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You're My Breakfast Club

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Harry is leaving soon and the thought makes Peter’s heart ache. He knows it’s for a good reason—a trip to Europe to continue his mother’s mission of saving the planet—but he’s going to miss his best friend all the same. Especially since he hasn’t gotten to see Harry as often lately. He’s always begging off from hanging out, claiming he’s hungover or too busy studying. Again, Peter gets it; he’s busy all the time between being Spider-Man and his job with Dr. Octavius. He just misses his best friend.

Which is why he’s all the more grateful they’re hanging out tonight. No Mary Jane this time, just Peter and Harry and enough Chinese takeout to feed a small army. Harry’s even stocked up on Peter’s favorite craft beer, even though Harry hates the stuff. Peter is warm and full of food. He can’t get buzzed but he feels a little drunk off the good food, good beer, and good company. Harry on the other hand is drunk, off a bottle and a half of white wine like the ridiculous rich boy he is. Peter loves it. He loves the flush to his friend’s cheeks and the grin on his face. 

Harry is so handsome, has always been handsome. He could be a model if he wanted. Peter’s told him so several times, and every time Harry just rolls his eyes fondly. Peter remembers middle school and how popular Harry was even back then. They didn’t go to high school or college together, but it’s not hard to imagine the sort of following Harry accumulated. Starry-eyed girls and infatuated guys—Peter’s jealous, both of Harry and of his hypothetical harem. 

“I never had a hypothetical harem,” Harry says from across the couch. He laughs. 

Peter didn’t realize he was speaking aloud and he struggles to sit up, to overcome the food coma making him sluggish. “Fine. You had a totally real harem,” he says, only half-teasing.

“There was no harem!” Harry’s giggling as he sits up, brandishing the bottle of wine at Peter. “I kept my head down and went to class and that was it!” 

“Please,” Peter scoffs. “Which one of us lost their virginity first?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “That’s only because you were saving yourself for MJ.” Harry’s grin is fond. “It was cute.”

Peter flushes with embarrassment and tugs anxiously at the collar of his shirt. The memory is sweet, sure, but it’s embarrassing too. Especially given the ups and downs of his and MJ’s relationship—mostly the downs, like the one they’re in right now. She’s not exactly refusing to talk to him but she also hasn’t texted him first in weeks. It’s fine, it’s how things are, but it does make Peter feel silly for thinking losing his virginity to her might mean they’d live happily ever after. 

“She’ll come around,” Harry says in response to Peter’s silence. He takes another swig of wine, grimacing at the taste. It’s probably lukewarm by now. “She always does.” 

Peter shakes his head. “I’m not worried about that.” He reaches for his beer but just toys with the tab on the top. He thinks about high school, and all the things he missed out on. Not just sleeping with other people, but stuff like school dances and after school detentions—stuff taken from him by his job as Spider-Man. 

Then, though, he thinks about his life now. Sure, he’s a web-slinging superhero, and he’s doing good work with Dr. Octavius, but he’s also struggling to pay rent and is on the brink of being fired from the Bugle (again) and he can’t even get drunk to make it better. He doesn’t have homework to distract him, and he doesn’t have the naive kind of hope he did in high school, when attending school dances felt like some kind of light at the end of a tunnel.

Peter can’t get drunk, but he feels like he is as he declares, “You know, I think I peaked in high school.” He doesn’t mean it, not really. He doesn’t think he’s peaked at all yet, but he’s feeling a little morose at the prospect of his best friend leaving the city and his ex-girlfriend hating his guts and only having crime-stopping to comfort him. 

“You’re insane,” Harry says with another laugh. “That’s impossible.”

Peter looks over at him, one eyebrow quirked. 

Simply, easily, Harry says, “We never hooked up in high school, so you can’t have peaked.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, his pale complexion erupts in a blush. Peter can feel a blush of his own taking over his face. Sure, he’s always been attracted to Harry and he’s always thought Harry might feel the same about him, but they’ve just always had this unspoken rule not to talk about it. Peter doesn’t know why they never talked about it and he doesn’t know why they’re talking about it now. 

“Harry,” he starts. 

“I.” Harry stops. “You know what? Fuck it.” He sets the wine bottle on the coffee table and ignores Peter’s protest—it’ll leave a ring on the smooth wood tabletop—and climbs closer to him on the couch. “I don’t want to go to Europe without kissing you.” There’s determination in his eyes and the purse of his lips and Peter thinks faintly that Harry has never looked more beautiful.

