At some point, when the time’s right. And then, you know, I started to wonder if maybe you thought I wasn’t—Look, it was stupid. As far as, ugh, plans go. Not that it was a plan necessarily. But there’s been a lot of waiting. And waiting. Then Nat said you’ve been sort of more—you know. So I thought. Just. I thought that maybe if you were sure, if it was obvious that I still am... But if you do know about me, then I don’t see why you don't want to, because it’s fucking dumb to—to—and do nothing about it.]”

Peter winces, visibly running out of steam, and Tony leans back in the chair, closing his eyes, which stops his lenses from transmitting. If there is a follow-up to that verbal masterpiece, he misses it.

What do they teach in MIT these days? Not eloquence, that’s for sure. What a mess.

Later down the line, Tony will figure this was all just things coming full circle. Inevitable. 

He'll find it ironic that it took him losing his hearing to realize he's been blind as a bat—a bat on a bad acid trip, with none of the observational subtlety Tony was patting himself on the back for. 

Because that's the thing, isn't it? Behind the puppy-dog eyes and a bite that have Tony twisted around Peter's clever finger, behind the aforementioned catastrophic situational fail at eloquence, behind all the other—an encyclopedia's worth, really—things that make Peter Peter, the truth is that Tony could never stop loving him and could never say ‘no’ to him even if he tried. Even if it is not the best thing for Peter, they were always going to end up here. All Peter had to do was to make that first move. The one that Tony was too chickenshit to make himself. Even if the very valid reasons not to make said move didn’t exactly fuck off into the parts unknown at the grand revelation that Tony was possibly not that subtle about eye fucking the kid for the past few years.

But as it's happening now, with his eyes still closed, Tony thinks about, huh, opening a can of Coke of all things. Not just any Coke, but a vintage '80s formula, with all the nostalgia and none of the healthy intentions. He thinks and tries to recall the sound it makes—the fizz, the metal screaming for freedom, the pressure popping. 

And goddamn, talk about being weak and folding faster than the Hydra goons who if didn’t get Tony into this mess in the first place, then at least contributed. Because when he feels Peter's chin touch down on his knee, Tony doesn't move it off. And doesn’t bolt from Peter's not-a-kid-anymore room like he should.

Instead, he finds himself blindly reaching out almost as soon as it happens, his hand cupping Peter's face—feeling the bone of the jaw, the unfair softness of his cheek. He maps the outline of Peter’s lips, and all is lost when Peter’s fingers start tracing the inside seam of Tony’s thigh.

Tony books what he assumes is a one-way ticket to hell by slipping his thumb into Peter’s mouth with a weary sigh. Sure, that’s a much better way to handle things than just sitting, still as a statue, at least not actively participating. 

And—

Fuck.

Having any body part immediately and gently imprisoned by Peter’s lips turns out to be quite a sensation. Tony might as well have stuck a circuit tester into a live socket, except instead of getting zapped back into reality, he’s mostly getting back waves of 'what the fuck am I doing?' viciously cascading through his nervous system. For all of two seconds.

After that, he isn’t so much panicking, and instead wondering, numb almost everywhere aside from that lucky thumb, if not being able to hear right this moment is a blessing or a curse. Because god, does he want to hear, but under current circumstances, the fact that he doesn’t could possibly be a blessing.

But if he could, what would he hear? The soft suction sound of slow disaster? The quiet parting of Peter’s lips as they close around a digit that’s trespassing in territory so personal it might as well have its own zip code? Peter moaning? Oh, fuck. Peter moaning. That thought alone is enough to liquify Tony’s spine and leave him dumber than he already was, before he had willingly, christ, walked into this room.

No, better not. 

Better to stay deaf than deal with the auditory proof of their rapidly deteriorating boundaries. But feeling... feeling is something Tony’s good at, despite his frequent claims to the contrary, and Tony's world quickly shrinks to this room, this chair, this incredibly precise point of mind-melting—don’t think about Peter sucking on, dear god, anything of yours, you asshole—contact.

The thumb in question feels every bit as stoked and adventurous as you'd imagine. Warm, moist, a little slippery. It's not just in there either; it's being greeted, welcomed with a kind of enthusiasm Tony usually reserves for his first cup of coffee after an all-nighter in the lab. So here's Tony, doing what his dumbass thumb decided was a splendid idea, and Peter—bless his hero-heart—isn't shy about making it a tactile experience. Holy fuck. If Tony had only slightly less respect for the kid, he’d christen the shit Peter’s tongue is currently doing to Tony’s digit fucking deprived. Which is to say, Peter’s more than welcome to suck on anything of Tony’s from now on.

Eyes still closed, Tony is trapped in a sensory bubble that’s all touch and no sound, a bizarre little decadent world where he can feel everything in magnified, excruciating detail. He can almost count the grooves on Peter’s palate, map the wet warmth of his mouth. And isn’t that just a peachy way to spend the evening, fucking what is quickly becoming one of Tony’s favorite places with his, arguably, less invested body part? Tony pulls the thumb a bit out, Peter’s teeth lightly grazing the skin over his knuckle, only to slide it right back in, fingertip pressing on that tongue, because Tony is not just weak but is also the worst.

It’s... it’s... fuck, it’s a shit ton of things Tony didn’t even let himself fantasize about most of the time, but he’s currently getting his thumb sucked by Spider-Man, and it’s not a VR simulation. He would laugh if he weren’t absolutely terrified at the prospect of even breathing right this moment.

