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The gasp that punches out of Hobie’s lungs as his back hits the brick wall is more of a moan. Peter’s hands are steady on his shoulders, heavy and warm and grounding through the haze consuming him, replaying the same moments over and over. His gaze drops to Peter’s boots, where the black ooze of symbiote blood still glistens. The body’s probably still warm.Peter is a furnace against him, feverish against the skin of his palms and crowding him in against the wall, and Hobie looks up to where he’s rolled Peter’s mask up all haphazard and sees the grey of his eye glint in the papery shadows and how his mouth is smeared with Hobie’s bloody lipstick. He’ll bite it raw. He’ll sink his teeth in until Peter whines, long and low against him and they share the same inhale. He rocks forward, into Peter’s hold, seeking out more of that burning touch and the spark of their skin meeting, until Peter pulls him up short. “Needy,” Peter says, amused.
“Sod off,” Hobie snarks. The need to get his mouth on Peter’s is the only thing on his mind. Even the sounds of the riot are filtering out of range now. It’s not like him to leave early, but it’s also not like him to have Peter swing in and rescue him like he’s some swooning princess.But doesn’t the damsel get to kiss the prince at the end? And hasn’t Hobie been dreaming about this, on and off, for the last couple of months? To see Peter Noir unmasked and breathless under his hands, with blood smeared across his face?
The bodily fluids bit is a more recent addition. As in, Hobie’s been thinking about it since approximately five minutes ago.The crunch of Peter’s boot splintering bulletproof glass and bone echoes through Hobie’s mind as Peter presses his knee between his thighs and swallows his breaths down. Hobie thinks there’s viscera splattered on him. He hopes there is. Maybe Peter will clean it off later, with the blood crusted under his nose, once they’ve finished dicking around in this alley.He thinks he saw teeth shatter on the curb. Peter rubs his cheek against Hobie’s open palm and makes a pleased sound, deep in his throat, that makes Hobie’s guts clench. He tucks his nose into the crook of Hobie’s wrist, somehow looking up at Hobie through his lashes despite his taller stature, and leaves a kiss on the artery. Hobie can’t remember the name of it. It’s not important right now. His skin burns, like Peter’s about to husk him like a coconut and drink what’s inside.Hobie’s going to set Peter’s coal eyes on fire and he’s going to love it. “Who’s needy now?” Hobie says as Peter fumbles with his battle jacket, cocky like he wasn’t two seconds ago thinking of peeling that oldies spider-suit off Peter and seeing how bruises colour in greyscale. He raises his eyebrows at Peter’s shadowed face.
Peter’s face pulls like he’s raising his own right back, though it’s hard to see what with the halftone and dim light and the general drama of the noir genre and also the fact that he can only see one eye because he’s only pulled his mask up halfway-ish. He hasn’t even taken his fedora off. They’re in the bloody alley. Hobie lets his head drop back as he laughs.“Didn’t you pull me back here to neck?” Peter says in the tone that lets Hobie know he’s smiling. Then Hobie remembers that he can see Peter’s mouth and doesn’t have to rely on tonal context, and a wave of satisfaction crashes over him.“You coulda said no,” he says, shifting against Peter’s thigh. It’s thick under him and perhaps the only thing holding him upright. He gives an experimental thrust against it and feels the muscles flex even through layers of flesh and clothing. “Why didn’tcha?”Peter leans down until their noses are almost brushing. His breath is hot and minty with a metallic hint of something else. He never had to bite it. It was already dead. “‘Guess I wanted it too, doll.”
And doesn’t that do something to the gathering heat in Hobie’s belly. He’s thankful that he didn’t come out here in his platforms, though he’d been seriously tempted this morning. He was going to hit the club after a day out spidering around and then the riot had started and he’d pulled his boots on in a rush and now they’re back here lipsing like teenagers in one of those awful 2000s movies Gwen likes to inflict on him.Having apparently given up on his jacket, Peter’s hands slide down to dip beneath Hobie’s belt until Hobie tugs them out again gently. Images of a handjob, quick and dirty, flash behind Hobie’s eyes in quick succession; of arching into Peter’s gloved fingers pressing right up against his aching cunt, mindless of the gore caking his knuckles; of Peter leaning down to tell him in that old-timey drawl how good he looks coming apart at the seams as he gives Hobie’s cock a stroke; of coming all over that shiny leather and watching Peter lick it up. “Fuck,” Hobie groans.
“Not quite,” Peter says, still with that fucking irritating curl to the corner of his mouth. There’s a scar bisecting his lower lip, precisely where Hobie’s own lip is pierced, so when they kiss, the ring slots in neatly. Like it was meant to be.The vague notion of taking Peter back to the boat and doing it proper-like with him is bodily shoved aside in favour of having him now. Anyhow, you don’t give someone a quickie in an alley if you plan on taking ‘em out to tea afterwards. And maybe after this, Hobie’s stupid little pash will wither away like they usually do and they can go back to being multiversal spiders that just happen to work together. Or maybe they can make this hooking up a regular thing, just between friends.
