Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: The Serpent in Eden

The city hummed a familiar lullaby outside Peter Parker's window, a comforting symphony of honking taxis and distant sirens. His textbook lay open on his lap, a forgotten casualty of a particularly intense round of Spider-Man trivia with Ned. MJ was Facetiming from across campus, her laughter echoing through the room as Ned tried, and spectacularly failed, to imitate Captain America's voice. Life, finally, felt like it was fitting together, a puzzle he’d been trying to solve for years.
Aunt May’s cheerful hum drifted from the kitchen, a smell of baking cookies filling the air. He smiled, a genuine, easy smile that reached his eyes. May had found her own kind of happy ending with Happy Hogan, a surprisingly sweet romance that had blossomed from shared glances over Stark Industries reports and a mutual appreciation for bad puns. Just last week, Peter had walked in on them slow dancing in the living room, a scene so wholesome and unexpected it had brought a lump to his throat. Happy, usually so gruff and stoic, had looked at May with an adoration that was almost embarrassing to witness, and May, with her perpetually warm eyes, had simply beamed.
"Peter, honey! Cookies are ready!" May called, her voice bright.
He tossed the textbook aside, springing up. "Coming, May! Ned, you want in on some of May’s famous chocolate chip?"
"You know it, dude!" Ned's enthusiastic shout crackled through the phone.
Life was good. Tony was alive, a gruff but ever-present mentor. The Avengers, his found family, were thriving. Some, like Thor, were off exploring the cosmos, sending back postcards that read, "Having a smashing time! Wish you were here, point break!" Others, like Steve and Bucky, had found a quiet peace, occasionally dropping by for coffee and stories. And then there were those who, like him, continued to answer the call, protecting the world one crisis at a time. It felt balanced, a delicate but sturdy ecosystem of heroism and everyday life. He was nineteen, in college, surrounded by people he loved. What could possibly go wrong?
The summons came, as they always did, without warning. A coded message, a specific time, a location: S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters. It was an all-hands-on-deck kind of alert, the kind that made the casual hum of civilian life instantly drop into a tense silence. Peter, still in his university hoodie, arrived to find the usual suspects already assembled in the main conference room.
Tony, looking surprisingly fresh for someone who probably hadn't slept in 48 hours, leaned back in his chair, a half-eaten donut in his hand. Steve and Bucky stood side-by-side, radiating an aura of stoic readiness. Sam, ever the pragmatist, was checking his phone. Bruce, looking thoughtful, was polishing his glasses. Clint and Natasha, a silent, deadly duo, occupied a corner, their expressions unreadable. Thor, surprisingly, was present, his usually booming laughter absent, replaced by a quiet intensity. Even Yelena, Natasha's sister, was there, a sharp, assessing gaze sweeping over everyone. And then there was Nick Fury, a man who could make a simple cough sound like a declaration of war, standing at the head of the table with Maria Hill by his side.
"Alright, people, listen up," Fury began, his voice a low rumble that instantly commanded attention. "We've got a problem. A big one."
A holographic image flickered to life in the center of the table. It showed a man, impeccably dressed, with striking blue eyes and a cascade of wavy, dark hair. He was undeniably handsome, in a way that screamed old money and effortless charm.
"Daimon Thorne," Fury announced, his eye patch reflecting the soft glow of the image. "Super wealthy. Highly intelligent. And utterly, unequivocally evil."
He gestured to the screen. "We’ve been tracking him for months. Every attempt to infiltrate his organization, every direct assault, every legal avenue… it's all failed. He’s like smoke. We hit him, and he disperses, only to reform somewhere else, stronger."
Maria Hill stepped forward, her expression grim. "His power isn't conventional. He has a… unique influence over people. It’s not mind control, not exactly. More like a pervasive charisma, an ability to manipulate desires and fears, to make people want to do his bidding. It’s insidious."
Clint grunted. "So, a super-rich sociopath with a silver tongue. Great."
"Worse," Fury countered. "His network is vast. He deals in information, secrets, illicit goods. And he's starting to consolidate power, forming alliances with entities we don't even know the names of yet. If he’s allowed to continue, he could destabilize global politics on a scale we haven't seen since… well, since before some of you were born." He shot a pointed look at Tony, who merely raised an eyebrow.
"We've tried direct confrontation, as Fury said," Natasha interjected, her voice calm but sharp. "His security is impenetrable. His inner circle is fiercely loyal, almost cult-like."
"What about an undercover operation?" Yelena suggested, her gaze narrowed. "Someone gets close, gains his trust, finds his weaknesses."
Maria shook her head. "We've considered it. The problem is his… preferences. He's not interested in women. At all. Every operative we've put forward, female or male, if they expressed any interest in a romantic or intimate connection, they were immediately flagged, neutralized, or worse. He seems to have an aversion to that kind of attention, or perhaps he just sees it as a weakness in others."
A silence descended upon the room. Tony shifted in his seat, his brow furrowed in thought. Steve exchanged a glance with Bucky. The usual avenues were closed.
Then, Fury's gaze, sharp and unblinking, landed on Peter.
Peter, who had been quietly taking notes, jotting down everything about Daimon Thorne, felt a sudden, cold dread wash over him. He knew that look. It was the "you're perfect for this impossible, horrifying thing" look.
"We need someone who can get close to him," Fury continued, his voice softer, almost coaxing. "Someone he wouldn't expect. Someone who could… appeal to him, but not in the way he's accustomed to. Someone who could play the part of an object of desire, but innocently, naively. Someone young. Someone… vulnerable."
His gaze never left Peter.
Tony, who had been listening intently, slowly straightened in his chair. "Fury, what are you implying?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
Fury ignored him. "Peter here," he said, gesturing vaguely in Peter's direction, "has a unique set of… characteristics."
Peter felt his cheeks flush. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to become invisible. He wanted to be anywhere but here.
"He's got those big, innocent eyes," Fury went on, almost clinically. "A certain vulnerability that could be exploited. His youth… it's a powerful asset. He's got a build that could be perceived as delicate, feminine even, in comparison to Thorne. He could be perceived as… an untouched canvas. Something Thorne might be drawn to, precisely because it's not the overt, aggressive seduction he's clearly used to."
The room erupted.
"Are you out of your mind, Fury?!" Tony exploded, slamming his hand on the table. The half-eaten donut rolled off, unheeded. "He's nineteen! He's a kid! You can't seriously be suggesting we use Peter as bait in some twisted Romeo and Juliet scenario with a psycho!"
"Absolutely not!" Steve’s voice was uncharacteristically loud, his face a mask of shock and outrage. "That's unconscionable, Nick! We do not put our people, especially not Peter, in that kind of danger!"
Bucky, usually reserved, stepped forward, his eyes burning with a silent fury. "You want to throw a lamb to a wolf? He's a good kid, Fury. You think that's a good idea?"
Natasha, for once, looked genuinely distressed. "Peter has never been trained for this kind of psychological warfare. This isn't about fighting. This is about manipulation, about emotional entanglement. It's a different kind of combat, one he's completely unprepared for."
Yelena, surprisingly, agreed. "Even I wouldn't wish that on a Black Widow, let alone a Spider-Man. This isn't about fighting skills. It's about a different kind of weapon, and it's a cruel one."
Peter sat frozen, the blood pounding in his ears. He couldn't speak. His mind was a whirlwind of horrified understanding. They wanted him to… seduce Daimon Thorne? To be the object of his desire? The idea was so utterly alien, so deeply unsettling, that it felt like a physical blow. He wasn't like Natasha or Clint, skilled in espionage and deception. He was Spider-Man. He fought supervillains, he saved cats from trees, he helped old ladies cross the street. This… this was something else entirely.
"Everyone, calm down!" Fury's voice, though still calm, had an edge of steel. "I understand your objections. Believe me, this was not my first, second, or even tenth option. But we are out of options! Every other avenue has been exhausted. Thorne is a moving target, a phantom. We need to get someone inside his personal space, someone he will lower his guard for. And Peter… Peter fits the profile in a way no one else here does."
"Because he's an innocent, easily manipulated kid?" Tony spat, his voice laced with disgust. "That's your brilliant plan, Fury? To sacrifice Peter's innocence for the sake of intel?"
"No one is being sacrificed, Stark," Fury retorted, his voice rising. "This is a calculated risk. Peter will have constant oversight. He'll be wearing comms, he'll be monitored 24/7. Every move, every word, every nuance will be analyzed. And the moment he is in any real danger, he's out. Immediately. No questions asked."
"You honestly think that's enough?" Bruce interjected, his voice surprisingly firm. "This kind of mission… it leaves scars, Fury. Deep ones. Regardless of physical harm, the psychological toll could be immense."
Fury sighed, a rare display of exasperation. "I'm aware of the risks, Banner. But the alternative is to let Thorne continue unopposed. To let him build an empire that will eventually threaten the entire world. What's the greater evil here?"
The room fell silent once more, but this time it was a tense, uncomfortable silence, punctuated by the heavy breathing of the Avengers. Peter finally found his voice, a whisper barely audible over the ringing in his ears.
"What… what exactly would I have to do?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly.
All eyes turned to him. Tony looked like he was about to jump across the table and physically restrain him.
Fury's gaze softened, just imperceptibly. "You would be a new acquaintance. Someone he finds intriguing. You would play a role, Peter. You would be Ethan John. A young, somewhat naive student, exploring the world, perhaps a little out of his depth. You would be charming, polite, a little shy. You would allow him to be drawn to you. To want to know more about you. And you would, as discreetly as possible, gather information. His plans, his contacts, his weaknesses."
"And if he… if he tries something?" Peter asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Something… physical?"
Fury met his gaze directly. "You are to avoid any physical intimacy beyond what is absolutely necessary to maintain the charade. If he pushes, you push back. Gently. You express discomfort. You maintain a boundary. And if he crosses that boundary, if you feel truly threatened, you signal. And we pull you out. Immediately. No matter what."
Tony scoffed. "And what's 'absolutely necessary,' Fury? A hand on the arm? A lingering glance? Where do you draw the line when you're telling a kid to play a dangerous game of seduction?"
"We'll establish clear parameters, Stark," Maria Hill interjected, her voice firm. "Peter will have a secure line to us. He'll have a safe word. He'll have constant guidance. This is not about sacrificing him. It's about using a unique opportunity to stop a global threat."
The arguments continued, but Peter barely heard them. He was staring at the holographic image of Daimon Thorne. Handsome, intelligent, evil. And he, Peter Parker, was supposed to become the object of his desire. The thought made his stomach churn. He was Spider-Man. He faced villains head-on. He saved people. He didn't… he didn't seduce them.
But then, he thought of Aunt May, happy and safe with Happy. He thought of Tony, finally free from the burdens of constant battle, yet still willing to put his life on the line. He thought of the world, fragile and constantly teetering on the edge of chaos. If this was truly the only way… if he could prevent widespread suffering…
He looked up, meeting Fury's gaze. "I'll do it," he said, his voice surprisingly steady.
A collective gasp went through the room. Tony looked like he’d been punched. Steve’s face was a study in profound disappointment.
"Peter, no!" Tony practically roared, surging to his feet. "You don't have to do this! We'll find another way!"
Peter shook his head. "No, Mr. Stark. Fury said… he said there's no other way. And if I can help… if I can stop him…" He trailed off, the words catching in his throat. He was scared, truly terrified, but beneath the fear, a familiar sense of responsibility stirred. He was Spider-Man. He protected people. This was just a different kind of protection.
Fury looked at him, a flicker of something that might have been approval in his eye. "Very well, Peter. We'll start your briefing immediately. This is classified to the highest level. No one outside this room knows. Understood?"
A chorus of reluctant "understood"s followed, but Tony's grimace remained. He walked over to Peter, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Kid," he said, his voice low, "you don't have to be a hero every damn second of your life. This isn't your burden to carry."
Peter looked up at him, a faint smile touching his lips. "I know, Mr. Stark. But… someone has to."
The days leading up to the mission were a blur of intense training and psychological preparation. Peter was briefed on Daimon Thorne's every known habit, his preferences, his aversions. He learned about his meticulously curated art collection, his obscure taste in classical music, his favorite brands of single-malt scotch. He was given a new identity: Ethan John, a budding art history student on a gap year, traveling through Europe, with a modest inheritance that allowed him a comfortable, but not extravagant, lifestyle. He practiced his backstory until it felt like his own memories, the details weaving seamlessly into a plausible narrative.
He sat through countless sessions with S.H.I.E.L.D. psychologists, learning how to manage his emotions, how to project an image of vulnerability without appearing weak, how to subtly gather information without raising suspicion. They rehearsed scenarios, role-playing conversations, teaching him to read micro-expressions and anticipate Thorne's reactions. Natasha and Yelena, surprisingly, took him under their wing, offering practical advice on how to maintain boundaries, how to deflect unwanted advances, and how to project a quiet confidence even when terrified.
"Remember, Peter," Natasha had said, her eyes serious, "your power in this situation isn't your strength. It's your perceived innocence. Your honesty. That's what he'll be drawn to. Don't try to be something you're not. Just be a slightly more naive version of yourself."
Yelena, ever blunt, added, "And if he touches you in a way you don't like, you flinch. You pull back. You make it clear, without saying a word, that you're not comfortable. But you do it gently. Like a scared bird. Not like a cornered wolverine."
Tony, meanwhile, was a storm of barely contained anxiety. He had outfitted Peter with an array of hidden gadgets – miniature cameras disguised as buttons, microphones woven into the fabric of his clothes, a discreet panic button built into a signet ring. He had personally overseen the development of a tiny, undetectable tracking device that would ping Peter's exact location every ten seconds.
"This thing will send out a distress signal if your heart rate goes above a certain threshold for too long, or if you lose consciousness," Tony explained, his voice tight. "And if that signal goes off, we're coming in. Full force. Thorne won't know what hit him."
Peter appreciated the effort, the fear in Tony’s eyes. It made him feel less alone, even as the enormity of the task weighed on him. He spent his evenings practicing lines, perfecting Ethan John's slight stammer, his wide-eyed curiosity. He ate bland, tasteless food in the S.H.I.E.L.D. cafeteria, the normal vibrancy of his life temporarily muted by the looming mission. Aunt May and Happy knew he was on "a very important, top-secret internship with Mr. Stark," and he hated lying to them, but he knew it was for their protection.
One afternoon, during a particularly grueling debriefing, Steve pulled him aside. "Peter," he began, his voice unusually soft, "I just want you to know, none of us are happy about this. But we trust you. We know you're strong. And we'll be with you every step of the way."
Bucky, leaning against the wall, nodded grimly. "Just… be smart, kid. And if anything, anything feels wrong, you call it off. We'll pick you up. No questions asked."
Their support was a balm, but it couldn't erase the knot of dread that tightened in his stomach. He was walking into the lion's den, not as Spider-Man, but as a bait. And the thought of what Thorne might do, what he might demand, made his skin crawl.
The day of the mission dawned, grey and overcast. A light rain drizzled against the windows of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Quinjet as it made its final descent. Peter, dressed in the carefully chosen "Ethan John" attire – a soft linen shirt, tailored trousers, and a lightweight cashmere sweater – felt a strange blend of numb detachment and sickening anticipation.
He sat in the rear of the Quinjet, the other Avengers huddled around a tactical screen, their faces grim. Tony was adjusting his earpiece, his jaw set. Steve was checking the schematics of Thorne's property, a fortress disguised as a sprawling estate in a secluded, mountainous region.
"Alright, Peter," Fury's voice crackled through his comms. "We're nearing the drop-off point. Remember, once you're on the ground, you're Ethan. You're nervous, a little overwhelmed, but polite and eager to please. Stick to the script. We're monitoring everything."
"Got it, Director," Peter replied, his voice a little shaky.
The Quinjet landed silently in a remote clearing, the roar of its engines instantly replaced by the soft patter of rain on leaves. A sleek, black limousine with tinted windows was waiting, its engine purring.
"That's your ride, Peter," Maria Hill's voice came through. "Good luck."
He took a deep breath, pushing down the surge of panic. He was Ethan John. Art history student. Curious. A little lost. He was not Spider-Man. He was not a hero. He was bait.
He stepped out of the Quinjet, the cool, damp air hitting his face. The limousine door opened silently, revealing a tall, stern-faced man in a crisp suit. "Mr. John?" he asked, his voice devoid of emotion.
"Yes," Peter managed, trying to sound a little hesitant, a little shy. "That's me."
He slid into the plush leather seats of the limousine, the door closing with a soft click, sealing him in. The car pulled away, driving along a winding, tree-lined road. He could feel the eyes of his found family on him, watching him disappear into the unknown. He glanced back, catching a glimpse of Tony, his face etched with worry, before the trees swallowed the view.
The drive was long, the scenery outside blurring into a green and grey wash. Peter focused on his breathing, trying to calm the frantic beating of his heart. He ran through his backstory again, solidifying every detail. He imagined himself in a gallery, discussing brushstrokes and historical periods. He imagined himself as a blank slate, open to influence, eager to learn.
Finally, the limousine slowed, turning onto a long, winding driveway that led to an imposing wrought-iron gate. Beyond it, a magnificent estate spread out, a grand, classical edifice surrounded by manicured gardens, even in the rain. It was beautiful, opulent, and utterly intimidating.
The gates swung open, revealing a sweeping driveway that led to the front of the mansion. The car stopped at the main entrance, where two more stern-faced men stood by massive oak doors. They were the kind of men who looked like they were carved from granite, their eyes missing any warmth.
The man who had picked him up opened the door for him. "Welcome, Mr. John," he said, his voice flat. "Mr. Thorne is looking forward to meeting you. You will be shown to your room. He will send for you when he is ready."
Peter nodded, his throat suddenly dry. He stepped out of the car, the grandness of the mansion overwhelming him. He was led inside, the hushed elegance of the interior both stunning and unsettling. High ceilings, marble floors, priceless works of art adorning the walls – it was a gilded cage, designed to impress and to intimidate.
He was led down a long corridor, past heavy, closed doors, until they reached a spacious, exquisitely furnished room. It was beautiful, with a large, comfortable bed, a sitting area, and a private balcony overlooking a sprawling garden.
"You'll find everything you need here, Mr. John," the man said, his voice clipped. "If you require anything, use the intercom by the bed. Someone will attend to you."
With that, he turned and left, closing the heavy door behind him with a soft thud that echoed in the sudden silence.
Peter was alone.
He stood in the center of the room, taking it all in. The air was thick with the scent of expensive wood polish and something floral. His earpiece, discreetly tucked into his ear, was a constant, almost imperceptible pressure.
"Alright, Peter," Nick Fury's voice, calm and steady, came through. "We're online. Audio is clear. Video feed from your room cam is stable. You're doing well. Just breathe. Explore the room. Get comfortable. We're here."
He exhaled slowly, trying to regulate his breathing. His heart was still hammering against his ribs. He walked over to the large window, peering out at the vast gardens, their beauty somehow menacing. He felt like a rare specimen, placed under a microscope.
He moved around the room, running his hand over the soft fabric of a velvet armchair, admiring a landscape painting on the wall. He needed to appear curious, engaged. He needed to embody Ethan John.
He checked the small, ornate desk, opening a drawer to find a leather-bound notepad and an antique pen. Everything here was designed to impress, to disarm. He picked up a novel from the bedside table, a first edition of a classic. He flipped through the pages, feigning interest.
"Good, Peter," Maria Hill's voice murmured in his ear. "Look natural. Let your guard down. But not completely."
He paused by a bookshelf, filled with an impressive collection of literature and art books. He was reaching for a volume on Renaissance painters when the door to his room softly clicked open.
Peter froze. He hadn’t heard anyone approach. His heart leaped into his throat. He slowly turned, his breath catching.
Standing in the doorway was Daimon Thorne.
He was even more imposing in person than in the holographic images. Taller than Peter had anticipated, his head barely reaching Thorne's shoulders. Thorne was broad-shouldered, with a lean, muscular build that filled out his perfectly tailored suit. His wavy, dark hair framed a face that was strikingly handsome, those piercing blue eyes holding a disconcerting intensity. He exuded an aura of effortless power and refined elegance, almost like a character from a classic film. He carried himself with a predatory grace that sent a shiver down Peter's spine.
"Ethan John, I presume?" Thorne's voice was a low, resonant baritone, surprisingly gentle, yet with an underlying current of authority that was impossible to ignore. It was the kind of voice that could lull you into a false sense of security.
Peter swallowed, his carefully rehearsed shyness kicking in. "Y-yes, sir. That's me. Peter— I mean, Ethan. Ethan John." He mentally winced at the near slip, but hoped it just made him seem more flustered, more naive.
A small, knowing smile played on Thorne’s lips, as if he found Peter’s nervousness charming. "Please, no 'sir.' Call me Daimon." He stepped further into the room, his movements fluid and unhurried. He closed the door behind him, and the soft click echoed in the quiet room. Peter felt a strange sense of being trapped, even though the door wasn’t locked.
"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Ethan," Daimon continued, his blue eyes assessing Peter with an unnerving intensity, as if he were reading every thought, every emotion. "I hope your journey was comfortable?"
"Yes, it was, thank you," Peter replied, trying to keep his voice steady. "Your home is… it's magnificent." He gestured vaguely around the opulent room.
Daimon chuckled, a low, pleasant sound. "I'm glad you approve. I believe comfort is paramount. And beauty, of course." His gaze lingered on Peter for a moment too long, a possessive glint in his eyes that made Peter's skin prickle.
"Come," Daimon said, extending a hand, palm up, an invitation. "Let me show you around. I imagine you're eager to see the collection."
Peter hesitated for a split second, then took the offered hand. Daimon's grip was firm, warm, and surprisingly gentle. Peter felt a jolt, an unexpected current of… something. He quickly suppressed the feeling. It was just an act. This was a mission.
"I'd love that," Peter said, trying to sound genuinely enthusiastic.
As Daimon led him through the sprawling mansion, Peter tried to absorb every detail, his mind racing to catalogue everything for S.H.I.E.L.D. He listened intently as Daimon spoke, his voice weaving stories about the provenance of each painting, each sculpture. Daimon was incredibly knowledgeable, a true connoisseur of art, and Peter, despite his fear, found himself genuinely captivated by the sheer beauty of the collection.
"This, for instance," Daimon said, gesturing to a breathtaking landscape painting, "is a rare Constable. The way he captures light… it's unparalleled. Don't you agree, Ethan?"
"It's… it's incredible," Peter breathed, allowing genuine awe to show in his expression. "The detail is exquisite. It feels like you could just step into the painting."
Daimon smiled, a genuine, delighted smile that transformed his face, making him seem almost approachable. "Precisely. Art should transport you. It should make you feel something profound." He turned his gaze from the painting to Peter, his eyes softening. "I sense you have a deep appreciation for beauty, Ethan. A keen eye."
"I… I try," Peter mumbled, a blush creeping up his neck. The compliment felt oddly personal, strangely intimate.
They continued their tour, Daimon explaining everything with a captivating passion. He pointed out hidden passages, secret alcoves, and even a sprawling library filled with ancient texts. Peter tried to discreetly activate his hidden cameras, hoping to capture as much of the layout as possible. He knew the Avengers were listening, watching his every move, but he felt utterly alone in the presence of this man.
Daimon was charming, engaging, and utterly disarming. He was nothing like the ruthless villain Peter had imagined. He was a patron of the arts, a brilliant conversationalist, a man of refined tastes. And that, Peter realized with a jolt of fear, was precisely what made him so dangerous. He wasn't overtly threatening. He was a spider weaving an invisible web, drawing Peter closer with every silken thread of charm and intelligence.
As the evening wore on, the sun began to set, casting long shadows through the mansion's stained-glass windows. Daimon led Peter to a conservatory filled with exotic plants, the air thick with the scent of orchids.
"The light here is perfect at this hour," Daimon said, his voice a low murmur. He stopped by a particularly delicate white orchid, tracing its petals with a gentle finger. "Such fragile beauty, isn't it? Yet capable of such resilience."
He turned to Peter, his blue eyes reflecting the fading light. He reached out, taking Peter’s hand, his thumb gently stroking the back of Peter’s hand. Peter’s breath hitched.
"I am so glad you came, Ethan," Daimon said, his face close, his voice a warm caress. "I feel as though… we are kindred spirits. There is so much I wish to learn about you."
Peter's heart pounded. He could feel the warmth of Daimon’s hand on his, the subtle pressure. He could smell Thorne’s expensive cologne, a mix of sandalwood and something musky. He fought the urge to pull away, to recoil. He had to play the part. He had to be Ethan.
"I… I would like that too, Daimon," Peter whispered, forcing himself to meet Thorne's intense gaze. He tried to project a mix of shyness and intrigued curiosity, exactly as he had been coached. He was supposed to appear drawn in, but still slightly hesitant.
Daimon's thumb continued to stroke his hand, a slow, mesmerizing rhythm. "Excellent," he murmured, his eyes lingering on Peter's lips for a fraction of a second. "I have a feeling this will be… an illuminating experience for both of us."
He squeezed Peter’s hand gently before releasing it. "It's getting late, and I imagine you're tired from your travels. I wouldn't want to overwhelm you on your first night. Get some rest, Ethan. I look forward to continuing our conversations tomorrow."
He smiled, a soft, alluring smile that promised more, much more. "Goodnight, Ethan."
With that, Daimon Thorne turned and walked away, his footsteps silent on the polished floors, leaving Peter standing alone in the fragrant conservatory, the air suddenly cold.
Peter remained rooted to the spot, his hand still tingling where Daimon had touched it. He felt a strange mixture of relief that the initial encounter was over, and a creeping unease. Daimon was so much more charming, so much more… seductive than he had imagined. It wasn't overt or aggressive, but a subtle, pervasive charm that slowly, inexorably, drew you in.
"Peter? Are you alright?" Maria Hill's voice, sharper now, cut through his daze.
"Yeah," Peter breathed, his voice hoarse. "Yeah, I'm… I'm fine." He was anything but. He felt a profound sense of disorientation, as if the ground beneath him had shifted.
He walked slowly back to his room, the grandeur of the mansion now feeling like an oppressive weight. He locked the door, a futile gesture given the circumstances. He sank onto the luxurious bed, still wearing his clothes, his mind reeling.
He was in. He had made it past the initial hurdle. But the serpent's kiss had already begun, and Peter found himself in a gilded cage, playing a dangerous game, terrified of what the next move would be.But he also felt a sense of excitement, a sense of being on the verge of something extraordinary, something dangerous, something... forbidden.

Chapter Text

The golden light of dawn filtered through the heavy velvet curtains, painting stripes across Peter’s face. He blinked, groggy, the unfamiliar plushness of the bed beneath him a stark contrast to his usual college dorm mattress. Birds chirped outside, a gentle, melodic sound that seemed utterly out of place in this opulent, unsettling mansion. He glanced at the antique clock on the bedside table; 8:03 AM. A normal time to wake up, yet a sense of urgency immediately settled over him. He was Ethan John now, and Ethan John had a mission.

He swung his legs out of bed, stretching, a groan escaping him. He headed to the en-suite bathroom, a cavernous space with a freestanding claw-foot tub and gilded fixtures. A quick shower, a brush of his teeth, and then, with a practiced motion, he slipped the tiny earpiece into his ear.
"Peter?! What the actual hell, kid?! Do you know what time it is?! We've been waiting for a peep out of you for twenty minutes! Are you alive? Are you well? Did the creepy rich dude turn you into a garden gnome?!" Tony's voice, predictably, exploded in his ear, a frantic blend of concern and exasperation.
Peter winced, adjusting the volume. "Good morning to you too, Mr. Stark. Yeah, I'm fine. Just woke up a little late. What's the big deal? It's not like I'm on a strict schedule here." He rolled his eyes, even though no one could see him

"The big deal" Clint's dry voice cut in, "is that we're sitting here twiddling our thumbs, wondering if the charming villain has decided to use you as a human art piece. Every second you're not accounted for is a second of our collective heart attacks."
"He's right, Peter," Steve added, his tone gentler. "We just need to know you're safe and that the mission is progressing as planned."
"I'm safe, Cap. See? All accounted for. Now, what's the plan for today? Do I just wander around like a lost puppy until he finds me?" Peter asked, surveying his reflection in the grand mirror. He straightened his soft linen shirt, trying to look presentable yet still convey that subtle air of youthful vulnerability.

