it’s a blissfully short walk. she hands you the keycard, and you toss her a glance over your shoulder that makes her ears go hot. you step into the room, but vi stays back, just for a moment, so she can admire the sway of your hips. she leans into the doorframe, head cocked, as you bend over to take off your shoes.

you turn, glossed lips pressed in a pout. “what’s wrong?” you ask.

she grins. “everything’s perfect.”

you smile back, and extend a hand she takes eagerly. the door slams shut behind her, and you walk her back up against it. she lets you, lets your hands slip under her lapel to push off her jacket, lets you pull her in by the tie for another kiss. you unbuckle her belt, but when you move to kneel she stops you.

“bed, sweetheart.”

you let out a sigh, loud and melodramatic, but shuffle further into the hotel room. you shoot her a dirty look as you do, but god-willing, she’ll only have the one wedding night. she wants to do it right. rose petals, candles. a matress. there will be plenty of time for quick fucks in doorways.

you lay back on the bed and stare at her expectantly. you’re a vision. an incredibly impatient vision. you reach back behind yourself to get the zipper of your dress, and vi rushes forward.

“i got it,” she says, sliding the zipper down for you. it catches, so you twist to make it easier, and she kisses your shoulder in thanks.

you kick the dress to the side, and lay back again. she doesn’t realize she’s been staring until you speak.

“are we waiting for something?” you ask.

“what? no, no, sorry.” she doesn’t move, only runs a hand through her hair as her gaze follows the line of your body lower.

your brow furrows, and you draw your arms around yourself. “do you not want--”

she knows what you’re going to say, and the idea is laughable. before you can finish the question, vi’s on you.

you’re so warm and soft she can feel it through the fabric of her dress shirt. her hands drift to your hips, fingers digging into the flesh there. she nudges her way between your thighs, and she feels you lock your ankles behind her.

she pulls back, panting. “i always want you.”

your lips are kiss-bitten and your chest is heaving. she tugs down the lace of your bra, and finds herself frozen again, focused on the plush of your tits, framed in white lace.

you arch under her, fingers digging into her back, willing her to move. “you keep staring,” you complain, still half breathless.

“it’s your fault. look too pretty.” her mouth is dry, and for a moment she has no idea what to do next, where to look, where to touch. you help her out, pulling her head down closer to your chest. she leans in to suck one pert nipple in her mouth.

you sound pretty too, the noises that escape you when she scrapes her teeth against the bud, or when she squeezes your other breast, or when she slips one hand into your panties to find you dripping.

you’re wet in a way that has her head spinning, that has her ego ballooning three sizes and has her mouth watering. but she’s doing this right, so instead of ripping your panties off and bullying her fingers in with no preamble just to hear you whine, she kisses you again, sweet and deep.

she rubs a knuckle against your clit and you sigh into her mouth. she’s melting, all warm and gooey, because this is the rest of her life. you’re hers, and she’s yours, forever and ever.

“i love you,” she says, head laid against your chest, where she swears she can hear your heart beat just a little faster. you say it back, and roll your hips. she can take a hint.

she pulls down your panties, slow. she likes this pair, and she likes the way you’re writhing with impatience underneath her even more. she drops a kiss right below your belly button, and hears you swear under your breath.

she kisses lower, then lower still. “love this fucking pussy,” she mumbles, which may not be the most romantic thing she could have said, but it’s honest, which has to count for something.

she’s so close now she can practically taste you, and patience has never been her strong suit. she’s shocked she’s been able to hold out this long. she places a quick kiss to your clit before sliding two fingers inside you.

the way you gasp as you try to accommodate the stretch makes her forget that this was exactly what she didn’t want to do, that she had wanted to go slow, to take her time.

“fuck, vi,” you whine. she wriggles up, maneuvering so she can keep her fingers inside you as she kisses up your throat.

“you’re so tight, princess,” she groans, and you clench around her further at the words. she curls her fingers as she asks, “you like that?”

"violet," the name's like a prayer when you see her, suddenly forgetting about jonah jameson and how he's slowly eating up your brain to replace it with worry, a caring you cannot fake due to her poor state. "fuck's sake-- what the hell happened to you?"

so your arm wraps around her waist and for vi it's hard to think about how she's dying when you're this close, when amidst the blood she can pick up on your perfume still clinging to your skin after a long day, when you're warm and she's so cold in contrast. she cannot help but forget about the hero when she's allowing your soft pulling, dragging her to a perfectly made bed even when she doesn't want to sit on it, so soft and comfortable it's a privilege people like her surely don't deserve after all the wrong she made to the city, all the blood, the death.

