Work Text:
That’s… oh.
Peter keeps getting fooled by first impressions, that’s a fact.
There’s so much historical proof, Judge Judy would throw the gavel at him for being so stupid. Not just now, but before this.
Eight. Not one, not two, eight separate clowns he’s trusted on sight. Some were deep-fried bastards with moral arteries clogged by pure villainy, some were secret shapeshifters (looking at you, Skrull Tinder disaster—never again, Christ), and then there’s the special category. The physically gorgeous, the emotionally catastrophic. (He’s zen as fuck about this, he swears—as in “fuck this, fuck that, fuck me for trusting anyone.” Okay, maybe a little not not bitter, excuse the foul language.)
The point is, Peter’s used to life delighting in messing him over with secret depths and hidden bullshit, making his other superpower terminal misjudgment. Everybody’s hiding something. That’s Humanity 101. It’s not paranoid to expect a personality trait or two at odds with their brand. People are complicated. Not one-dimensional. People contain multitudes, Parker. If only he didn’t keep forgetting that.
Nobody is just the thing they pretend to be, that’s what he’s getting at. Not the way they look. Not the way they talk. So why does Peter keep assuming he knows what someone’s like from the get-go? Bully on himself, what an idiot.
But this is Cap. As in, the Cap. Captain America. Steve Rogers. Who, at most, should be doing a decent thing and packing basic-level secrets, and not—
Which is why this is… oh.
And let’s just clear something up before it gets sidetracked and swerves into a high-speed wrong traffic jam: Peter doesn’t mean oh as in, oh shit, that same Cap might be into dudes.
That’s… understandable. Peter has mainlined the full homoerotic package since approximately puberty and yeah, he gets the appeal. Dudes, girls, nonbinary royalty—if there’s a flavor of thirst, Peter has licked the popsicle, gotten brain freeze, and cried about it in a 7-Eleven parking lot at least twice.
That particular existential crisis was sorted out ages ago and came out in the conversation so organically it didn’t even feel like Cap was coming out to the team, but more cluing them all in on being completely clueless. Fellas, gals, both, sure, why not, all people are great. Like, duh. Something to get over, absolutely, but not an oh of this magnitude.
And it’s not like “oh, into Peter?” could surprise him at this point either.
That freakout ran its course four breakdowns ago, though those were mostly the follow-ups. Category five, full-napkin-shredding while he was entertaining himself with Charlie Day–level conspiracy webs about maybe, possibly, probably Cap being into him, at least a smidgen, because what with all the almost-dates, and then hating himself for even imagining it, and then imagining it harder because that’s the kind of self-destructive spiral Peter can’t resist.
But he couldn’t blame himself for that one. Since… Peter, meet Delusion. Delusion, eat Peter’s sense of self-worth and spit it out covered in shame sauce; lather, rinse, dissolve into a shriveled ball of doubt.
Fourth time out together it took Cap (Steve, he’s supposed to call him Steve, brain, keep up) to stop that mental nuclear meltdown while Peter’s palms were sweating, heart hammering, and he was about fifteen seconds away from bolting for the exit and changing his name to Not Actually Here just for thinking about Cap in this context.
Cap reached out, covering Peter’s frantic hands with his—big, steady, warm, way too intimate for the pancake-syrup-and-drab-lighting vibe of the diner in Brooklyn they were in—and said to him, level as hell, not even a twitch in his voice:
“This is a date. A romantic date. If that works for you, Peter.”
No room for miscommunication after this, just the explosive certainty of someone who’s allergic to ambiguity (which, side note, is fucking nice).
But this isn’t about ‘holy shit, Captain America wants to date me’ and Peter’s reaction to it. Though—please. Don’t get him started. If you trigger that memory properly, Peter’ll fold in on himself so hard from sheer disbelief he might reappear in another dimension, probably one with fewer sexy super-soldiers with a heart of gold, wicked sense of humor, and thighs so muscly Peter could use them as beams to swing off in a pinch. Anyway, if you want to watch a grown man not believe his luck, show him the picture of Cap smiling and confirm that he’s also the world’s most considerate boyfriend and see what happens.
