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Tony first realizes how sensitive Peter is while fitting him with his graduation gift, a fully revamped suit with as many extra bells and whistles as he can think of. It happens as he’s running his hands along his back, making sure the new fabric falls perfectly flat: a small shiver, barely noticeable, shaking through Peter’s body. Curious, Tony experimentally repeats the movement; the shiver gets stronger; when he does it a third time, Peter’s hands flex and then clench into fists, like he’s trying to keep himself under control.
He wonders how he’s never noticed. Probably because he’s never been quite so hands-on when fitting a suit. It hadn’t felt right, before. Not that he’d consciously decided it felt right now, but the kid’s off to college in a few months, not quite a kid anymore, and—well, anyway. Now he knows. Which means this suit isn’t finished.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, conversationally.
“Huh?” Peter asks, voice tight. He turns his head, revealing a slight flush on his cheeks.
Tony runs his finger up his spine, and watches, slightly amused, but mostly concerned, as his breath visibly catches. “That,” he says. “Seems like a problem. I can’t imagine what it’s like in a fight.”
“Oh.” Peter swallows. “No, it’s fine. I normally have it under control.”
“Normally’s not good enough,” Tony scolds. “Give me a few weeks, I’ll design a fabric to deal with it.”
“You—you really don’t have to, Mr. Stark,” Peter insists, but Tony waves off the refusal.
“It’s your graduation gift, it’s going to be perfect.”
For a second it looks like Peter’s going to keep protesting, but then he just shrugs and says, “Yeah, fine. I guess it can’t hurt.”
~~
Yeah, it can’t hurt, right up until the moment Tony tests the new fabric by running his hands across Peter’s body in version 2.0 of the graduation gift. It seems to be working, Peter isn’t reacting with the same involuntary shivers. But somewhere between feeling across his surprisingly strong chest and catching sight of his face—lips parted, eyes slightly glazed, blush up to his hair—Tony realizes two things: one, the kid is definitely not a kid anymore, and two, this is entirely inappropriate.
He snatches his hands back, declaring, “Seems good, but let’s test it with, uh, some...real tests.” He clears his throat, surprised by how flustered he sounds. “You know. Computer scans.”
Peter nods. “Okay,” he agrees, and his voice is too high, weak and shaky.
Yeah, so, this was a bad idea after all.
~~
A really bad idea, because now that it’s happened, Tony can’t get Peter’s flushed face out of his head. He tries, he really does. But his stupid, traitor of a brain keeps bringing it up at the most inconvenient times. Like when his hand is wrapped around his dick late at night, trying very earnestly to think about anything, anybody else.
But it’s fine. Peter’s about to go to college. Soon he’ll be distracted by girls—or boys? that stupid, traitorous part of Tony’s mind wonders—and friends and science and he won’t come around as much and this madness will fade. He just needs to get through it.
~~
He sends the finished version of the suit as a package rather than personally delivering it like he’d originally planned, and comes up with an excuse to spend the last month of the summer in Europe. It’s not all that helpful, but at least he’s trying.
~~
By the time Tony gets back to New York, Peter has started at Columbia, and whatever momentary awkwardness may have existed appears to be gone from everywhere except his own head. Peter still drops by Tony’s personal lab in the city sometimes, to tinker with his web shooters or work on science projects in a higher-tech facility than even his Ivy League college can offer, but if he remembers standing in that very room, blushing and glassy eyed, he doesn’t show it.
Except that, occasionally, he crowds Tony’s space more than he used to, reaching across him for a test-tube, landing a hand on his back as he passes behind him. Or maybe that’s not new, and Tony’s just noticing it for the first time. He stretches back in his memory, but he can’t be sure.
He ignores it. What else is he going to do?
~~
The ignore-the-problem tactic works surprisingly well until a month into Peter’s second semester, when he shows up at the lab, looking unfairly good in too-large jeans and a hoodie (seriously, no one should look that good in a hoodie), clears his throat, and says, “Mr. Stark, I have a problem. That I, uh, could use your help with?”
Peter asking for help isn’t anything new, but something in his tone makes Tony do a double-take. That’s not how he sounds when he’s looking for tips on a complicated chemistry set.