"Exactly that, Ethan," Fury's gruff voice cut in, cutting through Tony's renewed flurry of anxious questions. "Subtle. Curious. A little aimless. Let him come to you. But keep your eyes open. We need anything, Peter. Layouts, personnel, anything that seems out of place."
Peter nodded to himself. "Got it." He took a deep breath, pushing down the residual sleepiness and the ever-present knot of fear. This was it. Day two.

Meanwhile, in another part of the sprawling mansion, Daimon Thorne stood before a floor-to-ceiling mirror in his impeccably designed dressing room. His valet, a silent, efficient man named Alexander, stood a respectful distance behind him, holding a freshly pressed silk scarf.
Daimon traced the sharp line of his jaw in the mirror, his blue eyes distant. "He seems… genuine, Alexander. Almost too genuine."
Alexander's voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "His profile is sparse, sir. And his answers yesterday, while seemingly innocent, had a certain… calculated vagueness. I ran a deeper scan on his background. There are inconsistencies."
Daimon picked up a silver-backed brush, running it through his wavy dark hair. "Inconsistencies? Everyone has those, Alexander. And very few people are truly genuine. Perhaps that's why he is so… intriguing."
"He could be working for Fury, sir," Alexander pressed, his voice barely a whisper. "An operative. They've tried to infiltrate us before. He could be a plant, designed to exploit your… preferences."
Daimon’s hand paused, the brush still in his hair. A flicker of something cold, something almost predatory, entered his eyes. "Do you truly believe that, Alexander? That they would send such a… delicate instrument for such a crude purpose?" He turned, slowly, to face his valet, a faint, chilling smile touching his lips. "If he is a plant, then he is merely another puzzle for me to solve. And if I can break him, Alexander, truly break him, then there will be no reason to fear any of their future attempts."
Alexander’s expression remained impassive, but his eyes held a glimmer of something akin to concern. "But sir, if he is dangerous…"
Daimon cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. "He is beautiful, Alexander. And beauty, truly captivating beauty, holds its own power. I will not deny myself the pleasure of discovering his depths." He turned back to the mirror, adjusting the collar of his shirt.
He wouldn't lie to himself. The moment he had seen Ethan a quiet fascination had taken root. Those wide, innocent eyes, the way his hair, a rich brown that seemed to catch the light, framed his face, highlighting his delicate features. His perfectly shaped nose, those lips that promised a quiet vulnerability, tempting one to drown in them. And his body, slender and perfectly proportioned, with a waist that just begged to be held while he destroyed that body and mind. Yes, Peter was beautiful. And Daimon Thorne had a very particular appreciation for beauty, especially when it was untouched, ripe for his touch, for his… shaping.

He finished dressing, the silk scarf falling perfectly around his neck. "Prepare breakfast," he instructed Alexander, his voice calm, but with an underlying current of anticipation. "I will retrieve our guest."
Peter, guided by the hushed whispers of the Avengers in his ear, wandered through the grand, echoing halls of the mansion. He paused in a long gallery, lined with portraits. These weren't the famous works of art he’d seen yesterday. These were personal. He recognized Daimon Thorne, looking younger, in several of them. In one, a cheerful, plump woman with kind eyes stood beside a stern-looking man who shared Daimon’s striking blue gaze. In another, a younger Daimon, perhaps Peter’s age, stood with a girl who looked strikingly similar to him, her arm linked through his, both of them smiling. His family?
He found himself drawn to a particular portrait, a large, ornate painting of a very young Daimon, no older than ten, sitting stiffly in an armchair, his expression surprisingly forlorn despite the opulent surroundings. He looked lonely, almost lost. There was a vulnerability there, a hint of something deeper beneath the polished exterior he presented.
He was so engrossed in studying the painting, trying to decipher the subtle nuances of the boy's expression, that he didn't hear the soft, approaching footsteps. He was completely lost in thought, the Avengers' voices in his ear fading into background noise as he tried to piece together the fragments of this man's past.
Then, a sudden, warm breath ghosted against the back of his neck.

Peter froze. His Spider-Sense, a tingling alarm bell that usually screamed at him before danger, had been strangely muted by the sheer sensory overload of the mansion and the constant chatter from his comms. But now, it flared, a frantic buzz that had him tensing, ready to strike, ready to defend.
He spun around, a defensive crouch already forming, his muscles coiling.
"Woah, woah, easy there, Ethan," Daimon Thorne said, his hands raised in a placating gesture, a faint smile on his lips. His eyes, however, held a glint of amusement, almost as if he enjoyed Peter's startled reaction. "Just me. You seemed quite engrossed."
In Peter's ear, chaos erupted.
"PETER! WHAT WAS THAT?! YOUR HEART RATE JUST SPIKED! WHAT'S GOING ON?!" Tony's voice was a frantic screech.
"Spider-Sense, Mr. Stark," Peter muttered under his breath, barely audible. "He snuck up on me."
"Snuck up on you?!" Sam's voice was incredulous. "You're telling me Spider-Man, the guy who can hear a pin drop from across the city, didn't hear a guy walking up to him?"
"He's good, okay?!" Peter retorted, trying to keep his voice low for Daimon's benefit.

"He's right there with you, Peter," Fury's calm, commanding voice cut through the noise. "Play it cool. Engage him. Ask about the painting. You're fascinated by art, remember?"
Peter forced himself to relax, though his muscles still thrummed with residual tension. He managed a slightly shaky smile. "Daimon! You startled me. I was… I was just admiring your family portraits. They're quite striking." He gestured to the painting of the young Daimon. "Especially this one. The boy… he looks so serious."
Daimon's smile softened, a wistful quality entering his eyes as he looked at the portrait. "Ah, yes. That was me, many years ago. A solemn child, I suppose. Not much has changed." He chuckled, a low, melancholic sound. "These are echoes of a different time. A time when… when I wasn't quite so alone." His gaze returned to Peter, a subtle shift, a hint of something yearning in his blue eyes. "But enough of my past. I believe breakfast is ready. Are you hungry, Ethan?"

He extended a hand once more, an invitation that was difficult to refuse. Peter hesitated for a second, then took it. Daimon's fingers intertwined with his, a comforting warmth that seeped into Peter's palm. A strange sensation bloomed in Peter’s chest, a warmth that was deeply unsettling. His body, the raw, instinctual part of him that felt Spider-Sense and the world through hyper-attuned senses, seemed to whisper, trust him. He might actually be good. But his mind, analytical and cautious, screamed, Danger! Keep your guard up! This is a trap! The conflicting signals were dizzying.
"I am, actually," Peter managed, trying to sound a little more confident. "Lead the way."
As they walked towards the dining room, Daimon kept Peter's hand in his, his thumb gently caressing Peter's knuckles. Peter tried to remain impassive, but he could feel the flush rising to his cheeks.
"Tony's ears are probably about to explode," Clint whispered in his comms, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"I can practically hear the steam coming out of his non-existent ears," Sam added, equally amused.
"Knock it off, you two!" Natasha’s voice was sharp. "Peter, just focus. Remember the objective."
Peter subtly squeezed Daimon’s hand back, just a fraction of a second, just enough to convey polite engagement, not outright reciprocation. He felt Daimon’s grip tighten almost imperceptibly in response. A shiver ran down Peter’s spine, a delicate dance of give and take, a game he was only just beginning to learn.
Breakfast was a lavish affair, served in a sun-drenched dining room overlooking rolling hills. Daimon was an attentive host, asking Peter about his studies, his interests, his dreams for the future. He listened intently, his blue eyes never leaving Peter’s face, as if Peter's words were the most fascinating things he had ever heard.

"So, art history," Daimon mused, leaning back in his chair, a half-eaten pastry on his plate. "A passion, or simply an academic pursuit, Ethan?"
"A bit of both, I suppose," Peter replied, taking a sip of his orange juice. "I've always been drawn to the stories behind the art, the lives of the artists. And I find beauty in unexpected places." He met Daimon’s gaze directly, trying to convey a touch of sincerity, a hint of depth beneath the facade of naivete.
Daimon smiled, a slow, captivating smile that sent a jolt through Peter. "Indeed. Beauty is everywhere, if one only knows how to look. And to appreciate its true value." His eyes lingered on Peter for a moment, a subtle, almost imperceptible flirtation. "I suspect you have a profound capacity for appreciation, Ethan."
Peter felt his cheeks warm, and he quickly looked down at his plate. "I… I try."
"Good, Peter," Maria Hill whispered in his ear. "That was perfect. Just enough. Don't overdo it."
Tony, however, seemed less thrilled. "I swear, if he tries to offer you a ring, Peter, I'm busting in there myself. With a tactical nuke."
"Relax, Tony," Bruce’s calm voice intervened. "He's just being charming. It's part of the act."
"It's working too well," Tony muttered, sounding genuinely annoyed.
After breakfast, Daimon placed his napkin neatly beside his plate. "I'm afraid I have some pressing matters to attend to," he said, rising from the table. "Business calls, as they say." He smiled at Peter, a warm, inviting gesture. "Please, feel free to explore the grounds, the library, anything you wish. Consider this your home for as long as you desire." He paused, his smile fading slightly. "However, I must ask that you avoid certain areas. My private study, for instance, and a few of the more… sensitive wings of the house. Just for your safety, of course. Some of my collections are rather… delicate."
"Oh," Peter said, trying to sound a little disappointed but understanding. "Which parts are those?"
Daimon chuckled, a low, dismissive sound. "No need to trouble your pretty head with such details, Ethan. Just know that if a door is locked, it's locked for a reason. And I trust you to respect my privacy." He gave Peter a final, lingering look, a subtle wink that made Peter's stomach do a flip. "Until later, then."
And with that, Daimon Thorne left the dining room, his presence lingering in the air like an expensive perfume.
Peter was left alone, the vastness of the mansion suddenly feeling even larger, more empty. He looked at the untouched food on his plate, his appetite gone.
"Alright, Peter," Fury's voice was back to its crisp, professional tone. "He's gone to his office. This is your chance. We need to know what those 'sensitive wings' are. Start with the library. See if you can find any clues about what he's hiding."

"Got it, Director," Peter replied, pushing himself away from the table. He felt a surge of nervous energy. This was the real work. The charming conversations and polite flirting were just the prelude.
Meanwhile, Daimon Thorne entered his private office, a lavish space filled with dark wood, antique maps, and a massive desk overflowing with documents. Alexander was already waiting for him, standing by a seemingly ordinary bookshelf.
Daimon walked over to it, placing his hand on a specific volume of ancient philosophy. With a soft click, a section of the bookshelf slid inward, revealing a hidden doorway. It led to a dark, windowless room, the air within smelling faintly of ozone and something metallic.
"He's quite… receptive, wouldn't you say, Alexander?" Daimon remarked, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he stepped into the hidden room. The lights flickered on, revealing a stark, almost sterile environment, contrasting sharply with the opulence of the rest of the mansion. There were monitors, strange intricate devices, and a large, empty table in the center.
"He appears to be, sir," Alexander replied, following him in, his gaze sweeping over the various screens. "But that doesn't mean he's not a threat."
"Oh, he is a threat," Daimon purred, running a gloved hand over the cold surface of a polished steel console. "A beautiful, alluring threat. And that's precisely why he's here." He turned to Alexander, his eyes cold and calculating. "They think they can use his innocence against me. They think he is just a pawn in their game." He chuckled, a dark, humorless sound. "They have no idea. This is my game. And Ethan… Ethan is merely the most exquisite piece I have ever acquired."
He walked over to a large monitor that displayed complex data, graphs, and schematics Peter wouldn't understand. "I’ve felt alone for so long, Alexander. Unloved, misunderstood. Every connection has been… transactional. But Ethan… he possesses a purity, a light, that is almost intoxicating. I will make him fall in love with me. Truly, irrevocably. And then, I will show him the true nature of the world. The true pain that lies beneath all the false smiles and empty promises. He will understand me. He will see the world through my eyes. And when he does, they will all feel the consequences."
He gestured vaguely at the various screens. "This is where the real work happens, Alexander. The shaping. The understanding. And soon, the… revelation. Ethan will be instrumental in showing them what true pain feels like. A pain born of broken trust, of love betrayed. Because that, my dear Alexander, is the most exquisite pain of all." His voice was soft, almost tender, but the words chilled Alexander to the bone.
Daimon's mood shifted, a sudden, almost childish glee lighting up his face. "But for now… for now, we play. He's exploring, isn't he? Let him explore. Let him feel a sense of freedom, of discovery. It will only make the eventual outcome all the more… potent." He turned back to the console, his fingers dancing over the controls, a sinister smile on his face.

Peter, meanwhile, was diligently searching. He moved through the library, pulling books from shelves, feigning interest in their contents while his eyes scanned for anything unusual. He checked behind paintings, ran his hands over the ornate fireplaces, even tapped on the walls, listening for hollow sounds.
"Alright, Peter, anything?" Natasha's voice was crisp. "Any strange papers? Hidden compartments? Secret passages that aren't on the schematics?"
"Nothing so far, Nat," Peter whispered back, running his hand along a gilded bookshelf. "This place is a labyrinth, but everything seems… normal. Just really, really fancy."
"Keep looking," Fury ordered. "Thorne is meticulous. There has to be something."
Peter moved to another room, a drawing-room filled with antique musical instruments. He paused by a grand piano, his fingers itching to play a few notes, but he refrained. He was Ethan. Ethan was an art history student, not a secret pianist.

He walked towards a large, intricately carved wooden cabinet, his eyes scanning it for any hidden latches or unusual seams. He was about to reach for a decorative handle when his Spider-Sense suddenly went off.
It wasn't a whisper, or a murmur. It was a full-blown scream in his head, a blinding, disorienting surge of pure, unadulterated danger. It hit him like a physical blow, leaving him frozen in place, his breath caught in his throat.
In S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, the monitors flared. Peter's heart rate spiked dramatically, shooting off the charts. The small, red indicator on his vital signs monitor began to flash wildly.
"PETER?! WHAT THE HELL?!" Tony's voice was a roar of alarm. "HIS VITALS ARE GOING CRAZY! WHAT'S HAPPENING?!"
"He's frozen!" Maria Hill exclaimed, her eyes glued to the screen showing Peter's live feed. "His Spider-Sense just went off, big time!"
Peter, still rigid with the overwhelming sense of dread, slowly, cautiously, turned his head. His eyes darted around the room, searching for the source of the danger. He saw nothing. No weapons, no assailants, no obvious threats. Yet, his Spider-Sense was screaming, a primal warning that something truly bad was coming.
Then, he saw him.
Standing in the doorway, quiet and unmoving, was Alexander, Daimon Thorne’s stoic valet. His face was, as always, devoid of emotion, but his eyes… his eyes were sharp, cold, and filled with a chilling, unmistakable lack of trust. He wasn’t looking at Peter with suspicion. He was looking at him with certainty. The certainty of a hunter who had just spotted his prey.

"Who is that?!" Tony demanded, his voice tight with barely suppressed panic. "Peter, talk to us! What's going on?!"
"It's… it's Alexander," Peter managed to stammer, his voice thin, his eyes locked with the valet's unblinking gaze. "Thorne's… his man. And he knows."
The silence in the S.H.I.E.L.D. ops room was deafening, punctuated only by the frantic beeping of Peter's vital sign monitor. The spider had just walked into the web, and the most dangerous spider in the room wasn't Daimon Thorne. It was the silent, watchful man who saw everything.

Chapter Text

Peter stood frozen, his Spider-Sense screaming in his head, his eyes locked with Alexander’s. The valet's gaze was like a laser, dissecting him, stripping away the carefully constructed facade of Ethan John. It was a look that screamed "I know who you are."
"Peter, what is it?" Yelena’s voice, sharp and urgent, cut through the buzzing in his ears. "Who is that? Why the spike?"
"It's Alexander," Peter whispered, his voice barely audible, his muscles tensed for a fight. "The guy who picked me up. He's looking at me like… he knows."
"He's onto you, then," Yelena stated, her tone calm despite the obvious tension in her voice. "Play it cool, Peter. Don't let him rattle you. He's trying to provoke a reaction. Don't give him one."
Alexander, a silent sentinel, took a slow, deliberate step into the room. Then another. He moved with the quiet grace of a predator, his eyes never leaving Peter. The air in the opulent drawing-room suddenly felt heavy, thick with unspoken accusation. Peter forced himself to relax his shoulders, to loosen his fists, to project the naive confusion of Ethan John.
"Good morning, Mr. John," Alexander said, his voice as flat and emotionless as ever, but with an underlying steel that sent another shiver down Peter's spine. "I trust you slept well?"
"Yes, thank you, Alexander," Peter replied, forcing a polite, slightly bewildered smile. "I was just admiring the instruments here. This grand piano is magnificent. Do you play?" He hoped the question would divert Alexander, shift the focus.
Alexander ignored the question, his eyes narrowed. He took another step, closing the distance between them. Peter’s heart hammered against his ribs. He could hear Tony’s frantic whispers in his ear, "Oh god, oh god, I knew it! Get out of there, Peter! He's gonna break your pretty face, I knew it!"
"Mr. John," Alexander continued, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. He was barely a foot away now, his presence intimidating, his gaze piercing. "What exactly is your purpose here? Who sent you?"
"I… I don't understand," Peter stammered, his carefully practiced innocent confusion on full display. He even managed to put a slight tremble in his voice. "Daimon invited me. I'm just here to learn about art, and… and perhaps see a bit of the world."
Alexander’s eyes flashed with unconcealed contempt. He took another step, crowding Peter, his sheer size and menacing aura making the small drawing-room feel even smaller. "Don't play coy with me, boy. Daimon Thorne does not invite 'art history students' for casual visits. Not unless there's an agenda."
"Peter, stay calm," Fury's voice, remarkably steady, cut through Tony's panicked shouts. "Maintain character. Deny everything. Use the 'naive art student' angle."
Alexander suddenly lunged, his movement swift and brutal. Peter’s Spider-Sense screamed, but before he could react, Alexander had him. A strong hand clamped onto Peter's chest, shoving him hard against a tall, ornate bookshelf. The impact rattled the books, sending a few scattering to the polished floor. A sharp pain shot through Peter’s back, a gasp escaping him.
"WHAT THE HELL?!" Tony roared in Peter's ear, his voice raw with fury. "ALEXANDER, YOU SON OF A –"
"SILENCE, STARK!" Fury snapped, his voice like a whip. "Peter, focus! He's testing you! Stay in character!"
Alexander’s face was inches from Peter’s, his eyes burning with an cold, implacable rage. "Who are you working for?! What is your plan?! Tell me, boy! What do you intend to do to Daimon?!" His voice was a harsh whisper, laced with barely contained violence.
Peter forced himself to gasp, to appear genuinely terrified, despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. "I… I don't know what you're talking about! Please, you're hurting me!" He tried to sound genuinely distressed, tears welling in his eyes not from fear, but from the sheer terror of being exposed. He hated this. He hated lying. He hated being so utterly helpless.
"Don't lie to me!" Alexander snarled, pressing him harder against the unforgiving wood. "I know a plant when I see one! You think you're clever, don't you? With your innocent eyes and your quiet charm. But you reek of deception!"
"My only plan is to enjoy Daimon's hospitality!" Peter choked out, trying to sound genuinely indignant through his feigned fear. "I don't know what you think I am, but I'm just… I'm just Ethan John! An art student! What reason would I have to hurt him?" He looked directly into Alexander’s furious eyes, trying to project pure bewilderment.
A long, agonizing moment passed. Alexander’s grip didn't lessen, but the intensity in his eyes flickered, just for a second. He was searching for a tell, a slip.
"Excellent, Peter," Fury's voice was calm, almost soothing. "Hold your ground. Keep that bewildered look. You're almost through it."
Alexander's gaze remained unwavering, scrutinizing Peter's face as if trying to find a crack in the facade. He seemed to be weighing Peter's words, searching for any sign of a lie. The pressure against the bookshelf remained. Peter squeezed his eyes shut for a brief second, forcing a tear to escape, letting it track down his cheek. It was a desperate gamble, playing on Alexander’s perception of him as 'delicate.'
Finally, with a grunt of frustration, Alexander released him. The sudden absence of pressure made Peter stumble forward slightly, rubbing his back where the bookshelf had pressed against him.
Alexander stepped back, his posture rigid, his face a mask of suspicion. "Listen carefully, 'Ethan John'," he snarled, his voice low and menacing. "If you try anything, anything at all, to harm Daimon, or to betray his trust, you will face consequences you cannot even begin to imagine. Consequences that will make you wish you had never set foot in this house. Do you understand?"
Peter nodded, forcing a shaky breath. "Y-yes. I understand." He tried to look cowed, intimidated.
Alexander held his gaze for another long, silent moment, then turned sharply and walked out of the room, his footsteps echoing ominously on the marble floor.
Peter stood there, trembling slightly, the adrenaline still coursing through him. He rubbed his aching back, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm.
"Peter? You okay, kid?" Tony’s voice was filled with frantic concern, now that the immediate threat was gone. "Are you hurt? I'm coming in there, so help me—"
"No, Mr. Stark, don't!" Peter cut him off, shaking his head. "I'm fine. Just… he pushed me against a bookshelf. It was intense. But I held it together."
"You did well, Peter," Natasha's calm voice commended him. "He's definitely suspicious. He's on to you. We need to figure out what information he has, and more importantly, how to get him out of the picture if he becomes a serious obstacle."
"Understood, Nat," Peter mumbled, still catching his breath. He walked over to the bookshelf, picking up the fallen books, trying to appear nonchalant in case Alexander was still watching. "So, what now? Do I keep looking around?"
"Yes, continue as planned," Fury instructed. "But be extra cautious. Alexander is a wild card. He's loyal to Thorne, to an almost fanatical degree. And he's intelligent."
Peter let out a shaky sigh. "Great. Just what I needed. A super-smart, super-loyal bodyguard who wants to kill me."
"Just focus on the mission, Peter," Sam advised. "We'll figure out Alexander. Your priority is to gather intel and to solidify your cover with Thorne."
Peter nodded, though his stomach still churned. He finished tidying the bookshelf, then wandered out of the drawing-room, heading towards the opposite wing of the mansion. He needed to clear his head. And he had a burning question.
"Fury," Peter said, keeping his voice low, "can you tell me… what's Daimon's story? Why is he doing all this? What happened to him?" The vulnerability he’d seen in the child’s portrait, combined with Daimon’s brief, melancholic comment about being "alone," had sparked a morbid curiosity.
A beat of silence from the comms, then Fury's voice, surprisingly soft. "It's not a pretty story, Peter. And it doesn't excuse what he's doing, but it might help you understand his motivations. Thorne was born into immense wealth, but also immense isolation. His parents, the people in those portraits you saw, were powerful, influential figures, but they were also… emotionally distant. Cold. They saw Daimon as an heir, a commodity, not a son. They groomed him for power from a young age, subjecting him to rigorous, almost brutal, intellectual and physical training, devoid of any genuine affection."
Peter listened, a sense of grim fascination growing within him. "So, he was neglected?"
"Worse than that," Fury continued, his voice hardening slightly. "His younger sister, the girl in the portrait, was the only person he ever truly connected with. She was his anchor, his confidante. She was the only one who saw him, truly saw him, beyond the Thorne name. But when Daimon was around your age, nineteen, twenty… she died."
Peter's breath hitched. "Oh no. How?"
"It was an accident," Fury explained, his voice flat. "Or at least, that's what the official report stated. A boating accident. But Daimon… Daimon believes she was murdered. He believes her death was orchestrated by powerful rivals of his family, an act of calculated cruelty designed to break his parents, and him. He claims they covered it up, dismissed it as an accident to protect their own reputations, their own power. He saw it as the ultimate betrayal, not just of his sister, but of his entire world."
"He sought justice," Maria Hill added, her voice echoing in his ear. "He tried everything. He used his family's vast resources, his brilliant mind. But he hit brick walls at every turn. The system, the very power structures his parents had built, refused to yield. He came to believe that the world, as it stands, is inherently corrupt, filled with deceit and hypocrisy. That everyone is driven by a hidden agenda, by a desire for power, and that true love, true connection, is a lie."
"So, he wants to make the world feel what he felt?" Peter asked, a chill running down his spine. The puzzle pieces of Daimon’s personality were starting to click into place, forming a terrifying picture. The loneliness, the meticulous control, the obsession with vulnerability.
"Precisely," Fury confirmed. "He wants to expose the hypocrisy, to dismantle the established order, to show people the true pain that lies beneath their carefully constructed illusions. He believes that by making everyone suffer, truly suffer, they will finally understand the 'truth' of existence. And he will be the one to guide them through that suffering. He wants to tear down the world and rebuild it in his own image, where only those who have faced true pain can thrive. And for that, he seeks to corrupt, to break, to manipulate."
Peter walked, lost in thought, the sheer tragedy of Daimon Thorne's backstory shocking him to his core. It didn't excuse his actions, but it explained them. He was a man consumed by grief, by a profound sense of betrayal, twisted into a dangerous sociopath. And now, Peter was his next target, his beautiful toy, the object he intended to corrupt and use to inflict pain on the world. The thought made him shiver.
"And that, Peter," Fury's voice brought him back to the present, "is why he's so drawn to you. Your perceived innocence, your lack of cynicism… he sees it as something to be molded, to be broken. You represent everything he believes is false, and therefore, everything he wants to corrupt. So, you need to turn the tables. If Alexander is suspicious, you need to solidify Daimon’s trust. Not just as 'Ethan John,' but as someone he desires, someone he believes he can control."
Peter suddenly felt a presence. His Spider-Sense, which had been buzzing faintly since Alexander left, now gave a low, steady thrum. He turned, and there, standing at the end of the long corridor, was Daimon Thorne. The afternoon sun, filtering through a large window, cast a golden halo around him. He looked fresh, impeccably dressed, as if he hadn't just been in a secret, sinister room. He was done with his "business."
"Well, hello there, Ethan," Daimon said, his voice warm and inviting. He smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes, a complete contrast to the cold, calculating man Peter had just heard about. "Enjoying your exploration?"
"Remember the plan, Peter," Maria Hill whispered. "You need to be the one flirting now. He needs to believe you're captivated. That he's winning you over."
Peter took a deep breath. This was it. Time to play the part. He forced a shy smile, letting his eyes linger on Daimon's. "Daimon," he said, his voice softer than usual. "I was beginning to wonder where you'd disappeared to." He started walking towards Daimon, his movements designed to be a little more fluid, a little less hesitant than 'Ethan John' had been yesterday.
"Oh, just attending to some rather… tedious matters," Daimon replied, his smile widening slightly as Peter approached. "Nothing nearly as interesting as your company, I assure you."
Peter reached him, stopping just a comfortable distance away. He looked up at Daimon, letting his gaze convey a mixture of admiration and playful curiosity. "Tedious business, hmm? Sounds like someone needs a distraction." He let his hand, almost instinctively, reach out and lightly brush Daimon's arm, just for a fleeting second, a touch that lingered just long enough to be noticeable, but not overtly suggestive. "Were your meetings… productive?"
Tony's voice, a strangled choke, filled Peter's comm. "Oh, god. He's doing it. He's actually doing it. My poor, innocent boy. I'm going to need so much therapy after this."
"Keep going, Peter," Yelena encouraged, a hint of something like approval in her voice. "He's reacting."
Daimon's eyes seemed to darken slightly, a flicker of surprise and pleasure passing through them. His smile deepened. "Productive enough, yes. I had discussions with… certain key individuals. About future endeavors. Strategic alliances." He didn't elaborate, but his gaze was still fixed on Peter, clearly captivated by the shift in Peter's demeanor.
Peter nodded slowly, maintaining eye contact, a slight, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Strategic alliances, sounds very… important." He took another subtle step closer, his body language open and inviting. "And I'm sure you handled them all brilliantly. You have a very… commanding presence." He deliberately deepened his voice slightly, letting it become a little more sultry, a little less innocent.
"Peter, you're killing me here," Tony groaned in his ear, sounding genuinely pained. "My internal organs are spontaneously combusting."
"Excellent work, Peter," Natasha approved. "He's hooked. Keep him talking about the meetings. We need names, places, anything."
Daimon chuckled, a low, pleased sound. He reached out and gently took Peter’s hand, his fingers intertwining with Peter's, his thumb slowly stroking the back of Peter's hand. "Why, thank you, Ethan. You're quite observant. I daresay, your presence has already made this afternoon far more… stimulating." His eyes held a spark of something possessive, something that sent a thrill of both fear and a strange, perverse satisfaction through Peter. The seduction was working.
"Oh, I'm sure," Peter murmured, his voice a little breathy, allowing himself to lean slightly into Daimon's touch. He squeezed Daimon's hand lightly in return, a silent promise of more. "I aim to please." He inwardly cringed at the line, but it seemed to have the desired effect.
"Please tell me about these 'strategic alliances'," Peter continued, shifting the conversation back to the mission. He subtly let his free hand drift, almost unconsciously, to Daimon’s back, lightly tracing the expensive fabric of his suit jacket. "Who are these… 'key individuals'? Anyone interesting?"
Daimon's eyes fluttered for a brief moment, a visible sign of pleasure. He seemed to momentarily forget his usual discretion. "Well, there was Senator Vance, from the European Union. A rather… influential figure in Brussels. And Lady Anastasia Volkov, a brilliant mind in… cybernetics." He seemed to be almost purring, the gentle stroking of Peter's hand on his back clearly affecting him. "We discussed… future collaborations regarding information networks."
"YES! GOT IT!" Tony's triumphant whisper echoed in Peter's ear, quickly followed by the frantic tapping of keys as S.H.I.E.L.D. agents began cross-referencing the names.
Peter continued to stroke Daimon's back, moving his hand slowly, lingeringly, letting his touch be a soft caress. He could feel Daimon’s muscles tense slightly under his fingers, a physical manifestation of the pleasure he was clearly experiencing.
"Information networks, you say?" Peter whispered, his voice a little huskier now, his face a little closer to Daimon's. He kept his eyes wide, innocent, yet with an underlying spark of intrigue. "That sounds incredibly… complex. You must be very clever to manage all of that."
Daimon’s breath hitched. His eyes, usually so sharp and cold, seemed to soften, almost glaze over. A faint flush crept up his neck. "I… I have my talents, Ethan," he murmured, his voice slightly strained, clearly struggling to maintain his composure under Peter’s touch. He was visibly affected, his composure starting to crumble. Peter felt a surge of cold power. He was doing it. He was breaking through.
"He's getting dizzy with pleasure, Peter!" Yelena practically crowed in his ear. "Keep it up! You're brilliant!"
"My God, he's actually going to get information out of him by… that," Clint muttered, sounding bewildered.
Peter leaned in even closer, his touch on Daimon’s back becoming more deliberate, almost possessive. He could feel the warmth radiating from Daimon's body, the subtle tremble in his hand. Daimon was starting to lose himself in the moment. Peter’s heart hammered, a mix of fear and strange exhilaration. He was playing a dangerous game, one that made his skin crawl, but it was working.
Just as Daimon seemed about to divulge more, perhaps even succumb entirely to Peter's calculated charm, Peter pulled back slightly, breaking the physical contact, but not the intense eye contact. He smiled, a soft, inviting smile that promised more, but held back just enough to keep Daimon wanting.
"I can tell," Peter said, his voice back to a slightly more innocent tone. "You're full of surprises, Daimon Thorne."
Daimon looked at him, his eyes still a little dazed, clearly wanting more of Peter’s touch. "And you, Ethan John," he murmured, his voice still low and husky, "are becoming the most fascinating mystery I've ever encountered. A mystery I am very much looking forward to unraveling."
Peter felt a chill despite the warmth of the encounter. He had played his part. He had gotten information. But he had also taken a step further down a very dangerous path. He had seen the way Daimon looked at him, the possessiveness, the desire. And he knew, with chilling certainty, that the game of seduction had just begun, and the stakes were higher than ever.
What other secrets did Daimon Thorne hold, and how far would Peter have to go to uncover them?

