Chapter Text
It's a bittersweet feeling. How could it not be? Sure, he's technically on talking terms with MJ and Ned again, but it's not the same thing. It really isn't.
In that moment, Peter had been swallowed by the bean bag and so focused on the lego set in front of him he hadn't really noticed. Or maybe, he didn't want to notice, he wanted to pretend nothing had changed between the three of them—like it's five years ago and they're still wide-eyed kids. Peter is really good at pretending, he'd like to think.
But only after leaving their apartment behind does Peter realize how bittersweet it all felt. Was MJ just indulging him? Did MJ take pity on Peter, or, rather, the Peter that once was? He knows she wouldn't do something like that, she's always been very pragmatic—one of the qualities he most admires in her, truly—but the doubts running through his head are hard to deny.
Maybe he just needs to rest. His side is still healing and his head is still aching, his bones are still getting used to this whole co-existing with a weird spider inside of his body thing, so he shouldn't be too rough on himself; easier said than done, though. Still, Peter would like to believe he's slowly but surely getting better! He let the police handle a robbery, that's progress, right?
He's dealing with it, really really. Not the sort of dealing with it of the past, when he used to push down and swallow every feeling dry—no, he's dealing with it the right, adult way this time. And dealing with it the right, adult way means he has got to get his affairs in order; he has to man up and leave this little pity party behind and man up. Again, easier said than done.
Peter looks down at himself; Spider-Man suit tight around his skin, suffocating him (or was that the anxiety?), his hands clammy around the plastic handles of a take-out bag. Jeez, did Frank even like chinese? Who doesn't like chinese? It's, like, a national treasure in New York, surely Frank likes it. He has to like it.
The boat bay is quiet at this time of the day—well, it's always quiet, but today it seems even more so, maybe because Peter is too busy stressing about the food. And the way Frank will probably laugh at him. Sigh. That'd be nothing new at least.
He avoids the traps expertly this time, not activating a single one with careful steps and webbing—knowing Frank, the sensors are probably sensitive enough to feel the slightest breeze so Peter isn't too eager to try his defensive measures a second time. Now in front of Frank's door, Peter takes a deep breath and dons all the Spider-Man confidence he can manage and finally knocks.
Nothing.
Peter knocks again.
Is Frank out? Ouch, maybe Peter should've made sure Frank was home before he embarked on this little... healing mission of his—now the food is going to get all cold. Well, he supposes he could try to eat it all by himself, but that's a little sad.
He knocks for a third time, just to make sure. And this time, familiar grunting answers him from behind the thick metal.
"I heard you the first fuckin' time. Christ, can't I get up from my damn couch without you punching a hole through my door?" The usual complains are muffled behind the closed door, a fidgeting with keys and locks, before it finally opens up to a very unimpressed Frank in full Punisher regalia. It's good to know Peter didn't wake him up, at least.
"Frank." Peter greets, the voice module of his mask making it come out slightly strained. Or maybe it really did come out strained, he's not sure.
For a moment, Peter thinks he's going to get the door slammed closed on him, that Frank is simply going to groan it all away and ignore him. Instead:
"What the fuck is that?" Frank recoils, grimacing down at the bag Peter carries in his hand.
With that, Peter seems to finally wake up and chuckle out a sound between a laugh and an accepting sigh—a nonchalant cool guy, unbothered, casually leaning a hand against the wall.
"Oh, this? Yeah, it's just... some chinese I picked up along the way. You know, I was in the area and I wouldn't be able to eat all of this alone, so I thought I could swing by and check if you wanted some—"
"You think I was born yesterday, kid?"
"Alright, listen—" Peter's eyebrow twitches behind his mask in annoyance, bravado crumbling as fast as it came. Alright, deal with it right—deal with it like a fully normal adult man, you can do that much, Peter. You already did it with MJ, Ned and the police, this is no different.
"It's about the whole... hospital thing." Peter tries again, properly this time—no fake chuckles, no smolder.
"What hospital thing? Nothing happened in that hospital." Frank immediately denies, huffing and puffing.
"Can you let me talk?!" Peter is the one to interrupt this time, urging Frank into silence. Jeez, how hard is it to have a normal conversation with this guy?
"I... don't want you to feel guilty about what happened. And— don't interrupt me— I know you're feeling guilty, okay? But you were just trying to protect me in that... very murderous way of yours, and I guess I can understand you were scared and... yeah. I don't blame you, so don't blame yourself." Peter finally manages to get out.
With his head hanging low but eyes tilted up towards Frank's towering figure—for a moment, he wonders if Frank can see his gaze through the mask's lenses—Peter pushes the plastic take-out bag the slightest bit forward. Not enough to nudge Frank with it, not even enough to disturb his personal space, but enough to be an offer.