“Anything you need, you know that,” he replies automatically.
Peter drops his backpack at the door and enters the lab with tentative steps, as if he’s not quite sure what he’s doing, which puts Tony on high alert. Normally he treats this place like a second home, traipsing in with little more than a “Hi, Mr. Stark!” before getting to work. Not today. Today he looks like he’s half ready to turn and run, half bracing for a fight.
“So,” he says, when he’s just a few feet away. He’s pale. “Remember how I have that, um, sensitivity problem?”
How could he forget? He nods, suddenly a little warm.
“Yeah, so, it turns out that’s a problem for...” Peter’s hands flex anxiously, like the first time Tony smoothed the suit across his back. “For sex stuff,” he finishes, trailing off softly.
Tony nearly chokes. “Oh?”
Maybe encouraged by the fact that Tony didn’t immediately sprint out the door, Peter nods and steps forward. “Yeah. Like. I—you know. Too quickly.” He glances at the floor, cheeks flushing and—fuck, that shouldn’t make Tony’s cock twitch, but it does.
“And you’re telling me this because...?” Wait. That sounded too harsh, or too flippant and sarcastic. Too stupid Tony Stark. He can tell because Peter’s face gets redder, and he takes a step back. Before he can think it through, Tony grabs his wrist. “I’m sorry, that was mean.”
Peter freezes at the touch, eyes going wide. “No, you’re right,” he says after a moment, and his voice sounds even more strained than before. “This is stupid. I shouldn’t bother you. I’m just...gonna go.”
“Peter,” Tony says, a little more firmly, gripping tighter. What is he doing? He should definitely, definitely let him leave, pretend this conversation never happened. Any other option is going down a path he should not go down. But Peter looks so embarrassed; he doesn’t want him to feel bad. That’s completely, totally the only reason he says, “It’s fine. You came here for a reason, tell me what it is.”
Peter takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, and then says in a rush, so fast Tony almost can’t follow, “Maybeyoucouldhelpme.”
“Come again?” Tony asks, and then cringes apologetically at the unintended and completely dumb double entendre.
But Peter doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on getting the words out as he repeats, “Maybe you could help me. You know. Figure out how to deal with it. Scientifically, or whatever.”
He catches Tony’s eye, and underneath the embarrassment there is clear determination.
And clear invitation.
Well, fuck.
His options spin through his mind. He could tell Peter that’s not exactly the kind of thing he’s equipped to deduce. Out of his pervue, so to speak. It would clearly be true, and it would also clearly be a rejection. Peter would glow red, dash out the door. And then what? Come back next week pretending it never happened? Maybe. Or maybe he’d be so embarrassed and hurt he’d never come back again.
Yeah, so, that’s obviously not a risk Tony’s willing to take. Off the table. No fucking way.
Option two is to grab him and screw him over the lab desk until he can’t see straight, exactly like happens in all of the dreams Tony has been trying to deny he has. Which—tempting. Incredibly tempting. But that’s not what Peter’s asking for. It might not be what he wants. It might scare him off.
Again, no way.
Option three: he could do exactly what Peter said. Approach it scientifically. Methodically. Like a helpful mentor.
Okay, even Tony isn’t dumb enough to think that’s something a mentor is supposed to do. But Peter’s not a normal mentee. He would just be trying to help. A safe space for a young man to work through an unusual and still highly secret problem. Not appropriate, exactly, but also not an admission of how much he really wants.
Yeah. That one. That seems like the best option.
Besides, Peter did approach him. It’s not like it’s his idea.
“Okay,” he says, and is rewarded with an amazed expression; bright, wide eyes and a tentative smile.
“Wait, really?” Peter breathes.
“Yeah. I mean, if you really want my help.”
“Do you think I’d be having this conversation if I didn’t really want your help?” Peter takes a step forward, and suddenly it’s like there’s no space between them at all. Tony has to scramble to keep his mind focused. “I really want your help, Mr. Stark.”
The eagerness in his voice sends a jolt through Tony’s core and fuck, he’d intended to say they could start next week, figure out some actual boundaries here, but, hello, he’s only human.
