Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter Parker loves MIT. It’s been his dream school since sixth grade, and even now as a senior, he still can’t believe he’d actually pulled it off. 

For the most part, studying neuroscience at MIT has lived up to every childhood dream. The one glaring exception is Michelle Jones-Watson. 

Most people like Michelle. She’s not an asshole (in a school full of assholes, that counts for something), she’s pretty, and she’s wicket smart. Her perfect SAT score of 1600 and continued academic achievement mean that professors absolutely love her. It’s not a surprise to anyone that she’s the School of Science’s top student. 

Peter, evidently, ranks second. And god, does it bug him. 

It bugs him because she may not have the reputation of an asshole but she certainly acts like one towards him. Even on the first day of their junior year – when Michelle transferred from NYU – she’d humiliated him with her condescending tone after he’d introduced himself. “I know who you are,” Michelle had murmured. He didn’t have time to reply before she added, “You’ve slept with 3 of my roommates.”

“Ah,” he grimaced. It’s true, Peter’s always been the science department’s resident fuckboy. But why did she care? 

“I’m dying to find out how the smartest neuroscience major has time for all that coursework and the entire student body.”

She’d completely caught him off guard, but he refused to show it. “Why does it matter? Hey, if you want a turn, all you have to do is ask.”

Peter could’ve sworn he saw her cheeks flush, but the intriguing new girl was as stubborn as he was. She clucked her tongue with a smirk. “Bold line for a dude with his fly down.” 

“Huh?” Oh, fuck. She was right. That fucking…

“Nice to meet you, Patrick.” 

She was already walking away when he cursed under his breath. “It’s Peter!”

Luckily enough, the last two years haven’t forced him and Michelle to interact too much. Yeah, they share all the same lectures – even chosen the same electives – but the class sizes are big enough to seat them on opposite sides of the room. Their physical avoidance doesn’t stop her from bugging the shit out of him every time she opens her mouth, but hey. He figures it could be a lot worse. 

Any previous ‘glass-half-full’ attitude flies out the window on the first day of their senior year at MIT.

It’s Peter’s first lecture of the week, and he’s unsurprised when he enters the hall to see Michelle already sitting in the third row, chewing on the end of her pencil and scribbling notes. How is she already taking notes?

He curses at himself when his second thought is about how good she looks. She’s always been pretty, but summer had a glowing effect on her. He hates that he notices the tan line peeking from underneath her top and her loose curls falling down her back; the ends tinted gold by the sun. What the fuck are you, Nicholas Sparks? He mentally kicks himself. It’s then that he notices her returning stare, rich with irritation and disdain. Business as usual, then. 

Their professor, a middle-aged man in a bowtie, serves as the perfect interruption to their glaring contest. Peter quickly finds a seat across the room and listens half-heartedly as he welcomes the audience to Neuroscience and Morality. 

After a brief summary of the course, the instructor begins to outline the semester’s big assessment worth half their grade. It’s here that a cloud, a tornado, destroys any remnant of a good attitude and sheds any possibility for an enjoyable final year of undergrad. 

“Towards the end of the semester, you’ll deliver a thorough, half-hour presentation in front of your classmates. This presentation is your free-for-all. You’ll choose a research focus in the broad spectrum of neuroscience and work with a partner to educate your audience on it.”

A partner! Peter immediately glanced at Ned with a knowing grin.

“Ah ah ah,” Professor Dunn tuts amidst growing, excitable chatter. “I will be choosing your partnerships. Look around, guys. There are 68 students in this room, and you’ve been studying together for some time now. Half of you worked with the same person all last year!”

Grumbles, of course, fill the room and confirm a unanimous disapproval. 

“I know it’s not your first choice, but my decision is final. Remember, these partnerships will not be changed and the presentation will be worth half your grade.”

Finally, Dunn announces the partnerships he’d already chosen. “Cindy Moon and Johnny Storm,” he starts to read off. Peter chuckles, watching teachers-pet Cindy and baseball freak Johnny gape in disbelief. 

“Flash Thompson and Abe Lewis.” Flash is the dean’s snobby son who makes fun of Abe’s old Prius. 

“Ned Leeds and Gwen Stacy.” That one isn’t too bad, Peter thinks. Ned’s had a thing for Gwen since sophomore year. Peter turns to him, exchanging an excitable smile. He whispers with his best friend for a few more partnerships, hyping him up discreetly. Their excited hush almost causes Peter to miss the next pairing Dunn calls…but truly, the ice-cold water that the professor’s next words dunk him in are too cruel to tune out. 

“Michelle Jones-Watson and Peter Parker.”

He feels a little guilty for immediately going to pinch himself out of what had to be a nightmare. Jones and him? Spending one-on-one time together? He prefers anyone else. Anyone else. Flash Thompson. Sam Wilson. Ex-girlfriend Felicia Hardy. Fuck, anyone. 

He can’t even look her way for the rest of the lecture. 

-

Peter decides to try taking his mind off of the prison sentence from Dunn and study for his upcoming lectures. He heads to the campus library, finding a quiet spot away from the main foyer where he might be able to concentrate. 

As he sighs and sets his textbooks on the table in front of him, a flash of green captures his attention from underneath his chair. Peter forgets his textbooks and reaches to grab it, assuming a student just got careless and forgot to put an unwanted library book away. 

Boy, is he wrong. 

The 400-something pages of the book are encased in hardback, but a forest-green fabric sleeve hides the book’s front and back covers. It’s not a library book, then, Peter frowns. 

And, look, he promises he’s not nosy. He’s never been interested in gossip or the private matters of fellow students. All he’s doing, he swears, is looking for any clues that reveal the book’s owner. So when he opens the front cover with great caution, it’s not because he’s invasive. 

Ah-ha! The search pays off as Peter spots a loopy, disorganised scribble on the inside flap. 

If found please contact 755-0833. 

Fair enough, then. 

Peter gathers the long-forgotten textbooks and shoves them back into his bag, exiting the library with the green mystery book in hand. He’s quick to find a quiet area near the doors and begins to type the number into his phone. 

Maybe, if he’d told the truth just now about not being nosy, he’d call the owner without a second thought and return the book. But he’d totally, completely lied. Curiosity for the smallest answers is his worst enemy and fuck it. He wants to know what book this is. 

He also reminds himself that hey, if there wasn’t a handmade book cover gatekeeping the damn title, he wouldn’t give a fuck. And that’s why he’s interested. What kind of book makes one feel the need to hide its identity? He considers dozens of possibilities at once. Fine! Peter Parker is nosy as hell. 

What if it’s, like, terrorist propoganda? What if it’s one of those super embarrassing self-help books? Not the normal ones, but the ones written for pyramid schemes? What if it was a book of ancient spells, or something?

He really does think he’s thought of every possibility until he lifts the sleeve to peek at the cover. 

Lost in Lust: Forbidden Desires

Peter stares dumbfounded at the illustration in his hand: biceps the size of Thor’s accompany a torso fit for Men’s Health front-and-centre. What the fuck?

Okay, now he’s dying to reveal the owner. He quickly types out a message and sends it to the inscribed number.

Hey, I think I found a book you left in the library? With the green cover on it?

He doesn’t immediately get a reply, so he heads back to his dorm with a blush too out-of-place on someone with the body count he has. 

It’s an hour later when the owner finally replies. 

755-0833: Oh shit, thanks. Would you be able to meet me somewhere so I can grab it from you?

He replies in under a minute.

For sure.

And then, without thinking and because he’s an actual dumbass…

Interesting book, by the way 

He’s cursing himself the second he sends it. Why did he fucking say that? Not only is he dumb but an actual asshole as well. 

Three dots pop up on his screen, indicating that they were typing out a response. Peter holds his breath. The dots stay there for a full minute, then:

755-0833: It is. Have you read it?

Not sure it’s my kind of book.

755-0833: That’s what I said before my friend made me read it. Pretty nosy of you to peek, though. 

Just curious, I guess. Most people leave books as they are. 

755-0833: Right, until there’s a half-naked man on the cover.

He laughs at that. The book must be pretty good for you to bring it to the library.

755-0833: You’d be surprised

Now I’m intrigued.

755-0833: So give it a read. Lol. 

C’mon, it’s your book

755-0833: I’ve read it before. 

Wow, so it really is top-tier porn

755-0833: Guess that’s for you to find out. 

Fuck it. He’ll read the book. 

-

Peter decides to give it a try the next day, since he figures he has nothing better to do. Fifteen minutes, he tells himself. Fifteen minutes no matter how ridiculous it definitely is. 

And, to be fair, it’s definitely ridiculous. Forbidden Desires, he learns, is about a shy, small town girl named Kenna who moves to LA for work and falls for her stupid hot boss. Said boss, ripped and intimidating Jack, a cocky asshole with (gasp!) hidden depth that only his new secretary can uncover. 

Yeah, it’s absolutely fucking ridiculous. But an hour later and 75 pages in, he’s been officially slow-burned by the Californians. 

That’s about how far in the first sex scene occurs and wow. 

A middle aged white lady from Orlando wrote this, he reminds himself. Maybe it’s awful of him, but he's briefly upset that middle aged white ladies from Orlando are allowed to write good smut. Because…what on earth?

After finishing the first — of many — sex scenes, he sends Mystery Reader a text. 

For your information, Kenna just lost her virginity to Jack.

755-0833: I see. That’s an interesting part. Thoughts?

Hm. Super romantic. Especially the part where she tells him she’s a virgin and suddenly he’s into her. 

755-0833: Right? How sweet. Loved the variety in synonyms for ‘penis’, too. Kathryn’s taught me so many new words. 

And like… the belt? How thoughtful of him to make her first time so special!

755-0833: The belt! Then the three orgasms? All I got was three minute penetration and some half-hearted fingering, just like most women. Dunno how he did it

So Mystery Reader’s a girl. Like…duh. He kind of guessed that awhile ago. But the confirmation is nice. 

Three minutes? I lasted, like, two my first time

755-0833: Oof. Did he or she end up finishing?

This is gonna sound cocky, but yeah, she did. 

755-0833: No. And cockiness isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Just look at Jack Reinhart. 

My good friend Jack.

755-0833: But seriously, it’s good that you cared about her experience. A lot of men don’t.

-

A couple days later, he and Michelle hastily meet in the library after Dunn’s lecture to start planning their presentation. 

The second they sit down, she’s berating him. “Look, Parker. I don’t like you—”

“I don’t like you either.” He quickly adds with an annoyed huff.

“—but apparently, we have to work together for the next three months. Normally I’d just tell you to fuck off, but I have a 4.4 GPA and don’t plan on fucking that up. I’m not gonna lose my scholarship to Harvard Med School because we don’t get along.”

“Christ, Jones, you made your point.”

“I just think it needs to be understood that no matter how miserable this is gonna be, we still have to give an absolutely perfect presentation. Don’t make things even more difficult than they already are.”

He glares at the table in front of him, biting his tongue. “Yup.”

Michelle sets her textbooks on the table, which interrupts his irritated concentration. “I have some ideas for possible research topics,” she states, pulling her laptop out of her thrifted backpack. It’s obvious that she’s really trying to suppress her frustration and sound as relaxed as possible, but she’s not some elite Broadway actress, which is what she’d have to be to pull it off. 

“Okay,” he offers lamely.

“Dunn left it pretty open-ended, so we’ll have to narrow it down based on category. I think that focusing on criminal brain activity and decision making would give us a lot to work with. That, or maybe specifying the subject further and focusing on sociopathic serial killers throughout the last century and the patterns and habits they displayed that were tied to their neurobiological disorders.”

Peter finds himself impressed, and then disgusted that he’s impressed. He clears his throat. “Maybe something a little less…depressing?”

She shoots him an exasperated look. “Neuroethics and criminology are the peanut butter and jelly of science, idiot.”

Nice.

“Whatever, though. I kinda figured you’d say that, so I have more ideas.”

God, he wants to rip his fucking hair out.

“We could also research the contrast between the ethics of neuroscience and the neuroscience of ethics. Or we could approach it clinically, like, do MRIs and studies on cognitive thinking invade the privacy of patients or volunteers since medical staff gain access to the entirety of the brain? Or maybe we could focus on the effects that a variety of drugs have on an individual’s moral compass. For that, we could include stimulants and psychedelics vs. SMRs and SSRIs, and—”

Out of pure impatience, Peter throws his hands up in the air and cuts her off. “That one!” God, she really doesn’t shut the fuck up, he thinks. 

Michelle, in turn, looks done with him. “So, the ethical alterations of different recreational drugs.” 

He nods, just relieved she’s finished rambling. He’s a little anxious, though, because he can’t tell if the relief comes from genuine annoyance or his upsetting respect for her dedication. 

“Fine by me,” she shrugs. “Okay, so, I was thinking that we’d meet every Tuesday after Dunn’s lecture and work on the presentation. If we start next week and work for about an hour every time, we’ll be done a couple weeks before the deadline. I need those extra points.”

She doesn’t, though. 4.4 GPAs definitely don’t need extra points. But he stops himself from making a number of sarcastic quips and just nods. Three more months, he thinks miserably. Just 12 more weeks. 84 days. 