Tony still needs a minute—or ten—to come to terms with this. Opening his eyes would mean acknowledging that yes, this is happening. Yes, the kid is currently turning his thumb into an oral fixation toy, and yup, Tony is… letting him. Yeah, baby, you like that?

Looking would mean seeing Peter’s expression, and god knows Tony isn't ready to deal with the implications of that. No, sir, eyes closed is just fine. It’s a coward’s paradise, but who's judging? Because what are you supposed to do when someone you are batshit crazy about decides your digit is his new favorite chew toy? Pull away? That seems wise, but also requires a lot more willpower than Tony’s capable of expending. In the safe darkness of his closed eyelids, he can pretend to process, to analyze like it’s just another variable in a fucked-up experiment, not his fucking life tipping off its axis.

Besides, there’s a curious and only somewhat gutting skill in the way Peter handles the invasion, tongue moving, mouth sucking. Perhaps... not the inexperienced kid Tony attempts to convince himself he still is on the days he’s trying to be good. No, this guy knows what he’s about, knows what he’s doing with a thumb in his mouth, and that’s—

Well, they are certainly teaching something at MIT, and Tony’s money has not gone to waste.

Tony’s dick seems to find the notion more than worthy of attention, and that's when the panic kicks in. There it is, a real fucking panic. What the fuck is Tony actually doing, ass planted on this godawful chair, thumb in Peter's mouth, for crying out loud, afraid to open his damn eyes? 

Oh-shit, oh-shit, oh-shit. What the hell is he thinking? Oh, right, he isn’t. Not with his brain, anyway. Tony needs Rational Tony right now, but that asshole appears to have taken one look at the situation and noped the fuck out, leaving Poor Decision-Making Tony in charge. 

Tony needs to get up. 

Tony needs to get his fucking thumb out of Peter’s gorgeous fucking mouth. 

Tony needs to—

Needs to—

Well, stop swearing, for starters.

“Shit,” he groans instead, his eyes fly open, and the hell Tony has booked a ticket to doesn’t wait for him to arrive on his own terms and breaks loose.

With a surge of whatever reckless impulse drives billionaires to wear metal suits, he grabs Peter by the hair—none too gently—and yanks. He's had enough of sitting around, had enough of waiting for something he has told himself time and time again isn’t going to happen. It gets Peter standing quicker than Tony’s ever seen the kid move without swinging from a web, with Tony rising himself, finally extracting his overachieving thumb—which, Christ, has seen more action today than Tony has in what feels like a goddamn lifetime—and in its place, Tony dives in with his lips.

And then—sweet Jesus.

His tongue doesn't ask for permission; it doesn't need to. Peter’s mouth opens, pliant and sweet, the taste alone, fuck, better than that first hit of espresso in the morning—all-encompassing, biting, absolutely necessary. Better than any single malt scotch Tony’s ever had the pleasure to burn his throat with. Tony’s hands aren’t in the kid's hair now; his arms are caging themselves around Peter, meeting at his back, hugging the crap out of him against the muscles that have definitely read the memo on Peter's adulthood.

The room is spinning, or maybe it’s Tony’s head, because sensory overload is a bitch even for a genius. Peter’s hands aren’t idle though; they roam. They grip, they pull, as far as they can go, they’re everywhere all at once, and Tony’s barely got a handle on the rising tide. And the silence is not silence at all; there is a roar in Tony’s ears, all of his blood rushing to his dick so fast it could set a new world record for a middle-aged man getting hard from some necking action.

The kiss, if you can call this desperate clash of mouths and tongue a kiss, is anything but textbook. It’s all gears and motion, no smooth hydraulics here, just the gritty mechanics of human interaction stripped of any polite veneer. It’s fucking poetic, or it would be if Tony were the kind to wax lyrical about such things—which he’s not. Tony could do better, Peter could probably do better too, but it’s got heat, it’s needy on both sides, and right now, Tony’s fucking starved for it.

Tony's eyes are open now, wide open, because there’s no way he’s closing them again, not even to kiss—not when reality is staring back at him, painted in every shade of Peter and what Tony could swear is moisture gathering around his dark long eyelashes.

He kisses the kid, kisses him until they are both gasping for air, clearly having forgotten how breathing through the nose works, and when they break apart, both heaving, Tony’s eyes—those goddamn traitorous windows to his soul, as it turns out—finally take in the whole of Peter's face. It’s flushed, bright and happy, lips swollen, and if Tony were the type to document his conquests, this image would be fucking gallery-worthy.

They both pause, just looking at each other, absorbing the aftermath of a kiss that rewrote half the codes in Tony's not-so-emotionally-equipped firmware. Then Peter, oh-so-gently and almost hesitantly, removes himself from the lock of Tony’s suddenly weak arms and, as if he’s dealing with the world’s most volatile piece of tech, takes Tony’s watch wrist in his hand.

He brings the wrist up to Tony’s eyes, his index finger pressing the correct side button in that annoying habit of Peter’s of getting things just right. Instantly, the nanotech lenses that translate the world for Tony—turning his eyes an artificial shade of blue—retract into the watch face. Tony blinks himself free. No more digital curtain, no more pretending that nothing has changed the day Tony took that fall. Peter grins then, that heart-stealing grin that has Tony reevaluating just how many of his life right decisions have led to this point.