Peter looks up at Harry, heart racing. It’s not where he expected the night to go, but he’s also not complaining. The idea of kissing Harry right now settles some of the storm inside Peter’s chest, as though he’ll feel better sending Harry across the pond with the smell of Peter clinging to him. Peter nods. He leans forward to set his beer on the coffee table too, then reaches for Harry. 

Harry clambers into his lap, all ease and grace. His hands grip Peter’s shoulders and he looks down at Peter, lips pink and cheeks red. 

“Harry,” Peter murmurs. He watches Harry’s gaze drop to his lips and that’s all the warning he gets before they’re kissing. It’s not the hungry, ravenous thing Peter expected. Instead it’s gentle and slow and makes Peter’s heart ache worse than before. But he likes the feeling. He slides his hands around Harry’s waist and up his back to tug him closer as the kiss deepens. Harry moans into his mouth, fists clenched in Peter’s shirt. 

“Pete,” Harry gasps against his lips. He sounds like he wants to say more, but when Peter cracks an eye open to glance at him, Harry just leans in to kiss him again.

Peter doesn't know how long they spend kissing. It doesn’t matter because he loves every second of it. He loves the feeling of Harry’s body under his hands, of Harry’s thighs on either side of Peter’s hips. He likes the way Harry tastes of the sweet white wine and how it feels when Harry moans into the kiss again and again. 

“Wanna touch you,” Harry mumbles as he starts to kiss at Peter’s jaw. “Can I?” 

Peter nods frantically, almost knocks their heads together. If someone had told him before tonight that he’d spend his last night with his best friend trading frenzied, sloppy handjobs...well, Peter wouldn’t have believed them because it would’ve sounded too good to be true. He shudders and marvels at Harry’s ability to multitask. He nips at Peter’s jaw as deft fingers work Peter’s jeans open. 

Harry’s hand slips into Peter’s boxers and grazes his cock. “God, I wish we had more time,” Harry murmurs against Peter’s ear.

“Guess we’ll have to make up for it when you get back,” Peter replies. 

Harry pauses in his motion and Peter listens to him draw in a deep, shaking breath. “Yeah,” he answers eventually. “We will.” He bites at Peter’s ear as he curls his hand around Peter’s cock and starts to stroke. 

It shouldn’t feel so good; Peter’s twenty-two for god’s sake, he shouldn’t fall apart from just a handjob. But it’s Harry, who he’s always been a little in love with; Harry, who Peter is so scared of losing. It’s a little dry until Harry brushes his palm over the head of Peter’s cock, gathering precome in his palm easily. It slicks the way just enough that Peter has to throw his head back and let out a groan that echoes through Harry’s apartment. 

“Fuck,” Harry lets out a moan of his own. “You sound so good.” Harry reaches up with his free hand and tugs at Peter’s hair until they can kiss again. “I want so much, Pete.” 

Peter’s hands flex on Harry’s hips before sliding down to grab two handfuls of his ass. It earns him a squeak, a noise that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. “Me too,” he gasps, “I want you.”

Harry trembles in his arms but his grip on Peter’s cock never falters. He’s going to make Peter come too easily, and if he wasn’t so swept up in the feeling Peter might make him stop, try to reciprocate first. As it is, Peter can barely make his hands work in their diligent groping of Harry’s ass. 

“I like it,” Harry hisses in his ear, pushing his ass back against Peter’s hands. “I like it when you talk to yourself, too,” he adds with a laugh. 

Peter shakes his head and starts to laugh but then Harry’s grip shifts and squeezes his cock just so. Peter doesn’t know how Harry is so good at this—not the handjob itself, but making Peter fall apart. It’s like Harry’s got some secret cheat book on how to render Pete speechless, boneless, thoughtless. 

“I want to feel you come,” Harry whispers with another nip at Peter’s earlobe. 

Peter doesn’t know if it’s the jolt of pain that does it or if it’s the needy, desperate tone of Harry’s voice. Either way he grunts and thrusts up as his orgasm washes over him. His cock pulses, spurting come all over Harry’s hand and the inside of Peter’s boxers. Peter clings to Harry as he rides out the sensations and in the back of his mind, he’s worried about leaving bruises on Harry, his hips and ass. Really, he’s more worried about never getting to see those bruises. 

