Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In his twenty-four years of life, Peter realizes—at this moment as he’s slammed against the concrete wall for the fifth consecutive time with the same stupid gravity gun—he’s never truly appreciated blissful ignorance. That he’s never realized how much of a curse knowledge can be. That some things are better off left a mystery. 

What should only be breaking a light sweat, something that should be second nature like stopping a Sunday night robbery, is suddenly impossible. He’s slow. Sloppy. Distracted. His focus is shot entirely. 

All because he knows . 

He knows something he really should have never learned in the first place, even if it was against his will. 

Maybe he should have covered his ears, maybe he should have pretended to get something from the bar. 

But no. 

His curiosity had gotten the better of him, and just like the cat—he’s dead.

Well, almost. He’s probably going to be if he doesn’t shape the fuck up and actually pay attention to the goons he’s fighting. He’s already managed to web two of them to the walls, the bags of jewelry they’d tried to make off with secured and safe. The other three he can get—again, that’s if he can get his shit together and stop thinking about MJ for one second—it’s the one with the God damn gravity gun that’s giving him the most trouble, throwing him against every corner of the building, through every panel of glass. 

He cringes, thinking about how much property damage he’s inadvertently caused once again. 

All because his brain won’t just fucking let go of what MJ had said the other night. 

God, get a Grip, Parker . 

But how can he? How can he pull himself together when he’s so cursed with knowledge? When the weight of enlightenment feels like it’s crushing his shoulders? When he knows too much? 

Felicia’s eyes are gleaming with something that can’t be good, her lips pulled into a mischievous smirk as she quickly slides back into her chair, her beer now refilled. “Don’t look now, but Brad’s at the bar with some of his friends.”

Three of them—Gwen, Cindy, and Peter—look at once in the direction that Felicia had just come from, as if they hadn’t heard a thing she’d said. MJ snorts softly, shaking her head as she hides her amusement behind a sip of her bramble. Peter doesn’t miss the way she rolls her eyes, the warning look she gives at Felicia’s teasing grin. 

“Brad?” Cindy asks for clarification, though she very clearly knows that it is, indeed, him. She too, is just fucking with MJ.

Felicia’s smirk grows. “Brad,” she replies, taking a sip of her beer. 

“Is it… Is it Brad?” Gwen pipes in, unable to hide her tipsy giggle behind her own glass. 

Amusement flickers in Peter’s chest, his lips twisting to mask his smile as he gently nudges MJ underneath the table with his foot. “I think it might be Brad.” 

Her expression matches his own. 

A beat passes, before the table bursts into a fit of barely-suppressed snorts and poorly-contained laughter. 

It’s a nice thing to be able to be so lighthearted about running into a friend’s ex while doing the weekly Girls Night (and Peter)™ out, nice that the break-up wasn’t so terrible that it’d bring MJ’s entire evening crashing down, that they can joke about it. 

They always have fun when the five of them go out. Cindy and Gwen being friends they’d both picked up in undergrad, Felicia also being MJ’s first roommate—that also happened to be one of Peter’s on-and-off-again flings back in the day. They’d all managed to stay in touch in the two years since graduation, Peter and MJ now being the staple roommates of the group. 

Again, MJ rolls her eyes, though the faint, upward tick of her lips is impossible to hide. “I don’t see why this is important information,” she quips dryly with another pointed look before her gaze wanders over to the bar. 

Perhaps for a little too long. 

“Oh, no,” Felicia says, leaning forward on the table, shout-whispering. “You are not fucking him tonight. Absolutely fucking not!” 

Michelle stares back, jaw dropped in amused surprise as everyone else tries to hold back their tipsy giggles. “I wasn’t even thinking about it!”

“Good!”

Peter sucks in a breath, shaking his head, trying to forget the faint relief he’d felt. Focus. 

Closing his eyes a moment, he listens, zoning in on the faintest scuff of a shoe against the concrete, ten feet away behind the corner. A beat passes, Peter popping out from his spot and shooting a blast of webbing at the thief. “Peek-a-boo!” 