Chapter Text

The S.H.I.E.L.D. operations room erupted into a controlled frenzy the moment Peter uttered the names: Senator Vance and Lady Anastasia Volkov. Computers hummed, agents barked orders, and within minutes, the screens around Natasha Romanoff flickered with dossiers and intelligence reports.
"Alright, people, what do we have?" Bucky Barnes asked, his voice tight, pacing restlessly. "Why would a senator and a cybernetics genius be working with a maniac like Thorne?"
Rhodes, ever the pragmatist, leaned forward, his expression grim. "Thorne promises things. What does a senator want? More power, influence. What does a reclusive genius want? Resources, freedom to push boundaries. He probably dangled something irresistible in front of them."
Natasha, her fingers flying across a holographic keyboard, finally paused, a stack of data scrolling across her main screen. "Got it. Senator Elias Vance. European Union, long-serving. Publicly, he's a champion of economic stability and international cooperation. Privately, he's known for his ruthless ambition and a strong belief in centralized control. Our intel suggests he feels constrained by democratic processes, believes he could 'optimize' global governance if he wasn't bogged down by petty politics."
"So, Thorne's offering him the chance to play God?" Steve Rogers grunted, his jaw tight.
"Something like that," Natasha confirmed. "He's been pushing legislation that, on the surface, seems harmless – streamlining trade agreements, improving data sharing protocols. But when you connect the dots, these initiatives systematically weaken national sovereignty and centralize critical infrastructure under EU control, which then, ironically, becomes easier for someone like Thorne to manipulate on a larger scale. Vance thinks he's building a new world order; Thorne's just pulling the strings."
"And Lady Anastasia Volkov?" Sam Wilson prompted.
Natasha brought up Anastasia’s profile. "Dr. Anastasia Volkov. Russian, brilliant, a prodigy in AI and neuro-cybernetics. She founded 'MindStream Innovations,' a cutting-edge research firm. Her public work focuses on medical applications – prosthetic limbs, neural implants for paralysis. But her classified research, funded by anonymous sources – likely Thorne – delves into predictive behavioral algorithms, advanced psychological profiling, and the development of neural network interfaces that can subtly influence human cognition on a mass scale."
"She's building his mind control machine," Clint Barton stated flatly, his eyes narrowed.
"Not mind control, exactly," Maria Hill corrected, appearing on a tactical screen. "More like… thought guidance. Influencing decisions, shifting opinions, eroding critical thinking. She believes humanity is too chaotic, too prone to irrationality. Thorne's selling her on the idea of creating a 'perfectly ordered society' where AI guides humanity towards optimal choices, eliminating conflict and irrationality. He's promising her the ultimate control over humanity's destiny, filtered through her 'benevolent' AI."
Tony Stark, who had been listening intently, finally spoke, his voice filled with a chilling realization. "Okay, so Vance is eroding political structures, and Volkov is building the digital infrastructure to manipulate populations. But… how? Thorne's backstory, it's tragic, yeah, but he wants the world to feel the 'pain he felt.' He wants to tear down the world. People don't just blindly follow a charismatic sociopath because he promises them a better world. There has to be something more." Tony looked around the room, his gaze settling on Fury. "How does he get people to actually go along with mass suffering? What's the endgame? What's the lever?"

A heavy silence descended upon the room. No one had an answer. This was beyond the scope of their current intel.
Fury's gaze hardened. "That, Stark, is the billion-dollar question. And right now, only Peter can get us that answer. He's the only one close enough to Thorne to find out how, and more importantly, why, Thorne truly intends to make the world burn."

Back in the mansion, Peter felt a strange sense of exhilaration mixed with profound unease. He had Daimon Thorne wrapped around his finger, at least for now. The subtle flirtation, the lingering touches, the feigned admiration – it had all worked perfectly. He had extracted crucial names, vital pieces of the puzzle. It felt empowering, being in control, manipulating the manipulator. But a voice in the back of his mind screamed for caution. This seductive dance was dangerous. The line between Ethan John and Peter Parker was blurring, and he knew, instinctively, that if he pushed this façade too far, something irreversible would happen. He wasn't ready for that.
Unbeknownst to Peter, outside the corridor where he and Daimon had been speaking, Alexander had been a silent, unmoving shadow. He had heard every whispered word, every suggestive phrase. He had heard 'Ethan' charming Daimon, extracting information about his meetings, about Vance and Volkov. A cold fury settled in Alexander’s gut. This 'Ethan John' wasn't just a threat; he was an insult. A thinly veiled operative, so transparently attempting to pry into Daimon's affairs, yet Daimon, blinded by what Alexander could only describe as infatuation, was falling for it.
When Daimon finally bade Peter goodnight and returned to his private office, Alexander followed, as he always did.
"Sir," Alexander began, his voice flat but with an edge of suppressed anger, "Ethan John was asking about your meetings. He was actively trying to extract information about Senator Vance and Lady Volkov. His questions were… pointed."

Daimon, however, seemed to be on another planet. He walked past Alexander, a dreamy, distant look in his eyes. He collapsed into his desk chair, a faint smile on his lips. "Isn't he simply charming, Alexander? So eager to learn, so utterly fascinated. His hands… they were so soft." Daimon closed his eyes, a blissful sigh escaping him. "And the way he looked at me, Alexander. So earnest. So… captivated. He hung on my every word. It's truly… delightful."
Alexander felt a surge of pure, raw betrayal. His fists clenched at his sides. For years, he had been Daimon’s most loyal confidant, his shield, his shadow. He had been the one to protect Daimon from every threat, every betrayal. He had loved Daimon in his own quiet, fiercely devoted way, a love that had festered in silence since childhood. And now, this… boy, this obvious infiltrator, was being trusted, cherished even, over him. The jealousy was a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Sir," Alexander pressed, his voice rising slightly, "he is clearly an operative. His questions were too precise. His background is almost nonexistent. He is a plant, sent to gather intel, to betray you!"
Daimon’s eyes snapped open, a flash of annoyance clouding their blue depths. He looked at Alexander as if seeing him for the first time. "Are you deaf, Alexander? Or merely obtuse? I told you, if he is a plant, then he is my plant. I will break him. I will make him mine. And he will understand what I understand. You worry too much. You always have." His voice grew colder, sharper. "You lack vision, Alexander. You lack the understanding of true beauty, of true potential."
"But sir, he is dangerous!" Alexander insisted, stepping forward, desperation creeping into his tone. "He is playing you! He is not who he says he is!"

"ENOUGH!" Daimon roared, slamming his hand down on his desk. The sudden fury startled Alexander. Daimon rose, his face contorted with rage, his eyes blazing. "You presume too much, Alexander! You dare to question my judgment, my methods, my guests?! You forget your place!" He pointed a trembling finger at the door. "Get out. Get out of my sight. Now."

Alexander flinched, stung by the vitriol, by the sheer force of Daimon's anger. He felt a profound sense of loss, of utter devastation. He had dedicated his entire life to Daimon, protecting him, loving him in the only way he knew how. And Daimon had chosen a pretty, inexperienced face over his unwavering loyalty.
Silent, head bowed, Alexander turned and left the office, the door closing softly behind him. He stood outside for a long time, listening to the heavy silence of the corridor. The betrayal burned. The jealousy festered. Daimon had trusted a stranger, a perceived weakness, over his most devoted servant. In that moment, a chilling resolve settled within Alexander. He would not allow this 'Ethan John' to corrupt Daimon. He would not allow him to betray the man Alexander loved. He would get rid of Ethan, one way or another. This was no longer just about protecting Daimon; it was about eliminating a rival, a threat to his own twisted devotion. It became his solo mission.

A few hours later, Peter was in his room, meticulously typing a quick, innocuous message to Aunt May. "Hey May! Having a great time with Mr. Stark's 'internship.' Learning so much! Miss you guys. Give Happy a hug for me! Love you!" He smiled faintly. It was a lifeline, a tiny thread connecting him to his real life, to the people who truly loved him. He finished typing, closed the app, and made sure all of Tony’s sophisticated security protocols were active, making his phone virtually unhackable.
A soft knock came at his door. "Mr. John? Dinner is served." It was one of the mansion’s quiet, efficient servants.
"Thank you, I'll be right there," Peter replied, running a hand through his hair. He patted his hidden comms, ensuring they were secure. He felt a pang of hunger. All that emotional manipulation and near-death experiences with Alexander had apparently worked up an appetite.
He made his way to the large, formal dining room. Daimon was already seated at the head of the long table, a solitary, powerful figure. He offered Peter a warm, inviting smile, as if the entire Alexander incident had never happened. Peter’s Spider-Sense remained a low hum, a constant undercurrent of unease, but nothing screamed immediate danger. He was becoming accustomed to it.
The meal began. Peter, ever the polite guest, engaged Daimon in light conversation about art and travel. He ate the exquisite food, savoring the rich flavors. He felt a strange lightness, a sense of relief after the tension of the day.

Unbeknownst to him, in the vast, gleaming kitchen, Alexander stood quietly, observing the final preparations of Peter's meal. As the head chef, a portly Frenchman, finished garnishing a plate, Alexander subtly, expertly, added a few drops from a small, dark vial into Peter's soup, stirring it in with a casual flick of his wrist. It was cyanide, specifically formulated to be slow-acting, to mimic a sudden, severe illness, leading to a quiet, undeniable death within a few hours. No one would ever suspect foul play. Peter's death would be a tragedy, nothing more.
Peter took another spoonful of soup. It tasted normal. But then, a few minutes later, as Daimon was recounting a story about a rare antiquity he once acquired, Peter felt a sudden, unsettling lurch in his stomach. A strange heat began to spread through his limbs. His vision blurred, just for a second.
"Peter? You okay?" Tony's voice, laced with concern, suddenly echoed in his ear. "Your heart rate just spiked. Big time. What's happening?"
Peter tried to answer, but his tongue felt thick, his mouth strangely dry. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat. He felt a wave of nausea wash over him, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. The opulent dining room began to spin.
Daimon, ever observant, immediately noticed. His charming smile vanished, replaced by a look of sharp concern. "Ethan? Are you alright? You've gone quite pale."
Peter tried to play it off, to offer a reassuring smile, but his body wouldn't obey. His muscles felt weak, like jelly. A searing pain shot through his bones, a deep, aching throbbing that made him clench his teeth. His vision swam.
"I… I don't feel so good," Peter managed to stammer, his voice weak. The room tilted precariously. He tried to push himself up from the table, but his limbs wouldn't respond. He gasped, a short, ragged breath.
Then, darkness. Peter Parker, Spider-Man, succumbed to the poison, collapsing forward onto the polished dining table, unconscious.
"PETER! PETER, CAN YOU HEAR ME?! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!" Tony’s voice was pure panic, a terrified scream.
Daimon Thorne reacted instantly. He was by Peter's side in a flash, his earlier concern transforming into a cold, furious urgency. "Ethan! What's wrong?! Alexander! Get in here! Call the medical staff! Immediately!"
Alexander, who had been lingering in the shadows of the dining room, his face a picture of feigned shock, rushed forward, playing his part to perfection. "Sir! What happened?"
"He collapsed! Get help! Now!" Daimon snarled, his voice tight with unexpected fear. He carefully lifted Peter's head, cradling it in his hands. Peter’s skin was clammy, his breathing shallow.
In the S.H.I.E.L.D. ops room, chaos reigned. Peter’s comms were still active, broadcasting every panicked shout, every command.
"He's unconscious!" Maria Hill exclaimed, her face etched with worry. "His vitals are plummeting!"
"Bruce! What the hell is happening?!" Steve demanded, his voice strained.
A rapid-response medical team, always on call for the wealthy Thorne, arrived within minutes, swarming around Peter with an almost unsettling efficiency. They moved him swiftly to a makeshift medical bay within the mansion, a surprisingly well-equipped room designed for emergencies. As they worked, attaching monitors, administering fluids, a grizzled, experienced doctor with a perpetually tired expression barked orders.
"His system is in profound shock!" the doctor announced, peering at a monitor displaying complex physiological data. "Cellular respiration is crashing! Get me the full toxicological workup, now!"
A junior medic, pale and shaking, handed him a readout. The doctor’s eyes widened, a gasp escaping him. "This is… impossible. There's a massive concentration of cyanide in his system. A lethal dose, multiple times over." He looked at Daimon, who stood rigidly by the entrance, his face a thundercloud. "Sir, by all medical standards, this young man should be dead. He shouldn't even be breathing right now. His body is fighting something truly extraordinary."
"He's a fighter," Daimon whispered, his voice dangerously low, his eyes fixed on Peter’s pale, unconscious face. "Save him, Doctor. Whatever it takes."
The doctor, bewildered but professional, worked quickly, administering powerful antidotes and supportive medications. Hours later, after Peter’s vitals had stabilized, albeit precariously, he was carefully moved back to his luxurious bed, still deeply unconscious.
Daimon Thorne never left his side. He sat in a plush armchair, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning with a cold, terrifying rage. The love of his life, the beautiful, innocent Ethan, had been attacked. Someone had dared to poison his fascination, his potential. The thought ignited a slow-burning fury within him. He would find out who did this. And they would regret the day they were born.
In the S.H.I.E.L.D. ops room, Bruce Banner had quickly synthesized the data coming from Peter's comms, confirming the doctor's assessment. "It was cyanide, Tony. A lethal dose. His Spider-DNA, his accelerated metabolism, it’s fighting it off. It's why he’s not dead. But he'll be incredibly sick. His body is essentially rebuilding itself at a hyper-accelerated rate, fighting off the poison cell by cell. It'll feel like every bone in his body is breaking, like his muscles are tearing. He'll be out of commission for days, possibly a week."

Tony had sunk into a chair, his face pale, his hands trembling. "Cyanide. I knew this was too dangerous. I knew it! Alexander, that bastard! He tried to kill my kid!"
Peter slowly, painfully, surfaced from the inky blackness. His head throbbed, a dull ache reverberating behind his eyes. His limbs felt like lead, his bones screaming with a deep, agonizing pain. He tried to move, but even the slightest shift sent a wave of nausea washing over him. He lay still, his eyes still closed, trying to orient himself.
"Peter? Peter, can you hear me?" Tony's voice, muffled and distant, came through his earpiece. "Oh my god, he's awake! Bruce! He's stirring! Kid, talk to me! What's happening?"
Peter tried to raise a hand to his ear, but his arm felt impossibly heavy. He forced his eyes open, blinking against the soft light of the room. He was alone. The room was quiet, except for the frantic whispers in his ear.
"Peter, you were poisoned," Bruce's calm, measured voice explained, cutting through Tony's frantic questions. "Cyanide. A massive dose. Your Spider-DNA saved you, but it's going to be a rough recovery. Your body is working overtime to purge the toxins. You're going to feel incredibly weak, probably for a few days."
Peter tried to push himself up, just an inch, but a dizzying wave hit him, making the room spin violently. He groaned, collapsing back onto the plush pillows, his body screaming in protest. "So… sick," he whispered, his voice a hoarse croak.
"Easy, kid, easy!" Tony urged, his voice filled with genuine anguish. "Don't move. Just rest. We're here. We're monitoring everything."
Just then, the door to his room opened, quietly. Peter forced his eyes open again. Daimon Thorne walked in, his gaze immediately finding Peter on the bed. His eyes widened slightly in surprise, then softened with relief.
"Ethan! You're awake!" Daimon rushed to the bedside, his movements quick and decisive. He knelt beside the bed, his hand gently reaching out to stroke Peter's forehead. "How are you feeling, my dear boy? You gave us all quite a fright." His voice was filled with a surprising tenderness, a profound concern that Peter found unsettling in its intensity.
Peter tried to respond, but the words wouldn't form. He felt too weak, too exhausted. His head rested heavily against the pillow. He wished Aunt May was here. She always knew what to do. She’d bring him ginger ale, tell him silly stories, just make him feel loved and safe. He ached for her warmth, for her simple, uncomplicated comfort.
"I promise you, Ethan," Daimon continued, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble, his eyes hardening with a chilling resolve. "Whoever did this to you… they will pay. They will suffer. No one harms what is mine and gets away with it. No one." He brushed Peter’s hair back from his face, his gaze possessive, fierce. "Rest now. I'm here. I won't leave you."
Peter, too weak to resist, too tired to comprehend the possessive threat in Daimon’s words, felt himself drifting back into a hazy, pain-filled dream world. The last thing he felt was Daimon’s gentle touch, the comforting weight of his presence.

Hours, or perhaps an eternity, later, Peter awoke again. The pain was still there, a constant, throbbing agony, but the nausea had lessened slightly. He felt utterly miserable, vulnerable, and profoundly trapped. The luxurious room, which had seemed like a gilded cage before, now felt like a very real prison. He was utterly dependent on Daimon, on his guards, on Alexander, who had tried to kill him. The thought made his skin crawl.
"Peter? Are you fully conscious now?" Bruce's calm voice queried through his comm. "How are you feeling? We need to reassess your condition."
"Yeah, kid, talk to us!" Tony's voice was filled with anxious relief. "You scared us half to death! Are you still in a lot of pain? What's going on in there?"
"I… I'm okay," Peter rasped, his voice still weak. "Just… really, really sore. Like I got hit by a bus." He swallowed, trying to clear his throat. He could hear the low hum of the monitors in the S.H.I.E.L.D. ops room, the rustle of papers, the low chatter of the Avengers. It was all too much. His head pounded.
"Good. Good," Steve said, sounding relieved. "Just keep resting, Peter. Don't push yourself. We need you to recover."
"Rest," Peter mumbled, a sudden wave of irritation washing over him. "You guys are being too loud. I can hear everything. I need… I need quiet." The noise, the constant surveillance, the feeling of being watched and analyzed, was stifling him. He felt an intense, irrational urge to break free, even if it was just from the constant noise in his ear.

"What?" Tony’s voice was confused. "Peter, we're your only connection in there! We need to know what's happening!"

"No," Peter insisted, his voice gaining a surprising strength fueled by his desperate need for quiet. "I need to rest. I can't… I can't do the mission if I'm like this. I need to be alone. I need quiet. I'm turning off the comms."
"Peter, wait!" Fury’s voice was sharp, commanding. "That's not advisable! You're vulnerable! We can't—"

But Peter had already made up his mind. With a trembling hand, he reached up, located the tiny earpiece, and pulled it out. He felt a profound sense of relief as the voices in his head vanished, leaving only the soft hum of the mansion around him. Then, with an almost defiant gesture, he reached around his back and pulled off the adhesive camera that Tony had so meticulously placed. He slid them both under his pillow, out of sight.
He lay there for a moment, the silence a balm. But a new feeling began to stir within him, a strange, undeniable pull. He was alone. So desperately alone. And the man who had promised vengeance, was just down the hall. Peter didn't understand it, couldn't explain it, but his aching body, his weary mind, and a strange, deep yearning in his heart, all pointed to one place. He needed comfort. He needed warmth. He needed to be in Daimon’s arms.
With a monumental effort, Peter slowly, painfully, pushed himself up from the bed. His legs wobbled, a wave of dizziness threatening to overwhelm him, but he forced himself to stand. He took a shaky step, then another, his bare feet silent on the plush carpet. He was going to Daimon's room. He didn't know why, or what would happen, but the need was primal, irresistible. The serpent’s kiss had poisoned his body, but had it also, somehow, begun to poison his heart.

Chapter Text

Daimon Thorne was in his private study, the rich mahogany and leather absorbing the last vestiges of twilight outside. He was engrossed in a complex financial report on a holographic display, the numbers swimming before his eyes, but his mind kept drifting back to ethan The boy’s pale face as he collapsed, the surprising tenderness of his touch earlier that afternoon. A flicker of worry, a sensation he rarely permitted himself, tugged at his composure.
Suddenly, a soft thud sounded from his door. He looked up, his brow furrowed. Before he could even call out, the door creaked open, revealing peter, leaning heavily against the doorframe, his face ashen, eyes wide and unfocused. He looked like a ghost, barely clinging to consciousness.
Daimon was on his feet in an instant, the financial report forgotten. His carefully cultivated composure shattered, replaced by a surge of raw alarm. "Ethan! What are you doing out of bed?! What's wrong?" He moved with surprising speed, crossing the room in two long strides.
Peter’s legs buckled, his body swaying dangerously. "D-Daimon," he croaked, his voice barely a whisper, a desperate plea. He pitched forward, a dead weight.
Daimon’s hands shot out, strong and steady, catching Peter before he could hit the floor. He felt the trembling weakness in Peter’s limbs, the clammy skin against his palms. "Easy, easy, my dear," he murmured, his voice surprisingly gentle, infused with a tenderness Peter wouldn't have expected. He carefully scooped Peter up, cradling him in his arms as if he weighed nothing. Peter’s head lolled against his shoulder, his breath ragged.
He carried Peter in his room, He laid him down gently on the vast, soft bed. Peter instantly sank into the plush mattress, a sigh escaping his lips. His body was still screaming in protest from the poison, every muscle ached, but the luxurious comfort of the bed, the gentle support of Daimon’s hands, was a profound relief.

'It’s just comfort' Peter repeated to himself like a mantra, his mind hazy with fatigue and lingering pain. 'He’s my enemy, yeah, but a little comfort won’t hurt. Just for a bit.'

Daimon knelt beside the bed, his brow furrowed with concern. He carefully brushed Peter’s damp hair back from his forehead, his touch surprisingly soft. "Ethan, my dearest, you should be resting. Why did you leave your room? What happened?" His voice was low, soothing, laced with a genuine worry that disarmed Peter completely.
Peter blinked, his eyes fluttering open. He looked up at Daimon’s worried face, the concern in his blue eyes. He didn’t have a good reason to be here, not really. Not beyond the desperate, instinctual yearning for comfort, for a human touch that wasn't laced with suspicion or a mission objective. "I… I was scared," Peter whispered, his voice weak and raw, forcing out words that felt strangely true. "I was scared someone would… would try again. While I was sleeping. I just… I didn't want to be alone."
Daimon’s expression shifted, a complex mix of understanding and fierce protectiveness. Without a word, he carefully climbed onto the bed beside Peter. He didn't lie down, but rather sat propped against the headboard, then carefully, gently, he gathered Peter into his arms.
Peter instantly melted against the man’s chest, the firm warmth of Daimon’s body a sudden, overwhelming comfort. He instinctively burrowed deeper, feeling the steady rhythm of Daimon’s heart beneath his ear. The overwhelming pain in his body lessened, replaced by a strange sense of security. He felt himself instantly relaxing, a heavy wave of drowsiness washing over him. Daimon’s hand came up, gently stroking Peter’s hair, tracing patterns on his scalp. The soft touch, combined with the rhythmic sound of Daimon’s quiet breathing, was an unexpected lullaby. Within moments, Peter was drifting, sinking into a deep, much-needed sleep.

