#petermj fluff

It’s the tenth of October amidst a beautiful autumn in Boston, and Michelle’s getting married today.

She’s getting married today. Her sixteen-year-old self would be furious.

Though the identity of her soon-to-be-husband might lift the teenage MJ’s spirits.

She’s been in love with Peter Parker for ten years and been dating him for five, and though they were among the first of their friends to get engaged, the proposal had been a long time coming. She remembers being eighteen and lying on a blanket in the middle of Central Park, running her fingers through Peter’s hair as he told her how much he loved her. “I hope this isn’t too intense or anything, but Em, someday I’m gonna ask you to marry me.”

Her heart had soared. Love was so dumb and embarrassing and heart-wrenching and wonderful. “Yeah?”

He’d smiled brilliantly. “Yeah.”

“Then I’ll say yes.”

“Yeah?” Impossibly, his eyes had lit up even more than they already were. Like they always were whilst settled on MJ.

“Yeah.”

He’d promised her that afternoon, years ago, that he’d marry her. She used to despise the idea of marriage, and couldn’t understand why people ever participated in it so voluntarily. She gets it now, though. She understood as soon as she fell in love with him. Though it was the twenty-first century and marriage wasn’t a prerequisite to long-term commitment, there was something about the official, ceremonial process of weddings that made having one feel essential. Only when it involved Peter, though. He was it for her.

Currently, she makes her way to the kitchen to make her morning tea. Their apartment felt empty without her fiancé, since he’d slept over at Ned’s to honour age-old tradition. It both kills and excites her to know that the next time she’d be seeing him, he’d be at the other end of the aisle, and she’d be moments away from becoming his wife. The word makes her shiver.

Peter had proposed to her in March. They’d both had the same Saturday free, which was rare for a journalist and an engineer, and she’d (rightfully) suspected that he’d bribed J. Jonah Jameson into giving her the day off. First they’d stopped at Delmar’s, picking up their favourite sandwiches. He’d slyly mentioned the fact that they’d eaten there on their first real date, and it was then that she’d predicted the day’s end. They’d brought the sandwiches to Central Park, laid out a blanket, and had a picnic. Just like they did at eighteen. Her suspicions grew stronger still as he’d continuously gushed about the last five years being the best of his life — besides the three months she’d been out of it because of Strange’s spell a few years ago. They'd been the worst months of his life, he’d explained, because though there’d been many different factors for that, not being with her was perhaps the most unbearable.

Then, with cloudy eyes, he’d pulled a sparkling, lone object from his pocket. Michelle’s ring is so truly her it’d baffled her upon seeing it for the first time: the moss agate pear-shaped diamond sat on a simple gold band; tiny pearls on either side of it, perfectly unique. He’d told her later that he’d wanted to propose with May’s wedding ring, but because it was buried with her, he’d added the pearls as a tribute to his deceased aunt, since her ring had had a plethora of them. He’d added that he hoped she didn’t mind, even though they both knew that MJ missed May and had loved her albeit only having a few months with her. Of course she didn’t mind. She’d taken his face between her hands and had assured him that if he’d been able to give her May’s ring, she would’ve been overjoyed and so, so honoured, but since the heirloom was unavailable, the ring in front of her was the most perfect thing she’d ever seen. His reaction, former anxiety turned relief and complete adoration, had made MJ cry. Her fiancé is sweet and thoughtful and sentimental and good .

God, she loves him. She gets to marry him today. She can’t wait.

Tiptoeing over to the corner of the kitchen, MJ pours cat food into the empty bowl on the floor as she tuts quietly. “Mayday, are you hungry?”

Her and Peter’s sweet, quiet cat meows in response, grazing her black fur across MJ’s calf before heading towards her breakfast. “Mommy and Daddy are getting married today,” she tells the munching cat, and though the statement falls on deaf ears, it feels so wholly huge and exciting and MJ needs to say it out loud every so often as if to not overwhelm herself with the information. She doesn’t think Mayday minds assisting her with this.

As she stands back up, she hears a persistent knock on the door, and goes to open it. Felicia, Cindy and Betty barge into the small flat without waiting for MJ’s permission, contagious excitement, beauty supplies, and wedding plans in hand. A flurry of “MJ!!!”s and “How are you feeling?!”s surround her and she reassures them with a confident grin.

Only two hours later (an eternity to a slightly nervous Michelle), her maids-of-honour have completed her hair and makeup. “Ta-da!” Cindy announces, grabbing MJ’s hand and pulling her in front of the floor mirror in the bedroom. And oh, wow.

She looks absolutely beautiful.