“Okay.” He tentatively reaches out and runs his knuckles down the side of Peter’s face, whose eyes instantly flutter shut. “Then I guess the first step should be to get a diagnosis of the problem. A, uh, demonstration, if you will.”
“Yeah,” Peter agrees, not opening his eyes, face already bright red again. He leans into Tony’s touch. “That seems smart.”
Tony runs his hand through Peter’s hair, which is exactly as soft as it is in his dreams, and is rewarded with a full-body shudder. He experimentally twists his fingers into a few of those curls and gives a soft tug, which earns a quiet moan that hits him deep in his gut. His pants are starting to feel tight.
Fuck, what is he doing?
He pulls more firmly and Peter moans again, louder. He glances down, and sees Peter is even harder than he is, erection visible through his jeans.
“Exactly how little stimulation does it take?” he asks, and is amazed that he manages to sound only slightly off kilter.
“Not much,” Peter says, opening his eyes, which have gone unfocused and heavy with lust. Unlike Tony, he sounds wrecked already, words barely more than a gasp. “If you...if you just...keep doing that...”
Tony does, tangling one hand in his hair and pulling tight, letting the other skim down his body, pausing at his nipple, rubbing through the fabric of his hoodie. That makes Peter cry out, almost pained, bucking into nothing, wet spot blooming through his pants. The way he squirms at every touch makes Tony want to throw out the pretense of science and go back to option number two. But he represses that urge, channels it into squeezing and pinching at Peter’s nipples through his clothing, each movement making him jerk and wail until, in what feels like no time at all, he comes with a yell, grabbing Tony’s shirt and falling against him, panting through the aftershock.
Tony wraps his arms around him, rubbing his back as he rides it out. Each stroke elicits a tremor. Idly, already thinking to next week’s experiment, he asks, “So, what happens if you keep going?”
“Uh, I don’t know?” Peter says into his chest, not looking up.
What kind of idiots has he been messing around with, if he’s never tried to keep going?
Well, college kids. Obviously. Tony conjures up the image of Peter fumbling with some other young person in a tiny dorm bed, and is hit with a flash of jealousy for whatever nameless stranger caused this revelation in the first place. He wonders if Peter plans to go back to whoever it is, once he figures out how to get himself under control.
He doesn’t like how that thought makes him feel, so he pushes it to the side.
“Okay, let’s find out,” he says. “You know, for science.”
Peter makes a sound that might be a laugh, but doesn’t protest when Tony slips his hand up the back of his shirt, pressing against his skin, guiding him closer, until his dick—already getting hard again, obvious even through his pants—is flush against Tony’s thigh.
Getting the hint, or maybe just acting on instinct, he circles his arms around Tony’s back, clutching him close, and starts rocking. And fuck. Tony is going to have to try really, really hard not to come himself.
He brings his other hand back to Peter’s hair, now damp. He buries his nose in it, taking in the scent of sweat and musk before tugging sideways, exposing his neck. He places a kiss there, just above the collarbone. And then a light nip, which earns a squeal; Peter bucks hard against his leg. Tony tries biting in earnest, wondering what it would take to get a mark that would stay for more than a few minutes.
“Fuck,” Peter gasps, and then, when Tony starts to suck, “Holy shit.”
Tony’s never heard him curse like that, and he can’t hold back a low groan of his own. He sucks harder, enjoying the scramble of Peter’s hands against his back, the friction of his dick against his thigh. It takes every ounce of willpower he has not to shift just enough for Peter’s erection to hit his, but he knows he would lose it completely if he did.
In less than a minute Peter’s cursing gives way to random babble, until finally he pants out, “Oh fuck, Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark, please.”
Tony bites harder, pulling his hair at the same time, and Peter suddenly goes silent, body tense. He comes in hot bursts against Tony’s leg.
This time, Tony just holds him through it, not moving his hands. He’s tempted, curious to see exactly how many times he can make Peter orgasm in a row, but that’s going to have to wait for another day. If he doesn’t get him out of here soon he’s going to lose control of himself, and that is decidedly not the goal.
Once Peter stops shaking, Tony releases him and steps back, smoothing his shirt, ignoring the wet spot on his pants.