Peter puts a finger to his lips, a playful "hush," as if they're two conspirators in the quietest heist of the century. Then that grin widens and spreads across his face in an unguarded explosion. And shit, if Tony doesn’t feel every damn year of his life both weigh him down and lift him up in this heartbeat.

Peter’s fingers slip under Tony's t-shirt, skin against skin, warm, insistent. No words are needed to understand this as Peter rides the fabric up—and up—until the t-shirt and long-sleeved top underneath it are just a memory pooling around Tony's raised arms. Tony shakes the clothes off, now topless, skin bared, and the room’s suddenly ten degrees hotter, or maybe that’s just Tony, firing up all cylinders. Peter’s hands on his skin feel like every cliché in the book, and damn it, Tony hates clichés, but he could get used to this one. Just this raw, tactile sensation that’s alarmingly addictive and… effective. The victory in Peter’s eyes, as he slides his hands over Tony’s chest to his shoulders, is both burning and a bit triumphant.

"Fuck," Tony breathes out. “Fuck, kid.”

And just like that, they are moving, pulled by some unseen gravitational force towards the bed with its boring-ass sheets that scream hotel standard—not half the personality you'd expect from Peter's bedroom. Tony's hands get busy peeling off Peter's t-shirt, revealing the lean, wiry muscles that Tony’s only ever had the pleasure of admiring in fight mode. Not like this—never like this—up close and personal, where he can count every rise and fall of Peter’s chest and see the way Peter shudders at that first touch of Tony’s palm against his naked skin. Where he can feel Peter’s body shake when Tony drags his mouth over his collarbone, teeth nipping at the skin.

He’s kissing Peter’s neck, damn right trying to leave marks, when here is an awkward fumble for belts; Tony’s usual dexterity abandoning him because, fuck, and Peter's hands diving for Tony's belt with a vengeance at the same time. It just doesn’t work, trying to undress each other, unless they take turns. Tony pulls back and can see—not hear—Peter’s nervous laugh. It's a type of chuckle that has his eyes crinkling and cheeks bunching up, his shoulders shaking.

It’s. It’s everything.

They switch tactics after that in a mutual unspoken decision, hastily dealing with their own clothes since some things are just easier without help. Peter’s quicker, stripping down with the efficiency of someone who’s used to changing in alleys and behind dumpsters, while Tony fights with a pair of loose cargo pants. Speed has benefits, especially when every second delayed is a second too long, and by the time they are falling into bed together—pants, socks, all the mundane barriers tossed aside—Tony has already forgotten every reason why he ever thought he was doing the right thing by pushing this away.

Because it's incredible. Peter is incredible. And is an amazing kisser, would you look at that.

The feel of him on top of Tony, the sight of him. Peter’s skin under Tony’s hands is softer than the most luxurious material; no billion-thread count sheet could ever compare.

Tony rolls them over after a few minutes of languid kissing, and when he takes Peter’s perfect, flushed dick into his mouth, he doesn’t need sound to feel a moan that erupts from Peter’s throat as his whole body arches into it.

It’s sucking dick, not much to it. But this isn’t just good; it’s bookmark-this-page, highlight-this-line, remember-this-moment-on-your-deathbed fantastic. Tony, with all his not-forgotten-thank-christ expertise, feels a bit like he's just jumped on a bike after decades. Except this bike is a super-powered, highly responsive, possibly slutty angel, who’s throwing out enough signals to shout approval.

Tony smirks around Peter, then laps at the tip of his pretty dick, his ego swelling along with other parts, because, yeah, he's still got it. His hands are just as busy as his mouth, one softly rubbing Peter’s balls, teasing with gentle touch, another pressing on his lower abdomen to hold him down, although that’s more to make a point since Tony couldn’t really stop Peter from moving—not if the kid wanted to.

And, fuck, isn’t that another level of hot—knowing that if the kid felt like it, he could hold Tony’s head down and fuck his throat raw if he so pleased. Something that Tony’s filthy mind files away in ‘to explore another time’ cabinet. After Tony finds out all of Peter’s favorite things, gets his own fill, and they work out all the practical, pesky logistics of it being completely, beyond a shadow of a doubt clear, that Peter belongs to Tony as much as Tony belongs to him, and the world can burn. Alright, alright, it might be zero to a hundred, but Tony has never been known for being consistent, and Peter's hands are in Tony's hair, tugging on it, fingers fisting it, the kid gasping:

"Mr. Stark."

Shit. Even without the benefit of hearing, Tony can read the words on his lips, can almost hear them through the heavy breaths and pulse points vibrating under his touch. Tony, it should be Tony—it has been Tony for a better part of at least few years now—but Tony would lie his ass off if he said that Peter moaning out Mr. Stark does not drive him fucking wild. 

Tony groans, sucking on the crown of Peter’s dick, swirling his tongue around it, moving his hand up to start stroking him off with each bop of his head, and his own dick is hanging heavy against his thigh as he kneels over the kid, eyes hungry to catch every expression, every subtle sign of how Peter feels with Tony’s mouth wrapped around him.

And Tony sees it. Really see it. A thousand conversations they’ve never had spilling out in a single glance as Peter stares at him, biting on his lips, elbows propping him up, so he can himself see better. The trust, the openness, the barely-there vulnerability and a whole lot of devil. All of this is unwinding something tight in Tony’s chest. Who knew silence could be this loud, this fucking eloquent? Just good, old-fashioned, skin-on-skin fluency, and if you’re doing it right, way noisier in the non-auditory sense. Everything a deprived man could dream of and then some.

