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Miguel has a lot of bad nights. It’s something you get used to when you’re around the guy.
Peter understands that better than most. He’s adjusted to the shorter fuse, the harsh words, the tense draw of his shoulders. He’s gotten used to getting shoved off when he tries to ruffle Miguel’s hair, and to the days when Miguel looks like he wants to tear Peter’s throat out. He’s gotten used to it because… he’s there. He sticks to Miguel like flypaper, trailing after him at HQ, eating lunch with him on his shifts, and sending Lyla pictures of Mayday because he knows they make him smile.
He just… he likes being around the guy. He doesn’t like leaving him alone.
There could probably be a lot said about why that is, but Peter tries not to think about it much. He’s spent enough time in couple’s counseling and spider-therapy to know he has a thing about losing the people he loves. But who doesn’t, right? Especially in this line of work. Especially when you’ve seen those same people lose people close to them in terrible, vivid, seconds of destruction.
Again, Peter tries not to think about it.
What he does think about is how to help now. Sure, it’s not his job to fix things or to make them right again (spider-therapy and MJ have taught him that), but he still wishes he could.
Parker optimism is a hell of a force to stop, and Peter has always been one hell of a Parker.
So.
Pictures of Mayday, playful jabs, watching out for Miguel on the field, inviting him over for dinners and lunches and birthdays every now and then, kissing his hands when he allows him to—Those are the types of things Peter can do.
So he does them.
He does things to ease Miguel away from the pain of the past and back to the present, and to make some part of Peter feel less like he’s losing him. He doesn’t want to have watched a world disintegrate only to see the man who lost it fade away after. He cares too much for that.
Miguel O’Hara is a lot of things. Peter’s seen him at his best moments and at his worst, has seen his competence and failures, has felt the warmth of his shoulders against his back in the thick of a fight and seen how gently he holds children. He’s seen the man and the father and the hero and the absolute asshole Miguel O’Hara can be, and Peter Parker cares a damn ton for him.
So he does what he can to show it.
Sometimes that means—on days like today, when Miguel can’t get out of that big old head of his, can’t stop the bite in his voice from growling—that Peter does this, too. It means he presses Miguel back against the kitchen counter, cringes as his knees pop when they meet the floor, and listens to Miguel’s deep, even breathing as Peter begins tugging at his belt.
They’re at Miguel’s place tonight. Peter stopped by for a drink after a less than optimal meeting and a gruff refusal through the front door, and now they’re here. The room is pleasantly quiet, the walls padded with some kind of futuristic insulation, and the overheads have been dimmed for Miguel’s eyes, leaving everything washed in soft, shadowy light.
“Hey,” Peter whispers, glancing up as his calloused hands run over the back of Miguel’s bare thighs. “Let me know how you want this, ok?”
“Just get to it, Parker,” Miguel hisses impatiently.
Peter huffs, smiling slightly. He cocks a brow as he nuzzles against the side of Miguel’s hip, cheek resting casually against the bone.
“Soooo does that mean you’re gonna have a rude mouth all night?” he asks. “Or are you gonna be pretty for me like last time?”
Miguel’s breath hitches slightly and his lips thin, hips tensing against the counter and up towards Peter’s face. He doesn’t say another word though, and Peter smirks, satisfied.
“Just be good,” he mumbles, shifting slightly, “and tell me if you want me to stop.”
Then he leans in and sinks forwards on Miguel’s cock, eyes fluttering closed.
They’ve never actually done this before. Sex, sure. It’s always a good distraction. It gets Miguel away from spiraling, pulls him down with contact and pleasure and allows Peter to keep his brain somewhere else for a while, but it’s mostly been handjobs so far. Don’t need to think about the pains of adult life when you’ve got someone’s fingers curled inside you, right? Peter has pressed up behind Miguel in his office, and reached a hand around to work him with a few fingers and the rough heel of his palm on stressful days, but he’s never had his mouth on him before. Until now.
And it’s… well.
Peter’s chin scrapes against slick folds as he bobs slightly, tongue running against the head and sides of Miguel’s cock as his fingers massage his thighs in gentle motions. Miguel makes quiet little noises above him as he goes, puffs of air and gentle moans that get caught in the back of his throat and make Peter warm all over.
He’s trying to hold back, but Peter can already tell he’s slipping. Good.
He hums around him, pressing closer and just holding him against his tongue for a moment, and Miguel swears under his breath. He suddenly tries to buck down, pushing roughly against Peter’s mouth, and Peter pins him back against the counter immediately with a firm hand on his stomach, eyes snapping open. Miguel makes a gruff, annoyed sound in response, and Peter rolls his eyes, pulling off.
“You know if you want me to keep blowing you you actually have to let me do it, right?”
