Spider-Man: Cumming Home - Chapter 13 (A Spider-Man Fanfic) (Patreon)

Chapter 13: Significant Figures

She was still bent over the bed when I shut the door. MJ's hoodie had ridden up her back until the hem sat at the lowest point of her spine, and the rest of her was bare from there down. Her pale thighs framed the crease beneath her ass and the pink, already-wet line of her cunt. She had presented herself like a conclusion and dared me to read it.

I stayed by the door long enough to make sure I was looking at a choice and not a dare she expected me to fumble. Her blonde hair hung forward over the mattress. One hand had fisted the comforter. The other was planted flat, fingers spread, like she was bracing for impact she had decided to take.

"Gwen."

"You can see it," she said, dry as chalk. "I did the staging. If you need a written consent form, the printer is downstairs and I am not moving."

I crossed the room. The floorboards under the rug gave a little under my weight. She heard it. Her shoulders tightened, then settled, and she looked back at me over her own arm with that sharp, assessing stare she had been using on my hands all night.

"Say it," I said.

"I already bent over."

"That is a posture. I want the sentence."

Her mouth flattened. For a second I thought she would tell me to go to hell and keep the hoodie. Then she exhaled through her nose and gave me the look she probably used on lab partners who asked her to repeat a result.

"I want you to fuck me," she said. "I want you to put that thicker cock in me and show me the difference I have been staring at since I landed in this building. I want it hard enough that I stop comparing you to the version of you who dropped me. Is that explicit enough for your ethics board, Parker?"

"Yeah," I said. "That'll do."

I set my hands on her hips. She was warm under the cotton. When I pushed the hoodie higher, it bunched under her breasts and stayed there, which left her ass and the small of her back open to the room. I ran my thumb along the cleft of her ass and down until it slid through the slick already coating her. She made a sound she tried to turn into a scoff and failed.

"You are wet," I said.

"I have a functioning circulatory system and you have been standing too close for two days. Record the observation and proceed."

I dropped to a knee behind her. That got a real reaction. She tried to straighten and I kept a palm on her lower back, not slamming her down, just holding the position she had offered. From this angle I could see everything: the swollen lips of her pussy, the tight furl of her asshole above it, the way her thighs trembled once and then locked as if she refused to let them shake.

"Peter."

"You wanted proof." I put my mouth on her.

She tasted clean and sharp, already soaked. I licked a slow stripe from her clit up through her folds and felt her hips jerk. My tongue was broader than it used to be. Everything about me had come back from the spell denser, hotter, built on a larger frame, and I used that without apology. I sealed my mouth over her and sucked, then pushed my tongue inside her as far as it would go and worked her open with it while my hands kept her ass spread.

"Jesus," she said, and then, because she could not help herself, "Your tongue is wider. That is an anatomical note, not a compliment."

I laughed against her cunt and felt her twitch. I replaced my tongue with two fingers and found her clit with my mouth. She was tight around the first knuckle. I gave her time to take the second and curled them forward until I hit the spot that made her fist yank the comforter so hard a seam popped.

"MJ is upstairs," she said, breathless and still trying to sound like she was filing a report. "If you make me loud she is going to come down here and I will not be the one explaining this to your girlfriend."

"She kissed me and went up there knowing exactly where I was going," I said. "You want quiet, bite the hoodie. You want me to stop, you say stop."

She looked back at me again, cheeks flushed, pupils blown, hair stuck to her lip. "Do not stop."

I stood. My jeans were already a problem. I popped the button, dragged the zipper down, and shoved denim and underwear far enough to get my cock out. It came free heavy and flushed, thicker than the version of me she had grown up with, the shaft hot in my own hand. Residual dimensional charge had left me like this: more mass, more heat, a pull women felt even when I was trying to stand still. Gwen's eyes dropped to it and stayed there.

"That is not a modest increase," she said.

"You asked for the difference."

"I asked you to prove it. Hold it against me."