After making sure Peter was truly asleep, his breathing even and deep, Daimon carefully extricated himself from the bed. He pulled the silk comforter up to Peter’s chin, his gaze lingering on the boy's peaceful, pale face. A fierce, protective instinct, foreign and startling in its intensity, swelled within him. He left the room, his movements silent and decisive.
He found Alexander in the main corridor, standing stiffly, a picture of watchful loyalty. Daimon’s voice was low, sharp, and laced with an icy fury. "Alexander. Come with me. We need to talk."
Alexander followed, his face impassive, but a flicker of grim satisfaction deep in his eyes. He knew exactly what this was about.
They entered Daimon’s study. Daimon turned, his eyes burning. "Someone tried to poison Ethan. Cyanide. A lethal dose. And he survived it. I want to know who. I want them found, Alexander. No excuses. I don't care what it takes."
Alexander kept his expression neutral, though his heart hammered against his ribs. The gamble had paid off. Peter was still alive, a major miscalculation, but the seed of suspicion had been planted. Daimon’s fury would be directed outwards. "Sir, I already have agents scouring the kitchen staff, reviewing security footage. Every single person who had access to his meal is being questioned. I will find this culprit." He nodded, playing the part of the dutiful subordinate. "I assure you, I will get to work immediately."
"Good," Daimon growled, his voice still vibrating with controlled rage. "I want details. I want names. I want to know how this 'poison' works, and how he survived. He’s healing, Alexander. It's… unprecedented. But that can wait. For now, find me the one responsible." Daimon turned, pacing his study like a caged predator. "Call additional security teams. I want every inch of this mansion under surveillance. No one goes near Ethan without my express permission. Am I understood?"

"Perfectly, sir," Alexander replied, his voice calm, even as a cold, calculating resolve solidified within him. He would find the "culprit," of course. And he would ensure that the trail led far, far away from himself. The boy was alive, a failure on his part, but now Daimon was dangerously attached. This changed things. Ethan had to be eliminated, irrevocably, if Alexander ever hoped to reclaim his place.

Daimon dismissed him with a wave of his hand. He then returned to his room, it was getting dark and je needed to be up early .stepping inside quietly. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat, chasing away the last vestiges of his rage, replacing it with something profoundly different.

Peter was curled on his side, utterly peaceful in sleep, his face illuminated by the soft moonlight filtering through the window. He was hugging a pillow to his chest, his brow smooth, his lips slightly parted. He looked so innocent, so vulnerable, so utterly, heartbreakingly beautiful. In that moment, watching him, a profound certainty washed over Daimon. This was it. This was the connection he had unknowingly yearned for, the light in his darkness. He swore, silently, fiercely, that if he needed to sacrifice everything, even himself, to ensure Peter’s safety, his happiness, he would do it without a second thought.
But a dark, insidious doubt gnawed at him.
If Ethan truly knew who I was, would he still stand with me?

Fury. He imagined Fury's cold, calculated descriptions. An evil villain, driven by petty revenge, desiring global control just because he had nothing better to do. How far from the truth that was. He hadn't always been like this. He had been a boy, just like Peter, filled with a naive belief in justice, in love. But the world, the people around him, the very people Peter served, they had taken everything. They had twisted him, broken him, until only the desire for others to understand his pain remained.

He thought of the message. Two weeks ago, Fury had indeed launched a probing attack on his cybernetic networks, a futile attempt to infiltrate his systems. And then, less than an hour later, Peter’s innocent-sounding text message, asking for guidance, for mentorship, for his time in the country. It was too coincidental. Alexander was right. What if Fury had sent him? An undercover mission. A beautiful, vulnerable trap.

He stopped himself, pushing the dark thoughts away. He would not allow it. He would not allow suspicion to poison this burgeoning connection. He would trust his instincts. He would trust the undeniable pull he felt towards Ethan.
Daimon moved quietly, preparing for bed. He shed his clothes, slipped into silk pajamas, and then, with deliberate tenderness, he climbed into the bed beside Peter. He lay on his side, facing Peter, and slowly, carefully, he reached out, drawing the smaller form close. He couldn't help but cuddle him, his arm wrapping around Peter’s waist, pulling him gently against his chest.
Peter, even in his deep, poisoned sleep, seemed to respond. He shifted, burrowing closer into Daimon’s warmth, his head nestling against Daimon’s chest. Daimon felt a wave of profound contentment. He chuckled softly, a low, rumbling sound in his chest, at the cute, innocent movement. The world outside, the threats, the plots, all faded away. He closed his eyes, drifting into a rare, peaceful slumber.

But the night was not kind to Daimon.
In the deepest hours, long after the moon had set, Daimon Thorne began to thrash. His body convulsed, sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, and ragged gasps tore from his throat. He was trapped in the suffocating embrace of a nightmare, a familiar terror that clawed its way from the darkest recesses of his memory.
He was back there. The yacht. The screams. The burning wreckage. His sister. Her terrified eyes, wide with disbelief as the flames consumed her. And then, the faces in the shadows. The men in expensive suits, the cold smiles, the quiet voices plotting her demise, orchestrating the "accident" to send a message to his parents. He was there, a helpless, screaming child, restrained, paralyzed, forced to watch as they experimented on him, injecting him with serums, monitoring his reactions, making him a "human experiment" to perfect their psychological torture, to ensure he would break and become a weapon for them. The betrayal was so profound, so absolute. From that moment, he had sworn to never trust, to never love. To never be vulnerable again. That was how it had been for eight long, empty years. Until Ethan.

The nightmare intensified. He could feel the searing pain of betrayal, the icy grip of powerlessness. He saw the faces of the world leaders, the politicians, the CEOs—the same people he now moved amongst, the very architects of the "system" that had destroyed him. They were there, in his dream, laughing, celebrating his sister's agony, his own torture. He had sworn to make them, and the world they controlled, feel that same pain, tenfold. Controlling the world meant no one could ever hurt him again, meant he would never again be powerless.

The last thing he heard in the dream, sharp and piercing, was his sister’s final, agonizing scream.
Daimon jolted awake, a guttural cry tearing from his throat. He was shaking uncontrollably, drenched in cold sweat, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. His heart hammered against his ribs, threatening to burst. He opened his eyes, the darkness of the room pressing in, blurring the line between nightmare and reality.
Peter, still nestled against his chest, stirred. His Spider-Sense, even dulled by the poison, registered the sudden, violent shift in Daimon's body, the rapid, terrified heartbeat. He slowly, painfully, opened his eyes, blinking in the dim light. He saw Daimon, his face contorted in terror, eyes wide and unfocused, hyperventilating. He looked utterly shattered, a man stripped bare of all his usual control and composure.

"Daimon?" Peter whispered, his voice weak but clear in the silence. He raised a trembling hand, laying it gently on Daimon's sweat-slicked arm. "Hey. Hey, it's okay."
Daimon flinched at the touch, then his eyes, wild with lingering terror, found Peter's. He was trembling violently.
"It's just a dream," Peter murmured, slowly, carefully, using what little strength he had to push himself up slightly. He managed to lay Daimon back down on the pillow, gently. "You're safe. Everything's fine." He started to gently stroke Daimon’s hair, just as Daimon had done for him hours earlier. "Just a bad dream. I'm here."

He continued to stroke Daimon’s hair, his own pain momentarily forgotten in the face of the man’s profound terror. Daimon’s ragged breathing slowly began to even out, his trembling lessening under Peter’s comforting touch. He wasn't the ruthless, calculating Thorne now. He was just a terrified man, haunted by a past he couldn't escape. And Peter, the very boy sent to expose him, found himself offering solace in the darkest hour of the night.

Chapter Text

The morning after Daimon’s nightmare, Peter awoke to the gentle caress of sunlight filtering through heavy curtains. He blinked, pushing away the lingering haze of pain and the strange, unsettling comfort of the previous night. He stretched, a wince escaping him as his muscles protested, but the sharp, debilitating agony of yesterday had dulled to a persistent ache. He felt remarkably better, the miraculous healing of his Spider-DNA clearly working overtime.
His first conscious thought, a surprising warmth spreading through his chest, was of Daimon. He turned his head to the side, expecting to see the man beside him, perhaps still sleeping peacefully. But the space next to him was empty, the silken sheets undisturbed where Daimon had lain. A tiny, unexpected pang of… disappointment? He quickly squashed the feeling. This was good. This was professional distance.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, testing his weight. Still a bit wobbly, but functional. He needed to get back to his own room, re-establish contact with the team, and get his head back in the game. This whole "Ethan John" persona was becoming far too real.
As he moved through the silent, opulent corridors towards his room, he spotted Alexander standing near a grand marble statue, ostensibly admiring the craftsmanship but clearly watching the hallway. Their eyes met for a fleeting second. Alexander’s gaze was cold, sharp, filled with an undisguised contempt that made Peter's stomach clench. He knew Alexander was dangerous. The poison attempt hadn't just been a test; it had been an assassination attempt. He had to find a way to neutralize Alexander, and soon, before the valet found another way to eliminate him. Peter simply nodded curtly and continued on his way, determined not to give Alexander the satisfaction of a reaction.
He reached his room, the familiar space a welcome haven. The first thing he did was retrieve his comms and camera from under his pillow. He re-attached the tiny camera to his shirt collar and re-inserted the almost invisible earpiece.
Almost immediately, a chorus of voices erupted in his ear, a cacophony of worry, relief, and barely concealed anger.
"PETER PARKER, DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU PUT US THROUGH?!" Tony's voice boomed, raw with fury and overwhelming relief. "You went radio silent for a whole day! A day! Do you know what kind of contingencies we had to draw up?! Do you know how many heart attacks I almost had?!"
"Kid, we were worried sick!" Bucky added, his tone softer but still laced with exasperation. "We had no idea what was going on in there! You just vanished! What if Daimon had you locked up? What if he—"
"Fury, your agents, all of them, were ready to initiate a full-scale extraction!" Natasha cut in, her voice cold and precise. "You compromised protocol, Peter. Massively. We need constant communication, especially when you're in such a volatile environment."
Peter winced, rubbing his temple. His head still ached. "I know, I know! I'm sorry! But you guys were so loud yesterday. My head felt like it was going to explode. I just… I needed quiet. I needed to rest. I was poisoned, remember?"
"Poisoned by his man, Peter!" Rhodey interjected, his voice tight with warning. "And you went running to him for comfort? What happened, exactly? We heard a lot of panicked yelling, then silence. And then that doctor talking about cyanide. What did Daimon do? What did you do?"
The questions hit Peter like a tidal wave. He paced his room, trying to process his jumbled thoughts. What did I do? He had sought comfort. From the very man he was supposed to take down. The memory of Daimon’s strong arms around him, his surprisingly gentle touch, the rhythmic beat of his heart… it sent a confusing mix of warmth and guilt through him.
"You're silent, Peter," Fury's voice cut through the noise, sharp and probing. "What are you not telling us? What exactly happened after you passed out?"
Peter sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Nothing happened, okay? He… he called his doctors. They fixed me up. He just stayed by my side." He tried to dismiss it, to make it sound clinical. But his mind conjured the image of Daimon laying next to him, holding him, stroking his hair. The vulnerability in Daimon's eyes during the nightmare.
"Peter, don't forget why you're there," Steve reminded him, his voice firm. "Daimon Thorne is a dangerous man. He wants to bring the world to its knees. He's responsible for unspeakable suffering. What he’s doing is wrong. You're there to stop him."
"I know, Captain," Peter mumbled, his voice unconvincing even to himself. He’s evil. He’s a villain. He kept repeating the words in his head. But every time he tried to conjure the image of a cold-blooded monster, all he saw was the concerned gentleman with the startlingly blue eyes, the gentle smile, the man who had cradled him and played with his hair as he drifted to sleep. The man who had been terrified, trembling in his sleep.
"Your heart rate is still elevated, Peter," Natasha observed, her voice chillingly calm. "Significantly. What's on your mind? What happened last night that you're so hesitant to share?"
Peter hadn't even realized his heart was beating faster. He dismissed it, "It's nothing, Nat. Just… just recovering. Feeling weak, that's all." But he knew they weren't convinced. He could practically feel their collective eyes on him through the comms. They knew something had happened, and they wouldn't rest until they found out.
A soft knock on his door interrupted the tense conversation. "Mr. John? Breakfast has been prepared for you, at Mr. Thorne's insistence." It was the same servant from last night, his face unreadable.
"I'll be right there," Peter called out, relief washing over him. A chance to change the subject, at least for a moment. He quickly checked his reflection, trying to smooth down his hair.
As he walked towards the dining room, he noticed a subtle shift in the mansion’s atmosphere. There were more guards, discreetly positioned, their eyes constantly scanning. And when he reached the table, the situation became even more unnerving.
"So, what happened to your appetite yesterday, kiddo?" Tony asked, his voice still edged with suspicion. "Feeling better? Did Daimon tuck you in?"
"Yeah, I'm feeling a lot better, actually," Peter replied, trying to sound cheerful. He watched as a stern-looking guard tasted each dish before it was presented to him. "Wow, they’re even taste-testing my food now. That’s… really thorough." He picked up a fork, trying a piece of fruit.
"Thorough?" Rhodey scoffed. "Peter, he's not being 'nice.' He's tracking you. He's trying to make you think he's a gentleman, to 'seduce' you into trusting him. Don't fall for it! He probably ordered the poisoning himself just to play the hero! Who knows what else he's planning now that he has you at his mercy."
"Rhodey, that's a bit extreme," Steve cautioned, but even his voice held a hint of doubt.
Peter tried to ignore them, the conflicting voices in his head – the Avengers’ warnings, and the undeniable memory of Daimon’s genuine concern. He finished his breakfast, feeling increasingly restless. He needed to find Daimon. He needed to finish his mission. No matter how confused he felt, no matter how much he… didn't want Daimon to suffer at Fury's hands, he was still an Avenger. He had a job to do.
He rose from the table, intending to seek out Daimon. But before he could take two steps, Alexander appeared as if from the very air, blocking his path.
"Mr. John," Alexander said, his voice flat, his eyes cold and unwavering, "Mr. Thorne is in a private meeting. He cannot be disturbed." His gaze raked over Peter, filled with an open disdain, as if Peter was truly the lowest form of life. The implication was clear: You are a disgrace. You don't belong here.
Peter felt a surge of irritation, but he forced it down. He subtly backed away from Alexander, putting a few feet between them. The man was a snake. He knew Alexander was up to no good, but he couldn’t openly challenge him without blowing his cover.
"Why is Alexander so hostile towards Peter?" Sam asked from the comms, a genuine note of confusion in his voice. "He's Daimon's right-hand. If Daimon trusts Peter, why is Alexander acting like that?"
"Maybe he's just a jealous guard dog," Clint offered. "Or maybe he knows something we don't."
Peter ignored them, his gaze still fixed on Alexander, who remained rooted to his spot, a silent, menacing sentry.
Inside Daimon Thorne’s clandestine meeting room, hidden deep within the mansion's untouched wing, the atmosphere was thick with ambition and the scent of expensive cigars. Daimon sat at the head of a massive, polished obsidian table, his expression grave but authoritative. Around him sat four individuals, each a powerful, dangerous piece in his grand, horrifying puzzle.
Unknown to them, a tiny, almost invisible spy-spider, no bigger than a fingernail, clung to the underside of the table, its optical sensors transmitting every word, every subtle gesture, back to Peter and, by extension, S.H.I.E.L.D.
"Good morning, my esteemed colleagues," Daimon began, his voice resonating with a chilling calm. "We are approaching critical junctures. The groundwork has been laid, and the time for activation draws near."
The first speaker was a woman of striking, severe beauty, her silver hair pulled back in a tight bun, her eyes sharp and analytical. "Daimon," she said, her voice a low, precise murmur that carried an undercurrent of cold authority. "My data projections are complete. The algorithms for the market destabilization will require a precisely synchronized global trigger. The financial systems are far more resilient than anticipated in some sectors. We need to ensure maximum impact across all major indices."
"That's Lady Anastasia Volkov," Natasha whispered urgently in Peter's ear. "The cybernetics genius. This must be about the information networks."
"Indeed, Anastasia," Daimon responded, a rare, approving nod for her. "Which is why we needed the strategic political leverage. Senator Vance, your report?"
A stout, impeccably dressed man with a florid face and shrewd, calculating eyes cleared his throat. "The legislation on cross-border financial data sharing has passed the EU parliament, Daimon. It took significant… persuasion, and a few well-placed scandals to remove key opposition, but the framework is now in place. We can access and, more importantly, manipulate data streams across the entire European economic zone. The digital arteries are open. And the proposed 'global resource allocation' treaty is moving through the UN with surprising speed, thanks to my team’s groundwork."
"That's Senator Elias Vance," Clint confirmed, his voice grim. "So he's the political arm, enabling the financial meltdown."
"Excellent, Elias," Daimon acknowledged. "The stage is set for the economic collapse. People will look to their governments, their institutions, and find nothing but chaos. They will demand order, any order." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the table. "And that is where our next phases come into play. Professor Alistair Thorne, your progress on the psychological conditioning is crucial."
A man of gaunt appearance, with wild, unkempt white hair and eyes that held a disturbing, almost manic gleam, leaned forward. "The 're-education camps,' as we have discreetly termed them, are ready for the initial intake, Daimon. Our therapeutic methodologies, derived from my research into mass hysteria and collective trauma, are proving incredibly effective in trial runs. We can systematically break down an individual's worldview, strip them of their preconceived notions, and rebuild their psychological framework to accept a new paradigm. The initial subjects… they crave the guidance. They crave the 'truth' you offer, Daimon." He chuckled, a dry, unsettling sound. "They just don't know it yet."
"This is Professor Alistair Thorne, Daimon's distant cousin," Maria Hill's voice cut in, grave. "A disgraced psychologist. His theories on 're-education through engineered trauma' got him blackballed from every reputable institution. He specializes in breaking people down mentally."
"So he’s building conversion camps," Steve muttered, his voice cold with disgust. "To force people to accept Thorne's twisted ideology."
"Disturbing, Alistair," Daimon said, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Absolutely disturbing. And necessary. Finally, General Kuznetsov, the final piece in our immediate puzzle."
A hulking man in a perfectly tailored military uniform, his face scarred and his presence radiating brute force, nodded slowly. "The private armies are fully mobilized, Daimon. Loyal, disciplined, and with no questions asked. We have strategic points of entry established in key regions across three continents. When the order comes, we will move with swift and overwhelming force to 'restore order' to the chaos that will inevitably erupt. And the new 'containment facilities' are ready for deployment of… undesirable elements." His voice was a guttural growl, full of dark conviction.
"General Viktor Kuznetsov," Natasha identified, a chill in her voice. "A rogue Russian general, believed to be dead. Specialized in black ops and civilian suppression tactics. He's building Daimon's enforcer army."
"So, he has the brains, the money, the political sway, the psychological manipulation, and the muscle," Tony summarized, his voice flat with horror. "He's not just trying to cause pain. He's trying to remake the world."
Daimon leaned back, a look of grim satisfaction on his face. "Excellent. Everything is progressing as planned. The global economic shockwave, the psychological breaking of the masses, the enforcement of true order. And all of it, my friends, will emanate from our central hub, the very heart of this new world." He gestured vaguely. "The Elysian Lab is almost fully operational. It is there that Anastasia's networks will truly merge with Alistair's methodologies, where Kuznetsov's command centers will link to Vance's political apparatus. It is there, in the deepest levels of that facility, that the true future will be forged."
"Elysian Lab?" Fury repeated, his voice sharp. "Team, I want every intelligence asset focused on locating and identifying this 'Elysian Lab'! What is it? What does he have hidden there?!"
Peter’s mind reeled. Elysian Lab. A central hub. It was more than just destruction; it was about building something new, something terrifying. He had to find out what. He had to find out how.
The meeting broke up soon after, the four conspirators dispersing to their various tasks. Peter quickly deactivated his spy-spider and tucked it away. He needed to find Daimon.
He found Daimon strolling leisurely in the grand conservatory, admiring an exotic orchid. Peter approached him, feeling a strange mix of apprehension and a lingering, dangerous affection.
"Daimon?" Peter asked, his voice soft.
Daimon turned, a pleasant smile gracing his lips. He looked well-rested, completely composed, a stark contrast to the terrified man from just hours ago. "Ethan, my dear! Feeling much better, I trust?" His eyes scanned Peter, assessing.
"Much better, thank you," Peter confirmed, offering a small, polite smile. "I… I just wanted to thank you. For last night. For taking care of me."
Daimon’s smile widened, a mischievous glint entering his eyes. He stepped closer, his gaze lingering on Peter's face. "Nonsense, my dear. It was my pleasure. And I must admit," he lowered his voice, stepping even closer, his eyes twinkling, "I rather enjoyed your company. You truly are the most beautiful distraction. Perhaps… you should sleep with me more often, Ethan."
A deafening silence descended in Peter's earpiece, followed by a series of strangled gasps and choked sounds. Peter himself went into full internal panic mode. Did he just say what I think he said?! Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god! His face flushed a deep crimson. Daimon, utterly oblivious to the internal meltdown and the horrified reactions of the Avengers, simply smiled, a picture of charming provocation.
"WHAT?! WHAT DID HE JUST SAY?! PETER, WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED LAST NIGHT?!" Tony's voice exploded in Peter's ear, a raw, furious scream that made him almost jump out of his skin. "DID YOU?! NO! PETER, YOU TELL ME RIGHT NOW! WHAT DID HE DO?! I'M GOING TO KILL HIM!"
"Tony, calm down!" Steve yelled, but even his voice was strained with shock. "Peter, report! What happened after Daimon came to your room?!"
Natasha's voice, though calm, was dangerously low. "Peter. Elaborate. Now. Every detail."
Peter stood frozen, his mind a whirlwind of mortification and sheer terror. Daimon was still smiling at him, completely unaware of the digital inferno he had just ignited. Peter felt a desperate urge to run, to hide, to simply evaporate into thin air.

Oh, this is going to be a long mission.

