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“TEN! NINE!”
Harley surfaces from his argument with a jolt as the party-goers around him take up the chant.
“EIGHT! SEVEN!”
Somehow, Peter is the only person on the crowded balcony that he knows. It’ll take time he doesn’t have to wade through the shrieking crowd to find Gwen or someone he can be sure won’t mind a little kiss for tradition’s sake. It’s silly, but he hasn’t had a truly bad year since he started ringing in each one with a midnight kiss. Bad times, sure, but he always comes out on top. It wouldn’t be the first time he kissed a stranger, but, well… Peter’s right here.
“What’s wrong?" Peter cocks his head, dark eyes intent. “Afraid I kiss as good as I debate?”
He doesn’t seem at all put off by the idea. Maybe it’s nothing to him. Maybe he’ll accept Harley’s New Year’s kiss and then jump right back into being loud and stubborn and wrong.
“FIVE! FOUR!”
“Little bit,” Harley admits honestly. He’s only had a crush on Peter for… Well, it’s been an embarrassing number of years. “You’ve got Banner’s theory on molecular magnetism completely backwards.”
“Well, luckily I can distinguish your face from your ass just fine.” He lifts his eyebrows in challenge. “Unless you’ve got better prospects.”
“TWO! ONE!”
He sways closer and Peter doesn’t blink, doesn’t shy away. He looks good in the cold. His nose and cheeks are pink, eyes bright and deep, watching him to see if he rises to the challenge or balks. As Harley leans in, he lifts his chin, but he doesn’t look away.
“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”
He’s not sure what happens. He means it to be chaste. Platonic—maybe not with a capital P, but platonic. But fireworks burst across the sky as he ducks down and the crowd on the balcony surges in a victorious scream, and he kisses Peter Parker.
Peter’s nose and lips are chilled but they warm quickly as— He can’t be sure. Did he open his mouth first, or did Peter? It hardly matters as Peter’s teeth scrape his lip and he finds his hands boxed on either side of Peter’s jaw and—
He pulls away, ears ringing, an apology half-formed, but then he catches the look on Peter’s face and it dissolves like cotton candy on his tongue.
Peter’s eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire. If he has learned one thing from the slow integration of Gwen and MJ’s friend circles, it’s that you can always trust whatever expression is on Peter Parker’s face to be an honest one. Usually, when he’s around, it’s irritation or contempt or stupid egotistical pride, but he’d have to be a world-class imbecile not to recognize the bald want seated right there, two inches from his nose.
And the other thing is, he’s had a stupid crush on Peter Parker since the dinner Gwen and MJ hosted for all of their friends to meet and Peter came barreling in half an hour late, flung a poorly knit mitten into Harley’s soup, and then blamed him for it. They haven’t been able to exist in the same room since without delving into some disagreement or another. And he loves it.
He’s never met anyone half as passionate as Peter. Perhaps then, he should have expected him to react strongly to a simple kiss. Perhaps he should be the reasonable one and walk them back to familiar, if tepid, waters. Or perhaps Peter is an adult capable of making his own decisions like: not moving away, holding eye contact, and licking his lips.
“What’s the matter?” Peter asks, lacking his usual sardonic edge as he watches Harley. “Not up to par?”
And maybe Harley deserves to throw caution into the wind and take a chance on something new. It’s a new year, after all.
“Stop me if I’m about to cross a line.”
His hands are still framing Peter’s chin, slowly warming, as he leans in for seconds.
Peter meets him halfway, already licking into his mouth before he can decide how far to take this, how wise it is to do anything at all with Gwen’s girlfriend’s best friend and former high school sweetheart.
Then Peter grabs him by the scarf and pulls—scattering all thoughts of Gwen, MJ, or holding back.
His calves hit the railing. He doesn’t remember moving his hands, but he’s got Peter by the hips and is pulling him impossibly closer, all teeth and lips and heavy breathing, pulse pounding a tattoo of more and closer until Peter finally steps onto the lowest rung of the railing and they slot together with a heady spark.
Harley breaks away, gasping at the sensory onslaught. “Fuck.”
“Okay,” Peter pants against his cheek as though in answer to a question. “My place or— No, it’d have to be yours. Ned’ll be home eventually.”
He’s still reeling from the past thirty seconds, from Peter pressed up against his front. He blinks snow out of his eyes. When did it start snowing? “What?”
Hot breath against his ear. “Invite me home with you, Harley. Promise I’ll say yes. No arguing.”
His heart races. He could. Abbie is staying at a friend’s. MJ will get Gwen home safe. There’s nothing stopping him from dipping out and indulging in a long-standing want. Not even Peter, judging by the hard length pressed against his thigh.
“Okay.” He kisses him and revels in the fact that Peter not only lets him, but enthusiastically returns it. Against his lips, he murmurs, “Come home with me.”
Peter steps off the railing with Harley’s scarf still in his fist and pulls him into the crowd, uncaring of the feet he treads on or the bodies he bumps. Harley, on the other hand, has a difficult time ignoring the cursing and complaints now that the people around them have been brought back into focus.
Hands on his hips, he steers Peter around a cluster of women downing a round of shots.
“I should tell Gwen—,”
“Text her from the cab.”
“Cab?” His attention returns to Peter. “It’s New Year’s Eve. We’ll never find—,”
“It’s New Year’s Day and they’ll be out in force to collect all the drunks.”
“Yeah, drunks who called or—,”
Peter stops walking abruptly and their noses nearly crash together as he snaps, “I know what I’m talking about. Shut up for once and trust me.”
Maybe it’s the hormones or the nearness of him after so long thinking there’d be a gulf between them forever, but he’s feeling bold, so he asks, “Should we make it interesting?”
Peter narrows his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“You have five minutes to get us a cab. If you can’t, I get to undress you when we get to my place.”
Peter’s gaze ignites with the heat of competition… or maybe something else. “And if I’m right?”
“I don’t know. Whatever you want.”
He almost regrets it when he hears the blank check in his words, but it’s difficult to regret anything that makes Peter look at him with raw hunger.
His heart races.
“Whatever I want?” Peter echoes.
This is the part where he should get reasonable. Throw in a ‘nothing crazy’ at minimum. Instead, his mouth says, “Yeah,” and the rest of him stumbles to keep up as Peter releases his scarf in favor of his sleeve and hauls him through the crowded interior of the club.
