A Life in Marvel Ch.6 [Marvel Universe] (Patreon)

A Life in Marvel

Chapter 6

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The city was a different beast at night. From his rooftop perch, Peter Parker could feel its pulse—the steady thrum of a million lives, the distant wail of sirens, the rumble of the subway beneath his feet. But tonight, there was a new rhythm, a discordant note in the symphony of the city. It was a low-level hum of illicit tech, a faint energy signature that tickled the enhanced sensors in his suit. It was Chitauri energy, but it was… corrupted. Unstable. And it was moving.

He’d been tracking it for days, following the faint trail of energy from the aftermath of the airport battle, from the wreckage of the Leviathans and the fallen Chitauri warriors. The trail had led him here, to a quiet, residential neighborhood in Queens, where the biggest threat was supposed to be a guy trying to park his SUV too close to a fire hydrant. But the energy signature was stronger here, concentrated in a sprawling, modern beach house that overlooked the dark, choppy waters of the Atlantic. It was the kind of place that hosted loud, raucous parties, the kind of place where a few extra faces and a strange, humming crate wouldn’t even be noticed.

He landed on the roof of the house, his feet making no sound on the shingles. The music was loud, a thumping, bass-heavy beat that vibrated through the structure, a perfect cover for any noise he might make. He could hear the party inside, the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the splashing of the pool. He could also hear something else, a low, mechanical hum, the sound of power being drawn, of a weapon being charged.

He slipped to the edge of the roof, peering over the side. The backyard was a scene of teenage debauchery, a sea of half-dressed bodies, red plastic cups, and shimmering pool water. But his eyes weren’t on the party. They were on the deck, where a deal was going down.

He saw them then. Three figures, their faces obscured by the shadows, their bodies tense with a nervous energy that was palpable even from this distance. One of them was Herman Schultz, a low-level thug Peter had tangled with before, a man whose only notable skill was his ability to get caught. The other two were unknown, but they had the look of professionals, their movements sharp, their eyes constantly scanning the area.

They were standing with a fourth figure, a man in a expensive suit, his face a mask of smug confidence. He was the buyer, a wealthy arms dealer who was looking to add a new, dangerous toy to his collection. And in the center of their circle was a large, metal crate, its sides humming with a faint, green light.

Peter didn’t hesitate. He launched himself from the roof, his body a blur of red and blue as he arced through the air, his web-shooters firing, a stream of white silk flying toward the deck. He landed with a soft thud, his body coiled, his senses on high alert.

“Party’s over,” he said, his voice a low, confident growl that cut through the music.

The thugs froze, their eyes widening in shock and fear. The buyer, however, just smirked, his hand reaching into his jacket, no doubt going for a weapon.

“Spider-Man,” he said, his voice a smooth, condescending purr. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Peter didn’t give him a chance to finish. He lunged, his body a blur of motion as he disarmed the buyer with a flick of his wrist, his other hand snapping out to grab Schultz by the throat, lifting him off his feet.

“The weapon,” Peter demanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “Where is it?”

Schultz whimpered, his face turning a mottled red, his hands clawing at Peter’s grip. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Peter’s senses screamed a warning. He could feel the energy building, the air crackling with a dangerous, unstable power. He turned, his eyes locking onto the crate, just as the lid blew off.

A wave of green energy erupted from the crate, a concussive blast that sent Peter flying, his body crashing through the deck railing, his back hitting the sand with a sickening thud. The world spun, a dizzying kaleidoscope of stars and sand, and he could feel the air being knocked from his lungs, his head swimming with a concussion that made it hard to think.

He struggled to his feet, his body aching, his head pounding. He could hear the chaos of the party, the screams, the shouts, the panicked stampede for the exits. He could also hear the low, mechanical hum of the weapon, the sound of it powering up, ready to fire again.

He had to stop it. He had to get to the weapon.

He launched himself forward, his body a blur of motion as he dodged another blast of energy, the heat of it singeing his suit, the force of it sending him stumbling. He could feel the weapon’s energy, a chaotic, unpredictable force that was tearing itself apart, a ticking time bomb that was about to go off.

He reached the crate, his hands closing around the weapon, a crude, jury-rigged cannon that was glowing with a sickly green light. It was hot to the touch, the energy humming through it, a living thing that was struggling to break free. He could feel it tearing at him, the power overwhelming, the force of it threatening to tear him apart from the inside out.

He tried to contain it, to absorb the energy, to redirect it, but it was too much. The weapon exploded, a blinding flash of light and a deafening roar that sent him flying, his body crashing into the side of a nearby warehouse, the metal wall buckling under the force of the impact.

