CHERRY

MINORS DNI

PINTEREST

𝐂HARACTER LIST 𝐑ULES 𝐀BOUT ME

INBOX - OPEN

It was the most convenient resolution, upon finding a bug hidden in your apartment among you and Peter's ongoing investigation of morally bankrupt individuals dominating the hierarchy of New York City. You narrowly possessed the cash to burn on a hotel, much less the resources to safe house your livelihood for the better part of the week. It was, more or less, your only option.

“Is that my apartment?” you ask, pointing to the familiar lineage of streets and corners you recognized on the glowing bright computer screen at the not-so-far end of Peter's apartment. Four red dots pinpointed the buildings surrounding your place, blowing bright on the screen, a fifth blue dot marking your actual apartment.

“Uh, yeah,” his steps march up behind you, body brushing up to your side to use a long finger to trace the spots marked on the screen, “I set up a few sensors around your place. The idea is that if whoever bugged your apartment shows up again, these will triangulate the signal from whatever devices they’re using to tag the frequencies and help me figure out where to find them from anywhere in the city,” he flashes you a cautious eye from your side, a looming position he took often, “That’s…okay, right?”

You nod,, stepping back to let the back of your legs bump the low table ledge, only providing an inch of difference in space between you and Peter.

“How long will it take for you to find them?”

“Well, quick if they show up soon. By now they’ll realize the first bug is unresponsive and will probably try and plant a new one,” he explained, finger coming off the screen to tap on the table, a rhythmic habit he’d had for years.

“And you can’t use the original to find them because,” your voice trails off, head tilting as his lip pulled between his teeth.

“It sort of broke when you chucked it on the floor the other night.”

“Oh,” you shrink. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. They probably would have deactivated it once they realized I wasn’t the female reporter they were looking for—given that I am a man,” your lips curl into an easy smile, his eyes glinting with the pride that comes with amusing you, “And it gives me an excuse to show off how incredibly tech savvy your ex-boyfriend is.”

“Cause it wasn’t obvious enough,” you hum, your gazes meeting. His shoulders pull up into a shrug, lips curled into a lopsided grin.

“Yeah, well, the reminder doesn’t hurt.”

His shift in tone makes you swallow, weary of the way he easily manages to lull you into this back and forth. You side step him as he goes to speak again, pointing back to the general direction of the bathroom.

“I’m gonna shower, if that’s okay,” Peter’s startled expression at your sudden departure from his side makes him falter briefly.

“Now?” you shift on either heel, watching him clear his throat, gesturing vaguely to the wall opposite you both, “Yeah—yeah, that’s fine, towels are, uh, in that closet.”

You step out of the bathroom in a mist of steam, towel squeezing out the excess water from your hair. Your sleep top brushed the tops of your thighs where the hem of your shorts cusped the plush of fat at the seam of your hip. Your clean skin shuddered at the sudden briskly cool air outside of the progressively hot bathroom, eyes lured across the subtly changed scene of the living room.

The pullout bed took up the left side of the apartment, all neatly tucked together with sheets and two soft down pillows, and a familiar blue blanket. Peter’s broad shoulders were pulled up, seated in the chair that had often been tucked under the desk. His hands clasped behind his head, the swell of his biceps accentuated by the position, muscle rippling in the fluorescent beam of his table side lamps, the room cast in a yellow-white halo.

You swallowed, eyes trailing from his arms to the unchanged screen, “Anything?”

“No, not—” Peter sighed, head turning to look at you. His eyes set on your face, and quickly trailed down your bare thighs, lips parted in a subconscious buffer, “Yet. Uh, but, it’s only been a few hours. The system will alert us if anything changes.” You walked up to the table, whirring machinery masking the creaking sound of your steps, your hip jutted as you propped yourself on one leg, eyes peeling over the screen, arms coming to cross over your chest. Peter's eyes lingered on the sliver of skin that revealed at the raise of your arms. You looked down at him.

“What?”

“Nothing. You look cozy,” his lips curled up, looking back at the screen as it shone across his sharp features, “Cute shorts.”

Scoffing, you roll your eyes, seating yourself on the table edge, the fat of your thighs pushing wide with the cool metal pressing to the backs.

“Are you planning to sit there all night? Are you really that much of a workaholic?”