"the blue goblin," violet vanderson's the origin to all of your headaches, the beginning and the very end of your problems, yet you don't seem to care about it, not as you should — "jinx-- it's her. i saw her. i saw her before-i…"

didn't her sister die like almost a year ago? your heart seems to hang on a thin spiderweb that will suddenly reach its point to break entirely, cause you're sure that's the sole enemy who's all about spider-man death since it's first appearance, the self-called blue goblin who's been terrorizing the city, who causes chaos and pain and is fast enough to leave the scene like they were never there for starters.

it would make such a great article if you weren't too deep into your friendly hero to ever give up her identity: the secret wars of a family drama.

"what?" how can you be soft with a matter so destructive? try to be gentle as you help her lie in the middle of your bed? a low whine escape from her parted lips and blood stains your white sheets in a new disaster: there is no way to be polite about it. one shared look, one full moment of silence and you know it deep down, just as she knows it too. "you think oscorp's behind-"

it's crazy to say it when she told you the story many times before, sitting close to you while you smoke cheap-ass cherry flavored cigarettes, going over the facts at least twice cause she still can't believe it yet: young genius killed at 19 due to chemical accident in multi-billionaire industry 'oscorp'. she keeps the first page of the journal lying on the floor of her crappy apartment, collecting dust as a reminder of who's the real enemy. got you so close to her it's a shared hatred, one she cannot bring herself to talk about now.

"ah careful," vi whines, teeth clenching as you sit next to her, slowly removing her mask you're aware now of her bruised eye, the blood on her cheek and a split lip who keeps bleeding with no intention to stop. "hurts."

you understand she doesn't want to talk about it.

"yeah i can tell," you know the hero by now: know the black and pink strands of hair she poorly dyed in her worst moments, the nose piercing that always get tucked inside the mask and ends up with biggest bumps in existence she hates to take care of, her identity she works so hard to keep secret. "you need to be more careful next time, vi. can't have you coming here in pieces."

even with spider-senses, she doesn't notice it either, the subtle layers of what you said, the care that's hidden in between syllables and you allow it to linger in the air. you care about her, about her fears, her pain and wounds. you want her to be alright, alive, the same girl who made you think twice about ever giving up her true identity: would you ever do anything to fuck up her secret? give up a nerd's life who smokes too much weed? it's impossible to ever think of hurting violet. fail her in any way.

she made you a part of her secret even when you're nothing. nothing but she looks at you like you're everything. a new kind of food never tasted before, a memory from her childhood or a dream, a fever nightmare, just a friend she cares about too much. you became the journalist who attracts danger like a magnet, third year college student she stumbles upon when trying to sell exclusive photos to the daily bugle about spider-man (bad joke, vi knows),fellow university sharer and of course, the girl who found out about her secret with no effort at all.

"i'm sorry," the gauze absorbs the blood as you speak, slowly dabbing it against the skin to disinfect the zone in practiced work you know by heart — "about your sister and this whole situation."

"it's not your fault." there's no need to speak so loud now, not when there's this much intimacy. she can feel your breathing hitching as you begin to pull on her suit downwards, when suddenly it's your fingertips the ones that gently touch her injured skin; a big scratch on the side, some wounds and bruises from inevitable punches, nothing you cannot handle with real professionalism. "i didn't know where to go-- i know i shouldn't come here… but you're the only person i trust with this."

"i don't think you have a choice either," at this point you are prepared too, cause how many times you caught yourself doing the same thing? stitching her back together as if you're a third-year med student instead of a journalist. "since i found out about your secret identity and all i'm kinda bound to be useful."

it hurts but you're numbing to the touch. it hurts but when she laughs, it's not her ribs the one that ache in pain, none other but her hands who burn in the need to reach you, explain without hesitation how having you close is the only reasonable thing in her life lately, how she's morbid and let the bad guys punch her harder only to crawl back to your apartment window like she always does, seek for your comfort, your small talk who turns into the only thing she thinks about the rest of the day.

"yeah, you're always there to help me," she does not notice her lip's bleeding so much until you're pouring some alcohol over the split skin and vi experiences the fire stoically as ever, cause to be fair: who gives a shit about the agony of hurting when you're this close? when she's looking at your lips too and it's hard to think about anything else other than the distance that separates you from her, how a simple pull using the most subtle force would be enough to destroy all boundaries, all friendship in centimeters — "i don't know how i'll ever repay you."