Hobie’s shoulder aches from when the cop had gotten a few good swings in before Peter had invited himself to the party. A few minutes later, Hobie had uninvited them both, bloody and dazed and desperate to know what the parasite guts on Peter’s gloves felt like on bare skin.“Hobie,” Peter says against his lips, so soft even with the way he’s slipped his hands up Hobie’s shirt and is playing with his piercings, seeing how far he can rile him up.Hobie just pants into Peter’s mouth as he loses his mind grinding on Peter’s thigh. He can’t think words anymore, not beyond want want want. He tastes blood in his mouth and hears over and over bones splintering, plastic warping as it bends and breaks, the satisfied chuckle under Peter’s mask barely audible over the sound of the riot cop’s mask as he crushes it beneath his boot—
One gloved hand (still gloved, he’s got scars under those gloves Hobie’s aching to feel) trails back down to the waistband of his jeans and this time Hobie lets him keep it there. He wants that slick leather slicker. Peter seals their mouths together completely and Hobie barely notices the hand undoing his fly and tugging his jeans down just enough to get access to his inner thighs, mind going fuzzy, until Peter huffs a laugh against his lips and Hobie squeezes his thighs together and realizes Peter’s thick fingers are stroking torturously gentle right over his cunt. The need to have Peter inside him, any part of Peter, all of Peter, strikes through his stomach like a symbiote claw. He needs to be close, close enough to feel in his blood and organs.
But when he bucks his hips, just a tad, Peter pulls away with another laugh. It’s only a little mocking, and Hobie’d deck ‘em if it were from anyone else. From Peter, it makes his fingers buzz.
Then Peter, infuriating bloke that he is, leaves his mouth in favour of kissing along his jaw and cheekbone to his ear, tugging lightly at the piercing. It’s distracting enough that Hobie almost misses when he murmurs, “You want it?” but he can’t ignore the prickle of gooseflesh where Peter’s breath ghosts over his skin.
Oh, he’s good at this.“You monster,” Hobie hisses, trying to trap Peter’s hand between his thighs again. “You fucking wanker, fuck you, get back here—“
Peter, the fucker, simply wriggles his hand away and pets and gropes Hobie’s inner thighs and keeps playing with his fucking nipple piercing and if he doesn’t get that glove inside Hobie yesterday he’s going to riot—or he’s going back to the riot.
“Doesn’t sound like you want it all that much,” Peter says and Hobie’s gonna knock that imperious little smirk off his face if he has to, preferably with his own. He tracks down wherever the hell he put his hands (slung over Peter’s shoulders) and grabs blindly to yank off his stupid belt.
Peter chooses that exact moment to push his fingers up to Hobie’s cock again, and Hobie’s movements stutter. Peter smiles against his mouth. “Left it at home, doll, sorry.” Hobie has just enough cognizance left to snort at the implication before Peter teases one finger around his cunt. The glove is already warm and wet. It tore a riot cop apart not ten minutes ago; the blood has barely started to dry. Peter kisses him again, hungry and fierce, like he still wants to dig his claws into something. Hobie’s never going to admit how loudly that makes him moan.
“C’mon, love, tell me you want it,” Peter says, still tracing his fucking finger around his entrance. Hobie tries to swallow his whine and entertains fleeting thoughts of snapping a muzzle over Peter’s mouth.
“Just give it to me,” Hobie bites, clutching Peter’s hips to drag him in closer. His stupid hot awful turtleneck is barring access to his neck, so Hobie tugs it down as far as he can and latches onto the underside of Peter’s jaw, sucking hard, trying to give back as good as he’s getting. Peter’s sharp inhale cuts off and finally, fucking finally, his finger slips inside Hobie.
The shock of having Peter in him is enough to get Hobie arching off the wall with a gasp, breaking his hold on Peter. Peter waits courteously for him to get his bearings before he starts to move with achingly shallow thrusts. Hobie grinds down in hopes of taking his whole finger, supported by Peter’s thigh still between his legs, but can never take more than Peter allows him.
“You told me punks have manners,” Peter says, annoyingly unaffected by Hobie’s piercing glare. “I haven’t heard you say ‘please’ once.”
Hobie grits his teeth. He doesn’t have a lot of fight left in him, not when Peter’s hand feels this good palming his cock and pressing into his cunt, not when Peter is alternately kissing deep into his mouth and over his face and neck, but he has pride, goddammit. Standards.