It’s gonna be the longest three months in fucking history. 

-

Later that week, Peter’s catching up with good old Kathryn Crosby. He’s texting the mysterious witty smut reader, of course, since no session of Forbidden Desires happens without her. 

He really wants to stop calling her variations of “mystery literature-porn girl” in his head, so he sends her a random text. 

What’s your name?

The dots appear, then:

755-0833: Nice try. I told you about my inexplainable attraction to Bucky Barnes.

(She had, just yesterday when Peter had confessed that he imagines Kenna looking like Kiera Knightley. Evidently, her hormones have casted the Winter Soldier as Jack Reinhart.)

755-0833: I can’t have that going around campus. I happen to like my reputation.

A nickname, then.

755-0833: Fine. Call me Em. 

Em. Emma? Emilia? Emery? He’s dying to know, but he’ll take anything she gives him. 

755-0833: And what do I call you?

Hm. Spider-Man.

Em: Ha. Big fan?

Oh, the biggest. 

He blushes despite being alone in his bedroom. The innuendo was very much unintentional but he knows she’ll call him out. 

Em: The biggest, you say?

He decides to play along. 

You heard me. 

Em: Mm, I don’t know about that. Jack Reinhart is tough competition.

Jack Reinhart is fictional and so is his chick-magnet of a cock. 

Em: He’s real enough when it’s 2am and my vibrator’s out. 

Peter swallows, not expecting anything like that from new-friend-Em. But to really no fault of his own, fuckboy mode is immediately switched on. 

Yeah? Does he make you cum?

Em takes longer than normal to reply; a full minute, even. 

Em: The sex god himself? The dick of wonders? Mr. Powerhouse? Yes. 

Which part turns you on the most? Is it when he fucks her in his office with her panties in her mouth? How about when she gets off without his permission and he edges her for hours?

Em: Fuck

Em: It’s when he ties her to the balcony and fucks her from behind. 

Fuck fuck fuck. He’s painfully hard, deciding to relieve himself just a little bit and undo his jeans so his cock can breathe.

Oh yeah? Why is that?

Em: Because he has no filter in that scene at all. He doesn’t hold back and his mouth is fucking filthy. The first time I read it, I didn’t stop blushing for an hour. 

He has a way with words, doesn’t he

Em: So do you.

Peter literally can’t take it anymore. He throws the fear of perversion and grasps his aching hard-on, working it out of his boxers.

Em. 

Em: You do, Spider-Man. It’s seriously hot

He moves to type one-handed and starts pumping himself. He’s so turned on it hurts.

Are you wet, Em?

Those damn dots. 

Em: Yes

Are you in bed?

Em: Yes

Are you touching yourself, baby?

Em: Fuck 

Em: Yeah I am 

Peter takes a heaving breath, fisting his cock faster. His phone dings and when he looks back on his phone there’s a fucking image that takes five long, painful seconds to load. 

When it does, it fucking ruins him. 

It’s Em, and he can’t see her face, but she’s turned on her side on her mattress in an oversized t-shirt and tiny cotton panties. The photo is neck-down and the shirt is rucked up above her navel. The thing that shocks him the most is her fingers flirting with the band of her panties, her index finger slipping past it towards her cunt. When he looks closer, he can…fuck…see a damp spot between her legs. 

And speaking of her legs…holy. Shit. 

He’s quick to reply, pumping even quicker. 

Em. Fuck. You look so hot. 

Em: Tell me something

Anything

Em: Have you ever thought about fucking me

For the last couple days, it’s all I’ve thought about. 

Em: What do you think about

You on your knees

Em: Shit what else

I think about making you cum again and again until you’re begging me to stop. 

Em: Fuck, I want to cum

I wish I could watch. 

Em: I wish you were here. Then you could. And you’d tell me to suck you off after I’m done so you’d cum, too.

Fuck, I’d like that

Are you close?

Em: So close

Cum for me, then. 

She’s absent for a minute, but the dots quickly reappear. 

Em: God, that was incredible. Fuck. It’s embarrassing how drenched my panties are right now. 

Baby

He’s so close he can taste it; the mental image of the panties she showed him completely soaked through pushing him right to the edge. What a fucking minx. 

Em: Cum for me, Spider-Man. 

His brain must have just, like, stopped working for a minute, because the next thing he comprehends is the dazed stare at his ceiling and the fact that he needs to wash his hands.

He’s in serious, serious trouble. 

Chapter Text

Michelle Jones-Watson wakes up the next morning feeling oddly giddy. She’s never been giddy, and doesn’t know if it’s a welcome feeling yet. All she knows is that last night had been her hottest sexual experience thus far, and she still doesn’t even know his name. 

It’s not like she’s a virgin, or something. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with that, but during her freshman year at NYU, Brad Davis had charmed his way into her dorm room and then left immediately after they hooked up. Ever since, she’s been committed to avoid vulnerability at all costs. So when the likes of Harry Osborn and Miles Morales and Liz Allan had presented opportunities for sex, it was she who left immediately afterwards. Her four one-night-stands make up her sexual experience thus far, unless…unless last night counts. 

Does it, though? She wonders. The anonymous MIT student who’d dorkishly referred to himself as Spider-Man is a complete stranger and she doesn’t know anything about him. Well, other than the fact that he was too nosy for his own good. And that he’d turned her on more than anyone she’s actually had sex with. The whole thing is honestly fucking strange. 

As she checks her phone, she has a text from him, one which steals a wide grin from her that she immediately suppresses. Don’t be an idiot, she tells herself. 

spiderman: good morning Em

spiderman: In honour of last night I’m catching up with good old Kenna and Jack.

Another involuntary smile creeps onto her face, but this time, she’s too occupied with typing a response to remove it. 

Good morning yourself. I’m sure they’re happy to see you. 

spiderman: Very. He’s currently eating her out in a company conference room. 

Sheesh. At this hour?

spiderman: Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, isn’t it?

She laughs out loud at that, shaking her head at his unabashed corniness. It’s only ten seconds later that she briefly wonders if anyone at MIT’s managed to make her laugh like that. 

-

The next day, MJ’s bracing herself for the second lecture with Dunn and, unfortunately, Peter Parker. She stands by what she said to him last week about needing a perfect mark, but she slightly regrets planning weekly meet-ups with him to achieve it. Not only are they gonna be in three hour lectures thrice a week together, but an extra hour on Tuesdays? God. 

As MJ takes her seat in the lecture theatre, she spots Parker sitting across the room. They follow the same routine every time: momentary eye contact followed by immediate avoidance. It’s no different today. 

It’s not that she hates Peter. Well, she does, but it wasn’t always like that. She knows she can come off arrogant and standoffish at first, but it’s only because social settings aren’t exactly her forte. They never have been. She grew up in Soho with a surgeon mother and a psychiatrist father. Her parents recognised MJ’s intelligence when she was only six, and placed her in gifted schooling immediately. When most kids her age began middle school, she started homeschooling with a private tutor with a heavy focus in science. She’d been perfectly happy, perfectly on track to be just like her parents. Life had been good. 

And then, when she was 14, her mom died in a horrific car accident while taking her to school. All of the sudden, life felt unbearable. Her father withdrew completely, turning to drugs and alcohol to cope with the loss. Soon after, he was fired, which was initially fine since they’d had a fortune to rely on. 

His drug and gambling addictions drained almost all of it in a year. His incompetence, whether justified or not, caused the state to deem him unfit to care for MJ at 15. She didn’t have any living grandparents. No aunts or uncles on either side. Her career-addicted parents never made close friends. So she ended up in foster care. 

Going into her sophomore year of high school, she’d lost both parents, specialised education, any possible funding for college, and every familiar thing she’d ever had. Her fellow students had learned to socialise years ago, something she was completely unfamiliar with. Friends didn’t come easily since she always seemed cold and guarded to anyone who looked her way. MJ often found herself fighting tears in her closet after school, since of course, she shared a room with two other foster kids and privacy was a privilege of the past. 

It only took a couple months into her sophomore year for her to toughen up, though. She soon decided that grief had no place in the life she still yearned for; one of success and opportunity and competition. High school, for Michelle, meant hours of after-school studying and numerous extracurriculars. Both the school decathalon and the Honours Society named MJ their student captain, which meant that her entire life revolved around getting into her dream school, MIT. 

At 18, she graduated with a 4.3 GPA and had gotten into both MIT and NYU. NYU had offered her the full ride scholarship she needed, but MIT had not. That one failure still haunts her, but instead of grieving, she spent the first two years of university at NYU. This time, her GPA read 4.5 and the scholarship she’d given everything to was finally offered to her. 

Perhaps it was how hard she had to work to attend MIT that made her despise Peter Parker. 

Her first day in Boston was spent moving into her off-campus student apartment and meeting her five roommates. Gwen was her favourite that year; a sweet blonde who, like MJ, studied neuroscience. Then there was Felicia, anthropology hottie; Jane, a philosophy introvert; India, serial dater and computer science student; and Lorraine, an architect prodigy from France. 

The first thing she learned about Parker was the fact that he’d slept with Felicia, India and Lorraine. The latter two had been one-night-stands, but Felicia and Peter had dated for almost the entire sophomore year. She’d told MJ that nobody on campus really knew Peter Parker’s body count, but everyone was dying to find out. 

The second thing she learned about Parker was that he had top-notch connections. Tony Stark was allegedly a close friend, which meant that Peter had a guaranteed part-time job while at MIT. MJ’s heard countless rumours about his connections in the last couple years, and long story short, Stark isn’t the only Avenger Peter’s close to. 

The whole prestigious schpeel has always made MJ’s blood boil. She’d given up everything, sacrificed everything to earn her place at MIT. She’d been prepared for kids with rich parents, or kids related to alumni or staff. But the fact that her biggest competition in the entire department was Tony Stark’s practical godson had instantly infuriated her. 

The world is full of Peter Parkers taking opportunities from Michelle Jones’. She doubts the campus fuckboy has ever truly worked for anything, let alone something as important as his education. Last year, it felt unbearable to even look his way, but over time, the inevitable proximity has gotten a bit more tolerable. That doesn’t mean she’s friendly with him, though.

And it definitely doesn’t mean she’s eager to work with him one-on-one. Fuck Professor Dunn. 

Her train of thought is interrupted by Dunn himself as he begins to explain the topic of today’s lecture.

Said lecture sadly feels five minutes long, and far too soon, she’s taking a seat across from Parker in the library once again.

He clears his throat. “So, Dunn’s lecture today was interesting.”

Michelle ignores him, flipping through her notebook to find an empty page. He clears his throat obnoxiously a second time, waiting for a response. 

“Michelle?”

She brushes some stray curls out of her face, finally glancing up at him. “Yeah. Whatever.” 

He looks good today, her brain betrays her by noticing. He’s wearing a t-shirt from Stark Industries (that fucker) which shows off his biceps and forearms (so many veins) and his hair is pleasantly gel-free (those curls). Every observation and positive reaction disgusts her, and she blames last night’s…adventure on any horny distraction Peter provides. 

He scoffs humourlessly. “Thought we weren’t gonna do this.” 

“Do what?” She decides to play dumb. 

“C’mon, Michelle. You said last week that you wanted to focus on the presentation instead of whatever weird feud we have going on.”

She sets her notebook down. “I am. What, are we supposed to tell each other secrets and bake each other cookies, or something?”

Peter’s brow furrows. “No.”

“Great. Let’s get started, then.”

For the next hour, they manage to cooperate, sharing ideas and research leads for the presentation on drug effects on ethical decision making. She can tell they’re both surprised at how well they work together when they shed pettiness and annoyance — the realisation bugs MJ. She and Parker might actually pull this off. 

Of course, it’s not like they immediately befriended each other, but the fact that it’s awkwardly cordial surprises her nonetheless. She doesn’t find herself counting down the minutes until they’re done, and when she does check the time, they’ve been in the library for an extra ten minutes than they’d planned. 

“Shit, it’s 4:40,” she coughs, praying he won’t say anything about it. And he doesn’t.

“We’ll pick this up next week?”

“Erm, yeah. Tuesday again.”

They part without a single petty insult, and MJ heads back to her apartment in a better mood than she’d predicted. It’s not because of Parker, she promises herself. It’s because of the dirty-mouthed stranger who stole my book. 

Truly, though, she’s sure that today would’ve been hell if she hadn’t been in a good mood since last nights, er, experience. In her defence, orgasms are science-approved mood boosters and she’d definitely needed it. It might’ve been her fingers last night, but he’d made her cum, and it was the closest she’d gotten to getting laid in almost a year. 

The second she gets home, she heads to her room, thanking the stars that no one was home to distract her. She’s barely set her backpack down before she sends him a text. 

How’s Tuesday going for our friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man

MJ’s phone lights up in reply a mere two minutes later. 

spiderman: Busy, but bearable. You?

The same. I missed talking to you today.

She cringes after she sends it. It’s true, but he doesn’t need to know that. He could be anyone, and they still didn’t know anything about each other. What if she’s just freaked him out? 

Michelle’s heart pounds when she gets his reply, reminding her of high school infatuation. Grow up, MJ. 

spiderman: Me too. So much. Even though it’s only been a day. 