"you don't have to pay me anything," of course she doesn't. she's always welcome no matter how late it is cause you're always there with the biggest smile that makes her whole body shudder in the necessity to steal a kiss, do nothing and everything at once. "it is what friends are for. help."

and vi's sure you must have a fucked up concept of friends, cause friends are far from what she's doing there as her finger wraps around a thick strand of hair and she questions herself about pulling it or placing it behind your ear, her movements being almost automatic when you're following the force of her gentle tug. no, friends are a different feeling than the one that fills her stomach, that makes violet sweat as she acts purely on instinct.

rough day, rough life, her sister's her current nemesis and she's there, blatantly placing her hand on your lower back just to gently push you against her own body. priorities. she's forgetting about her priorities as the blood soaks down your shirt and vi cannot place another serious thought when she notices your face, how your chest presses just right against her own. it's inevitable, inevitable when she can't escape you as part of your weight rests on top of her. a private kind of holy heaven.

pain. it's good pain when you forget about the lip and whatever you were doing right before she decides to toss the rest of rationality out of the window, when her hands wrap around you and her lips crash against yours in a messy kiss — violet vanderson has no morals when her brain has finally turned off enough so she's nothing but teeth and desperation, squeezing the skin of your waist between her fingers afraid you'll slip away any second, pulling you closer so you have to climb into the bed and get inevitably close, so close she can keep taking advantage of you, intimate.

"your injuries, you're hurt" did she whine? did she make a sound when your hand settles in her chest? she can't tell as the seconds pass, too distracted by the fact that you're not stopping her but instead, replying to her kisses just as hungry as she is. "violet."

"i don't mind they don't hurt" they would fade fueled by her strange biology — "please. i promise you i'm okay. i just need you close."

saying it out loud leaves a different feeling behind. a sweet taste on her tongue you mix with your own saliva in response when you're between her legs and vi's short circuiting cause she never, never dared to dream about stuff like this. you're too dear, too close to her to ever think of you in some fantasy, so this now? it's new, new as she melts under your touch, as you're helping her to pull your shirt upwards and finally get rid of each piece of fabric that's in the way, new when there's no more imagination behind but plain and tangible reality.

did she smoke too much weed before? high on the smell of your skin, the arousal that fills the air and vi can tell like the most delicious perfume: you're soft against her body and it's crazy, crazy how you fit so well against the hard planes of her frame, how you invade all over not leaving any space for vi to win any fight as she's already under the waves of your ocean. consuming, it drags her to the second circle of hell in a crazy journey of adrenaline she wishes to never end.

"let me take care of you-" her heart beats loudly in her chest as you speak, afraid for a moment she imagined your words. she deserves good, deserves to rest up and shut her brain at least for a night, always giving to a city who never gives nothing in return, when it's going to ever be her turn? "please. let me take care of you tonight. i'll make you feel nice."

"nice, huh?" the words slip and she chuckling at your promises, not because it's fun or anything but because she's nervous about it, blushing under the warm lights of your bedroom while trying to conceal the idea in her own mind: you want to take care of her. "i'm no one to ever stop you, bug."

she's fucked up. fucked up as the minutes pass, when all turns blurry for a moment and vi gets stuck in the way you take off your bra, when suddenly her suit's off and she's greeted by the warm temperatures of your body. bandaged chest, black underwear, glassy eyes and raspy voice, she's bare as you indulge her clumsy behavior — it becomes a game, a delicious back and forth she loves to participate in, when your bra's falling to the floor and she's chuckling as you go and pull on the bloody bandages of her chest, nice.

your jeans slip to the cold ground and the air changes in that exact moment, when you're taking her hand between your own and place it right above your underwear. warm, inviting, the hero's fingers move against your soaked cunt in a gentle rub, over the fabric cause there's a lot of time left, cause the hours will go on slowly and she wants to experience it, first-hand as your arousal trespasses your own underwear and glues to her digits instead.

oh, she wants a taste. fuck yes. the older vanderson would kill to be on her knees, accept a million punches if it means she can get on the floor for you, chin wet, broad licks and soft sucking your clit to express the devastation you brought into her existence, the constant desire she's exposed as a dog who's too shy to get an owner. the need that ends up being sweat on her skin mingling with your own in the most delicious smell.

she loves all of it, the messy look as you grind against her fingers cause you're really enjoying it, that cheeky smile who suddenly appears and pulls on your lips upwards, hear a moan or two. she loves the glistening sweat that makes your skin glow in the ethereal being, the traces of her blood already dry against your flesh. you're soaking up her digits and you look so good even when she's not really touching you it's downright insane, driving her to plain madness as your hands go down her chest for some support and she's aware of you now, of your heartbeats that race against time and the sounds you make at the strike of pleasure. her nose drags against the curve of your neck to pick up on your smell for some sanity, but it does nothing when it leaves violet wanting to sink her teeth down the muscle of your shoulders, give you a reminder of the night.

