I’m posting this now in the hopes one day I might actually write it up properly, but for now have this pure unadulterated Peter Gets Caught Jerking Off To Tony fic that won’t leave my brain. Warnings for smut and? no that’s about all the happens in this scene. I will add a read more when I can get to a computer.
Peter loves this, lives for this moment, when the world around him fades away, eclipsed by pure selfish need, by the desperate desire to reach climax. It makes his head spin, dizzy with how fast his mind focuses on that one objective, awareness narrowing down to the obscene drag of his hand over his cock, sharp, electric bursts of fricticious pleasure zapping over his skin, breath hitching high in his throat.
He can hear the traffic outside his window, the sounds of the city at night, but it’s far away from him now, the rough sliding of sheets where they’re rubbing against his arm, the pounding of his heart, blood rushing in his ears so much closer, more visceral. His chest is heaving with the effort, breath pulling in tight, catching on moans and trapped, base sounds of pleasure.
He’s lost to feeling, to sensation, the intricate fantasies of earlier brought down to one last coherent thought of Tony, Tony, Tony, clinging to the picture in his mind as his hand speeds, twists, just right, just there, he’s so close, can feel himself throbbing, pulsing, hips bucking up of their own accord, meeting his hand with sharp, erratic thrusts, an electric current shooting through him, nervous system alight, every cell in his body flooding with beautiful, sweet, aching, pleasure, and he’s gone.
There’s nothing, nothing in the world but this, wave after wave of release racking his body, coating his hand, his belly, in thick, sticky stripes of cum, stomach clenching at the feeling of it hitting his skin, a physical manifestation of the pleasure he feels deep within him. He’s vaguely aware of himself moaning, loud and low, couldn’t stop it even if he tried. It lasts years, lifetimes, he’s crashing over the edge so hard he’s not sure how he’ll ever get back up. He’s not sure he wants to.
When it finally stops, he sags back into the mattress, the warmth of his body heat, the soft glide of the comforter, cool where it had been left exposed to the air, convalescing into a perfect haven of comfort. He feels liquid, boneless, all tension gone from his body. He’s content to lay there forever, mind drifting, vague, contentment seeping deep into him.
Lazily, unhurried, he blinks his eyes open, unfocused for now, watching light dance across the ceiling. Smiles, just a little. He’s so warm, so soft, he could just… wait… light? There was no light on in his room. Sluggish, his brain tries to think back. No, he definitely switched off the light.
He’s confused, torn between brushing it off as unimportant, closing his eyes again and succumbing to sleep, and the other, stronger part of him that’s ringing alarm bells, trying valiantly to wake him up.
Blinking, trying to refocus his eyes, his mind, he registers that the light is coming in the direction of his open doorway. His open… doorway… his open…
He shoots upright, grabbing at the comforter and yanking it up his body as far as it will go, an instinctual attempt to cover his modesty, to hide as much of himself as he can, mind screeching to a halt as he locks eyes with one Tony Stark.
Tony is breathing harshly, the quick rise and fall of his chest, the convulsive flexing of his hand where is lies at his side causing the fluctuations in the light that frames his body, outlining him, like some voyeuristic angel, face shrouded in shadow. His other hand is clenched on the door handle so hard it must be painful, knuckles white and locked in position.
Peter has no idea how long he’s been standing there, but the expression on his face is enough to tell him that he saw too much, enough to have him lock down into fight or flight, for his eyes turn dark, inky black and his cock to.. get… hard? Yeah, there’s no mistaking the outline of it protruding from his jeans, and if there could be any doubt right at that moment, as Tony realises the direction Peter’s eyes have taken, it twitches, Tony ripping his hand off the door, expression caught somewhere between mortified and reverent, altogether desperate.
“I,” he starts, cuts off to clear his throat. “I just- I came to see how, how you were after, uh, after earlier.”
He keeps going, muttering about training and recovery and at any other time Peter would be rejoicing, would be ecstatic to have finally caught Tony off guard. As it is, he’s so embarrassed he wants the world to disappear, wants to zap back in time twenty minutes ago and lock his goddamn door, wants to crawl over to where Tony is standing and suck him off until he can’t form words, until he cant remember his own name, until he shuts up.
Tony somehow manages to get the message from the pleading look he’s sending him and he cuts off abruptly. He’s still staring, that’s the thing, eyes boring into Peter, into his soul, into the very fabric of his being.
It’s half whisper, half outright moan, and it’s enough to have his oversensitive, spent cock perk up in interest, arousal still burning low within him, not quite gone from his recent orgasm.
“Tony,” he answers in kind, breathless, shocked.
And Tony looks so conflicted, so torn between the evident guilt and pleasure writing themselves across his face, that Peter takes pity, and stretches out a hand.
“Come here,” he says, softly, but with clear intent.
“Peter,” Tony says again. “I can’t. You know I can’t.”
Peter knows. Oh, Peter knows. He just doesn’t care.
“I want you to,” he says, strong, confident. In fact he’s desperate for it, but he can’t let Tony see that, has to hold up this front for him, so that neither of them break.
He sees the exact moment Tony caves. The tension in his shoulders recedes, breath leaving him in one long exhale, taking one step into the room, then another.
Peter lets himself break into a grin, settles himself back against the pillows.
“Tony,” he says, hand reaching back down to encircle around his rapidly filling cock. Tony hold his gaze, electricity crackling in the air between them.
“Lock the door.”