Peter’s fingers in Tony’s hair speak too. It’s grip and tug, a pull that says more and please and right fucking there, all without a single decipherable word, the hum of Peter’s pleasure shooting through Tony. Then Peter pulls his knees up, his inner thighs pressing into Tony’s shoulders, and Tony has no other choice—none—but to slip his palms under Peter’s plump ass, lift it up, and run his tongue along Peter’s balls and then over his flawless, perfect hole. 

Fuck. Does the kid even know how crazy he drives Tony?

There’s the tightening of muscles, the slight bucking of hips, legs on Tony’s shoulders now, and Tony obliges, because he’s nothing if not an overachiever, and because pleasing Peter turns out to be the most satisfying project he’s undertaken in ages. He licks a few times, in long, indulgent swipes of his tongue. God, he could live on this.

It’s unsustainable, however—the position. Tony isn’t a young man and Peter wriggles. At first. Not so much after Tony pulls back, presses a number of what he assumes are scratchy kisses on the skin of Peter’s thighs, all the way down to his knees, and motions for Peter to flip over. The kid nods, only now blushing, even his neck flashing the most attractive pink, and eagerly follows through. Before Tony knows it, and his brain is severely lacking oxygen at this point to fully comprehend just how hot it is, Peter is on his knees in front of him, ass in the air, head on the pillow, the side of his face pressing into the beige Egyptian silk.

Tony can’t believe he gets to—

His hands may or may not be shaking when he once again palms Peter’s ass, but from a different angle. And love or not love (although, of course, love, love, fuck, the kid owns Tony now), Peter is young, strong, and has that superhero body going on for him, which makes the ass under Tony’s hands quite possibly one of the best-looking things he has ever seen or felt. Objectively speaking. There’s perfect. And there is perfect. Perfectly fuckable, and Tony is ready to worship.

And, fuck, if Tony doesn’t pat one side in a possessive, approving gesture only to deliver a playful smack on the other. The perky flesh bounces back, and Tony can’t resist doing it again. And again. Because he can. Because it feels right. Because after the first time he does it Peter looks at him with an expression so wanton, so desperately wistful, Tony can’t not. Oh, god. Tony’s dick throbs when the palm goes down the fourth time, and after that he grabs Peter’s hands that are lying on the bed, and places them for Peter to hold himself open.

"Stay. Just like this," Tony orders, the command rolling off his tongue with an authority that feels perfectly right too. Maybe a bit too unhinged and honest for their first time, but why break one wall when you can collapse the whole building?

Peter obeys. Oh, fuck. Fuck, yes.

Tony gets up, a bit shaky on his legs, partly from the rush of blood elsewhere and partly from the sheer fucking insanity of it all. Standing, he moves to the bedside drawer, rifling through it as if he owns it. He hums thoughtfully at the things he finds—lube, condoms, a few toys he’s almost impressed with. This isn’t exactly the time for an inventory, but his mind works in strange ways under pressure. He smirks at a very ambitious dildo and is nearly tempted to measure himself against it, but, damn, even Tony isn’t that big. His fingers dance over the options, considering, calculating.

He grabs the bottle of lube and tosses it onto the bed. It lands next to Peter, who is breathing through his mouth, looking at Tony through his half-lidded eyes, and only frowns a little when Tony flicks a condom to join the lube. But, hey, Tony actually lived through the '80s, if anyone asks, and a condom might help him last longer—it’s Peter—not that he’d admit to it. Then Tony pauses, imagining his eyes must be glinting mischievously as he contemplates the toys. But... baby steps.

He kneels back on the bed, crawling towards Peter, Tony’s hands now steady as he reaches for the lube, popping the cap open with a flick of his thumb.

"Good boy," Tony murmurs, more to himself than Peter, as he pours the slick liquid onto his fingers and palm. Peter shivers at the words, and fuck, if that isn’t the hottest thing.

Peter is still holding himself open and Tony decides to reward his compliance by settling down to lap at his hole while reaching around and using his lubed-up hand to jerk him off in slow, lazy motion to match his tongue. It’s thorough, maybe a touch methodical, but despite everything that’s squeezing Tony’s chest and making his heart go absolutely mental, Tony is acutely aware of wanting this to be good. 

Scratch that—Tony needs this to be good. 

Being so very much in charge right now is crucial too, because if he lets himself drift under, he'll drown. He'll fall apart himself, and there's no way he's doing that. Not here, not now. Not when he maybe feels he’s got something to prove. To not disappoint, to not—

He wills his mind away from this dangerous, panic-inducing path, circling the rim of Peter’s hole instead, watching the way Peter’s fingers grip his own buttcheeks, knuckles almost white, red imprints forming under his fingertips. 

