Nothing's Gonna Change My World (Pavitr Prabhakar x Reader)

i sat on a rug (biding my time, drinking her wine)

WARNING: The following content, below the second dashed line, is SMUT. There's discussion of sex in the entire first section. The characters in this story are in their early-mid 20s, if you do not want to see this character in a sexual situation, click away now!

Pavitr also drops several aesops about sex in this chapter, I apologize for any excessive preachiness. I hope this monster chapter of ~7500 words was worth the wait while I moved due to an emergency with my home.

----

"I swear, I could have put the damn ring on Miles's finger myself after that!" gushes Gwen from her spot on your couch. She's tipsy, you're each on either your second or third hard seltzer, and your living room is starting to wobble and melt before your very eyes.

"I would wholly support that," you agree.

Gwen giggles in that overly familiar way, the one that tells you she's cooking up something wicked in that brain of hers. She leans in closer, slings an arm around your shoulder and peers at you through conspiratorially-squinted eyes.

"So, (You), how's Pav?" she asks, a lilt in her voice that tells you there's definitely an ulterior motive to this seemingly innocent question.

"Oh, he's great!" you reply, ducking out of wherever this is going. "He just raised another round of funding, so he's going to be able to expand his company more!"

"That's great, but that doesn't answer my question," she says. "How. Is. Pav?" she enunciates. Her top two teeth peek out, pressing into her lower lip.

You start to sweat, remembering the topic of conversation you'd been on. Gwen had given you the New York Times review of all the wild shit her and Miles had gotten up to since you last talked to her. You'd immediately learned that drunk Gwen has zero concept of propriety.

"He is...the best, honestly," you deflect, but voice still deeply earnest. "I mean, can I ask for more than a handsome man with great hair who takes care of me when I'm sick, he even cleaned me up and—"

"zzzzz, BORING!" Gwen shouts. She gives you a good-natured but maybe a tad too aggressive shove on the shoulder. "Skip to the good part, I want details!"

"Gwen, I don't know if I should be—" you try to dissuade her.

"Back when he was with Gayatri, we got trashed and she told me he was eating good, is that still true?" she whisper-growls with a saucy wink, in no way trying to lower the volume of her voice.

"Gwen!" you chide. Blood rushes piping hot to your face, heart absolutely banging off the walls of your chest. Gwen cackles maniacally and nearly spills her drink on your nice sofa.

"Christ on a crutch, (You), your fucking face right now is precious! It's just a lil' girl talk, nothing here leaves this room, you get me?" she rambles.

"Well, I mean, I wouldn't even know what to say about...about—" you stammer.

"Oh come on! It's not like you're some kind of virgin or somethi—wait, holy shit, are you a virgin?" Gwen's eyes widen. You think she looks like a fish staring like that. "Oh my god, you're a virgin! That's so sweet!" she cooes at you. She reaches to pinch one of your cheeks.

"No! No no no no, it's not like that! I'm not a virgin, definitely not, we just haven't—" you race to clarify, hands waving in front of your face.

"Well what's the holdup, then? Are you guys trying to up the sexual tension? Are you saving yourselves for some special occasion or..." Gwen wonders aloud, before tapping her fingers together while her face morphs into a faux-dismayed expression. "You're not scared to be with him, are you?"

"No way!" your rejection of the idea is immediate, emphatic. Gwen doesn't seem to have heard that, however, with the way she keeps on prattling.

"Like, I totally get it, he's Spider-Man, he's loaded, he's got some experience, he's really fucking attractive, that's intimidating and all for, like ninety-nine percent of everybody, but I promise he really wants to be with you too, you don't have to just fantasize when you—"

"Gwennnnn, for Christ's sake, I do not fantasize about my boyfriend and—" you interrupt that very, very salacious thought.

"What?! Why on Earth would you not? Who are you fantasizing to?? Is it Tom Holland??" Gwen questions in rapid-fire, face clearly scandalized.

"What the fuck, Gwen. No," you deny. "I'm not fantasizing about any of these people, I'm not fantasizing, period."

Gwen seems awfully confused by that statement.

"But, how else is a girl supposed to get off by herself? I don't get it."

You shrug your shoulders.

"I don't know, I must be broken or something. I've never had an orgasm," you deadpan.

"You what??" Gwen sits up ramrod straight, flabbergasted.

"What?" a shocked third voice sounds outside the apartment. Followed immediately by a blur of red and blue at the window near your fire escape, and then a heavy crash.

You and Gwen share an alarmed look for a moment. You can almost see the steam coming out of Gwen's ears, she marches over to the window, pulls it open, and with a terrifying force, yanks the eavesdropper into the apartment by the hair.

"Ow, ow, shit!" the voice yelps. It's very familiar, you realize. Because it's your boyfriend.

"Pavitr Prabhakar, you have five seconds to explain to me why in the fuck you were spying on our private conversation—" Gwen starts reading him the riot act.

"I'm sorry, I really didn't mean to..." Pavitr's groveling, apologies awkwardly spilling from his lips like a leaky P-trap.

You don't stick around to hear them. You about-face and beeline to your room to curl up and die of mortification, only briefly stopping to consider that you just watched your seemingly-normal human friend drag a superhero into the apartment by the hair, like she might bring in a small bag of groceries.

How much did he hear? Would he think worse of you? Did he hear Gwen talking about his—

Nope, we're not doing this today.