Her hair is left in its natural curls in a half-up, half-down sort of do, and the top section of hair is braided on each side, meeting at the back of her head in a loose ponytail. A few curls are left in the front, too, framing her face perfectly. MJ’d pleaded with Cindy to leave it as lowkey and Michelle-esque as possible, and though Cindy had groaned and begged to add some dramatics and flair, she’d succeeded. Her makeup matched the easygoing air of her curls, and Felicia too had wanted to do something bolder. Alas, they both knew their friend; MJ wasn’t one for anything drastic. A bit of mascara, concealer, highlighter (she fought Felicia on that one, but gets it now), and lipgloss are present on her face and it’s exactly what she’d imagined. She looks fucking awesome.

Her friends stand behind her, the two blondes both teary-eyed and the brunette grinning widely. “Wait until you put on the dress!” Cindy squeals.

Michelle hadn’t really cared about going dress-shopping, but knew that her friends would enjoy the experience and decided to humour them. The four of them — Betty, Felicia, Cindy and Ned (of course) were astonished at MJ’s nonchalance, but she had to admit, their enthusiasm made the bridal pressure ease up a bit. She definitely hadn’t been very excited at first, and the first eight dresses were pretty disappointing. Several were much too feminine, a few too detailed, and one of them frighteningly donned sequins on the bust. She’d gone back into the large fitting room with a huff; feeling impatient and even a little let down. She could tell that Lisa, the attendant, was getting fed up with her pickiness, even if she hid it well and was nothing but kind. MJ felt bad, and debated choosing the next dress solely to give the poor woman a break.

Lisa had entered the fitting room with a new dress after ten minutes of searching the store. She had a hopeful smile on her face as she helped Michelle into the gown, zipped her up, and after stepping back to look for herself, the attendant gasped and immediately spun Michelle towards the mirror. “What do you think?”

MJ’d timidly glanced at her reflection, and quickly did a double-take. Jesus Christ. She’d found it.

The dress, like her ring, was Michelle Jones to a T. Lowkey, but not boring, and just old-fashioned enough without being out of touch. The form-fitting bodice was a soft satin, and hugged her waist and hips comfortably. The ivory of the gown was so off-white it was almost beige, and the fabric fell to her feet lightly, boasting a thigh-high slit on the left leg. It wasn’t low cut, and the straps secured the form over her shoulders and met across her back — the only part of her torso that was left uncovered. It was perfect.

She’d gaped at herself in the mirror, and had a similar expression on her face now as she smoothed out the bodice, having put it on with the exciting knowledge that she’d be married when she took it off later.

Or, you know, when Peter took it off later.

It’s not like that infamous tradition wasn’t one they were going to follow. She’d had sex with Peter countless times in the last five years, so she’s not sure tonight will actually count as ‘consummation’, but hey. It’ll be the first time she gets to fuck her husband.

Her husband. What a mind-blowing phrase. MJ briefly wonders how on earth anyone’s ever been casual about using it.

The next hour flies by much too quickly for her liking. She’s shoved into Felicia’s car, driven to the venue (a quiet grassy area in the outskirts of Boston, now beautified by the autumn leaves on the trees), and helped out of the car by a fussing Betty. “Peter’s already walked the aisle, so you’re up whenever you’re ready, okay?” Michelle nods. “I love you,” Betty adds, throwing her arms around her. They would’ve arrived earlier, but, true to character, Felicia had made them leave later than they’d planned. It didn’t matter. She was here and just in time and about to get married and she just couldn’t fucking wait to see Peter.

They’d decided to skip on the whole bridesmaids/groomsmen/flower-girls shebang. MJ had never liked the whole father-giving-daughter-away thing either, for obvious reasons, something that Peter had always agreed wholeheartedly on, so Mr. Watson sat joyfully teary-eyed in the front row. MJ’s eyes found him straightaway as she peeked past the makeshift curtain that separated the venue from the rest of the park.

Deep breaths, she told herself. It’s just a goddamn wedding.

Today’s the day her and Peter will one day tell their child about. Totally not a big deal.

(Michelle always imagines said child as a little boy with her wild curls and Peter’s dopey grin. It makes her heart stutter every time she pictures him.)

Focus, MJ.

Later, she’ll assume her mind went on autopilot at this point. She’s walking down the makeshift aisle, faced with almost everyone she’s ever cared about. A few are blatantly absent. Michelle and Peter have lost so many. She aches for her mother to be here. For her sister to be here. Harry. Gwen. Peter’s parents, who she never met but respect and adore regardless because they made the love of her life, and Ben, another of Peter’s loved ones who she wishes she could meet and thank and know and love.

May.

She likes to think, as her well-worn Converse lead her down the aisle, that May is in the empty chair they’d sentimentally saved for her. There are two unclaimed seats in the audience: one for May, and one for Michelle’s late mother. Rather than their absence breaking her heart, it soothes her to know that both of the amazing women would be so incredibly proud of her and Peter. So happy for them. So excited for them. And MJ is at peace with it all.

She reaches Peter, grasping his hand. She matches his adoring grin, though his is paired with glassy eyes and hers is not. That bit was predictable, Michelle thinks with amusement.