The silence that follows is so thick it's borderline unbearable. EV is on his ear after a quick vitals check, reminding him that the temperature hasn't gotten any colder, but Peter feels it to his very bones. He knows Frank isn't a very talkative man but this muted response isn't a normal one, either; they more often than not end up arguing, not in quiet platitude.
A beat.
Another.
"You should blame me, kid. I put a 50 cal round through you. How can you even stand to look at my ugly fuckin' mug after that?" It's Frank's response, the way he diverts his gaze revealing the shame he feels beneath the bravado.
"Frank," Peter cuts in, trying to bring the man's attention back to him by stepping closer, "I don't buy take-out for my enemies."
That seems to curl a smile on Frank's lips—gruff, hidden, like everything else about him—before it all dissolves into a grunt. Of course, Peter is pretty sure Frank would die if he didn't grunt every five seconds.
"Fine. It better not be that cheap crap you got last time." Frank says, kicking his own door fully open so Peter can make it inside. In his typical host manners (read: absolutely none), Frank makes himself scarce down the stairs, trusting Spider-Man to close the door behind him on his way in. He does.
The boat house is the same it's always been; slightly claustrophobic and messy, but comfortable all the same. There are some gadgets lying around the kitchen counter and the table, an older TV hanging by the corner playing the news through bouts of static. The only modern things in Frank's house have always been his laptop and weapons, really; he's not the type of guy to concern himself with the material stuff if it doesn't affect his work, Peter guesses.
Spider-Man puts down the bag on top of the dining table (or whatever could pass for one in this clogged space), dislodging bits of paper and documents to the side to make space for the warm food containers that fill the air with the pleasant scent of spices.
"So, I guess we really are friends." Peter breaks the silence that had settled between them, echoing down the metallic halls and earning him a bothered groan by Frank.
Somewhere down the makeshift sleeping quarters of the boat, Frank lets something fall with a thunderous noise and a curse before peeking his head through the dividing curtain and finally walking out—no iconic armor with the skull logo this time, he must've gotten comfortable to eat. The thought makes Peter pleasantly surprised.
"That's a sad thought. You should be friends with people your own age, kid—not following me around like a lost pup." The older man says in his typical blunt way, taking a seat by the table and beginning to open up the take-out containers without asking for permission to even start eating.
"Hey, I have friends my own age—" Peter is promptly interrupted by the disbelieving look Frank throws him.
"No, I'm serious, I—... I sorta... hung out with MJ and Ned today. Like, you know, just talking." Peter says as much, sitting down across from the older man. He removes his mask, no use keeping it when Frank has already seen him beaten and bruised and without it back at the hospital. He throws it somewhere, the fabric landing on top of a few loose ammunition rounds.
"You did, did you? You must be pretty damn happy, then." Frank returns, not sounding much interested at all considering he's currently stuffing his face with fried wonton.
"I guess." Peter says with a shrug.
That brings pause to Frank this time around, chopsticks hanging loosely out of his lips and a piece of half-bitten wonton falling back down to its container.
"You sure don't look like the sun started shinin' any brighter. Spill it, Daffodil. I know you love talking about your feelings." He comments, crossing his arms over the table, clearly waiting for Peter to keep on going.
"Okay, first of all—I don't like talking about my feelings, it's just something I've been working on, alright? Second of all—you should probably get in touch with your inner self a little, maybe it would make you less of a jerk." Peter's eyebrow twitches and this time, there's no mask to hide it, disdain clear on his features.
If Peter was expecting another bout of give-and-take between the two of them, that's not what he gets. Instead, it cracks a chuckle out of Frank, who leans back on his chair and loosely throws an arm over the back of it, head tilted to regard Peter at an angle that can only be considered... maybe... fond?
"There you go. Get all those big feelings out, sunshine. You feel better now?" Frank hums with a proud little smirk.
The fight leaves Peter as fast as it came with a sigh, shoulders losing the weight on them and giving way to a hunched posture.
"It's just... it doesn't feel the same." Peter finally answers, chopsticks poking absent-mindedly at the shrimp fried rice in front of him, "When I was with them, I mean. I guess I expected things to stay the same, but... I dunno, it's weird having to tell them about my favorite movies again and all of that. I don't... want us hanging out to be a pity thing, you know what I mean? Like ooh, poor Spider-Man has no friends, let's indulge him for a little."
Frank's eyebrows curl into a thoughtful frown, lips pressed into a thin line. Peter gets no response, not for a second or two, before a grunt breaks the silence and Frank rolls his eyes in defeat.