“Okay, so, that was informative,” he says. Which sounds ridiculous, but he’s determined to keep up the attempt at scientific neutrality. “I’ll think about what else we can do here. Next week?”
Peter nods and gives him a small smile, but doesn’t meet his eye. “Yeah, sounds good Mr. Stark.”
“Under the circumstances, I think you should start calling me Tony.” He wants to force Peter to look at him, but it doesn’t feel right. Let him do that at his own pace.
Peter bites his bottom lip, nodding again. Then, as if everything that happened catches up to him at once, he turns and dashes out of the lab, shouting a quick “See you next week” as he grabs his backpack.
Tony only just makes it to the bathroom before he thrusts his hands into his underwear, spilling over his fingers as soon as he touches himself. He doesn’t even get his pants off first.
~~
He spends the next week designing experiments, only about half of which are actually aimed at helping Peter get his sensitivity issues under control. The other half revolve around seeing how far he can push him, with his apparently quick refractory period and enhanced endurance. Which...would totally also be helpful. The kind of thing Peter should know. Yeah, that’s why. Just trying to be helpful.
That excuse doesn’t really hold up when he keeps thinking about his new project at night, hand wrapping around his cock, coming with just a few pumps, like he’s back to being a teenager himself.
One night, he catches his face in the mirror as he goes to clean up afterward: hair tussled, cheeks red, eyes a little wild.
“Tony, you’re losing it,” he tells his reflection. “This is insane, even for you.”
~~
The next morning, he thinks about texting Peter to call the whole thing off.
He doesn’t.
~~
Which is how he’s ended up with Peter Parker sitting shirtless on one of his lab stools, covered in sweat, breathing heavily, eyes squeezed closed. His fingernails dig sharply into Tony’s arm while Tony flicks and teases his nipples, keeping an eye on the readout of his vital signs that F.R.I.D.A.Y. is projecting above his head. Every time his heartrate spikes beyond a certain level, Tony stops touching him for a few seconds.
They’re on trial number three, and it’s going better than the others. Peter’s managed to make it five whole minutes without coming, which Tony has quickly learned is definitely an accomplishment.
“You’re doing great, Pete,” he says.
Peter lets out a small whimper, heart rate jumping.
“No compliments,” he gasps as Tony draws his hands away for a moment. “It makes it worse.”
“Oh?” Tony asks, mostly in an attempt to distract himself from how insanely, unbearably turned on he is. If they keep this up for much longer, he’s going to have to excuse himself for a bathroom break. “That always true?”
Peter shakes his head. “Just from you.” He flushes even redder after saying it.
That answer goes straight to Tony’s dick. And might be worth examining further. Some other time, when he doesn’t have an impossibly attractive young man squirming desperately in front of him.
He returns to touching, running his fingers along those abs—which are unfair, by the way; when did that happen, and why, and how is he supposed to deal with knowing this is what Peter’s bare body feels like?—and then back to the nipples. Peter lets out a squeak, and his vitals go off the charts. He’s not going to last much longer.
Tony moves one of his hands to Peter’s back, running his finger up his spine, not quite able to hold back an affectionate chuckle as he moans and arches. He repeats the movement, and Peter jerks so hard he almost falls. And again, this time adding, low and forceful, “Yeah, just like that.”
He nearly loses his own balance as Peter comes undone in front of him, adding another stain to his ruined pants. Tony has to grab him to keep him from toppling off the stool.
“I thought...I said...no compliments,” he complains.
“Sorry,” Tony says, not adding, I couldn’t help myself. “Let’s take a short break, then go again?”
~~
He uses the break to slip off to the bathroom, coming so hard he sees white.
~~
The next week, they experiment with different sensations. It turns out that they can keep Peter hard for over half an hour if the only thing Tony uses to touch him is a feather. (“A feather? Really? This feels silly.” “Are you questioning my methods? My scientific methods? Do you remember who I am?” “Okay, fine, Mr.—Tony, sorry.”)
It also turns out going for so long is rough on Peter. Holding himself up on the stool became impossible about ten minutes ago, so he’s now slumped on the lab couch, hair plastered to his head. His boxers, the only item of clothing he’s still wearing, are stained so dark with precome it’s hard to believe he hasn’t actually orgasmed yet. He whimpers and babbles nonsense, thrusting up into the empty air as Tony teases him, enjoying himself far, far too much.