Miguel looks flushed and flustered, his brow furrowed. Several expressions flit over his face in quick succession.
“You… you don’t have to,” he says, the words coming out strained.
“No?”
“No.”
Peter hums, dragging his nails lightly up and down the back of Miguel’s calves. He shivers.
“Is that you wanting me to stop?” Peter asks. “We can stop if you want to.”
Miguel swallows, mouth opening and closing a few times before he speaks.
“No,” he says pointedly, voice rough and quiet.
Peter smiles, a little bubble of fond contentment bursting between his ribs. He pats Miguel’s hip bone amicably.
“Ok big man. Then you’re gonna follow how I lead you, ok?”
“Yeah, sure,” Miguel mutters. He’s gotten all tense again, and there’s a conflicted look in the set of his face that almost seems pained.
Peter frowns. He’s never seen him look like that before.
Slowly, he slides his touch to grip around Miguel’s thighs again, hands settling just below his ass and forearms flush and warm along the sides of his legs. Miguel blows out a long breath, eyeing Peter as he leans back in. Peter’s gaze flits away at the last moment, focusing instead on laying a few soft kisses over the planes of Miguel’s hips and waist. There’s another loud breath above him, a gentle ease of tension, and Peter grins against Miguel’s skin.
Good.
His lips continue to trail over him, leaving a steadily sloppier line until Peter finally returns to the painfully hard nub of Miguel’s dick. He gives that a kiss, too, quick and chaste with a brief chuckle under his breath, and Miguel twitches at the contact. Peter smirks to himself, glancing up at him before once again taking him in his mouth.
Miguel lets out a hiss like a steam valve above him, curling forwards over Peter, his knuckles visibly tightening where they’re gripping the counter.
Man he looks nice like this, Peter thinks to himself. He doesn’t know if it’s the spider enhancements or the fact that he shoves off most physical contact others try to initiate, but Miguel always gets overwhelmed so fast. It’s cute. It’s hot, too, to get to touch him like this and see him get lost, to see how he needs someone to guide him back down again, to take care of him when he drifts.
Peter’s fingers dig into Miguel’s skin at the thought, a small sound seeping from the back of his throat as he feels himself strain in his pants. Miguel echoes it breathily, knees shaking.
Fuck, he’s so good.
Peter pulls back slightly to lick between Miguel’s folds, watching the way his expression tightens and his jaw goes loose.
“You’re doing so well for me, babe,” he mumbles against him, words muffled in wet, hot, skin. “So well.”
Miguel must still understand him because he keens, bucking forwards again slightly before quickly pushing himself back against the counter, keeping rigidly still.
Oh.
Peter groans at the sight, one hand sliding forward to replace his mouth as he pulls back to talk more clearly.
“You remembered,” he says, voice tinged with a laugh. “Trying hard for me, huh?”
Miguel nods distractedly as Peter plays with him, middle finger teasing gently over his entrance.
“Such a good boy,” Peter says, pressing a bit harder. “You’re being such a good boy, Miguel.”
Then he sinks his finger in, up to the base.
Miguel moans loudly at the change, knees buckling briefly as he lists forward. Peter quickly adjusts the grip of his free hand, keeping him steady and upright as he begins pumping in and out.
“So sensitive… Look at you…” he breathes. “Taking me so well, letting me do what I need to.”
Miguel’s face contracts at the words, his eyes fluttering shut and mouth flexing in a shape of silent pleasure.
G-d he’s gorgeous.
Miguel’s shirt was unbuttoned before Peter got started, and he can see the sweat glistening over his stomach and chest. The guy runs hot and it makes him a mess in these kinds of situations. Peter eyes a bead as it slips over the swell of his flushed tits and through the dark curls on his stomach, tracing down to where Peter disappears inside him.
His hair’s not much better. It’s loose and damp around his ears, stray pieces sticking against his forehead and the corners of his mouth. If Peter weren’t on his knees right now he’d brush them away, kissing his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose and making Miguel huff at the scratch of his stubble. But he’s not, so he just gets to drink him in instead.
It’s a very nice sight.
“You’re fucking beautiful, O’Hara,” he says, cracking a lopsided grin. “Can’t believe I have you all to myself.”
(Minus the nights he stays in 616B. MJ’s quite a fan of him too, as it turns out.)
Peter eases a second finger in carefully alongside the first, slowing down slightly as he does so to allow Miguel to adjust. Miguel whines at the addition, the sound reverberating low and deep in his chest. For a moment Peter thinks about mentioning that it’s almost the same hand position he uses when shooting webs, but he restrains himself. Barely.
“You know…” He nudges Miguel’s cock with his thumb thoughtfully, watching the shiny head bulge beneath its hood. “I think I could keep you like this, if I wanted to.”