No, Peter means the other oh. Not the coming-out oh. Not the oh-god-he-likes-me oh.
It’s the oh of this moment, this instant, right now.
The oh of real time, the windows of Cap’s car fogged, backseat less good for watching the movie at the drive-in but perfect for making out, mouth suddenly too dry for even spit-level surviving and not because of kissing, it’s not the first time they do that, but—
“Oh,” Peter breathes, all rattle and wreckage, when Steve finally slides a palm down from the back of his neck, fingers zeroing in on Peter’s shaky hand and bringing it down to a bulge on Cap’s jeans that Peter, in true coward fashion, has been too chicken to even look at, the holy land, the no-fly zone, the ‘maybe next year, when you’re brave.’
The oh that changes everything. The oh that—
It’s not how huge he is. Super serum, fuck if Peter knows if that’s nature’s gift or not, but gift anyway. It’s the—
“Was gonna wait ‘till we got home, but need to split you on my cock, treasure,” Steve murmurs into Peter’s mouth, and—
Oh. Yeah. This one.
The human brain wasn’t made to withstand this flavor of confusion. Peter’s turns into blueberries at the sultry tone.
Cap is… Cap.
The man who says “golly” and “darn it” without irony and tips waitresses like he’s singlehandedly committed to keeping the service economy alive. Peter’s not the only one who’s noticed, okay? There are memes. There are whole subreddits dedicated to how Captain America is either all about eye contact during missionary or, like, the CEO of wholesome hand-holding and nothing else. Once, Bucky did an impression that was so polite the entire common room laughed themselves into stitches, Cap included. It is, objectively, hilarious, how proper he is—if Peter could ever really laugh, because, and this is the problem, he is so disgustingly, irreparably, terminally, helplessly head over heels that every time Cap does something as small as tucking a loose hair behind Peter’s ear, Peter has cartoon heart eyes burrowing out through his ribcage and, if his ability to function is anything to go by, neatly becomes a plank of pressed ham when that happens.
And, look, Peter would be thrilled to catch a gentle, full-body, communicative, scene-from-a-feelings-movie dicking down from Steve someday. At some stage. Blanket fort, close the door, lock it three times, run some gentle Sinatra and let Steve do unspeakable things to him in that tender way of his—sign. Peter. Up.
So, Peter would not be disappointed with the slow, thorough, I’m-going-to-make-you-see-god-and-then-tuck-you-in special. Not to say he’d turn down, like, a serum-powered “drop, give me five, now bend over—no, farther—good boy, now suck” command drill, either. Peter’s readiness to go with whatever Steve lets him is not the limiting factor here.
So it’s not that Peter would ever assume “sex with Cap” could be—god, he can’t even think the word—boring. He’s seen the arms. He’s felt the arms. Literally had his life ruined by the jawline alone when he was still under the impression it was a hopeless crush.
But it’s Cap. Cap, who—case in point—has just… fully manhandled Peter into his lap without asking if Peter’s ready or something equally demented and suddenly the whole interior of Steve’s very, very large SUV is making some retroactive sense. Why is the cab so big? Why are the windows not just tinted but blacked out like a CIA panic room? Why has the sound from the movie stopped coming out from the radio a while back, when the kissing started? Why was Steve extra handsy all evening, squeezing Peter’s knee, his waist, his nape after fishing if Peter was happy with how things were going between them? Peter is happy, by the way. But. Oh. This. Fuck.
It’s so hot.
“Now?” Peter squeaks.
“Yes, sugar,” Steve drawls, all deceptively relaxed, both hands first palming Peter’s ass he previously got nowhere near, so respectful it was giving Peter self-esteem issues, until he straight-up rips Peter’s jeans right down the seams in the middle. Those were good jeans. Peter panics. Steve does the quick work of the front too, not being more mindful with Peter’s underwear, and Peter panics more, physically manifesting need and holy-fuck-get-a-grip energy, and starts scrambling at Steve’s belt, shoving between them before Steve changes his mind. He gets that dick out, holy shit, it grows even bigger in his hand, looks massive in contrast to his own, and pulls Steve’s underwear away as much as he can.