Interested to see how far he can push it, he dusts the feather up Peter’s erection. He lets out a cry, expression twisting to seem almost anguished, but doesn’t come. He does, however, clutch at the cushions around him so hard they tear.
“Just say the word, and we can stop,” Tony reminds him. They’d gone over the whole safe-word concept earlier, which apparently is a thing all the kids already know about these days. Peter’s easy familiarity with the idea definitely didn’t spark that tug of jealousy again. No way.
Peter grits his teeth. “No,” he insists, sounding a little broken. “This is the whole point.”
He makes it another three minutes before coming with such force Tony’s mildly alarmed. But he insists he’s okay. Ready to go again, actually. He catches Tony’s eyes when he says it, and keeps his gaze for a beat longer than is strictly necessary.
It takes Tony a second to remember to breathe. Is that bad? That feels like it might be a problem.
~~
They try adding nipple clamps to the feather situation. That cuts the time before coming in half. Backwards progress.
“You could just tell your little friends to avoid the nipples,” Tony suggests conversationally as Peter cleans himself up, and then winces internally, because that sounded terrible out loud. Peter shoots him a skeptical look, wordlessly calling him out for complete lameness. “Or...you could take those with you.” He gestures at the clamps. “For practice.”
“I—” Peter pauses buttoning up his shirt, inhaling shakily. “Yeah, that makes sense. Uh, thanks.”
Tony waves it off. “Don’t worry about it.”
He wonders if Peter will notice they have little spider symbols engraved on the inside.
~~
Every night that week he thinks about Peter in his dorm room, spread across a twin bed, wearing those clamps, shirt hitched up and hand down his boxers, working himself slowly, trying to last despite the extra sensation.
A very, very stupid part of him hopes Peter is thinking about him, too.
~~
A month into the experiments, Peter pauses while getting undressed and says with forced casualness, “At some point, you’re going to have to actually touch my dick.”
It sounds rehearsed; if Tony had to guess, he’d say Peter repeated it in front of a mirror multiple times before coming in today. When he doesn’t respond (because he’s still trying to figure out how), Peter adds, more hesitantly, “I mean, if you want. Or we could, like, use a toy or whatever, that would work too.”
Where the hell did the kid get the right to say things like that? He’ll be hearing the words we could, like, use a toy or whatever playing over in his mind for the next week. Or maybe year.
He manages to get his exploding brain under control long enough to say, “No, yeah, of course. Anything you’re good with, I’m good with.”
He could definitely, definitely invent something that would do the job for him. He doesn’t want to.
~~
The first time Tony wraps his hand around Peter’s cock—slender and slightly curved, as beautiful as everything else about him, which, given that Tony doesn’t normally think of cocks as “beautiful” probably says more about his mental state vis-a-vis this situation than he’s willing to explore—Peter comes immediately.
“Oh god,” he mutters, hiding his face in his palms. “That’s embarrassing, even for me.”
“Hey.” Tony’s hand immediately goes to his hair, petting it in what he has learned is a gesture Peter finds very encouraging. “There’s no embarrassing here. Not with me.”
Peter peeks over his fingertips. “I just came in one touch. That’s embarrassing.”
“Yeah, you came in one touch,” Tony agrees, moving back to his dick, beginning to stroke him. Amazingly, Peter immediately starts to get hard. Again. “But you have zero refractory period. Kinda makes up for it.” When Peter looks unconvinced, he keeps going. “Seriously, kid. Most guys would kill to get hard again this quickly. It’s like a superpower.”
“It is a superpower,” Peter points out. He still sounds a little upset, but he returns Tony’s grin.
His expression transforms into something a lot dirtier after a few firm strokes, but it’s the smile that lingers in Tony’s mind, hitting him somewhere deeper than even the feel of that dick in his hand.
~~
It takes a few weeks, but Peter eventually gets to a place where he can hold off from a handjob for ten whole minutes. Then they move on to blowjobs.