“You know what they say, do what your love never work a day in your life,” he jokes, but his plan is clear by the low settled position he has in the remarkably uncomfortable looking chair.

“Right. Can see that still holds true,” you note, head tilting to meet his resistant gaze. “Do you plan on getting any sleep?”

Peter's eyes meet yours at the brisk concern you exhibit, nodding a bit as his palm comes to cusp the back of his neck, eyes flickering back to the made bed.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll set myself up in a little bit. Got some blankets I can throw on the floor—get a few hours of sleep in case something comes up later tonight.”

Your eyes narrow at the implication.

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“Peter, we can share a bed, it’s fine,” you explain as though it’s obvious. Peter’s expression turns up amused, head tilting to look at you with a teasing lilt to his voice.

“I thought you were Miss ‘avoiding confusion’?”

“Well then keep your hands to yourself and save the trouble,” you leaned over as you said it, Peter's lips parting in a sheepish scoff, eyes trailing down to the scantily clad fold of your shorts riding up to bite between your thighs.

“Right. You do know how I like to stay away from trouble.”

The soft haze of light from the dimmed computer screen is all that casts over the room as you and Peter settle into bed. It’s a low hue of light, barely casting enough light to hold a shadow over Peters features as he shifts and turns at your side. You tuck yourself under the sheets, shifting a few times as Peter stills beside you, settling into a comfortable position.

“Comfortable?” he asks, voice hardly above a whisper. You nod, a soft hum rumbling in your throat, Peter's own breath exhales softly through his nose, “Well, don’t let the…” his words trailed off, the verbal implications catching on his tongue as the words died out in his throat, “Uh, goodnight.”

It’s strange to lay beside Peter. You remain still as the mixture of your soft breaths travel between you both in the vacant room, the soft cast of moonlight shining in across the opposite wall just below the window is the main fixture your open eyes focus on. After a long while you sigh softly, sheets rustling beneath your body as you turn onto your side, hands coming up to rest under your head as you face Peter, his own head turning toward you at the sudden shift.

“Hi,” you murmur quietly, like someone might hear you if you spoke any louder. Peter’s body shifts to move onto his own side, pushing the edge of his pillow down to see you.

“Hey.”

“Thank you for letting me stay here,” you whisper, your fingers plucking the seam of your pillow case, lashing fluttering across your cheek. “I know I gave you a hard time about it the other night.”

“Yeah, of course,” his gentle voice rasps. “Makes me feel better to know you’re somewhere safe. Somewhere where I can…” he swallows, your heart racing at the vulnerability of his words. “In case anything happened.”

“It makes me feel better too,” you admit, eyes lowering to his hand as it moves to push the hair at your temple back behind your ear. You sigh at the touch of his warm skin grazing yours, his palm moved to hold under your jaw, thumb pressed to stroke the apple of your cheek.

“This is nice,” he hums, thumb pulling down the soft plush of your bottom lip, “Having you here.”

“Peter,” you sigh, his broad hands caressing down the soft arch of your throat. You breathe heavily at the feeling of his fingers dragging down the neck of your shirt, dancing down along the soft curve of your hip, fingers balling up the fabric of your shirt hem in his hands.

“This is soft,” he breathes, nose nudging yours, tongue coming out to wet his lips as he urged your body closer, “You smell nice.”

“We should sleep,” you tried, eyes closed to the feeling of his breath against your lips, chin tilting up to feel the brush of his lips on yours.

“Yeah,” he huffs, fingers peeling off your hip to curl around the back of your throat, surging forward to slot his lips with yours. You moan openly into his mouth, fingers coming to clutch the loose fabric of his own shirt, tongue slipping against his with impatient breathes, bodies slotting together, his hot hand tugging your thigh over his before wrapping his hand back against the back of your skull to wind into the tufts of hair splayed across your pillow.

“Peter,” you part briefly, eyes fluttering as he licked at your parted lips, “We can’t.”

“Shh, we're sleeping,” you smiled against his mouth as he pulled you into another open mouth kiss, panting as your tongues swirled, spit seeping to the corners of your mouths, the obscene sounds of your mouths smacking filling the room.