"Tell me about it, then." Frank says, and Peter's world stops.
"You— wha— huh?"
"Your stupid movies and nerdy shit. You want to talk about it with someone, don't you? So talk."
"You wouldn't listen."
"Try me, kid."
Maybe Frank did set himself up for this.
"No, Order 66 was like, this big thing that Palpatine made up as, like, a failsafe when he built the clones as a way to kill every Jedi. He just sorta flipped a switch in all of their brains that made them want to kill the Jedi. You see it better in the animated series, we could watch that too, but it's a bit longer, I guess we could watch an episode or two a day—"
How long has it been? Three hours? Four? Peter isn't sure, he isn't keeping count; Star Wars has always been one of his comfort media, the sort of thing he always returns to when he needs a pick-me up, maybe he thought Frank would like it as well. There's a certain charm to watching it on an old CRT TV too, the special effects get all the more charming with a little bit of rustic ease.
"Wait, hold on a sec there." Frank runs his hands down his hair, leaning back on his couch—legs spread wide, arms thrown whichever way, relaxed, "I'm still tryin' to understand the fact that they made a literal kid the fuckin' prophet of their shitty religion."
"Anakin? Oh yeah, that's a bit messed up, isn't it? The Jedi council was scared of him, but wanted to use him at the same time."
"Well, damn, maybe the Jedis deserved to die, they're not any better than the fuckin' evil ones."
"Okay—the plural is Jedi, not Jedis. Besides, you can't seriously be comparing the guys saving planets to the ones destroying them."
"Yeah, they're saving the planets and then what, taking random kids from their homes? That's villain shit to me, Daffodil."
"The Jedi Order is seriously corrupt, yeah, but it's not the big evil between the two."
"How about they're both evil and they both deserve to be destroyed, huh? How about that?"
"Only a Sith deals in absolutes. I will do what I must." Peter huffs with a proud tilt of his chin.
"You will try." Frank counters, matching the reference with an unamused stare, and Peter cracks up laughing, chuckles echoing down the metal halls of the old boat home.
"Being a Sith doesn't suit you, Frank. You're too soft for that." Peter muses between laughter, curling up his knees to his chest, making himself smaller and comfortable on the already small couch. He wraps both arms around his legs, resting his cheek against his knee to look at Frank sideways, eyes crinkling at the edges and pupils blown fond.
"Sorry? I must've misheard you." Frank guffahs in disbelief, turning his entire body to meet Peter's stare, "Soft? Me? I can only imagine what you consider hard if you think I'm soft, kid."
Silence settles between the two of them then, but it's not the uncomfortable, tense thing it was that very same morning. No, the credits are still playing over the TV, the scent of chinese take-out still lingers, and the warmth of the couch is enough to sip through Peter's suit.
"A bad person wouldn't let me nerd out about Star Wars, I know that much." Peter counters, laughter dissolving into a small, grateful smile. It's enough to have Frank looking away, to have him scratching an invisible itch on his cheek.
"Well. I ain't an asshole all the time." Frank settles for saying instead.
"Thank you for this." Peter murmurs a bit quieter now, "I think I really needed it."
A beat of silence, Frank still looking at the wall like it's the most interesting part of all of this.
"You're alright, kid." The older man hums back, nudging his knee against Peter's foot which rests over the couch, "Even if your preference in movies is fuckin' ass."
Expecting Peter to valiantly defend his sci-fi movie, Frank finally hazards a look towards Peter, only to be met with teary eyes and shaking fingers.
"Hey, hey, what's wrong? I'm sorry I insulted your movies, alright? Damn it." Frank immediately panics, though he wouldn't call it that, scooting closer. His hands linger in the air, not yet touching Peter, not knowing if it's allowed or even needed, but close all the same.
"No, I... I'm just really happy." Peter says instead, a watery chuckle punching out of his chest as he quickly rubs his gloved hands over his cheeks to dry out his eyes, "This was really fun."
"Kid..." Frank stutters out, eyebrows twitching between a frown and a concerned look that doesn't fit his gruff persona at all. Finally, he trusts himself to rest his hands over Peter, one warm on the younger man's shoulder, the other curled protectively around Peter's ankle.
That seems to be enough to release the floodgates; Peter all but throws himself over Frank, fingers clutching the older man's shirt tight enough to rip, the dark fabric becoming damp at the corner of Frank's neck from the tears that freely flow out of Peter's eyes.
Lost under the weight of a very sad spider, all Frank can do is pull Peter closer, to wrap his arms around the spidery man and bring him closer. An arm curled around Peter's lower back, he gently brings him closer until Peter can safely rest over his lap, shaking and pouring tears like a wet kitten left out in the rain; it rips Frank's heart apart.