~~
This whole situation is getting more comfortable, Tony realizes. His mouth—still salty from the come that hit his tongue just a few minutes ago—is around Peter’s dick, and it feels normal. It all does. Peter blushes less as he gets undressed, is willing to casually tangle his hands in Tony’s hair and thrust into him, like he’s doing right now, cock hitting the back of his throat in a bruising rhythm.
(Which, fuck. It’s honestly a miracle Tony hasn’t come in his pants during one of these sessions. If he were any younger, he probably would’ve by now.)
They haven’t talked about an end goal. Is there a point where Peter will decide he’s satisfactorily solved the problem? Tony’s so caught up in the worry that he almost misses Peter’s grip tightening in his hair, and barely has time to prepare before hot liquid fills his mouth.
~~
“So,” he says after they decide they’re done for the afternoon. “You’re getting a lot better at lasting.”
Peter freezes, one leg in his jeans. “Yeah, I guess,” he says, slowly. His expression is difficult to read, but he doesn’t look happy. “I could still use work.”
“As much as you want,” Tony agrees quickly, and Peter visibly relaxes, returning to tugging up his pants. “I was just thinking: any interest in experimenting along a different dimension? We could try to figure out how many times in a row you can orgasm. If you want. Just a thought.”
“Yes, please,” Peter says instantly. Then he looks at the ceiling, as if rolling his eyes at himself. “Sorry, I just mean, yeah, that seems like a good idea.”
“In the spirit of scientific discovery,” Tony adds.
“Yeah, the spirit of scientific discovery, exactly.”
Okay. They might need to actually talk about this at some point.
~~
On their first try, Peter comes seven times before tapping out. By the end, his entire body is flushed bright red, his eyes are wet with tears, and Tony’s back is covered in scratches.
Also, Tony realizes later that day, the whole thing has left his hand cramping up. It might be time to put his mechanical skills to good use.
~~
It’s not until he reveals his creation to Peter that he realizes going from zero to fuck machine might have been a step too far.
He hadn’t even asked if Peter wants to be fucked like that. And he’s probably a virgin, which means this is definitely the wrong move. For a moment, he’s reminded of a giant bunny towering in his old Malibu home. You’d think he’d learn.
Peter approaches the thing, running his hands over it, experimentally squeezing the dildo that Tony has cheekily made Iron Man red. It’s held in place by a metal arm—painted gold, because he really doesn’t know when to stop—that can move in all sorts of unnecessary directions. Peter traces the mechanism down to the heavy base, which clamps firmly to a desk Tony has covered in soft towels.
When he turns around he looks bemused, but not upset.
“You built a sex machine?” he asks. Tony nods, because there’s really no way to deny it at this point. “For me? You built this for me?”
Tony throws up his palms as he shrugs. “Sometimes I go overboard. It’s a thing.”
Peter walks back across the lab, flings his arms around Tony’s neck, and does the one thing they haven’t done, haven’t gotten close to, haven’t even suggested this whole time: he kisses him. It’s quick, close-mouthed but confident.
“You’re insane,” he says, stepping away. “But okay. Let’s try it out.”
Tony can feel himself making a ridiculous expression, mouth opening and closing as he tries to find words to respond. He trips over the options: What was that? and Yes, I am insane, this is too far, and Please kiss me again, or maybe Please kiss me again and never stop. He lands on, “Are you sure? We don’t have to.”
Peter gives him an exasperated look. “It’s been months, Tony.” He likes to do that, emphasize Tony’s name when he says it, as if to remind him that their relationship has changed. As if he’s not painfully aware. “When’re you going to start believing I’m cool with things the first time I say I’m cool with them?”
“Fair enough,” Tony says, because he’s still a little dazed, and really, it is fair enough. “So, have you...”
He gestures at the machine weakly. Somehow, despite everything, he can’t quite bring himself to ask Peter Parker if he’s been fucked in the ass before.
(He tries very hard to ignore the part of his mind that thinks that might be because he doesn’t want the answer to be yes.)
“Had a machine fuck me? No, I have not.” Peter smiles at his own joke, unzipping his hoodie and shaking out of it. “Dildos, yes.”
“Really?”