He fell to the ground, his body broken, his suit shredded, his mind a fog of pain and confusion. He could feel the weight of the warehouse collapsing on top of him, the metal beams and concrete debris pinning him down, the air growing thick with dust and the smell of ozone. He was trapped. He was alone. And he was going to die.

He closed his eyes, his body going limp, his mind drifting into a sea of darkness. He could feel the life draining out of him, his consciousness fading, his last thought a whispered prayer for a miracle that he knew would never come.

But then, he heard it. A faint, mechanical voice, a familiar, comforting sound that cut through the darkness.

“Peter, can you hear me? It’s Tony. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

He could feel the suit’s systems coming back online, the nanites repairing the damage, the AI’s voice a steady, calming presence in the chaos. He could feel the weight of the debris being lifted, the metal beams and concrete crumbling to dust as the suit’s emergency protocols kicked in, the power of the Iron Man armor a distant, reassuring hum.

He was saved. But he was also a failure. He had let the weapon get away. He had let the thugs escape. He had almost gotten himself killed. And as the suit’s systems stabilized, his consciousness returning, he could feel the weight of his failure pressing down on him, a heavy, crushing burden that made it hard to breathe.

He stumbled out of the wreckage, his body aching, his head pounding, his suit a tattered, shredded mess. He was alone. He was defeated. And he knew, with a cold, hard certainty, that he was in for a world of trouble.

***

The Decathlon team room was a familiar sanctuary, a place of buzzing fluorescent lights, the faint scent of old textbooks, and the low, anxious hum of teenage ambition. But today, the atmosphere was different. It was heavier, thick with the unspoken tension of a team that had lost one of its own. Peter’s empty chair was a stark, silent reminder of his absence, a void that seemed to suck the energy out of the room.

Liz Allan, still the team captain, was trying her best to hold it all together. She stood at the head of the table, her notes spread out before her, but her usual confident energy was strained, frayed at the edges. She was a good leader, but she wasn't Peter. She didn't have his quiet, intuitive grasp of the material, and it showed.

"Alright, everyone, let's focus," she said, her voice a little too bright, a little too forced. "We've got a lot of ground to cover, and we can't afford to lose momentum." She looked around the table, her gaze landing on the new, unwelcome presence in being in Peter's spot on the team.

Flash Thompson.

He was the replacement, a last-minute addition who had been foisted upon them by the faculty advisor. He wasn't here because he wanted to be; he was here because he'd aced the entrance exam and, more importantly, because no one else had applied. He sat slouched in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, a smug, condescending smirk on his face. He was a black hole of negativity, a vortex of abrasive energy that was already poisoning the room's delicate ecosystem.

"Let's start with the review material," Liz said, trying to regain control of the situation. "Flash, since you're new, why don't you start us off with the basics of quantum entanglement?"

Flash just snorted, a harsh, grating sound that echoed through the quiet room. "Oh, please. That's baby stuff. Parker probably struggled with that. Let's skip the easy stuff and get to something that's actually a challenge."

Liz’s face tightened, her patience wearing thin. "Flash, we need to make sure everyone is on the same page. We're a team. We work together."

"Right, a team," Flash said, his voice dripping with condescension. "A team without its star player. A team that's stuck with a washed-up has-been who couldn't even handle a simple internship." He looked around the room, his gaze landing on Ned, who was sitting beside MJ, his face a mask of suppressed anger. "What's the matter, Leeds? Missing your boyfriend? Did he finally realize he was in over his head and run away with his tail between his legs?"

"That's not true!" Ned shot back, his face flushing, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "Peter's a hero! He's saved the city more times than you can count!"

Flash just laughed, a harsh, grating sound that made everyone's skin crawl. "Sure, he has. And I'm the King of England. Parker's a joke. A pathetic little nerd who got lucky and then couldn't handle the pressure. He's a failure. Just like you."

Ned opened his mouth to argue, to defend his friend, but the words wouldn't come. He just sat there, his face burning with a mix of shame and impotent rage, his jaw working soundlessly.

"That's enough, Flash," MJ said, her voice a low, dangerous growl that was surprisingly effective. Flash just sneered, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of anger and defiance.

"Or what? You're going to write a scathing poem about me? Please. I'm so scared."

Morgan had been watching the whole exchange with quiet amusement, saying nothing. He sat there calmly, an unmoving presence amid the swirl of teenage drama. But he wasn’t just observing. In his own way, he was taking MJ’s side—a quiet show of support that spoke louder than any outburst. When he caught MJ’s eye, a brief look of understanding passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of their shared irritation with Flash and their concern for Peter.