“Yeah—yeah, just like that, god,” Peters nose nudges with yours as he pants against the swell of your cheek, eyes darting down to the vague shape of your hands pushed past the seam of his boxers, the achingly hard outline of his cock morphed by the shape of your small hand stroking the twitching length. His own fingers plunge into your eager cunt with measured strokes, palm slapping your puffy clit to spread the slick over your cunt. Your thighs clam down on either side of his wrist, hips rolling into his open palm as he fucks his fingers up into you, methodical in the way he curls and strokes your insides.

“Feels so good, oh—fuck, Peter,” you moan, fingers stroking the blushing tip of his leaking cock, licking the open parting of his lips, sighing when he surges forward to push his tongue into your mouth, hips stuttering into your closed fist as you mangle spit between your messily open and closed kiss. The tip of his tongue slips behind your teeth, moaning when your lips wrap around the muscle to suck on it, fingers curling up into your cunt in a way that has you body lurching against him, taut forearm tensed as his fingers make a slick squelching sound as they piston in and out of your pussy. “Oh—my god.”

“Have dreams—mm—just like this,” Peter groans, cock pulsing in your palm, rumbling in his throat as he pants against you, cum spilling out into your eager hand. He shakes his head, hips moving to fuck against your palm, “Can’t beat the real thing. S’too good—you’re too good.”

“I can take off my own shoe—thank you very much, Spider-Man,” you grumble, eyes shooting up to watch the way he backs off almost instantly, masked head hanging in an understanding nod. You focus on the small clasp of one ankle, moving to the next once the shoe is finally discarded on the roof. 

“I, uh, hear clasps can be tricky,” Peter tries to note, your spiteful chuckle making him shrivel back. 

“Oh, have you spent a lot of time wearing heels since the last time I saw you?” 

“Don’t really have the legs for it—sorry—” he apologizes under your scrutinizing gaze, pretty painted lips pulled into an unmistakably irritated grimace. “I’m sorry, serious time, I know,” you sigh, finally ridding yourself of the other shoe, heels toppled over one another at your side. Your ex-boyfriend stares at your sleek dress, fabric draping over your figure beautifully under the moonlight, a white looming glow masking your figure like some kind of angel. It makes him swallow, “You look nice. Pretty—beautiful. I mean, not ‘pretty beautiful’, like pretty and beautiful.”

“Peter,” you exhale, sparing him a less irritated glance at the anxious praise. “What am I doing here?” 

“I swear I’ll take you back—I just needed a minute—”

“So far it’s a bit more than a minute, my dates probably wondering where I am—” 

“Date? You have a date?” you ignore the way he dissolves, the thought of someone else having you on their arm making him fall flat, white glaring eyes staring back at you with a surprising amount of contempt for an expressionless mask.

“Yes, Peter, I have a date, it’s a gala,” your gaze lifts up to the evening sky, stars speckled above, smudged into small clusters from the light pollution that swallows the city. 

“I know that,” he replies indignantly, arms swinging at his sides. “Who is it?” 

“Peter.”

“Someone I know?” he immediately starts in, head tilting to the side, the eyes of his mark honing in on you in a slim squint, “Can’t be someone you work with—unless you’re suddenly open to dating someone you work with—is it someone you work with?” 

“Are you seriously doing this right now?” you scoff, gesturing to the secluded rooftop at least four blocks from the event that had previously occupied your evening.

“Is he taller than me?” you glare, watching Peter shake his head, as if rejecting the ungiven answer, like he knows he won’t like it. “No, no, sorry, sidetracked. I did bring you up here for a good reason, I swear.” 

You watch him reach somewhere into his suit, browns furrowed when he pulled a small wire from some secret unknown compartment in his suit. You were grossly aware that the suit had no pockets—it had never occurred to you until now to ask where he carried certain things, but you were definitely not about to ask now. 

You frowned at the small device hanging from the end of a frayed wire, taking it into your own hands as he offered it to you, “What is it?” 

“I found it in our—your apartment,” your eyes flitted over his masked face, nose scrunching up as you processed his words. 

“What were you doing at my apartment?” 

“I was looking for you—you know you could have mentioned your ‘important plans’ was the mayor's ball,” he sighed as you spared him another unfriendly glance, the idea that some information on your life was no longer his business making him concede, even if he didn’t like it, “My system tagged it. An anomaly in the usual frequencies of the area.” 

“How convenient." You tossed the device on the distant asphalt, standing upright to hold your dress at your hips, bare feet uncomfortably braced on the shifting material, “Are we done now?”