He moans at a scrape of teeth, and Peter murmurs something about that ‘not being please’ between licks at the bite.
“C’mon, doll,” Peter coaxes. “You can do it.”Hobie lets his head drop down on Peter’s shoulder and gathers all his resolve. Peter decides now’s the time to twist his nipple piercing just right, just cruel enough that Hobie bites into Peter’s suit to muffle his hoarse yell. Later he’ll realise he tore through the vest and offer to darn it, but right now all he’s thinking is please and please and “Please, Peter, please, please—”
“There we go, sugar,” Peter says, more gravel than voice, and Hobie’s moan breaks in half as he pushes all the way inside.
“Yes, fuck, yes, deeper,” Hobie snarls, and only after reluctantly grinds out, “Thank you.” He’s conceded he wants to be fucked in an alley more than he wants to stick to his standards.
Peter curls his finger with a smug grin that Hobie only gets a glimpse of before he’s squeezing his eyes shut against the burst of pleasure. Peter’s finger is long and thick and presses up in all the right places and Hobie grinds down onto another one waiting with a half-coherent plea. His mouth twists hard and fresh blood trickles from his nose over the tacky stripe already edging his mouth. In the momentary slivers of space Peter grants them Hobie catches it flashing on his black lips. He wants that mouth on him anywhere, everywhere, always. He leans in to kiss him this time, and his thigh, bracketing Peter’s hip, knocks into something hard.
“Guess you didn’t—” Peter twists his finger in a particularly brutal move and Hobie chokes back a cry, but he’s nothing if not persevering, “—leave it at home, h-huh?”
Peter barks a laugh as he pulls all the way out and Hobie only gets a little way through an indignant whine before he’s pushing back in with two fingers and setting a ruthless pace. Hobie’s played about a bit in his time—it’s not something that can really be avoided in the punk scene, even if he doesn’t like to indulge much— but nothing holds a lighter to what Peter’s doing to him right now. The barrel (he thinks it’s the barrel, at least) of Peter’s revolver pressed into his inner thigh is doing delicious things to his sensitivity, even through the thick wool of Peter’s jacket. He shoulda known that Peter wouldn’t come out here without strapping himself up.“Here, doll, let me…” A third finger dances around Hobie’s entrance and when it slides in, easy as anything, he moans at the mild stretch and throws his head back hard enough to crack it against the wall. Sparks burst behind his eyes, from the pleasure or pain, he doesn’t know, and he yelps when Peter reaches around with his spare hand to assess his injury. It comes away wet.
For the first time, a look of concern flits over Peter’s face and his pace falters but Hobie bucks his hips against him and clutches at his shoulders and just manages to pant out, “Pete, man don’t give a rat’s arse ‘bout no bloody graze, d’you fucking hear me—”
His spider healing will take care of itself but nothing except Peter can take care of the bubbling pressure in the pit of his belly, rising and rising like a ticking bomb. He’s gonna need a steaming shower after this. He wonders whether Peter will join him.Peter cocks his head, dark eyes flickering over Hobie, and Hobie meets his gaze squarely through cloudy eyes pricking with tears. He wants it, more than he's ever wanted anything in his entire life, and Peter's gonna bloody well give it to him. When Peter shrugs with one sloping shoulder, Hobie lets out a shuddered breath as he crooks his fingers just so and rubs up against Hobie’s walls with that blood-soaked leather and Hobie thinks some stray slick is dripping down his thighs but he doesn’t much care, not when Peter grips the back of his neck and returns to the long thrusts that Hobie’s been begging for.Begging is beneath Hobie Brown, but just this once— “If you aren’t the prettiest bird I’ve ever had,” Peter murmurs, as Hobie melts into him and takes the chance to feel him up proper. Peter’s thick, with firm muscle hiding beneath that peng layer of deceptively soft fat. Hobie knows he has a happy trail; he’s seen it once or twice between fights. He wants to lick it.
“Dunno why you sound so— unh— so surprised,” Hobie says. It’s weird that he knows Peter has a happy trail, but not how his face looks. He won’t dwell on it. Not right now. He’s rocking in time with Peter’s thrusts and cloud nine doesn’t seem so far away at all, maybe within an arm’s length.Peter presses his thigh up against Hobie while he thumbs at his neglected cock and manages to wriggle a fourth finger in and Hobie’s full to bursting, meeting Peter’s strokes beat for beat. Hobie doesn’t believe in fate but maybe, maybe, this was meant to be. They move together like well-oiled machinery, after all. Hah. Well-oiled. Hobie’s sure he’s a mess but after he comes he can always make Peter clean him up. Preferably with his tongue. Peter’s a gentleman, ain’t he?It’s as that heavenly pressure building within him is close to boiling over, as he’s leaning his head back into Peter’s cupped palm and gasping out whatever sounds come up his throat first while he bears down on Peter’s four fingers stretching him out and taking, taking, that a mild vibration from between his thighs startles a yelp from his mouth. Peter swears, a rare occurrence, and his thrusting stops. The loss is immediate, but Hobie doesn’t realize the action has slowed till his impending orgasm ebbs away; he can’t quite stop a complaining whine as Peter breathes against him, unmoving. And just as he’s formulating something biting and witty about Peter not knowing about vibrators being a thing in the 30s, he lets his fingers slip out of Hobie’s cunt.