Chapter Text

The immediate aftermath of Daimon's suggestive remark in Peter's ear was pure pandemonium in the S.H.I.E.L.D. ops room.
"DID YOU HEAR THAT?!" Tony's voice was a raw, strangled shriek, bordering on incoherent. He was half out of his seat, hands clenching and unclenching. "He actually said that! Peter, answer me! What happened last night?! Did he… did he force anything?! Did he—" Tony choked on the last word, a vein throbbing furiously in his neck.
"Tony, calm down!" Steve's voice was firm, but his face was pale with alarm. He reached out, trying to physically restrain the billionaire. "We need a clear head here! Peter, can you explain? What exactly transpired after you turned off your comms?"
"This is part of the mission, Tony!" Maria Hill interjected, though her own eyes were wide with shock. "Maintaining the façade, seducing the target. It's… a necessary evil."
"Necessary evil?!" Tony roared, ripping himself from Steve's grasp, though Yelena quickly stepped in, her grip surprisingly strong. "He's nineteen, Hill! He’s my kid! No 'mission' involves that! What if Thorne forced himself on him? What if Peter… what if Peter was his 'first' experience under duress?! So help me god, if he laid a hand on Peter without consent, I will personally burn that mansion to the ground!"
Fury, usually imperturbable, looked grim. "Peter, we need to know everything that transpired. Your safety, your mental well-being, is paramount. We cannot allow anything to go wrong, not in that house."
Peter, still standing in the conservatory, feigning polite conversation with Daimon, felt his face burning. He tried to act nonchalant, but the internal chaos was overwhelming. He could still feel the warmth of Daimon’s body, the surprising tenderness of his touch during the night. It wasn't forceful. It had been… comforting. But how could he explain that to the Avengers, to Tony, who was clearly on the verge of an aneurysm?
"It's nothing, guys," Peter mumbled, trying to keep his voice light and dismissive for Daimon's benefit. "I told you, I was sick. He… he offered a hand. Nothing intense happened. Just… you know. Sick person comfort." He tried to project an air of awkward embarrassment, hoping it would deter further questions.
Tony scoffed, a disbelieving sound. "Sick person comfort doesn't usually come with propositions to 'sleep with me more often'!"
Peter’s cheeks burned hotter. "Guys, I can't talk about this right now! He's right here!" He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw his mic across the room.
Meanwhile, in a secluded study on the far side of the mansion, Alexander was poring over digitized public records, his fingers flying across holographic interfaces. He had focused his search parameters: "Ethan John, art student, New York." And found nothing. Absolutely nothing. No school records, no family history, no digital footprint beyond Thorne’s own fabricated invitation. His suspicion had been correct. This 'Ethan John' was a ghost.
Then, Alexander widened his search to include facial recognition analysis, cross-referencing 'Ethan John' with every known public database of young men in New York, subtly bypassing ethical firewalls. A match. A startlingly clear one. The face of 'Ethan John' superimposed over a news report. The name under the image was Peter Parker. So he learned more about Peter and decided to hack his computer after awhile he saw a text from someone named ned joking telling peter that Queens needs their spiderman soon.
Alexander stared at the screen, a cold, triumphant smile spreading across his lips. "Peter Parker," he whispered, the name a venomous hiss. "Fury, you utter fool. You sent me a child. A child playing dress-up." His blood ran cold. Not just a spy, but a super-powered spy. This was far more dangerous than he’d imagined. His suspicion morphed into absolute certainty. He had to act. Now.
He immediately went to Daimon's study, the image of Peter Parker clear on his tablet. He found Daimon sitting calmly, reviewing something on his desk.
"Sir," Alexander said, his voice unusually strained, pushing the tablet forward. "I have proof. 'Ethan John' is not who he claims to be. His real name is Peter Parker. He’s a known associate of the Avengers, specifically Tony Stark. Look!"
Daimon glanced at the tablet, his brow furrowing. He saw the two images: Peter's familiar face, then the blurry, grainy picture of "Peter Parker" from the news report. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his features, a momentary hesitation. But then, his face contorted into a mask of pure fury.
"This is a forgery, Alexander!" Daimon roared, his voice shaking with rage. He slammed his hand down on the desk, making the tablet clatter. "How dare you? How dare you insult me with these fabrications? How dare you try to poison my trust, after what I witnessed?! After he nearly died?!" He stood up, towering over Alexander, his eyes blazing. "You are obsessed! This is a pathetic attempt to create doubt! Get out of my sight! You're dismissed! I don't want to see you!"
Alexander recoiled, genuinely shocked by the intensity of Daimon’s reaction. "Sir, I swear, it's true! He's a spy! I'm trying to protect you from Fury! He will betray you!"
"GET OUT!" Daimon bellowed, his voice echoing through the study. Alexander, defeated, retreated.
A short while later, Peter, having managed to escape Daimon's immediate vicinity for a brief moment, found himself in the sprawling, verdant enclosed garden, enjoying the unexpected warmth of the sun on his face. He still felt weak, but the fresh air was invigorating. His Spider-Sense, which had been a low thrum since Alexander had confronted Daimon, suddenly spiked, screaming a warning. Danger. Imminent. From behind.
He spun around, his enhanced reflexes kicking in. He was met with the cold, unforgiving gleam of a gun barrel pointed directly at his face. Alexander stood there, his eyes burning with a desperate, furious resolve.
"Hello, Peter Parker," Alexander snarled, his voice a low, chilling whisper. "Did you really think you could fool us? Fool him? Did you think I wouldn't find out?"
"NO!" Tony’s scream ripped through Peter's comm. "HE KNOWS! HE KNOWS, PETER! GET OUT OF THERE! NATASHA, FURY, WE NEED BACKUP, NOW!"
"Hold your position, Stark!" Fury's voice was grim, but calm. "Alexander is not their primary asset. Extraction would blow the entire mission. Peter, assess the threat. Only engage if absolutely necessary."
"Are you insane, Fury?!" Tony raged, Steve and Yelena both struggling to hold him back, his body language screaming violence. "He has a gun to Peter's head! This is BEYOND necessary!"
Peter tried to keep his face impassive, to project the bewildered Ethan John. "I… I don't know what you're talking about, Alexander. My name is Ethan. You're mistaken." His heart hammered, a frantic drum against his ribs.
"Don't play coy with me, Spider-Man," Alexander hissed, his finger tightening on the trigger. "I saw your face. I saw the reports. You're a child, playing a very dangerous game. And you will not poison Daimon against me. You will not betray him. This ends now."
Alexander moved, his hand shifting, clearly intending to fire. Peter’s instincts took over. He dodged the bullet, a blur of motion, the projectile whistling past his ear and embedding itself harmlessly in a stone statue behind him. In the same fluid movement, Peter grabbed Alexander’s gun hand, twisting it sharply. He heard a sickening crack, and Alexander cried out in pain, dropping the weapon. Peter then used Alexander’s momentum to push him violently to the ground, pinning him.
But Alexander, despite his injured hand, was trained. He snarled, his body twisting, and with surprising strength, he kicked out, sending Peter sprawling. Alexander scrambled to his feet, a wild look in his eyes, and lunged at Peter, abandoning the gun, resorting to hand-to-hand combat.
It was a desperate, brutal dance in the quiet garden. Alexander, fueled by fury and jealousy, fought with surprising skill, throwing precise, heavy blows. Peter, still recovering from the poison, moved sluggishly, relying more on his spider-sense to dodge than his usual agility. He blocked a punch, deflected a kick, his own movements purely defensive. He didn’t want to hurt Alexander, just incapacitate him.
Suddenly, a blur of motion. Daimon Thorne, drawn by the gun shot, burst into the garden, his eyes scanning the scene. He saw Alexander, lunging at Peter, his face contorted with rage. He saw Peter, looking pale and defensive. And then, he saw the gun on the ground, smoking faintly.
A primal roar tore from Daimon’s throat. His face twisted into an expression of pure, unadulterated rage, far more terrifying than anything Peter had ever witnessed. "ALEXANDER! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"
Alexander paused, startled by Daimon's sudden, furious presence. "Sir! He's a spy! He's Peter Parker! He's from Fury! He's—"
Daimon didn’t let him finish. In a surge of terrifying speed, he grabbed Alexander, tearing him away from Peter with unnatural force. His hand became a blur, slamming a heavy, bone-shattering punch directly into Alexander's temple. The sound was sickeningly loud. Alexander's eyes rolled back, his body going limp, falling to the ground with a dull thud. He lay there, unmoving, a faint trickle of blood beginning to seep from beneath his head.
Silence descended upon the garden, thick and suffocating. Peter stared, wide-eyed, at Alexander's lifeless form, then at Daimon, who stood over him, breathing heavily, his chest heaving, his eyes still blazing with a cold, terrifying fury. Daimon had killed him. Killed him. For me.
"Alexander is down," Natasha's voice was strangely flat in Peter's ear, a mixture of shock and grim satisfaction. "He's gone. Peter, you're clear. You can play your game now. But first, you need to calm Daimon down. Before he does something stupid."
Peter looked at Daimon, who was still trembling with suppressed rage. His mind was reeling. He felt a wave of profound nausea, not from the poison, but from the sheer brutality he had just witnessed. And then, a fresh wave of mortification. The Avengers had just seen that. They had seen Daimon kill for him. They had heard Alexander call him Peter Parker.
"I… I can't," Peter whispered, his voice trembling. He couldn't deal with their questions, their judgments right now. He needed a moment. He needed distance.
With a trembling hand, Peter reached up, found the small camera on his collar, and carefully peeled it off. He then removed his earpiece, leaving only the tiny mic on the inside of his shirt, ensuring he could hear them, but they couldn't see or hear him. He didn’t care about protocol right now. He needed to be Ethan.
He slowly walked towards Daimon, who was still standing over Alexander's body, his back to Peter. Two guards, drawn by the commotion, rushed into the garden, their faces pale with shock.
"Clean this up," Daimon ordered, his voice raw, pointing to Alexander's body. "And ensure there are no witnesses. No one speaks of this." His voice was low, menacing.
The guards, terrified, nodded mutely and quickly began to drag Alexander’s lifeless form away. Peter swallowed hard. This was Daimon Thorne. The ruthless mastermind. The killer. And yet… he had killed to protect him.
When the garden was empty again, Peter slowly approached Daimon. "Daimon," he said softly, his voice still shaky.
Daimon turned, and Peter was shocked to see that his eyes, though still furious, were also glistening. A single tear tracked a path down his cheek, then another. The cold, ruthless mask he usually wore had shattered completely.
"Ethan," Daimon whispered, his voice cracking, thick with an overwhelming emotion Peter couldn't decipher. He looked at Peter, and then, in a sudden, desperate movement, he closed the distance between them, pulling Peter into a fierce, almost desperate hug.
Peter gasped, startled by the sudden, bone-crushing embrace. He felt Daimon’s entire body tremble against him. This was not the possessive, seductive touch from last night. This was raw, unbridled vulnerability.
"He was my friend, Ethan," Daimon choked out, his voice muffled against Peter’s shoulder. "My oldest friend. My confidant. He was family. And he betrayed me. He tried to hurt… he tried to hurt you." His grip tightened, a desperate plea. "I… I don't understand how this happened. I trusted him." He pulled back slightly, his eyes, now filled with tears, gazing at Peter with an agonizing mix of pain and desperate hope. "I haven't trusted anyone like that since… since she died."
Peter could hear the Avengers’ shocked gasps through his hidden earpiece. Their murmurs were frantic, disbelieving. The camera is still on. They’re seeing this. They’re hearing this.
"My sister," Daimon continued, his voice breaking, tears now streaming freely down his face. He didn't care about his composure, about the image he projected. He was utterly broken. "They killed her, Ethan. They killed her and they made me watch. They experimented on me, keeping me captive, forcing me to endure. They told me it was my fault. They told me I deserved it. My own family. The people who were supposed to protect me, they stood by and watched as I was tortured. They saw her die. They lied. They covered it up. And I swore… I swore I would never trust again. I swore I would never love again."
Peter stood frozen, listening to Daimon’s raw, agonizing confession. The pain in his voice was palpable, a chilling echo of the nightmare Peter had witnessed. The cold, calculating villain the Avengers had painted was dissolving before his very eyes, replaced by a traumatized, broken man, driven by a profound, agonizing grief and an unspeakable history of betrayal.
"I built this empire to protect myself, Ethan," Daimon confessed, his voice barely a whisper, his tears soaking Peter’s shirt. "To make sure no one could ever hurt me again. To make sure no one could ever control me again. To make sure no one could ever make me feel that kind of powerlessness. And then… you came. Through my doors. So bright. So innocent. So… real." He pulled Peter close again, his face buried in Peter’s hair. "I didn't want to trust you. I tried not to. But you… you just kept coming back. And then last night… when you were sick… I realized… I realized I couldn't lose you too. I couldn't."
Peter could only stand there, stunned. Everything he knew about Daimon Thorne, the "evil villain," the "mastermind of suffering," was crumbling. He was a victim. A deeply, profoundly broken victim who had twisted his pain into a weapon. The Avenger’s stunned silence in his ear was a testament to their own shock. What did this mean? What did this change? Tony’s horrified whispers drifted faintly, "Oh, my god. He's… he's a traumatized kid. Just like Peter. What does this mean?"
Peter didn't know. All he knew was that the lines had blurred. Danger. Comfort. Enemy. Lover. Victim. He was caught in a web far more intricate and devastating than he could have ever imagined.

Chapter Text

Daimon Thorne’s hands trembled as he held Peter close, the raw, unfiltered confession tearing from his throat. The tears that streamed down his face were hot, a release of an agony he had suppressed for decades. Peter, stunned and silent in his embrace, felt the tremor of Daimon’s entire body, the desperate cling of a man utterly broken. The grand conservatory, with its lush greenery and soaring glass ceiling, faded around them, replaced by the suffocating shadows of Daimon’s past.
The Thorne Legacy: A Family of Shadows
The Thorne family wasn't merely wealthy; they were architects of power, silent puppeteers pulling strings from the deepest shadows of global finance and politics. Their fortune wasn't built on industry or innovation, but on information, influence, and the quiet manipulation of markets and minds. They were the kind of elite who saw humanity as a chess board, and themselves as the only worthy players.
Daimon's parents, Lord Alaric Thorne and Lady Isolde Thorne, were the embodiment of this cold, calculated power.
Lord Alaric Thorne was a man of steel and ice. Tall, imposing, with eyes that seemed to strip away your soul, he was a master strategist, a man who saw emotion as a weakness and people as variables in complex equations. He ran the Thorne empire with an iron fist, his networks stretching across continents, gathering intelligence and shaping global events from behind impenetrable walls. To him, Daimon was not a son, but an heir, a carefully cultivated successor. Affection was alien to Alaric; instead, he measured success in market dominance and political leverage. He believed in breaking individuals to make them stronger, seeing pain as a necessary crucible for greatness. His "love" was a relentless pressure to conform, to excel, to become precisely what he envisioned for the Thorne name.
Lady Isolde Thorne was a woman of chilling beauty and sharper intellect. Beneath her exquisite porcelain facade lay a mind as ruthless and manipulative as her husband's, if not more so. She specialized in the psychological aspects of their empire, understanding the subtle levers of fear, desire, and control. She was the one who designed the "training" for Daimon and his sister, believing that emotional detachment and intellectual superiority were the ultimate forms of power. She rarely raised her voice, but her cold gaze and carefully chosen words could flay a person's spirit. Like Alaric, she saw her children as extensions of the Thorne brand, meant to uphold its legacy without flaw or feeling. She was particularly obsessed with perfection, seeing any deviation or vulnerability as a dangerous weakness that needed to be surgically removed. She was a master of psychological pressure, capable of making her children doubt their own sanity, their own worth, if it served her purpose.
There was Daimon’s younger sister, Elara. Her name meant "sunbeam," and for Daimon, she truly was. She was the antithesis of their parents, a vibrant, compassionate soul trapped in a gilded cage. While Daimon retreated into his intellect, Elara clung to her humanity. She possessed a fierce independence, a rebellious spirit, and a boundless capacity for empathy. She was the only person who ever truly saw Daimon, who understood his loneliness, who offered him unconditional love. She was a dreamer, an artist, who yearned for a life beyond the cold, calculating world of the Thorne empire. Her existence was a quiet rebellion against her parents’ sterile vision, and because of this, she became a target for their "corrections."
The Scars of Childhood
The air in the conservatory hung heavy with the weight of Daimon’s past, his voice hoarse with unshed tears. Peter listened, every word tearing at the neat, villainous portrait the Avengers had painted.
"I was fourteen, Ethan," Daimon murmured, his voice a ghost of its usual commanding tone, muffled against Peter’s hair. "Fourteen, living in this very mansion. A gilded prison. My parents… they were not the philanthropists, the visionary leaders, the public thought them to be." He let out a bitter, choked laugh. "They were monsters. Cold. Calculating. And utterly, utterly ruthless."
He tightened his grip on Peter, as if needing the physical grounding. "I knew it from a young age. I saw the bruises on Elara when she came back from her 'lessons' with them. Her spirit, slowly dimming, day by day. I knew she was being hurt. I knew they were doing things to her, things that twisted her beautiful, kind heart." His voice broke. "And I… I couldn't do a thing. I was too small. Too weak. Too afraid. They had already taught me my place."
Peter felt a pang of profound empathy. The boy Daimon had been, watching his sister suffer, helpless. It mirrored his own desperate desire to protect Aunt May, to protect innocent people. But Peter had power. Daimon hadn't.
"They had their own… 'methods' for shaping us," Daimon continued, the tremor in his voice growing. "They believed suffering forged strength. They believed fear was the ultimate motivator. When I turned sixteen… they started on me. The experiments." He shuddered, a full-body tremor. "Not physical torture, not always. But psychological. They pushed me to my breaking point, over and over. Sensory deprivation. Sleep deprivation. Forced exposure to controlled environments designed to induce psychosis. Drugs that amplified fear, that twisted perception. They called it 'cognitive enhancement.' They called it 'resilience training.' I was screaming, Ethan. Crying. Begging them to stop. Begging them to just let me feel something normal. And they… they just stood there. My mother, beautiful and serene, taking notes. My father, observing with a detached, clinical interest. Like I was a rat in a maze."
Peter felt sick to his stomach. The Avengers were silent in his ear, their usual comments replaced by a horrified, heavy quiet. This was not the story of a man who simply chose evil. This was the story of a man who had evil forced upon him, forged in a crucible of torment.
"And Elara," Daimon whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears, "they did the same to her. They wanted to break her spirit, to make her as cold and calculating as they were. But she… she was too pure. Too good. She fought them with every fiber of her being. She never gave in, not truly. She was my anchor, Ethan. The only one who saw the boy beneath the monster they were trying to create. The only one who loved me without conditions, without a hidden agenda. And I loved her, more than life itself."
He pulled Peter even closer, a desperate, almost childlike plea in his embrace. "We were always together. Our only solace. Our only joy. We would whisper in the night, planning our escape, dreaming of a life far away from these walls, from their cold, dead eyes. We were each other's world."
A long, agonizing silence stretched between them, broken only by Daimon’s ragged breathing.
"And then," Daimon’s voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, raw with a pain that vibrated through Peter’s very core, "when I was nineteen… it all fell apart. They killed her, Ethan. My parents. Not directly, not with their own hands. But they orchestrated it. It was a 'boating accident,' the official story. A rival family, they said. But it was a message. A message to them, my parents, from their enemies. And my parents… they allowed it. They let it happen to protect their own power. They sacrificed her. They stood by, watching her burn, watched her drown, as I screamed and cried for her. Begged them to save her. And they only looked down, their faces impassive. Cold. Like I was nothing. Like she was nothing."
Peter felt a tremor run through Daimon's body, a deep, wracking sob that shook him. The raw anguish was undeniable. This wasn't an act. This was true, shattering grief.
"From that day on," Daimon continued, his voice hardening, becoming flat and devoid of emotion, "I swore. I swore I would never trust anyone. Never again. I swore I would never love. To love was to be vulnerable. To trust was to be betrayed. I would endure everything that was happening to me. I would feel nothing. I would become nothing but what they wanted me to be – a weapon, a means to an end. But that end would be my end, not theirs."
He pulled away slightly, his eyes red-rimmed but now burning with a cold, almost detached fury. "And then Alexander came into my life. He was a new recruit to my parents' inner circle, trained as a security detail. At first, I despised him. Another one of their tools. But he… he didn't judge. He saw the real Daimon Thorne, the shattered boy behind the perfectly sculpted facade. Slowly, he accepted it. He listened. He didn't try to fix me. He just… understood. And he became my only friend. My confidant. The only one I allowed to see the edges of my pain."
Daimon closed his eyes for a moment, a flash of the terror Peter had seen in the nightmare crossing his features. "I endured their torture for another year. Every day, every hour, I plotted. I learned. I absorbed everything they taught me about power, about manipulation, about breaking people. And when I turned twenty… I had enough. I killed them, Ethan. My parents. Both of them. Made it look like an accident. A tragic fire in the family retreat. No one suspected a thing. Alexander helped me. He was there. And for eight years, he and I… we worked together. Making my dreams come to life."
He looked at Peter, his eyes intense, searching. "My dream… was to prevent anyone from ever suffering like I did. To break the system that allowed such cruelty. To make everyone understand that pain, that betrayal, was the true reality of existence. Only then could we build something truly honest. Only then could I control the world, not to inflict pain, but to prevent it. To create a world where no one could ever experience that level of powerlessness, that ultimate betrayal. I believed that by forcing people to face the truth of suffering, they would be immune. That no one could hurt them if they knew the world was inherently brutal."
Daimon’s voice grew softer, filled with a bewildered sadness. "But then… when I saw Alexander. My only friend. My closest ally. When I saw him try to kill you, Ethan… I just… I couldn't help it. I attacked him. I didn't intend to kill him. I truly didn't. But… I saw the gun. I saw him hurting you, my innocent Ethan. And something just snapped. The thought of losing you, of another person I cared for being hurt… it brought back everything." He squeezed Peter's shoulders, his gaze pleading. "I wish I could go back in time. I wish it hadn't happened. But… having you close to me now. Feeling you. This comfort… it makes it feel worth it. All of it."
He looked at Peter, his eyes wide, vulnerable, a silent question hanging in the air. Do you understand now? Can you possibly forgive me?
Peter could only stare back, his mind a tangled mess of conflicting emotions. The monster, the villain, had dissolved into a terrified child, a broken man, seeking solace in the arms of the very spy sent to destroy him. The Avengers’ horrified silence in his ear was deafening. Everything they thought they knew had just been shattered.

The grand conservatory had become a crucible of raw emotion. Peter remained locked in Daimon’s embrace, listening to the guttural sobs, the agonizing revelations that tore at every preconceived notion he held. Daimon’s tears, hot and sincere, soaked into Peter’s shirt, a physical manifestation of the man’s profound, unhealed wounds. The air vibrated with the weight of unspeakable pain, betrayal, and a desperate, fragile longing for connection.
Peter's mind reeled. The monstrous villain, the architect of a twisted new world, was gone. In his place was a traumatized, broken man, sculpted by unimaginable cruelty. A child neglected, a brother brutally lost, a human experiment. All the carefully constructed labels – 'evil', 'ruthless', 'sociopathic' – crumbled into dust, replaced by a devastating empathy.
He didn't care about the mission anymore. Not right now. Not after this. The thought of exposing Daimon, of seeing him taken down by the very system that had created his torment, was suddenly unbearable. He didn't want Daimon to suffer anymore. He wanted to ease his pain, to offer him the comfort he had so desperately yearned for as a child.
A new, terrifyingly powerful emotion surged through Peter, overwhelming his senses. It wasn’t just empathy, not just sympathy. It was a profound, undeniable love. A romantic love, blossoming in the most unexpected and dangerous soil. He loved the broken, vulnerable man in his arms. He loved the surprising gentleness he had experienced. He loved the fierce protectiveness Daimon had shown, even when it led to murder. He wanted to be the one to heal him, to show him that not all trust ended in betrayal, not all love ended in pain.
He wanted to confess. He wanted to tell Daimon everything – who he truly was, why he was here, and, most terrifyingly, how he felt. He wanted to be held, not as a source of comfort for Daimon, but as someone cherished, whispered to with kind, loving words. He didn't care what the consequences might be. He didn't care if Daimon, once he knew, would hate him, imprison him, even kill him. He just had to know. He had to say it.
"Daimon," Peter whispered, his voice thick with unexpressed emotion, "I…"
But Daimon just tightened his grip, his sobs subsiding into ragged breaths. "Thank you, Ethan," he murmured, his voice raw. "Thank you for listening. Thank you for… for being here." He slowly pulled back, his eyes still red, but a new, softer light in their depths as he looked at Peter. "I… I apologize. That was… unseemly. I don't usually… lose control like that." He ran a hand over his face, as if trying to erase the tears. "It’s been a long time since I felt… since I felt safe enough to truly break down like that."
Peter wanted to reach out, to reassure him, to hold his face in his hands and tell him it was okay to feel. But the words caught in his throat. The moment of his confession, the raw, vulnerable impulse, had passed. Daimon was already rebuilding his walls, however fragile.
"You should… you should rest, Daimon," Peter managed to say, his voice still a little shaky. "You've been through a lot." He gently guided Daimon to a plush couch in the conservatory, making him sit down. Daimon looked utterly exhausted, drained by the outpouring of suppressed emotion.
"Perhaps you're right, my dear," Daimon sighed, leaning back against the cushions, his eyes closing. The fierce, driven light in his eyes was replaced by profound weariness. "This past day… has been… illuminating." He reached out, taking Peter’s hand and bringing it to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his knuckles. "Thank you, Ethan. Truly. You are… a light in this darkness."
Peter felt his heart throb. He could hear the Avengers’ frantic whispers through his earpiece, but he ignored them. He just watched Daimon, his hand still held. Within minutes, exhausted by the emotional catharsis, Daimon had drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep on the couch.
Once Daimon was truly asleep, Peter carefully extricated his hand. He looked at the peaceful, vulnerable face of the man who had just confessed such profound suffering. Then, with a heavy sigh, he reactivated his mic.
"Guys," Peter whispered, his voice low and strained. "Are you still there?"
A torrent of voices erupted.
"Peter! What the hell was that?!" Tony screamed, sounding like he was about to spontaneously combust. "He confessed everything! About his past! The abuse! The sister! The experiments! Are you okay? Are you safe? Is this some kind of mind game?!"
"The man is clearly traumatized, Peter," Bruce Banner said, his voice laced with a mixture of shock and deep concern. "His psychological profile just… shattered. It completely contradicts everything we knew about Thorne."
"Contradicts nothing!" Fury's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and unyielding. "His past is tragic, yes. Heartbreaking, even. But it does not, I repeat, does not excuse his current actions. He wants to destroy the world, Peter. He wants to inflict his pain on billions. He is still a threat. A dangerous, broken threat, but a threat nonetheless."
"But he's not just some evil villain, Fury!" Peter argued, his voice rising in desperation. He felt a fierce need to defend Daimon. "He was a victim! He was abused! They killed his sister! He was experimented on! How can you just ignore that?!"
"Peter, I understand your empathy," Steve Rogers said, his voice gentle but firm. "It's one of your greatest strengths. But his trauma doesn't negate the danger. His method of coping, of dealing with that pain, is to bring down global civilization. That is not acceptable. It's mass murder on a scale we can't comprehend."
"And Alexander just called you Peter Parker, remember?!" Natasha interjected, her voice sharp. "He tried to kill you! Daimon killed his oldest friend, the one who knew his secrets, to protect you! Do you understand the implications of that? He’s obsessed, Peter. This isn't healthy. This is dangerous."
"He's falling for you, kid," Rhodey stated, his voice laced with grim understanding. "And that's exactly what he wants you to do, too. He's manipulating you through his vulnerability. This is a classic tactic, Peter. Don't fall for it."
"He's not manipulating me!" Peter shot back, his voice thick with frustration. "He was genuinely hurt! He was grieving! He was terrified! I saw it! I felt it! I… I like him, okay?! A lot! More than 'like'!" He clamped his mouth shut, realizing he’d said too much.

A stunned silence fell over the comms.

Then, Tony’s voice, a horrified whisper. "You… you love him, Peter? You're telling me you love this… this mass-murdering, psychologically tormented… man?!"
"Peter," Fury's voice was low, laced with a chilling authority that made Peter flinch.

"Listen to me carefully. His past, however horrific, does not change the mission parameters. He wants to destroy the world. He wants to inflict pain. You were sent in to find out how and why, and you have done that. You now have critical intelligence. Senator Vance, Lady Volkov, Alistair Thorne, General Kuznetsov, the Elysian Lab. We know his key players, his methods, his ultimate goal. Your job is nearly done. You give us the signal, and we move. There will be consequences if you deviate from this. Do you understand? Your actions have ramifications. Be wise."

Peter felt a cold knot form in his stomach. Consequences. He knew what that meant. Fury wasn’t playing. He was a pawn, a tool, and his personal feelings were irrelevant. He looked at Daimon, sleeping peacefully on the couch, his face innocent in repose. He loved him. He truly did. But the Avengers were right. Daimon's trauma, however deep, did not give him the right to destroy countless lives. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t be the reason the world burned.
No matter how much he loved Daimon, he had a duty. To Aunt May, to New York, to the world. He had to finish this. He had to give the signal. He had to end it.
The crushing weight of his decision pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating. He was caught between his heart and his duty, and duty, however painful, always won.

Chapter Text

The morning after Daimon’s raw, tearful confession, an eerie, almost manic energy pulsed through the Thorne mansion. It was a new day, but the shadows of the previous night clung to Peter’s soul. He’d barely slept, haunted by Daimon’s broken voice, his vulnerable embrace, and the searing truth of his past. The labels Peter had so diligently applied to Thorne – 'villain,' 'monster,' 'threat' – had dissolved into ash, replaced by a devastating, empathetic understanding.
He found himself pacing his room, the opulent surroundings feeling more like a cage than ever. The comm in his ear, a constant, nagging reminder of his duty, suddenly crackled to life, pulling him back to the harsh reality of his mission.
"Peter, status report," Fury's voice, colder and more sterile than usual, cut through the quiet. "We've cross-referenced your intel. Elysian Lab is indeed a real facility, deeply buried beneath Thorne’s ancestral estate in the Carpathian Mountains. Its energy signatures indicate a massive power draw. We believe it's housing the core of his operation. Your insights from his… confession are invaluable, but remember the objective."
"Objective. Right," Peter mumbled, his voice flat. He could hear the controlled tension in the ops room, the urgency that no longer resonated with his own conflicted heart.
"Kid, are you okay?" Tony’s voice was softer this time, a rare note of genuine concern. "That was… a lot. He really laid it out there. Are you processing all this? Is he… did he try any more of his mind games?"
Peter ran a hand through his hair, frustration building. "It wasn't a mind game, Tony. He was… he was genuinely hurting. He talked about the abuse, the experiments, his sister’s death. It was real. He broke down. And… he killed Alexander to protect me. He thought Alexander was going to hurt me."
"He killed Alexander because Alexander was about to expose your identity, Peter!" Natasha’s voice was sharp, cutting through his empathy. "He silenced a loose end. Don't be naive. This man is a master manipulator. His 'vulnerability' is just another tool. He wants you emotionally compromised, off balance. It’s classic psychological warfare."
"Nat's right, Peter," Steve added, his tone firm but understanding. "His trauma is horrific, truly. No one deserves that. But what he's doing now… that's his choice. To inflict that pain on the world. You can't let his past overshadow the present danger he poses."
Peter slammed his hand lightly on the desk, a wave of desperate emotion washing over him. "But he's not just some caricature of evil! He's a person! A broken one! He was a victim! He lost everything, just like I lost Ben! He’s trying to build a world where no one can be betrayed, where no one can suffer like he did! It's twisted, I know, but… don’t you see the parallel?"
"We see a direct threat to global stability, Peter," Fury interjected, his voice chillingly devoid of sympathy. "His methods are genocidal. His 'solution' involves forcing humanity into a state of collective trauma to 're-educate' them. That is unacceptable. Your mission remains unchanged. We need intel on Elysian Lab. We need to know its full capabilities. And we need to know the exact moment of activation."
Peter closed his eyes, the weight of their words pressing down on him. They were right. Logically, rationally, they were absolutely right. But his heart… his heart was tangled, aching for the man who had laid his soul bare.
Hours later, as the sun climbed higher, Peter found himself drawn to the heart of the mansion. A frantic energy emanated from the grand hall, drawing him like a moth to a flame. He saw Daimon emerge from a secluded underground entrance, his gait purposeful, his face alight with a dangerous triumph. He was flanked by his inner circle – Anastasia Volkov, Senator Vance, Professor Alistair Thorne, and General Kuznetsov. They looked like apostles, disciples to a dark god.
"It is finished!" Daimon’s voice resonated through the soaring hall, a pronouncement that sent a shiver down Peter’s spine. "Years of relentless pursuit! Decades of planning! Every tear, every scream, every betrayal… it has culminated in this moment! The Elysian Initiative is complete!"
A cheer, almost reverent, rose from his inner circle.
"What is the Elysian Initiative, Peter?" Natasha’s voice was sharp, urgent. "What exactly have they completed?"
"It’s… it’s his goal," Peter whispered into his mic, his gaze fixed on Daimon. "His dream. His 'mind control machine.' He just called it the 'Elysian Initiative.' He said it will 'change the world, bring down world leaders, and make everyone see trauma.' And he’ll be there for them, leading them." Peter felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. This was it. The endgame.

