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Peter B. Parker had exactly three rules for casual sex post-divorce:
1. No strings.
2. No sleepovers.
3. No feelings before the pants come off.
Simple. Clean. Effective.
Which was why, six months into whatever the hell this thing with Miguel O’Hara was, Peter was starting to feel mildly concerned that he might be breaking rule number three.
Not that he’d admit it out loud.
The first time had been textbook: late night in Miguel’s office, arguing over mission logs, tension thick enough to choke on.
One minute they’re yelling about protocol, the next Miguel has him bent over the desk, pants around his ankles, and Peter’s cumming so hard he sees stars while Miguel growls Spanish filth into the back of his neck.
Peter waited approximately seven seconds after Miguel pulled out before he yanked his pants up, gave a cheerful “Thanks, boss!” and booked it.
Miguel stood there, chest heaving, cum still dripping down his thigh, mouth open like he’d been slapped.
Peter didn’t look back.
Second time: Peter’s quarters after a brutal anomaly chase. Miguel showed up at 2 AM with “paperwork,” which was code for “I need to rail you until you forget your own name.”
Peter rode him reverse, Miguel’s big hands bruising his hips, until Miguel came so deep it leaked out around his cock and puddled on the sheets. Peter felt the hot rush, the obscene wet squelch, and immediately rolled off.
Miguel blinked up at him, dazed. “You’re… leaving already?”
Peter was already pulling on his boxers. “Gotta hydrate after that cardio, man. Catch you tomorrow.”
He left Miguel staring at the wet spot like it had personally betrayed him.
Third time: med-bay, post-mission. Peter had taken a nasty hit to the ribs. Miguel insisted on “checking the bruising” with his shirt off.
Checking turned into Miguel shoving him onto the exam table, forcing Peter’s head down, and fucking his mouth until he came down his throat in thick, bitter pulses.
Peter swallowed (because manners), wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and hopped off the table.
Miguel’s voice was hoarse. “Peter—”
“Bagel run,” Peter said brightly. “You want anything? Everything bagel? Cream cheese?”
Miguel stared at him.
“Cool. Be back in twenty.”
He left Miguel standing there with his dick still out, looking like a man who’d just realized that the universe was trolling him.
After the sixth (or maybe seventh?) time this exact sequence played out—fuck, cum, dip—Miguel started getting… weird.
Weird in the Miguel way, which meant passive-aggressive and terrifying.
First off, he benched Peter from three consecutive missions.
“Conflict of interest,” Miguel said flatly during the briefing.
Peter raised a hand. “With who?”
Miguel didn’t answer. Just stared until Peter shut up.
Then came the “lab assistance” requests.
“Peter. Need you in the upper levels. Equipment malfunction.”
Peter arrived to find Miguel shirtless, “calibrating” something that looked suspiciously like a sex swing made of webbing.
They fucked against the console. Peter came on Miguel’s abs. Miguel came inside him again—deep, possessive, like he was trying to brand him from the inside.
Peter wiped himself off with a lab rag, gave a thumbs-up, and left.
Miguel’s frustrated muttering echoed down the corridor.
The real red flag came during the face-fucking incident redux.
This time Miguel had Peter on his knees in the locker room after training. He pulled out at the last second, aimed, and painted Peter’s face with thick ropes of cum.
Peter blinked through the mess, laughing. “Jesus, warn a guy—”
Miguel’s hand shot out, cupping the back of Peter’s head.
Then he… rubbed it in.
Not gently.
Fingers dragging through the spend, smearing it across Peter’s cheeks, over his lips, down his chin like war paint.
Peter froze.
Miguel’s eyes were dark, pupils blown, fangs peeking.
Peter swallowed. “Uh… new kink?”
Miguel’s voice was gravel. “Something like that.”
Peter laughed it off. Wiped his face with his sleeve. Left.
But the seed (literal and figurative) was planted.
He started noticing things.
The way Miguel’s scent clung to him longer than it should.
The way Miguel tracked him across the HQ with those red eyes.
The way Miguel would “accidentally” brush against him in hallways, then linger.
The way Miguel kept finding excuses to get Peter alone.
And the worst part?
Peter liked it.
He liked the possessiveness. Liked the low growls. Liked the way Miguel fucked like he was trying to crawl inside him and stay there.
Which was a problem, because Peter didn’t do feelings first. He did orgasms first.
Feelings were supposed to come later… or never. And definitely never with the boss.
So he doubled down on the dip.
After the next round—Miguel railing him against the anomaly containment wall, coming so hard Peter felt it pulse inside him for a full minute—Peter was already reaching for his suit.
Miguel’s hand shot out, grabbing his wrist.
“Stay.”
Peter blinked. “I gotta go… shower. And sleep. And breathe. You know. Life stuff.”
Miguel’s grip tightened. “Five minutes.”
Peter laughed nervously. “You want cuddles now? That’s adorable.”
Miguel didn’t smile. He pulled Peter back against his chest, arms locking around him like steel bands.
Peter went still.
Miguel buried his face in Peter’s neck, inhaling deep.
“You always run,” he muttered. “Every time.”
Peter swallowed. “It’s… cleaner that way.”
Miguel huffed against his skin. “For who?”
Peter didn’t have an answer.
They stood there, sticky and breathing hard, Miguel’s cum still leaking slowly down Peter’s thigh.
Finally, Peter tried humor. “Look, man, I’m kinda trying a new thing out. Being a freak, and all that. I get to cum and then leave. Isn’t that easier for you anyway?”
Miguel pulled back just enough to look at him.
“You think I want you to leave?”
Peter opened his mouth. Closed it.
Miguel’s voice dropped. “I want you to stay. I want you to sleep in my bed. I want to wake up and smell like you. I want—” He cut himself off, fangs clicking. “I want more than your ass, Peter.”
Peter stared, then laughed. Short. Sharp. Panicked.
“You’re serious.”
Miguel’s expression didn’t change. “Deadly.”
Peter ran a hand through his hair. “Miguel. I’m… I’m not good at this. The staying part. The feelings part. I get attached and then I ruin it. Ask MJ.”
“I’m not MJ.”
“No shit.”
Miguel stepped closer. “I’m not asking for forever. I’m asking for breakfast. For a second round in the morning. For you to stop running every time I cum inside you like it’s a goddamn evacuation order.”
Peter’s face heated. “You say that like it’s not hot.”
“It is hot,” Miguel insisted. “But I want more than hot. I want you.”
Peter looked away, his gaze flickering to the anomaly wall. To the floor. To anything but Miguel’s stupid earnest red eyes.
“I… might be catching feelings,” he admitted quietly. “Which is terrifying.”
Miguel exhaled. “Good.”
Peter’s head snapped up. “Good?”
“Yeah. Means I’m not the only idiot here.”
Peter chuckled, and it was real this time.
Miguel tugged him closer. “Stay tonight. Just tonight. We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.”
Peter hesitated, then sighed. “Fine. But if I wake up and you’re spooning me like a koala, I’m out.”
Miguel smirked. “Deal.”
They didn’t make it to the bed.
They ended up on the couch in Miguel’s quarters, Peter tucked under Miguel’s chin, Miguel’s hand splayed possessively over his lower back.
Peter muttered into Miguel’s chest, “You’re gonna get clingy, aren’t you.”
“Already am,” Miguel said with no shame.
Peter groaned. “I’m so screwed.”
“Yeah,” Miguel said, kissing his forehead. “You are.”
Peter smiled despite himself.
Maybe catching feelings wasn’t the end of the world.
Maybe it was just the beginning.