Yeah. And I still don’t know anything about you. 

spiderman: Do you want to?

Yes

She thinks about it for a moment. The thought of finding out who he is terrifies her. Whether he’s some terrible, unlikable humanities major (she shudders) or not, knowing his name would mean him knowing hers. It would probably mean meeting him in person, getting to know him in person, because if they live on the same campus, it would be weird if they didn’t. And the worst possibility of all: what if he’s great and she likes him and the vulnerability demon captures her again? Absolutely not.

But not your name. It wouldn’t be fair, since there’s no way you’re getting mine. 

spiderman: Deal. 

spiderman: Hm. Well. I’m a massive Star Wars nerd. I’m Jewish but my aunt and I exchange Christmas presents anyway. I’m secretly a big rom-com fan and it’s embarrassing how much I love cats.

Michelle does not swoon while reading his text. She doesn’t, because doing so would be disgusting and childish and idiotic. The red tint to her cheeks is her Pinocchio nose, mocking her dishonesty. 

Whatever! It’s only because she’s a cat person, too. 

What a softie. 

spiderman: Proudly. 

spiderman: Your turn!

Fine. I normally read non-fiction, and Mrs. Crosby is the sole exception to that besides a few classics here and there. I paint when I’m stressed. My favourite movie is Pride and Prejudice, but I tell people it’s Inception. And I also secretly love cats. 

spiderman: You sound unbearably cute.

Cute? Jesus Christ.

spiderman: You do! 

spiderman: Tell me something no one else knows about you.

Lol, the Pride and Prejudice thing is a well-kept secret.

spiderman: Cmon, Em.

MJ can feel the dreaded vulnerability demon sink its claws into her as she types out her response, but she does her best to shake the anxiety away. He doesn’t know who she is. 

My dad and I haven’t spoken in years. I actually don’t even know where he is. Is that juicy enough for you?

spiderman: Shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to pressure you into telling me anything. 

No, it’s okay. I’m pretty sure I’m over it. We were never that close. 

spiderman: It’s none of my business, so feel free to tell me to fuck off, but what happened?

She takes a deep breath, reminding herself that he wouldn’t be able to hurt her or spread any rumours if he doesn’t know who she is. 

After my mom died, he kinda lost it. Got into drugs and lost all their money to gambling. Then he got desperate and spent my college fund. I was sent to this foster home for the last few years of high school and he got arrested my senior year for drug possession. That was the last update I got, and he could still be in jail for all I know. 

spiderman: God, that’s awful. I’m sorry. It’s insane to me that you went through all of that and still ended up at MIT. Fucking incredible. 

Thanks, Spider-Man.  God, I need a better nickname for you. 

spiderman: Hm. My middle name is Benjamin. Make it Ben. 

Deal. You gotta tell me something now. 

A minute or two go by before he responds. 

Ben: My parents are gone, too. They died when I was a kid, so I don’t remember much, but all I have is my aunt. Her and my uncle took me in after they passed, and I owe everything to them. When my uncle died, my aunt fell apart. She still struggles with it. She still took care of me and never let me see her break down, but a part of her died with him. It made me terrified of love.

What do you mean?

Ben: Like, what my aunt went through is probably what I’m most afraid of. Being so completely in love with someone and sharing everything with them, thinking you have all the time in the world to be with them. But that’s never the case, because your time with them could end at any given moment. I refuse to be blindsided like that. 

Don’t you think it’s better to know both love and experience loss than to never know love at all?

Ben: Love, sure, but I’m talking about the kind of love that my aunt and uncle had. The kind most people won’t ever experience. You know, where there’s no one in the world except you and them, where you forget who you were before loving them, where you literally can't move on after they’re gone. 

That’s what my parents had. 

Ben: It’s a dangerous thing. 

Ben: I wonder if Jack and Kenna ever got this deep.

Ha! Doubt it

-

MJ falls asleep that night with her phone tucked to her chest, right above her heart. Each beat is full of feeling: happiness and fear and caution and care. 

Her dreams star a version of herself that is loved wholly and unconditionally like his aunt and uncle. In them, she is carefree and vulnerable and everything she has never been and she is beside Ben the entire time. 

When she wakes up, she wonders why the Ben in her dreams had looked like Peter Parker.

Chapter Text

For the next few days after the conversation with Em, Peter can’t get his mind off of how vulnerable he’d been. He’s not familiar with the feeling and he’s not sure he wants to be, but something about opening up to her and her reciprocation didn’t freak him out as much as it should have. 

He’d told her the truth: being in love terrifies him and so does everything that comes with it. That includes vulnerability, and the deep conversation had sounded like one he would have with a partner. It should freak him out. It should have him anxious and ready to ghost her the way he had with countless women who’d even hinted at wanting to get personal. 

Perhaps Em’s different because she isn’t real. She exists, and he knows that, but falling in love with her isn’t really on the table due to the whole penpal-esque connection of theirs. The pressure isn’t there, so an emotional connection isn’t scaring him. Contrary to that, actually, he finds himself wanting to dig deeper; to peel back more layers to all that is Em. He kind of wants to know her real name.

But that would mean the end of their friendship. Peter knows himself. He’d run away. 

Just like he did with Felicia. 

He’d met Felicia Hardy, the campus flirt, at the beginning of their second year at MIT. Everyone already knew Peter Parker to sleep around, and she had a similar reputation. They’d hooked up within a week and for the first few months, that’s all it was. He hadn’t even learned her last name until three weeks into sleeping with her. Peter and Felicia worked because they wanted the same thing: casual sex and casual sex only. 

In January of their sophomore year, they decided to turn their not-relationship into a relationship. It wasn’t because they’d actually connected though. It was because everyone assumed they were dating anyway and she’d needed a date to her cousin’s wedding, not wanting to introduce him as her fuckbuddy. Really, it was just convenient. The wedding was in February, and during the reception, she’d confessed that she wanted more than just sex. 

Needless to say, their relationship didn’t last past that conversation. He felt terrible but she understood. And that’s why Felicia was so great. She never invested herself into anything, so she was fine with it besides a little bruise to the ego. 

He still feels bad, actually, but not because he thinks she’s still torn up over him. It’s because deep down, he dreams about falling in love with somebody and finding happiness with them. He’s a romantic, despite his refusal to do anything about it. 

And maybe, if he didn’t put on a suit most days after school to try and protect the people of Boston, he’d be less hesitant to let himself fall in love. 

Because being Spider-Man means that he isn’t just terrified of losing someone he loves. It means that he’s equally terrified of them losing him. 

The daydream he has frequently of a wife and a baby and a happy home often turns into a waking nightmare. 

The nightmare varies. Sometimes, he leaves them to take down another villain, promising to come home soon, only to meet his end and break his promise. The woman he loves is made a widow and left to raise their baby alone. A baby with his eyes: a painful reminder of what they lost. Of the choice he made: the mask instead of his family. 

Sometimes, he imagines coming home from patrol and finding their bodies; their lives taken by his enemies. Other times, a twisted version of this nightmare torments him: he finds them alive, but in evil hands, and he can’t save them. This version is far worse because he’s forced to watch them die. His entire world is taken from him and he’s helpless to stop it. All because he chose Spider-Man. He’s the one that kills them.

So it doesn’t matter how much Peter craves romance and connection. Any chance of romantic success was taken from him almost ten years ago. He’s made peace with that now. 

And this is why Em is safe.

-

It’s Saturday night, and for Peter, it’s the one night a week he doesn’t patrol unless the city really needs him. Tonight’s no different — Ned, Johnny and Abe had convinced him to try a new bar downtown. Normally, he’d have done the convincing, but for some reason he’s not in the mood to go out. He’s only joined them because Ned had pulled the birthday card. That fucker. Technically, his birthday’s on Wednesday, but Ned’s always been too persuasive for his own good. 

They find an available pool table and set up to play after grabbing their drinks, and whilst Ned and Johnny start playing, Abe pulls Peter aside. 

“What’s up, man?” 

Peter tries to look confused. “What do you mean?”

It doesn’t work. Abe shoots him a look that says: Don’t be an idiot. “You’re the party animal, dude. Usually, by this time, you’ve got some girl sipping your beer and laughing at whatever godawful pun you’ve thrown at her.” Abe shudders. 

“They aren’t awful,” Peter says defensively.

“They’re the worst, man. I seriously don’t know how that works so well every time.” 

They both chuckle. “Ladies love science puns. You’re just a hater.” 

“Point is,” Abe continues, “you’re sulking. You never sulk, not when you’re surrounded by hot girls that — for whatever reason — want to fuck you after a single chemistry pun. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

And Abe’s right. The bar’s full of beautiful women. Last week, he would’ve been in heaven. 

“I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” Abe pats him on the shoulder, keeping his eyes on Ned and Johnny as they continue their game. “Get it off your chest, Pete. I got you.”

Peter takes a deep breath. “Trust me, it’s stupid. It’s this girl.”

He watches as Abe’s eyes shoot to him, full of surprise. “Don’t tell me Parker’s got his first crush.”

“I don’t know. No. I mean, I don’t even know her name.” Abe’s brow furrows in confusion. “It’s a really long story, but I found something of hers that had her number on it, so I texted her to return it, and we’ve been talking ever since.”

His friend nods slowly. “How long ago was this?”

“Like, two weeks ago.”

“Have you met her?”

Peter sighs. “Nope. That’s the thing. I don’t even know what she looks like. The whole thing is so…middle school.”

Abe nods again. “Stranger danger. She could be a fifty-year-old dude.”

“She’s not. She goes to MIT.”

“There are fifty-year-old dudes who go to MIT, you know.”

“I know that, but just…trust me, she’s not.” Peter feels his cheeks heat up involuntarily. 

“Peter Parker!” Abe whisper-yells, clapping him on the back. “You haven’t met, so you haven’t fucked…so, what?”

He can feel his blush deepen. “That’s not the point, man. It’s more than that. She’s…she’s so smart. And she’s got this really witty sense of humour. Seriously, she’s one of the funniest people I’ve ever talked to.”

Abe just watches him with a slight smile as he continues. 

“And…I dunno. She feels safe. Talking to her makes me happy. And I don’t even know her name.”

“So why the fuck haven’t you asked?” Abe questions incredulously. “Why haven’t you met up with her yet? That makes no sense.”

“Because…” he struggles to find the right explanation without giving too much away. “Because it would complicate things. You know I don’t do relationships, and she seems to prefer the anonymity, too. It’s easier to be vulnerable with someone that doesn’t know your name.”

“Like a secret identity,” his friend smirks. Peter chuckles at the irony, 

“I guess so?” 

“Peter! Abe!” Ned shouts at them, buzzed off his third pint. “We’re setting up the next game! Doubles?”

Abe claps Peter on the back again. “Well, that wasn’t stupid, but it does sound complicated.” 

Peter nods in agreement, grabbing a cue from the rack above the table. 

“A word of advice, though, Pete?” He turns to Abe, watching him grab his own cue. “Self-sabotage is your worst enemy. Every time you find something that makes you happy, you immediately convince yourself that you don’t deserve it and continue punishing yourself instead.”

A painful lump forms in his throat as Abe continues. 

“Let go. Just this once.” 

With that, he leaves Peter and joins their other friends like he hadn’t just called him out perfectly. Peter just stands there for a few seconds, willing the sob in his chest away. 

He spends the rest of the night in the corner of the crowded bar with his friends. Throughout the night, he turns down conversations with several attractive women that come up to hit on him, remaining polite but uninterested. 

Peter’s mind stays on Em. They’ve been talking every day, and the only reason they aren't deep in conversation now is because he’s with friends and she’s on a date. He’d felt a twinge of jealousy when she’d told him about it earlier that day, one that she’d immediately spotted. 

You must really like me, spiderman, she’d teased. Don’t worry, I’m sure he’s not as well-read as you. 

Of course, her jokes didn’t erase any of the misplaced jealousy he felt, but it lightened his mood tenfold. 

With my luck, he’ll have read Crosby’s entire body of work, he’d joked with her. 

It scares him how much he misses her when they’re apart, even though technically, they’re always apart. The ridiculousness of the situation should turn him off from her, but it doesn’t.

When Peter gets home, it’s nearing 2am and he’s a little tipsy from however many pints he’d had. Perhaps it’s the alcohol that encourages him to text her now instead of waiting until the morning to hear about her date. 

How did it go?

His phone dings with her reply about five minutes later. He’s relieved she’s awake. 

Em: If you must know, he prefers Jennifer Young to Kathryn Crosby.

More of a historical smut guy? 

Em: Definitely. 

So, too vanilla for you. That’s too bad. 

Em: The opposite, actually. You’d be surprised. 

He feels that twinge of jealousy again. Had she just gotten laid? And if so, why did it matter?

Oh, it went that well? 

Em: Nah, nothing really happened. He’s studying architecture. Wouldn’t stop bragging about his latest design. I don’t think I got a word in the whole night. 

Damn, that sucks. Not for Peter, though. 

Em: I’m not torn up about it. The only reason I went was to get laid. 

Been frustrated lately?