"Years and years of tears, of trauma, of relentless pursuit… and now, it stands ready," Daimon continued, his voice softer now, almost poetic. "A new dawn for humanity. A new understanding. They will finally be free from the illusions of peace and false hope. They will know the truth of suffering, and from that knowledge, true order will emerge. My friends, are you ready to usher in this new era?"
His associates, eyes gleaming with a chilling fanaticism, echoed, "Ready, Daimon. Always ready."
"He can't be allowed to activate it!" Tony’s voice was a frantic hiss. "We need to get eyes on that lab! Peter, you have to get us more. Location, schematics, anything."
Daimon, however, seemed to anticipate their desperation. He turned, his gaze sweeping the hall, searching for Peter. When their eyes met, the ruthless intensity in Daimon’s face softened, melting into a warm, almost possessive smile that sent a shiver down Peter’s spine, a confusing mix of dread and longing.
"Fury will not leave us undisturbed," Daimon stated calmly, his voice hardening slightly as he addressed his associates. "He is predictable. He will make his move soon. But we are ready. We are always ready. And with Ethan by my side…" He held Peter’s gaze, a knowing glint in his eyes. "With Ethan here, I am the best living man on Earth."
Peter felt a surge of profound guilt, so sharp it was almost physical pain. Daimon, utterly unaware of the betrayal, looked at him with such open affection, such trusting eyes.
The rest of the day was an agonizing blur of excruciating intimacy. Daimon, buoyed by his triumph, clung to Peter with an unsettling intensity. He rarely left Peter’s side, following him from room to room, his hand often resting on Peter’s back or arm, a constant, warm weight. He talked incessantly about his "vision," his voice filled with a persuasive zeal.
"You understand, don't you, Ethan?" Daimon murmured as they sat in the vast library, Daimon flipping through an ancient tome on philosophy, his hand gently stroking Peter’s hair. "The world is broken. Filled with lies. The 'leaders' are just puppets, pulling strings for their own greed. They will never allow humanity to truly evolve. They cling to the old ways, the old pain. But I… I offer a new path. A painful path, yes. But an honest one."
"It sounds… like a lot of suffering," Peter said, trying to keep his voice neutral, even as his heart ached. He was reporting every word, every gesture, to Fury and the Avengers, his voice flat, emotionless, even as his internal turmoil raged.
"Suffering is enlightenment, Ethan," Daimon said, his blue eyes intense as he met Peter’s gaze. "It strips away the illusions. It reveals the true self. You felt it, didn't you? When the poison coursed through your veins? The raw, primal fight for survival? The clarity? That is what I offer the world. To awaken them. To purge them of their complacency." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "And when they awaken, they will need a guide. Someone strong. Someone who has faced their own demons and emerged victorious. They will need me. And perhaps… they will need you too, Ethan."
Peter’s breath hitched. He felt himself drawn into the mesmerizing orbit of Daimon’s gaze, the alluring conviction in his voice. "Me?"
Daimon smiled, a slow, sensual curve of his lips. "You are remarkable, Ethan. You possess a unique resilience. A light I have rarely seen. You intrigue me. You draw me in, my little spider. I feel… invigorated by your presence. Perhaps even… inspired." He traced a line down Peter’s arm, sending shivers through him. "What do you say? Would you like to inspire me more?"
"He's flirting with you, Peter!" Tony’s frantic whisper pierced his ear. "Don't fall for it! He's trying to get under your skin!"
"He's already under my skin, Tony," Peter thought grimly, his face flushing. He swallowed hard. "I… I just want to understand you, Daimon." It was half-truth, half-lie.
"Understanding is the first step towards true connection," Daimon purred, his fingers now gently tracing the curve of Peter’s jaw. "And I feel a profound connection to you, Ethan. More than I have felt in… in a very long time."
As dusk began to settle, painting the sky in fiery hues, Daimon clapped his hands, his previous intensity returning. "My friends! This is a moment of monumental achievement! Years of dedication, realized! We shall celebrate! I shall throw a grand celebration tonight, to mark the completion of my greatest work!" Servants immediately swarmed, transforming the grand ballroom, decorating it with lavish flowers and shimmering lights.
Daimon then retreated to his study to finalize the invitation list. Peter, exhausted by the emotional rollercoaster, the constant mental drain of his double life, and the incessant, conflicting voices in his ear, hovered nearby.
"Who are you inviting to this… 'celebration'?" Peter asked, trying to sound nonchalant, his voice betraying his weariness.
Daimon smiled, a playful glint in his eye. "Only the most influential, the most discerning. Those who will truly appreciate the dawn of a new era. And perhaps… a few familiar faces who need a stark reminder of the future I'm building." He paused, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "And a man whose genius I admire, even if his moral compass is hopelessly misaligned. And his lovely companion, of course."

He held up an elegant invitation, the script clear: Mr. Anthony Stark & Ms. Pepper Potts.

Peter stared, dumbfounded. "Tony Stark? And Pepper? You're inviting them?!"
Daimon chuckled, a low, pleased sound. "Why not? It’s a celebration of power, of vision. And Mr. Stark, for all his bluster, is a man of vision. Besides, I enjoy a good intellectual sparring partner. And Miss Potts… well, she is simply delightful."

The Avengers’ comms exploded.

"WHAT?!" Tony shrieked, making Peter wince. "He invited me?! And Pepper?! Is he trying to bait us?! Is this some kind of trap?!"
"This is an unprecedented opportunity, Peter," Fury's voice was sharp with strategic calculation. "A direct invitation into his inner sanctum. This could be our chance to get eyes on his central network, perhaps even the Elysian Lab. But be on high alert. This is a massive risk."
"But what about Peter?" Steve asked, concerned. "Won't that draw suspicion if Peter is seen with them? He's supposed to be 'Ethan John,' a new protégé."
"Good point, Captain," Natasha chimed in. "Peter, try to avoid direct interaction with Stark and Potts. Maintain your cover. Don't give him any reason to suspect a connection. He’s testing you. He’s testing us."
"Right. Avoid," Peter mumbled, feeling a fresh wave of panic. How was he supposed to avoid Tony Stark when Daimon was glued to his side, and seemingly determined to show him off
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and violet, Peter felt his energy reserves plummet. The healing, the constant vigilance, the intense emotional strain, the non-stop internal conflict – it was all catching up. He swayed slightly, a wave of dizziness washing over him.
"Guys," Peter whispered into his mic, his voice raspy with fatigue. "I need to power down for a bit. I genuinely feel like I'm going to collapse. I need at least an hour of sleep before this… celebration tonight." He reached for his comms, his fingers fumbling with the tiny devices. "I'm turning off the mic and camera. I’ll keep the earpiece on, but I won’t be able to talk."
"Understood, Peter," Fury said, his voice clipped. "Rest well. Report back as soon as you're able. And Peter… be careful."
"Careful of what?" Peter thought bitterly, pulling out the mic and camera, tucking them under his pillow. He felt the familiar lightness of being disconnected, a brief moment of freedom from the omnipresent watchful eyes. He usually went to his own room for this, but not today. Not after last night.
His aching body, his weary mind, and a strange, undeniable longing pulled him towards Daimon’s private chambers. Sleeping in Daimon’s arms, after the raw confession and the shared vulnerability, after the intense day of Daimon’s almost childlike devotion, sounded like the only true heaven left in his twisted reality. He just needed to feel that comforting warmth, that sense of safety, however fleeting, however dangerous.
He quietly opened Daimon’s bedroom door, slipping inside. Daimon was there, reading by a soft lamp, his gaze immediately snapping to Peter. A soft, alluring smile touched his lips, a different kind of warmth in his eyes now.
"Ethan," Daimon said, his voice a low, seductive purr. "Come in, my dear. What brings you to my humble abode at this late hour? Are you already missing me?"
Peter walked towards the bed, his legs feeling like jelly, his gaze fixed on Daimon’s inviting eyes. "I… I just needed to rest," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "And… I didn't want to be alone. Not tonight."
Daimon’s smile widened, a knowing glint in his eyes. He put his book aside, watching Peter approach with a predatory, yet incredibly alluring, intensity. He opened his arms, a silent, powerful invitation. Peter didn't hesitate. He climbed onto the vast, plush bed, his body instinctively seeking Daimon's warmth. He curled up against Daimon’s side, feeling the comforting solidity of his chest, the rhythmic beat of his heart. Daimon’s arm wrapped around him, pulling him close, his hand gently stroking Peter’s hair.
"Sleep, my dear," Daimon whispered, his voice a low, soothing murmur that vibrated through Peter's body. "Rest. You are safe here. Always."

The words, the touch, the profound sense of comfort, acted like a potent sedative. Peter felt himself drifting, sinking into a deep, peaceful sleep, a world away from missions and betrayals.
But as Peter’s breathing deepened, a different energy began to radiate from Daimon. His embrace subtly tightened. His fingers moved from Peter’s hair to trace the line of his jaw, his neck. A new kind of warmth began to bloom between them, a slow, consuming heat that had nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with burgeoning, undeniable desire.
Peter stirred, a soft moan escaping him. He was still half-asleep, his body heavy with exhaustion, but a new, intoxicating sensation was awakening him. Daimon’s lips found his neck, trailing soft, insistent kisses. Peter’s mind screamed for clarity, for the mission, for the rules. But his body, still weak from the poison, yet strangely alive, responded to the intoxicating heat. He gasped, a soft sound, as Daimon’s hand slipped beneath his shirt, tracing the sensitive skin of his stomach, his ribs, then moving higher, to his chest.
"So soft," Daimon whispered, his voice husky, lips against Peter’s ear. "So beautiful, my Ethan. I’ve dreamt of this." He moved, shifting his weight, pressing Peter more firmly against him. His lips trailed lower, to Peter’s collarbone, nipping gently, possessively.
Peter's eyes fluttered open, a wave of dizzying sensation washing over him. He knew this was wrong. Every fiber of his being screamed that this was a catastrophic mistake. He tried to pull back, just slightly, a weak murmur of protest. "Daimon… wait… please…"
But Daimon was too far gone, too heated in the moment, too consumed by his own desire, by the intoxicating vulnerability of Peter in his arms. He didn't stop. His touch became more insistent, more demanding. His kisses deepened, his body pressing closer, his leg hooking over Peter’s, trapping him. Peter was lost in a bewildering haze of conflicting sensations: exhaustion, lingering pain, burgeoning arousal, and a terrifying awareness of the mission, of Tony’s fury, of Fury’s cold judgment. He felt Daimon’s lips on his skin, then a sharper bite, a lingering press that left a distinct mark. Another, lower on his neck, then along his shoulder. Peter whimpered, a choked sound, as Daimon’s touch became even more intimate, leaving a burning trail wherever it lingered.
"You're mine, Ethan," Daimon murmured, his voice a low, guttural growl, utterly consumed. "Only mine."
By the time Peter finally succumbed to a deeper, heavy sleep, his body was covered in subtle, yet undeniable marks – bruised flowers blooming on his neck, his collarbones, his shoulders, his chest. He was mortified, even in his unconscious state. He could only hope, with a desperate, fervent prayer, that they would fade by morning. Because if Tony saw him tomorrow, he might actually lose it. And Peter, in his heart, knew he might just lose it too. The line between hero and villain, between captor and willing participant, had utterly, irrevocably, dissolved.

Chapter Text

The first rays of dawn, pale and hesitant, filtered through Daimon’s expansive bedroom window. Peter stirred, a soft groan escaping him as his body protested the remnants of the poison and the unexpected exertions of the night. He blinked, the plushness of the pillows, the scent of expensive silk, and a faint, masculine cologne filling his senses. He expected to be alone, to find the other side of the bed empty, a silent testament to Daimon's usual detachment.
But then, he felt it. A warm, heavy arm draped securely around his waist, holding him tight against a firm, muscular back. His face immediately flamed crimson. He was spooning Daimon Thorne. A low, contented sigh rumbled from the man behind him, pulling him even closer. Peter’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of panic and something else… something dangerously close to bliss.
He tried to subtly extricate himself, to gently shift away without waking Daimon. But even that small movement was enough. Daimon’s arm tightened instantly, his breath ghosting over Peter’s ear.
"Mmm, don't move, little spider," Daimon’s voice rumbled, deep and husky with sleep, sending shivers trailing down Peter’s spine. It was a sound that simultaneously thrilled and terrified him. "Stay right here. You're far too comfortable to let go of just yet."
Peter froze, his cheeks burning. "D-Daimon," he stuttered, his voice barely a whisper. "I… I need to get up. It’s morning."
Daimon chuckled, a low, pleased sound against Peter's neck. "Morning already? And here I thought we could simply stay here forever, lost in the quiet comfort. Unless…" He shifted, turning Peter gently in his arms so they were facing each other, their faces inches apart. Daimon’s eyes, still heavy with sleep, held a languid, possessive warmth. "Unless you'd prefer to start your day with a morning kiss, my dear Ethan?"
Peter’s mind screamed a thousand warnings. 'No! This is part of the act! He’s manipulating you! Don’t do it! Don’t give him any more!' But his gaze was caught by Daimon’s eyes, so intensely blue, so captivating. The memories of last night, of the raw confession, the unexpected intimacy, swirled in his mind. And the simple, undeniable truth: he wanted to.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Peter leaned in. Their lips met, soft at first, a hesitant feather-touch. Then, Daimon’s hand cupped the back of Peter’s head, deepening the kiss, making it linger, sweet and demanding. Peter’s breath caught in his throat, and he found himself responding, his own lips parting, a soft sigh escaping him. It was intoxicating. It was utterly, terrifyingly real.
When they finally broke apart, Peter’s face was scarlet, his heart pounding. He quickly pulled away, scrambling off the bed. "Okay! Enough! Get up, Daimon! We have things to do!" He tried to sound firm, but his voice was breathy, shaky.
Daimon chuckled, stretching languidly in the bed, a predatory smile playing on his lips. "As you wish, my demanding little companion. But remember, Ethan, the best things often happen when one simply stops resisting." His gaze was knowing, intimate.
Peter practically fled to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face, trying to erase the heat, the memories, the undeniable truth of his own complicity. Even as he went through the motions of getting ready, showering, dressing, he knew all of this was an act. This intoxicating intimacy, this dangerous connection, it wasn't real. It was a charade, a false reality he had created, and it would end. Soon. And when it did, he would have to watch as Daimon, the broken man he now loved, suffer again. The thought twisted his gut.
As he walked back into the bedroom, Daimon was still sitting on the edge of the bed, putting on his shirt. Peter’s heart twisted. The raw vulnerability from the night, the terrifying intimacy, the impossible feelings he now harbored… he couldn’t ignore them. He couldn’t let Daimon face this world alone. Not after everything.
Without thinking, Peter walked up behind Daimon, his arms circling the man’s waist. He was barely tall enough to reach Daimon’s shoulders. He rested his head against Daimon’s broad back, clutching him tightly.
Daimon froze, surprised by the unexpected embrace. "Ethan?" he asked, turning his head slightly to look at Peter, a confused, yet strangely tender, expression on his face. "What's wrong, my dear? You seem… distressed."
Peter didn’t answer with words. Instead, he quickly released one arm, turned Daimon fully towards him, and, standing on his tiptoes, pressed his lips fiercely against Daimon’s. It was a desperate, almost frantic kiss, laced with guilt, fear, and a desperate, burgeoning love. He pulled back, panting softly, his gaze locked with Daimon’s bewildered but willing eyes. "I'm sorry," Peter whispered, the words choked out, thick with unshed tears. "I'm so, so sorry."
Daimon's eyes widened for a moment, then softened. He didn't ask questions. He simply melted into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Peter, pulling him close, returning the unexpected intensity with a passion that left Peter breathless. The world outside, the mission, the Avengers – all faded into a distant hum.
A servant's discreet knock on the door pulled them apart, a jarring intrusion. "Mr. Thorne, Mr. John, breakfast is served."
They descended to the dining room, holding hands under the table, a silent intimacy binding them. The meal passed in a comfortable silence, filled with stolen glances and knowing smiles. Peter felt a sudden, cold dread. He had completely forgotten to wear his comms. He knew the Avengers were going to explode in his ear.
"Daimon," Peter said abruptly, pushing his chair back. "I just… realized I forgot something in my room. I’ll be right back." He practically sprinted from the room, making his way quickly to his chambers.
Once inside, he double-checked the hallway, listening for any approaching footsteps. When he was sure he was alone, he quickly retrieved his comms from under his pillow, slipping the earpiece back in.
Immediately, Tony’s voice exploded, sounding like he’d been holding his breath for hours. "PETER PARKER! DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG YOU'VE BEEN OFFLINE?! DO YOU KNOW THE LEVELS OF ANXIETY YOU'VE PUT ME THROUGH?! WE'VE BEEN CALLING YOU FOR THE LAST HOUR! WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU?!"
"I… I woke up late," Peter lied, trying to sound convincing, even as his cheeks burned. "I was really tired. The poison, you know? Knocked me out. I overslept."
"Overslept?!" Fury’s voice was a low growl. "Peter, you are on a high-stakes undercover mission. There is no 'oversleeping.' You maintain communication at all times. Do you understand the risks you're taking?"
"I understand, sir," Peter mumbled, feeling a fresh wave of guilt. "It won't happen again." He quickly made his way back to Daimon, the Avengers’ furious whispers a constant buzz in his ear.
The entire day felt like a cruel charade. Daimon, utterly buoyant, kept Peter by his side. He spoke of his plans, his triumphs, his vision for the world, his gaze often lingering on Peter with an almost doting affection. Peter listened, forcing himself to report every detail to Fury and the Avengers, even as his heart ached with every new layer of Daimon's trusting vulnerability.
The guilt was a lead weight in his stomach. How could he betray someone who looked at him like that? Who held him like that? Who had spilled his deepest, most agonizing truths to him? Peter felt himself losing his mind. Every day, he tried to steel himself against his growing feelings for Daimon, to remind himself of the mission, of the villain Daimon was. But every day, those feelings grew stronger, more insistent, harder to avoid. Being 'Ethan John' was a living hell – a constant, elaborate lie to a man who saw only the false personality, who knew nothing of the Spider-Man lurking beneath. He would forever regret the day he’d agreed to this mission. He was falling, and he knew it.
The Avengers, sensing his growing detachment, noticed.
"Peter, you're not yourself," Steve’s voice was gentle, concerned. "What's wrong? You're barely responding to us. Is it… is it too much? We can pull you out, if you're compromised."
Peter ignored them, pretending his earpiece was crackling, shaking his head slightly. He couldn't answer. He couldn’t admit how deeply compromised he truly was.<
"Is it because of his feelings towards Daimon?" Sam Wilson asked, his voice cutting through the other worried whispers. There was a sudden, sharp intake of breath from the comms.
"That's enough, Sam!" Fury’s voice cracked like a whip. "That's classified speculation. Focus on the mission."
Fury, despite his harsh words, felt a pang of profound worry. He was fond of Peter, not just because he was Spider-Man, a valuable asset, but because he saw in Peter a reflection of his best friend, Richard Parker. He had watched Peter grow, watched him suffer, and he knew this mission was tearing the kid apart. But Daimon Thorne was not 'nice.' He was a villain, a world-threatening force that needed to be taken down, no matter how much Peter loved him. Fury’s duty was clear: stop Daimon before the world was his.
Later that day, as the sun began its final descent, painting the grand ballroom in hues of orange and purple, the preparations for the celebration were nearly complete. Tony Stark and Pepper Potts were already en route. Fury had given Tony strict, impossible orders.
"Stark," Fury’s voice had been stone cold, "you are there as a guest, to observe, to gather intel. No matter what you see, no matter what Thorne does, you do not make a scene. You do not confront him. And no matter how close Thorne gets to Peter, you leave them alone. Your presence is solely to confirm our intelligence and to prepare for a potential extraction. Is that clear?"
Tony had scoffed, but a cold dread had settled in his gut. "Clear? Are you insane, Fury? 'Leave them alone'? My kid is in there, probably being brainwashed by a sociopathic, crying mess! How the hell am I supposed to do that?!"
But in the end, he had agreed. He explained the bare minimum to Pepper on the way, enough to make her understand the gravity of the situation and the necessity of maintaining their composure.
Once inside the mansion, Tony’s blood was boiling. Every opulent fixture, every hushed servant, felt like part of a suffocating trap. He wanted to run, to tear through the rooms until he found Peter and dragged him away from the serpent's kiss. But he knew he couldn’t. He had to play the part. He had to be calm.
And then he saw him. Peter. Standing beside Daimon Thorne, who had his arm casually, possessively, draped around Peter's waist. Tony felt a physical ache in his chest, a jolt of pure, unadulterated fury. If it weren't for Pepper's hand discreetly squeezing his arm, grounding him, he would have made the biggest mistake of his life right then and there.
Peter saw them, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second, before he quickly turned his head, avoiding Tony’s gaze, his cheeks flushing. Daimon, meanwhile, continued to chat animatedly with a group of industrialists, his hand firmly anchored on Peter’s waist, oblivious to the internal dramatics unfolding.
Then, Daimon’s gaze swept over the crowd, landing on Tony and Pepper. A genuine, almost charming smile lit his face. He smoothly detached himself from the group, pulling Peter along with him, a hand still resting lightly on the small of Peter’s back.
"Mr. Stark," Daimon said, extending a hand, his voice smooth and welcoming. "And Ms. Potts. What an absolute pleasure. I am Daimon Thorne. And this," he paused, his arm tightening possessively around Peter’s waist, pulling him slightly closer, "is my esteemed guest, Ethan John. A truly remarkable young man."
Peter forced a polite, bewildered smile, playing along with the charade as if he didn't know Tony Stark, the most famous man on the planet. "It's… it's an honor to meet you, Mr. Stark. Ms. Potts."
Tony had to grit his teeth to maintain his professional facade. His gaze kept darting to Peter, a silent plea for information. "Mr. Thorne. The pleasure is… all ours. Impressive estate." His eyes lingered on Peter, trying to assess his condition, to find answers.
Peter, desperate to avoid eye contact, kept his gaze fixed on Pepper. But as he shifted, his shirt, a loose silk, slipped slightly from his shoulder, leaving his neck exposed. Tony’s gaze immediately snapped to the exposed skin. His blood ran cold. He saw them. Dark, angry bruises blooming across Peter's neck and collarbone. Hickeys. Not one or two, but several, unmistakable, telling a story Tony didn't want to hear.
Peter, feeling Tony’s sudden, intense stare, met his gaze. He saw the horror, the dawning rage, the immediate protective instinct in Tony’s eyes. Peter’s own eyes widened in a silent plea, a desperate apology. He quickly pulled his shirt back up, trying to cover the marks, but it was too late. Tony had seen.
Pepper, sensing the shift in tension, smoothly stepped forward, engaging Daimon. "Mr. Thorne, your home is magnificent. And this party is truly spectacular." She steered the conversation away from Peter, her voice calm and professional, even as her eyes flickered with concern towards Peter.
Daimon, oblivious to the silent communication, preened under Pepper's praise. "Thank you, Ms. Potts. I believe in celebrating… monumental achievements." He looked at Peter, a possessive smile on his lips.
Tony, however, was no longer listening. His fists were clenched, his body vibrating with suppressed fury. He forced himself to nod, to smile, but inside, he was screaming. Peter had been marked. By Thorne. And the implications…
After a few excruciating minutes, Tony managed to extract himself and Pepper, making their excuses about needing to mingle. As soon as they were out of earshot, Tony exploded.
"PEPPER, DID YOU SEE THAT?!" Tony hissed, his voice raw with barely controlled rage. "HIS NECK! THOSE MARKS! THAT SON OF A BITCH! HE LAID HIS HANDS ON MY KID! I'M GOING TO KILL HIM! I'M GOING TO TEAR THIS PLACE APART BRICK BY BRICK!"
"Tony, calm down!" Pepper whispered frantically, gripping his arm tightly. "You can't make a scene! Fury's orders! Think about Peter! You'll blow his cover! We have to be smart about this."
"Smart?! He's being marked like some goddamn property! How is that smart, Pep?!" Tony dragged her further into a secluded alcove, his breathing ragged. "I knew it! I knew this was going too far! He forced him! That's what happened! That's why he wasn't answering! He forced Peter!"
Meanwhile, Daimon, having finished his perfunctory greetings, found his way back to Peter, drawing him further into the opulent, glittering crowd. He was growing steadily more inebriated, his usual composure loosening with each glass of champagne.
"Ethan, my dear," Daimon slurred softly, his arm sliding around Peter’s waist, his grip tighter, more intimate than before. "You look absolutely radiant tonight. A vision." His fingers traced patterns on Peter’s side, sending shivers through him.
Peter, feeling the growing pressure of the mission, the suffocating guilt, and the unsettling heat of Daimon’s touch, tried to subtly pull away. But Daimon simply pulled him closer, his eyes gleaming with possessive desire.
"Are you enjoying yourself?" Daimon whispered, leaning in, his lips brushing Peter’s ear. "I certainly am. With you by my side, everything is perfect. A true masterpiece."
"It's… it’s a beautiful party," Peter managed to say, his voice strained. He could feel Daimon’s eyes on him, intense and demanding. He had to play the part. He had to be Ethan John. And Ethan John was falling for Daimon Thorne.
Peter looked up at Daimon, forcing a shy smile. "You look pretty good too, Daimon. Like… like you're glowing." He dared to reach up, his fingers brushing Daimon’s lapel, a deliberate, flirtatious gesture.
Daimon’s eyes darkened, a triumphant gleam entering them. "Glowing, am I? Perhaps it's merely the reflection of your light, little star." He leaned in, his voice a low, gravelly whisper. "You know, Ethan, I've had many admirers. But none have ever captivated me quite like you. You're a puzzle I never tire of solving." His fingers brushed Peter's neck, lingering deliberately over one of the marks he'd left. "And a very, very tempting reward for all my hard work."
Peter felt a gasp rise in his throat, but he swallowed it, forcing himself to meet Daimon's gaze, a playful, yet deeply conflicted, glint in his own eyes. He leaned in, his voice dropping to an equally low, breathy whisper, fueled by desperation and a dangerous, burgeoning desire. "And you, Daimon Thorne, are a fascinating mystery I'm quite enjoying unraveling. Who knows what other secrets you hide?" He let his fingers trace a slow, deliberate path up Daimon's chest, dangerously close to his heart. "Perhaps I'll find them tonight."
Daimon’s eyes blazed. He pulled Peter even closer, their bodies almost flush against each other in the swirling crowd. "A bold challenge, my dear Ethan. And one I would be delighted to accept. Perhaps we should begin our 'unraveling' in a more… private setting?" His voice was thick with unadulterated desire, his gaze fixed on Peter’s lips.
Peter felt the heat of Daimon’s breath, the intoxicating scent of his cologne, the possessive grip of his hand. He was playing a dangerous game, one that threatened to consume him entirely. He knew he should step back. He should find a way out. But the thrill, the terror, the desperate need to feel something real, something that silenced the screaming voices of duty and guilt, pulled him deeper into the serpent’s embrace.

From where tony was sitting, he looked like he was ready to kill and it didn't help when he saw daimon flirt openly and he didn't miss the way peter got closer looking like he is flirting also almost enjoying it.