Peter rolls his eyes. “Really. I experiment. I am a scientist, remember?” He pauses, considering what he just said. “Also a person. It’s not exactly hardcore kink. Well, that machine maybe, but not the dildos. I literally bought them with my friends.”
Sometimes Peter says stuff like that so casually that Tony has a real moment of worrying about The Kids These Days. Which is absurd, given what he’d gotten up to by the time he was Peter’s age. Plus, you know, what they’ve been getting up to. But there’s something about the contrast between the way Peter can be so blasé about sex generally while still blushing and stumbling over his words when he asks Tony for specific things that gets to him. He hates how much he likes it.
“Okay, okay, I get it, you’re very in touch with your sexuality.” He raises his hands, admitting defeat. “Just dildos?” he adds before he can stop himself, and then instantly wants to take it back. He’s starting to sound pathetic.
Peter doesn’t break eye contact as he pulls down his boxers. “Yeah, I’m a virgin, if that’s what you’re asking. I thought that was obvious.”
Fuck. So much for blushing and stumbling over his words.
“Right.” Wow, his voice has gone high. He clears his throat and tries again. “Lots of lube, then.”
~~
Prepping Peter is a whole thing. They get him naked and sitting on the desk by the machine, knees spread, without a problem—well, Tony is so turned on it hurts, but that’s just his constant state in these meetings—but even though Peter insists he really has used a dildo on himself a lot, Tony barely gets one lube-covered finger halfway into him before he comes with a shudder, head falling forward onto Tony’s shoulder with a frustrated groan.
They’re still monitoring his vitals, because this is about science, right? Ha. Tony added a counter to the screen for this newest round of experiments. It ticks to one.
“It’s fine,” Tony tells him automatically, using his free hand to circle his back. “You’re great.”
“Just keep going,” Peter insists through clenched teeth.
He does.
The counter is at three and Peter is writhing desperately against Tony’s shoulder by the time they agree he’s ready for the dildo. If Tony’s being totally honest, he could probably use a little more prep, but it’s getting very hard to deal with having his mouth graze his collarbone, hot bursts of air tingling down his neck every time he moans.
They reposition him, deciding all fours will be easiest to start.
And yeah, that’s another image Tony’s never going to be able to get out of his mind. What the hell was he thinking? He guides the machine until it enters Peter, slowly, stroking his hair, muttering encouraging words as it presses into him.
“Can...you...please...shut...up?” Peter gasps as the dildo finally disappears inside him entirely. “Or I’m going—” He grits his teeth together, breathing sharply through his nose.
“That’s the point of this particular exercise,” Tony points out. “Ready to give this thing a go?”
“Aren’t we already?” Peter quips, but he also nods.
Tony hits a button on his watch to start it up, which makes Peter’s eyes go wide. Tony smirks back and Peter orgasms with a yelp before the thing has time to move in and out of him more than once. His come covers the desk and his chest; his elbows buckle.
“Good to keep going?” Tony asks.
Peter nods. “Bring it.”
A thought flies through Tony’s head, unbidden: God, I love him.
Well, add that to the list of things that might be a problem.
~~
By the time the counter hits twelve, Peter’s a mess, collapsed face down on the desk, head resting in one arm, back glowing red. He whimpers and whines as every movement of the machine wrings another shudder out of him. Tony had been stroking his hair and back, even his ass (soft and firm and something he can’t touch for too long without his mind going blank), but two orgasms ago Peter begged him to stop; the extra sensation was just too much.
Peter grips Tony’s arm with his free hand, so hard it hurts. Tony doesn’t complain. It’s worth it to be looking at what is easily the hottest thing he’s ever seen.
It’s been ten minutes since Peter last came, and he sounds like it’s killing him. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Faster.”
Tony does as he’s told, moving a dial on his watch, his own erection throbbing as Peter humps down against the desk, rutting with unrestrained need. The machine fucks into him at a brutal pace, so rough Tony would be worried if it weren’t for his powers.
“Fuck,” he groans again, hand tugging Tony closer. “Fuck, please, please, Mr. Stark—”
The shock of hearing that name again, so needy and full of longing, hits Tony at his core. Arousal rips through him, pleasure tightening in his gut, and before he can get a grip he’s coming with an undignified grunt, sticky mess filling the inside of his jeans.