Inside is just as dark, hot, and smoky as it was before he escaped onto the balcony and found Peter alone at the railing, but they don’t have to endure it long. He fails to spot Gwen’s blonde bob before they slam through the door and hotfoot it down the stairs to the street. It’s crowded with pedestrians—party goers heading home now that midnight has come and gone. And there are taxis, but there are more than enough people looking for a ride that if the light up top is illuminated, it doesn’t stay that way long.
To make things more complicated, the snow is coming down hard and turning to slush beneath their feet.
Undeterred, Peter tugs him into the fray at the curb and sticks out a hand alongside a half dozen others. The taxi glides past him and stops in front of a couple, one of whom is in a wheelchair. Peter eyeballs them with a considering air.
“D’you think if I paid them—,”
“Do not.” Harley says.
Peter huffs and sticks his hand out again. This time the cab stops early and a cluster of stooped elderly women duck inside.
“This is ridiculous,” Peter snaps. He swipes snow off his face and stretches his arm out over the curb.
Amused, Harley says, “You were so confident. What happened?”
“That was before I knew you’d give me a free pass.”
“Is it considered a free pass if it’s not a pass to do something with someone else?”
“Yes.”
“Is it a free pass if we’re not together?”
“Yes, now shut up; I’m concentrating.”
“On hailing a taxi?”
“Harley, I’m going to get us a cab to prove my point, and then I’m going to use my free pass to kill you in it.”
Harley hums. “You don’t tip well enough for—,”
“He gave you a free pass?”
His attention shifts to the people surrounding them for the first time. A group of young guys in various states of inebriation are piled around them, one with a shivering girlfriend pressed under his arm, glowering.
Peter doesn’t look away from the street. “Not yet. How much time do I have?”
Honestly, he hasn’t been counting.
“Two minutes,” he says.
Peter curses and steps off the curb to further extend his arm into the street.
Harley yanks him back as a horn blares. A moment later, an SUV zips past and a wave of slush crests over their shoes.
“The bet is off if you cause an accident.”
“The bet is off if I don’t get a cab in less than two minutes.”
“It’s not off. You just won’t win.”
“Same difference.”
A taxi appears, topper aglow amid traffic. The guys around them wave their arms, yell, and jump. Peter curses a blue streak—everything from the city in its entirety to this block in particular is subject to his tongue lashing.
The taxi slows, lane changes, then pulls to a stop at the curb in front of them. For a moment, he half-expects Peter to start throwing punches, but he doesn’t need to. The guys cheer and heavy hands slap their backs and shoulders.
“Go! Go! Go!”
“We did it!”
“But Danny, I’m freezing!”
“Babe, a free pass is on the line.”
Peter laughs as he realizes what’s happening, then laces their fingers as he tugs the door open.
“Wait.”
“Do not try to wiggle out of this.”
“No, I just— I feel bad.”
“Harley—,”
“Just a second.”
Peter refuses to let go of his hand so he fumbles his scarf free one-handed and holds it out to the girl wearing nothing but a thin sequined party dress and stilettos. “Sorry.”
She accepts the scarf with a warning look for her boyfriend, as though daring him to protest.
To the boyfriend, Harley says, “She could use a coat, don’t you think?”
“I told her to bring—!”
“Just saying, I wouldn’t give a free pass to someone who wouldn’t even give me their coat.”
He sheds his coat like lightning.
Harley lets Peter pull him into the cab and shuts the door on drunken cheers.
The driver, an older Indian man, looks back at them in the rearview mirror. “Celebrity?”
“Nope!” Peter chirps. “Just extremely lucky to live in the best city in the whole world!”
Harley buries a smile at his change of tune and buckles his seatbelt. “It’s mid.”
“Killing you is not off the table.”
“If that’s what you want to use your free pass for…”
“Address?” the driver interrupts.
Harley gives his address while Peter sulks. Or so he assumes, but when he turns to face him rather than a pout or scowl, he finds that hungry look from before.
The cab pulls away from the curb.
“When does it start?”
For a wild moment, he considers what would happen if he said it starts now. What would Peter do to him in the back of this cab? Or would he have the sense and restraint to wait?
Better to leave that in his imagination. He’s never been an exhibitionist, and he doesn’t have enough tip money to cover therapy.
“After I’ve locked up.”
Peter’s expression closes into a distrustful stare. “Are you planning on locking up?”
“Yes, obviously.” He shakes his head. “What did I do to make you think I’m trying to get out of this?”
“You didn’t know what you were offering.”
“I still don’t.”
“You—,” Peter glances at the driver, then hisses, “I planned the kiss, okay? I tricked you into it.”
Harley stares at him. “Tricked me? I kissed you, Peter.”
“But I rigged it. I chose the shittiest, nastiest venue I could think of, knowing MJ and Gwen would bail early and that you—,”
“Wait. They left? When?”
“Hours ago, man. Didn’t Gwen—,”
They make eye contact.
Harley shakes his head. “I don’t think you’re the only one who rigged it.”
“That is so fucking typical of her.”
“To swoop in and effortlessly snatch victory? Yeah, that’s Gwen.”
“She didn’t snatch—,”
“If she’d told me she was leaving, I wouldn’t have stayed. Your plot would have flopped.”
“That’s infuriating. I didn’t even tell her what I was doing.”
“You still got…” He hesitates. Is he what Peter wants? Like, obviously, he’s into him at least on a physical level. If the kiss rigging plot and the, well, kissing, and that hungry look are anything to go off of, he does want him. But is it more than that? For all he knows, the kissing may have been intended to sabotage his New Year. Maybe… Maybe he’s assuming too much.
“What?” Peter demands. “What does that face mean? I still what?”
He licks his lips. “You… You still bested me.” He watches for a reaction. “That was the goal, right?”
Peter looks at him like he’s nuts. As he watches, the incredulity dims to something like… disappointment? He turns away and says to the traffic out his window, “Yeah. That was the goal. Guess I don’t need that free pass since I already got what I wanted.”
Harley’s heart thumps hard. Maybe he wasn’t assuming too much after all. “But I—,” Peter is still facing away from him and that makes it possible to admit aloud, “I want you to have it.”
Peter turns and takes him in with a furrowed brow. He searches his face. “You want me to…”
“Whatever you want. That’s what I said.”
“One thing?”
“No. Starting after I lock the door, I want you to do whatever you want.”
The hunger returns like a hot bed of coals under a breath of air. “It starts… When does it end?”
“Haven’t decided.”
“You know, most people would limit it to like three things.”