Em: You have know idea. 

You could’ve just told me that instead of spending hours with a boring douchebag. 

Em: Oh yeah? And how would that help?

Don’t act like that orgasm wasn’t mind-blowing, Em. 

Em: Can’t lie, it was pretty great. I don’t think I’ve ever cum that fast in my life. 

You flatter me. 

Em: No, really. You got me wondering what that dirty mouth of yours is capable of if it did all that over text. 

I could show you?

Em: Very funny. 

That wasn’t a proposition to come over or anything, Em. 

I’ve just been dying to hear your voice. 

Em: Did you just offer me phone sex

If you want. 

A minute later, Peter’s phone buzzes with a phone call. He can barely hear it over the pounding of his heart, and he takes a second to take a deep breath. 

He picks it up on the next ring. “Em?”

“That was pretty confident of you.” Oh, god. Her voice is beautiful. It’s not high-pitched but it’s breathy and articulate and so fucking pretty.

“Well, yeah. You just complained about needing an orgasm, didn’t you? It wasn’t too much of a risk.”

She hesitates. “You know, I swear you sound familiar.”

The second she says it, Peter realises that so does she. He racks his brain but can’t place where he’s heard her voice. “So do you.”

“Whatever. We go to the same school. I’m not too surprised.”

“True.”

“How was your night?”

“Went to this bar with a few friends. Couldn’t stop thinking about you on your date.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yep. Kept thinking about Mr. Jennifer Young charming the literal pants off of you.”

“I wish.”

“Couldn’t shake the image of some hunk getting to make you cum over and over again.”

“Mm, so it really irked you, then.”

“Not anymore, though.”

“Not anymore.” Her voice gets impossibly breathier. 

“What are you wearing, baby?

Peter can practically hear her eye-roll. “How original.”

“Em. What are you wearing.”

A beat. Then: “Oversized tee. But I’m wearing a lace set under that.”

“Yeah? Did you wear that under your dress tonight?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to take off the shirt for me.”

He hears shuffling. “It’s off now.”

“Good.” Peter has no idea where his confidence is coming from with her. “I want you to get that vibrator you told me about last week.”

She doesn’t respond, but he can tell she’s obeying him from the creak of her bedsprings. “Cheeky, Spider-Man.”

He ignores her. “Turn it on and leave it against your panties.”

A weak “Okay,” is the only reply he gets, and he can hear the insistent buzz of the toy through the phone. “Shit.”

“Did you think about me tonight?”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She teases, even with a toy against her panties. 

“Yeah. So answer my question.”

“Mm, a few times.”

“Did he offer to take you home?”

“Yeah. His roommate’s gone for the weekend. He said we’d have the place to ourselves.”

“And what did you say, Em?”

“I said no.”

“Why?”

“Shit. Because he wouldn’t make me cum. He would’ve only cared about himself. I wasn’t into that.”

Peter tsks, smirking. “What a shame. Lucky me, though. You’re here talking to me with a vibe between your legs, and I’m the reason you’re gonna cum. Not him.”

Despite it all, she snorts. It’s unbearably cute. “Lucky you indeed.”

“Oh, absolutely. He doesn’t know what he’s missing.” Peter switches the phone to his left hand, freeing his right to palm his stiffening cock over his trousers. “If it were me, I would’ve taken you home and got you out of that little dress the second I could. I would’ve gotten to see that pretty underwear you mentioned.”

“Hold on a sec,” Em whispers. He can hear more shuffling, waiting for about a minute before his phone dings. He realises what it is the second she chuckles. 

“You didn’t.”

“See for yourself.”

“Talk about cheeky.” He grumbles, moving to see the picture she’s taken and sent him. An instinctual growl rips from his chest as he’s gifted a view of an unbelievable set of black lingerie. Em’s got a mirror on the wall next to her bed, it looks like, because she’s posing on her side again with the phone strategically held in front of her face. Her breasts sit in a revealing push-up bra, and against the matching panties, a white magic wand is positioned to torture her clit. “Fuck!” 

His cock, now achingly hard, throbs in his trousers. Peter’s quick to undo them as he groans into the phone. “Em, Jesus Christ.”

“I take it you like the set.”

“You’re so sexy,” he breathes as he grips his dick through his briefs. “I can’t wait to make you cum.”

“Do it, then,” she whimpers. 

Fuck. “Turn up the vibrator.” She does. “Against your clit. Under your panties this time.” She does. 

“Fuck,” she moans. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever heard. 

“Ever since the first time we did this, I can’t stop thinking about fucking you. And the fantasy just keeps getting dirtier. You, fuck, you drive me crazy.”

“What do you mean, dirtier?”

“Yesterday I imagined web— tying your hands to my headboard and overstimulating you until you couldn’t move,” he explains gruffly, finally freeing himself from the confines of his boxers. He hears her whine. “I imagined making you cry, overwhelmed with how good I’m making you feel. I bet you cry so pretty, baby.”

“Oh, god.”

“After I finished with my fingers, I’d flip you over onto your stomach and fuck into you from behind. You like having someone pull your hair while they fuck you?”

“It’s one of my biggest turn-ons. The last guy I fucked, he…he’d either be pushing my face into the mattress or tugging my hair and I fucking loved it.”

“You like it rough, then?”

“Every time.”

“Dirty girl. Fucking made for me, I swear. I want you to turn the toy up all the way and tell me what else gets you off.”

More shuffling, then a whine neither of them expect. “Fuck, it’s too…I can’t take it.” 

“You have to. Now tell me what else gets you soaked.”

Her response trips over moans and gasps. “The- the last guy he- he’d tell me off every t-time I moaned and he…he eventually got f- fuck- he got fed up and sh-shoved his fingers in my mouth.” The last few words are rushed as the wand in her panties torments her mercilessly; the buzz loud and clear through the phone. 

Peter curses and pumps his cock quickly as he imagines fucking her the same way. “Such a good girl. Just want someone taking charge, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she gasps.

“Is the vibrator too much for you, Em?”

“God!” She sobs. “It hurts. I’m so sensitive.”

“You wanna stop?”

“No, no, no.” She pleads. “I can take it, I can take it.”

“Good girl.” He’s so fucking close. 

“Say it again.” The words are a gasp and he knows she’s right on the edge. 

“You like that? Being called a good girl? Just want to be good for me so I’ll mention how well you take it?”

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” she whimpers in a panicked tone, right before a high-pitched sob tumbles out of her. 

“You sound even prettier when you cum than I imagined.”

She doesn’t respond, gasping breathlessly for a few seconds. It’s her fucked-out whimper when she comes back to earth that makes him lose it, and he releases with a groan into his hand. 

“You sound pretty too,” Em whispers once he’s finished. 

“Fuck, baby.” He’s exhausted. 

“That was…” 

“I know.”

“You wore me out. Jesus. I’m literally about to pass out.”

“Ditto.” He’s quick to go wash his hands, sleepy from the climax and the alcohol combined. 

That’s how Peter falls asleep Saturday night: Em against his ear, right after the cliche of phone sex, both unwilling to hang up the phone.

-

Tuesday creeps up on him, and soon enough, he’s in Dunn’s lecture again. Today, they’re working in their partnerships, so he sits next to Michelle as she talks his goddamn ear off about the presentation. 

“—And I can’t meet up after the lecture today, because one of the kids I tutor rescheduled, so we’ll have to do it a different day this week. Are you even listening to me?”

“Yeah. You could’ve just said you had plans. Would’ve saved both of us some time.”

She glares at him. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” 

It’s clearly sarcasm, but he still replies: “Apology accepted.”

Her jaw clenches in frustration. “When are you free this week.” It’s not a question, it’s a threat. 

“You interested?” He chuckles. Michelle drops her head in her hands and he feels a little guilty. Fair. That was pretty annoying. “Fine, fine. I can do Thursday, but I don’t know exactly what time. Ned wants to hang out.”

“Fine. Give me your phone.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“God, you don’t ever stop, do you? I need your phone so I can give you my number. It’s only so you can let me know what time you want to meet up. Jesus.”

“Whatever.” Peter snaps, tossing his phone at her. She dials her number into the keypad, tapping the screen aggressively in annoyance. 

Suddenly, she drops his phone onto the table in front of her with a gasp.

“Hey, what the fuck?” He says angrily, snatching his phone from where it landed. It’s not until he glances at the screen that he registers why she dropped it. 

He already has Michelle’s number. 

The familiar contact profile under her number taunts him, mocks him through the screen.

Em.

Chapter Text

“Em?!” Peter’s the first to speak after what feels like hours of silent, shocked tension. 

Michelle’s in complete disbelief. There’s no fucking way that Ben (the kind, funny, smart, caring sexting pro) and Peter (the irritating, selfish, undeserving douchebag) are the same person. Things like this happen in nightmares, right? 

And yet, as she finally makes eye-contact with Peter next to her, she knows that a simple pinch won’t shake the bad dream. 

Once she’s processed it as much as she really can in the moment, Michelle feels herself go into autopilot as she grabs her stuff and leaves him without a word, bolting for the door. She doesn’t look back to see his reaction and doesn’t hear him say anything as she leaves, which for that, she’s grateful for. Their worlds feel like they’ve been flipped upside down, and she doesn’t care if that’s a dramatic way to put it. Because if she’s being honest, nothing has ever shocked her like this. Nothing. 

She’s never left a lecture early in her life, and the fact that it’s the last thing on her mind is proof that the reveal’s shaken her. 

Michelle heads straight to her apartment, not once looking back or thinking it through. All she can fucking think about is Peter. And Ben. The two of them actually being one. There’s no way there’s no way there’s no way, she repeats to herself like a broken record. It makes no sense. 

She recalls the conversation they had recently, the one where she’d been more vulnerable than she’s ever been in her life. As she remembers things they’d shared with each other, personal things, secrets that they trusted each other with, she feels her shock dissipate and pure fucking anger replace it. 

How could she be so stupid?

How could she open up like that to someone she hadn’t known? How dare she share such raw emotion with him? 

Michelle’s angry because, now, Peter Parker knows things about her that she’s never told anyone else. No one but him knows about her parents or about her ridiculously tragic childhood and she’s always been so fucking careful to keep her cards close to her chest. Things had been perfectly fine that way, but now, everything is absolutely ruined. 

Because the one person she’s opened up to since her mother died turns out to be the person she hates the most. 

She finds herself unlocking her front door ten minutes later, her mind so distracted that she’s genuinely surprised she’s made it home safely. She can hear one of her roommates playing Kid Cudi at an inconsiderately loud volume, but MJ couldn’t care less. Actually, she’s glad there’s noise, because as she walks to her bedroom she feels a sob in her throat. If she’s gonna cry about it, at least good old Cudi’s got her back. 

And she does cry. 

Every tear that escapes her eyes after she shuts her door does so without her permission. She’s never cried about a boy before, and up until now, it was something MJ’d been proud of: rarely investing any emotion. Relying on logic. 

“If you expect disappointment, you’ll never really get disappointed.”

With Ben, though, she’d never considered his identity being one she not only knew but disliked. 

Worst of all, even worse than the secrets they’d shared, is the fact that the best orgasms she’s ever experienced have been because of him. Michelle doesn’t think anyone’s struck her libido like that in her life, and god, the fact that it’s Peter fucking Parker has her fuming. Some karma that is. 

Actually, no. That’s not the worst thing; rather, a close second. The worst thing about her current situation is that they can’t just avoid each other and never speak about it. Her grade in Dunn’s class relies on Peter. They have no choice but to continue working one-on-one for the next eight weeks. 

Fuck, she silently yells, collapsing on her bed in a panic. What the hell happens now?

**

After Michelle leaves the lecture, Peter genuinely thinks he’s in a state of shock. Unlike her, running out on instinct, he doesn’t think he can even move. 

He notices more than a few fellow students watch her hurry out, hearing curious murmurs around him. He knows he’s not being conspicuous, either, because once she’s gone, Gwen and Ned tap him on the shoulder from their seats behind him. 

“Dude, what was that about?” Ned asks, frowning. “Are you good? You don’t look good.”

Gwen pipes up, genuine concern etched on her face. “Yeah, you look pale, Peter,” she murmurs. “What happened?”

“I…” he struggles, completely dazed. “It’s…nothing. Nothing. I’m gonna…” he gives up on the distracted response and instead grabs his backpack and follows Michelle’s lead, leaving the room without another word. 

Thankfully, she’s already left the building, because Peter doesn’t know what he’d say to her right now. That’s probably expected. But still. 

He, in turn, heads towards his dorm room, only a few buildings away. 

For the last month, Em has been the best part of his day. He means that. More often than not, he’s smiling stupidly at his phone when they’re in conversation. She’s so much fun. And she’s beautifully caring. Things that he’d never label Michelle. The contrast between the two stuns him. 

But…if Em was fun and caring and sweet and passionate…that means he’s never really known Michelle at all. It means that Michelle’s the one who’s made him crack up in the middle of the night with her witty humour. It’s been Michelle who he’s bared himself to, and even though it was the tip of the iceberg, he’s never been that honest about his childhood with someone. The conversation hadn’t even been long and yet he’d felt so safe and trusted her anyway. Everything that normally would’ve terrified him felt comfortable and easy. 