He slumps forward, catching himself on the desk, head hitting Peter’s shoulder, and apparently that’s what Peter needed, the answer to his desperate begging, because he orgasms too, entire body convulsing. His hand never leaves Tony’s wrist.
As soon as he gets motor functions back, Tony pulls free from Peter’s grip and turns the machine off. Peter sprawls on the desk, a puddle of a person, shaking a little. His eyes are closed, but there are tears around the edges.
“Hey,” Tony says, laying a hand on his head. It makes him twitch and whine. “You okay?”
Peter nods. “Finally got you to come,” he mutters, sounding extraordinarily content. He reaches out blindly, eyes still closed, happy smile playing across his face. He manages to catch Tony’s hand. “I did it. Woo me.”
“I...did not know that was a goal you had.” He has no idea what else to say. He just came in his pants with no external stimulation, like he’s fourteen years old. He should be completely mortified, but instead the emotion he is feeling is hope.
Peter finally opens his eyes and unsuccessfully tries to push himself up. Tony grabs him. He’s covered in dry and drying come. It should be obscenely dirty, but when Peter looks at him with an expression of naked trust, the whole thing somehow seems sweet. Together they maneuver him to sitting, leaving them eye-to-eye.
“Yeah, so, confession time,” Peter says, glancing at Tony’s chest for a moment. Can he hear the way his heart is beating faster? “I didn’t exactly come to you for help because you’re the best scientist I know.”
“Oh no? Know a better one? Should I be offended?” He’s joking because the other option is to throw himself to his knees and beg to be told that sentence means exactly what he thinks it means. But Peter bites his lips and looks away, clearly hurt. Which, fuck. Not the intended effect. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” But Peter still doesn’t meet his eye. “I thought you—I thought we—Listen, if you don’t want me to say what I was about to say, we can pretend I never started. This can be over; you’ve done more than enough.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Tony grabs Peter’s jaw, tilting his head until their eyes meet. “I want you to say what you were about to say.”
“Well, now it’s weird.”
“I built a machine and fucked you with it, but this is the weird part?” That gets a laugh, Peter’s eyes sparkling a little. God, he loves those eyes. “Are you telling me this wasn’t all so you could go back uptown and screw hot co-eds like a normal college freshman?”
“Nope.” Peter spreads his legs, grabs Tony’s hips, and scoots forward until they’re pressed chest-to-chest. His naked body burns hot even through Tony’s clothes. “I’m not really interested in other ‘co-eds.’ Which is not a thing people call them anymore, by the way.”
“Okay,” Tony says slowly. That shouldn’t feel this good to hear. Like he can breathe freely; like he could float. There are reasons he thought this was a bad idea. Really good reasons. Reasons like Peter’s too young, and deserves more. Like if this goes wrong, he’ll never forgive himself. Like he can’t lose him, not again, he just can’t. But it’s too late to back out now. Part of him knew that the second he agreed to this whole scheme.
All of him wanted it.
“So,” he continues. “Now that you said it, how would you feel if next week, we took this whole situation to my actual apartment? Maybe had a meal first? Do the wine and dine thing?”
Peter giggles. “Seems a bit out of order.”
“We’ve been doing a lot of things out of order.” To prove the point, Tony kisses him, softly, lips barely parting. “Like that. That normally comes before I make someone orgasm,” he looks up at the screen, “thirteen times in one afternoon.”
“You’ve never made anyone else orgasm thirteen times in one afternoon,” Peter retorts with a smirk. Tony lets him have that one, because it’s obviously true. “But, good point. Let’s wine and dine. Sounds nice.”
And then he kisses him again. Tony’s never liked kissing as much as sex, but with Peter—with Peter, it’s just as good.
~~
As he’s leaving, Peter stops at the doorway, observing the machine.
“So, about moving this to your apartment,” he says after a moment. “You think that thing can come?”
Tony stares at him blankly, not quite sure he heard correctly. He’s going to be spending a lot of time at a loss for words, isn’t he?
“Yeah,” he finally manages. “Yeah, I think that can be arranged.”