“Why would I only want three things?”
“What if you don’t like what I want to do?”
He hesitates, then admits, “I can’t think of anything I don’t want you to do to me.”
Peter closes his eyes and his head falls back against the seat. “How much farther?”
“Couple minutes.”
“An eternity.”
~*~
Peter closes the door and reaches for the deadbolt.
“It doesn’t count unless I lock up,” Harley informs him.
Peter groans to the ceiling. “Haarleeyy.” He whirls to face him as Harley stoops to unlace his boots. “Is this an elaborate plot to torture me? Have you been talking to MJ?”
“Nope.” He switches to the other boot.
“Ned?”
“No.”
“Flash?”
Harley stands and shoots him a curious look as he slips out of his boots and pushes them to the side with his foot. “You been talking about me to everyone?”
“Pfft, no?” he lies rather obviously.
“What would they say if I asked?”
“Nothing! They don’t know anything.”
“Hmm. Well…” He glances at the lock, then turns away. “Shoes off. Make yourself at home. I’m gonna shower.”
“Are you fuc— Hey!” He grabs his shoulder and spins him around with more strength than Harley expects. “Are you fucking with me? I’ll go if you just brought me here to look stupid.”
“I— No.” The effect Peter has on him is instantaneous and humiliating. “I, uh, wasn’t plannin’ on bringin’ anybody home, so I… shower,” he finishes pathetically, too distracted by Peter’s nearness, the hand still fisted in his jacket, and the fight glimmering in his glare.
Peter’s aggression bleeds away, but leaves behind a different kind of intensity as he searches Harley’s face. “Lock up first. Then shower.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I could go for a shower.”
Harley flushes hot. Half the point of the shower was to get ahold of himself—to mentally prepare for what’s coming—but here, now, with Peter looking at him, hungry, dignity is the last thing on his mind.
He reaches past Peter and flips the lock.
“Finally,” Peter sighs and surges up to fit their mouths together, all heat and energy. He kicks free from his snow-soaked sneakers while simultaneously yanking the zipper of Harley’s coat. He rucks it off his shoulders and Harley lets it fall to the floor in a heap while his pulse thunders and he fights to keep his balance with how Peter is pressed against him.
Peter grabs his hips and pushes, forcing him to stumble back. Peter follows, close as he can get while they trip over each other’s feet. Then Peter shoves again and Harley concedes another step.
With an annoyed huff, Peter pulls back and frowns. “Did you change your mind or what?”
“No,” Harley says. Why does he keep asking that? He steps in close and angles for another kiss.
“Then go,” Peter says and pushes his hips again.
“Go?”
“To the bathroom? Where I assume the shower is?”
“Oh. Right, shower. I… forgot.”
Peter’s frustration bleeds into something like fond amusement. He kisses him swiftly, once. “Let’s try it this way, then.”
He snags Harley’s belt and pulls him around so their positions are reversed, then backs through the living room. Suddenly, things are moving very quickly as Harley struggles to keep up and kiss him at the same time.
The race ends as abruptly as it began. Peter misses the open bathroom doorway, slams into the frame, and all at once they’re pressed together, chest to chest. Harley sucks Peter’s lip into his mouth and has his hands under his shirt before he considers whether he’s allowed. Chilled skin warms under his palms as he holds Peter flush against him and swallows the choked moan that crawls out of his throat.
Peter, hands still on his belt, unbuckles it, then starts on his jeans next.
“Harl—,” His name ends in a moan as he fits his knee between Peter’s thighs and finds a hard length to rut against. “Stop. I’m supposed to— Free pass.”
Reluctantly, Harley pulls back. “What do you want me to do?”
“Hold still.” Peter makes quick work of getting his jeans around his ankles. “Leave those. Come with me.”
He steps out of his jeans and follows Peter into the bathroom. He has a moment to worry about the state of it, wracking his brain to recall how it looked this morning, but then Peter flicks on the light and he gets a look at himself in the mirror.
For that first split-second, he doesn’t recognize himself. His eyes are dark, pupils huge with only a thin ring of blue. His lips are swollen, face flushed, and the expression on his face is a dazed, hazy thing—a mess of desire.
Then he blinks. His pupils recede and his expression settles into a familiar frown.
The shower turns on and Peter turns around. He falters. “What? What happened?”
Harley blinks at him. “Uh, nothing?”
“Then why do you look all freaked out?”
“Oh. I just… I looked weird.” He glances at the mirror again. He’s still wearing his beanie, a long-sleeved tee, and just his underwear on the bottom half. And socks. That wild look hasn’t returned, although his face is still pinker than normal.
Peter steals his attention back as he steps into his space, chin tipped up, and a playful look on his face. “You don’t like looking at yourself? How come?”
“Just don’t.”
He doesn’t have the capacity to explain the nuance of which parts of him he sees as his father and which he sees as his mother, and how a moment ago, for less than a second, he didn’t see anyone but himself for the first time in his life. And even if he could explain all that and why it matters, this is Peter. He’s been quietly crushing on him for months, but anytime he opens his mouth they wind up arguing. This “free pass” is the first thing they’ve agreed on and he’s still not convinced they’re subscribed to the same definition. Better to move on.
“Free pass,” he reminds him. “What next?”
Peter presses a finger to his chest. “Don’t think we’re not circling back to this.” Then he drops to his knees.
Harley leaps back. “Wait! I— Seriously, we— I’d really rather be clean before—,”
“Are you always this jumpy? Free pass: give me your foot.”
Harley pauses. His foot?
“My foot?”
“Unless you’d rather shower with socks on.”
“You want…” He shakes his head, then steps forward so Peter can work one boot sock down his calve. He holds the sink counter and lifts his leg, and Peter pulls it free. Weirdly, it’s the most intimate he’s ever been with anyone, and he’s not exactly a virgin. “Is this a fetish thing?”
“Would it be a problem if it was?”
“No, but… Well, I’d like to know.”
Peter removes the second sock, same as the first, but rather than stand, he looks up from his knees. “My ex did this for me a few times—the whole… I don’t know, taking care of me thing. It kind of changed my perspective on relationships.”
He probably shouldn’t ask, but he wants to know. “MJ?”
Peter snorts and stands. “No. Me and MJ were allergic to vulnerability. That’s partly why we fell apart.”
“But you’re not now? Allergic, I mean.”
“I’m… in recovery.”
Harley snorts. Smiling, he says, “That’s not how allergies work.”