“This is serious, someone knows where you live, you can’t stay there.” 

“Fine. I’ll figure it out,” you replied indignantly, moving to brush past him, not making it very far before his gloved hand wrapped around your upper arm. His hold was gentle, unyielding, but he had used a far tighter grip in the past. You attempted to shrug him off at the distant memory, sighing deeply when he refused to release you. 

“Would you stop being so stubborn?” he loomed over you, masked chin tilted down to peer over your unheeled height, shrinking back down to the usual distance you held. 

“Coming from the guy who relies on evasiveness—no, I won’t,” you yanked your arm from his hold, which this time he allowed. His fingers fell from the cusp of your arm back against his thigh which was remarkably thick in the sleek material of his suit. It looked new, not so worn at the joints, certain highpoints glimmering in the moonlight, like the wide swell of his bicep and the broad stretch of his shoulders. 

The whites of the mask were unnervingly focused on your face, the steady rise and fall of his chest in the short silence making you shift uncomfortably. Noting as you glared off the edge of the seven story building that you would likely have to ask for a swing back to the gala, not willing to make the several block trek—with no heels nonetheless—a prospect he considered, you were sure. 

“Did I do something?” His tone is accusing despite the nature of the question, hands gesturing between the not-so-far distance between your bodies, “To make you upset, did I do something that I’m just not remembering—because it feels like you’re mad at me.” 

“Other than swinging me onto this roof?” you waved your arms out to emphasize the vacant roof, dress falling from your fingers to drape along the tops of your feet. 

“Feels a bit disproportionate for that to be the only reason,” you scoffed, the cool evening breeze blowing fallen curls against your hot collar. “And you’ve been avoiding me.” 

Your face fell, tone defensively pitching, “I’ve been working—”

“Is it because you had sex with me?” your face turns at the bluntness of his inquiry, the tilt of his webbed mask in your peripheral making you bite your tongue to keep yourself from scrounging up faulty excuses that he would undoubtedly see past. Folding your arms in front of your chest it's almost as though you can hear the lilt in his voice, picturing the tug pulling at the corners of his lips as he surveyed your wilting composure, “Or maybe…it’s how it made you feel. That’s why you’re mad.” 

“I didn’t feel anything.” 

Your annoyance seeps to coat the blatant lie. Your words hold no conviction despite the aggressive tone you take, hoping it’ll drive your point forward, like some insolent child. It doesn’t. You hate how his head tilts, disbelief drawn from the visible state of his body language, he couldn’t even pretend to believe you. 

“Considering how I had you after the fact, I'm pretty certain that’s a lie,” you can see the way his eyes darted over your frame, white lenses pinching in to mock you. “Still sore?” 

“You’re not funny,” you mutter, irritated that he found such amusement in this interaction. 

“I’m a little funny,” he argued. You could hear the boyish grin he always sported with you in his voice. His posture straightened a bit after your lingering silence—a blatant tell that you wouldn’t join in your own teasing, “You could’ve asked me to be your date, you know.” 

“Right, cause that’s just what we need. A night of more confusion.” 

“Why not?” you sigh, brushing a stray piece of hair from your shoulder as you hold yourself on the windy rooftop.  “You really do look beautiful.” 

The genuineness of his voice made your stomach churn, his visors never leaving you as you shook your head. 

“I have to go,” you turned around hastily, beelining for the distant rooftop door that surely led to a stairwell you could escape down. 

“Wait—just hang on a second,” Peter pleaded, the sound of his own feet scuffling on the rooftop gravel making you walk faster. 

“There’s a dozen people waiting for me to—oh!” a quick thwip cut your words off, your breathe whirling from your lungs as a sharp tug pulled at the waist of your dress, twirling you back until you collided with Peter’s hard chest. Your breathes fanned over the unmoving mask looming over your startled expression, hands wound into the ribbed material of his suit, “Peter.”

“Yeah?” he breathed, hands securely wrapped around your waist, fingers delving into the soft ripples of the expensive fabric of your gown.

“You’re getting web fluid all over my dress.” 

Peter’s shoulders shrugged, uncaring as his visors flitted down the tight bodice of your dress, “It’ll come off.” 