And it had felt that way with Michelle. 

A huge part of him is angry, of course, since she’s always irritated him to no fucking end. 

The anger is equal to the part of him that is unsure. 

Does this mean that the admiration and attraction he has for Em is now for Michelle? He’s pretty sure none of that attraction is gone. What does that mean? Michelle’s always been pretty, but he’d never thought about her like that until she’d told him to call her Em. 

And what on earth happens now? They still have almost two more months of required revision together. How are they supposed to navigate something as complex and confusing and specific as this? What is she thinking?

**

MJ doesn’t leave her apartment for two days. 

It’s not as dramatic as it sounds. Wednesdays are lecture-free, so she’s never on campus then anyway. 

But Thursday is the day that she and Peter agreed to meet for the presentation, rescheduling because of her tutoring job. It’s with gritted teeth on Thursday morning that she texts Peter Parker, but not before removing ‘Ben’ as the contact name and leaving it blank. 

What time should I be at the library 

He texts back within seconds. 

643-1187: I’m heading to Ned’s at 4. 20 mins.

ok

At least we’ll get it over with, MJ reminds herself, grabbing her laptop. 

**

Peter arrives at the library first, sitting in their usual spot. He only waits for about two minutes before he watches Michelle arrive. She’s in an oversized sweatshirt and jeans, and it takes him one glance at her face to know that she’s upset. 

Michelle sits across from him as she always does, setting up her laptop without a single petty insult towards him. 

“Hey, erm—“ he starts.

“No.” Her voice is firm and she brushes a stray curl from her face before continuing. “We have a lot to work on.”

Peter huffs, clearing his throat. “Actually, considering the fact that none of this is due until December, I think the other thing is a little more important right now.”

She plays dumb. “What other thing.”

“Don’t do that,” he scoffs. “Seriously. I think we should talk about it. I’m not doing eight weeks of this.”

“What is there to talk about?” She’s seething. 

Peter sets down his computer. rubbing a hand over his face in impatience. “You know what, Michelle? Normally, I’d agree. We tend to really get at each other’s throats every time either of us opens our mouth, so usually, silence is preferable. But now, after Tuesday, we can’t do that. I can’t do eight weeks of silence that feels unbearably loud because it’s full of everything we won’t say to each other.”

She exhales, meeting his eyes with an unreadable expression. 

“I just…please. I can’t do that. Not after finding out that the person who I’ve gotten to know, gotten to like, was you the whole time. Not after realising that my perception of you was completely wrong and that you’re actually—“

“Just…shut up!’ Michelle interrupts him, squeezing her eyes shut. “God, Peter! I don’t want to do this. I can’t.” She starts shoving her laptop back into her bag, getting up to head for the exit. 

Peter follows her in exasperation. They both ignore the deathly glare one of the librarians shoot them, likely about the noise they hadn’t realised they were making. As they leave the library, Peter hears thunder clap and rain begin to pour. 

Wonderful.

“Michelle!” He yells. When she turns back to glare at him, he throws his hands up in the air. “Running away only makes things worse.”

“Fuck you, Parker.” She hisses, turning away from him again to continue walking away. He follows her insistently until they reach the next building over. 

“Em.” It’s a quiet murmur, her nickname, but it makes her stop in her tracks. 

“Don’t fucking call me that.” Michelle stalks toward him until she’s poking his chest with an angry finger. 

He lets out a helpless breath, and it’s only then that he notices how soaked they both are from the rain. “Why not?”

“You don’t deserve it.” Her voice and expression shift from anger into something close to sadness or hurt. “You don’t — god, Peter.” There are tears in her eyes that she’s refusing to let fall. 

“After you left the other day, I spent so much time going over our conversations and I need you to know that I don’t regret any of it,” he confesses. “It’s okay if you do. But I don’t. If you want to go back to hating each other, fine. If you want to beg Dunn for a different partner so we won’t ever have to talk to each other again, fine. I’m not exactly eager to be friends or whatever, either. But we can’t ignore what happened.”

“I fucking hate you, Peter.” Her voice has never sounded this small. “Just because I didn’t mind talking to a stranger that happened to be you doesn’t change a fucking thing.”

“I agree! But you know what? I think you’re lying to yourself. I think you liked talking to me, because there’s no way that you made me feel that much and I didn’t do the same to you. There’s just no way.”

Michelle shakes her head, exhaling painfully. “No.”

“And even if, on the off chance, our conversations were one-sided, I still heard you cum. That was last week. You can’t ignore that, Michelle.”

She shakes her head faster this time. “Fuck you.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Fuck you. If I had known that was you, I would never have…and even if I would, with you, sex doesn’t have to be…it’s not… whatever! Just because a few words turned me on, that doesn’t mean—“

“God, shut the fuck up,” he says breathlessly before crashing his lips against hers in the pouring rain.

She doesn’t push him away or curse him out or smack him like he definitely thought she would.

No.

She kisses him back.

For god knows how long, they’re making out angrily in the rain, the kiss deepening every second. Peter slips his tongue into her mouth, gripping her chin with one hand and the other her waist. She’s winding her arms around his neck, reaching up to thread her fingers through his hair and tugging on it with rage. When he breaks from her lips to leave frustrated, open-mouthed kisses to her jaw, she moans, cursing into his hair. 

He tugs her jumper out of the way when he reaches her collarbone, sucking the skin above it; marking her. His thigh pushes hers apart and it’s then that the bulge in his jeans brushes against her upper thigh. He knows she feels it when another moan tumbles out of her. “What the fuck are we doing?” She whispers as he kisses back up her neck. 

In lieu of an answer, he grips her chin again to steal another kiss. “My room is the next building over,” he mutters against her lips. 

After another kiss, she nods desperately. “Let’s go.”

Peter grips her hand quickly and then they’re running ridiculously in the rain, not a single thing on their minds except getting to his room. 

**

MJ doesn’t know how much time passes between Peter kissing her for the first time and right now, with him tugging her into his dorm room and pushing her back against the door to kiss her again, like he can’t get enough of her. She’s never felt so wanted. 

Maybe she would’ve noticed the irony in Peter Parker kissing her like he wants her if said kissing wasn’t making her feel so dizzy. His tongue is demanding and his hands are desperate and MJ swears that nothing has ever felt this sexy in her life. 

He breaks away from her lips suddenly and she lets out a needy whine at the loss. Peter mutters a slew of curses at that, staring at her lips which feel and probably look swollen from his. “I want to fuck you.” He states plainly, flicking his eyes to meet hers directly. “If you don’t want that, I need you to tell me now.”

In her almost-drunken like haze of lust, she moans and slips her hands down to rest on his hips beneath his cotton shirt. As she takes a moment to check him out (he’s even more toned than she thought, holy shit), she forgets his question. 

“Michelle.” He tips her chin up to meet her eyes again. “I need you to tell me what you want.” 

She gasps as his fingers move from her chin to the back of her neck. Everything inside her aches for him. Any nagging reminder of whatever bugged her about Peter is immediately pushed aside and replaced by recollections of the incredible orgasms he’d given her without even touching her.

If they were that show-stopping, she can’t even imagine what having sex with him is gonna feel like. All she knows is that she needs to find out. 

“I want you,” Michelle gasps, feeling his fingers tug the hair at the back of her neck when she admits it. “Please.”

Peter’s eyes rake over her body, pressed against his door, and groans hoarsely in lust. Any possible stupid insecurity she has or would’ve had is dissolved by the heat in his eyes. It’s not a gentle, loving heat, no; it’s a year of pent-up tension and frustration channeled into pure sexual energy. She doesn’t hate it. 

He kisses her again, only breaking away for a moment to mutter: “God, Jones, you drive me crazy.” 

Whether he means it as a compliment or an insult, she doesn’t know. But she doesn’t fucking care. 

Peter picks her up with a surprisingly effortless kind of strength, walking them towards his bed. The next few minutes are a blur as he kisses down her jaw and neck again, setting her down to take off both of their shirts. After they hastily remove their pants, he pushes her onto the cheap twin mattress and falls on top of her. 

He’s quick to land unforgiving kisses down her chest until he reaches the cotton grey bra she’d blindly chosen this morning. With the way he curses under his breath again, though, it could’ve been lacy, black and luxurious. She lets out a bashful whimper when he impatiently grips the bra and yanks it down. She hears a seam ripping but couldn’t care less, because Peter’s groaning as her breasts are finally bare for him. “Fuck, Em.” He hisses, grazing her right nipple with his teeth.

“Shit,” a gasp escapes her. She can’t tell if the sudden rush of wetness between her legs is caused by the feel of his teeth on her nipples or her nickname on his lips. 

“I’m not waiting another fucking second.” He growls, shoving his boxers off and gesturing for her to do the same. In their desperation, her bra remains pushed below her tits, the straps fallen off her shoulders and resting loosely around her upper arms. They’re also too impatient for any foreplay, but MJ doubts they need it with how on edge they are. 

Everything in her shivers in anticipation, without a single thought to the consequences that fucking her sworn rival might bring. 

**

Peter’s never felt this hungry for someone in his life, and (much like Michelle) he doesn’t care to wonder why that is. All he cares about is the feel of her and the sight of her under him, whining and pleading and just as needy as he is. 

Without a second thought, he’s gripping his aching cock and dragging the tip through her dripping folds. They let out a simultaneous moan and then he’s thrusting inside her, sliding home in one go. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” he breathes, watching her head tip back in a silent cry. 

It’s not like he suddenly doesn’t find her annoying anymore just because he’s inside her. Actually, his negative opinion of her is probably why this feels so fucking good. 

Peter’s had sex with people he really liked, people he didn’t care about, people he solely had a physical attraction to, but he’s never fucked someone he dislikes or has tension with. It shouldn’t make sense, and yet it’s the most logical thing in the world: their frustration is what fuels their intimacy. It’s not caution and generosity, it’s competition and fury. Passion isn’t limited to love or joy. Passion, he learns as he thrusts inside her again, can be raw and bitter. 

He fucks her as hard as he can, taking every sob and curse and gasp as a personal win. He grips Michelle’s hips, pinning them to the mattress and bracing himself before he starts pounding into her at an unbelievably fast pace. He huffs smugly when he sees her eyes roll back, nothing but unintelligible nonsense leaving her lips in quiet wails. Her breasts are a particular point of interest for him: they bounce wildly in time with his crazed thrusts. 

Normally, without this much tension built up beforehand, Peter would focus on the experience for the both of them. He’d change positions a few times, feed into a kink or two, and rely on his filthy mouth to ensure numerous orgasms for his partner. 

They’re too far gone for that now, though. 

Because of Peter’s enhanced abilities, his stamina has always been impressive. This is why Michelle falls over the edge long before him, and why she lets out a shriek when he continues just as rough and overstimulates her carelessly on his cock. His ego boosts when he realises she’s uttering his name like a fucking prayer, taking his merciless thrusts like a champ.  “Peter peter peter peter peter” — the whine is constant. 

A few minutes later, she’s clenching around his cock in a second orgasm, her eyes frantically searching his as his pace shows no signs of easing up. “Peter! Peter, Peter — it’s so much,” she cries, half-conscious. He still doesn’t let up, instead shifting his hands so that one holds her down on her lower stomach and the other gropes at her breasts. 

He’s confused at first when he feels movement under the hand on her stomach, only to let out a reckless groan once he realises what it is. “I can feel me inside of you,” he growls in awe. “Fuck!”

Michelle, still dazed and sensitive and teary, only registers what he means when he presses down on her skin. The motion forces his cock to batter her g-spot and she lets out an unexpected scream. Immediately, she’s cumming for the third time around him, and he feels the twitch of his cock warning him of his orgasm. 

Quickly, Peter pulls out, jerking himself off and lifting Michelle’s head off the bed by her hair. She’s gasping as he holds her face there with a grip on her curls, and he moans when she opens her mouth wide, sticking her tongue out in anticipation. “Michelle.” 

And then he’s reaching his peak, the first ropes of his cum landing on her tongue and bottom lip. He gets purposefully reckless, though, and he can tell that she’s not expecting the rest of it to hit her cheeks, nose and the last stripe above her left eye. 

After he’s come down from the most intense high of his life, he releases his grip on her hair and lets her head hit his mattress. Peter doesn’t move, though, caging her torso with a knee on each side as he takes in the sight of her. 

“Baby,” he croaks. She opens her eyes carefully, shuddering beneath his intimidating gaze. 

“Fuck, that was…” Michelle, like him, is lost for words. She watches as he drags two fingers obscenely through his cum on her face and then slips the coated digits in her mouth. He curses when she looks up at him innocently, hollowing her cheeks to suck off the taste of him. 

He pleads with his dick to stay down and decides to change the subject. “Erm, do you want me to get you a…?” He mimes wiping his face.

“Yeah.” Michelle says, still dazed. “Then I’ll grab my stuff.”

Peter doesn’t know why her implied plan to leave is surprising to him. It’s not as if she’s gonna stay the night or anything, and he honestly has zero clue where they even stand right now. So instead of making things even weirder than they already are, he just nods and grabs her a washcloth.