“Today it is.”
“In that case, let’s get some penicillin and make it a party.”
“You’re an ass, you know that?”
“Then why are you here?”
“Guess I’m an ass guy. Free pass: I’m taking your shirt now.”
Harley holds his arms away from his sides as Peter grasps the hem.
“So, wait, you’re into me because I’m mean to you?”
“No.” He pulls the shirt up over Harley’s head and the beanie goes with it and falls to the floor. His eyes are raking over Harley’s torso as he continues, “I’m into you because you’re hot.” As an afterthought, he adds, “And clever.”
“That’s all?”
He glances up and then away. “No, but we’re here for sex, not a slumber party.”
“What happened to vulnerability?”
“I said I’m in recovery, not a professional.” He narrows his eyes and asks, “How come you’re into me?”
Because… Because he’s a challenge and challenges are fun. Because every time they talk, he finds new dimensions and hidden depths. Because Peter’s friends are fiercely protective of him and you don’t earn that kind of devotion without good reason. He’s a gift, one he wants to take his time unwrapping.
“Because you’re hot and clever.”
Peter grins and steps close. “Very original.”
Harley jumps as a finger dips into the waistband of his underwear and tugs.
“Can I take these off?”
He glances at the shower and sees billowing steam. “It’s your free pass, but it’d be nice if you weren’t fully clothed.”
“Maybe you should do something about that. I thought you wanted to undress me.”
“I lost.”
“Call it a pity prize.”
“Generous.”
When he imagined undressing Peter, it was in an impassioned fervor. So this slow, delicate unveiling while Peter watches is at once underwhelming and staggering in its intensity. He starts with his sweater, carefully running the zipper down to the hem and then pulling it down, off his shoulders, and away until his hands pull free. He hesitates, then drops it in his pile of clothes on the floor. It feels wrong, but if he takes the time to fold each garment before he sets it aside, he’s going to explode.
Shirt next—he lifts it slowly, dragging his fingers over skin that gets hotter the higher he goes. Peter tugs his arms out of the sleeves, grunting in annoyance when they catch on the twin bracelets he wears on either wrist—solid black bands of metal, an unconventional choice. He assumed years ago they must be symbolic of something, but they’ve never been close enough that it felt okay to ask.
Now, closer than ever but far too intent on his current task to ask about jewelry choices, he waits impatiently for Peter to work the bracelets free. Once he tosses them in the sink, Harley lifts his shirt over his face and off the back of his head. He doesn’t see where it falls—too distracted by Peter’s sudden nearness, close enough to kiss as his chest heaves and he watches him with dark, intent eyes.
And he’s built. Fuck. He resists the ridiculous temptation to suck in his stomach.
“You live at the gym or something?”
“Or something. Are you taking my pants off or am I?”
He’s close enough Harley thinks he should kiss him, but there’s something intoxicating about watching the arousal build as he works free the button on his jeans. He slowly lowers the zipper, and Peter actually closes his eyes. His head falls back.
“You’re gonna kill me.”
“Hell of a way to go,” he murmurs and kisses his slack, open mouth.
Peter’s response is immediate and enthusiastic. He surges into the kiss and his jeans must fall because when he presses his body against him, there is only notably thin fabric between them. He catches Peter by the waist, smooth and firm under his hands, then Peter rolls his hips.
He breaks the kiss with a gasp and drops his face against Peter’s shoulder. “Christ.”
“Free pass: underwear off. Shower now.”
They lose their remaining clothes in the lust-fueled frenzy he initially envisioned, and Peter near throws him into the tub. The spray hits him in a shock of heat, hotter than he normally has it, but then Peter is there with him, mouthing and groping wet, slick skin.
“Wait,” Harley gasps. He blinks water from his eyes, but it’s ricocheting off Peter’s head where he’s sucking marks on his collarbone. “Wait. I’m not clean yet.”
Peter groans. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
He pulls back and lifts a hand so he can see Harley’s face. “Why? You’re not… You’re not dirty, Harley. Did someone call you dirty?”
He asks it like he means to do something about it if he says yes.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” Peter refutes with surprising force. He grabs the loofa and body wash. “I’ll drop it, but it does matter and you’re not dirty.”
“Okay,” he says after a beat.
Peter glares at him from under dripping fringe as he lathers the loofa. “Free pass: don’t agree with me unless you mean it.” Then he soaps Harley with surprising gentleness—starting with his chest, then working to his arms.
“I don’t think that’s how free passes work.”
“That’s the spirit. Look up.”
Harley closes his eyes against the shower spray and bares his throat to Peter and his loofa, barely breathing as he softly soaps the column of his throat, and then behind his ears. The heat of Peter’s mouth finds his jaw and sucks a soft, open-mouthed kiss there.
“This okay?” he murmurs against his skin.
“Yes,” Harley croaks.
Peter kisses the side of his neck. “This?”
“Yes.”
He runs his lips over Harley’s collarbone. “Still okay?”
“Yes. Pete—,”
“Turn around. Let me get your back.”
He does as he’s bid and endures the sweet torture of Peter’s ministrations—up his sides, down his back, his ass, and his legs.
Peter is still down on his knee when he says, “Free pass: turn around.”
He turns around, breathing harshly.
Despite the partially erect dick in his face, Peter soaps his legs first, then his feet, one at a time, then his hips. The suds wash away and Peter kisses the jut of his hipbone. Through wet lashes, he looks up at him.
“Okay?”
“Pete—,”
“Yes or no, Harley.”
“Yes. Peter—,” He cuts off with a gasp as Peter runs his loofa between his legs, over sensitive and reactive skin. He doesn’t linger or play, simply gets the work done and tosses the loofa down by the drain when he’s finished.
“Good?” Peter asks, but doesn’t wait for a response before he takes Harley’s shaft in hand.
A wordless mew threatens to escape but he bites it back as his cock grows to full hardness in Peter’s grip.
“Words, Harley.”
“Good, yeah. Please, Peter. Please.”
“Free pass: hold still.”
Harley clutches the slip bar for dear life as Peter fits his lips around the head of his cock and the heat of his mouth envelopes him, slow and sensual, as Peter sinks down to the root.
Gasping and blinded by shower spray, he isn’t prepared when Peter cups his balls with one hand and begins stroking his dick into his mouth with the other.
“Fuck, Pete— Ah. I’m not gonna last if you— Fuck.”