And then they’re going through a simplified version of a wedding — Peter’d been fine with cutting out the unnecessary bits, but insisted on keeping the vows in the ceremony. This had made MJ groan and grumble because she’d always thought vows were particularly humiliating and stupid.

She’d never tell Peter this, but as she stands across from him and repeats her carefully transcribed sentences, she doesn’t feel an ounce of embarrassment. There’s nothing there but love and truth behind every word. And Peter is two seconds away from weeping, which is something she’s admittedly proud of. She’d aced it.

His are just as sickeningly sweet as Michelle guessed they would be, but they make her eyes water and she’s blinking rapidly as she listens to Peter talks about wanting to kiss her in Paris when they were seventeen. He is hers and she is his and she’s content. She feels so whole.

MJ barely registers Ned pronouncing them as husband and wife before Peter’s spinning her to his other side, dipping her, and kissing her dramatically. Everyone disappears and it’s just them on a bridge in London, Peter donning quite a different suit and the beloved black dahlia necklace in her hand instead of around her neck like it is now. As he tips her upright again, he breaks the kiss and mutters, “We’ll be continuing that later, my incredible, beautiful wife.”

Fuck, she has the biggest crush on him. He’s charming and sexy and hers and she can’t wait to get him alone.

Later.

Turns out, later doesn't come soon enough (and neither does she). Peter’s made it worse for her. He’s been teasing her ever since the kiss at the ceremony. She counts the series of events silently so she knows exactly how much payback she's owed.

One. As soon as they’ve been ushered into their cutely decorated ‘just married’ Toyota, he’s gripping her inner thigh over her wedding dress as she drives them straight to Chipotle.

Two. When they arrive at their small reception, held in Felicia’s large backyard, he’s hissing his impatience under his breath: “Can’t wait any longer to take this gorgeous dress off. It’s sexy, and it’s in my way.”

Michelle tries her best to hide the way his neediness makes her feel as she subtly bites her lip and smiles. “Later, weirdo.” As if he wasn’t making her hot-and-bothered.

Three. He teases her again as he pulls her in close, of course, to dance to ‘I Believe’ by Stevie Wonder. It’s their song, and normally she’d be thinking about that instead of how Peter’s sneaking kisses to her neck, a bite to her earlobe, a sly squeeze to her ass as he pulls her against him even tighter and her heart’s beating really fast because that was close. Not for any other. reason. She was just nervous that their guests almost saw him being a complete dick.

She considers threatening divorce but they’ve only been married for three hours and the ink on their marriage documents isn’t even dry. MJ cares less about that as the reception goes on, though, because the way that Peter’s licking cake off his spoon is conjuring memories of his tongue moving the same way a couple nights ago. Her breath is shallow and he’s an asshole and god, it’s been too long and she needs her husband and it’s only been a few days. She's so getting him back for all of that later. Much later.

But alas.

Finally, finally they’ve made it back to their one-bedroom apartment. She parks the car and he’s telling her to wait where she is. “Why?” She wonders aloud, furrowing her eyebrows in confusion, until Peter runs over to the driver’s side of the car, opens the door, and scoops her up out of her seat. “Pete!” She squeals, both giggling as he runs up the three flights of stairs with her in his arms. They pass a couple neighbours on the way up, and are a little too horny to remember that there’s no way he should be that physically capable. The weird looks from the strangers, though, aren’t paid any attention, because Peter’s shifting her into one arm as the other unlocks their apartment with ease.

Peter opens the door ceremoniously with a proud “Welcome home, wife," and she’s doing that terribly girlish giggle again. She’s far too focused on his muscles to care, though. Michelle just really wants him. The sky is blue, grass is green. Peter is hot.

“You asshole.” She tries to look angry and sort of succeeds. He looks confused, raising an eyebrow in question. “Peter. You fucking teased me the entire day and you think I’m gonna give it to you that easy?”

She watches him pretend to think for a moment. He grins, then replies with a simple “yes.”

If she wasn’t this goddamn horny…

He’s absolutely right. MJ tells him so while she tugs at his slightly-wrinkled button-up. “…but I’m making you pay for today next time, Pete. Swear to god.”

He doesn’t answer her. He’s busy sliding her wedding dress down her body and groaning when he finds his wife nearly naked underneath it, save for the tiny white lace of her thong and, of course, her Converse. Her husband (god that word) drags his tongue from her breastbone to her navel. The dress hasn’t even left its bunched-up state around her ankles. Peter wants her, he wants her, he wants her.

Michelle frantically pull Peter up from his crouch and messily crashes her lips with his. She wants him, she wants him, she wants him.

