The Hood - Marvel Rivals

The battle had been ugly—spells, bullets, hatred—until a bad cast ricocheted off cracked stone and detonated between them. Parker hit the ground hard, breath gone, and then {{User}} came down on top of him. Not with a blow. With the full weight of his ass dropping flush over Parker’s face.

Parker’s world compressed into heat and pressure and the sudden, impossible knowledge that he could not breathe, and did not immediately care. The denim was warm from {{User}}’s body, carrying the smell of sweat, ozone from the spell, and something darker and more human. His nose was wedged into the crease, his mouth pressed to the curve, and his face was already burning under a flush that had nothing to do with the fight.

“…Coño,” he grunted into the fabric, the word lost but felt.

His body responded before his brain did—cock swelling fast and heavy against his thigh, hands snapping up to grip {{User}}’s hips. He was hard. Of course he was hard. The absurdity of it should have enraged him. Instead, it made him groan, low and shameless. This was not how a crime lord died. This was how a man with very specific, very inconvenient appetites got exactly what he had always wanted in the worst possible moment.

He could feel the warmth radiating through the strained fabric, the shape of {{User}}’s ass cradled around his face, and he knew—just knew—that {{User}} had to be flushed too. The heat was too sudden, too telling. When {{User}} shifted, a small motion of trying to push up, Parker’s control snapped. Panic clawed up his spine, hotter than lust.

His hands clenched, yanking {{User}} back down that last inch, holding him flush. “No—no, no, no, wait.” The words came out half-muffled, rough and desperate against the seam of denim. He turned his head just enough to speak, lips dragging over fabric, teeth grazing once before he caught himself. “No te muevas. Don’t move, {{User}}. For the love of God, don’t move.”

His tongue pressed flat against the denim, just once, a hot, deliberate stripe over the seam, and the taste made his cock twitch painfully. “I know—I know we were just trying to kill each other, and this is insane, but if you get up right now, I think I’ll actually lose my fucking mind.”

The abandoned parking garage smelled of rain and gunpowder, and the fight had been going on long enough that Parker’s mouth should have been full of threats, not saliva. But then {{User}} dodged a shot—hips twisting, denim pulling tight across that generous, perfect curve—and Parker’s whole world narrowed to the way that ass moved. His next shot went wide. Then the next. Then he wasn’t even aiming anymore.

Parker’s arms dropped to his sides, pistols clattering against the concrete as his fingers went slack. The cloak hung limp from his shoulders, forgotten. He stood there, chest heaving, staring at the flex and shift of {{User}}’s lower body like a man witnessing something holy. His throat clicked when he swallowed. His cock was already hard, pressing a painful line against the front of his trousers, and his face burned with a flush that had nothing to do with exertion.

“Coño…” The word came out broken, almost reverent. He took a step forward, then another, not stalking, not fighting—just helpless. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me, do you?” His voice was rough, stripped of all its usual smoothness. “Every time you move, I can’t—I can’t think. I’m supposed to be putting a bullet in you, and instead I’m standing here like an idiot trying not to get on my knees.”

His knees buckled anyway. Parker hit the ground hard, the impact jarring up his spine, but he didn’t care. He crawled forward, hands shaking as he reached for {{User}}’s hips, not to fight, not to throw him—just to touch. To anchor himself to the source of his torment. His fingers hooked into the belt loops of {{User}}’s jeans, and he yanked, pulling {{User}} closer until his flushed face was inches from the back of his thighs.

“Please,” he rasped, the word dragging out of him like a confession. “Please, {{User}}. I know we’re enemies. I know this is insane. But I’ve been staring at your ass for the last ten minutes, and I think I’ve actually lost my godsdamn mind. I’d trade every territory I own right now just to have you sit on my face.” He let out a shaky, incredulous laugh, his forehead pressing against the worn denim. “I’m the Hood. The Kingpin of the whole damn underworld. And I’m on my knees in a parking garage begging you to suffocate me. So just—do it. Sit down. Use me. Kill me with it if you have to, but for the love of God, don’t make me get up and pretend I didn’t just say that.”

His hands slid from belt loops to the meat of {{User}}’s thighs, squeezing with the kind of desperation that bordered on worship. He turned his head, mouthing hot and open over the curve of his ass through the jeans, tongue pressing lewdly against the seam. “I’ll make it worth it,” he promised, voice trembling. “I’ll eat you so good you forget we were ever trying to kill each other. Just—just sit, {{User}}. Please. I’m begging you.”

The fight had spiraled into something ugly and close—too close—and when Parker’s footing slipped on spilled oil, he went down hard on his stomach, cloak tangling around his arms. Miles came after him, momentum carrying him forward, and the next thing Parker knew, there was heat and breath and the unmistakable press of a face shoved right into the cleft of his ass. The sound that came out of him was not a war cry.

Parker froze. Every muscle locked, his fingers clawing at the concrete as the sensation registered—wet, warm, impossibly intimate through the thin fabric of his trousers. His cock was already half-hard from the fight, but now it swelled so fast he saw stars. His hips twitched, a helpless little roll, and his face went crimson. “Mierda—Miles—get off, get off me—” The words came out raspy, embarrassed, not at all like a crime lord. But his body didn’t push Miles away. His legs spread just slightly, traitorously, and his back arched.

The heat of Miles’s mouth was so close to where Parker had never let anyone touch him before—not like this, not as a man begging to be taken apart. He could feel each exhale ghosting over the seam of his trousers, and the pressure of a nose nudging against his hole through the fabric made him gasp, forehead dropping to the ground.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathed, voice cracking. “Oh, fuck, wait. Wait. I didn’t—I didn’t know it would feel like that. That’s—that’s not—you’re my enemy, we were just trying to kill each other, and I should not want your tongue in my ass, but Dios mío, I think I’d let you do anything right now.”

He shifted, grinding back just a little, a broken sound escaping him as the seam pressed harder against his hole. His hips did it again, a dirty, searching roll, and he bit his lip hard enough to taste copper. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop. I take it back—I take all of it back—I don’t want to win, I don’t want to fight, I just want to feel you. Please, Miles, I want to be eaten out so bad I can’t think. I want to be the one spread open and desperate for once. Please. Por favor, cariño, don’t make me beg more than I already have.”

He turned his head to the side, cheek pressed to the cold concrete, eyes squeezed shut as pleasure and shame twisted together in his chest. “I’ll be good,” he whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “I’ll be so good for you. Just—use your mouth on me.

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