He stares.
Stares until Steve doesn’t even ask before running his fingers between Peter’s ass cheeks, brushing his hole with a hum, and he doesn’t even do him the courtesy of a “may I, please, Mr. Parker?” Just this unexpected dominating hum, tongue flicking across his bottom lip as if Peter’s already on his knees drooling for it, like it’s a done deal, like Peter has no say in it, and—
Peter has a say in it. Wants the record to show that he is so consenting it’s pathological. God, please, he wants that dick inside him so bad. So much so, he starts going at Steve’s t-shirt with enthusiasm as Steve laughs, helps him take it off and smirks when Peter puts his hands on his bare chest. Fuck, this chest. One day, if they get there, Peter wants to hump between Steve’s pecks and come all over them.
There’s a lube packet between Steve’s fingers—where did that even come from, does he have a Tony Stark–certified quantum pocket in his knuckles?—and Steve is asking-not-asking, murmuring all rough and low:
“No rubber, but you’ll like it raw, won’t you, baby? Jesus, you’ve got such a gorgeous ass. All I think about is dropping you on my cock and seeing you drip when I pull out. You want that, Queens? You want me to use you ‘till you can’t even feel your legs?”
Also for that record, Peter already can’t feel his legs. He’s not exaggerating for comic effect. Paralysis of not having expected Steve to be this chatty in the sack is a real medical condition. Everything below the waist that isn’t his raging hard-on is static, and the rest is essentially helpless shaking. All he can do is press in, grind down, and hope the car isn’t about to slide off its shocks.
And when Steve sticks the lube packet—cherry red, of-fucking-course—between Peter’s own lips, eyes flicking sly as he grabs Peter’s chin, locking their gaze, it’s… Peter doesn’t know who else could get away with it, but it's pure porn. Still, he listens and pulls on the packet with his teeth. The sweet glossy taste bursts on his tongue, but Peter’s head is already gone, spinning in circles, because all he can focus on is how much he wants—God, it’s Steve.
“Open up for me, honey,” Steve murmurs, and, goddamn, the man sounds like—
He’s got that lewd summer-scorched voice thing going, narrating every movement. One finger presses in, slow but sure, until Peter gasps and moans because Steve’s fingering his hole, for crying out loud, and even one of his fingers is so wonderfully thick as he’s looking at Peter. It’s a thumb, which shouldn’t make it more hot but somehow is, and Peter’s hips are rocking immediately, chased by his own pleasepleasejustfuckme.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” Steve whispers, nosing at Peter’s ear, biting the skin right beneath it so Peter gasps. “You look so good like this. Tell me, you ever let anyone else fingerfuck you in the back of a truck before? Bet you haven’t. Bet you look perfect with my cock in you. Tony would have a heart attack if he saw you like this, so needy for me that you are screwing yourself on my hand. Should make you keep a plug in; keep you stuffed and ready—always ready for me, aren’t you? Fuck, you’re so tight, Peter. Can’t wait to feel you bounce and whine for my cock till you can’t do anything but drool.”
Peter moans, writhing on that thumb and huffing when it’s taken out to be replaced by two other fingers. Every movement on Steve’s lap shoves him deeper on them, every grind making his own dick weep, trapped against Steve’s ungodly abs. He clamps his eyes shut, kisses Steve back through the heat, mouths gone wild—open and slick, lips dragging, tongues licking. Even the kissing is filthy now, just more, Steve’s hand never stopping its relentless pace. Steve grinds up into him, nipping into Peter’s neck, half talking, half groaning against his skin.
“God, Peter, I want you so much.”
Peter is—he can’t. He keeps muffling moans with his hand until Steve yanks that away, then keeps trying to hump against his stomach. Up, down, down, up, stretch and slickness and the endless, filthy feedback loop of Steve telling him every single thing he’s going to do, and Peter’s all but sobbing into Steve’s throat as Steve murmurs every dirty fucking fantasy and promise right into his ear.