Miguel grunts, eyes squeezing tighter. Peter messes with his dick a bit more, making it bob with the blunt edge of his nail, before casually pressing the pad of his thumb down and keeping it still even as his wrist twists to push his other fingers inside.
“Just right here…” Peter mutters, “right on the edge…” He’s quiet for a moment, listening to the slick sound of his hand and Miguel’s stuttering breathing, before he huffs gently, and slowly begins moving his thumb.
“But I love you and I’m not an asshole, so… I’m not gonna do that,” he says plainly, dropping his bedroom voice.
Miguel doesn’t seem to care.
The sound that comes out of him this time is guttural and almost sad, a mix between a sob and a moan and words that don’t quite form. Peter smiles almost apologetically. He knows they don’t usually use the L-word in these kinds of situations, but fuck if that doesn’t stop him from feeling it.
“Sorry babe,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to his pelvis. “You’re just so handsome, I can’t help it, you know?”
He can tell Miguel’s close. Emotions usually push him over but Peter can also feel the strain in his thighs, the wind up before a release.
“Hey,” Peter mutters. Miguel doesn’t react, continuing to moan softly beneath his ministrations. “Hey, look at me, big guy,” Peter says, a bit firmer.
Miguel’s eyes slide open slowly, taking a moment to find Peter below him. His pupils are blown wide and black, a bit dazed but still present, and Peter’s thighs squeeze uncomfortably as his cock twitches in his pants at the sight.
He swallows thickly.
“Can you stand on your own for me for a sec?” he asks, voice rasping against his teeth.
Miguel’s brow furrows for a moment before he nods, a breath shuddering out as Peter slows his hand.
“Good. Ok. Just for a second.”
Miguel nods again.
Carefully, Peter removes his free hand from the side of Miguel’s leg, hovering for a moment to make sure he doesn’t fall. When he stays standing (albeit wobbly), Peter slowly reaches up to pry Miguel’s hand from the counter. He maintains eye contact as he guides it to the back of his head, swelling with contentment when Miguel easily curls his fingers into Peter’s hair.
The pull feels nice. It’s a tingle along Peter’s nape and makes him feel fuzzy behind the eyes. He quickly returns to keeping Miguel steady, smiling as he rubs his thumb over his dick one last time, before pulling back, and leaning in slowly.
“You’ve done good, man,” he murmurs, aiming for both sexy and humorously nonchalant. “Here’s your reward.”
Peter’s mouth closes around Miguel again, and he watches as he processes it in real time: An expression of soft pleasure into a tightening grip on Peter’s hair into dawning realization that makes him keen.
“Ssshock—!” Miguel hisses, jerking Peter forward against his crotch.
Peter laughs, the sound unintelligible as Miguel begins bucking forward in earnest. His breathing intensifies as Peter resumes the motion of his fingers, the slick bulge of Miguel’s dick sliding against his tongue as Peter curls against his walls, rubbing quick but steady to match his pace.
He’d be lying if he said he didn’t get a little lost in it himself. Miguel is so warm beneath his lips and hands, making such pretty noises as he humps and grinds against Peter’s face, pulling him forwards, chasing his high. It feels good and safe and joyously erotic and Peter finds himself bucking against empty air and the lining of too-hot sweat pants like he’s a teenager in puberty all over again.
It’s not long before Miguel’s thrusts start to get sloppy and erratic, a stream of sounds and words falling from his mouth that Peter can’t catch. There’s a prick against his scalp, a harsh tug that makes Peter groan, and then Miguel is shaking apart beneath his mouth, a growl rumbling through him as cum slides over Peter’s knuckles and palm.
The aftermath is silent for a moment. Peter pulls back from him slowly, lips wet and parted in awe, and Miguel whimpers, hand falling away to scrabble limply at the counter. His face is tense and loose at the same time, eyes closed but lids still fluttering as Peter removes his fingers, and when a soft little gasp accompanies it, Peter feels like he’s had a dose of venom straight to his spine.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck, fuck.”
He’s achingly hard and so fucking close, he just needs to—
Peter stumbles to his feet, shoving his pants and boxers down just enough to get his dick out before he’s half-tripping forwards against Miguel.
“You’re so handsome, man,” he says in a rush, one hand hooking around Miguel’s neck, bringing their foreheads together with a firm thumb against his jaw. “It’s like, unbelievable.”
His palm is still slick with Miguel’s release, and he presses it down over his length, creating a rough slide as he ruts up against Miguel’s cock and stomach.
“Leave some for the rest of us, huh?” Peter says, half laughing, but his voice quickly breaks off into a moan as he quickens his pace, eyes falling down to where he catches on Miguel’s dick with every thrust.
“Shit,” he breathes.