This only seems to encourage him. He clenches his fingers tight around Harley’s base then bobs his head, dragging his tongue along his shaft.
It’s all Harley can do to keep from fucking into his mouth, his throat. But Peter said stay still, so he sets his teeth, clings to the slip bar, and chants Peter’s name until the syllables lose all meaning.
That familiar tingling pressure builds low in his gut.
“I’m close,” he gasps. “Really— shit— close. Peter.”
The pressure releases in a starburst of pleasure and relief while Peter doggedly works his cock until Harley can’t take the stimulation anymore.
“No more. Peter, please, please. Come here.”
Finally, Peter releases him, only to set his knees quaking as he presses kiss after kiss up his thighs, over his hips, and across his stomach.
“Come here, Peter.”
Peter climbs to his feet, finally within reach. Harley smears his hair back and gently wipes his thumbs over his eyes until he blinks them open.
“Thought I was gonna drown a couple times, but— Fuck, look at you.” He takes Harley’s cheeks between his hands and smooths his thumbs across cheekbones. “Look at you.” He kisses his chin, then his lips, then his lips again. “I wanna fuck you so bad.”
Still dazed from his climax, he can hardly keep up with Peter’s babbling, but that much he understands. “Alright.” He makes to turn around.
“No, no, not in here. Can’t see shit with all the water. I can’t believe I missed it.”
Right. Okay. Harley reaches for the faucet.
“No, wait. Just… let me drive, okay? You just— just do what I say and keep looking like I rocked your world, okay?”
“Sure, okay.”
Peter kisses him once more, then grabs the shampoo. “Might as well, right? If were already in here. Duck down. Close your eyes.”
He does and hums as Peter works his fingers against his scalp.
“Alright, tip back. Keep your eyes shut. I think I— Yeah, there’s some on your forehead. Here.”
He smooths his hands up into Harley’s hairline and under the cover of his hands, kisses him sweetly until all the shampoo is rinsed away and then some.
This would be a very dangerous thing to get used to.
“Your turn?” Harley asks. He can’t open his eyes. His whole body feels like loose meat in a sack.
“Later.” Peter kisses him one last time, then reaches past him to shut off the water. “Wanna get you in bed while you’re still all soft.”
He doesn’t know exactly what he means by that, but “later” and “bed” communicate a pretty clear goal for the immediate now.
Peter insists on toweling him off and Harley is still too soup-brained to consider protesting. Mostly dry, they venture naked across the hall to Harley’s room.
“Shut the door. It’s cold.”
Harley gets under the covers and sinks, boneless, into the mattress. He could happily pass out here and sleep away the scant few hours until daylight, except then Peter crawls in after him and pulls the blankets up over their heads as he straddles his thighs. He trails loose, wet kisses over his torso.
Harley blinks blearily at the blanket tucked over his head. “What’re you doin’?”
“Warming you up. Were you serious about letting me fuck you?”
“I was serious about letting you do whatever you want to me.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
Peter sits up to frown at him. “Why would you… That’s a lot of trust. I don’t understand why you trust me like that.”
Harley hums. Their body heat is building up nicely under the blankets and making sleep more appealing by the second. “I just do. Trust you, I mean.”
“But why?”
“I just do,” he repeats. “I think to myself, ‘Do I trust Pete?’ and the answer is yes. I don’t know why. I just do.”
“You don’t question that?”
“Not really.”
“Saying not really is the same as saying kinda-sorta.”
“What? No, it’s not.”
Peter huffs and sinks down to nip at his collarbone. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossible to resist.”
“Preach it, sister. Where’s your lube?”
“Shoebox under the bed.”
“Which side?”
“This one.”
“‘Kay.” He kisses him sloppy with tongue and pulls away. “You’re sure about me fucking you?”
“Seriously, Peter.”
“Okay, okay, you’re sure. It’s just, you know, I’m used to disappointment, and this is going weirdly well.” He stops trying to find the end of the blanket. “What if I kill you?”
“Shut up and get the lube.”
“It’s a reasonable concern!” he insists, but he rolls off of him and ducks out of their blanket igloo to get the lube as ordered.
While he’s digging around in the box, Harley tries to roll onto his stomach, but suddenly Peter is there, hand on his shoulder, pinning him effortlessly on his back.
“Hey, no, I said I want to see you, remember?” He playfully slaps Harley’s inner thigh. “Spread ‘em, cowboy.”
Harley lets his knees fall open. “You know what you’re doin’ down there?”
Peter shoots him a look and pops the cap off the lube. Dryly, he says, “Yeah, I think I got it down.”
“Alright, sorry for askin’. I only know about you and MJ, so I wasn’t sure.”
Peter pauses, and his distraction earns Harley’s sheets a loose dribble of lube.
“Babe,” Peter says slowly, “I know you’re full homo, but you know girls have assholes, right? I mean, I’ve done this with guys too, but it’s very important to me that you know girls have buttholes and some of them like doing sex stuff with them.”
“Oh.”
“Oh?! You can’t say oh like this is the first you’ve heard of girl hole.”
“I— No, I— Obviously I know that! I just forgot—,”
“Forgot they have assholes?”
“No, I forgot they could do sex stuff with them.”
“Fuck, you’re precious,” Peter says, and swipes a lubed finger over his asshole.
Harley’s head falls back, and a choked moan escapes at the unexpected rush of sensation.
Peter nips at his inner thigh. “This is the best idea I’ve ever had. You’re fucking gorgeous.”
Harley is more prepared for the next touch, but as Peter presses the pad of his thumb against him and massages in slow, unhurried circles, he still cannot keep his breath from hitching. He abandons his delusion that he’ll be able to crawl through this without abandoning dignity entirely as Peter lifts his leg onto his shoulder and kisses the back of his knee. Then his thigh. All the while, increasing pressure against the tight ring of muscle that sends wave after wave of pleasure skittering under his skin.
“Free pass: I want to hear you.”
“Fuck, Peter,” Harley sighs in a rush.
“Maybe next time,” Peter murmurs against the soft skin of his inner thigh.
Harley is still wrapping his head around ‘next time’ when a slick digit pushes through tight muscle and Peter nips at the sensitive skin of his thigh.
He arcs back, mouth open in a wordless cry.
“I said free pass, didn’t I? Wanna hear you, Harls.”
He vocalizes some kind of gurgle rather than anything flattering and Peter’s resulting laugh, hot against his skin, sets his heart pounding more so than anything he does with his hands.