MJ, emboldened by his silent support, stood up, her movements a deliberate, fluid grace that was both confident and incredibly intimidating. She looked Flash dead in the eye, her expression a mask of cold, calculated fury.

"You're a bully, Flash," she said, her voice a low, dangerous growl that was both calm and firm. "A loud, insecure bully who gets off on making other people feel small. You're not a leader. You're not a teammate. You're a joke. And we're done listening to you."

Flash’s face flushed, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of anger and humiliation. He opened his mouth to argue, to defend his honor, but the look in MJ's eyes—a cold, calculating, utterly dismissive gaze—made him think twice. He just stood there for a moment, his jaw working, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, before he finally turned and stormed away, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

The review session limped to a close, the energy in the room completely deflated. Flash’s tirade had killed the collaborative spirit, leaving behind a bitter, awkward silence. Liz gathered her notes with a heavy heart, her gaze lingering on Morgan for a second too long, a silent, pleading invitation that was both transparent and desperate. She didn't want to go. She wanted to stay, to find a way to be near him, to soak in the aura of power and indifference that he projected so effortlessly. But a family dinner was a non-negotiable obligation, a chain she couldn't break.

"Family dinner," she said, her voice a little too loud, a little too cheerful. "I've got to run. It was… productive."

"Right," Flash said, grabbing his bag. "Productive. Let's try to be a little more productive next time, shall we? Without the distractions." He shot a pointed look at Morgan, who didn't even bother to acknowledge him.

Gwen stood and stretched her arms over her head, the easy motion drawing a few glances around the room. “I’ve got to get to the lab,” she said calmly. “They’re expecting me.”

She walked over to Morgan with relaxed confidence and leaned down to give him a quick peck on the lips. It was brief and casual, but unmistakably public.

“Don’t have too much fun without me,” she murmured with a faint, teasing smile meant only for him.

Morgan just smirked, his eyes dark and knowing. "I'll try," he replied, his voice a low, amused rumble.

As Gwen walked away, her hips swaying with a newfound confidence, Flash couldn't resist one last parting shot. He stopped in front of Ned, who was still fuming, his face a mask of suppressed anger. "Tell your boyfriend I said hi," he sneered, his voice dripping with condescension. "Tell him I hope he's enjoying his early retirement. Maybe he can get a job as a Stark Internship mascot. They could pay him in tears."

Ned's hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles turning white. He opened his mouth to retort, to defend his friend, to wipe that smug, arrogant grin off Flash's face, but the words wouldn't come. He just stood there, his face burning with a mix of shame and impotent rage, his jaw working soundlessly.

"Leave him alone, Flash," MJ said, her voice a low, dangerous growl that was surprisingly effective. Flash just laughed, a harsh, grating sound, and walked away, leaving them alone in the quiet, empty room.

Ned let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. "God, I hate that guy," he muttered, his voice a low, angry grumble. "I just… I hate him."

MJ just nodded, her expression unreadable. "He's not worth it, Ned. He's just a loud, insecure bully who gets off on making other people feel small. Don't give him the satisfaction."

Ned looked at her, his eyes softening. “Yeah. I know. It’s just… Peter. And I’m worried about him. I haven’t heard from him in days. It’s like he just… vanished.”

MJ’s expression softened, a flicker of genuine concern in her eyes. “He’ll be okay, Ned. He’s Peter. He’s tougher than he looks. He probably just needs some time to sort things out.”

“I hope you’re right,” Ned said quietly. “I really do.” He glanced down at his watch, then pushed himself up from his seat with a sudden resolve. “Actually… I think I’m gonna go check on him. If he’s been hiding out at home again, someone should probably make sure he’s still alive.”

He gave MJ a small, uncertain smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

"Okay," she said, her voice a little too quiet. "Be careful. And tell him… tell him we're thinking about him."

"I will," Ned said, forcing a weak smile. "I promise."

He walked away, his shoulders slumped, his steps heavy, leaving MJ alone with Morgan in the quiet, empty room. The silence was a heavy, living thing, a thick, suffocating blanket that seemed to press in on her, making it hard to breathe. She could feel his presence, a steady, calm force that was both reassuring and utterly intimidating.