Tony can’t see more from where he is, but he’d like to think Peter’s mouth is still slightly open, eyes half-lidded and glazed over, darting down to watch Tony's every move over his dick. Yes, that. That’s good. He uses his free hand to stroke himself once—twice—and grips the base of his dick, moaning into Peter’s hole, eyes finally closing, and then he eats him out like Peter’s begging for it hole deserves, until Peter is practically shaking under him, until Tony can push his tongue into him as far as it will go, reveling in the fact that Peter has to be feeling the burn of his beard, knowing it’s Tony—Tony—who—

The way Peter’s hips start to push back, seeking more, is all the confirmation Tony needs. He’s doing this right. He’s got this. And fuck, fuuuuck. There’s a heady rush in knowing that every twitch, every tremor, every moan that he doesn’t hear, but knows is happening, is because of him. He pulls back, letting go of Peter when he feels his movements getting more desperate, more needy, and while Tony would gladly fuck him through the afterglow of an orgasm, he doesn’t know how sensitive Peter gets, and, well, Tony might actually fucking die if he doesn’t get into him soon. 

When Tony’s finger slides in, testing, teasing, Peter’s reaction is a full-body tremor that tightens Tony’s throat. He pushes in deeper, taking his time, savoring every second. Peter’s tight, hot, inviting, and Tony’s brain freezes up once more at the realization that this is really happening.

More lube, another finger, the stretch and the give. 

Tony watches Peter’s muscles flex, watches as Peter bites and bites on his lips, eyes squeezed shut, expression absolutely fucking blissed out, and the intimacy, the vulnerability—

He moves one hand to the small of Peter’s back, then down, placing it over Peter’s, the other guiding his fingers to the tight ring of muscle that’s waiting for him like a velvet vise he’s sure it will be.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Tony breathes, scissoring him, stretching Peter open, fucking him a bit with his fingers not just to stretch, but because the sight of them entering and exiting Peter’s asshole is so fucking hot Tony wants it in HD. Peter has to be whimpering by now, a soundless plea in the way he’s shamelessly spreading himself even more, arching his back, pushing back on Tony’s fingers. God, that’s enough to melt any brain, not just a severely compromised one. 

Tony works his fingers in and out, faster now, watching Peter’s reactions, the way his body responds to every movement, the way he squeezes his own ass, presenting himself to be fucked, to be wrecked. Shit. When Tony rubs his fingers against a small bump, he actually has to move to hold onto Peter’s hip to stop him from bouncing up as Tony plays with his discovery. He rubs against Peter’s prostate for what is a very generous amount of time, given that Tony’s dick feels incredibly underappreciated, aching for attention.

Until just… can’t anymore. Not when three fingers are easily sliding in and out, a mess of lube gathering on the edges of a puckered hole. Tony’s out of time, the kid’s definitely out of time. He pulls his fingers out, rubbing the tips around the rim, and hastily fumbles for the condom, tearing it open with his teeth, rolling it over with a practiced motion and applying more lube. Fuck, maybe even too much lube, but he’s slick with it, and Peter’s hole looks swollen and puffy from all the attention it’s been given.

“On your back, kid, now,” Tony mutters, and it’s just seconds—seconds—and Peter’s spread out in front of him, his hands gripping his own legs without having to ask, drawing his knees to his torso—fucking folding in half. Tony teases, tries to tease the tip of his dick at the entrance only to fail, miserably, because he can't take it anymore. No willpower left, none whatsoever against Peter, spread out and ready, just for him. Begging for it, already looking fucked and needy with it, and Tony hasn’t even started properly yet.

Tony pushes in, as slowly as he can, his eyes on Peter, on his face, and time fucking stops. 

They're just staring at each other when he’s fully in, both breathing heavy, and, fuck, it’s actually happening. This isn’t some fever dream—and Tony’s had plenty of those—not some illicit fantasy, and he’s had a surplus of those too. It’s real, has to be—Peter beneath him, around him, eyes wide and dark and full of every damn thing Tony’s ever wanted to see there. Holy shit, he loves him. Loves him so much it’s almost unbearable. It’s so intense, a fucking religious experience in unbroken eye contact, and Tony’s not sure if he’s ever felt this connected to another human being.

No words needed. None at all.

Tony licks his lips, feeling sweat gathering on his back, desperately trying not to think about how tight, how hot the channel wrapped around Tony’s dick is. He places his hands on Peter’s knees for leverage, rubbing comforting circles with his fingers, and waits. For a long time, neither of them moves. Long enough for Tony’s brain to start looping back on itself, questioning if he does, in fact, deserves to have this, if whoever is in charge hasn’t made a colossal clerical error.

It’s—

Then, something shifts. Peter’s eyes glisten just a bit more than before, and Tony is completely unprepared for the sob that follows, even as Peter’s body squeezes around his dick, pleasure momentarily postponing a whole different brand of panic. His hands retreat hastily, more what looks like sobs erupting from Peter’s mouth, each one breaking something inside Tony. Dear God, is he actually hurting him? Is Peter in pain? A full-fledged emergency alert blares in Tony’s head.

“Shit, shit,” he moves to pull out, carefully, but before he can even get a few inches free, Peter’s having none of it. He tugs on Tony’s retreating hands, placing them back on his knees, shaking his head, muttering something Tony doesn’t understand.

“You—kid, you okay?” Tony is fucking lost. It also didn’t even occur to him that Peter might not have wanted this this quick. Maybe Tony just pushed too far, snapped, didn’t consider that he should have taken it slow, actually done the whole wine-and-dine thing until Peter was comfortable, until he was ready to do this on his terms and not on Tony’s. Oh, Jesus Christ, please, no—

Peter’s hands move in a blur, and it takes Tony embarrassingly long to catch on, but, oh sweet relief, Peter’s… he’s fingerspelling. Tony’s eyes lock onto Peter’s fingers.