The thief swears, yelling in surprise as he’s knocked back and stuck against the wall. 

One down, two more to go. 

“Why would you think I’d wanna hook up with him?” MJ eyes everyone suspiciously. “We broke up, like six months ago.” 

Peter takes a drink of his beer, his face warm—from the alcohol, obviously. 

It’s quiet, fingers drumming against the sides of drinks and the slightly wet tabletop, the chorus of music and drunken laughter still booming around them. 

“It’s just…” Cindy starts, swirling the straw in her drink. “We know that everything was mutual and all, and that it’s all fine, but…” she pauses. “I don’t know, you still seem kinda down about that whole thing. Like, you haven’t really put yourself out there yet.” 

Michelle huffs out a laugh. “While I appreciate the concern, you guys really don’t need to worry. I just… haven’t really felt like dating again? I dunno. It’s just a lot of work, you know? Finding someone and just… getting to know them all over again. Ugh.” 

“We love you, babe,” Felicia says, her words slurring the slightest bit, holding out her hand for MJ to take while everyone else nods thoroughly. “We just want you to be happy. We want you to get some ass.” 

MJ laughs, taking Felicia’s outstretched hand. “Thanks.” A beat. “It does suck, though,” she relents. “Because I do sometimes miss just being with someone you know?”

“In a relationship?” Gwen asks. 

MJ nods, though she wiggles her hand from side to side. “Kinda? Like, obviously I don’t need a relationship to be a complete person… but…” 

Peter almost misses his shot entirely from his hiding spot on the ceiling, watching the goons tiptoe across the floor with their guns pointed—seriously, they walk right over his little web-grenade trap and he almost fucking lets them . 

He scrambles to set it off, relieved when they’re still within the grenade’s reach and plastered against the floor. 

“Ohhhhhhhh, you guys!” He shouts, dropping from his spot on the ceiling, laughing. “It’s a prank! Got you! I got you! Oh, man, you should’ve seen the looks on your faces!” He shakes his head, holding his stomach before putting his hands on his hips, serious again. 

Or, well, as serious as Spider-Man usually is. 

He bends down, opening one of the bags to check the inventory, millions of dollars worth of diamonds staring back at him. 

Peter gasps, a hand on his chest. “Paul, you shouldn’t have. Wow.” Then, serious again. “No, really. You shouldn’t have. It’s illegal.” He crouches, ignoring the man—now named Paul—cursing him out. “Y’know, folks swing for robbin’ jewelry,” he adds with a fake southern twang before slipping back into his normal voice. “I’m just kidding. They’re not gonna hang you. I don’t think. But you will go to jail. Sorry about that. I don’t really know much about the law, I’m the vigilante here—”

“God, will you shut up—”

“—But I do know that stealing is bad sometimes.”

“God, I miss being eaten out.” 

Her drunken confession is met with a sudden burst of laughter from the entire table, almost to tears. 

And that’s the exact moment where Peter’s brain short-circuits. It’s a miracle he hears anything after this. For some reason, as close as he and MJ have always been, as many times as they’ve talked over the nitty-gritty of their love lives together, somehow he can’t seem to get past the idea of MJ being eaten out, of MJ enjoying it. His brain will not let go of it. The words are out there, they’ve wormed their way into his head, and they are sticking in his subconscious, never to leave again. 

Why? He has no idea. 

MJ’s his friend.

One of his best friends in the entire world.

“...And Brad was good at it,” she says, a distant look in her eyes that Peter pretends not to notice as she stares at her drink. 

Felicia snorts, covering her mouth to keep any beer from spilling. After recovering, she grins, folding her arms across her chest, raising a brow. “You don’t need to be in a relationship for that.”

MJ rolls her eyes, laughing. “I know… but… I’m also like, not into hook-ups.” A shrug as her lips twist in thought. “I never have been.” 

“Fair,” Felicia relents.

The sirens in the distance are close now, giving Peter his cue to leave. With a single wave that the criminals no doubt can’t actually see, he leaps through the open skylight, immediately hit with the chilled November air. 