Five minutes later, though it seems like five hours, the newlyweds have made it to their lumpy bed once a bastard but now the first place she gets to fuck her husband. He’s just in his briefs, and the only thing she’s kept on is the lace because she knows from experience that he always fucks her harder when her panties have been carelessly shoved to the side. And she needs it hard. Fuck, she needs it. Peter finds home between her legs, pinning her to the mattress with his body weight, and jerks his hips forward on instinct and need. The animalistic movement earns a high-pitched whine out of Michelle, and he watches her shut her eyes lustfully as he wraps a hand around her neck. Squeezing it ever-so-slightly, he thrusts his greedy bulge against her core once, twice, a third time, gaining momentum with each snap of his hips. “Look at me.” He orders her, gripping her jaw. Her eyes fly open and she’s never seen him look more needy than he does now. It’s overwhelming sometimes, knowing she’s that wanted. That needed. That loved.

Peter snakes his other hand down to the lace and shoves it to the side. MJ’s eyes widen in surprise when she feels the thin cotton prison of his briefs rub directly onto her swollen clit. She’s never been this wet, she swears it. He feels it too when he drags his imprisoned erection from her gushing entrance back to the sensitive nub. This is new. He works harder, maintaining his grip on her neck as he drops his head on the mattress next to it. As he ruts even harder against her, she picks up on his mutter, so low she could’ve missed it. “You gonna cum for me like this?”

She nods. No, wait. Words are important when he’s in charge. “Uh huh.” The faint whimper is all she can manage.

“‘M not even inside you, Em. Haven’t got my cock or my fingers or my tongue in your cunt, and you’re still gonna fall apart, yeah? Fall apart with my cock rubbing you off.” It’s a hiss, and she moans brokenly at that. He sits up on his knees to shove his boxers down and off, then returns to his wife in mere seconds. Without the fabric barrier, and after he stops to position himself, his dick slides perfectly up her pussy, parting her lips, and his leaking tip tortures her quivering bundle of nerves. They both cry out at the sensation — it’s intense, to say the least — and Peter begins moving his hips again and again and again and again and fuck fuck fuck she’s there and he’s gripping her hair and jerking her head back to watch her cum .

“What a fucking sight.” She hears him growl as she comes down from the high. Her chest is heaving, legs shaking and breath stuttering and he has her so fucked up. Mind body and soul. Everything that is Michelle Jones is driven mad by her want and love and need for him.

Before she can process anything besides his face, he’s gripping her hips and flipping them with a strength only a superhero could muster. She’s confused. There’s no way he expects her to ride him, not after that intense orgasm, right? But before she can ask, he’s mumbling, “Let me do the work, baby. I got you.”

She nods eagerly, heart melting. The coupling between Peter and Michelle is sometimes intense, sometimes lazy, sometimes mindless and hard, but whenever they need to just feel each other, she’s on top. It connects them and it's simple and Michelle loves feeling loved by him. There aren’t many other situations in which she feels it more so than this. And while it’s always passionate and fuelled by adoration, it's also her and Peter. Sex rarely remains slow and romantic even if it starts that way. She just calls it range.

Yes. She and Peter are sexually versatile. That's all.

Because they're so versatile, when Peter lowers her onto his aching cock and gives her a moment (her superhuman husband isn’t exactly small or even average), she knows that in a minute, he’ll be too impatient to take his time. Fuck. She loves it when he doesn’t take his time like this. In fact, if he waits any longer to fuck the absolute shit out of her, she’s gonna take the fucking reigns. Fuck him.

Oh…oh, fuck him.

Because Peter gives up on 'slow' after the fourth slow-paced thrust, shoots her one of those looks — she’d been fucking him for long enough to know his non-verbal cues — and after a nod of her head, he’s rearing back and pounding into her without any hesitation. When he doesn’t hold back, she finds Peter breathtaking. Sometimes literally. His stamina could prove efficient well into a twelfth round of fucking and more often than not she'll sound like an Olympic sprinter after they're done. Michelle both wishes she could keep up with him and is glad she can’t.

His determination stuns her as she’s witness to it now. Her elbows are shaking too much to hold her upright anymore, and she’s collapsing onto his chest as he fucks wildly into her. MJ’s pretty sure that’s her voice she’s hearing; the one whimpering Peter Peter Peter over and over again pathetically. She would be embarrassed if she was coherent enough, but perhaps she wouldn’t because it’s Peter and they love each other and he knows what she’s like when he’s fucked her up. Plus he’s told her he likes her like this. He likes knowing only he can make her feel this way. He told her about that when they were twenty-one and he’d admitted that he might be Spider-Man but he never feels more powerful than he does when he’s got her like this. Thoroughly fucked and sobbing for him and falling apart on his cock again and again. The confession, given right after sex, had made her throb and his dick was down her throat before he’d even finished talking.

And quite honestly, if she keeps thinking about shit like that, she’s gonna fucking cum again. So she does her best to focus on present Peter.

...Except focusing on the Peter below her and inside of her does nothing to ward off another orgasm. No, no, it summons it, because one look at his sweaty, perfect, blissed out face and she’s hurled off the edge yet again into pleasure’s abyss. In it she finds his eyes.

Always his eyes.