“[So good.]”

He remembers Rhodey’s not-so-subtle “it might be permanent, Tones” gift—the paperback on sign language that Tony had wanted to turn into a contained bonfire for his robots to chill next to. Instead, he’d ended up flipping through the fingerspelling section while programming the nanotech for his lenses. He never thought he’d actually need it. But now he’s ready to build a fucking statue to the man who is part iron himself and still takes time to worry about Tony.

“[Move.]”

This—

This Tony can do. He can move. He shifts, just a bit, testing the waters, watching Peter’s face for any discomfort. There is another sob at that first attempt, but it’s accompanied by the rolling of Peter’s eyes. Okay, Parker, I see you. This… this has no business being this hot, and there’s obviously something very wrong with Tony for thinking that Peter nearly damn crying on his dick is hot enough to blast into an alternate dimension.

Fuck. Tony’s hands tighten on Peter’s knees, his brain finally catching up to his body. He starts to properly move, gently at first, because he’s not an asshole—well, not in this context. He can see Peter’s eyes flutter shut, his mouth dropping open in a silent moan, and there are tears, actual tears wetting the skin under Peter’s eyes, sticking his lush eyelashes together. Shit. Shit. Oh, fuck, there is that velvet grip, Peter under him, Tony’s dick squeezed within an inch of his life.

“[God.]”

Yeah, pretty much sums it up. Tony’s not a religious man, but right now, he’s ready to convert to whatever deity decided to bless him with this. He’ll pray, he’ll pilgrimage, beat his forehead on the floor and do all the other things believers seem to be into if he gets to keep this. Keep Peter. His hips snap forward, finding a rhythm that’s both instinctual and, okay, practiced, but practice is good, experience is good, or Tony would have already spilled his brains out just from the expression on Peter’s face, let alone the exquisite, phenomenal feeling of his insides stretching around Tony’s dick. 

He fucks into the kid, Peter’s head jerking each time Tony brings it home, and, Jesus have mercy, the little shit moves his hands to play with his perky nipples, looking at Tony through his wet eyelashes, rubbing the buds with his fingers as Tony buries his dick inside him.

“Oh. Fuck, kid, made for me to fuck you, aren’t you?”

Peter nods multiple times, licking his lips, his body so fucking warm, taking in Tony so well, and Peter gives his nipples one last squeeze that seems almost painful judging by the way his face contorts with it. Tony loses his damn mind, grunting, slapping Peter’s ass with his thighs, driving in as deep as he can. Over and over, the grind incredible, changing into earnest, proper thrusts, with everything hot, tight, and wet, even through the rubber. 

“[Please. Harder.]” Spells Peter, and thank fuck for Rhodey. Thank fuck for that book. Tony’s fingers dig into Peter’s flesh, hands moving to cup his ass from below. Deeper. Tony can now feel the sweat dripping down his back, can see the way Peter’s skin glistens with his own, and the slide of his dick in and out is so slick. He glances down just for a second, and Peter’s hole looks downright sloppy, taking him in, both tight and greedy for some thorough fucking. Tony’s in deep to his balls, only a bit of rubber sticking out and—Ah, shit.

“Baby, fuck—” Tony rambles, eyes back on Peter, but no more sign language seems to be on the books here. Peter is grabbing his own dick with one of his hands, frantically jerking himself off, pretty and so, so desperate for it, while his other hand is reaching for Tony's forearm, clinging to him, as if he needs to touch Tony. He looks wrecked, so perfectly used and rattled apart already that it gets fast, rough, and everything Tony’s been holding back for far too long is pouring out in the way he hammers himself into Peter’s body, pulling out as far as he can only to drill back into him with sharp, wild swings of his hips.

He tries to make it last, succeeds almost, because it's not over too soon, but Tony's so close. So, so close himself. He’s—

The fuck?

Peter is already blowing Tony’s mind—genuinely making him question the validity of every sexual experience he’s ever had before this. Tony’s lost in the rhythm, in the heat of Peter’s ass, in the goddamn heaven that is fucking this kid. And just as he’s thinking it couldn’t get any better, Peter goes and pulls some insane move out of his behind—literally and figuratively.

One second, Tony’s on top, commanding, in control—barely—but still got it. The next, he’s flat on his back with Peter straddling him with the sneakiness of a villain with a side of unholy desire, and holy shit, did he just flip them over?

“The fuck?” Tony barely has time to voice it before Peter’s sinking back down on him, taking him in deep, making Tony groan so loud he can feel his throat rumble with it.

Peter grins down at him, eyes still a bit red, and then he’s back to throwing his head back, to biting those damn lips, to jerking himself off, quick and determined. Superpowers. Right. Sometimes Tony forgets that Peter has those.

Peter’s thighs clamp around Tony’s, and all Tony can do is grip those gorgeous hips and hold on for dear life. 

“Shit, kid,” Tony moans, but starts doubting Peter is listening now. And even if he is, he’s too busy looking absolutely triumphant, which, yeah, okay, is a good look on him. A great look, actually. Peter’s only response is a roll of his hips that has Tony’s eyes rolling back in his head. Fucking hell, he’s going to lose it. He’s going to completely unravel, and he’s going to do it with Peter riding him like it’s their last night on Earth.