Soft, buried in skin, Peter murmurs, “You’re perfect. Perfect.”
Harley’s world dissolves into heat and sensation, pleading moans, and unrelenting praise as Peter works him into a desperate, writhing ball of need. Each escalation soothed with kisses and the occasional nip of teeth followed by tongue.
By the time Peter’s cock head presses against his entrance, he’s begging for it and Peter’s cool is aflame in flushed cheeks and desire-fogged stare.
Peter distracts him with wet, wanting kisses all up and down his thigh as he pushes into the hot core of him, but it’s his moan and the subconscious tightening of his fingers around Harley’s hips until they turn bruising that spike desire in Harley’s gut and relax his walls to let him slip in to the hilt.
“Go,” Harley gasps. He attempts to rock against him, but in this position he’s at Peter’s mercy. “Move, please. Please, please.”
“Hold on— Give it— Fuck, Harley. You feel so—,”
“Peter, I swear to God if you don’t—,”
He chokes on his threat as Peter pulls away ever so slightly, then rocks back home.
“Again. Please, please, Peter, I need—,”
He does it again, pulling out a little farther before thrusting back to full sheath.
Breathing ragged, Harley gasps, “Yes, just like—,”
He thrusts again, harder this time, and sparks fly.
“Fuck me, fuck me. Please, I—,”
Peter hooks Harley’s other leg over his shoulder and pulls him down the bed until they’re flush together and his knees around Peter’s ears are bent over his chest. And then he fucks him. Slapping skin, ringing sensation as his dick bottoms out again and again into the tight heat of Harley’s core, stretched and tight and slick, fingers bruising, pace brutal.
And Harley discovers what Peter meant when he said he wanted to watch, he wanted to see him because, above him, Peter is rapturous. Pink with pleasure, mouth open, panting, foggy-eyed with hungry desire, given over, taking exactly what he wants—Harley has seen nothing so erotic. So beautiful.
He wants to tell him. He wants to turn around some of the praise Peter has been washing him in all night until he burns with it, but the best he can do is hang onto the sheets for dear life and let Peter pound every moan, every hitched breath out of him until his pace stutters and his chin drops to his chest.
“No, no, lemme see. Pete—,”
He lifts his head and their eyes lock just as a grunt punches from between Peter’s parted lips and his pace falls apart to instead roll languid thrusts against him. His eyes go glassy, lost in climax.
Harley untangles his fingers from the sheets and cups his cheek. Peter sags into his touch, hips stuttering weakly as he pants, sweat-slick and flushed, through the aftershocks.
“You’re incredible.” Harley moves his legs off his shoulders and groans as the change in position stretches his aching back and brings cramped thighs to his attention. He ignores his aches and reaches for Peter. “You look so good. God, Pete. How are you this hot? You’re gonna be the death of me, I know it. I know it.”
He cards his hand through damp hair and Peter’s eyes flutter shut at his touch.
“Gotta pull out,” he mutters.
They moan together as he drags free, then he sags forward, arms trembling.
“You’re hard again.”
“Forget it,” Harley says. “Come here. I want—,”
What he wants ends in a cry as Peter takes his cock in hand. A few long, firm strokes are all he needs and he’s tumbling over the edge all over again, dazed and pulsating with pleasure as hot cum dribbles onto his stomach—hardly any this soon after his first orgasm.
He’s still coming back from it when Peter’s lips find his jaw, almost cool on overheated skin. He turns to catch the next kiss and they sink together, pliant and open-mouthed, moving together in formless harmony. He tries to tug Peter down to the mattress to lie with him, but he resists.
“Gotta clean you off,” he murmurs.
“Forget it. C’mere.”
“I’ll be quick.”
He ducks out of their blanket enclosure and a burst of cool, fresh air makes Harley notice how stifling it’s turned. He pulls the blanket down and kicks it away with a sigh of relief. Then he cracks a smile as he sees Peter teetering across the hall on wobbling legs.
He returns a moment later with a towel that Harley snatches from him rather than suffer any more dallying. He wipes the cum off and tosses the towel blindly toward the closet.
“There. Clean. Now come here.”
Peter slips under the blanket and meshes boneless against his side. He fits his leg between Harley’s and tucks his head perfectly on his chest like this is how they were always supposed to be.
“You’re the one that was making a big stink about being clean earlier.”
“Wasn’t.”
Peter picks his head up to glare at him and Harley takes advantage of the new angle to kiss him thorough and deep.
Peter pulls away first. “Watch out. Keep kissing me like that and we’ll end up going for round three.”
“Anything you want,” he says, and kisses him again.
Peter barely returns it before pulling away again. He’s frowning. “Still?”
“What?”
“I still have the free pass?”
“Why not?”
He shakes his head. “That’s not how free passes work.”
“I don’t care.”
Peter watches him, a curious look on his face. “I didn’t need to rig the New Year’s kiss, did I?”
“What do you mean?”
He leans in slow and, impatient, Harley meets him halfway for a lingering kiss.
When they part, he asks again, “What do you mean?”
Rather than answer, Peter asks, “How long have you liked me?”
Oh.
“Since we met.”
Peter’s face scrunches. “Did we meet before MJ’s dinner party? I feel like I would remember—,”
“No. It was when you threw your mitten in my soup.”
“It wasn’t a mitten.”
“It was.”
“I don’t wear mittens. It was a fingerless glove.”
“It had a flap to cover your fingers. Mitten.”
Peter pulls a face. “Whatever. Nevermind. I meant, when did you start to like me like this?” He splays his hand over Harley’s ribs in example.
“I know what you meant. It was right away. You came blowing in through the door and you threw your mitten in my soup, then blamed me for it.”
It was a tense, awkward dinner up to that point. MJ was fluctuating between stoic silence and biting zingers—which he now knows is how stress manifests for her, but at the time he was worried for Gwen’s sanity in her choice of partner and roommate—Ned was trying to ease the tension by asking invasive, personal questions, Flash spent more time complaining about the quality of the meal than eating it, and there was Harley in the thick of it, gritting his teeth in a smile so Gwen wouldn’t lose her battle against the tears he could see barely held in check.
That was the state of the party when Peter blew in with his rambling excuses, groveling apologies, and his mitten, flung into Harley’s cold, greasy soup. MJ’s stony exterior cracked like glass as she and Ned teamed up to mock Peter for his perpetual tardiness and the ruination of MJ’s special dinner that she spent all day cooking.