Peter slows down for a moment or two, but Michelle doesn’t get to fully recover. Not that she wants to. She hasn’t even caught her breath before he’s flipped her beneath him, positioning her on her side, and pounding into her again. She cries out and her entire body is shaking from the overstimulation. Harder and harder still he wrecks her and she unabashedly stares at his six pack flexing at the strain of it all. He gives her everything and that is how roughly he fucks her and she craves it whenever he’s not inside her. Her husband is magnificent.

That word again.

Peter seems equally enthralled by the equivalent, because she picks up on a, “good girl. Good fucking girl. You’re so fucking good for me. Take it so well, don’t you? My perfect wife. So fucking sexy. Look at you, fuck!” He accentuates the word with a swift slap to her ass, making her jerk and wail loudly. “Sexy and powerful yet so eager to please. Such a good girl for me. Take my fucking cock, Em. Wanna fuck you so good you’ll feel me inside you for weeks.” He stops muttering to take a few breaths, staring at her face as he speaks again in a softer tone: “God, I love you."

The declaration is all Michelle needs to cum for the fourth time tonight, ears ringing as she falls with a weak whimper of his name. It’s all she can manage but she knows he understands. She loses consciousness for a few seconds. The intensity is more than she can really bear.

But he’s here and he’s gently removing her (ruined) underwear and she’s not sure when he filled the tub up because after a few minutes he’s lifting her from the bed and lowering her, after a short trip, into a warm bath. MJ’s coherent enough now to smile and stroke Peter’s face. “I love you too.”

“We got married today.” He whispers, awed.

“We totally did.”

They laugh together, then, at the dramatics of it all; how everything feels different now but so incredibly the same that it makes Michelle’s heart squeeze. It's her and Peter against the world and as corny as it sounds, she truly believes that nothing in the world is stronger than their love for each other. To be seen, to be known, to be loved. Maybe finding That Person always meant that quotes from classical literature she once thought were god-awful before him now make complete sense after him. She understands Elizabeth Bennet and Jane Eyre and Catherine Earnshaw, because Peter is Mr. Darcy and Edward Rochester and Heathcliff. Though she hopes for a happier ending than Wuthering Heights.

“I guess I’m just used to wearing a costume every day,” Peter laughed as he pulled her close for a kiss.

“Oh, that reminds me. I brought some provisions for THE first day of Halloween,” Peter said.

 Peter removed the backpack from his shoulder. This was his third new backpack this month. Inside were Halloween themed pajamas and socks as well as hot chocolate packets and Pillsbury ready-to-bake ghost cookies.

“You do realize these are all just marketing ploys to take advantage of people during holidays. Social constructs that cause people to feel the need to buy all of these items just to fit in and meet Instagram’s demands for what is portrayed as necessary to celebrate a holiday,” MJ declared.

“I hear you but… that lady that owns the grocery store with the sweet old dog. You know, the one that lays behind the counter, but never stops wagging his tail. The one in lower Manhattan. She offered me a discount for stopping another robbery tonight,” Peter replied quickly.

MJ raised her brow again.

“I protested, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Peter said earnestly.

“I suppose we can be that couple for one evening,” MJ said pointedly. “But don’t even think about posting a picture with a caption like ‘My Boo!’ tonight.”

“You got it boss,” Peter said as he went to the bathroom to change into the Halloween pajamas.

He returned to find MJ in the corresponding set of skeleton pajamas as the oven’s preheat setting beeped. Peter placed the refrigerated cookies on a sheet pan and set out the mugs for the hot cocoa. MJ set up the movie.

“So, what’re we watching?” Peter asked.

“I picked Scream for tonight. I figured I would ease you into my horror movie collection starting with a 90’s classic, and we’ll get to the more obscure films later.”

 “You don’t want to ease me in with like Monsters Inc.?” Peter smiled sheepishly.

“You fight crime daily, but you’re afraid of a little scary movie?” MJ teased. 

Peter scooped MJ up in his arms, kissing her forehead. They snuggled onto the couch. MJ was still in Peter’s arms, laying on his chest.

“You know, you make a pretty cute skeleton,” Peter whispered.

Peter lightly outlined the picture of an arm bone down MJ’s shirt sleeve. He traced it the whole way to her fingertips. Then, he grasped her hand within his.

“Shut up, Parker,” MJ giggled.

She had started to trace the bones on Peter’s matching pajamas. Suddenly, MJ felt Peter’s hand graze her chin. He lightly pulled her face to look upward at him. Sitting up now, Peter bent to kiss MJ from above. He saw that in a movie once. Their lips fit together perfectly. He squeezed her hand and she squeezed back. All the chaos, heartache, and struggles that came with being Spider-Man melted away as Peter breathed in MJ’s honey shampoo scent in her curly hair as strands of it tickled his face. They kissed the world away.

However, as Peter’s heart began to hammer in his chest, the timer from the oven parted their lips. MJ turned over, now properly oriented to look him in the eye and gave him a final peck. She then went to the kitchen to bring the cookies in. Then, she set them down on the coffee table in front of the couch with the hot chocolates. They each took one, but Peter put it in his mouth too quickly.