I stepped in and laid the underside of my cock along her wet slit. The contrast was obscene. She was slick enough that I slid through her folds without entering, the head nudging her clit on every pass, the shaft painting itself shiny. She pushed back into it like she hated that she wanted to.

"Say what you want on it," I said.

"I want that in me." Her voice had gone low. "I want you to stretch me until I have data I cannot argue with. I want you to fuck me like you actually caught me."

I notched the head against her entrance and pressed. She was tight. The first inch made her inhale through her teeth. I held there, both hands on her hips, and let her body decide whether it would take the rest.

"Breathe," I said.

"I know how lungs work."

She pushed back anyway. Another inch. The head popped inside and her cunt clamped down hard enough that I had to lock my knees. Heat wrapped me, wet and gripping, and I fed her more in a slow, relentless slide until my hips met her ass and she made a broken sound into the mattress.

"Fuck," she said. "Okay. Okay. That is larger. That is measurably larger. Do not look smug."

"I'm behind you. You can't see my face."

"I can hear it."

I pulled back until just the head stayed inside her and drove in again, a full stroke that shoved her up the bed. She caught herself on her elbows. The hoodie slipped. One breast came free, small and flushed, nipple tight. I reached under her and rolled it between my fingers while I set a pace that used the extra power in my legs without turning her into a smear on the headboard.

She took it. She also talked.

"Shorter strokes," she said after the third hard thrust. "You are bottoming out and then bouncing. That is wasted force. Put it in and keep it deep."

I laughed, actually laughed, and did what she said. I shortened the stroke, kept myself buried, and ground against her cervix on every pass until her scientific coaching dissolved into a raw groan. Her pussy fluttered around me. I felt the first orgasm start in the way her thighs tried to close and could not because I was standing between them.

"There," I said. "Give it to me."

"Do not narrate my nervous system."

Then she came anyway, sudden and sharp, a full-body clench that milked my cock in hard pulses. She bit the comforter. A muffled noise got out anyway. I kept moving through it, slower, deeper, until her arms gave and she dropped to her chest with her ass still up.

I stayed inside her. I was nowhere near done. The charge in my blood had wrecked my old limits. I could feel the heat in my gut and the heavy pull in my balls and I still had a long way to go before I would have to stop.

"Still hate me?" I asked.

"I do not like you," she said into the blanket. "I like the part where you did not let me hit the street. I like that you are still hard. Those are separate columns."

I pulled out. She made an offended noise at the empty stretch. I turned her, lifted her, and sat her on the edge of the bed so we were face to face. The hoodie was a wrinkled mess under her arms. I stripped it off and dropped it. She was naked now, slim and taut, breasts rising with each breath, a dark-gold patch of hair above the place I had just been. Her mouth was red. Her eyes were furious and hungry in equal measure.

"On your back," I said.

"Make a case."

I kissed her. She bit my lower lip hard enough to sting and then opened for it, tongue meeting mine like an argument. I laid her down and hooked her knees over my elbows. When I pushed back into her, I watched her face. She took every inch with her jaw set, then her eyes went unfocused for a second when I was fully seated.

"God," she whispered. "You fill me. That is not poetry. That is displacement."

"Write it up later."

I fucked her like that, her legs spread wide, my weight bearing down, the bedframe knocking the wall in a rhythm I did not bother to hide. She grabbed my shoulders and dug her nails in. When I changed the angle she swore and grabbed my hair instead.

"There. That exact angle. Do not get creative."

"Yes, professor."

"I will kill you."

"After."

Her second orgasm built slower. I felt it in the way she started meeting my thrusts, hips lifting, the wet sound between us getting louder. I dropped a hand between us and rubbed her clit with my thumb in tight circles. She tried to stay quiet for MJ and failed on the third circle. The sound she made was high and startled, like she had not scheduled it.

I kissed her through it and kept thrusting, cock dragging through the clench, until she shoved at my chest.

"Stop. Stop moving. I need a second or I am going to scream and then your girlfriend will walk in on a lab accident."