Though it’s not as if he can feel it, given how almost unbearably warm he is underneath his suit right now. Curse Girls Night™ and curse himself for being reduced to some hormonal teenager at the mention of oral sex and his best friend. He misses his second swing—just narrowly pancaking into the side of the next building before he catches himself. 

Honestly, he’s done enough for tonight—he stopped a robbery, diamonds worth millions. He just needs to go home and go to bed. To forget he’d ever been at that bar in the first place. 

That, or maybe blow off some steam. 

Yeah, that could help.

“How long has it been?” Cindy finally asks.

A beat. MJ winces. “Six months?”

“Six months??” Felicia asks, appalled. 

Which, honestly, come to think of it, Peter’s pretty shocked, too. Six months? 

It’s criminal. It’s outrageous. How could she have gone half a year without…?

Felicia slaps her hand on the table. “That’s it. We’re getting you laid. There’s gotta be someone in this bar.” 

Immediately, MJ waves her off, her gaze catching Peter’s briefly. “God, no. No. I don’t want… I don’t wanna hook up. I’m good.” 

“You don’t have to hook up!” Gwen reasons. “Just… start getting to know someone, maybe!”

MJ sighs, shrinking back into her seat, arms crossed, almost shy. “I don’t really wanna do that either…” 

Everyone at the table gets quiet again, stuck in contemplation. Felicia sighs, shaking her head. “Okay, fine. No hook-ups. We just wanna help.” 

“I know,” MJ replies. “Seriously. But—I’m having fun now, with you guys. I don’t need anyone else!”

“You seem lonely,” Cindy says, yelping when Gwen kicks her under the table. “Ow! What?”

At that, MJ lets out a single laugh, her face scrunches as she tilts her head. “What? I’m not… I’m not lonely.” she says, scoffing. She throws a thumb at her roommate. “I have Peter.”

Oddly, his heart skips. The buzz of the alcohol has his cheeks tinted red. He grins, leaning forward on his elbows as he turns his head to meet her eyes. “Aw—”

“Oh?” Felicia cocks a brow, staring pointedly. “Does Peter eat you out?”

It was a bad idea to take a drink of his beer, because it’s all over his chin now as he nearly chokes on it. Everyone erupts in tipsy, shocked laughter, MJ included—though she seems to be doing everything she can to avoid eye contact with him as she fixes Felicia with a glare tinted in disbelief. “FEL.”

“FELICIA.”

Peter glances at MJ, chuckling breathily at their jinx.

“What?” Felicia asks, not at all innocent, unable to hide the laugh in her tone as Gwen and Cindy snicker. She barely reacts to MJ kicking her under the table. “I’m just asking—you know?” 

“I—I don’t… I don’t eat MJ out,” Peter, for some God-forsaken reason, feels the need to clarify. Because obviously, he doesn’t. He never has. They’re friends. And friends don’t just randomly go down on each other. 

The thought’s never even crossed his mind.

“Maybe you should,” Cindy says with a tip of her drink, trying to maintain a straight face as a serious suggestion, but failing miserably, her smile giving her away. “You’re not some stranger!”

“Oh, yeah,” MJ replies, tone dripping in sarcasm, though there’s a breathlessness to her words. “That’s a great idea. Why didn’t… why didn’t I think of that?”

Should he be hurt that she’d written the idea off so quickly? No, probably not. Again, they’re just friends. Best friends. Roommates. It’s not something they’d ever entertained, nor should they have. Still, the thought sticks with him—in all sorts of ways—following him throughout the day, at May’s, at home, and even now, on patrol. 

Because now, Peter knows two things to be sure.

One, MJ hasn’t been eaten out in six months.

And two, he can’t stop thinking about how MJ hasn’t been eaten out in six months. 

And then Felicia and Cindy had to put that damn idea in his head of him being the one to alleviate that. 

It’s left him offhandedly wondering things that he shouldn’t be thinking about while trying to stop crime and help people. It’s like a song that’s stuck in his head, refusing to leave. It plays over and over on an endless loop that has his mind swimming with thoughts of things that should be reserved specifically for hot showers and sleepless nights. Things like what she might sound like, the noises she might make. The tiny micro-expressions on her face as she nears her release, whether or not she bites her lip like when she’s thinking, if the slight furrow in her brow is the same. 