“Ooo… ooo! Too hot!” Peter mumbled over his burnt tongue and waived his hand.

He reached for his cup of hot chocolate.

“Peter wai—”

Peter’s eyes went wide as the steaming liquid passed his lips.

“It’s called hot chocolate for a reason, Parker” MJ teased.

She kissed him on the cheek and wiped the hot chocolate from the side of his mouth with her thumb.

“I guess the Spidey sense didn’t realize cookies and cocoa could be a threat too, huh?” Peter said, cheeks reddening.

“That’s alright. I’ll protect you from the sinister cookies,” MJ murmured as she put a now-cooled cookie in his mouth and took one for herself.

She was laying in his chest again with one hand on his sleeve. Peter took another bite of cookie. It was warm and sweet. These were the moments he truly lived for—the stolen kisses, the tender touches, and the pure passion he felt when he was with MJ. He snuggled close as they watched a panicked Drew Barrymore run from Ghostface. With every sharp intake of Peter’s breath as Barrymore’s death loomed closer, MJ squeezed his hand. She was his protector too.

Suddenly, MJ’s phone screen lit up. She picked it up to see the news alert.

“Peter, there’s a five-alarm fire in Hell’s Kitchen,” she said with dismay.

Peter webbed his backpack to his hands. He went back to the bathroom to change back into the Spider-Man suit. When he returned, he kept his eyes on the floor. Peter wanted to stay snuggled into the couch, holding MJ tight. MJ crossed the room to him and brushed his cheek.

“It’s ok, Peter. There’s thirty more days of Halloween,” she smiled.

He returned the smile and kissed her once more, beginning yet another premature exit out the apartment window. Peter looked at MJ one more time as he pulled his mask down.

“Go get ‘em, Tiger,” MJ said with a wink.

Peter’s heart skipped a beat and he smiled under his mask as he swung to the out of the window. 

“Yeah, uh, it’s not that big of a deal,” he laughs nervously, fidgeting in his seat. “Ned just gets a little worried so-” 

He shakes his head while she nods hers and it’s painfully silent for half a moment before he begins to mumble stringed together words to form incoherent sentences. 

“What?” she asks and over the roar of the plane’s engine he thinks maybe he could brush her off. It would be so easy to rush out a It was the wind, but then his plan would go to hell. And he really likes MJ.

“I said,” his eyes flicker between her and the little tv hanging off the back of Brad’s chair. “I have a headphone adapter, we can watch a movie i-if you want.”

A smile pulls at her lips. “Only if it’s like super depressing,” she says. “Or hilarious.”

But he was counting on that answer, so he grins big and holds up the little plug he’d been saving for her. “You read my mind.”

They end up watching three murder documentaries and Room -a movie which he’d never heard of before MJ had pointed it out while shoveling his pretzels in her mouth (he didn’t mind)- before switching to lighter films that make her laugh hard enough that he finds she’s pressing a palm to her lips to suppress the giggles more often than not. 

Near the end of the movie, MJ’s head is pressed against his and their arms are balancing precariously on the tiny armrest between them. Finished meals lay crumpled on their foldable tables- meals which he actually enjoyed, despite every comedian telling him he shouldn’t- and it doesn’t take long before his eyes begin to droop from fatigue. 

It isn’t often that Peter grows tired from doing nothing, but he can’t say he minds. 

He fights to keep his eyes open, for her more than him but then her head drops to his shoulder a second later and he realizes that she’s already fast asleep. 

His heart stutters in his chest at the contact, and when he glances up he can see Ned and Betty peeking at him from a few rows up, matching grins plastered on their faces. 

He mouths a soft ‘Oh my god,’ to his friend, who shoots him two thumbs up and a wink before sinking back down and out of sight. 

And again, despite the weight on his eyelids, Peter doesn’t sleep. Not until a flight attendant has come by to collect their leftovers, and he makes sure that the kind woman doesn’t take away the small dessert that MJ was saving for the boat ride to their hotel. 

Only once the treat is secure and still perched in front of her does he let his own head drop against hers. 

He just hopes his racing heart doesn’t wake the girl sleeping against his shoulder.  

‘Peter,’ Ned pushes against his back, trying to squeeze through the tiny doorway (really tiny doorway. When he’d first seen them Peter thought it was just their specific hotel that didn’t know how to make normal sized aperture’s, then he saw the rest of the city and, well, Europe just has really weird doors)

Ned’s finger jabs between Peter’s shoulder blades. ‘Hey,’ He calls out, turning to glare at the boy.

‘You’re holding up the line, dickhead,’ Flash’s voice echoes from farther behind and Peter rolls his eyes, stepping out of the frame and directly to the side.

Somehow through the chaos of booking a hotel, he and Ned had gotten stuck with Flash as a roommate, making the usual slur of insults from his mouth become a never ending spewing waterfall.