Daimon was holding peter close his body feeling the others body then he whispered in Peter's ear " I can't wait to have you all for myself tonight" in a low husky, loving voice making Peter's knees weak, if it weren't for daimon he would have fallen right there and of course tony didn't miss the way peter literally melted like he wasn't being held by the enemy right now.

From the corner of his eyes he saw tony looking super angry and peter felt a knot in his stomach " excuse me but I need to go talk with someone I think I might know them" Peter said trying to pull away but daimon only held him stronger.
Daimon, chuckled, pulling him back effortlessly. "Nonsense, my dear. These dullards can wait. Our conversation is far more… stimulating." He tightened his grip, his eyes still locked on Tony and Pepper, who were now just a few feet away. "Besides," Daimon purred, his voice loud enough for them to hear, "I prefer to keep my most prized possessions close." He winked at Peter, a possessive, unsettling gesture.
Tony’s face went from pale to beetroot red. His hands clenched at his sides, muscles rippling under his suit. Pepper, seeing the impending explosion, quickly put a hand on his arm, her eyes pleading. "Tony, remember!" she mouthed silently.

" I won't be long a few minutes will do. And besides, I think your friends are waiting for you over there. Go, enjoy yourself, I will be back before you know it" Peter said While removing Daimon’s hands off him then he pulled him down by the collar and kissed him , on the lips making Tony want to die at that very moment. Then peter whispered in Daimon’s ear while still holding him" and besides, you'll have all of me tonight" in a low seductive voice. Then he let go of daimon pushing him a little to start waking but before that daimon gave a quick kiss behind Peter’s ear " can't wait, my princess" leaving Peter speechless as he walked away but peter quickly looked for Tony and pepper and when he found them Tony looked like he going to make the place exploded.

When Peter got closer making sure no one familiar was around and then Tony exploded" WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT HUH?!" Tony somehow exploded while still keeping his voice low" What do you think will happen huh?! Isn't this the mission? This is what I'm supposed to do and guess what?! I will have to watch as it all falls apart and every lie coming to its true colors." Peter said clearly annoyed." Yeah that's no excuse for him to force himself on you and Mark you like your his!!" Tony hissed back now getting more annoyed and pepper tried to calm him down which was not working. " for gods sake Tony! He didn't force himself on me because guess what! I love him and I allowed it to happen isn't it enough that I have to se him suffer by the hands of fury while he looks at me with nothing buy betrayal!?" Peter yelled voice getting louder and before Tony could have time to answer Peter turned around and left going back to daimon leaving pepper and tony shocked.

The air in the grand ballroom was thick with music, laughter, and the intoxicating scent of expensive perfumes and champagne. Peter felt himself being pulled deeper into the opulent chaos, Daimon’s arm a constant, possessive weight around his waist. The conversation, the dancing, the fleeting glances from Daimon’s guests – it all blurred around him. All that mattered was the intense, magnetic field that existed solely between him and Daimon.
"You're very quiet tonight, my little spider," Daimon murmured, his lips brushing Peter’s ear as they swayed subtly to the slow music. "Lost in thought, or simply captivated by my charming presence?" His eyes, though slightly glazed with alcohol, held a knowing, amused glint.
Peter forced a soft laugh, leaning into Daimon’s touch, his hand finding its way to Daimon’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. "Perhaps a little of both," he whispered back, his voice intentionally breathy. "It's just… a lot to take in. This world you've built. It's… impressive." He let his fingers trail over the exquisite fabric of Daimon’s suit, a blatant flirtation he knew the Avengers were seeing. The thought sent a jolt of guilt through him, but it was quickly overshadowed by the dangerous thrill of the game.
Daimon purred, a sound of pure satisfaction. "Impressive, indeed. But only truly magnificent with you by my side, Ethan. You bring a certain… light. A vulnerability that makes even my dark corners feel less cold." He tightened his grip, pulling Peter flush against him. "Tell me, my dear. What do you truly think of my work? My vision for the world?" His voice softened, losing its playful edge, searching for genuine connection.
Peter hesitated, his heart aching. He wanted to tell him the truth. He wanted to scream that his vision was a nightmare, born of his own pain, destined to inflict unimaginable suffering. But he couldn't. Not yet. Not while Tony was watching, likely on the verge of an apoplectic fit.
"It's… it's certainly ambitious," Peter said carefully, choosing his words. "You believe in a… fundamental truth about humanity, don't you? That pain is… purifying."
Daimon nodded slowly, his eyes darkening with a familiar intensity, the alcohol doing little to dull his conviction. "Only through the crucible of suffering can true strength emerge, Ethan. False comfort, false hope – they are the real prisons. I offer liberation, however brutal the path. Imagine a world where no one can lie to you, where no one can betray you. Because they've all seen the darkest truths. They've all been stripped bare. And from that honesty, from that shared pain, a new kind of trust can be forged. A true order." He stroked Peter’s hair, his gaze faraway, lost in his vision. "And you, my delicate bloom, you will be safe in that world. Protected. Cherished."
Peter shivered, a complex mix of fear and a strange, chilling allure. Daimon's words painted a horrific utopia, a world built on the very trauma that had scarred him. Yet, the conviction in his voice, the raw vulnerability beneath the layers of power, was almost hypnotic. He looked up at Daimon, letting his gaze soften, a silent question in his eyes. He watched Daimon's lips, full and soft, still warm from their earlier kisses.
"And what about you, Daimon?" Peter whispered, his voice low, suggestive. "Will you be safe in this new world? Who will protect you, when everyone else is… purified?" He let his fingers brush Daimon's jawline, a gentle, almost intimate touch.
Daimon’s eyes locked onto Peter’s, a spark igniting in their depths. "Ah, my clever Ethan," he murmured, his voice husky. "Perhaps… perhaps that is where you come in. Perhaps you are the only one capable of truly protecting me. My shield, my solace. My beautiful distraction." He leaned in, his lips brushing Peter’s ear. "Or perhaps… you will be my greatest weakness."
Peter felt a gasp rise in his throat, a tremor running through him. He leaned closer, letting the unspoken tension build. "Only if you let me."
Daimon’s breath hitched. He pulled Peter even tighter, his body pressing flush against Peter’s. "A challenge, my little spider? You tempt me beyond measure." His hand slid lower, resting firmly on Peter’s lower back, pulling him into an intimate press. "Perhaps this 'celebration' needs to end sooner than planned, so we can explore these… temptations. In private."

Chapter Text

The grand ballroom hummed with the soft murmur of conversations and the delicate clink of crystal glasses. Peter, trying to look engaged in Daimon's charming small talk, felt a relentless. Daimon was promising so much that won't happen. And now he is drunk telling him what he wishes to do. But peter couldn't help but feel sad about everything. Oh how he wishes to spend his days with daimon without all this trouble and the world at risk.
Daimon, sensing Peter’s shift in mood, turned his head slightly, his lips brushing Peter’s ear. "What troubles you, my dear Ethan? You seem… distant." His deep voice, a low rumble. "Is the company so dreadfully dull?"
Peter leaned into Daimon’s touch, a sudden wave of desperate comfort washing over him. "No, it's… it's nothing," he whispered, a lie that tasted bitter on his tongue. He knew Tony was still listening, still yelling to pepper about how he is forced into all of this but in this moment, Daimon’s closeness felt like an anchor in a storm of guilt and doubt.
Daimon’s eyes, a mesmerizing sapphire blue, searched Peter’s face, a hint of concern softening their usual intensity. "Nothing? I find that hard to believe, my clever boy. You rarely hide your thoughts so poorly from me." He moved imperceptibly closer, his hand subtly shifting from Peter’s waist to his back, pulling him into a more intimate contact. "Perhaps a distraction is in order."
And then, before Peter could react, Daimon’s head tilted, and his lips met Peter’s.
It was soft at first, a gentle press, seeking. But the moment their mouths connected, the heavy weight of the mission, the suffocating guilt – all of it dissolved into a singular, overwhelming sensation. Peter gasped, his eyes fluttering closed, and without thinking, he melted into the kiss, his hands instinctively finding Daimon’s broad chest, gripping the fine fabric of his suit. He leaned into the kiss, pressing closer, wanting, needing, more. If it were possible, he would have pulled Daimon even deeper into his own being, desperate to lose himself in the moment. He hoped, prayed, that Tony wasn't seeing this. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that if Tony witnessed this, the mission, his fragile life here, would end. Right here. Right now.
Daimon’s hand, still on Peter’s back, moved lower, his thumb brushing provocatively over Peter’s lower spine, eliciting a soft, involuntary moan that was quickly swallowed by the kiss. Daimon chuckled, a low, pleased sound that vibrated against Peter’s lips. Then, Daimon deepened the kiss further, an unspoken promise passing between them.
When Daimon finally pulled away, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps, his eyes were blazing, dark with untamed desire. His voice was husky, raw with impatience. "My dear Ethan," he whispered, his lips still inches from Peter’s, "I can't wait any longer. This… this party… must conclude. Now."
And that’s exactly what he did. With a sudden, decisive clap of his hands, Daimon commanded the attention of the entire ballroom. "My esteemed guests!" he announced, his voice carrying effortlessly over the lingering music. "It has been an evening of profound joy and momentous achievement. But the hour grows late, and my work, alas, demands my full and undivided attention." He offered a practiced, charming smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, a glint of something deeper, more urgent, flickering within them. "Thank you all for gracing my home. Please, enjoy the rest of your evening."
Guests began to disperse, a polite, slightly bewildered ripple spreading through the crowd. Tony, still seething, was one of the first to usher Pepper towards the exit. His gaze, however, remained fixed on Peter, who stood beside Daimon, a silent, almost ethereal presence. Tony could see the flush on Peter’s face, the lingering intimacy in Daimon’s posture, and a knot of icy dread tightened in his stomach. He didn’t know what had just happened, but he knew, with chilling certainty, that whatever it was, it would have dire consequences. He had to trust Fury's plan, but the pit in his stomach was growing. He worried for Peter, and for what the coming hours, the coming days, would bring.
After the last guest had departed, their polite farewells echoing in the cavernous foyer, and the small army of servants began their efficient work of cleaning up the remnants of the grand celebration, Daimon turned to Peter. His eyes, no longer clouded by alcohol, burned with a singular, intense desire.
"Ethan," he said, his voice low, urgent, utterly devoid of the playful flattery he’d used earlier. It was raw, demanding, and full of an almost desperate need. He took Peter’s hand, his fingers intertwining with Peter’s, and practically ran, pulling Peter behind him, towards his private chambers.
The heavy oak door swung shut behind them with a soft thud, plunging the room into a more intimate silence, broken only by their ragged breathing. Daimon wasted no time. He pulled Peter against him, throwing himself at him, his lips finding Peter’s with a hungry desperation. This wasn't the slow, tantalizing kiss from the party. This was wild, uninhibited, consuming. Peter, caught in the intoxicating whirlwind, responded with equal fervor, his own body heated, his mind a chaotic mess of desire and dread. He tangled his hands in Daimon’s hair, pulling him closer, desperate for more, desperate to silence the gnawing guilt inside him.
Daimon’s hands slid down Peter’s back, pulling him flush against his body before gently pushing him backward. Peter stumbled, landing softly on the vast, plush bed. Daimon immediately followed, climbing over him, his body a heavy, comforting weight, his lips never leaving Peter’s. He moved closer, his kisses trailing a burning path down Peter’s jaw, his neck, lingering over the marks he’d left hours before, as if claiming them anew.
"Daimon… wait," Peter gasped, a desperate whisper, his hands coming up to gently push against Daimon’s chest. "I… I haven't… I've never…"
Daimon paused, lifting his head, his eyes dark with unspent desire, but softening with understanding. He gazed at Peter, his thumbs gently caressing his jaw. "Shhh, my brave, beautiful Ethan," he whispered, his voice incredibly tender. "It's alright. I know. It's okay. You're safe with me. I'll take care of you. Every step of the way."
And then, with a reassuring smile, Daimon lowered his head. In the hushed intimacy of the room, amidst whispered promises and vulnerable moments, they shared a profound intimacy. Peter found a strange comfort in Daimon's presence, a temporary respite from the lies and the burden of his mission.
The next morning, Peter stirred slowly, sunlight filtering gently through the silk curtains. His body felt languid, heavy, yet strangely… content. He expected to be alone, but then felt the familiar, warm weight around his waist, holding him tight against a firm, familiar chest. Daimon.
His face immediately flushed scarlet as the memories of the night flooded back, a torrent of intoxicating sensations and overwhelming emotions. The intimate whispers, the gentle touches, the vulnerable confessions that had blurred the lines between their roles until they ceased to exist. Peter had truly, irrevocably, dug a hole so deep he might never get out. He had tried so hard to fight his feelings for Daimon, to remain focused on the mission, and in the end, he had not only acknowledged them but had succumbed to them entirely. He had shared the night with the man he was supposed to take down.
He carefully tried to shift, to create a little space, but Daimon’s grip tightened, pulling him closer still.
"Mmm, good morning, my dear Ethan," Daimon murmured, his deep morning voice a low rumble against Peter’s ear, making him shiver. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Peter’s hair. "Did you sleep well? You look… absolutely exquisite in the morning light."
Peter felt a giggle bubble up, a soft, uncharacteristic sound that surprised even himself. He was being held, cherished, in a way he hadn't experienced since… since too long ago. He relaxed into the embrace, a genuine smile gracing his lips. "Good morning, Daimon."
Daimon chuckled, a warm, happy sound, and then, with an easy grace, he shifted, rolling Peter onto his back and gently climbing over him, straddling his waist. He leaned down, his eyes sparkling with affection, and began to pepper Peter's face with soft, playful kisses – his forehead, his eyelids, his nose, his cheeks.
"My beautiful, beautiful boy," Daimon whispered between kisses, his voice thick with adoration. "You were more than I could have ever dreamed of. More than I ever deserved." He paused, gazing into Peter’s eyes, his thumb tracing the line of Peter’s jaw. "Last night… it was everything. You are everything."
Peter's heart swelled, a mixture of profound warmth and terrifying dread. He reached up, his hands cupping Daimon’s face, pulling him down for a deep, lingering kiss that left them both breathless.
"We should probably get up," Peter whispered, his voice still a little shaky, but a genuine smile playing on his lips. "Don't you have a world to… reshape?"
Daimon chuckled, pulling back slightly, his eyes still shining with affection. "Indeed, my little revolutionary. A world to reshape. And with you by my side, I feel invincible. Truly. You are my dawn, my strength, my unexpected solace. Every lie, every betrayal, every single moment of pain… it was all worth it, just to find you. You are the truth I’ve been searching for."
He leaned down again, pressing one last, tender kiss to Peter’s lips. "But first," Daimon murmured, "how about breakfast? And then… we can truly begin our new world. Together."

Together......

Chapter Text

The morning sun streamed into the ornate dining room, casting golden patterns across the polished mahogany table where Peter and Daimon sat. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the sweet scent of pastries, a seemingly idyllic scene that belied the storm brewing within Peter’s heart. Daimon, utterly radiant, spoke with fervent enthusiasm about his final preparations, his eyes alight with the dawn of his grand new world. He was so close to achieving his life's work, and the sheer joy on his face was a dagger twisting in Peter's gut.
Every loving glance Daimon sent his way, every tender touch, intensified the agony of what Peter knew he had to do. And thinking about it made him want to jump of a bridge.The delicious warmth of Daimon’s hand on his, the soft brush of his thigh against Peter’s under the table – each intimate moment was a fresh wound, a reminder of the beautiful, impossible lie he was living. Time was up. He knew it. All he had to do was activate his comms, give Fury the signal, and the world would descend upon Daimon, shattering everything he had built, and quite possibly, shattering Daimon himself. Fury would decide his fate if he wanted to kill daimon or keephim locked up. Peter would decide nothing, except his own heartbreak.
He looked at Daimon, truly looked at him, trying to memorize every detail – the way his dark hair fell over his forehead, the fierce intelligence in his blue eyes, the hopeful curve of his lips when he spoke of his vision. Peter knew, with a crushing certainty, that he would never look at Daimon like this again, not with this raw, vulnerable affection. The thought alone brought a fresh wave of grief, a burning behind his eyes.
Remarkably, the Avengers were silent on the comms. After the explosive exchange with Tony the previous night and the profound intimacy that had followed, Peter had half-expected an onslaught of furious questions, of strategic demands. Instead, there was only a heavy, accepting quiet. They knew. They understood the impossible tightrope he was walking, the heartbreaking choice he had to make. They had nothing left to ask, for Peter's silence and the raw emotion they must have sensed from his suppressed comms spoke volumes. They were simply waiting for him to open the doors, to give the signal, to betray his heart for the safety of the world.

"I didn't think that peter would grow such strong emotions for daimon" Sam said in an almost emotionless voice that broke the silence in the room and made some to look at him and agreeing. " its only because this is the first person to show him affection like that, he will get over it eventually" Fury said, hand crossed he was thinking if he wanted to asked peter when will he give them the opportunity to attack or if he should leave him with his feelings for awhile.

Daimon finished his coffee, a satisfied sigh escaping him. He reached across the table, taking Peter’s hand and bringing it to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his knuckles. "My dear Ethan," he murmured, his gaze tender, "the final touches await. Soon, the world will awaken. But first," he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, "a moment more with you. My muse. My everything."
Peter managed a shaky smile, his throat tight with unshed tears. He would not spend his last moments with Daimon steeped in sadness. No. If this was to be the end, he would shower Daimon with affection, making their final moments together feel as real, as cherished, as possible. He would make the betrayal sting all the more, for both of them. It was a twisted, self-punishing thought, but he couldn't help it. This was all he had left to give.
He rose from his chair and walked around the table, settling onto Daimon’s lap, his head resting against Daimon’s shoulder. Daimon’s arms immediately wrapped around him, holding him close, his fingers gently stroking Peter’s hair. Peter nestled into the embrace, inhaling Daimon’s scent, trying to imprint it on his very soul.
"I… I love being with you, Daimon," Peter whispered, the words choked out, raw and real. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to sink into the warmth, the comfort, the illusion of permanence. He felt Daimon’s lips press against his temple, a soft, reassuring kiss.
"And I, you, my Ethan," Daimon murmured back, his voice thick with emotion. "More than words can say. You have brought light back into a heart I thought was forever lost to shadows." He squeezed Peter tighter, as if to absorb him, to make him a part of himself.
Peter felt a sharp pang. Light? He was a spy. A liar. He was about to plunge Daimon back into the deepest shadows imaginable. The thought was unbearable. His own words, "I love being with you," echoed in his mind, searing with the truth of his feelings, but also with the lie of his identity. Giving Daimon more affection now would only make the inevitable betrayal harsher, more agonizing, for both of them. It was a cruel, beautiful trap, and Peter had built it himself.
A wave of profound sadness washed over him, so overwhelming that tears welled up, blurring his vision. He tried to blink them back, to hide them, but a single, hot tear escaped, tracing a path down his cheek. He sniffled, trying to compose himself, but another tear followed, then another. His body began to tremble almost imperceptibly.
Daimon immediately noticed. His gentle stroking stopped. He held Peter still, his embrace tightening, pulling Peter even closer until there was no space left between them. Daimon didn't ask questions. He simply held him, a silent, comforting presence. He understood sorrow. He understood tears. And in that moment, he offered the only thing he knew Peter needed: wordless solace.
Peter buried his face deeper into Daimon’s shoulder, his silent sobs shaking his small frame. He knew the Avengers were listening. He knew they were watching. And for once, there were no frantic shouts, no tactical demands, no judgment. Only a heavy, stunned silence from the comms. They were left speechless, witnessing the raw, unfiltered agony of their young hero. Perhaps they were blaming Fury, as Peter had so often done in his own mind, for sending a vulnerable teenager into such an emotionally devastating mission. But it didn't matter. The silence, though accepting, was still a heavy cloak of inevitability.
Peter, wrapped in Daimon’s unyielding embrace, felt the quiet tick of the clock, each second bringing them closer to the moment of truth. His heart was breaking, slowly, agonizingly, with every beat. He had to betray the man who held him so tenderly. He had to tear down the dreams of the one person who had truly seen beyond his masks, even if it was based on a lie. He had to choose the world. And the world would cost him everything.

Chapter Text

The next day.

The morning after was a phantom limb of happiness. Peter moved through breakfast in a daze, the scent of fresh coffee and Daimon's comforting presence doing little to quell the storm raging inside him. Every time Daimon’s hand brushed his, every time their eyes met, a fresh wave of grief washed over Peter. The gentle affection, the unwavering trust in Daimon’s gaze – it was all a bitter reminder of the betrayal he was about to inflict. He knew this was their last dance, their last quiet morning before the world shattered around them.
The weight of the comms, still mercifully silent, felt like a lead weight in his ear. The Avengers, offered no demands, no tactical directives. Their silence was a heavy, accepting blanket, a quiet acknowledgment of the agonizing choice Peter faced. They had seen his pain, his love, and now they waited for him to tear his own heart out for the greater good. The knowledge that they understood, that they accepted his impossible feelings, offered no comfort. It only amplified the isolation of his impending act.
Daimon, oblivious to the silent communication, continued to dote on Peter. "You're still a bit quiet, my love," he murmured, gently tucking a strand of hair behind Peter's ear. "Are you feeling quite alright? You seem… lost in thought." His brow furrowed with genuine concern.
Peter forced a weak smile. "Just… happy, Daimon. So very happy." The lie tasted like ash. He reached for Daimon's hand across the table, lacing their fingers together, desperate to cling to this fleeting normalcy. He would spend every last moment showering Daimon with affection, imprinting this dangerous, beautiful illusion onto his soul. If this was all he had, he would make it count, even if it made the coming betrayal all the more unbearable.
After breakfast, Daimon excused himself for a series of critical meetings, the "final touches" before the Elysian Initiative's launch. Peter watched him go, his heart contracting with each step Daimon took away from him. This was it. The countdown had truly begun.
Peter retreated to the solitude of Daimon's expansive library, the heavy silence amplifying the chaos in his mind. He paced, his movements agitated, a desperate caged animal. The comms remained silent, a constant reminder of the sword hanging over Daimon’s head. Call Fury. Give the signal. That's all he had to do. But his hand trembled, refusing to obey. He couldn't. He absolutely, physically could not do it. The thought of bringing down the man he loved, of seeing that look of utter devastation on Daimon’s face again, was unbearable. He’d rather die. He’d rather sacrifice himself than betray the man who had shown him such unexpected tenderness, such profound vulnerability.
Hours passed in agonizing slow motion. Peter felt a desperate, suffocating ache in his chest. He clutched his head, trying to quell the rising tide of panic. He could feel Daimon’s presence in the mansion, a distant, comforting anchor, even as he knew that anchor would soon be violently ripped away.
Meanwhile, Daimon, in his meetings, found his mind constantly drifting. Peter's quietness, the lingering sadness in his eyes that morning, the way he’d clutched Daimon so tightly during breakfast – it bothered him. It wasn't the usual playful, curious 'Ethan.' A shadow had fallen over his ethan and Daimon couldn't shake the unsettling feeling. Every minute, his thoughts would circle back to Alexander, to his dying, furious words. "Ethan is Peter Parker. Spider-Man." It had been a nonsensical, desperate accusation at the time, fueled by rage. But now… the memory gnawed at him. Why would Alexander say that? It couldn’t be true. Could it?
He cut his last meeting short, an impatient frown marring his brow. He needed to see Ethan. He needed to reassure himself that this blossoming happiness, this unexpected solace, wasn't fleeting, wasn't a dream from which he would violently awaken. He needed to chase away the unsettling quietness that had settled over Peter.
Daimon walked into his study, expecting to find it empty, but Peter was there. He sat slumped in an armchair, staring blankly ahead, his posture radiating an unbearable sadness. Before Daimon could even speak, Peter looked up, his eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears.
"Ethan?" Daimon began, his voice laced with concern, taking a step forward.
But Peter didn't let him finish. He launched himself from the chair, stumbling across the room and throwing himself onto Daimon, burying his face in Daimon's chest. His arms wrapped around Daimon’s waist with desperate strength, holding on as if Daimon were the only thing keeping him from disintegrating. Raw, guttural sobs tore from Peter’s throat, shaking his entire body.
Daimon was utterly shocked. He instinctively wrapped his arms around Peter, holding him close, his mind racing. "Ethan! My love, what is it? What's wrong? Tell me, please!"
But Peter couldn't speak. He just cried, his sobs tearing through the silence, punctuated by muffled, frantic murmurs against Daimon's shirt. "I'm so sorry… I'm so sorry… for what will happen… I'm so, so sorry…"
Daimon’s heart pounded with a terrifying mix of fear and confusion. Sorry for what? What's going to happen? His mind raced, connecting Peter’s words to the insidious whispers of Alexander, to the unease he’d felt about Peter’s recent sadness.
Suddenly, Peter pulled back slightly, his tear-streaked face looking up at Daimon, eyes wide and pleading. Before Daimon could ask another question, Peter’s hands cupped his face, and he kissed him. It was a desperate, fierce kiss, full of anguish and a heartbreaking tenderness. Peter poured every ounce of his conflicted soul into it – his guilt, his despair, and the raw, undeniable truth of his love. He broke the kiss only to whisper, his voice choked with sobs, "I love you, Daimon. I truly, truly love you." He punctuated the confession with small, frantic kisses to Daimon's lips, his forehead, his cheeks, not caring anymore about the Avengers, about the comms, about the world. He just needed Daimon to know.
Daimon was stunned, immobilized by the intensity of Peter’s confession, by the depth of his pain. He couldn't speak, couldn't ask the questions screaming in his mind. He could only hold Peter closer, his own eyes welling up with tears, a profound ache blooming in his chest. "I love you too, Ethan," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, clinging to Peter as if he were the only stable thing in a rapidly crumbling world. "More than you could ever imagine. You are my light. My heart."
They stayed like that for what felt like hours, wrapped in each other's arms, the world outside forgotten, suspended in a bubble of desperate love and unspoken tragedy. Peter’s sobs slowly subsided, replaced by quiet sniffles, his body still trembling against Daimon’s. Daimon held him, stroking his hair, whispering soft reassurances, trying to banish the profound sadness that had gripped his beloved Ethan.
Later, much later, as dusk settled, casting long, purple shadows, Daimon gently guided Peter to bed. He cradled Peter close, their bodies spooned together, Peter’s head resting on Daimon’s chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a false lullaby. Daimon fell asleep quickly, exhausted by the emotional turmoil, holding Peter as if he were the most precious thing in his life.
But Peter couldn't sleep. The words he had mumbled, "sorry for what will happen," echoed in his mind, a terrifying prophecy. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, Daimon would initiate his plans. Tomorrow, Peter had to call Fury. Tomorrow, he had to betray the man sleeping so peacefully beside him. The weight of it, the crushing inevitability, pressed down on him, suffocating him. He was losing Daimon. He was going to break his heart. Again.
A cold dread seeped into his bones, followed by a frantic, dizzying terror. His breathing grew shallow, ragged. His heart hammered against his ribs, a wild, panicked drum. The room spun. He couldn't breathe. He felt the walls closing in, the weight of the universe pressing down. A strangled sob escaped him, then another, louder, more frantic. He began to gasp, his hands clawing at his chest, tears streaming down his face as a full-blown panic attack seized him.
His violent shaking and gasping quickly roused Daimon. "Ethan! My love, what is it?!" Daimon sat up abruptly, his arm tightening around Peter, pulling him close, his voice thick with alarm. "What's happening?! Are you alright?!" He fumbled for the lamp, casting the room in a soft glow. He saw Peter, curled into a ball, shaking uncontrollably, tears streaming, gasping for air.
"Can't… breathe… Daimon… it hurts…" Peter choked out, clutching at Daimon's shirt, his nails digging in.
Daimon’s face was etched with terror. He pulled Peter onto his lap, cradling him, his voice a frantic whisper. "Shhh, shhh, it’s alright, my love. Just breathe with me. Deep breaths. You’re safe. You’re safe, Ethan. Look at me. Look at my eyes." He held Peter's face, forcing him to meet his gaze, his thumbs gently caressing Peter's tear-streaked cheeks. "Slow breaths, my love. Just like this. In… and out… You’re not alone. I’m here. I’m right here."
Slowly, agonizingly, Peter’s breathing began to regulate, his sobs subsiding into ragged sniffles. He clung to Daimon, burying his face in his neck, seeking solace in his warmth. Daimon held him tight, rocking him gently, murmuring soft words of comfort until Peter’s tremors finally stilled, and he drifted into an exhausted, fitful sleep. Daimon, his heart still pounding, held him close, his own mind plagued by a growing, terrifying unease.
The next morning, the sun seemed to mock Peter with its brightness. He woke to the comforting weight of Daimon’s arm around him, but the brief reprieve from his inner torment was shattered by the chilling realization that today was the day. The final day.
Daimon woke soon after, his eyes still heavy with sleep, but softening into a tender smile when he saw Peter watching him. "Good morning, my beautiful Ethan," he murmured, his voice raspy. He pulled Peter closer, pressing a soft kiss to his hair. "Did you sleep better?" He looked at Peter, a lingering concern in his gaze. "You scared me last night, my love. You were… so distressed."
Peter forced a watery smile. "Just a bad dream, Daimon. I'm okay now. Really." He leaned into the embrace, trying to savor every last second.
They eventually rose, moving through the motions of their morning routine. Breakfast was quiet, filled with unspoken anxieties from Peter, and a new, unsettling quietness from Daimon, who kept glancing at Peter, a worried frown frequently creasing his brow.
After lunch, Daimon led Peter to his private study, Daimon’s face was alight with a renewed zeal, his previous concerns seemingly pushed aside by the gravity of the moment. He went to a large, elaborate console that dominated one wall, its screen glowing with complex schematics and a rapidly advancing timer.
"My dear Ethan," Daimon said, his voice ringing with a triumphant, almost religious fervor, "it is time. The final parameters are set. The global network is prepared. In less than an hour, the Elysian Initiative will begin." He turned, his eyes shining with a mixture of excitement and profound earnestness. "The world will finally be free from its illusions. They will know the truth. And you… you will be by my side, to guide them through the awakening."
Peter’s vision blurred. The hum of the console, Daimon’s triumphant words, the ticking clock on the screen – it all faded into a deafening roar in his ears. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. The world narrowed to a pinprick of desperate agony. This was it. The moment of no return. He had to do it. He had to call Fury.
His hand trembled, reaching for the comms hidden beneath his shirt. He pressed the small button, feeling the familiar click, hearing the faint, ready hum of the connection.
"Fury… " Peter’s voice cracked, barely a whisper, thick with tears and the crushing weight of his decision. He couldn’t even say the next words. He just broke down, silent sobs wracking his body. "Fury… I… I can’t…"
But it was enough. The signal was given. And while daimon and his friends were happy celebrating the success of their work and Peter was standing on the side looking at Daimon for the final time when all alarms were on , everyone went into panic . Suddenly the doors to Daimon’s study, moments before so secure, exploded inward with a deafening crash.
"AVENGERS! MOVE IN! NEUTRALIZE THREAT! SECURE TARGET!" Fury’s voice, amplified, boomed through the now shattered doorway.
Captain America burst in first, his shield raised, followed by Iron Man, already suited up, repulsors glowing. Black Widow, Clint, Sam, Bucky, and yelena streamed in behind them, weapons ready, eyes narrowed.
"Daimon Thorne! You are under arrest!" Steve’s voice was clear, authoritative.
Daimon froze, his back to the door, staring at the console, then slowly turned. His eyes, initially confused, widened in dawning horror as they swept over the Avengers, then landed on Peter, who stood trembling, his hand still clutched to his chest, the small comms device visible.
The pieces clicked. Alexander's dying words. Peter's earlier sadness. His panicked "sorry for what will happen." The hidden comms. The timing. The realization ripped through Daimon like a physical blow.
"Ethan John," Daimon whispered, his voice utterly devoid of emotion, a chilling flatness that spoke of a soul-deep wound. His eyes, wide and disbelieving, fixed on Peter, then flickered to Tony, whose face was a mask of furious protection. "Ethan John… was a lie." His gaze hardened, the warmth draining from his eyes, replaced by a cold, searing hatred. "You… you are Peter Parker. Spider-Man. The Avenger. Fury's spy."
His face crumpled, but not with sadness. With betrayal. A raw, profound, agonizing betrayal that went deeper than anything Peter had ever seen. The trust Peter had painstakingly built, the love he had fostered, was now a weapon, brutally turned against him.
"Daimon! No! It's not what you think!" Peter cried out, tears streaming down his face, desperate to explain, to bridge the chasm that had just opened between them. He lunged forward, but Tony, his face grim with resolve, caught him firmly, pulling him back, away from the man whose world Peter had just destroyed.
Daimon looked at Peter, then at the Avengers who were rapidly advancing, their weapons trained on him. His eyes burned with a terrifying, vengeful fire. The love he had held for Peter turned to ash, leaving behind only the bitter taste of utter, absolute betrayal.