“Is it weird I wanna fuck you ‘till you cry and make you a pretty little mess? You want it, don’t you? C'mon, love, beg for it, and you’ll get it.”
And Peter—God, he’ll never be whole again. He will never make assumptions again, Jesus. Steve just said love, and this doesn’t count, but—
Peter would beg. He would—he would—pathetic. He’s not even cool about it, that’s the thing. Give him a dog collar and leash, put him on his knees, whatever. He’d crawl. He’d pant at Steve’s feet like a feral catastrophe if that’s what it took. This man legitimately makes him dizzy just by paying attention to him. This man. And this here, a quickie in the back seat during what actually was a very romantic date, is the sickest, stupidest turn-on ever—so much so it kills whatever shame reflex Peter is supposed to have. He’s so tired of being too strong all the time. Too tough, too responsible, too much for anyone baseline to be this way. For once, he wants to be handled. Put in his fucking place.
So when Steve shoves his fingers into Peter’s mouth—slick and lubed and just after fingering Peter’s own hole—Peter chokes out a groan and sucks, saliva pooling around them. Fuck, it’s so nasty, god, Peter loves it. Steve stares him down, eyes molten, and the warm, thick head of Steve’s cock is suddenly nudging at Peter’s hole. Not pushing in. Not even teasing a bit. Just… resting there.
Oh, Peter would do anything for him.
He sucks on those fingers harder, choking, hollowing his cheeks, throat working, swallowing around Steve’s knuckles like if he could just pull them in far enough he’d earn it. Begging with his whole face, wide, wet eyes locked on Steve’s. He still doesn’t know how this is real—how is this his life?—how Steve Rogers (America’s hero, public property, allegedly a good fucking influence) is the man making him feel this way?
Peter could howl in delight, never felt this compatible with anyone before out and now in bed. Shit, everyone’s so wrong about Cap. Thinking Steve’s a Boy Scout, like he’d fuck with the lights off and only after marriage, when the truth is: Steve’s an original rebel, a misfit, a rule-breaking, red-blooded shit-stirrer, and you only need to be around him for a bit to see that and put two and two together. So why did Peter, who does know him, think he'd be mellow about sex?
He gags when Steve's fingers curl and press, rubbing the back of his tongue. Steve’s watching closely, still humming low in his chest, and now there’s this nearly-evil smirk.
Drool starts slipping down Peter’s chin as he hums back and sucks and gags and pleads, please, please, please, in every way he knows how, wiggling his ass over Steve’s cock.
Steve drags his fingers out and leans in so close without kissing him that Peter can feel the hellfire of his breath on his skin.
“Yeah, alright, I think you want it enough.”
And—fuck.
Steve is about to—he is, he’s going to—Christ, Peter can’t even finish the thought with that cock pressed at his rim.
The first real push is almost polite. Steve’s hands are steady and unmovable, thumbs pressing against Peter’s hipbones over some of the jeans fabric that’s still about as Steve guides him down, centimeter by torturous centimeter. The head slips in with a slick, low pop.
Peter’s mouth drops open, and he stutters, “ah—ah—ahhh.”
Steve just—lifts him up a fraction, and lets him slide down a little more. Shallow, slow, gentle, again, again, easing the length in until Peter’s not breathing, not thinking, just gulping in air and Steve and heat and fuck, he feels like he is going to be split in half. He clutches to Steve's pecs just to remain in his own skin. They flex on another down, pecs like slabs, and his biceps flex too as he holds Peter’s weight fully.
“That’s so much, god—” Peter babbles, wincing a bit, but he’s kissing wherever he can reach—Steve’s jaw, his cheeks, his full, amazing mouth. He nips at Steve’s lip, he licks it, he can’t get enough, can’t hold still, just wants, wants, wants even through the— “Ah-h, it—”
“I know, honey, hurts, but let me have you,” Steve all but purrs at him, and, mercifully, doesn’t stop. “You’re so small, sunshine, just hold on.”