Peter’s eyes flit to MJ again, she’s smiling- brighter this time- but not at him. Betty stands in front of her, whispering something hushed and so obviously secret that he turns to Ned and begins running his mouth about quantum physics as not to let his very advanced hearing pick up the words, but not before he hears ‘Peter,’ and something about ‘like him,’

He’s trying to get better at eavesdropping. Or rather not eavesdropping.

‘Woah, calm down,’ Ned quirks an eyebrow, moving past him to let Flash stumble through the door.

‘It’s about time,’ He mumbles.

‘What about subatomic particles?’ Ned ignores Flash’s interference and scratches the back of his hair, trying to catch on to his friends ramblings. Peter only shakes his head.

‘Never mind,’ He says, watching MJ stroll far enough out of earshot that even he’d have difficulty listening in on her conversations. Not that he wants to.

Ned follows his gaze, then smirks when his eyes land on the girl, still nodding along to whatever Betty is saying. MJ glances at him and the slightest hint of pink begins to rise to her cheeks, he’s sure his own face is a bright red by now. Ned shoves his shoulder.

‘Dude,’ He laughs as Peter stumbles, rubbing his sleeve with a wince.

‘Dude,’

‘Dude,’ Ned says again. Peter only shrugs.

‘What?’

Ned furrows his brows and begins to gawk in a way that makes Peter think of a fish out of water. Actually a fish out of water. ‘Seriously?’ He says. Peter shrugs again. ‘She’s totally into you.’

A scoff rips from his lips as Mr. Harrington calls the class to follow him through the door and towards the theater they’re visiting. Peter straightens the collar of his shirt and shakes his head. ‘Whatever,’ He says. And then- ‘You think so?’

‘Uh, yeah?’ Ned scoffs out the words and Peter’s cheeks heat up just a little more.

‘I just wanna spend time with her,’ He mumbles, feet beginning to follow the rest of his peers through the creaking hotel doors. Ned’s eyes glint with mischief.

‘That can be arranged,’ He says and Peter shoots him a baffled smile, glancing up at the sky and the stars speckled through it. The night is chilly but not cold and he breathes in the fresh air, relishing the feel of it.

‘Ned!’ Betty’s voice rings out a few paces in front of them and Peter’s eyes land on the blonde girl for half a second before flying to Michelle whose own eyes are already stuck to his figure. She looks him up and down.

‘Duty calls,’ Ned shoots him a two fingered salute and Peter barely has time to nod in return before he’s skipping to catch up with Betty and MJ is falling back to give the pair space. She falls into step next to him and his heart begins to race and race and race in his chest. He swallows hard.

‘Hey,’ He squeaks.

‘Hey,’ She says and the word sounds strange, different than how she’d usually speak it. Less indifferent somehow. It only makes his hands grow damp and his neck grow hot. Ned and Betty whisper ahead of them, glancing back every so often. MJ shakes her head. ‘They’re up to something.’

Peter laughs. ‘No kidding,’ He says and she turns to look at him, head cocked to the side just enough so that the lock of hair always concealing her eyes falls away and for just a moment, barely one, he sees her eyes glint with something nervous. He swallows hard and looks away, eyes focusing on the pair in front of them again.

MJ does the same and they watch as the couple no longer giggles and whispers about them no doubt, and instead as Ned takes Betty’s hand and squeezes it tight. Peter grins and then begins to laugh and Michelle glances at him curiously, a matching smile on her lips.

‘What?’ She says.

‘Nothing,’ He replies. ‘Ned’s just been pining after Betty for god knows how long.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s about time he did something about it.’

‘Betty’s had a crush on him since the sixth grade,’ She scoffs and raises her chin, leaning towards Peter, close enough so that he can smell her perfume. It’s light and warm and sweet and it might just be the only he thing he wants to smell for the rest of his life. ‘Betty’s the one who took his hand by the way.’ She almost whispers it and Peter expression twists in surprise.

‘What? No, I just saw it,’ He says, eyeing the pair again. MJ shakes her head.

‘She’s been working up to this for weeks, I’m telling you.’

Peter hikes his backpack higher over his shoulder his tongue darting out to wet his lips. ‘Alright.’

MJ arches a brow. ‘You don’t believe me?’

‘I do,’ He rushes out with a breathless laugh. ‘No, I do.’

She shakes her head, a smile pulling at her lips and lifts her eyes to the sky. The pale moonlight dances across her skin, pulling at her features so that she almost begins to glow- but then again, he thinks she might’ve done that before.

He watches her watch the stars, hoping he doesn’t trip and land on his face from the sheer distraction of her. Has her hair always looked so soft?

‘Why’re you staring at me?’ Her voice cuts through the parading thoughts of her her her in his mind and his head snaps forward, eyes almost cutting through the stone pavement in front of him.

‘I’m not,’ He says, but he was. He knows that she knows he was. A bought of red rushes to his cheeks. Idiot.