"I'm right here, ain't going nowhere, Peter. We can watch those shitty movies for all of eternity if you want." Frank murmurs gently against Peter's hair—soft and curly, smelling faintly of apples.
The call of his real name only has Spider-Man holding on tighter; tight enough to bruise any normal man, but not tight enough to have the Punisher complain about the pain. If there's any pain Frank has ever felt, he'd rather it be this one.
"Promise?" Comes Peter's broken voice, no mask, no voice module there to stop the way it strains. But even through the tears, he notices; he notices the way Frank doesn't complain about the ripped shirt, he notices the way Frank's hands, so calloused and harsh, lay gently upon his back, he notices the way Frank's voice gives way to a smaller, warmer thing even if Peter is holding him with enough strength to break a metal pipe apart with his bare hands.
"Promise." Frank answers, and Peter believes him, "Let's get you to bed, sweetheart."
Peter has been hanging around Frank a lot these past few weeks. They have their differences, mostly the fact that, well, Frank loves his pew-pew guns and killing people, but Peter has never been one to take the moral high ground when it comes to such things; it's not like Frank kills indiscriminately, after all.
If Peter were to blame Frank for it, he'd have to blame Bucky and Tony and mostly everybody else he ever had an amicable relationship with, so he's not going to go down that road. Besides, Frank is accommodating with that sort of thing—he doesn't kill in front of Spider-Man and he always uses non-lethal force when Peter asks, so it's as good as it's gonna get.
They don't get in each other's ways when they're in their respective suits, and that's alright by him. The people still love Spider-Man, and there's less crime on the streets, even if Peter doesn't personally agree with it. Friendships are about sacrifice and all that, right? Boundaries and communication and things like that—they make do with what they have.
And what they do have is movie nights and take-out noons and breakfast mornings. Peter isn't sure when he started staying at Frank's for so long. He could reason with himself that, really, he simply liked the company. Working on his webshooters and his suit is less tedious when you have someone else looking over your shoulder during every second of it. Maybe he likes not being lonely, and maybe he likes making sure Frank isn't bleeding out somewhere without help, call him paranoid.
That's not to say Peter doesn't use his apartment, he does. And he still hangs out with Ned and MJ, but it's different now. He's not pushing for that something they used to have, no—he lets it flow naturally, taking things as they come. And that means not bothering them every second of the day just because he wants to hang out and revive old memories with people that do not have them. The heartache doesn't hurt as much, and he's just glad to have MJ back in his life even if they're not together.
As sad as it is to say, he truly does understand Frank. The whole self-imposed isolation, the life sentence he spoke of once. Maybe Peter just wants to make it a little less worse. Not fully better, he doubts a man like the Punisher could ever get better, but less worse. They support each other through it in their own way.
Peter kept on buying cheap take-out, Frank kept on grunting and groaning about it— so he doesn't do that anymore. Frank just cooks for the two of them now, which Peter is thankful for considering a homemade meal will always taste better. It's made with love, Peter had once teased Frank, only to receive a well-placed frying pan against the back of the head.
In the same way, Frank makes Peter go out and buy decent clothes. Not the low-quality university merch he lived off of, but proper wear-and-tear certified cloth that Frank can vouch for—that's how Peter got his first combat boots, and unlike their appearance, they're so, so comfortable it's like walking on a cloud. He can't believe he used to live on off-brand sneakers all of these years. You look like a mini-me, champ, Frank teases him one day past, and earns himself a well-placed kick to the back of the knee.
So what if he does? Frank's clothes are very comfortable, thank you very much. And they hang on just the right side of oversized for it to be comfy but not too-large. Besides, they smell nicely, like Frank. Peter doesn't want to analyze why Frank's scent is a comforting one—it's probably the spider hormones-thing going on inside of him, that's a completely normal explanation.
Whenever he wears a shirt or a jacket whose name is not his, Frank always gives him these looks too—and maybe Peter likes them a little too much as well, the sort of dark, quiet stare Frank directs at him before looking away as if embarrassed. Peter notices, of course he does, and typical Peter, he just can't keep himself quiet about it.
The truth is... he's clingy. Yeah, blame him. He has attachment issues and trust issues and he thinks everyone is gonna die the second he's not there to save them—he's allowed to be clingy. Frank doesn't complain about it, so Peter keeps doing it.
"Fraaaank–" Peter drawls out lazily, strewn across the couch like a molting spider on a particularly lazy afternoon.