Peter, horrified that they allowed MJ in the kitchen, asked if anyone had ordered pizza yet, to which Flash responded that he’d been trying to get someone to but they were ignoring him, which led to everyone blowing up, saying, no the fuck he did not— whining does not equate solutioning. At which point, Peter turned to Harley for the first time and demanded, “And what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Harley, dumbfounded, responded, “Well, I was eating soup, but someone—,”
“—did you a favor. You’re welcome. Don’t sit in my spot if you don’t want random articles of clothing thrown in your dinner.”
And Harley couldn’t help but to envision what random articles of clothing Peter might wantonly throw around next. He was gorgeous, even then, before he knew him. All bright eyes, and cold-roughed cheeks, dark curls bursting out from under a knit hat, lips chapped and bared in an antagonistic grin—which was a breath of fresh air after an evening of restrained politeness and unreturned social grace.
So he couldn’t be blamed, in his opinion, for taking the bait on Peter’s line and swimming with the new and exciting current he offered. Their bickering monopolized conversation for the rest of the night—to the point that the rest abandoned them at the table to hash out whether pepperoni has any business masquerading as a pizza topping (it doesn’t, for the record).
He apologized to Gwen after, when it was just the two of them, the empty pizza boxes, and the congealed pot of soup on the stove. But rather than give him an earful, she hugged him.
“Thank you for being fucking normal.”
“They aren’t that weird.”
“No, I mean thank you for being yourself and not getting all awkward like everyone else.” She ended the hug and added, “Oh, and try not to get with Peter until things have settled, would you? If something goes wrong, I don’t want it to jeopardize what me and MJ are trying to do.”
“Was I that obvious?”
“You were making fuck me eyes at him all night.”
He paused. “D’you think he noticed?”
“If what MJ says about him is true, he wouldn’t notice a flock of flamingos swing dancing in the living room so long as they didn’t get between him and food.”
“Maybe he would if they stole his seat at the dinner table.”
“Harley, I’m serious. Keep it in your pants. MJ is it for me, so I really need everyone to get along.”
And so, for Gwen, he confined all of his desire to pointless circular debates and heated stares across the room. Until tonight.
“I didn’t blame you,” Peter says with a touch of reproach in his tone.
Harley laughs. “Are we going to argue about this now?”
“Only if you insist on saying wrong and incorrect things. I didn’t blame you.”
“You literally said if I hadn’t been in your spot, it wouldn’t have happened.”
“That’s just a fact! I wasn’t blaming you.”
Harley does then, the thing he’s been dying to do for years. He captures Peter’s face between his hands and says, “You’re so fucking stupid.” Then he crushes their mouths together.
Peter only struggles for a second before his fingers are suddenly threaded through the hair at the base of Harley’s neck, pressing him closer, preventing him from pulling away—not that he would try. When air supply runs low, Harley breaks to the side and Peter takes the opportunity to mouth at his throat.
Against his jugular, Peter says, “Don’t think you can do that every time.”
“No. Never. I love hearing you try to defend your wrong and incorrect opinions.”
“I’m not—,”
Harley ducks down and kisses him, but spoils it a heartbeat later when he can’t help but smile.
Peter breaks away first. “If you keep smirking, I’ll stop kissing you. You haven’t won anything.”
“Feels like I did.” He noses along Peter’s cheek, his skin impossibly soft. “Will you stay? The night, I mean.”
Peter’s tone softens. “You want me to?”
“I’d ask you to stay forever if I thought you’d actually do it.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
Harley pauses, lured for a moment toward believing the implication behind the warning, but no. This is Peter. Peter always has something better to do than hang around him. Except tonight, somehow.
“What?” Peter asks, pulling back to see his face.
Carefully, Harley says, “I’ve wanted this for a long time, so don’t… Don’t promise anything you don’t mean. ”
Peter searches his face. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Gwen asked me not to. She was worried we’d have a big whirlwind romance that would blow up in our faces and cause problems for her and MJ.”
“Oh. Is she going to be mad?”
“She ditched me at the club, remember? That was basically her blessing.”
“Wait. So this only happened because Gwen said it was okay? What would have happened if she didn’t leave early?”
“Pete, I was ready to blindly take whatever you were offering before I knew she was gone. I didn’t know she’d left until we were already in the cab.”
“Oh. Right.” He searches his face. “You were going against Gwen? For me?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it going against her. It’s been like three yea—,”
“How long have you been in love with me?”
Harley blinks down at him. “Since the beginning. I said that.”
Peter shakes his head. “We were talking about liking me.”
“I wasn’t.”
Peter stares at him, something strange muddling his expression. He takes a scant breath and blurts, “I have to tell you something.”
Harley’s heart jumps. “You don’t have to. It’s okay. I know I—,”
“No, shut up. This is important.”
He leans away, bracing for… Well, Peter is about to either admit that he reciprocates his feelings or—the more likely option considering the look on his face—let him down easy. As easy as he’s capable of, at any rate. Peter lacks the thing most people refer to as “tact”.
“I’m Spider-Man.”
There’s a long, silent beat where he struggles to process the nonsense statement and Peter stares at him. He searches for an appropriate response, but all that comes out is a confused, reflexive question.
“You’re— Excuse me?”
Peter licks his lips, then repeats, “I’m Spider-Man.”
He searches Peter’s expression for the joke, for the trick, for… whatever his reaction is supposed to be, but rather than an amused glint or a suppressed smile, he finds fear. He’s never seen Peter scared before. Not once in three years. Not when they almost got in a car accident that one time and he arm-barred Ned so hard he bruised. Not when his and Abbie’s old apartment got broken into and Peter somehow found out and tagged along with Gwen and MJ to help clean up glass and reinforce the door jamb.
In fact, he’s never seen Peter more serious and centered than he was on those occasions when the rest of them were on the verge of panic.
Harley sits back and can’t help himself from looking up Peter’s shockingly fit torso—considering how he eats—and his toned and well-muscled biceps—utterly incongruous with his job pushing paper and taking pictures for various rags around the city.
Something slots into place in his mind.
“Okay,” he says. “You’re Spider-Man.”
Saying it aloud makes him dizzy. He’s Spider-Man. Peter is Spider-Man.
Peter’s eyebrows crush together. “Don’t do that. I’m being serious. I’m—,”
“—Spider-Man,” Harley finishes for him. “I believe you. You’re—,” He blinks at his bare wrists, then cranes around to look behind him even though he hasn’t developed x-ray vision in the past five seconds. “Are Spider-Man’s web-shooters in my bathroom right now?”