They’re both shiny and pink beneath Peter’s hand, Miguel’s head puffy from contact and bulging out from his curls. Peter lets out a harsh breath and presses his hand down harder, the extra pressure making his legs weak. Miguel whimpers against him at the change, breath hot and strained over Peter’s face, and Peter rubs a thumb comfortingly along his cheek, knocking their noses together.
“It’s ok baby, you’re doing so well.”
Miguel’s breath stutters. Peter knows the overstimulation is a lot, but he can also feel Miguel rocking into him and see the way his hands curl into the counter. They’re all good signs, and he knows Miguel would make him stop if he wanted him to, even like this.
“Doing so well for me,” Peter repeats. “Just a bit more, you’ve got this. Always do things so well, fuck, I love you so much, shit.”
Peter slurs out a few more praises as he squeezes his eyes shut and grinds himself over the edge, fingers digging down on Miguel’s nape.
His releases aren’t as impressive as they used to be, but he still manages to make a mess of both of them. Cum smears over Miguel’s stomach and slides onto Peter’s hand as he works himself through the last shocks of his high, hissing through his teeth with a satisfied sound as he slows.
“Fuck, man…” he whispers.
Miguel groans quietly when Peter finally stops, slumping forward. He’s a loose pile of limbs in Peter’s arms, heavy and solid, and he adjusts to keep him upright, catching his breath in the relative silence with Miguel’s head against his shoulder.
Oh.
Peter glances down. The hand on Miguel’s cheek feels warm and wet. He pulls it away for just a second, seeing his palm glisten in the light, and frowns, cupping Miguel’s face again.
“You ok?” he murmurs, voice hoarse. Worry immediately cuts through the afterglow. Maybe he did go too far.
Miguel sighs breathily, not moving for a moment, before he nods.
Peter swallows, throat dry, and roughly wipes the mess from his hand on the side of his sweatpants before reaching up to slowly rub Miguel’s back.
“Ok…” he says, brushing some hair behind his ear. “Ok, just know I’m here. You did great. I’ve gotcha.”
Miguel shivers at the words.
They stand like that for a good while. Peter keeps his touch gentle but consistent, occasionally muttering easy praise or stray thoughts, and helping to guide Miguel down again.
Eventually, Miguel shifts, a heavy hand coming up to push through Peter’s hair.
Peter huffs. “What’s up, bud?”
Miguel leans back, eyes wet but more focused, scanning over Peter’s hairline. His fingers have started feeling over his scalp.
“You trying to-what? Groom me?” Peter laughs. “I know I joke about you being a cat but I promise I can bathe myself. When I get around to it.”
Miguel glances down briefly, grimacing.
“I think I nicked you,” he mutters finally.
“Oh yeah, I felt that. Don’t worry though, I don’t think it’s that- ow!”
Peter’s hand snaps up to stop Miguel from poking at his skull again.
“Well don’t jab it like that,” he says.
Miguel’s jaw tightens, eyebrows drawing together a bit.
“Sorry…” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I should keep my hands back next time.”
Peter shrugs. “I’m the one who got you to do it. I’d say it comes with the territory. And hey…” He guide’s Miguel’s hand down into his line of sight, squinting. Like he suspected, he can see small punctures in his palm. “…Doesn't look like I’m the only one who got pricked.”
Miguel tugs his hand away quickly with a soft, “They’ll heal, Peter,” but Peter stops him, grabbing it back with a short, “Ah ah ah!”
“Hold on there Sleeping Beauty,” he says, “I’ve got a treatment for this.”
He eyes Miguel as he brings his palm to his lips, flashing a smirk before he starts kissing the small cuts with rapid dedication. Miguel shudders out a huff, fonder and more tired than Peter’s heard from him in a long time. His heart twists.
“Hey, maybe we can just get you claw caps,” he mumbles.
Miguel’s face immediately drops, and he scoffs, shoving Peter off half heartedly.
“Ok, and that’s enough for tonight,” he says, pushing away from the counter and past him. “Good to know your post-blowjob banter is about as good as the rest of it, I guess.”
Peter laughs, watching as Miguel kicks off his pants.
“What? I think declawing would be worse, I’m a humane man, what can I say?”
Miguel shoots him another look as he gathers up his clothes, brow raised.
Peter chuckles again. “Y’know, crazy as it may seem, I don’t actually take you seriously when you look like that. You look pouty.”
“And you still talk with your mouth full,” Miguel fires back.
Peter cocks his head in agreement, sliding up to him as he eases out of his sweats.
“And I know you love me for it,” he says.
Miguel rolls his eyes, but Peter catches the slight quirk of his lips.
“Just come get cleaned up, Parker,” he says, leaving the bathroom door open for company.