What she tastes like—

His stomach drops, his suit beginning to feel the slightest bit too tight. He swallows. 

Yeah. He needs to get home. Now. Ten minutes ago.

A distracted Spider-Man is a useless Spider-Man.

There’s the tiniest sense of relief underneath these layers of horny confusion when he sees their apartment building in the distance. He’s almost home. Almost free. In less than five minutes, he can take a cold shower and exorcise these thoughts plaguing his mind. Because even if it was a joke, he should absolutely not be thinking that way about his best friend. 

Sure, MJ’s beautiful. Stunning. Literally anyone with eyes can see that. And she’s hilarious. And a genius. But again, that’s all a given; the sky is blue, grass is green, MJ’s a perfect ten. None of that means that he should be this hung up on the idea of his head buried between her legs, his mouth at her—

NO . 

It doesn’t matter that she hasn’t been eaten out in six months, or that she misses it. That doesn’t mean he’s gonna be the one to do it. That’s not his job. No matter how criminal it is. 

Though, if she asked…

Again. NO. 

That’s not something he should even begin to consider. 

Because she’s not going to ask him. Not in a million years. MJ doesn’t think about him like that. 

That’s the kinda shit that only happens in porn. 

But, hypothetically, if she were to ask… What would he say? Would he risk ruining their friendship forever all for a chance to see if reality matches up to what’s in his brain? But then, hypothetically, if she did ask, and he did say yes, would it really be enough to ruin a nearly ten-year friendship? Especially if they were able to separate themselves enough to prevent any feelings? They’re both adults, surely they could. And besides, Peter’s fairly confident that their relationship is strong enough to last through whatever’s thrown at it.

Him—hypothetically—eating her out wouldn’t change anything.

It’d just be friendly favor. Between friends. 

Nothing else. 

Hypothetically . 

It’s nothing he should be worrying about, though, because—and he cannot stress this enough —it’s not going to happen. He knows this, that he’ll be over everything in a few days. It’ll be something he looks back on and laughs, maybe even jokes about. It’s fine. It’s all fine. 

He tells himself this as he climbs through his window. There’s a slight shake, a jitteriness to his movements as he yanks a pair of sweats, a plain t-shirt, some boxers, and the still unfolded towel from the pile of clean laundry on his bed. He nearly trips over his own feet speed-walking to the door and out into the hallway.

A nice shower will help, he reasons. A nice ten minutes under some scalding hot water will clear his mind. 

But then—he hears it, a voice so quiet that only someone with stupid enhanced hearing could pick up. 

A voice that unmistakably belongs to one Felicia Hardy on the other end of a FaceTime call. 

“—I’m serious, I know a guy, MJ.”

“Please, stop—”

“—He can help you out!”

Peter immediately shakes his head. It’s one thing to be thinking about her, it’s another to be listening to her conversations with one of their friends. God, he shouldn’t be doing this, he knows, but it’s not like he can help it. 

Maybe he should just leave.

Go back on patrol. 

“Fel, I’m literally begging you—”

“—He’d be more than happy to volunteer, I’m sure. Just ask!” 

“I’m not asking him!” 

The grin on Felicia’s face is almost audible. “Why not?” 

“You know why.” 

“No, actually. I’m afraid I don’t. Please enlighten me.” 

“Peter’s my friend!” 

He sucks in a breath, his already racing heart quickening, jaw tightening. Yeah, he should definitely leave. Come back later. Or never. 

“Please, it’s not like you’ve never thought about it. Didn’t you have that one dream?”

A beat. He might pass out. 

“Shut up.” 

Okay, now he really might. 

“You could literally just ask. That boy would be fucking ecstatic.” She chuckles. “Like I said, highly recommend. He’s great. A real ten outta ten. Very giving.” 

Another beat.

“You’re the worst,” MJ replies with exasperated fondness. 