“My web-shooters are—,”
“Right, because you’re Spider-Man.”
“Stop saying it like that. I’m—,”
“—Spider-Man,” Harley finishes in a murmur, still eying the door.
The temptation is too much.
He scrambles off the bed.
“What are you—,”
“I just want to see them!”
“My web-shoo—? Harley!”
Butt-naked and feeling the consequential chill, he darts out of the room as Peter fights to get free of the blanket. He trips on his jeans in the hallway but saves himself from tumbling skull-first into the bathroom.
And there they are, innocuous, in the sink. Like he’s not even trying to hide them. Like if Harley hadn’t been so drunk on touching him and getting touched in return, he could have figured it out for himself. Had he only asked a pointed question or two, he’d have sniffed him out and—
Peter slams into the bathroom. “Give me my—,”
Harley scoops the bracelets out of the sink and shoves them into his hands. “Show me.”
Peter traps them against his chest to keep from dropping them and goggles at him.
“I want to see,” Harley insists. “Show me. Please,” he adds, belatedly.
Peter works his jaw, looking around the bathroom, the floor where their clothes are strewn, the tub beaded with water from their shower, the abandoned loofa by the drain.
“Please.”
Peter shakes his head. “Get dressed.” He slips one web-shooter over his hand and clamps it tight around his wrist.
“You’ll show me?”
Peter pinches Harley’s chin between finger and thumb, but hesitates, searching his eyes, before he kisses him, chaste and light.
“Yeah, but I need my suit. You coming?”
“Whether you want me or not.”
Peter snorts and a cocky smile curls the corner of his mouth. “You couldn’t catch me if I didn’t want you to.”
If Harley wasn’t gone on him before, there’s no hope for him now.
~*~
“Who called you dirty?”
Peter asks it innocuously out of the blue while they’re huddled together, a metal grate digging into Harley’s backside. It’s freezing atop the billboard Peter swears has an uncontested view of the city, and Harley has to admit it’s phenomenal—all sparkling white powder and glittering lights. He knows on the ground the slush and grime will overwhelm any snow thus far untouched, but up here the city is dazzling.
“Nobody,” he says, and the snow cushioned city swallows his voice. Up here it’s all so soft and distant—pristine—except for him and Peter. He’s fitted out in all of his winter gear—puffy coat, gloves, hat, and Abbie’s scarf—while beside him Peter is wearing the same jeans and zip-up he was earlier, but Harley knows now to look at the neckline for the occasional hint of red spandex. And he knows the red gloves aren’t traditional winter wear.
“Come on, Harley. Just—,”
“Nobody needed to, Pete. I’m… I’m just some dumb smelly hick from Tennessee, alright? I look at you guys and… Nobody needs to say it. Just being here, being me… I feel it.”
Peter’s fingers clench too tight around his hand, but relax before he can so much as twitch at the discomfort. Abruptly, he pivots to face him and folds his hand between his, expression serious and searching and near.
“Let me fix it.”
“Fix… I’m not broken, Peter. I don’t need—,”
“That’s not what I meant. I mean… Let’s make a bet. I bet I can make you feel like you belong here. Like you’re not any worse than an average New Yorker.”
“I am supposed to bet against that?”
“No. No, just… let me try.”
“You’ve already got the free pass. You can—,”
Peter shakes his head. “That’s not how—,” He huffs a fogged breath. “Fine. Free pass: will you go out with me?”
“You’re asking? That’s not—,”
“You’re making this so difficult!”
“I literally told you to do whatever you want. How is that—,”
“Because I want your input, Harley! I don’t want to just do whatever I want all the time! I want to know what you want and what you like and— and— I don’t know, what you think. I didn’t fall for you because you let me push you around and make decisions for you.”
“Right. You fell for me because I’m hot.”
“And clever. You’re so fucking— The way you think is so different from how I do and you’re so smart. You make me look at the world differently. You make me better and brighter and stronger. I just want— I want you to feel that way too. I don’t want you to feel dirty. I want you to feel limitless, because that’s how I see you. You’ve got unbound potential and you’re using it. You’re going places and I… I just want to take the ride with you.” He’s close and intense as he searches Harley’s face. He sits back on his heels. “So… so keep your free pass. That’s not what I want.”
Harley’s life blood turns electric. He’s a breath away from dying, a kiss away from ascension. If Peter’s goal is to make sure he never feels inadequate again, he’s failing miserably because Harley doesn’t have the half words he’d need to follow up a speech like that. It’s all he can do not to put him in a hydraulic press and squish him flat.
He’d settle for a kiss.
“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay, no more free passes. Can I kiss you?”
Peter’s expression turns pained. “Harley, I’m… I’m really trying here. I need to know what you— I need to know you’re as—,”
“Pete, I’ve had a crush on you for three years,” Harley says in a rush as his fingers turn into grasping desperate things within his gloves. He rips them off and presses his fingertips to Peter’s chin and jaw. Desperate to feel him. To hold him here in this moment. “I have instigated and perpetuated innumerable pointless, stupid arguments just to have an excuse to talk to you. When I said you could do whatever you wanted, I meant I want anything and everything you’ll give me. So yes, we can go out. Yes, I agree to your bet, whatever it was. Yes, you can stay forever. Yes, just— Yes. To whatever it is, yes, but you gotta let me kiss you. I’m not gonna make it to all of that if I don’t get to kiss you.”
Peter searches his face, pupils dilated, his lips parted around shallow breaths. “I think tadpoles are an alien species entirely separate from frogs and the scientists made up the frog thing so we wouldn’t know that sentient alien life has visited Earth.”
Harley blinks hard. Then blinks again. “That’s the stupidest— What the fuck are you—,”
“Oh, thank god you’re still in there,” Peter says all in one breath, then surges forward and crushes their mouths together in a bruising kiss.
Harley returns it, but after a few seconds breaks away. “You’ve met Nebula. You— There are aliens— You know them.”
Peter follows him, on his knees now, chasing his lips. “Shut up and let me kiss you.”
“I— No, this is— I’ve raised tadpoles. I can— There’s a whole lifecycle. It’s ludicrous to think—”
Peter laughs breathily and gets his fingers in Harley’s hair. He’s smiling, eyes on Harley’s mouth, as he says, “I love you so much.”
And this time, when he kisses him, Harley doesn’t pull away.