He might as well slap Peter’s brain out the window with that, but the motion gets faster. Steve rocks him up, rocks him down, shallow thrusts building to full, hungry fucks; Peter’s hole stretched and sucking Steve’s cock in, and apparently, Peter’s got a degradation kink buried in there somewhere because it’s all he can do not to plead, beg for more.
“Oh, god, you are massive,” Peter moans. A lot. “f-feels so good, so good—”
“You’re gripping me so tight, Pete, you were made for me, weren’t you? That’s it, take it, be a good boy for me.” To hopefully some of it being Peter’s credit, Steve no longer sounds fully relaxed, but strained instead, and Peter whimpers, body trembling.
Peter is, he is.
As soon as Steve bottoms out, that cock shoved so deep Peter can feel it somewhere above his spleen, everything snaps right off the rails, and Steve shows him exactly how good of a boy Peter needs to be, which is to say: ruined, ruined, ruined, and ruined some more.
Broad hands clamp down tighter on Peter’s hips, and it’s brutal, with no hint of those slow, easing-in passes from before. Now Peter’s really getting it, getting what Steve’s been promising, rocked down, bounced up. Peter can’t even get a grip on what’s happening: up, down, Jesus fuck, up, down, and every time Steve bounces him, it’s harder, faster, deeper, until Peter literally can’t say his own name, never mind anything resembling words.
It fucking stings. It burns. Every movement, every god-level thrust slamming home into him, drags a brand new sound out of Peter’s mouth. He’s beyond embarrassment. He doesn’t care if the truck is likely shaking so much they’re going to need a tow, doesn’t care if someone snaps a pic and uploads it to TikTok, slick cock bottoming out again and again, gliding on lube, grinding against Peter’s insides everywhere. It’s so thick, Steve doesn’t even need to aim, it keeps pressing and pressing on Peter’s prostate no matter where it is.
There’s no break. Steve doesn’t slow down, he doesn’t even waver. Keeps going at it so recklessly that Peter’s head doesn’t hit the roof by miracle, big arms just handling him like a fucktoy. Peter’s spinal cord is made of syrup now; all he can do is claw at Steve’s shoulders, scrabbling for leverage, thighs vibrating with every bounce and thrust as Steve yanks him down harder, deeper, fucking more noises out of him as Steve pants harshly, grunting.
Every time Peter drops, another jolt shoots through him, white-hot, so sharp Peter sobs, actually sobs, because apparently he’s that slutty and likes a little bit of pain, and Steve only mutters, “Fuck—fuck, Pete,” before delivering another vicious snap of his hips, pounding into him so savage Peter will feel it in his throat tomorrow.
Peter’s limp, pressed to Steve’s enormous chest, and feels like an oversized ragdoll being played with by an animal. He’s leaking all over himself, more precome than he’s ever felt, he feels like he’s grinding against something wet, and Peter’s just whining, whining, writhing, getting drilled open again and again, like this is all he’s good for.
Peter honestly misses the moment he comes. Not as in "oh, that slipped my mind," but as in: everything is loud, and a lot, then… radio silent—he’s so gone he doesn’t even realize it’s happening until he’s spasming, biting into Steve’s bicep to keep from screaming. His jaw is locked so tight Steve’s gonna have a bite mark, and his hole is squeezing too hard. Judging by the way Steve hisses, it’s a hundred percent not pleasant, but Peter can’t stop, it’s just shock after shock after shock wracking his body.
“Easy, sweetheart... that’s it,” Steve soothes, and Peter’s basically being peeled off, eased up and off Steve’s cock, his hands moving him like he’s made of wet noodles. Steve holds Peter, pats his back, presses hot, gentle kisses into his hair, murmurs something Peter can’t track, not really, all white noise and snotty whimpering. It’s... fuck, it’s good. Peter’s floating, all untethered, all the problems distant, everything’s distant except for the sensation of those arms and Steve’s dick lying heavy right between his raw cheeks.