She stood there for a long moment, her mind racing, her heart pounding in her chest. She could feel the weight of his gaze, a physical touch that made her skin tingle, her body tremble with a mix of nervousness and a deep, aching need. She knew what she was about to do. She knew it was a mistake. She knew it was a betrayal of her friendship with Peter, with Ned, with Gwen. But she couldn't help herself. She was drawn to him, a moth to a flame, and she knew, with a cold, hard certainty, that she was about to get burned.

"You're right, you know," she said, her voice a low, quiet murmur that broke the heavy silence. "About Peter. About… everything."

Morgan didn't say anything. He just watched her, his eyes dark and unreadable, his expression a mask of calm indifference that was both infuriating and incredibly arousing.

"The three of us… Peter, Ned, and me… we're close," she continued, her voice a little shaky, her hands trembling at her sides. "We've been through a lot together. And… I'm worried about him. He's not himself. He's… different. Distant. I don't know what's wrong, but I know it's bad."

She took a step closer, her movements a deliberate, fluid grace that was both confident and incredibly vulnerable. "If he's struggling… if he needs help… we'll be there for him. We'll do whatever it takes to bring him back."

Morgan just watched her, his eyes dark and knowing. He could feel the shift in her, the change in her energy. It was no longer just concern; it was a plea. A desperate, silent plea for something more, something she couldn't bring herself to say out loud.

She took another step closer, her body now just a few inches from his. She could feel the heat radiating from him, the sheer, undeniable power of his presence, and it made her stomach clench with a mix of nervousness and a deep, aching need. She looked up at him, her eyes dark and intense, a silent, electric current passing between them.

She stepped in front of Morgan and slowly sank to her knees between his legs, her gaze never leaving his. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air thicker.

Her fingers moved to his belt, unbuckling it with practiced ease as she spoke, voice low and edged with heat

“What if I’m the one who’s struggling?” she murmured, the words barely louder than a breath as her fingers hooked under the waistband and tugged his zipper down with slow, deliberate intent. The metallic rasp seemed impossibly loud in the stillness. “Liz has been giving you fuck-me eyes the entire time during reviews. The whole damn session. Leaning forward just enough to let her shirt gape, biting her lip every time you spoke, staring at you like she’s already picturing you bending her over that conference table and taking her hard while everyone else pretends not to notice.”

She eased his jeans open and freed his cock—thick, heavy, velvet-hot against her palm, already thickening and lengthening under her gaze. She wrapped her fingers around the base, marveling for a split second at how her hand couldn’t quite close fully, then began stroking him slowly, deliberately, feeling every vein pulse and swell beneath her touch as he grew impossibly harder in her grip.

“It’s taking every ounce of self-control I have,” she continued, voice dropping to a raw, husky whisper that vibrated with barely-leashed hunger as she pumped him in long, firm strokes, twisting slightly at the head on each upstroke, “not to just stand up in the middle of that meeting, walk over, grab you by the shirt, and beg you—right there in front of Flash, Liz, the whole fucking team—to fuck me. To not drop to my knees in the middle of the room, yank your pants down, and let you take me however you want. Bent over, against the wall, on the table—doesn’t matter. Just… use me.”

Her breath hitched as she leaned in, lips parting on a soft exhale. She pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the swollen tip first—tasting salt and heat—then took him into her mouth. Slow at first, savoring the weight of him on her tongue, letting her lips stretch wide around his girth. Then deeper. Her tongue swirled lazy, teasing circles around the head before she slid down further, hollowing her cheeks as she sucked. Wet, obscene sounds—soft slurps, the quiet gluck of her throat relaxing—filled the quiet space between them as she worked him, hungry and unhurried, lost in the rhythm.

Morgan let out a long, low sigh that bordered on a groan, one hand coming up to thread gently through her hair, fingers sifting through the strands without pulling, just anchoring himself.

“MJ,” he said, voice rough but steady, threaded with that familiar restraint. “We’ve been clear about this. About us. It’s stress relief. Nothing serious. Just blowing off steam. That’s the deal.”

With a loud, wet pop she pulled off him just long enough to speak, lips shiny and swollen, a thin sheen of saliva glistening on her chin.

“I know,” she breathed, voice thick with arousal, almost wrecked. “But it’s been months, Morgan. Months since you last fucked me. Months of sitting across from you, pretending I don’t remember how you feel inside me, how you stretch me, how you make me cum so hard.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. She dove back down, taking him deeper this time—past the point of comfort, relaxing her throat until her nose brushed the coarse hair at his base. She sucked harder, head bobbing in a steady, relentless rhythm, one hand stroking the slick length her mouth couldn’t reach while the other gripped his thigh, nails digging in just enough to leave faint crescents.