I stopped buried in her. My arms were braced on either side of her head. Sweat ran down my spine. Her inner walls kept twitching around me in aftershocks.

From upstairs came a single footstep, then nothing. MJ knew. That was the point. She had gone up there on purpose and left this room to us with a talk still owed.

Gwen's eyes flicked toward the ceiling. "She is listening for whether I am using you or whether you are using me."

"Which is it?"

"Both," Gwen said. "Get off me. I am going to ride you before my legs remember they are supposed to work."

I rolled us. The frame knocked once against the wall as she settled on top of me with my cock still inside her and sat down until her ass met my hips. From below she looked different: hair wrecked, mouth swollen, a sheen on her chest, the line of her stomach tightening as she adjusted to the depth.

She planted her hands on my pecs and tested a slow grind.

"Your chest is wider," she said. "Your hands are wider. This is wider." She lifted and dropped, taking me to the root. "My Peter was lean. Fast. He kissed like he was apologizing for existing. You kiss like you already decided the landing."

"He left," I said.

"I sent him." Her hips rolled. "Do not make that into a medal. I sent him because I already died on his watch in every way that counts and I am not climbing back through a hole to give him a second chance at gravity."

I held her waist and let her set the pace until she started chasing it. Then I took over from below, thrusting up to meet her, hard enough that her breasts bounced and her mouth fell open. She braced on my shoulders and rode it, analytical brain still running a commentary she could not shut off.

"Your stamina is not human. You should have softened. You have not. That is the spell residue. I can feel the heat in you. It is in me now. If I start glowing I am billing Strange."

"You talk during sex."

"I talk during everything. Faster."

I gave her faster. The slap of skin filled the room. She came a third time with her forehead dropped to mine, a raw, incredulous sound punched out of her, cunt seizing around my cock until I had to grit my teeth to keep from following her. I did not. I held, shaking, and let her finish on me.

When she could lift her head, she looked wrecked and triumphant.

"You did not come."

"Not yet."

"Show-off."

I sat up with her still impaled and stood. She locked her legs around my waist on reflex. I carried her three steps to the wall beside the dresser and put her back to it. Standing, I had the leverage and the strength and I used both. I fucked her against the plaster in long, pounding strokes that lifted her on every thrust. A picture frame rattled. She grabbed the top of the dresser with one hand and my neck with the other.

"Peter. Peter. Harder."

"Say my name like that again."

"Peter." She said it like a curse and a request. "Fuck me. Prove you can keep holding on."

I did. The heat in my body surged. I could feel her dripping down my balls. I could smell sex and her skin and the faint ozone that always clung to the Sanctum after a breach. Her fourth orgasm hit without warning and she bit my shoulder to keep from shouting. The pain lit me up. I slammed into her through it and finally let the coil in my gut snap.

I came hard, buried to the hilt, pulsing into her in thick, hot ropes. It kept going. The extra stamina had a cost on the other side of the line: when I went, I went for a long time. She felt it. Her eyes widened and she clung to me, taking it, a stunned little laugh breaking out of her when another pulse of cum filled her.

"That is excessive," she whispered. "That is a biologically rude volume."

"Write it in the margins."

I stayed in her, panting against her throat, until my legs remembered they were supposed to be a man and not a load-bearing column. I carried her back to the bed and sat down with her in my lap, still joined, both of us slick and shaking. She rested her forehead on my shoulder. For a few seconds she was quiet in a way that was not empty. It was the quiet of someone adding a new number to a column she had not wanted to open.

"I still do not like you," she said.

"I heard."

"I like that you stayed inside the door. I like that you made me say it. I like that you are still half hard, which is offensive." She shifted, and I felt my cum leak around the seal of my cock. "I am going to be dripping through dinner. Your girlfriend is going to notice."

"She notices everything."

"Good. I am not sneaking. I ended things with him in front of you. I bent over in her hoodie. If she wants a fight she can have one that uses words."