You belly-flop onto the bed. Your pillow makes a great set of earmuffs, and doubles nicely as a dark cave to stick your head into while you hear Gwen and Pavitr arguing (more accurately, Gwen winning the argument in a one-sided fashion while your boyfriend tries and fails to form a coherent sentence) in the kitchen. Your head is spinning, dust kicking up from discussions put to the side for far too long that is now filling your lungs. You're not sure why you and him haven't talked about this, whether it was fear, nerves—

Was he scared of you?

You're not sure how long you're hiding there for, but there's one, two, three soft knocks, the squeal of your door-hinge, then, a dip in your mattress. You know it's Pavitr right away when you feel the soothing stroke of a hand on your upper arm.

"Can I hide under there too?" he softly asks.

The idea of your big, strong, superhero boyfriend being scared of Gwen Stacy makes you giggle (although it's not hard to be scare of Gwen Stacy, if you're honest with yourself). You lift the pillow up and make some room on the bed, he lays down on his side to face you, suit and all, save for his mask.

"I'm sorry if I said anything that was—" you begin.

"I'm sorry I was listening to your—" he talks across you.

You both pause. Pavitr sighs heavily and rubs his sore scalp.

"I deserved that," he admits.

"I'm not so sure you did. The direction that conversation was going was..." you trail off, you gesture vaguely in front of you, trying to communicate something to the effect of "cringe".

"You aren't broken," he says suddenly, determined.

You snap your head up to meet his eyes. They're serious and shine with resolve.

"I'm...I don't get it," you say.

"You're not broken for never having an orgasm. And I'm not convinced you can't," he explains.

You chew on the thought for a bit.

"I mean...I've tried on my own, until I just gave up. That sounds like a 'me' problem," you mumble.

"Look, I know you might not believe me, and I know you might not even be interested but..." Pavitr hesitates, runs his hand through his thick, black hair. "I'll give you one. Or as many as you want, I don't know. And I don't want you to worry about doing anything for me, or for anything to hurt, I just want...fuck, (You), my heart broke when I heard that," he admits. His mouth is wilted into a pained frown.

Your face droops, you hate the idea of sweet, sensitive Pavitr being sad on your account.

"Pav, I don't want to get your hopes up though, I feel bad already that with all of the—the bullshit in our lives I haven't taken the time to think about your own needs and—"

"No. You're the one who had three boyfriends that couldn't be assed with your needs, and were put in a situation where your choice was taken away from you, even though it didn't get anywhere," he cuts you off immediately with an open hand below your collarbone. "The only 'need' I have is the need to show you it can be so, so good when you're with someone who loves you. But only on your terms, only ever when you feel the time is right."

You feel the urge to turn away, but you can't resist Pavitr's puppy-dog eyes, the kind he gets when he sees a stray animal that he wants to adopt on the spot.

"You seem very invested in this," you tell him, like it's a strange idea. Should it be?

"I just wanna make my girl feel good" he cooes. He pulls your face against the hollow of his throat. "Hobie told you once that you could ask for whatever you damn-well wanted, and I wouldn't say no. He's not wrong, you know."

"So you are an eavesdropper!" you accuse him.

"Okay, the Amazing Spider-Man has a minor personality flaw, sue me," he snarks, but is sure to drop a kiss in your hair after the words leave his lips. "My point stands, though. If there's anything you ever wanted to try, I'd love to do it for you. That includes giving you your first orgasm. And your second, your third, your forty-eighth—"

"Forty-eight?" you gasp.

"That's really not that many!" he protests, which earns him a well-deserved flick to the forehead from you. "But, in any case, it's up to you. Like I told you when we first got together, all at your pace, sweet girl. If the thought strikes your fancy, just say the word."

"I'll think about it," you agree.

"That's all I can ask of you," he says, and brings your hand to his lips to kiss your palm.

----

The heat in Pavitr's room is stifling. The air conditioner isn't cutting it, you're in a tee and sleep shorts while he's shirtless in jeans, you only have the energy to watch an old sitcom on the bedroom TV while Pavitr works out the fatigue from your sore feet. You lay with your legs across his lap, hissing when the pad of his thumb digs in to your arch.

"Darling, you have to start wearing actual shoes when doing big chores," he gently chastises you.

"A slipper is a shoe," you argue back. Pavitr's thumb arcs up towards of the ball of your foot and you wince when he lands on a tender spot.

"Your poor, abused feet don't seem to think so," he retorts.

"Well, then you can make it better later with those magic hands of yours, mister 'I'm so good at everything'", you declare.

Pavitr snickers, his thumbs find their way to the lower end of your calf, just above your ankle.

"I'm good at a lot of things, dove, but not everything," he says in dulcet tones, one corner of his mouth quirked up just so.

Maybe it's the heat. Maybe it's the perfect amount of pressure his hands are putting on your leg. Maybe it's the silky feel of his voice when it resonates in your ears. But today, you start to notice a difference. You feel...aware, like a deep itch, well below the layers of skin, muscle, fat. A thirst, yet, your mouth feels full and cottony from the humid air of the room.

"You're very good with your hands," you praise. The knot in your leg dissipates, and he moves on, this time pressing at the outer side, halfway up near the heart of the muscle. You exhale as he draws slow, deep circles into the tension there, it's achy, but it's pleasant, too. Pleasant in a way that makes your legs twitch, something that Pavitr doesn't miss under his thumb.

"So I've been told. Among some other things," he purrs. This tone has always brought you to your knees when he used it, and he knows it. Today, however, the shiver you feel isn't the same as the others, instead of a nervous, delighted tickle, it curves lower, warmer, lingers a bit beneath your ribcage in a thick haze.