Tears are tacky on his face, he’s still half-crying from oversensitivity and way, way too much for one night to finally see what it can be like when Peter can let go. Steve doesn’t push, lets him slouch into that chest, lets him collapse and reboot as long as he needs. Maybe forever. Maybe Peter will just live here now.
Takes… Peter doesn’t know how long it takes for him to blink away the worst of it, then re-enter his own body, and… he’s sliding off Steve’s lap, dragging himself down like his bones are rubberized. His ass is facing tinted window, his knees on the seat leather, and he’s looking at Steve’s cock, all red and shiny and still hard, jutting out from the barely opened jeans, and, god, Peter really wants this lollipop. He noses at it first, blinking dumb and sloppy, letting his lips drag up the side, mouthing aimless little kisses as if he’s still in free-fall.
Steve sighs, says “Peter—” too fond, but puts his hand heavy and warm on Peter’s head. “Wanna suck me off, baby?”
Yes, Peter fucking does. Peter’s dizzy for it. Depleted and heat-stupid and hungry enough to let the filth pour out without thinking. He feels so dirty, just wrung out and unhinged, body and mind so pried loose. And he trusts Steve so much. He doesn’t answer and has a proper taste.
Steve’s thighs tense, he quietly groans, and Peter hums around a mouthful of cock. Steve’s fingertips slide back, down his spine, over his t-shirt, drag it up and nudge at Peter’s rim. Steve has to stretch to reach, leaning slightly to the side, and Peter moans so low he nearly chokes himself, rutting his hips back into Steve’s hand. This is exactly what he wanted. This is exactly what he—
“Fuck my mouth,” Peter pulls back just to say that. “Don’t hold back, please, I—”
Steve pushes on his head before Peter can finish, using his free hand to stuff himself in. God, yes.
The head of Steve’s cock slides in and Peter’s lips stretch wide, spit immediately glossing everything, and it chokes out any thought, any complaint, any self-preservation instinct Peter has left. He’s mouth-fucked for real now, no gentle easing, no polite ‘let me know if you need me to go easy on you’, just Steve using him, rutting up into his face.
Peter’s eyes water more instantly, he loses the plot, seeing nothing through the leaking lashes, snot threatening, jaw already nagging. Peter coughs, can’t take him fully, and Steve just grunts, pinning Peter’s face where he wants it, not letting him off, not for a breath, not for a second.
Steve says something, Peter misses it, and gets fingers brutally pulling on his asshole as Steve repeats:
“I said open wider.”
God, spit is leaking down Peter’s chin and catching at the corners of his lips, being pushed in and pulled back, lungs burning delightfully as Steve’s hips piston forward and forward, no mercy, no interruption, just a relentless, railroading rhythm that Peter is forced to ride. He’s not in charge. He’s not anything but a hole, just exactly what Steve needs right now, and it’s so good Peter feels himself getting hard again.
His hands cling to the meat of Steve’s thighs, nails raking down. Steve twitches, goes just a little harder, a little faster, hair painfully fisted. Peter’s stomach flips with a rush every time Steve buries himself in his mouth, and Peter’s never, he never—
“Goddammit, Queens.” Steve grits between clenched teeth.
That’s the only warning Peter gets before he’s being yanked up—no, jerked up—with the kind of casual, one-handed brute-forced repositioning that’s so terrifyingly hot Peter will probably dream about it for months.
He gets manhandled again, spun to sit back to front on his lap, and there’s no transition, no check-in, just Steve, one hand on Peter’s waist, other guiding his sore, ruined hole right back onto that cock. And Steve does it fast. No easing, no slow slide. Just up, alignment, and—down. Peter lands on it so hard he cries out, instinctively throwing his hands back, fingers catching in the short hair at Steve’s nape.
Steve’s fucking him instantly, the angle different now—Peter’s whole body jackknifed with pleasure, and Peter’s own cock is bouncing helplessly against his belly, slapping wet and sticky against the wrinkled mess of his t-shirt until Steve tugs the fabric higher, bunching it beneath Peter’s armpits.