so maybe it's your need to please, to give vi everything the world has deprived her from, cause you struggle for a while before you push her hand away and instead, place yourself between her legs, a nice, sweaty chaos of limbs and ragged breathing as you blend within the deepest parts of her, a new and non-negotiable addition to the inexistent friendship as your underwear hangs in one of your tights halfway-on and it's enough, enough to make vi's panties to the side and just — blend.

intimate, it's exquisite when she can feel you moving between her parted legs. the pain melts away to be forgotten and instead, it's replaced by the confidence of a naked body and whispered praises she wants to hear over and over again. the pleasure that burns like the alcohol in her wounds but she digs it now more than ever, the inviting curve in your lower back as your hips move in circles and there it fucking is; the perfect spot where you're dragging your soaked folds against vi's own and becomes filthy in seconds. slick with arousal, the pink hair of her bush gets sticky against your leg as it creates a wet sound that fills the entire room with nothing but a proof of a shared need.

man she's never been fucked like this before.

"look how you were made for me sweetheart, fit with me so perfectly--" it gets her entirely, the erratic movements as it gets faster, your fingers finding her neglected clit who keeps rubbing against you to take care of it with the pad of your fingers. she's making you move with enough force to do all the work herself, you body already pliant and responsive to her needs as vi's the one who keeps scissoring and moving you to her will, nails digging in your upper thigh wishing to leave a mark, a bruise in the shape of her hands only to remind you how good it feels when you were hers, only hers.

so good. you're so good. she keeps repeating it as she looks at the disaster that keeps happening between her legs, the good disaster that get the sheets dirty, that makes vi curious as she slides a couple of fingers between your legs too cause she's nothing but a scientist — how does it taste anyway? like the greatest elixir? curious, her digits drag along your slit only to get them soaked, gaining an immediate reaction when you're holding her arm before she could do anything to instead, lean to suck on her fingers yourself before she could try.

the warm feeling of your mouth enveloping her fingers distracts her for a moment, the flick of your tongue as you take them deeper so her fingertips can rub on your fucking throat and you breathe through your nose as the saliva falls on top of her chest. filthy. one subtle use of force and vi's suddenly pushing her digits deeper into your mouth so you can choke on them and she can watch you struggling for air, so the oxygen's not enough and you're gagging between saliva and her need to go further.

"there you go, keep taking them good," she's gonna cum, you're going to cum, it's a shared sensation she loves to feel. warm cunt, she can feel how you constrict against her, how your body tenses as you're dragged by the current, one with the cherry waves who only expel your name.

vi holds you in place when your body shakes, limbs failing in the most human reaction as she uses her force to keep you seated on top of her, rock your body back and forth until her own is shaking and it's similar to a dagger stabbing her heart in a sweet torture. travels through her spine like electricity, leaves her shivering as she cums and your fluids stick to her inner thighs until its under her nose and it becomes the only thing the spider can smell.

it's nice. the sweat, your soft kisses on the side of her face and that caress you thumb keeps making and vi's sure you are not very much aware of, the most normal thing she has experienced in weeks. like she belonged there all along.

"your wounds," it makes her laugh for a moment: now you care? after the bliss, who cares about blood and bruises? who cares about the gore and violence? it's nice to see you like that, meet the marks of your body, the curves and hollows as you inspect her injured skin who's already getting back up on its own — "you're healing by yourself."

"yeah i can do that sometimes."

"sure you do, nasty liar" her brows furrow at the accusation, yet at the lack of arguments that proves vi's a saint she chooses to silent while you're lucky enough to guess her obvious plans. "you just come here to act like a rag doll when in reality you're all cool and have healing powers too."

brat. fucking brat. she's having so much fun when your wrist's under a spiderweb now trapped in the headboard of the bed and she has enough energy to switch up positions and pin you down against the mattress, a gasp, a giggle of surprise: shit. it's dangerous, crazy how much you like it, how much she fucking loves it.

"well, what can i say? i'm guilty as fuck." even breathing feels delicious when she can inhale that post-sex scent you fucking reek to get it imprinted in her memories like an addict. "what are you going to do about it? yes. i come here because i want you close to me."

vocal. vi needs to be vocal cause she wants your hands all over her, your love spreading like a fever. it's okay to finally state it, that night is permitted to slip away for a few hours cause that's where she belongs. no blue goblin, no oscorp, no spiders nor sister who comes back to life as frankenstein — that night it's you and her, no city nor darkness clouding up the sky.