The pace Peter sets is brutal, perfect, devastating. Tony’s fingers dig into Peter’s skin, leaving marks that he knows will probably disappear before they are even done. The sounds they’re making—well, the sounds Peter’s hearing, because Tony can’t hear shit—are probably obscene, but he doesn’t care, and soundproofing in a building full of enhanced individuals is the first thing to make it on the “Must have” list. All Tony cares about is the way Peter feels around him, the way their bodies fit together, the way Peter’s moving like he’s got something to prove and Tony’s the only one who needs convincing. Maybe Tony was the stupid one at first, but, man, Peter will need a crowbar and another bite from that spider to get rid of him now.

“Jesus, you’re trying to kill me,” Tony mutters, watching Peter bounce on his dick, though it’s more of a breathless move of his mouth than anything. Peter's taking everything Tony’s got and then some, and Tony’s pretty sure he’s going to lose his mind. Or come. Come first. Apply for a new dick straight after. Holy shit.

He can’t get enough. He’ll never get enough.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Tony ends up chanting after a while, so close, so fucking close again.

And then Peter does this thing—this insane, lewd thing with his hips that has Tony seeing white. He might actually half-growl, half-moan as he comes, only mildly aware of the fact that Peter is right there with him, streaks of his pearly white come pelting all over Tony’s chest as he jerks himself off.

For a few glorious seconds, Tony can be persuaded he’s ascended to some higher plane of existence, where everything is just Peter and euphoria and maybe a little bit of the afterlife because, seriously, this is how he imagined going out: fucked into oblivion by the most infuriatingly perfect person he’s ever known. 

Breathing is a luxury now. A distant memory. Every breath is being dragged out of him with a rusty fishhook, and he’s not even mad about it. In fact, Tony might be dead. There’s a non-zero chance that he’s just experienced the literal definition of "la petite mort." Peter’s still on top of him, all lean muscle and flushed skin, and Tony suspects his bones have turned to jelly. Good jelly, the kind you spread on toast, not the kind you expect to keep your spine aligned.

Peter rolls off him eventually, a puddle of post-orgasmic bliss, and Tony just lies there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the cooling stripes of Peter’s smeared come on his chest. It’s reassuring, somehow. Tangible evidence that, yes, he survived. Barely. Tony uses the last remaining shreds of his energy reserves to get the condom off, tie it, and fling it behind himself, aiming for, hopefully, not a precious family photo but at that spot where they have lost their clothes.

He turns his head to look at Peter, who’s already sprawled out like a starfish, chest moving rapidly, eyes closed, a satisfied smile on his face. And damn, if that isn’t the most beautiful sight Tony’s ever seen. Tony can’t possibly expect him to sign now, so he brings his wrist to his eyes and gets the nanotech back. It takes no time at all for it to settle down, and when Peter murmurs “[Yeah],” eyes fluttering open, it appears in the corner of Tony’s vision. 

There’s a lazy contentment in Peter’s gaze, although he does wince at what presumably is disapproval at the slight blue glow in Tony’s corneas, but Tony still swims in a surge of something dangerously close to pure happiness. 

Tony shifts, wincing himself at the ache in his muscles, the pleasant burn of overuse. He felt less wrecked after running a marathon. Suppose he did just run one, in a way. Or ten. And then wrestled a bear. And then, for good measure, bench-pressed a truck. All without his suit. 

“[You okay?]” Peter asks.

“Define ‘okay,’” Tony reaches out, traces a finger along Peter’s jaw, feeling the lack of stubble and the smoothness of sweat-slicked skin. “You?”

Peter’s grin widens, eyes crinkling. “[I’m fucking fantastic. You wore me out.]” 

Well. That’s a compliment if Tony’s ever heard one, although it has to be at least a partial lie.

“[Sooo…]” Peter seems to drag his words. “[I am thinking, shower, twenty minutes, and then… go again?]”

Tony laughs. Two dicks then. He’ll apply for two spares. 

Later, sprawled out on the bed, Pop-Tarts are being devoured between lazy kisses, and it’s this slice of normality that Tony finds absurdly comforting. The logistics of the clusterfuck they are sure to face can wait. Right now, it’s just them, sugar, and the occasional burst of laughter. He takes a bite, then leans over to kiss Peter, the residue of strawberry frosting having nothing on the sweetness of Peter’s lips.

When they get back to snacking, Tony can’t resist, curiosity burning brighter than his self-preservation instincts.

"No offense at all, real compliments here, but what the hell kind of elective classes have you been taking?" He’s smirking, wiping crumbs off his fingers because, of course, he’s got to ask.

Peter blushes, a flush spreading across his cheeks that Tony will never get tired of seeing. Pavlovian response—speak, blush, get smacked. And sure enough, Peter’s fist connects lightly with Tony’s shoulder.

“[Shut up],” Peter mumbles, though he’s smiling. Fair enough. Tony’s the idiot here, not Peter.

They settle back into a rhythm of cozy chilling and half-cuddling, sharing bites of sugary poison and kisses in between. Eventually, the crumbs become too much. Peter’s bed, despite its many merits, is not exactly the ideal lounging spot anymore.

"I love your bed's flair," Tony yawns, "but mine's got Spider-Man sheets. Wanna verify?”

Peter laughs, the sound a warm vibration against Tony’s chest.