"I'm working, kid." Frank shoots out from across the room, hunched over his working table. He doesn't even dignify Peter with a look, too focused on the scope he's adjusting.
"I can do all of that for you, and twice as fast." Peter continues whining, brown eyebrows arched into a sad pout.
"Are you callin' me stupid?" This time, Frank does turn around to look.
"You said it, not me." Peter lulls, an innocent little smile crossing his lips before he crumbles back down onto the couch. He's bored. He's deathly bored. He's been staring at his phone all day, but he hasn't gotten one single crime notification. Maybe he's too good at his job.
The quip earns him a death stare from Frank, who finally gets up from his chair to walk across the small room and judgingly stare down at Peter, closer to where the younger man lays in dismay.
In response, all Peter does is extend his arms upwards, closing and opening his hands in a childish manner, it always earns a laugh out of Frank. It does now, too.
"Stop acting like a child, Daffodil. You're a grown man." Frank crosses his arms in front of his chest, promptly ignoring Peter's 'uppies' motion as best he can.
"I'm gonna die, Frank. I'm gonna die and it's your fault." Peter hums, arms falling back down on top of his belly.
"Oh, that so?" Frank echoes, cocking a hip to the side and shifting weight from one leg to the other.
"Spiders need warmth to survive, you know. This boat is so cold, you're going to kill me, Frank. I'm gonna curl up and die because you didn't help me." Peter dramatically says, giving the older man his best pleading puppy eyes. Is it using the man's trauma against him? Probably. Then again, it's hardly the first time Peter does this to Frank—if the older man was bothered, he'd tell him.
Frank doesn't complain, he doesn't even seem that particularly affected by Peter's words—maybe because they weren't said with malice. In fact, he does what he's always done when Peter gets like this: he sighs and kicks his jacket off somewhere.
Frank is not a delicate man by nature, so he practically lets himself fall on top of Peter who welcomes the extra weight with a strength betraying his smaller stature, wrapping his arms around Frank's thicker torso and letting himself be properly squished beneath him.
"You're wearin' my damn shit again." Frank grunts out a whisper, quiet enough that it doesn't echo down the metallic halls of the boat home. He adjusts, letting his legs widen to welcome Peter's slimmer ones between them, arms curled protectively around Spider-Man's head.
"Mhm. I like this shirt." Peter says, half muffled from being squished beneath Frank's chest—right where he wants to be. His eyes fall shut, nuzzling closer. He doesn't know when he had gotten so used to this proximity, this comfort between the two of them; he thinks it would ruin him, if it ended.
"How's your side doin'?" Frank murmurs after a moment, one of his hands gently trailing down Peter's side to curl, big and warm, around his side. Peter wonders if Frank felt the shiver that went down his spine at that.
"I heal quickly, Frank. It doesn't hurt anymore. Perks of being half a spider and all." Peter answers just as softly—there's no reason to speak loudly when they're in each other's embrace like this.
"Don't mean I ain't worry." The older man retorts, his thumb rubbing invisible circles across the old mark of a bullet across Peter's waist, earning a little lazy mewl out of him.
Silence falls between the two of them now, only disturbed by their quiet breathing and the fabric of their clothes rubbing together whenever they shift or adjust.
"I'm alright, promise." Peter breaks the silence again, a whisper swallowed right back up by the peaceful quiet surrounding them.
Peter lifts his arms up after a moment, tenderly wrapping them around Frank's neck rather than his back with the intention of pulling the older man further down on top of him for a proper cuddle—only to notice Frank doesn't let up at the first pull. Nor the second. Or the third.
"I can handle your weight, stop babying me, lay down." Peter argues, almost offended Frank thinks he's too weak to handle the weight of a fully-grown man. Spider-Man can pick up trucks, thank you very much, he can handle it.
"I don't wanna fuckin' suffocate you, kid. You're so annoyin'." Frank explains as if it was obvious, his forearm already straining with the effort to keep himself up against Peter's superhuman strength.
"I can handle it. Like I handled it back on Staten Island, remember that? When I carried you out—"
"We're not talking about that again. Not unless you wanna sleep on the damn streets tonight." Frank this time does pull himself up to his elbows, Peter's head surrounded by thick muscle and, above him, a staring Punisher.
Peter doesn't let go, however—his fingers widen behind Frank's neck, not pulling this time, just cupping it between his palms, allowing his fingers to search through Frank's stubble. He doesn't know what he's looking for in the gesture, but he thinks he found it in the pleasant crisp of a beard against his fingers, in the warmth of Frank's body.