If Peter weren’t internally freaking the fuck out right now, he’d be touched that Felicia’s speaking so highly of him. Granted, it’s for his oral skills, but still. It’s nice to know. 

But the feeling doesn’t surface, only panic and adrenaline rising in him when he hears MJ get up from her chair, when he hears her footsteps getting closer to the door. HIs brain having jumped out of their seventh-story window, his panic manifests itself as he makes a dead sprint to his room. 

“Do it!”

“It’s not like I can just ask him—”

Shit shit shit SHITSHITSHIT. 

He’s just barely made it there, his hand just reaching the knob when the creak of her door cuts through the thick silence of the apartment. 

“Oh! Peter!” She stops dead in her tracks, nearly dropping her phone as she stares at him with comically wide eyes. A wavey smile stretches across her face as she lets out a breathy chuckle. “H-Hey.” 

“Hi, Peter,” Felicia’s all-too-knowing voice says on the other line. 

God, he can hear that smug grin on her face. 

He does the only thing he thinks his body can actually manage right now; he gives a lame wave with the hand not clutching his change of clothes and towel to his chest, a sheepish smile. “Hey.” He breathes out a laugh. “Just uh—just getting home.”

It’s then as his soul comes back to his body that he glances down, though it proves to be a mistake. It’s not unusual for MJ to be walking around in just a fluffy robe. They’ve been comfortable around each other for long enough that it’s never really bothered him. 

Until now. 

Because now he can’t help but notice how the neckline almost dips to the valley between her breasts, how the hem just barely reaches her mid-thigh, how one wrong move and he’s sure he could see the lace trim of her underwear. He swallows, throwing a thumb over his shoulder as he walks back to the bathroom. “Was gonna… hop in the shower.”

At first, MJ only nods, lips pressing into a tight smile. The warning glare she gives Felicia on her screen is impossible to miss. 

“Have fun,” she says anyway. 

Peter doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to die more than right at this moment. 

A beat passes where he wonders if he’d been wrong. 

If it’s actually this moment as they stand there in complete, soul-crushing silence. 

Because there’s absolutely no-fucking-way she believes that he just got home right? That he wasn’t just standing in the hallway, listening to her very private conversation with a friend? No, she has to know now that he heard everything, that he knows. 

He laughs, a strained, tight sound as he opens the bathroom door behind him, finding it damn near impossible to tear his eyes from hers. “Okay, uh. Yeah. Gonna… Gonna shower now.” He nearly chokes on his own words, swallowing thickly as his hand grips the doorknob. 

He wonders how mad their landlord would be if they had to replace it, if they’d still get their security deposit back if they fixed it early. 

Michelle nods again as she huffs out a laugh, her gaze burning into his. “Sounds good.” 

With another thumbs up—for some fucking reason —Peter escapes into the bathroom, the door slamming behind him as he leans against it, struggling to catch his breath. He takes a moment to recuperate, to collect himself, roughly carding a hand through his hair. There have been countless times when he’s been out in the world, getting his ass absolutely handed to him, getting the shit beaten out of him by the worst of the worst, he flirts with death on a daily basis…

But he doesn’t think his life’s ever flashed before his eyes quite like that . 

He slaps the button against his chest with a bit more force than usual, his suit pooling at his feet, tangling in his legs as he tries to kick it across the tile. The relief at the sudden release of pressure is short-lived, immediately replaced by a burning shame that flares in his chest at the fact that he’s still hard. 

Bad, Peter. 

No, Peter. 

He deserves at least a thousand years in horny jail.

He lets out a frustrated sigh as he flips on the water, immediately regretting everything as he steps under the still-cold stream. Standing in the corner, waiting for the water to warm, he turns to bang his head against the shower wall, eyes screwed shut as he desperately tries to go back to being no thoughts, head empty. He doesn’t want to be thinking about any of this, instead trying to focus on the way the water’s getting hotter, the way it might be able to burn his skin off if he stands there long enough. 

The steam fills his lungs as he sucks in a breath, as he moves to stand underneath the showerhead, wetting his hair. Bracing himself against the wall, his hand beside the faucet, he lets the water cascade down his back. 