Frustrated, he gives a few half-hearted thrusts against Peter’s thigh, still rock-steady between his legs, and paws at Peter’s chest, but Peter’s tapping away now on his Society watch with pursed lips and what might be furrowed brows. He’s still got his whole weight leaned on Hobie, still so close to him, and dammit, Hobie was close. He whines again. Peter doesn’t distract easily from a task at hand, this much he knows, but he’s still miffed (and still grinding on Peter’s thigh in some vain attempt to chase that ecstasy again). “Whazzat?”“Appointment with a client.” Peter sighs heavily into Hobie’s temple, voice still deliciously low and husky despite the obvious disappointment. “I can’t be late or she won’t be there.”Hobie scowls. Peter’s dedication to his PI work is admirable and frankly pretty hot, but right now it’s just annoying. “Not even five minutes?” “Sorry, sugar.” The sweet weight leaves off him and Hobie sighs too, balling his hands into fists to keep from reaching out. He might cry. He’s not gonna cry. They were so close. Then, because he’s a cruel and horrible monster, Peter lifts Hobie’s chin up with his bloody glove. “I’ll make it up to you sometime, yeah?” His smile is crooked in that infuriatingly tempting way, and he swipes his thumb over Hobie’s jaw, and even though Hobie is fucking fuming, he already wants to soften and plan the date. He bites his lip hard and nods. “I promise I will.”He backs away completely and clicks the button for his home universe. A speckled grayscale portal spirals out behind them. Every muscle in Hobie’s body has to work together to stop him from following. “I’ll hold you to that,” he says, throat strained. The high is dissipating.
For a moment, Peter’s eyes seem to fix on something very far away, though Hobie’s barely a meter in front of him, and a muscle in his jaw moves, conflicted. Conflicted. Hobie nearly cackles in triumph. Then the look is gone and Peter bares his teeth in a grin, pink with Hobie’s blood, and he licks his wet glove, knuckle to fingertip. Hobie’s guts tangle.“A bit salty,” Peter says idly. He winks. Then he’s gone.Alone with the corpse of a cop, Hobie slumps against the wall of the alley, letting his head fall back—which abruptly stings and reminds him of hitting it on the brick minutes ago as Peter fucked him. God, it felt so good. He closes his eyes and breathes in deep. He’s cold. His jeans are still shoved halfway down his thighs.Out of some mixture of fondness and curiosity, he reaches down and swipes his fingers through the mess between his legs. They come away dripping with a mixture of symbiote blood and his own slick. Definitely not safe to lick. Definitely did not stop Peter.
He wipes himself off on his thigh and yanks his jeans back up, struggling through the haze of frustration to get his fly up. His fingers slip on the metal and catch in the teeth of the zip, and the sharp bolt of pain brings tears to his eyes. The sting is explosive. Suddenly he can’t fucking take it anymore. An empty wine bottle, conveniently settled by his boots, finds itself in thousands of glittering purple pieces when he kicks it into the adjacent wall.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Hobie growls, scrubbing over his face. Blood flakes off in clumps, tacky again from his tears. “Bloody hell. Haha. Bloody fuck. What a cunt.” There’s too much energy in him—he should catch up with his mates, make sure everyone’s alright, they’re probably dispersing by now, he’ll just pretend the last twenty minutes didn’t even happen—he paces, restless, and stomps his kicky boots out of the alley.
The dead cop is still there. Didn’t turn into pixie dust while he was being fucked out of his mind or nothin’. He nudges the caved-in head and catches his mouth curving up in a smile at the loose pearlescent eyeball. It bursts when Hobie smashes it under his boot, satisfying enough to tempt him to stomp on the crushed skull. Some of his anger leaks out like the dead symbiote does from the bowl of bone. He smiles wider and lets it linger.Friends first, to tie up the riot with a neat little bow. Then he’ll go home and unwind, fix the mess Peter so rudely left behind. And shower off all the blood and symbiote guts.
He jams his hands into his pockets before he sets off up the street, hoping to catch up with the dregs of the riot before it’s completely wound down.
I’ll make it up to you sometime, yeah? I promise I will.
He wonders when sometime might be.