Frank doesn't say anything, Peter doesn't either, but their eyes match halfway through before both pairs dart away to find home in each other's lips. Peter should say something—he doesn't want to ruin their friendship, he doesn't want to do something Frank wouldn't like, or worse, what if Peter is secretly still heartbroken and this is his subconscious way of attaching himself to the first person that shows him a caring hand? He's over MJ, he's over it all, he's been working through it this past month and all of these years, but the doubt still lingers whenever the two of them end up like this—closer than friends should be.
They never talk about it. Peter usually cracks a joke, or Frank complains about his back, and they go back to cuddling.
That doesn't happen this time.
"Listen, kid—" Frank pulls Peter out of his head, voice warm and raspy, making him all tingly inside, "I don't know what you're seein' in me or whatever, but... I'm not good, alright? I'm not... a fuckin' hero you can celebrate with like you did with your buddies. I think... I'm closer to one of those damn Sith than what you think."
Peter scoffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head from left to right in denial. His hands cup Frank's cheek properly now, his fingers trail down the whispers of age at the corner of his eyes. He should say something, he wants to say something, anything to deny that Frank isn't the horrible person he paints himself to be. He has his reasons, they all do, Frank probably has more reasons than most, really, but he's never let that affect how kind and welcoming he is to Peter—in his own gruff, reading-between-the-lines way.
But none of that makes it out of Peter's dumb, overcomplicated mess of a brain. Instead, his thoughts run rampant before he can properly translate them into his tongue:
"I wanna kiss you, Frank. Can I?" Peter pleads, a secret whispered between the two of them. It feels right.
"Fuck— Fuck you. Yeah. Yeah, kiss me, sweetheart." Frank rumbles out, and leans down so fast to meet Peter halfway that he's not even sure who kissed who first. Does it even matter?
Frank's hand tightens around his side, pulling Peter even closer, devouring his lips none too gently—there's a few teeth here and there, the sort of hungry kiss that has them breathing and whining into each other's mouths despite the mess of spit and saliva exchanged. He doesn't know how he lived without this for so long, he doesn't know why this feels so right, he just knows he doesn't want it to ever end.
Peter arches against Frank's chest, his legs widening to welcome the broader, taller man between them, wrapping himself up around the older man with spidery limbs and clingy attachment, feet digging into the small of Frank's back to encourage him closer.
That earns him a muffled groan out of Frank, whose hips roll deliciously against his own for a mere moment and make sparkles shoot up Peter's spine, a mewl swallowed by their kiss. It doesn't take long for Frank's lips to leave his own, to find their home somewhere on the plains of Peter's neck. His tongue is warm and slippery when it wets past Peter's throat, crossing a line of small kisses through it that have Peter's eyes closing shut and his fingers tightening closed behind Frank's neck at a particularly harsh bite.
"Mnghh... F—Frank—" Peter's toes curl inside his shoes, his body already squirming beneath the older man's own. He can feel his own body starting to react by now, his jeans all too tight for the fat of his cock to come alive.
"Christ, you're sensitive, poppin' a boner just from a little kissin'." Frank murmurs against his throat, calloused hands running down Peter's body beneath his oversized, stolen shirt, squeezing the skin, kneading it, making it his even as Frank sits back on his haunches to take a better look at the picture Peter paints, "Are you like this for everyone or just me, sweetheart?"
"I'm a healthy adult male, it's normal for me—" Peter begins to defend himself from the teasing taunts, only to be promptly shut up by one of Frank's hand landing between his legs, handling the weight of his clothed cock with an impassive touch, "—ooh, oh god—! Just you, Frank, just you, please—"
It earns him a quiet chuckle out of Frank, who rubs the meat of his hand against Peter's zipper slowly, not meant for anything but to torture Peter further, to watch him squirm and whine against the couch cushions.
"You're a well-behaved one, ain't you? Christ, you're so fuckin' cute. You keep wearin' my crap, eatin' my food, sleepin' on my bed. Did you do that on purpose?" Frank muses softly, his eyes becoming gentle at the edges; a contrast to the hand down slipping down by Peter's jeans and toying with his zipper, pulling it down so, so slowly.
"Yeah— yeah—" Peter nods, eyes still closed shut, hands flying over to his head to try and keep himself still though it bears no fruit at all.
"Yeah?" Frank repeats with a disbelieving laugh, "You admit it, kid?"
"It wasn't on purpose—" Peter denies with a whine, blinking his eyes open into a half-lidded stare through his own arms, "I just—I liked the way you looked at me and you— mffgh..."
"And I what? Use your words." Frank drawls out, dark eyes focused on Peter's jeans now, on undoing them and shoving them down his thighs haphazardly.