Steve jerks him off while whispering “c'mon sugar, c'mon,” and all it takes is a few rough pulls—Steve’s cock pounding him open, Steve’s hand so amazing—and Peter sobs, keens, head arching back, mouth producing only “ohfuckohfuckohfuck—” as he comes too quickly again, messy and wild, painting his own chest with streak after streak.
Steve’s right behind him, breathing in Peter’s ear.
"Ah, ah, fuck, ah-h, god—" Steve’s hips stutter, slam up, burying himself balls-deep, and Peter feels it, all of it, the thick pulse of Steve coming inside him, the shudders ricocheting through the both of them, and then—
Steve is worried. Has been too worried. In the car, after he fetched his track bottoms that could double as hot air balloons and a hoodie that Peter could legally rent out as real estate from the trunk, on the ride back, and now. Worried and can’t hide it.
Peter’s fine, he’s great, he is not even lying. He’s just… rung out. Like, spiritually. In the best way. He’s told Steve he’s okay (multiple times, even got a bit testy), but Steve’s still got that Guilt Face, and Peter cannot seem to joke his way out of it. Even his best “I’m good, please stop tying invisible knots in your own intestines” routine only gets him more forehead-wrinkle action and lingering, laser-eyed Captain Concern.
They make it to Peter's door, and Steve is still hovering, radiating all that. Peter’s fine. Better than fine. Post-fine. He’s transcended fine. That was the best sex of his fucking life, but when the moment comes, his brain screws up the delivery and he just stands there, wrapped in clothes too many sizes too big, sleeves flopping around.
“Please tell me you’re okay.” Steve gently tucks some of that hair behind Peter’s ear, and Peter—evolving, mutating, getting ready to ascend into some kind of post-nut ultra-mega-Parker—cannot explain that before this, he was always holding back. That it’s been about throttling himself, keeping his strength in check, worried himself he’s one errant muscle twitch away from sending someone to the ER or the tabloids. Like, how are you supposed to “let go” when letting go means breaking bones or cover stories?
Peter he—
That was the first time he did let go.
“God,” Steve shakes his head, and looks nearly destroyed by Peter not owning up to it. “I’m so sorry, I’m—“
Peter walks into him, wraps unreasonably long sleeves around the man and snuggles in. Steve is solid, comforting, warm in a way that has nothing to do with body heat, and Peter clings, soft fleece bunching between his fingers, feels the tension in Steve’s back.
“That was—” Peter tries. “Thank you. That was— seriously, listen to me, thank you.”
“Oh,” Steve sounds both surprised and sheepish, but Peter can hear the smile, can feel his relief as he sags. “Scared me, love. I thought I ruined it.”
There’s that love again, straight from Cap's mouth. And… yeah. Ruined Peter for anyone else, so there’s that.
“Do you wanna—” Peter’s about to invite him, when he hears “What do we have here?” in the last voice he’d want here right now.
He flinches on reflex, about to step back, but Steve… doesn’t let him go.
“Keep walkin’,” Steve grumbles, and Peter can’t see but Mr. Stark’s huff is almost too visual as is, just as Bucky’s voice, accompanied by a clap on presumably Mr. Stark’s shoulder, adds:
“Nothin’ to see here, not your business.”
Bucky seems to be successfully steering Mr. Stark away, because Peter is not being reprimanded for inappropriate hugging, Jesus. But they weren’t telling people. Looks like they might be telling people. Either way, Peter can picture Mr. Stark’s classic ‘offended at the very idea’ Muppet face from memory.
“Calm down,” Bucky keeps saying as their steps retreat, and Peter can only snicker when Mr. Stark appears to take it better than expected and even snides with: “Please, I can survive some hand-holding. Hugging? Is this a forties thing? Were you this precious with me at first, I don’t remem—”
Their voices fully drift away.
When Peter breaks away from the hug, there’s too endearing pink crawling up Steve’s cheeks and those blue eyes look at Peter like—
Peter will chug this certainty before every life-threatening event.
“Wanna come in?” Peter smiles. “Stay the night? We can cuddle?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.” Steve grins, a little bashful, always.