But every time he closes his eyes, it all comes back. He thinks about everything. 

About MJ. 

About how she might look all spread out for him. 

About his head between her legs, her thighs squeezing, pressing against his cheeks, wondering how soft they’d feel under his touch. 

About her hand in his hair, roughly tangled in his curls, yanking and tugging as she gets closer and closer. 

About how she’d sound moaning his name, how she’d sound telling him how good he’s doing, how good he’s making her feel. 

About how she might taste, and how he’s somehow always wanted to know. 

Even more frustration wells within him, his jaw clenched as he reaches a hand down to wrap around himself. 

Fuck , he’s screwed. 

Chapter Text

As it turns out, even a quick and messy self-handy in the shower isn’t doing much to ease Peter’s mind. It’s not enough to quell these very unsafe, very ungentlemanly thoughts of his roommate and friend out of his brain. Embarrassment, even guilt, heats his cheeks as he strokes himself to release at the thought of MJ, the idea of his head buried between her thighs, knowing that it’s probably the last thing he should be doing. 

He’d thought it would maybe release that tension, purge that particular demon, cleanse his system, or whatever. 

Instead, it’s done absolutely nothing.

Because now all he can think about is her hands twisting in his hair, her thighs squeezing the sides of his face, her soft sighs and pretty moans. It’s all so clear, so vivid in his mind—as if he can actually hear her wet gasps and choked groans, the sounds of her wetness as he plays with her cunt. It makes his ears burn hot, the heat in the pit of his stomach twisting fiercely when she calls his name. “Peter…”

The muscles in his abs twitch and tense, tightening as he edges closer and closer. 

“Oh God, Peter!”

“Em— fuck—" A shuddering moan he has no hope of holding back, loud enough to bounce off the tiled walls and floor, one that he immediately tries to swallow in embarrassment spills from his lips as he hits his release. 

When she—

When she calls his name. 

A wet gasp, followed by a sigh. 

“Peter…”

There it is again, so incredibly clear. 

He stills momentarily, listening. 

And then, a crackling silence.

Oh.

Oh.

The heat flaring in his stomach and chest reignites when the realization hits him.

There’s a reason he felt as if he could actually hear her.

Dear God.

It’s almost worse, now, imagining her in her room, legs spread on her bed, melted against her mattress, thoroughly fucked out, her hand between her thighs—a place he’d die to be for even just a second —now that he knows what she’d been doing. Now that he knows it’s not just all in his stupid, horny mind.

But then, he starts to think. 

These walls are thin. If he could hear her so perfectly now, he flushes at what she could possibly have heard even without superhuman hearing. 

God, yeah this doesn’t help. Not at all. 

Sure, maybe there was some momentary relief, some sense of clarity after he’d finished into the drain, but now, as he stumbles out of the shower and nearly shatters the door in his haste to close it, as he roughly runs the towel over his hair, taking a moment to stare at himself in the mirror, he’s back where he was before.

Maybe worse, he fears. 

He hovers at the door, unsure as to whether or not he wants to leave the safety of the bathroom as he tugs on the clean pair of boxers and sweats.

Then again, maybe he could sneak out, get redressed, and go back on patrol—focus on something other than the fact that his roommate had literally just been touching herself (thinking about him???), writhing on her bed, her hand trapped between her legs, how she might have been biting her lip—

If he could swat himself with a newspaper, he would.  

No, it’s better to just escape to his room now, pop some melatonin, and knock the fuck out. 

A curious, yet cautious frown tugs at his lips as he leans against the door, listening. 

Still, nothing. 

He waits another moment, holding his breath. 

The quiet that still greets him is enough of a green light as anything, and Peter sighs in almost-relief, steeling himself before cracking open the door. 

He only pokes his head out, scanning the hallway to assure himself that the coast is in fact, clear. 

He smiles a tired smile, closing his eyes briefly before stepping out. 

But just as his foot touches the other side, he nearly trips over himself trying to abort mission when he hears the soft click of her door opening. 