Morgan’s fingers tightened in her hair—not guiding, just holding on—as if he needed something solid while she unraveled him. His breathing grew ragged, hips twitching forward in tiny, involuntary jerks as the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in his gut.

“Fuck… MJ—”

He came with a low, guttural groan that seemed to tear out of his chest, pulsing hard against her tongue. Thick, hot spurts flooded her mouth; she didn’t pull away. She swallowed greedily, throat working around him, milking every last drop until the spasms slowed and finally stilled.

Only then did she slowly draw back, lips glistening, a thin, glistening strand of saliva and cum stretching between the head of his cock and her lower lip for a suspended heartbeat before it snapped. She looked up at him, eyes dark and triumphant, chest heaving, cheeks flushed, a faint, satisfied flush spreading down her neck.

“God… I needed that,” she whispered, the words rough and raw and utterly satisfied.

Morgan stared down at her, still catching his breath, the aftershocks humming through every nerve. The shift in her was unmistakable—desperation giving way to something sharper, more certain, more dangerous.

He ran a hand through her hair.

She wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, completely unfazed.

“I know the rules,” she said, voice soft but edged with challenge. “But it’s been months. And I’m done pretending I don’t want more of this.”

Her gaze held his, bold and unapologetic.

“Right now,” she added, quieter, “I really don’t feel like pretending.”

The words hung between them, bold and electric, leaving no room for retreat.

She stood up slowly, movements liquid and deliberate, every line of her body screaming both confidence and raw exposure. Turning away from him, she braced both hands on the edge of the desk, bent at the waist, back arched into a deep, inviting curve. Her ass lifted toward him—round, firm, framed by the thin black thong that was already soaked through. She glanced back over her shoulder, eyes heavy-lidded and burning, the space between them electric.

“Please, Morgan,” she said, voice low and cracked with want. “Fuck me. Hard. Don’t hold back.”

Morgan stayed motionless for several long seconds, letting his gaze rake over her. The damp patch on her panties had spread; he could see the faint outline of her swollen lips beneath the fabric, the way her thighs trembled just enough to betray how badly she needed it. His cock throbbed painfully against his stomach, still slick from her mouth, still demanding. He rose behind her in one smooth motion, broad hands settling on her hips, thumbs dragging slow, possessive strokes along the sensitive skin just above her waistband. She shivered violently under the lightest touch.

“You really want this?” he asked, voice a low, gravelly drawl—half caution, half dark promise.

“I’ve never wanted anything more,” she answered without hesitation, pushing her hips back toward him in silent plea.

He didn’t speak again. Fingers hooked into the sides of her thong; he peeled it down her thighs inch by torturously slow inch, letting the wet cotton drag over her skin until it caught at her knees. She stepped out of it impatiently. Now fully exposed, her folds were dark pink and glistening, arousal already trickling down the inside of one thigh. The scent of her—musky, sweet, unmistakably aroused—hit him hard. He inhaled once, deeply, then lined himself up. The blunt head of his cock nudged her entrance, sliding through slick heat, teasing without entering.

He leaned over her back, chest brushing her spine, mouth close to her ear.

“I keep thinking about Peter,” he murmured, voice calm, almost conversational, but laced with something sharper. “He’s been pulling away for weeks. Barely answers texts. Skips hangouts. Guy looks like he’s carrying the weight of the fucking world and he won’t let anyone help. Needs his friends—needs you—to actually show up, check in, drag him out of whatever mess he’s in.”

He rocked forward just enough to let the head breach her, stretching her open. MJ sucked in a sharp breath, hips twitching.

“Morgan—”

“Instead,” he continued, voice dropping lower, “here you are. Bent over a desk, dripping wet, begging me to fill this greedy little pussy while he’s probably sitting alone wondering why no one’s around.” He sank in another inch, slow and deliberate. “Not exactly best-friend-of-the-year material, are you?”

The words landed like a slap. MJ’s breath hitched—guilt flickering across her face for half a second before pleasure swamped it. She pushed back harder, trying to take more.

“Shut up and fuck me,” she whispered, voice trembling.

He gave her what she wanted. One hard, deep thrust buried him to the root. The stretch was brutal and perfect; she cried out, back bowing sharply, nails gouging the wood.

“Fuck—yes—God—”

He didn’t ease into it. He fucked her with purpose—long, powerful strokes that slammed her hips against the desk edge every time. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin filled the room, obscene and unrelenting, matched by the broken, needy sounds tearing from her throat.

His hand came down on her ass—sharp, resounding crack. The sting made her jolt forward, inner walls clamping down hard around his cock.