I kissed the side of her head. She allowed it. Then she pinched my ribs.

"Do not get tender. Tenderness is how people drop other people."

"I caught you."

"Once," she said. "Do it again when it counts."

That was when the pulse hit.

It punched through my sinuses first, the same human-shaped tether I had been tracking across Midtown since it appeared, the one with Gwen's outline and a different origin. It spiked hard enough that my vision doubled. Gwen gasped and clutched my arms, because she felt it too, a pressure behind the eyes and a tug low in the stomach.

Downstairs, metal screamed.

The cages.

I pulled out of her and was on my feet before the second slam. She grabbed the hoodie off the floor and dragged it on with nothing under it, cum already sliding down her inner thigh. I yanked my jeans up and did not bother with the button. We hit the hallway together.

MJ was already on the stairs in a tank top and sleep shorts, hair in a knot, phone in one hand and a look on her face that said she had heard the bed and had filed it and did not have time for the filing.

"Whatever you two just finished, park it," she said. "The basement just tried to come upstairs."

Strange's voice rolled up from the lower landing, hoarse and done with all of us. "Parker. Stacy. Now. The Midtown tether just resolved."

We took the stairs. The Sanctum's main hall smelled like ozone and old stone and the sour animal stink that leaked from the holding wing. Strange stood at the foot of the steps in the same ruined slacks he had been wearing since the spell failed, Cloak twitching at his heels, one hand pressed to a scrying circle burned into the floor. The circle was no longer a smear. It had tightened into a single bright point over a mapped grid of Midtown.

"Eight cages still holding," he said without looking up. "Two Octavius. Two Connors. Two Dillons. The spare Goblin. Sandman. Nobody new in the basement. This is not a breakout. This is an arrival."

Gwen stopped beside me, hoodie hem stuck to her thigh. "Same waveform as mine."

"Same shape," Strange said. "Different vector. Yours tore in off a fall you did not finish. This one has been bouncing between rooftops for hours like it could not pick a street. It picked one."

MJ held the phone so we could see the screen. A traffic camera. A Midtown corner I knew by the newsstand and the bent streetlight. A woman stood in the middle of the intersection with cabs stacked around her and nobody getting out of their cars. Black hair. A white wig in one hand. A catsuit that ate the camera grain. She looked up, straight into the lens, and smiled like she had been invited.

"Hardy," Strange said. "At least one universe's version of her. She landed on her feet. She asked a cab driver for Spider-Man and the Sanctum by name, which means someone on her side of the door already knows we left it open."

Gwen's hand found my wrist. Her grip was scientific and possessive at the same time.

"She is going to follow the same heat I did," Gwen said. "Your residue is a beacon. If she can feel it from that far, she is already walking this way."

MJ's eyes moved from Gwen's bare legs to my unbuttoned jeans to the mark Gwen's teeth had left on my shoulder. Dry. Possessive. Fully informed.

"Then we get dressed and we meet her on our terms," MJ said. "Gwen stays in the room when she gets here. She has the matching arrival signature and I want someone who can tell a tether from a trick standing next to Peter when a woman in a catsuit smiles at a traffic camera."

Strange closed his fist and the circle dimmed to an ember. "Congratulations on your interpersonal disaster. You have ten minutes before a thief with nine lives knocks on a building that currently contains eight caged murderers and a door I cannot fully shut. Try to be wearing pants."

Gwen looked at me. Her mouth was still swollen. Her eyes were clear.

She looked from the phone to me. "Wash your hands. If she can smell me on you she will use it, and I am not letting a cat walk in here with the only useful clue attached to your skin."

I nodded. The pulse in Midtown was gone. In its place was a woman walking toward the Sanctum with my name in her mouth, eight cages rattling on a delay, MJ already turning to get dressed, and Gwen Stacy standing in borrowed cotton with my cum on her thighs like she had chosen the mess and intended to keep the data.

We had ten minutes.

I took the stairs two at a time to find a shirt, and I did not look away from the door.