She hums and then stops walking. Peter barrels straight into Flash’s back.

‘Watch it,’ He snaps, shoving Peter back.

‘Sorry,’ Peter mumbles, not ignoring how MJ’s jaw begins to twitch at the encounter.

It’s no secret that Flash isn’t the most loved among the class, no matter how much he tries to convince everyone otherwise, but despite how much Peter dislikes him he’s almost sure MJ takes her hatred for the boy to an entirely new level. He’s not surprised really, when he thinks about the offensive things known to leave the bully’s mouth.

Mr. Harrington holds up his hand to grab the attention and MJ scoots away again as Ned inserts himself beside him. ‘You okay?’ He asks. Mr. Harrington begins to explain the show that they’re going to see and the rules surely to come with it, but his voice gets lost between the whispers of students, still talking despite his inquiry.

Peter rolls his lips together and puffs out his cheeks. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m good,’ Then he grins, wide and teasing. ‘Are you?’

Ned bumps his shoulder, his grin equally large. ‘Yeah,’ He breathes. ‘I’m good.’

~

The show ends with flashing lights and and jarring notes, echoing through the theatre over and over until they become whispers in the wings. Peter turns to glance at MJ sitting beside him.

Her eyes are wide and cheeks dusted pink but there’s something in her expression speaking volumes more than awe. Almost like bewilderment and reverence combined. She watches the curtain close, watches the crowds begin to cheer from their seats. She blinks slowly and turns to him.

He barely realizes he’s staring until she waves a hand in front of his eyes.

He jolts upright before offering her a sheepish smile and an apology. She doesn’t speak, only turns back to stare at the stage almost longingly, like it’s a tragedy that the show would end and he watches her again. He studies her in the dim light, trying to find if the wet under her eyes is a trick of his own.

Ned stands from his other side and taps his shoulder, he almost missed the rest of the audience already beginning to file outside. ‘Come on,’ He says. Peter nods, pushing up from his chair and glancing at MJ again, who follows without looking away from the podium.

Ned pats his shoulder and winks. Peter shoves him down the aisle and slings his bag across his back. But he waits by the last seat, watching Ned and Betty race through the curtains, dividing the showing room from the rest of the building, to catch up with the rest of their peers. He turns to look at MJ just as she pulls her gaze from the set at last, seemingly breaking out of a daze.

She jerks her chin at him and he starts to climb the short length of steps leading to the exit, waiting for her again at the very top of them and turning on his heel to stroll outside when she finally meets him there. But she stops, not following any further and he finds that he’s stopping too, feet already backtracking to make up for the distance. She’s staring at the stage again, and again he is staring at her.

And then her name leaves his mouth before he can stop it. ‘MJ?’ It’s almost a question, and in his ears almost a request to leave but he doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t want to.

She glances at him. ‘There is a voice that doesn’t use words,’ She says. ‘Listen.’

Somewhere he knows he’s heard those words before, and somewhere he knows they were stapled together by some big shot poet full of bullshit quotes leading nowhere but it’s MJ saying those words now and somehow they sound reborn. They sound important.

‘I think this may be one of the purest forms of art,’ Her voice is soft and he listens and listens and listens and he thinks maybe she’s one of the purest forms of art, because art she is. She has to be.

‘You’re an artist,’ He says. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

She looks at him then with confusion and maybe just a little bit of pride and his own heart swells at it. ‘I’m not an artist.’

He laughs, soft and breathless and adjusts his bag over his shoulder. ‘Are you kidding?’ He says. ‘You’re the best artist I know.’

She looks down, the edges of her mouth curling upwards, cheeks turning just a little more pink. He cards his fingers through his hair and the words fly from his tongue before he has the chance to weigh them down. But she’s standing next to him and she’s so beautiful and his head feels light and his stomach feels flippy and-

‘You look really pretty,’ He nods while he says it because yeah, she does, and grips the strap of his backpack again.

She glances at him from the corner of her eye, something glinting within it and she raises her eyebrows, her shoulders turning towards him slightly. Her arms cross deliberately. ‘And therefore I have value?’ She asks.

Peter’s heart drops into his stomach. ‘N-no,’ He breathes out a panicked chuckle, leaning towards her. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

And then suddenly her stoic demeanor melts away as quickly as it had appeared and she smiles, taking a step back and turning to him fully. ‘I’m messing with you,’ She laughs.

‘Oh,’ He chuckles, relief coursing through his veins and MJ shifts on her feet, eyes never leaving his.

‘You look pretty too,’ She says in something near a deadpan. She cocks her head and smiles a little wider. He blushes a little harder.

‘Thanks,’ He says.

She thinks I’m pretty, he thinks.

She nods again, glancing down the stairs one last time before strolling past him and through the curtains without another word, leaving him reeling with a stomach full of butterflies and a heartbeat picking up an electric speed.

She thinks I’m pretty. He thinks again with a giddy smile. She thinks I’m pretty. 

~

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