“[You're so full of it],” he rightfully points out, and they untangle themselves, albeit reluctantly, and quietly make their way to Tony’s room, not much more exciting in decor, but at least free of Pop-Tart remains.

Tony’s bed welcomes them with fresh sheets and a bit more space. They flop down, settling into a comfortable heap of limbs and warmth. Tony’s arm snakes around Peter, pulling him close, and he presses a kiss to the top of Peter’s head. 

“Didn’t know you could sign,” he tells Peter while rubbing his back with his hand. Can’t quite stop touching him.

“[Just the fingerspelling,]” admits the kid, his foot rubbing itself against Tony’s ankle. “[Maybe a few words. I can learn.]”

Tony doesn’t know any. And, unfortunately, suspects that Peter might need to learn, and so will Tony, if the kid doesn’t like the idea of Tony wearing nanotech twenty-four seven.

“Yeah?” Instead of letting his mind wander off to the parts shady and unpleasant, Tony murmurs, “What kind of words?”

In the next few weeks, before Peter heads back to college, Tony dives headfirst not just into all things Peter but also into the world of ASL. And… it can be, and don’t quote him on it, kind of hot? Especially when it comes to probably too many liberties they take with proper usage.

The first word he learns is [love]. Peter teaches him that one. Love. Simple, direct, no room for misinterpretation.

Closely followed by [wanna fuck]. Peter signs it out with a grin, and Tony’s eyebrow shoots up when words pop up on his lenses. Well, that’s efficient communication if ever there was any. Then there’s [idiot], which Tony finds himself using more often than he probably should. But come on, Clint practically has a target on his forehead for that one.

[You (are) impossible] comes next, Peter's hands moving with an exasperated fondness. Then there's [told you], which Peter uses with a smugness that makes Tony want to kiss him and throttle him at the same time. [Shit] follows naturally—it’s a versatile word, useful in just about every situation, from stubbing your toe to realizing you’ve left the new Spider-Man suit prototype designs on the server where Peter can see them. The gesture takes off, and soon enough it’s not just the two of them who use it at the compound.

Then, to Tony's absolute delight, [spanking]. Peter’s cheeks turn the most delicious shade of red, but he demonstrates the sign with a determined set to his jaw. Tony files that one away for immediate and frequent use. [Breathplay] Fuck. [Restraints] Double fuck.

Oh, and then there’s [daddy]. Infinite fucks. The first time Peter signs that one, Tony doesn't get it. He also isn't sure it's an actual official way to sign, but when Peter says it out loud and Friday translates, Tony chokes on his coffee, so he's more than willing to overlook a few inconsistencies. Of all the things to be called by the love of his life, [daddy] is the one that might legitimately kill him.

Interestingly, Peter also teaches him [I wanna top]. Tony isn’t sure what to do with that information at first—as in, is Peter trying to give him a heart attack? But it goes swimmingly, even though Tony doesn’t look forward to having to swim for the rest of his life instead of walking after they are done. They are working on it, and Tony’s recovering from what he can honestly call one of the most peculiar orgasms he’s ever had that rendered him speechless and, impossibly, even more in love.

Two days before Peter has to go back to MIT—which Tony is trying very hard not to think about—he sees Peter teaching the rest of the team something new.

[Bag of dicks], he signs, angry, and while Tony thinks that pissed Peter is adorable, that’s no way to treat a family who will, hopefully, one day understand. Regardless, Peter signs it, flipping Steve off for good measure at the more-than-cold shoulder he’s been giving Tony since the cat hopped out of the bag the very next day.

Tony hurries to whisk Peter away for a dinner he has planned and out of the lounge, “They’ll get there, don’t worry,” and then Tony—Jesus, now that's embarrassing—actually walks into a glass door that’s still opening. Door meets the head, a love tap, really, nothing special about it, and as Tony’s rubbing his forehead with a grimace, the rest of the team putting a real effort into not laughing their asses off, Tony... hears it.

The dam breaks so fast. The sudden rush of noise is overwhelming. He hears the shuffle of feet, the hum of the HVAC system, the sound of the door finally fully opening—stepping into a world he forgot existed, and it’s dizzying.

And, really, Peter does know all of Tony’s looks too, he must. Because when Tony turns to Peter, he’s the one who isn’t even remotely finding it funny (let’s face it, it was, and Tony would forgive him for thinking it at least amusing). 

Peter’s eyes are wide in shock and so much hope Tony’s drunk on it.

“Say it,” he hears himself quietly ask. “Fuck, kid, please.”

“Oh god,” Peter comes closer, whispering, even though he was close enough already, was being dragged behind Tony. “Oh god, Tony. Tony, you sure? You—whoa. Oh god, I love you so much. This is so great. Tony, holy shit.”

And because Peter is Peter, and Tony loves him to death for a reason, the kid adds with the most beautiful grin, loud enough for every hater (his words, not Tony’s) to hear the rest:

“You know what this means, right? Phone sex.”

Tony laughs, incredulous, pulling Peter into a hug, burying his face in his hair, and haters need to forgive him for this one, PDA rules or not.

Over the general excited buzz, quickly followed by conflicting sounds of protesting Steve, groaning Sam, snickering Nat and Clint, and huffing Bruce, Bucky Barnes—who Tony might actually consider talking to just for this—mutters from across the room over his coffee and a newspaper:

“Must’ve been one horny spider, Stark, don’t sprain somethin’,” and Tony… hears that as clear as day too.