"You called me cute petnames and—and I liked that so I kept... stealing your clothes—" Peter manages to get out, bleary eyes focused down on where Frank's larger hand toys with his underwear, where he playfully taps his index finger on the stain of pre-cum dotting Peter's boxers. On reflex, Peter's knee knocks against the couch as his body stutters, cock flinching beneath its layered prison at the slightest of touch.
Frank leans back down again, just enough to steal a lingering kiss from Peter's lips again, to swallow every little noise the younger makes and reward him with affection.
"And you think that's fine?" Frank scoffs, removing his hand from where Peter wants it most.
"No— no, no, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I stole your clothes, I'm sorry—just touch me, please, Frank—" Peter all but begs, scurrying to grab Frank's hands and pull them back onto himself. Frank allows himself to be pulled—Peter isn't even using his spider strength but Frank goes along anyways, resting his hands back on the slim trim of Peter's hips.
"I can't even tease you proper, kid. You beg so nicely, I feel bad." Frank admits with a sigh, understanding that maybe that's not what Peter needs at all right now. Maybe later, maybe after they've talked like adults—a tendency Peter put into Frank's head, unfortunately.
Instead, he leans right back down where Peter's pulling hands want him, suffocates the younger beneath him like Peter wanted to, lets him feel the weight of muscle and sinew, let's himself be the blanket Peter needs.
"It's alright, sweetheart. I like it when you wear my clothes." Frank admits softly against Peter's temple, "You can keep doin' it, don't need to ask."
"F-Frank..." Peter clings, his hips jumping up against the older man's frame, humping himself on him to try and get any release out of it.
"You're alright, kid. You're alright." Frank keeps muttering, sweet little nothings and praises that make Peter's skin boil red and his heart beat impossibly loud over his ears.
Frank adjusts himself then, pushing his hips upwards only to let them fall a second later against Peter's own, rutting against him with just as much need as the one beneath him. He closes his eyes, breathes Peter's scent in, feels the softness of his hair, before breathing it out with a groan of effort, fingers digging into Peter's waist tight enough to bruise. It probably won't, Peter's skin is thicker than that, but the thought is enough to send Frank's mind spiraling.
"Oh god—oh, mgghf— god, oh god—" Peter whines and pleads, muffling himself against Frank's shoulder. It should be embarrassing, the two of them dry humping like teenagers on a couch—but Peter's way too sensitive and Frank's way too pent up, so what else should they do?
"Fuck, you feel so good, sweetheart." Frank breathes out through another grunt, "Fuck, fuck—it's like I'm already inside you, ruining your pretty ass. Fuck, let me get the tip in. Just the tip, sweetheart."
"Yeah, yeah—okay, yeah, please, god please—" Peter nods enthusiastically with a whine, already in the process of rolling over to show off his ass to the older man above him.
Frank doesn't even pull away to look at it properly, he doesn't even appreciate the shape and weight of Peter's ass, the way his back curves just right into the air to present himself like a gift —he just rolls his hips against the crack with a desperation Peter has never seen in him, hands fidgeting with his own zipper this time to release himself from his confines and, in the same gesture, get Peter out of his own, too.
Frank doesn't give him any warning before a warm, slick cock head presses against his hole—not enough to sink in yet, but gods, Peter's mind can already imagine it. His cock is drooling pre-cum all over the couch beneath him at the mere thought, his head getting fuzzy at the thought.
"Oh, fuck. Fuck, so pretty—" Frank groans and grunts mindlessly, rubbing himself against Peter's hole, two hands fondling his ass to make sure he can't escape, squeezing Peter's fat cheeks around his own cock for proper friction.
It's in one of those rough, slick grinds where Frank's cock catches on Peter's ass—and sinks in like he was made for it with no prep work needed. It earns a curse from Frank, whose head lowers and hands tighten around Peter's trim hips, and a whine by Peter that's rightfully muffled by the pillow beneath his head.
"Fuck, you're wet, Peter. Fuck, you're so fuckin' wet, what the fuck–" Frank complains, but his body surely isn't—his hips stutter into motion almost immediately, cock forcing it's way between Peter's slick walls and tight flesh with passionate hurry.
"Oh— OOooOh, god— I didn't know I could do t-that—!" Peter whines in apology, eyes held shut and mouth wide open to bite down on the couch pillow beneath his head in a poor attempt to muffle his noises. Not like it matters, his ass is slick enough to have disgusting squelches pop from it with each thrust from Frank's cock into him, echoing down the metal walls and back into his own ears. It'd be embarrassing if they had any neighbors, which thankfully they don't.