**

After they’ve cleaned up, MJ follows Peter to his front door. She has no idea what to say to him and she’s certain he’s equally confused. In lieu of a proper goodbye, she flashes him a tight-lipped smile and says: “See you on Tuesday.” It’s a mumble, one clearly full of discomfort and unfamiliarity. 

“Tuesday,” he nods. His hair is still fucked up from her fingers and his lips still red and swollen from her kisses. 

Without another word, she turns and walks away before she can feel anything else. 

Overwhelmed doesn’t even begin to cover it. 

Chapter Text

Peter and Michelle spend the next four days apart without a single text. He assumes she’s still processing Thursday evening, because he certainly is. It’s all he can fucking think about.

After she left — around 5pm — he realised that he’d completely blown Ned off.. He swore to himself then that his best friend would never, ever find out that the reason he didn’t hear the four FaceTime calls was because he was balls-deep in the annoying classmate he’d always ranted about. Seriously, though…if he can’t even understand the situation himself, how can Ned?

If someone had told him a mere week ago that he’d be having mind-blowing sex with Michelle Jones-Watson, Peter would’ve laughed out loud. 

Yet here he is. He knows what it feels like to be inside her; what she sounds like, what her orgasms look like, and not an ounce of him feels repulsed or put-off.  Not only that, but he feels the exact opposite: it was fucking awesome and he wants to do it again. 

Over the weekend, Peter waits for the expected regret to set in. Friday goes by, then Saturday, then Sunday and Monday. He assumes the complexity of the situation just needs time to settle. 

But when Tuesday morning rolls around, it still hasn’t come. He’s freaked out that he’s not freaked out. What the fuck is he supposed to do now? Dunn’s lecture catches up to him like the gigantic rock in Raiders of the Lost Ark — racing him to his fate. 0

I could really use that kind of luck right now, he thinks as he anxiously enters the room, knowing she’s gotten there early. 

For the first time since…well, ever, she doesn’t glare at him when she spots him or completely ignores him as she usually does. When he finds her eyes, they’re already on his, and she offers him a small smile. 

Of all the possibilities he’d imagined — anger, avoidance, embarrassment, and every other negative emotion — a fucking half-smile would never have occurred to him. He’s surprised but hopeful. After everything he’s learned about Michelle through Em, continuing their hatred for each other makes him uncomfortable. 

Throughout the lecture, they sit on opposite sides of the room as they’ve done every week. They accidentally make eye contact a few times, and to Peter’s relief, her gaze remains more positive than he’s ever seen it. 

Which isn’t saying much, but he’ll take what he can get. 

Before long, Dunn wraps up another lecture. Every Tuesday that he and Michelle have met in the library after class, they’ve walked there separately, even though the library was only a few buildings away. It had been a way to avoid each other as long as they could, and they’d created a routine: she always went ahead of him. It worked. Her freakishly long legs allow her to walk twice as fast, saving them a few precious minutes apart every week. 

It’s this routine that causes him to blink twice when she doesn’t immediately rush out of the room and instead locks eyes with him. He watches curiously as she heads in his direction, towards the set of doors near him rather than the set near her. 

When she’s close, Michelle jerks her head towards the exit. “Library?”

“Erm, yeah, of course.” Peter’s quick to grab his things and follow her out of the room. 

They walk down to the library in silence, but it’s not the uncomfortable, suffocating silence they’re used to. It’s…nice. 

Michelle’s the first one to say anything once they’ve settled into their usual spot. “So…erm, before we get into the project, I wanted to…” she exhales, furrowing her brows slightly. After a moment, she huffs a small laugh. “I’m kind of the worst at having serious conversations, but I was thinking we should probably, you know, talk about…Thursday…because honestly, I don’t want things to be super weird for the rest of the semester.”

“Yeah, definitely.” Peter’s relieved. “I- I completely agree. I didn’t know how you felt about it, and I didn’t even know how I felt about it, and I was, just…super fucking anxious to see you again.”

“Me too,” she admits quietly. “And I know that, er, hooking up and all makes things super complicated, so I wanted to…” she fiddles with her sleeve. “We need to stop being such dicks to each other.”

The surprises just keep fucking coming, Peter thinks, timidly running his hand through his curls. “I know.”

“I realised that I’ve spent so much energy on hating you, and it’s exhausting. Obviously, a few things about you frustrate me, and I’m not saying I’m gonna do a whole 180. But whatever’s going on between us is way too complex to continue the way we were.”

He takes it all in, nodding in agreement. “I agree, and— and same, but I’m confused. This is, like, honestly the last thing I expected,” he confesses. “You’ve never had a problem with complicated before. Tell me if I’m wrong, but there’s got to be another reason you’re willing to make some sort of peace with me.”

Michelle, he can tell, would be a terrible liar. It’s obvious to him because the moment he finishes the sentence, her cheeks flush and her knee starts to bounce rapidly. “Well…” she mumbles.

Ah, so there is something else. Peter leans forward in encouragement. 

She groans, hanging her head in her hands. Her long curls hide her persistent blush and he can barely hear her as she stutters: “ThursdaywasfunandIkindofwanttodothatagainmaybe?”

“Wha—?” He’d caught maybe 10% of that. 

Michelle lifts her head from her palms, the blush having deepened. “Thursday was fun and I kind of want to do it again?” It’s a squeak with a definite question mark after it. 

And fuck, Peter can’t help but grin. “Are you propositioning me?”

“Not if you’re gonna react like that.”

“I’m not making fun, I swear. I just, like…did not think that you’d admit it.”

“Er…admit it?” 

“Well, yeah. The sex was incredible and you came three times. I kinda figured you didn’t hate it.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Michelle grumbles. “And seriously, keep it down if you’re gonna talk about sex in a school library, idiot.”

He lowers his voice but not without smirking. “What, like you kept it down last week?”

“Cut it out or consider my proposition revoked,” she whispers threateningly. Peter just grins wider. 

“Well, shit. We can’t have that.”

The banter, he realises, mirrors that of Ben and Em’s. It’s them, of course, but joking with her like that in person is ten times as satisfying. 

Peter swears he sees the same conclusion in her eyes when she coughs awkwardly. “We should, er, probably work on the presentation and then revisit that topic of discussion. You know. “

“Sounds good to me.”

**

After she works up the courage to talk to Peter, MJ has to admit that it’s one of the best ideas she’s ever had. 

Parker still irritates her pretty regularly — it’s not like they’d hugged and made up like forgiving toddlers, after all. What’s nice about their current standing is that the annoyance and rival-esque feud of theirs is no longer the focus. 

Well. That’s solely due to the fact that since their conversation, the only interactions they’ve had outside the library occur when one of them booty-calls the other. 

For example. 

That Friday, they figure out that they’re both free and hey, we’re both horny and home alone and whose bedroom should we use this time?

(It ends up being hers. She can’t argue with him when he points out that they’d gone to his last time.)

The sex is just as mind-blowing as the first time, to MJ’s disbelief, and she finds that he’s unfairly strong when he fucks her against the wall of her shower. Seriously, though, she’s utterly stumped on how he’s able to do it so effortlessly. 

She rewards him by dropping to her knees and sucking him off before they could even grab towels, her knees burning on the shitty carpet of her bedroom. She barely notices. Peter’s groans and curses turn her on far more than she’s ready to admit. 

This time, when they part ways, it’s much less awkward. Michelle’s relieved at that and can’t believe her current situation. 

Peter’s texting her the very next day a few minutes after one a.m.

Parker: u up?

She snorts out loud. 

With that line, it’s a hard no. 

Parker: Thought so. Come over. 

She’a definitely not giving in. 

Give me 20 mins. 

Parker: ;)

And fifteen minutes later, MJ’s raising her hand to knock on his door but he swings it open before she can, tugging her inside. 

Like she said earlier, though, their flirty banter doesn’t usually leave either of their beds. When they’re in a lecture or the library, an onlooker wouldn’t assume they’re anything more than occasionally-petty acquaintances. 

That’s how, three weeks after she propositions him, Michelle Jones and Peter Parker have a friends-with-benefits type of arrangement. Friends is definitely an exaggeration, but they rarely quarrel like enemies now, so she’s not sure what to call it. 

The casual agreement seriously couldn’t be any more perfect for them both. MJ’s stopped worrying about her dry spell and Peter’s shockingly slept with the same person twice — something she know’s he’s only done once before. 

(It’s true, Parker’s a slut, but she’s secretly thankful she gets to reap the benefits of all the experience he has.)

For nearly a month now, they’ve fucked almost every other day and have still managed to separate it from their academic relationship. It’s a perfect balance and she ’s able to breathe and she’s desperate for it to stay that way. 

**

It’s been almost a month since Peter and Michelle have formed what he jokingly calls a “sexy truce”. When she’d first suggested it, casually hooking up like this, he’d thought it was the greatest idea of all time. Michelle’s certainly annoying but fuck if she isn’t also ridiculously clever for that one. 

Over time, though, something changes for Peter. He’s not sure what it is exactly, but it feels complicated and unnerving and dangerous. 

The last few times they’ve slept together, she’s come over to his. Her roommates are home more often now and she’s refused to have him over when they are, saying that they’d only bombard her with invasive questions about it. 

That means that the last few times they’ve slept together, she’s leaving too soon with that small smile of hers and he’s watched her go with a strange squeeze in his chest.  That is what he considers unnerving and dangerous and can’t seem to identify despite hours of forfeited sleep. 

To Peter’s dismay, the ache only worsens the next time she comes over. The sex is incredible as always: she’d shyly admitted to a recent fantasy of being gagged and who would he be to deny her? Once he’s stuffed her panties in her mouth, he fucks her with her legs on his shoulders and pins her wrists to the mattress. One particular whine causes him to meet her eyes and in them, he swears he catches a glimpse of something beyond raw desire. It feels familiar, and even whilst fucking her like this, he realises it’s the same gaze he’s caught himself with when he watches her leave. 

All of the sudden his chest feels tight and it’s too difficult, too intimate to keep looking at her like this. 

Michelle lets out a surprised moan when he pulls out of her, gripping her hips as he flips her onto her stomach. Peter chooses to focus on her squeals and gasps once he’s fit inside her again, trying to drown his confusion in the heat of the moment.

After they’re both finished and cleaned up, Peter walks to his sink in boxers to wash his face, just like he always does when she gets ready to leave. This time, though, he doesn’t hear the usual sounds of rustling fabric and the zipper of her jeans. 

Curious, he turns back to his bed and is surprised to see her sitting on his bed, knees held tight to her chest. He melts just a tiny bit when he sees that she’s put on the t-shirt he had on earlier. Michelle just meets his questioning eyes with a ghost of a smile. 

He quickly finishes his face and moves to sit next to her. “Everything okay?”

Michelle nods. “Yeah.” Her tone doesn’t match the reassuring answer at all: it’s sad and small and tight. 

“Michelle.”

“I’m fine, Peter.” Still tight and sad but also angry and he’s worried he’s done something to upset her.”

“Okay.” He exhales. “But if there was something—“

“My mom died seven years ago today,” she admits quietly. They haven’t been personal or vulnerable with each other since they’d called each other different names. The personal nature of her words catches him off-guard. 

“Michelle—“

“You don’t need to say anything. I don’t even know why I just told you that. I don’t know.” He watches her struggle for the right words. “November 18th. It’s my least favourite day of the year. Which is probably expected, I guess, but it’s always felt unbearable and I think this is the first year I haven’t completely collapsed.” Her eyes stay on the carpet below them whilst his stay on her.

He has no idea what to say but his heart shatters for her. 

Michelle lets out a bitter, humourless chuckle. “And not only did I manage to get out of bed today, I also haven't been, like, crippled by immobilising grief the entire day. I know it’s been almost a decade and I should’ve moved on awhile ago but…god, I dread that anniversary the whole fucking year.”

Peter shakes his head fiercely. “Grief and loss don’t have expiration dates, Michelle. There’s…there’s no deadline you’ve missed. You can’t do that to yourself.”

She looks at him then and the tears in her eyes break his heart all over again. Everything in him is desperate to hold her and keep her safe and happy and content. He watches her sniff and blink rapidly. “It’s my fault.”

“What is?”

“What happened to my mom.” 

“Michelle,” he breathes. He can’t take it anymore and moves to wrap his arms around her, tapping her knees in silent request so he doesn’t startle her. When she nods, he envelops her fully in an embrace against his torso. “Please tell me you don’t believe that.”

“It’s one of the last things my dad said to me.”

Peter squeezes his eyes shut, feeling a painful ache in his throat; a repressed sob on her behalf. “What?”

“A few weeks before he got busted, we had this…this stupid argument about me going to a friend’s house. He was angry that I went there so often and I told him it was because his addiction made me terrified of him. It…it did. But he didn’t take it very well. God, I wish I didn’t remember it so…so vividly, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget the exact moment he told me that I the reason he used.” Her body wracks with a shuddered sob. “If I hadn’t slept through my alarm and missed the bus, she’d be alive, he said. And he was right. I’m the reason they’re both gone,”

He feels tears leak past his eyelashes, holding her tight to him as she struggles to breathe. After a minute, he leans back a few inches so he can see her face, her head relying on his shoulder to keep her upright. 