You cry out on the vacant city rooftop as Peter’s tongue swipes back and forth against your aching clit, head tucked under the mounds of fabric of your dress pooled at your hips, thighs propped onto that same ventilation system you had torn your heels off on before. The discomfort of his knees on the asphalt hardly crosses your mind at the feeling of his masked nose, fabric only tucked up just enough for his skilled mouth to be free, rubs against your wiry pubes, coated in the messy slick that sticks against your parted thighs. Your chest heaved as his lips suckled on your sensitive clit, tightly restricted in the corset bodice that had been too strenuous for Peter to remove—not that he hadn’t tried, but you reminded him the gown was a rental and under no circumstance could you afford for him to tear into the measly fabric. 

“Oh—god, yes,” you chant, hands pushing back against the mask to shove his face further into your cunt, a muffled groan vibrating against your clit as he flattened his tongue, gloved fingers messily spreading your arousal before sinking one webbed finger into your heat. The rough drag of the material makes your body writhe and arch, his other palm pressed securely to the bundle of fabric above your cunt, pushing your hips back down with quick force to keep you where he could continue his assault on your weeping cunt. 

“Missed this,” he mutters to himself, a wet smacking kiss placed on your clit, hips stuttering up into his mouth as he pushed two fingers into your waiting hole, “Think my girl still has some trick, hm?” 

Your ankles arch against his clothed back, thighs seated on either shoulder, masked by darkness on the empty rooftop, pleasure too blinding to care for any of the buildings surrounding you managing to catch Spider-Man's gloved fingers fucking into you. Your puffy clit secures all the reactions he’s searching for, stalky bicep disappearing to curl his fingers into your clenching cunt to feel that familiar tug of you trying to suck him back in. He buries himself to the knuckle, suit material making your cunt feel raw and sensitive as it drags along your insides, massaging that spongy spot that has your thighs tightening around Peter’s head. 

A sharp moan rattles through your chest, Peter's flushed face coming up from between your thighs, cheek mushed up against your inner thigh as his palm smacks your clit with each sheathe of his fingers inside of you, “That’s it, you know what I want, come on,” he spurs, teeth bared to nip the expanse of your trembling thigh, your wrecked moans coming out shaky and ragged as you attempt to push him away, crying out through the overstimulation of his fingers relentlessly sinking in and out of your messy cunt. Your pleas become pitchy and desperate, knees knocking together behind Peter’s head, his outstretched palm keeping you spread open, before a familiar mindnumbing pleasure blankets your body with a quivering moan. Your hips kick up as you spray down Peter’s forearm, kicking up when he curls his fingers once more before placing a loving kiss on your fucked out cunt, “How longs it been since you did that?” 

“Shut up,” you gasp, legs like jelly as he shrugs your thighs off, wet fingers wrapping around your ankle. You blink back the image of him holding up one of your heels. 

“Old habits,” you grinned, an inside joke to the old work station he kept at Otto's lab. A strand of hair swept over Peter's forehead as he leaned down to set the bin under his desk, a sheepish chuckle spilling from his mouth at the sudden memory. 

“I’m not that much of a mess, am I?” your hands clung to your sides as he gestured vaguely to the space surrounding you both, “There’s a sort of…organized chaos thing I have going on.”

“Yeah, sure, if it was lacking the organized part,” your boots made the floorboards uneasy with your weight, coming to stand at the highly technical desk that whirred and moved its wired parts mechanically all on their own. Old bandaged parts and more high profile bits that you wouldn’t ask where he found. You recalled the scraps of old computers you had helped him find in dumpsters and second hand stores back in highschool, when he could hardly scrounge up enough pennies for a CD. Even after all these years Peter's own genius never ceased to impress you. 

“Well, I mostly cleaned up when we were dating so I wouldn’t gross you out,” he admitted, arms crossing smoothly across his board chest. You did your part in ignoring the taut stretch of his t-shirt creating a cusp around the swell of his stalky bicep.

“Yeah, I was undoubtedly hot for your ability to keep a clean work space,” you joked, watching the way he picks himself up at the thought, table rumbling as his foot kicked the humble leg. 

“Wait, seriously?” he cleared his throat, deflating at the curl of your girlish grin. Attempting to look unphased he spared a glance to the opposite wall, “No, right, joke, obviously. Totally not regretting not cleaning up before having you over.” 

“Peter,” you called, his head whipping back to stare at you the moment you uttered his name. “The flash drive?” 