Peter blinks hazily as he finally starts to come down, just in time to watch Harry draw his hand out of his boxers and lick the come from his fingers. “Oh god,” Peter says, voice warbling. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Harry grins at him, somehow bashful despite the slight sheen of come on his lips. “I promise I won’t be.” 

Peter doesn’t have the brainpower to figure out Harry’s cryptic reply; he barely even hears it, honestly, far more interested in getting Harry’s cock in either his hands or his mouth. Carefully, he tips Harry to the side and settles between his thighs. Peter only pauses once his hands are on the waistband of Harry’s sinfully tight pants. 

“Can I?” Peter asks. It’s a struggle to tear his gaze away from the bulge at the front of Harry’s pants and to his face instead, his beautiful face.

“Please,” Harry whines as he lifts his hips. 

Peter wastes no time in getting Harry’s pants open and tugged down to his knees, followed quickly by his sleek black boxer briefs. He takes a second to admire Harry’s dick sitting hard against his stomach, the tip oozing precome. His mouth is watering too much for him to wait long, though, and he bends down to take the tip into his mouth.

Harry yelps and his hands knot themselves in Peter’s hair. Peter doesn’t even care that it probably means there’s come in his hair—just means he’ll have to steal a shower in Harry’s luxurious bathroom. Maybe he can even get Harry to join him. 

Peter’s eyes flutter shut as he takes more of Harry’s cock into his mouth, diligent and careful. He only stops once his nose is in the soft bush of curls at the base. Harry is writhing underneath him, hands clenching in Peter’s hair, head thrown back against the couch cushions. It’s easy to reach up and press an arm down against Harry’s stomach to hold him still. If Harry notices Peter’s strength, he doesn’t comment on it. 

Peter relishes the feeling of Harry in his mouth. The musky scent, the salty taste, he’s addicted to it all. He’s sucked a couple guys off here and there and always enjoyed it, but this is next level. Peter could stay here forever, feels safe between Harry’s thighs, never wants to leave. He sucks a little harder and swallows the sudden emotion filling his chest, crawling up his throat. Leave it to Peter to get emotional during a blowjob.

He pushes the thought away and redoubles his efforts, though it’s hardly needed. Harry is gasping and groaning, voice pitchy and echoing through the apartment. He’s still got one hand in Peter’s hair and the other is clutching frantically at the couch cushion underneath him. It seems dangerously close to tearing; watching Harry’s fingers flex on the plush leather is too hot, just like everything else about him. 

Peter stretches the arm on Harry’s stomach up under his shirt to graze a hand over his nipples and Harry’s whole body goes tense. His back arches, shoving his chest into Peter’s touch, and his hips work in tight, jerky circles. 

“Oh!” Harry gasps as he comes deep in Peter’s throat.

Peter swallows it all down, not even grimacing at the taste. He suckles until Harry’s cock is soft in his mouth and Harry is shoving gently at his head. Peter crawls up his body and holds himself over Harry, smiling down at him as he waits for his best friend’s brain to come back online. 

Harry eventually opens his eyes and grins up at Peter. He brings a gentle hand to the side of Peter’s face, stroking his cheek. “Now you’ve peaked,” he teases.

Peter snorts. “Fine by me.” After a moment’s hesitation, Peter leans down and kisses Harry again. “I meant it, you know,” he murmurs as they pull back. “When you get back…”

Harry’s hand tenses against Peter’s face but the tension is gone as soon as it started. “Yeah,” he agrees, and Peter can’t summon the energy to figure out why Harry looks sad as he says it. “When I get back, I’ll take you out on a proper date.”

Despite what just happened, Peter blushes worse than ever. “You don’t have to do that.”

Harry smiles, looks dopey with how pleased he is. “I want to,” he says. “I want to take you on dates, and take you to the opera, and fund your incredible research.” 

Peter swallows against that same onslaught of emotion that snuck up on him before. “I want to take you on dates, too. Can’t afford the opera but I make a mean picnic.”

Harry laughs. He tugs Peter down against him and wraps his arms around him like an octopus. “Sounds great, Pete.” 

Peter wraps around him too; he buries his face against Harry’s neck and places a kiss against his thudding pulse. “Yeah, it does.”