**

If she was even a little bit less of a mess right now, MJ would probably feel embarrassed to share such an intimate moment with someone she’d hated less than a month ago. 

But she is a complete mess. So she doesn’t.

Instead, she timidly meets Peter’s eyes as he watches her with something powerful and important and it feels so fucking strange. 

MJ decides she doesn’t mind it, though, when he reaches up to brush a few stray tears from her face with a tender thumb. His glassy eyes mirror hers and the sight causes her heart to drop to her stomach. 

“Em,” he exhales almost reverently. The heart in her stomach beats deafeningly loud. “You can’t possibly be blamed for what happened to either of them.” His voice, while full of emotion, is firm and sure. “I was the same age when my uncle died. He was out looking for me after we’d had this argument, and happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, and…and someone shot him.” 

Michelle tightens her grip on his bicep. 

“I blamed myself for years. The only reason I don’t anymore is because of my aunt. If she hadn’t been so strong after he died…if she’d directed her grief and anger towards me…I don’t know how I would’ve survived. But you did and you’re here and when I told you I was proud of you, I meant it.”

She feels the urge to break down because no one’s said those words to her face in more than seven years. 

“I’d bet anything that your mom would be, just, overwhelmingly proud of who you’ve become after everything you’ve been through.”

This is what makes her start to cry again and she’s grateful when he holds her to his chest. 

After some time — five minutes or five hours, she isn’t sure — Michelle pulls away from him and brings a hand up to cup his face. She knows he understands what she means by the gesture: that she’s thankful for every word but can’t find the right way to use her own and tell him aloud. 

She’s not sure how, but she just knows he gets it. 

She’s also not sure if it’s him or her who initiates it, but in the next moment, their lips meet and it’s unlike any other kiss they’ve had before. 

There’s lust and want like there always is but this time there’s intimacy and passion and MJ has to fight her every instinct to run from it. She chooses to free herself from fear and doubt just this once. 

It’s not too long before he’s pushing inside her after gently guiding her back to the mattress. She’s so used to needy, rough, careless sex with Peter that when his thrusts remain slow and deep she’s gasping at the overload of new sensations. MJ has never experienced this kind of sex before and she can tell he hasn’t either by the overwhelming vulnerability in his eyes. 

As the pressure builds, they maintain eye contact that she’s normally intimidated by. Instead of feeling exposed and afraid, she feels more connected to him in this moment than she’s felt towards anyone. The intimacy even trumps what Kathryn Crosby dramatically describes love to be. 

Huh? 

She’s caught off guard by her train of thought, but before she can understand why her mind had ended up there, the intensity of Peter’s eyes and his skin and the feel of him inside her is too much and she tumbles over the edge. As she clenches around him, gasping, her eyes stay locked on his. He finishes seconds later the same way and he breathes her name like a prayer against her lips. 

This time, she leaves her clothes strewn across the floor, entangled with his the way their limbs are on the twin bed, heavy with exhaustion. 

And this time, she stays. 

Chapter Text

When MJ wakes the next morning, she’s in his bed. 

Peter’s arms are wrapped protectively around her in his sleep, and when she turns her head slightly to look at him, the air in the room feels like it’s vanished completely. She feels an aching pang in her chest, a shock right underneath her ribs upon taking in his beautiful form. 

She won’t acknowledge that it’s her heart. 

Michelle looks past him at the dingy, digital clock on his bedside table: quarter-to-seven. 

He stirs against her, but remains fast asleep. I can’t be here when he wakes up, she thinks, and grants herself five more seconds to stare at Peter — at his curls, messy from sleep and sex; at his reverent eyelashes, at his figure that is masculine and strong and reckless by day yet so gentle and peaceful and safe as he dreams. 

She allows herself those five seconds, allows her heart those five seconds, and then she’s moving carefully to get out of bed without waking him. It doesn’t take long to redress and get her things before she’s softly shutting the door behind her and going home. 

Last night had felt so different to any other time they’d slept together. The passion was just as prominent but it had shifted from lust to something that should scare her a lot more than it does. 

Michelle thinks back to last night’s conversation and recalls confessing that Peter was the only person she’d opened up to about her childhood. Nothing about that made sense. Rather than finding a close friend or a counsellor or a parental figure, she’d entrusted someone she’s despised for more than a year now. It should feel backwards. But it doesn’t — she trusts him and can’t convince herself not to. 

What do they do now? 

**

Peter’s more disappointed than he’ll ever admit when he wakes up alone. His next thought is the sudden understanding he has of just how deep that disappointment feels. It’s not momentary or simple or light enough for him to brush off as he’s always done. In fact, it’s not disappointment that looms over him like a hurricane.

It’s loss. 

Peter misses her. He’s only been awake for a few minutes and he doesn’t feel groggy or any normal morning confusion. His head is clear and leaves room for her absence to sting. And she’s not even really gone. She lives five minutes away. 

It is here that Peter Parker truly understands what May had meant when she’d described love to him years ago, and her words have stuck with him since — almost like they’ve been waiting for this moment to strike him across the face. 

“You’ll hear lots of people describe loving somebody as the feeling of missing a piece of yourself whenever they’re not around” The words had been spoken with a wistful stare towards Ben’s picture on the console in front of them. They had lost him one year prior. “It didn’t matter if he was a thousand miles away or if he’d gone to pick up the groceries. I’d miss him all the same. The only thing that made it bearable was knowing that he felt the same way about me. And that,” she’d smiled sadly, “is why trying to describe the feeling of love is kind of impossible. You’ll hear so many people talk about it and think you know what it feels like, right? And then you find somebody that just— just turns your whole world upside down. Nothing prepares you for that.”

Her words have never, ever hit him like they are now, seven years after he’d first heard them. 

Peter can also recall what she’d added seconds later with the same sadness that had made him determined to avoid love at all costs. “And nothing prepares you to lose them.”

And all of the sudden it doesn’t matter that he’s barely woken up. His heart pounds in his chest with fear and vulnerability and Michelle Jones. 

He’s betrayed himself. He’s torn down the safety net he’d created for himself years ago: the one weaved in what he thought was protection but realises now it had been fear. Michelle has crept up on him and kicked down the walls around his heart and he’s done nothing to stop her. 

He’s chosen his heart over his head and he’s been reckless and weak and indulgent because

he loves her.

He loves Michelle Jones. He loves the parts of her she’s kept hidden away, likely with the same guarded determination he’s always had. She’s been the biggest surprise of his entire life. There are parts of her he’s uncovered that he doubts she even understands. 

He’d convinced himself that sex was all he cared about. And yet, his undoing has been her soul instead. 

And then he realises that he can’t be in love with Michelle Jones. It isn’t about their petty disagreements or differences or annoyances. It’s about that gut-wrenching nightmare he has. Of losing his lover to the wickedness of his enemies. Of his lover losing him to the very same. 

It’s the nightmare about the woman who his brain couldn’t visualise because there was no reference for her. He’d never seen her face, just her figure in flashes of misery. A couple weeks ago, though, that changed. 

Michelle Jones plays the part of his lover in the horror movie containing his worst fears and he hasn’t just caught a glimpse. He’s been tortured with vivid illustrations of her that burn themselves into his subconscious as if they’re branding his mind permanently. He’s woken up in a cold sweat on more than one occasion, breathless and scared and confused by the panic he feels. The panic caused by the threat of losing her or causing her pain and it’s been plaguing his mind for weeks now. 

His dreams had figured it out a fortnight ago and all he had to do was catch up. And he finally has, but instead of relief, all he knows is worry. 

He can’t love Michelle because if he ever lets her in he will lose her. And he can’t love her in silence to avoid that because doing so, he knows, would be almost as painful.

Peter decides, then, that he cannot love her at all.

**

Michelle texts Peter the next day but tries her best to sound casual. The last time they slept together had blown her mind and freaked her out and she knows that he’s probably in the same boat. 

So obviously, she doesn’t say anything like ‘Hey, what the hell was that?’ or ‘So the other night was weird but I didn’t hate it. Should we do it again?’ 

She keeps it light. 

Want to meet somewhere to get ahead on the project before Tuesday? I’m free this afternoon. 

MJ’s honestly proud of herself for not mentioning how much she wants him to come over, even if it is just for the project. 

Usually, Peter responds in five minutes max unless he lets her know earlier that he’ll be busy. So when five minutes go by and she doesn’t get a response, she’s puzzled and a little anxious and reads her text over again to make sure she hadn’t said anything weird. 

Like a thirteen-year-old with a crush, she curses at herself. Get a grip. He’s probably just busy and hey, if he hadn’t told her so, who cares? He’s not obligated to tell her anything and hey it’s only been five fucking minutes, Michelle. What is wrong with you?

She goes about her day as usual, running a few errands and emailing with a few professors. First an hour goes by, then two and then five without a word from Peter. By six pm, she’s officially worried and gives up on playing it cool. 

You alive, Parker?

Michelle immediately distracts herself after sending the text, watching a past season of Love Island and forcefully investing herself in the petty arguments of Islanders she doesn’t care to recognise. Three more hours go by and her messages remain ignored. 

He’s either dead, or avoiding her — it’s Peter Parker, so it’s one of the two. Neither is ideal. 

And she doubts that he’s dead. 

(Knock on wood.)

By eleven p.m., she’s fully given up, but her stupid fucking anxiety kept Peter on her mind. Had she done something? She knows she hasn’t. Or she thinks she hasn’t. 

I’m not gonna be that girl, Michelle scolds herself. Peter Parker has the ridiculous ability, she’s slowly realised, to make her feel like a shy teenager with a crush. It’s different than that, of course, but it’s the best analogy her mind can conjure whilst fighting through the fog of frustration. 

Within that fog is a locked box containing sadness. She finds that even she can rarely find the key to let it out, and kept unchecked, it overflows against her will. Usually, the occurrence is rare. Maybe four times a year, or something, she’d have the occasional breakdown in her bedroom. Alone. 

But in the last few weeks, it’s happened multiple times, and each time the it would overflow, Peter had something to do with it. 

The box had flooded on the anniversary of her mom’s death. Peter had been there to hold her.

It had flooded with tears that were hot with rage and confusion when she’d found that Ben and Peter were one and the same. 

And now, against every curse word she internally shouts at the box, it begins to overflow with tears of vulnerability that she doesn’t understand. But she hasn’t understood herself for weeks now. New experiences aren’t comfortable for her and she’s had countless of those recently. Truly, it’s exhausted her. 

The part of her that she still recognises — the one unfamiliar with warmth and trust and love — finally kicks in when she forces herself to her feet, trudging towards the bathroom. Wipe the tears off your face and get it together, Familiar Michelle snapped. She hadn’t even realised she’d been crying until her fingertips reach her cheeks.

She needs a better box. 

Michelle slowly tucks herself into bed for the night, determined to shut out anything Peter-related so that she’ll be able to sleep off all the exhaustion and emotion that life had bound to her like weights to her ankles that she feels with every step. 

Enough. She’s had enough. Sleep. 

All of the sudden, a frantic knocking at her bedroom window makes her heart stop completely and then beat a hundred miles a minute. What the fuck. What the fuck was that. What the fuck. 

When she’d wished away the exhaustion and emotion, she’d meant for a well-earned sleep to do the honours, not a crazy noise on her window that for all she knew could be a home invasion or, like, even worse. 

Because who the fuck is knocking on her window like that at 11:32 p.m.?

And who the fuck even gets up to the fourth floor? 

Every theory she creates is embarrassing but the only thing she can focus on is the window and she doesn’t want to open it but she doesn’t want to leave it either and oh shit she really does not want to end up on one of those crime podcasts with random white ladies telling the story of when an unimportant MIT student was murdered in her apartment and who cares about her because the story of her death is worth a bunch of other white ladies exchanging fabricated conspiracy theories and 

“Michelle!” The frantic shout, muffled through the window, instantly identifies the alien-robber-murderer with a single word. 

She jumps out of bed and can’t even think because what the actual fuck—

(—she yanks open her curtains—)

—is Peter fucking Parker doing outside her apartment?

Wait a second. 

It’s Peter but he’s wearing a Spider-Man suit and he’s fucking sticking to her fourth floor window and perhaps even more glaring than those striking details is the blood staining her window through his gloved hands. The source upon a single glance is his abdomen and there’s something lodged, something stabbed, through his skin and oh dear god Peter is bleeding. 

MJ is quick to shove the window open as he struggles inside. Immediately he smells of smoke and she realises that he’s struggling because there’s a massive shard of glass beneath his ribcage and Peter is probably dying and also in a Spider-Man suit and I can’t even think about that because Peter is bleeding and probably dying. 

“Peter?” She finally speaks as his feet finally land on her hardwood floor. It doesn’t sound like her voice. It’s hoarse and quiet and really fucking scared. 

“Em,” he pants, stopping to groan before weakly pointing to her bathroom door. “I need to…I’m so sorry to wake you u—“

He’s interrupted by her arm looping under his as she guides him to the rundown bathtub. 