“Yes, right, the whole reason you’re here,” his brows pinch, faux seriousness as turns toward the desk, “Look at me, putting pleasure before business—not like that! I mean, I know we’re not—I wasn’t planning on,” he swallows thickly as he tucks his hand under a hardly secured mint tin, “It’s, uh, over here.” 

You stall at his side as he places a simple black hard drive into his computer, the machine buzzing to life with a bypassed encryption Peter had surely gotten past before he had called you over, knowing you had been reporting on a case linked to the information detailed in the onslaught of files. A heavy stacked list of file names and hidden agendas and data breach plans filled the screen under the guise of a business mock up. Big names and their small attributes contribute to a long list of crimes circulating through the city for weeks. 

“These are all the files you found?” you asked, hips jutting back as you leaned down to look at the screen, propped on your left leg to keep yourself steady against the desk as you leant over. 

Peter’s body shuffled sideways to allow you more room, never truly taking that step back to allow any real sort of personal space, but enough to let you close in on the computer to scroll and search yourself, much more familiar to the aliases used in the files than he had been. 

“Yeah. Some of them were scrubbed but I figured they didn’t have enough time to dump everything,” he murmured, short of breath as his gaze trailed down the soft arch of your spine, the glow of the computer screen shadowing the dip of your blouse between your breasts, “Did I…do good?” 

“They’re definitely incriminating," you murmured, eyes flitting across the plans, some expunged but most still containing most of their set details and workarounds.

“Did you switch shampoos?” 

The question is so sudden and out of the blue it completely removes you from the task at hand, head turning off to the side where he stood far too close. His long fingers stretched across the edge of the desk, forearm tensed under his weight as he leaned to look at you better, head tilted down to look at the tufts of hair that furled behind your ear. 

“You’re hovering,” you told him, watching the glint in his eye as his eyes flickered to the soft hinted smile at the corner of your mouth. 

“Yeah, right, sorry.” 

“Peter,” you scold when his demeanor remains unchanged, statuesque body still looming over yours. 

“It’s eucalyptus, isn’t it? Smells fresh, nice, you smell,” his lips curl up when you turn to face him completely. “Good.” 

The white computer light casts a soft halo over your profile, his eyes shamelessly surveying your curling smile, all too used to this familiar game to pretend it was anything else. 

“We said last time was the last time,” you voice with no real conviction. 

“It’s always the last time,” he argued, snuffing out the weak excuse with a boyish shrug. “Atleast, you know, until the next time.”

Your laugh is airy as you step back.

“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of saying ‘last time’?”

“Maybe just a little bit,” he says, stepping forward to close the brief distance. “I guess I should really stop inviting you over then, huh?” 

It’s dangerous how easily he can reel you back in, open mouth pants passed over a swiped clear desk, conveniently worn dress bunched up around your hips to accommodate the thickness of his body settled between your parted legs as his cock drags in and out of your eager cunt. His broad hands yank your hips to the edge of the desk, ricketing legs trembling under the weight of your bodies meeting with each sharp thrust of his hips—cock ramming into you as sheathes to the hilt before pulling back, a relentless pace that has you lurching forward to grasp onto him. 

“Oh—fuck—Peter, feels so good—oh my god,” you mewl, pitchy and loud. If neighbors were an issue in this apartment like they had been in yours, it didn’t cross your mind. Your fingers dragged against the bare muscle of his shoulders, thighs hiked up high on his hips, face hot and flushed as you panted and mewled into his open mouth, desperate pleas and chants of his name to spur him on. There’s a distant silence that follows your begging and moaning, the brief space where an ‘I love you’ had been in the months prior. You and Peter make no mention of it, enraptured by the feelings of pleasure you so easily bring one another.

“Look at you—god. Take me so good, always take me so good,” he groans, eyes darting down to where your raw sexes meet, the rhythmic slapping of skin and the soft plaps of your cunt sucking him in with each drive of his hips making him shudder under your clawing hands. “You really missed me, huh? Hardly had to work for it—came over just for this too, didn’t you?” he inquired huskily, voice rasping as he felt you clench around his aching cock, “Just had to tease me for it first. Make me work for it?”

Your lips curled up, guilty in his own conscience of using a case for a good fuck. Inviting your ex over for sex is too easy for a guy like Peter, “Don’t—mm—tell me Spider-Man’s afraid of a little effort?”