“You like that?” he growled, spanking her again, harder, watching the skin flush bright red. “Like getting punished while you’re ignoring your best friend?”

Another smack. She whimpered, pushing back into his hand and his cock at the same time.

“Answer me.”

“Yes—fuck—yes, I like it—”

He kept the rhythm—hard thrusts, harder spanks—turning her ass a glowing, throbbing crimson. Each strike sent fresh heat blooming through her core, pain twisting into pleasure so fast her head spun.

“All this time you could’ve been texting him,” Morgan rasped, voice rough with exertion and dark amusement. “Could’ve been checking if he’s okay. Instead you’re here, ass up, taking every inch like it’s the only thing that matters. Spreading wide for me while Peter’s probably spiraling.”

He gripped her hips tighter, pounding deeper, the angle hitting that spot inside her that made her vision white out.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he taunted, leaning down so his chest pressed to her back again. “Tell me your cunt isn’t clenching harder just because you know you’re being a shitty friend right now.”

She couldn’t speak—only desperate, keening moans—but her body answered for her, fluttering and squeezing around him like she was trying to pull him deeper.

Morgan slid one hand around to her front, fingers finding her clit—swollen, slick, throbbing. He didn’t tease. He rubbed fast, firm circles, pressure unrelenting.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he muttered against her ear. “Soaking my cock while you pretend you’re worried about him. Cum for me, MJ. Cum knowing you chose this—chose getting railed over being there for Peter.”

The command, the guilt, the relentless friction—it all collided.

She shattered.

“MORGAN—fuck—I’m cumming—!”

Her whole body seized, inner walls spasming violently around him, gushing slick heat that ran down her thighs. Her legs shook so hard she nearly collapsed; only his grip and the desk kept her upright. He fucked her through it—didn’t slow, didn’t stop—riding every pulse, every flutter.

The aftershocks barely had time to fade before the next wave hit—amplified, merciless. Her eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent scream as pleasure ripped through her like fire. She went rigid, then boneless, collapsing forward onto her forearms, trembling uncontrollably, mind blanked out in white-hot bliss.

Morgan finally eased his pace—but only slightly. He was still rock-hard, still buried deep, letting her shudder around him while he caught his own breath. He dragged his palm gently over the red handprints on her ass, soothing the sting for a moment.

“That,” he said quietly, voice thick with satisfaction, “is exactly what you’ve been starving for.”

He pulled out slowly—wet, filthy sound—making her whimper at the sudden emptiness. Before she could process it, his hands were on her waist again. With easy strength he flipped her onto her back on the floor. She landed with a soft thud, limbs splayed, chest heaving, skin flushed and glistening with sweat. Her eyes were glassy, dazed, lips parted as she tried to drag air into her lungs.

Morgan knelt between her spread thighs, looking down at her wrecked, beautiful form, cock still glistening with her release.

He wasn’t done with her yet.

“On your knees,” he commanded, voice low and edged with steel—gentle in tone, unyielding in intent. “Ass up. Now.”

MJ didn’t hesitate. Her body was still trembling, legs unsteady from the last orgasm, but she obeyed instantly. Palms slapping against the cool tile, then arched her back sharply, knees spreading wider as she pushed her hips back. Her ass lifted high—round, flushed from earlier spanks, still glowing faintly red. She glanced over her shoulder, eyes glassy and dark, lips parted on shallow breaths. The look she gave him was pure, wordless hunger.

“Please, Morgan,” she whispered, voice cracked and thin. “Don’t make me wait anymore. I need you inside me. Need to feel you cum—need you to fill me up.”

Morgan stayed on one knee for a long moment, simply looking. Her cunt was swollen, dark pink and slick, lips parted and glistening with her own release and his earlier precum. A thin trail of wetness had already slid down the inside of one thigh. The sight made his cock twitch hard against his stomach—he was still achingly rigid, veins standing out, head flushed dark. He could smell her: sweet, musky, thick in the air.

He moved behind her, knees bracketing her calves. Large hands settled on her hips, thumbs dragging slow, deliberate lines along the dip of her lower back. She shivered hard, a full-body ripple, caught between the faint echo of guilt in her mind and the screaming, insistent ache between her legs.

He lined himself up, thick head nudging her entrance—sliding through slick heat without pushing in yet. He leaned forward, chest brushing her spine, mouth close to her ear.