Peter collapses as soon as they make it there, his knees hitting the tile with a defeated thud. 

“No, no, no, Peter, don’t do this to me. Don’t you dare. I need to get you into the tub and you’re two more steps away. I can’t…” she takes a deep breath, trying and failing to calm herself for the both of them. “I can’t carry you. I need you to take two more steps.”

Half-conscious, he nods, likely mustering what little strength he can to follow her instruction. Any other day she’d be worried about the deafening noise his body makes when he collapses again into the tub, but she couldn’t give a single fuck about the neighbours right now. God, he’s so lucky no goddamn roommates are home. 

Michelle quickly starts filling the bath about half-way and begging, pleading with her brain to function just a tiny bit better. She can’t fall apart right now because he’s got that covered and he’s relying on her to keep him awake. Alive. She doesn’t know. 

“Kit,” he mutters through sharp grimaces of pain. 

Thank god she understands him. And thank god the first-aid techniques her mother had taught her almost a decade ago have somehow clung to her memories as if they’d been waiting to help Peter Parker. The first aid kit is a mere two feet away, tucked underneath the bathroom sink, and she thanks the Michelle of September for placing it so conveniently. 

Once she’s fumbled through the kit and grabbed items from memory (seriously, how on earth did she remember any of this?), Michelle carefully assesses the jagged piece lodged inside him that looks like it’d come from a shattered window. Thankfully, it’s not so deep that removing the intruding object would kill him immediately.

“Peter, I have to take the glass out, okay?” Her voice wobbles as she searches his distant eyes, watching as they flutter shut. 

“I‘ll be okay,” he staggers. “H-heal fast.”

Spider-Man.

No. She still doesn’t have time to process any of that. Carefully and whilst forcefully swallowing bile that puts up a good fight, Michelle removes the uneven shard and darts her eyes between his abdomen and his scrunched-up face. He’s feeling every movement, she knows, which is why she’s so fucking relieved when his battered torso is finally glass-free. 

She’s shaking so much that the glass doesn’t reach the bin like she’d intended and instead shatters on the floor next to it. 

But MJ doesn’t hear a thing. 

Panicked, she grips both sides of Peter’s face and searches for a fraction of recovery. Ten seconds later, his eyes blink themselves open again and she sighs in complete relief and fucking sue her if a tear or two escapes her eyes in concern. She watches him as he cautiously moves a hand to tap something on his chest…something that causes his suit to suddenly billow open, to loosen, and free his injured form. 

She sees lots of scratches and bruises and oh, god, the wound from the glass — which upon second glance, appears to be slowly fading in colour. The litter of minor cuts on his body do the same but far more rapidly, and after thirty seconds, most of them have completely disappeared. “Peter,” she gapes in awe. 

“How deep was it?” He grunts breathlessly. By the looks of it, she can tell that particular cut isn’t going to heal remotely as fast as the others. 

“You got really lucky, since I can’t see signs of critical damage, but it-it’s pretty bad.” Jesus, she’s shaking. 

“Stitches,” he manages, pointing in the general direction of the first aid kit. “D’you…have stitches..?”

Michelle nods, watching his brown eyes find hers, full of more consciousness and strength than she’d seen from him in the last ten minutes. Maybe it’s been an hour. Who the fuck cares. 

She’s never stitched anyone up except her dolls back in elementary school, but the same method she’d used to patch up Mr. Squiggles the stuffed caterpillar appears to get the job done on the very real human being who remains bleeding helplessly down the bathtub drain. 

**

Peter feels himself gain more and more consciousness as she finishes the last few stitches. Everything in him hurts like hell, but just as any physical pain he feels, it dissipates into a dull, throbbing ache. That he can manage easily and he’s relieved when the ache dulls enough to clear enough space in his mind for coherent thought. 

Of course the first thing to occupy it is her face. Peter watches her drop the first-aid tools she’d used into the sink and return to her spot next to the tub in a concerned rush. She’s scanning his torso for any other signs of major damage and wincing at even the smallest ones. 

He watches her face through all of it, the flicker of a thousand different emotions. He yearns to be able to read them all perfectly and yet he can’t decipher a single one. Michelle is intriguing and mysterious and complex. 

And perhaps his next thought is completely messed up because he’s stained her pyjama shorts with his blood and her brows are etched with anxiety and concern and he’s really, truly sorry. The thought is involuntary (but not necessarily unwelcome): God, she’s pretty. 

Yes, okay, it’s definitely fucked up because the next thing he sees is her shaking hands, stained with his blood, grip the side of the tub to help her stand and go to wash her hands. 

They’re still stained but not as badly when she returns to him again, draining the few inches of bathwater that have been, obviously, dyed an ugly shade of red. Michelle squeezes her eyes shut after the both of them notice just how much blood he’d lost merely ten minutes ago. 

Once the water’s been successfully drained, she helps him stand to remove the suit completely. Luckily his super-healing has kicked in enough to allow him to do most of the work, and he sits on the toilet lid in guilt as she rinses out the traumatised tub. 

Five minutes later, he’s within it once again after she fills it with warm water and her bath soap which creates a heap of bubbles they might’ve found cute or funny if they’d felt any lighter. All they find themselves capable of doing is sitting on either side of the old tub in silence. Peter can’t look away from her face and his heart aches like it did yesterday.

And he’s finally willing to accept that he loves Michelle Jones so much that he can’t do anything to stop it. His eyes remain on her and the huffs of her panicked breath slowly returning to something sort of normal and the — oh, god — the timid reach of her unsteady hand over the edge of the bath, lacing her fingers through his when he meets her halfway. He was so, so naive even just yesterday to assume that her claim on his heart — one that truly crept up on him — could ever belong to him again. 

Because it never will. The part of his heart that is hers will remain with her. If she’s by his side like she is now, nothing feels missing or wrong even with eleven messy stitches across his torso. 

If she doesn’t feel the same way and they part ways, that piece of him will go with her because of course it will. It is hers. A part of him will feel missing and it will ache and he prays that she feels a fraction of what he does because he’ll do anything to feel complete like this every day. 

But if she doesn’t love him, he’ll survive. It will hurt and he will grieve but all he wants is for her to know nothing but happiness and if that means he can’t be with her, he’ll be content. Loss and contentment can coexist because what is sacrifice without either of them. 

Michelle is the first to speak, almost startling him since he’d been so deep in thought. In a trance. “Can we talk about it?”

“About…” Peter’s genuinely not sure what she’s referring to. There are about nineteen possibilities. 

She jerked a thumb behind her towards the torn red-and-black fabric on the tile floor.

“Ahh.” He mumbles in recognition. “That. Yeah, we can talk about that.”

“Cool.” She clears her throat. “How? Also, when? And why the fuck didn’t I figure it out myself? And, like…all those myths about Spider-Man…true or false?”

He lifts the hand out of the tub that isn’t entwined with hers and raises a finger for each question he answers. “Radioactive spider. Seven years ago. I, too, have no idea how I’ve managed to avoid your suspicion. And as for the myths, erm, well, I definitely can’t hypnotise the entire female population. The enhanced strength and hearing are true. Obviously so is the enhanced healing. Everything else is pretty obvious.”

“Cool, cool,” Michelle’s expression looks the opposite as she attempts to take in one surprise after another. But her most pressing question remains — they’d both been waiting to address it. She gives in first. “And also what the actual fuck happened tonight?”

Peter nods, sighing. “Honestly, you’re probably expecting some crazy story about a supervillain, but I swear it wasn’t one of those nights. Did you hear about that fire down the street from Simpson’s?” She nods in recognition. “It wasn’t arson, or anything — apparently it was an electrical issue — and there was this couple who’d made it out in time but their daughter had gotten lost somewhere in the stairwell.” He doesn’t think to be embarrassed when the fresh memory triggers more than a few painful tears. 

Michelle reaches her free hand to brush them away, cupping his face and silently asking him to continue. 

“She couldn’t have been more than, like, six or seven. I couldn’t find her at first and it took me a few minutes…and god, when I did find her, she could barely breathe.” Michelle softly caresses his cheek with the tip of her thumb. “She- she’s okay, but just when we’d nearly made it out, one of the electrical sockets burst near the ground-floor window and I almost couldn’t get her behind me in time.” He’s well crying now but he’s not ashamed or anxious about her judgement as he once was. The genuine, soft gaze of care and concern in her eyes is enough to melt anything like that away ten times over. 

“But she’s okay, right? She’s gonna be fine?”

He nods. “Yeah, I checked in with the ambulance after they’d looked her over and she’s not critical, or anything, but she has a few second-degrees. They were headed to the ER to help regulate her lungs and they told me that they were fine but I haven’t been able to make sure she’s okay—“ 

“Peter,” he’s surprised to watch her eyes mimic his in their sudden onset of tears. “Peter, you saved her life. You couldn’t have prevented the danger in the first place, so I can’t let you blame yourself for the mistakes you thought you made. That little girl is alive and it sounds like she’ll make a full recovery and that’s because you risked your life to keep her safe.”

He can tell there’s likely a slight expression of self-doubt still etched on his face, because she grips his jaw again in fierce urgency. “I refuse to let the most selfless person I know tell himself that he’s anything less.”

And before he can stop them, the words tumble from his mouth on their own accord. “I’m so fucking in love with you, Em.”

As soon as her nickname leaves him, all the air in the whole world seems to follow it because suddenly he can’t breathe at he studies her closely for what had to be a mocking laugh or complete rage or something else terrible. 

But he can’t find a single one of them in her eyes no matter how much he searches for them. She doesn’t say anything at first — she just sits still watching him with something that resembles relief and joy at the same time. 

“And I’m sorry if this is, like, the worst time to admit that. I’m naked in your tub and you’ve got blood on your shorts and I know for a fact I still have a few bubbles in my hair.” They let out a simultaneous, amused huff. “I just…I can’t ignore the way you make me feel. It’s so much stronger than I ever thought and jesus christ, Michelle, that should terrify me but it doesn’t. At all. And I need you to know that if you don’t feel the same way, I’ll shut up about it forever and you can tell me to fuck off and I will, because I just want you to feel—“ 

He’s interrupted by the abrupt touch of her lips against his. It feels like it did the other night when they’d made love to each other and it’s in this moment that he thinks she might feel the same way. Because she’s kissing him with every ounce of wonder and adoration and awe that fuels his lips on her. The position is awkward — he’s still in the damn bathtub, but he couldn’t give less of a fuck about that when the first thing she says after pulling away is:

“I love you, too.”

Michelle. Em. 

Her tone is timid and shy and her nervousness makes complete sense to him because he knows what’s made her feel that way, They both have traumatic pasts and had written off love for differing reasons. 

The funny thing about love is that you can’t comprehend what it truly is until you’re in love yourself. He’d thought that by protecting himself from caring that much about someone, he was avoiding loss. In reality, he had been experiencing it instead.

He is till terrified to lose her and for her to lsoe him and those things will never not scare him. But now he’s in love with her and he’d risk everything to have her by his side. 

Loving her, instead of removing the fear of loss and grief, makes them worth it. 

“You love me?” He whispers, grinning wide with delight. His heart and soul are light.

Her curls bounce with a wild nod of her head, a matching smile on her face. “I’m just…really in love with you and it didn’t fully hit me until I had to take a piece of glass out of your stomach.” 

Peter laughs, carefree. “Yeah, but I can’t even feel it now.”

“So, like…you’re good to get out of my bathroom?”

“Yep. Thank you for your service.”

“Hush,” she mumbles in an adorably happy tone. Michelle hands him a towel from the rack to dry himself, and he laughs as he shows her the non-existent stitches that had been very present not too long ago. The second he’s dry, he wastes no time and kisses her again. Neither of them find his bare skin against her cotton pjs off-putting. 

Then again, it takes Peter about two minutes to get the pjs off her, so they’re even soon enough. 

**

Michelle stutters a moan against Peter’s mouth as he slides home for the first time since he’d told her he loved her and she felt none of the hesitation she’d been expecting before saying it back. She adores Peter Parker and he adores her and a small part of her is scoffing at the Michelle Jones of three months ago who couldn’t stand him one bit. 

She’ll figure it out, MJ muses with a smile, turning to kiss Peter again as he sped up his thrusts. She almost misses it, but the undeniable mutters of her name against her shoulder every couple of thrusts make her feel invincible. 

The sex feels even better than the other night because neither of them have anything to hide. When he feels her getting close, he pushes himself up to watch her with a look of fervent desire and everything good is wrapped up in Peter Parker. She’s climaxing suddenly underneath him, and it’s all so intense she’s not sure she can bear it until she opens her eyes and he’s spilling into her with a wrecked “Em.” 

They’d snuck up on each other, admiration having crept up beside growth, waiting to reveal themselves as long as they could.

Except that doesn’t feel accurate to Michelle. Deep down, they both know that the good had been there from the beginning, only to be hidden in their denial. Not that she regrets all of it. 

Because, honestly, what else would’ve urged them together besides Kathryn Crosby?

She doesn’t realise she’s said this out loud until Peter breathlessly chuckles beside her. “Not to jump the gun or anything, but we’re absolutely inviting that woman to our wedding.”