At some point, though he doesn't know when, Peter falls into a pleasant rhythm of moaning—bouncing—moaning—bouncing, his head light and the noises around him pleasantly muffled akin to wearing noise-cancelling headphones. Pre-cum falls from his untouched cock, webs drool from his unused spinnerets, his ass leaks slick and makes every drag of Frank's cock into him impossible to miss.
There's no talking anymore, just a warm sensation of Frank's body above his own, blanketing him in love, and their shared groaning as their bodies do the talking. And yet, this sort of quiet proximity isn't awkward, it doesn't feel like a one-night stand, it doesn't taste like regret or wrong choices.
"A-aah— Frank— Frank, I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come—" Peter breaks through the fog, body trying to squirm out of Frank's grip on him, oversensitive, about to explode, knees faltering on the couch.
"Nhghm..." A groan is Frank's only verbal response, though his rhythm does stutter at Peter's desperation.
Slap—Frank's balls slap down on Peter's ass with a loud noise once. Slap—he does it again, pressing closer, as deep as he can get before pulling out to just a mere inch. Slap, slap, slap, slap—the rhythm picks up again and there's nothing Peter can do when Frank hits his prostate dead on every single time.
Peter cums all over himself, all over the couch—he's pretty sure his spinnerets shoot out webs towards a wall at some point. He can feel his ass clenching down on Frank's cock, he can feel Frank's shaking hands pulling him closer as he sinks his dick as further down into Peter's ass as he can make it, plugging his own cum within it with his oversensitive, spent cock only a mere second later.
"Peter?"
"Peter?"
"Peter? Peter?" Frank's voice comes through hazy and static, like Peter's hearing it through a walkie-talkie.
"Nhm... Frank?" Peter asks softly, voice ruined and throat dry. Jeez, he needs some water.
"Look at me, sweetheart." He hears Frank's voice call. But isn't he looking at him already? He is, isn't he? Frank. Frank's thick torso, the lines of his collarbones and the hair that coats down his pecs. There's dry sweat on his skin. Peter wants to taste it.
"Peter?" Frank calls again, and Peter blinks through the haze.
"Frank." Peter mumbles, blinking his eyes until the world finally comes into focus.
"There you are. Don't fuckin' scare me like that." He hears Frank exhale in relief, he finally feels the warm hand cupping the back of his head protectively, holding him close, running fingers through his curls. They're still on the couch, Peter takes notice—but Frank is lying down next to him now, with Peter curled against his side.
"Huh—?" Peter hums in confusion. Scare? Why would he scare Frank? They just had sex—he supposes that can be scary to some people, but it really wasn't. In fact, Peter's body has never felt as warm and happy as it does now.
"Your eyes. They did the freaky spider thing." Frank explains quietly, "And then you stopped answerin' me and went all fuckin' limp, I damn near thought I fucked you to death."
"Oh." It takes a second for the words to really sink in, "Oh, oh god. I'm so sorry. I— I didn't know my body could—do that thing. I didn't know I would, like, start leaking. That was really weird. It was weird, right? It was probably weird and very gross. I'm so sorry." Peter jolts up on the couch, looking down at himself between his still-bare, slick coated thighs. It seems Frank removed his pants at some point or other while Peter was being fucked silly.
"Calm down, kid." Frank interrupts, pulling on Peter's hair if only to get his attention. It certaintly does, earning him a teary eyed puppy stare from Peter who has never looked as shameful as he does now.
"I don't care if you're leakin' fuckin' spiderwebs through your fuckin' nose, alright? Christ." Frank sighs and pulls Peter closer, resting his nose against the top of Peter's head, "I don't care about that shit. Just... shut up. Christ. Shut up and..."
Peter quiets down. He understands. Frank wasn't scared of Peter's body, of the weird webs or the spinnerets or even the black irises—he was... scared Peter wouldn't come back from that. It must've been weird, to see him unresponsive like that, he can't even imagine the panic that went through Frank while it happened. He probably, most definitely, certaintly ruined a perfectly good orgasm—they should talk about that at some point. But not right now. With how tight Frank holds onto him, Peter knows now is not the right time.
"Okay." Peter hums, curling himself to Frank's chest, resting an arm over the older man's chest to cling ever closer.
"It was... good, by the way." Peter says after a moment of silence, breaking through the ice that had settled between them, "I would like to do that again if—if you want to."
Frank laughs. Not those raspy things he pushed out sarcastically, nor those ironic chuckles he uses to tease Peter with. No, it's quiet, soft, it's hardly the first time Peter hears it, but the meaning only falls on him now.
"Yeah, kid." Frank answers, and the smile on his lips goes unseen when he presses it hidden against the top of Peter's head, "You ain't gettin' rid of me."