“You’re a terrible friend, MJ,” he said quietly, the words calm but razor-sharp. “Peter’s out there—distant, shutting everyone out, probably drowning—and all you can think about is getting this cunt stuffed again.” He pressed forward slowly, inch by deliberate inch, stretching her open until he was buried to the hilt. The wet, sucking heat of her swallowed him completely. “Selfish little slut, aren’t you?”

The degradation hit like a spark to dry grass. MJ moaned—low, guttural, involuntary—hips jerking back to meet him even as shame flickered hot across her cheeks. The words burned, humiliated, and somehow made her wetter. She clenched around him hard.

“Answer me,” he growled, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in—hard enough to make her gasp and rock forward on her palms. His hand came down on her ass in the same instant: sharp, resounding crack. The sting bloomed bright; she bucked, inner walls fluttering wildly.

“Are you a selfish little slut?” he repeated, spanking her again—harder, the sound echoing off the walls. “Too busy fantasizing about my cock to check if your best friend is okay?”

“Yes—” she choked out, voice breaking on the word. “Fuck—yes—I am—”

He rewarded her with another deep, punishing thrust, then another—setting a brutal, steady rhythm. Each snap of his hips drove her forward, tits swaying beneath her, nipples grazing the cold floor. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, filthy and rhythmic, underscored by her broken whimpers.

He reached down, captured both her wrists in one large hand, and pinned them to the small of her back. The new angle forced her chest lower, ass higher—let him sink even deeper, hitting that spot inside her that made her vision spark white. She cried out, half sob, half plea.

“You’ve been in withdrawal, haven’t you?” he rasped, voice rough with effort and dark satisfaction. “Months without this dick and it’s turned you into a mess. Can’t think straight. Can’t be a good friend. All you’ve been doing is aching for it—clenching around nothing, touching yourself thinking about me while Peter’s probably sitting alone wondering why no one gives a shit.”

Each word landed like another thrust—deep, relentless. She tried to speak, tried to deny it, but only broken sounds came out: whimpers, gasps, half-formed pleas. Her body answered instead—clenching tighter, gushing slick heat that coated his shaft and ran down her thighs.

He spanked her again—three quick, stinging cracks in succession. Her ass throbbed red-hot; every strike sent fresh jolts straight to her clit.

“Say it,” he ordered, slowing just enough to make her feel every inch as he dragged out, then slammed back in. “Tell me what you are.”

“I’m—I’m a selfish slut—” she managed, voice wrecked. “Been neglecting him—been thinking about your cock—fuck—please—”

That was enough.

He picked up speed—harder, faster—using her pinned arms as leverage to pound into her with unforgiving force. One hand slipped around to her front, fingers finding her clit—already swollen, hypersensitive—and rubbed fast, merciless circles.

“Cum for me,” he growled against her ear. “Cum knowing you chose this. Chose getting fucked raw over being there for him. Show me how bad you needed it.”

The combination—his cock hitting deep, fingers ruthless on her clit, the weight of his words—shattered her.

Her orgasm ripped through her like a shockwave. Body convulsing, inner walls clamping down in violent, rhythmic spasms. She screamed his name—raw, broken—legs shaking so hard they nearly gave out. Slick heat flooded around him; she gushed, soaking his thighs, the floor beneath them.

Morgan groaned—low, primal—as her pulsing grip dragged him over the edge with her. He buried himself to the hilt one last time, cock pulsing thick and hot inside her. Rope after rope of cum flooded her, filling her completely, marking her deep. His hips jerked with each spurt, grinding against her ass until he was spent.

He held her there a long moment—cock still twitching inside her, her body trembling beneath him. Then he slowly eased out, both of them hissing at the sudden emptiness. Cum leaked from her immediately—thick, white, trickling down her thighs.

Morgan released her wrists and lowered himself beside her, pulling her down onto the floor with him. She collapsed against his chest, boneless, shaking, skin slick with sweat. He wrapped one arm around her waist, the other hand stroking slow, soothing lines up and down her spine.

They stayed like that—breathing hard, hearts hammering in tandem—while the room settled around them. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead; the air was heavy with sex, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of exertion.

After several long minutes, Morgan pressed a soft kiss to her forehead—gentle, almost tender.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, voice stripped of dominance now, just low concern.

MJ nodded against his chest, eyes still closed. “Yeah,” she whispered, hoarse and raw. “I’m… really fucking good.”

He huffed a small, quiet laugh—more breath than sound—and held her tighter for a while longer.