Chapter Text

The air in Daimon’s study crackled, not just with the impending surge of power from the activated Elysian Initiative, but with the raw, agonizing shock of betrayal. Daimon stood frozen, his eyes wide and hollow, fixed on Peter. Alexander’s dying words, once dismissed as the desperate ravings of a traitor, now echoed in his mind with terrifying clarity, a chilling prophecy fulfilled. Ethan is Peter Parker. Spider-Man.
"Alexander…" Daimon whispered, his voice a ghost of its former self, haunted by the specter of his loyal, if misguided, friend. "He was right. All along." A bitter, humorless laugh escaped his lips, devoid of mirth, dripping with self-loathing. "I killed him. My own loyal Alexander. Because of… love." The word was spat out like venom, a curse on his own foolish heart. "Love. What an utter, pathetic idiocy. To believe in something so fragile, so easily twisted into a blade."
He looked at Peter again, his gaze lingering on the young hero’s tear-streaked face. Even through the haze of his own shattered trust, Daimon could see it: the raw, agonizing heartbreak that mirrored his own. Peter’s eyes, wide and pleading, were a testament to a genuine, albeit conflicted, affection. A part of Daimon, the foolish, vulnerable part he thought he had extinguished long ago, acknowledged the crushing weight of Peter’s sorrow. He saw how much Peter loved him, even now, even knowing the impending doom.
But that flicker of empathy was quickly swallowed by the consuming inferno of betrayal. Love, to Daimon, was a weapon. It had been used against him his entire life. And Peter, the one he had dared to open his heart to, the one who had promised solace, had wielded it with devastating precision.
Without a word, Daimon’s hand, still trembling, shot out to a hidden panel on the console. His finger slammed down on a red, recessed button. The ominous hum that had filled the room suddenly swelled into a deafening roar, a sound that vibrated through Peter’s very bones. The entire mansion shuddered.
"No, Daimon, no!" Peter screamed, finally breaking free from Tony’s bewildered grip. He lunged forward, a desperate, last-ditch effort to stop the unstoppable. He saw the red light on the console flash, signaling full activation.
As Peter rushed him, Daimon looked at him, his eyes now blazing with an infernal light, reflecting the crimson glow of the activated machine. All traces of love, of tenderness, were gone, replaced by a profound, soul-deep wound. His voice, amplified by the activated systems, boomed through the study, chilling Peter to the core:
"You were the warmth I dared to feel, Peter Parker, and now, you will be the cold truth that shatters your world. For in the crucible of your despair, you will finally understand the depths of my own."
Before Peter could reach him, a shimmering energy shield, far more powerful than any he had encountered before, erupted around Daimon, encapsulating him and the console. Peter slammed into it, the impact sending a jolt of raw energy through him, knocking him back.
Suddenly, the study doors, previously breached by the Avengers, were sealed shut by thick, reinforced steel plating. The room was transformed into a deadly arena. From the walls, from hidden compartments in the ceiling and floor, Daimon’s sentinel robots deployed. These weren't the standard guards from the ballroom; these were sleek, terrifying machines, their optical sensors glowing with malevolent red light, their forms shifting, adapting, unfolding with deadly precision. They numbered in the dozens, filling the space, their metallic limbs whirring with lethal intent.
The Avengers, momentarily caught off guard by the rapid escalation, snapped into action.
"Hostiles engaged! Tony, get a read on these things!" Captain America roared, raising his Vibranium shield as the first wave of robots attacked. Their attacks were fast, coordinated, and surprisingly brutal.
Iron Man, his repulsors charging, fired a volley of energy blasts. "F.R.I.D.A.Y, full combat analysis! These aren't standard models! They've got adaptive armor plating!" His blasts, usually devastating, seemed to be absorbed, barely denting the robots’ outer shells. "They're… they're learning!" Tony’s voice was laced with disbelief.
Black Widow moved with lethal grace, her Widow's Bites sparking, but the robots were too numerous, their movements too fluid. Bucky, his bionic arm tearing through one robot, found another immediately replacing it, forcing him to block a flurry of razor-sharp blades. Clint fired arrows, some exploding, some trailing nets, but the robots simply rerouted, or their forms shifted to let the projectiles pass harmlessly through.
"They're too fast! And they adapt!" yelena slammed into a group of robots, shattering them, "Their energy dampeners are insane!"
Peter, still reeling from Daimon’s crushing words, watched the fight unfold. The Avengers, the mighty Avengers, were losing. They were being overwhelmed. His heart screamed in his chest. Daimon was truly going to unleash his horror upon the world. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t.
"Tony!" Peter yelled, already tearing at his street clothes. "My suit! I need my suit! Now!"
Tony, caught in a desperate struggle, barely heard him. "K-kid, what are you—"
"NOW, TONY!" Peter screamed, pulling at his shirt, his voice raw with urgency.
Tony, seeing the desperate determination in Peter’s eyes, made a split-second decision. "F.R.I.D.A.Y Spider-Man suit! Remote deploy! Full combat integration!"
In a flash of red and blue light, the familiar suit materialized around Peter, Tony’s nanotechnology weaving itself over his body in seconds. The mask clicked into place, the white lenses narrowing, focusing his vision. He was Spider-Man.
He didn’t hesitate. He launched himself into the fray, a blur of red and blue, a desperate prayer on his lips.
Peter swung through the chaos, landing on a robot’s back, tearing through its metallic shell with his enhanced strength. He felt the sickening crunch of circuits, the shower of sparks, but another robot was already on him, its multi-jointed limbs moving with impossible speed. He dodged, webbing it to the wall, and spun, firing more webs, creating a desperate, chaotic net to slow the relentless tide.
"Their energy signatures are off the charts!" Tony yelled, deflecting a devastating blast that sent him crashing into a reinforced wall. "They're drawing power directly from the Elysian Initiative's core! It’s like fighting the machine itself!"
Peter fought with a desperate, brutal efficiency he rarely allowed himself. Every punch, every kick, every web-shot was infused with the agony of his decision. He saw Daimon, still encased in his impenetrable shield, watching them, his face a chilling mask of cold, calculating vengeance.
Flashback: Peter remembered the night before, Daimon’s head on his lap, his quiet sobs of "I'm sorry for what will happen." He remembered Daimon’s comforting hug, his whispered "I love you too, Ethan. You are my light." The memory was a searing brand on his soul. He had accepted that comfort, knowing it was a prelude to this very moment. The sheer hypocrisy of it threatened to suffocate him.
A robot, larger than the others, its frame covered in thick, oscillating armor, lunged at Captain America. Steve grunted, his shield deflecting the blow, but the force sent tremors up his arm. "These things are relentless! They don't have a visible weakness!"
"They're designed to adapt, Cap!" Natasha yelled, performing a desperate acrobatic evade, a laser beam slicing through the air where she had been a moment before. "They analyze our combat patterns, our energy signatures, and counter! It's Thorne's twisted genius!"
Peter saw a glimpse of Daimon's face through the shimmering shield. His eyes, devoid of all softness, watched Peter with a chilling intensity, a silent accusation. You did this. You made me this.
Flashback: Peter remembered Daimon, earlier that very morning, peppering his face with soft, playful kisses. "My beautiful, beautiful boy," Daimon had whispered, "You were more than I could have ever dreamed of. You are everything." The warmth of those lips, the adoration in those eyes – it was all a lie now. All reduced to ash by Peter's own hand.
He swung towards a cluster of robots, dodging a flurry of blades. "They're networked!" Peter shouted, his voice strained. "If we take out the central processing unit, maybe it'll disrupt the whole network!" He aimed for the largest robot, hoping it was a command unit.
"Good call, Spidey!" Tony yelled, flying towards Peter, his repulsors glowing, covering him. "But getting to it is the problem! They're like a swarm!"
The room was a symphony of destruction. Metal shrieked against metal, energy blasts illuminated the smoke-filled air, and the rapid thud of punches reverberated through the steel-plated walls. The robots moved with an eerie, coordinated intelligence, anticipating their moves, blocking their attacks, always, always learning.
"They're faster than last time!" Hawkeye grunted, pulling back his bowstring, his face tight with exertion. "And their aiming is terrifyingly precise!"
"He wants to break us," Bucky snarled, grappling with a robot twice his size, his bionic arm tearing at its neck. "He wants us to know his pain!"
Peter launched himself at the 'command' robot, desperate. He wrapped his powerful webs around its limbs, pulling, twisting, trying to tear it apart. But the robot’s armor shimmered, adapting, resisting his enhanced strength. Its optical sensors flared, and a powerful laser beam shot out, searing Peter’s arm. He cried out, pulling back, a wave of pain lancing through him.
"Peter!" Tony screamed, blasting the robot, forcing it back.
Daimon watched Peter, his eyes burning with a cold, almost detached fascination, like a scientist observing a particularly agonizing experiment.
Flashback: Peter remembered Daimon’s quiet hug in the library, his arm wrapping around him, offering solace even when Peter couldn't articulate his pain. "You are my light," Daimon had said. That light had just been extinguished.
"He's not even fighting back directly!" yelena yelled, delivering intense punches but it did nothing as they began to reform, sparks flying as their adaptive nanites worked. "He's just… watching!"
"He's watching you, Peter," Natasha said, her voice grim, her eyes on Daimon. "He wants you to see what you've done. What you've unleashed."
Peter felt a surge of desperate fury. He had done his duty! He had chosen the world! Why did it have to hurt so much?! Why did Daimon have to make him pay like this?! He didn’t want Daimon to suffer, not like this, not because of him. But he had no choice.
He fired a precise web-shot, grabbing a large piece of falling debris, and swung it like a wrecking ball into the thick of the robots, shattering several. But they kept coming. They were an endless, unfeeling tide.
Daimon seeing that the avengers are starting to win raised a hand within his shield, and a new wave of energy surged from the console. The robots pulsed with a malevolent red light, their movements becoming even more frenetic, their attacks more aggressive.
"He's amplifying their power!" Steve yelled, gritting his teeth, his shield vibrating from a series of powerful blows. "We're running out of time!"
Peter looked at Daimon, his heart clenching. He saw the cold resolve in Daimon’s eyes, the profound agony buried beneath the hatred. This wasn't just a fight for the world. It was a fight between two shattered souls, one seeking vengeance, the other desperately trying to atone for a necessary betrayal.
"You taught me that love is the ultimate vulnerability, Peter Parker," Daimon’s amplified voice boomed through the room, chilling and resonant. "And now, you will learn that there is no torment greater than to be destroyed by the very thing you dared to love."

Chapter Text

Daimon’s words, echoing through the chaotic, battle-scarred study, landed in Peter’s soul like a poisoned dart: "You taught me that love is the ultimate vulnerability, Peter Parker, and now, you will learn that there is no torment greater than to be destroyed by the very thing you dared to love."
For a moment, Peter felt all his walls crumble. The sheer, unadulterated agony of it was a physical blow. He had never loved someone so deeply, so unconditionally, only to be utterly, irrevocably broken by them. The tenderness, the shared secrets, the raw vulnerability of their nights together – all twisted into instruments of torment. The image of Daimon, looking at him with such profound hatred, burned itself into Peter’s mind. This was the ultimate betrayal, the ultimate pain, not just for Daimon, but for Peter himself. He had chosen duty, but duty was a desolate, empty thing compared to the vibrant, terrifying love he had felt.
Then, something snapped inside him. The profound heartbreak, the crushing guilt, began to twist, festering into a cold, pure anger. Not at Daimon, not truly. But at the impossible situation, at Fury, at himself, at the world that demanded such cruel choices. He looked around. Iron Man was straining, his repulsors sputtering under the relentless assault of Daimon’s adaptive robots. Captain America grunted, his shield showing scorch marks. Natasha, Bucky, Hawkeye, yelena – they were all fighting valiantly, but they were losing. Overwhelmed. Drowning in the tide of Daimon’s vengeance.
Daimon, encased in his shimmering energy shield, was still watching Peter, a chilling, almost triumphant satisfaction in his eyes. He wasn't just fighting the Avengers; he was performing an agonizing, personal symphony of destruction, and Peter was his captive audience.

As daimon watched his fake lover fight he was suppose to feel good as he was just betrayed but he couldn't help but remember all the lovely moments between him and etha- no peter and now this. He has told himself to never open his heart to anyone but he did and in the end it did nothing but hurt him once again.

As the fight continued and daimon hiding like the cowered he is. Daimon wasn't just hurting them, Peter realized, a surge of adrenaline cutting through his despair. He's trying to break me. To make me feel what he felt. And I can't let him win. Not like this. Not for this.
A primal roar tore from Peter’s throat, unheard amidst the din of battle. He was done with despair. Done with guilt. Done with agonizing over what he had done. He would end this. Now. Even if it meant shattering what little was left of his own heart.
He sprinted forward, a red, blue and a hint of gold blur, weaving through the robot swarm.
"Peter, no! Get back!" Tony yelled, seeing the raw, untamed fury in Peter's movements. He extended a repulsor gauntlet to grab Peter, but Peter was too fast, too desperate. He ducked under Tony’s arm, spun past Bucky’s grappling form, ignoring Natasha’s sharp command to fall back. He ran with a singular, terrifying purpose, his eyes locked on Daimon.
"Kid, don't you dare!" Tony’s voice was laced with frantic warning. "He'll tear you apart!"
But Peter was deaf to all reason, blind to all obstacles. He gathered all his strength, all his rage, all his despair, and threw himself at Daimon’s shimmering energy shield. The impact sent a shockwave through the air. Peter felt searing pain, a bone-jarring impact, but he pushed through it, his spider-strength, fueled by a terrifying, desperate will, finding the shield's breaking point. With a deafening crack, the shimmering barrier shattered, exploding into a shower of sparks that illuminated Peter’s mask, his eyes burning with an incandescent fury.
Daimon, startled, his eyes widening in genuine surprise, stumbled back. He hadn't expected Peter to break through. He hadn't expected Peter to fight him, not directly, not with such savage resolve.
"You think this is over, Daimon?!" Peter roared, his voice distorted through his mask, but raw with a pain that echoed Daimon's own. He launched himself forward, throwing the first punch, a desperate, power-packed hit straight to Daimon's jaw.
Daimon reeled, his head snapping back from the unexpected force. A thin trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his lip. He stared at Peter, a flicker of shock, then cold rage, in his eyes. "You dare to lay hands on me, Parker?!" he spat, wiping the blood with the back of his hand. "After what you've done?!"
Peter didn't answer. He spun, firing a powerful web, ensnaring Daimon’s arm and yanking him forward. Daimon stumbled, off-balance, and Peter seized the opportunity, delivering a devastating, full-force punch to his face. Daimon crashed to the ground, a surprised grunt escaping him.
But Daimon Thorne wouldn't fall so easily. He snarled, his eyes blazing, and a silent command rippled through the robot swarm. The automated sentinels, momentarily engaged with the other Avengers, immediately turned on Peter, a unified, relentless assault.
"You want a fight, little spider?! I'll show you a fight!" Daimon roared, scrambling to his feet, his face a mask of furious determination. "I'll show you what happens when you betray a man like me!"
The robots converged on Peter, a metallic tide. He was swarmed, overwhelmed. He ducked, dodged, webbed, and punched, but they were too many, too relentless, too perfectly coordinated by Daimon. They didn't give him a chance to fight back effectively, simply pummeling him with a barrage of precise, powerful blows. Peter grunted, pain lancing through his body. His advanced suit, designed to protect him, was being systematically dismantled. Armor plating cracked, circuits sparked, and the HUD in his mask flickered wildly.

Flashback:
Peter remembered Daimon’s calm voice, "It's okay. You're safe with me. I'll take care of you." He remembered the tenderness in Daimon’s eyes as he spoke those words, the security he had felt in Daimon's arms last night. It was a beautiful lie that fueled his attacks now, each hit laced with the bitter taste of betrayal.

He saw Tony try to break through the robot horde to reach him. "Peter! Get out of there! You're gonna get yourself killed!" Tony yelled, blasting a robot, but two more took its place.
"He's using you to grind us down!" Steve shouted, his shield ringing as he blocked a powerful blow.
But Peter was beyond listening to their warnings. He fought with a desperate, self-destructive fury, absorbing blows, delivering his own, pushing past pain that would cripple a normal man. Daimon watched him, his face a complex mix of rage, triumph, and a strange, agonizing sorrow. He was destroying Peter, utterly, systematically, with his robots, but there was no joy in it. Only the grim satisfaction of inflicting the same pain he felt.
Eventually, it was only him and Daimon. The robots, having served their purpose, retreated, leaving Peter battered, bruised, and barely standing. His suit was torn, sparking, clinging to him in tatters. He was bleeding from a dozen cuts, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Daimon, though bruised, looked relatively unharmed, his eyes burning with a cold, triumphant fire.
"Is this it, Peter Parker?" Daimon sneered, his voice low and cutting. "Is this the great hero, broken and defeated? You thought you could destroy me? You thought you could escape the consequences of your lies?"
Peter stumbled forward, his legs screaming in protest, but his eyes were fixed on Daimon, a desperate, almost pleading sorrow in their depths. He tried to hit Daimon, but his blows were weak, fueled by a conflicting love that wouldn't let him unleash his full power. He couldn't hit hard. He couldn't truly hurt the man he had loved so deeply, even now, even after everything.
"I… I didn't want this, Daimon," Peter choked out, tears mixing with blood and sweat on his face. "I… I love you… I never meant to hurt you…"
Daimon laughed, a bitter, broken sound that echoed his soul. "Love? You don't know the first thing about love, Peter Parker! You only know obedience! You only know betrayal!" He lunged, a swift, brutal counter-attack.
But Peter, even at his breaking point, had one last reserve. He ducked under Daimon’s wild swing, twisting, and with a desperate, heartbroken grunt, he delivered a final, calculated strike to Daimon's temple, a precise, measured blow that would incapacitate without permanent injury.
Daimon’s eyes fluttered, then rolled back, his body slumping. Peter caught him, lowering him gently to the ground, his chest heaving, his own body swaying with exhaustion and raw anguish. He looked at Daimon’s unconscious face, bruised but peaceful in sleep, and felt a profound, aching emptiness. He had won. But it felt like the greatest loss of his life.
With trembling hands, Peter used the last of his web-fluid, carefully, almost tenderly, securing Daimon’s unconscious form. Not to harm him, but to hold him, to keep him safe from what was to come.
The doors to the study, moments before sealed, groaned open, sliding inward with a hiss. Nick Fury stood in the doorway, flanked by a phalanx of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, their weapons raised. The Avengers, bruised and battered but victorious, stood behind them, watching the scene unfold with grim faces.
Fury’s eyes, cold and assessing, swept over the devastation in the study, then landed on Daimon, lying unconscious and webbed on the floor. Finally, his gaze settled on Peter, standing over him, battered and broken, his mask torn, revealing his tear-streaked face.
"Well done, Spider-Man," Fury’s voice was devoid of emotion, hard and unyielding. He stepped forward, his eyes fixing on Daimon. "Daimon Thorne. No matter what grand delusions you spun, no matter what twisted vision you had, you will never win. This is over."
But Daimon’s eyes, even in unconsciousness, weren’t on Fury. They were locked on Peter, his face still etched with the profound sadness of his last conscious moments, a silent accusation in his very stillness.
"Secure the target," Fury commanded, raising a hand, his gaze hardening. "Termination protocol initiated."

"NO!"

The single word, torn from Peter’s raw throat, sliced through the air like a desperate shriek. He stumbled forward, throwing himself between Fury and Daimon, his arms spread wide, shielding the unconscious man with his own battered body.
"You can't!" Peter screamed, his voice cracking, raw with a grief and fury that shocked even the hardened Avengers. "You can’t kill him! You won't!" His eyes, blazing with an intensity that rivaled Daimon’s own, locked onto Fury’s, challenging him. "You’re not going to kill him, Fury! You're going to lock him up! You're going to put him in a cell where he can never hurt anyone again! But you are not going to kill him!"
The Avengers stared, utterly bewildered. Tony’s jaw dropped. Steve’s eyes widened. Natasha’s face, usually unreadable, contorted in surprise. They had expected Peter to collapse, to celebrate, to feel relief. Not this. Not this fierce, desperate protection for the very man he had just defeated.
"Peter, step aside," Fury’s voice was dangerously low, his gaze unwavering. "He's too dangerous to live. You know that. We all know that."
"NO!" Peter screamed again, the sound tearing from his very soul. "I won't! He’s a victim, Fury! He’s broken! He’s traumatized! He needs help, not a bullet! You sent me in there! You let this happen! You let me… you let me fall in love with him, and now you want to make me a murderer too?! Is that what heroes do?! Is that what you want me to be?!"
His voice cracked, echoing through the silent study, thick with tears and a rage born of profound emotional agony. "I did my job! I stopped him! I sacrificed everything! My heart! My sanity! You don't get to take his life too! He deserves to live with what he's done! To face it! Not to be silenced! Not by my hand!"
Peter’s body trembled, but his stance was defiant, unwavering. He was ready to die right there, to fight every single Avenger, if it meant protecting Daimon.

Fury watched him, his face unreadable. He saw the genuine, agonizing depth of Peter's love, the raw, heartbreaking fury of a young man pushed beyond his breaking point. He saw the complete, utter devotion that, even after such betrayal, still burned for Daimon. And he knew, with a chilling certainty, that if he gave the order, Peter would indeed fight them all, and it would break him forever.
"Fine," Fury said, the word clipped, heavy with reluctant acceptance. "Lock him up. Maximum security. Keep him isolated. He breathes, Peter Parker, But know this: he will never see the light of day again." He looked at Peter, his eyes softening, a flicker of something akin to fatherly concern in their depths. "And you, kid. You're coming home."
S.H.I.E.L.D. agents moved in, carefully, efficiently, securing Daimon Thorne. As they dragged his unconscious form away.
Fury walked over to Peter, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You did good, son. You saved the world."
But Peter felt nothing. He watched Daimon being dragged away, the man who had called him his light, his everything, his love. The man he had betrayed. The man he had just saved. The victory was hollow, coated in the bitter taste of unshed tears. He had won the war, but he had lost his heart in the process. The Avengers, standing in the ruined study, saw it all. They saw the devastating price of duty, etched on the face of their youngest, most vulnerable hero. And they saw, for the first time, the true, agonizing depth of Peter Parker's love.

Chapter Text

Part 2 is out with 4 chapters! Hope you enjoyed it