Eventually he shifted, helping her sit up. Her legs wobbled when she tried to stand; he steadied her with both hands on her waist until she found her balance. They cleaned up in near-silence—wiping themselves down with tissues from the desk, straightening clothes, avoiding eye contact for a beat or two. The weight of everything they’d said, everything they’d done, hung thick between them, unspoken but impossible to ignore.

When they were finally dressed, Morgan reached out, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face.

“Next time,” he said softly, “maybe we talk first.”

MJ met his eyes—still dazed, still flushed—and gave a small, crooked smile.

“Maybe,” she agreed.

But neither of them sounded convinced.

“I’ll ask him,” MJ said after a beat, her voice low and steady—more vow than promise. “I’ll push harder. Corner him if I have to. Find out what’s eating at him. I’ll help him, Morgan. I swear.”

Morgan studied her for a long second, expression still unreadable in the dim light. Then he gave a single, slow nod.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, the words carrying real weight. “I appreciate that.”

He shouldered his bag in one fluid motion, the strap settling across his chest like it belonged there. Without another word, he turned and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality.

MJ stayed where she was, alone in the suddenly too-quiet room. Her thighs still ached, her skin still flushed and sensitive, the faint throb between her legs a lingering reminder of how thoroughly he’d taken her apart. Guilt curled in her chest—sharp, familiar—but it didn’t drown out the deep, bone-deep satisfaction humming through her veins. She knew she’d carry both for days.

The lab smelled like acetone, warm electronics, and the faint metallic bite of ozone—comforting, familiar, home. Gwen moved between workstations with quiet precision: adjusting a burette, noting a color change, tapping numbers into her laptop. The low hum of the fume hood and the soft whir of the stir plate were the only sounds she needed right now. Here, everything made sense. Variables could be controlled. Results could be replicated. Chaos stayed outside the glass doors.

But tonight the city pressed closer than usual. She could feel it through the walls—the distant siren wail, the low vibration of traffic, the constant undercurrent of danger that never quite left New York alone. And beneath her skin, that other hum: the electric buzz from Oscorp, the bite, the change. It never fully quieted. It just waited.

She felt the shift before she heard the door—air displacing, temperature ticking up a degree, a presence that filled the room without trying. She didn’t turn right away. She finished pipetting the last sample, capped the vial, wiped her hands on her lab coat. Only then did she look.

Morgan leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, one shoulder against the frame. Casual. Watchful. The bored half-smile on his mouth didn’t reach his eyes.

“You’re late,” she said, voice light but edged with tease.

“You’re worth waiting for,” he answered, the low rumble of it sliding straight down her spine.

She crossed the room slowly, heels clicking softly on tile, stopping just close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off him. Her eyes flicked over his face—jaw tight, hair slightly mussed, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his neck. And then she caught it: the ghost of a scent that wasn’t his. Musky. Feminine. Recent.

Gwen’s stomach twisted—possessive heat flaring sharp and sudden.

“You smell like her,” she murmured, leaning in until her lips brushed the shell of his ear. “That bitch. I can practically taste her on your skin.” Her voice dropped lower, sultry and dangerous. “Wish I’d been there. Watching you bend her over. Watching you use her until she couldn’t remember her own name.”

Morgan laughed—quiet, dark, more vibration than sound. His hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him in one smooth tug. She felt the hard line of him through his jeans, already half-hard, pressing insistently.

“I know,” he whispered against her mouth. “But you’re the one I come back to. Every time.”

The kiss that followed was slow at first—claiming, thorough—then deeper, hungrier. His tongue slid against hers like he was trying to erase every trace of anyone else. Gwen melted into it, fingers curling into his shirt, nails digging just enough to sting. When they broke apart, both breathing hard, she rested her forehead against his.

“Good,” she said, voice husky, wrecked. “Because I want you tonight. I want you to fuck me until I can’t walk straight. Until everything else disappears. Until the only thing I can feel is you.”

Morgan’s smirk was slow, wicked, eyes darkening.

“Oh, I will,” he promised, thumb brushing her lower lip. “I’ll wreck you so good you’ll still be feeling me tomorrow. Next week. Whenever you sit down.”

He laced their fingers together—firm, possessive—and tugged her toward the door. She flicked off the last bank of lights as they passed, plunging the lab into darkness. They stepped out into the cool night air, the city noise rushing back in like a tide.

They walked in easy silence, shoulders brushing, steps syncing without effort. The guilt and satisfaction MJ carried alone in that empty room felt miles away now. Here, with Gwen’s hand in his, the world narrowed to just them—two people carrying too much power, too many secrets, and still choosing each other in the dark.

They were a unit. Dangerous. Unstoppable.

And tonight, they were going home.