“Oh! Peter!” Michelle jumps slightly seeing him standing there. Her eyes widen, giving him a quick glance over before gluing themselves to his face. “Uh—hey.” 

Fuck, say something. Anything. 

“Sup?”

And good God, she’s glowing. MJ’s always a smoke show, but there’s definitely something to be said about how she looks right now. He can’t help but notice how she’s still very much out of breath, and he’s instantly drawn to the uneven rise and fall of her chest, the way her hair is perfectly out of place. It’s killing him, knowing what he knows, and he wonders if she knows, if she could hear him, too. 

“Just uh—gotta…” She nods behind him toward the bathroom, holding her hands behind her back. 

He swallows thickly. 

“Right, right, sorry—” He chuckles, unsure if he’ll ever be able to breathe correctly again. “Uh—” He clears his throat, stepping aside and gesturing lamely. “Be my guest.” 

At that, she snorts, brow furrowed, as she rushes past him, close enough that he gets a faint hint of the floral shampoo she uses. 

He needs to run away into the woods or something, because he’s not sure he can live here anymore. 

Or at least hide in the kitchen for now; make himself a snack, some tea, calm down. 

Okay, sure. Maybe he’s being dramatic. Maybe it’s not that bad. Maybe they’ll (assuming she is also aware that they’ve unintentionally come together) forget all about this in the morning and they can both move on with their lives. This isn’t that big of a deal, right? Best friends and roommates have this happen all the time. 

But then again, he knows it’s not that easy, given how hard (heh) he’d already been struggling before the accidental mutual masturbation. No, this just adds a new level to his horny panic. 

And he needs to get ahold of himself.

Not literally this time. 

Because as he flips on the kettle and holds his mug in a death grip, he starts to realize that really… there’s nothing he can do. 

Nothing but act like everything’s fine. 

Like there’s not this weird tension. 

Everything is normal!

Very, totally, completely normal!

He’s sure he could convince himself of this in due time. 

Perhaps even in the time it takes MJ to come out of the bathroom.

Yes, yes. He can be normal about this. He’ll be fine. He will survive. He’s not going to think about this anymore, he decides. With a newfound determination, he grabs a packet of chamomile tea and drops it into the mug, drumming his hands on the counter as he stares at the kettle. Already, he’s doing great—only thinking about how long it takes water to boil, listening to it simmering, reflecting on the intricacies of the granite countertops, how the light on the stove flickers, and not at all about MJ sitting on this counter in front of him, spreading her legs slowly, the both of them forgetting completely about the kettle and just letting it whistle while his tongue slides up and down her—

God DAMMIT. 

There’s truly no escape. 

He wonders if this is some kind of sick joke that the universe has decided to play on him—how it’s only added more and more to the weight of this knowledge burying him alive. 

Bracing himself on the counter, he tries to think the most unsexy, boring thoughts he can come up with. 

Concrete being made. 

Someone mowing grass. 

Paint drying—yes! That’s good. Painting is nice; a fun innocent activity. It takes focus, awareness, especially when it’s a whole ass room. Like the time he and MJ helped May paint her dining room this blue that definitely—at least to Peter—looked a lot more grey than anything. He smiles at the memory, thinking back to how fun it had been, even after they’d finished.

Literally watching paint dry. 

How cute MJ had looked in her oversized tee splattered with paint, the few drops having landed in smudges on her hands, her arms, her thighs—

Peter stops himself immediately. 

“Hey, Pete?”

“AH—!”

He really shouldn’t be surprised at this point, given that Michelle is one of the only people to ever be able to effectively sneak up on him. 

The mug that had been in his hand becomes millimeters away from breaking into a thousand tiny pieces on the floor before he catches it, snapping up straight almost immediately. 

When he settles, he gives a strained smile, a weak thumbs up. “Hey, MJ!”

The way she looks at him has his cheeks burning, no doubt turning the same shade of red as his suit. 

Her raised brow should not be making him feel so many things. 

“You good?”

“Never better.” Peter waves her off. “Tea?”

The doubt is palpable. 

“Uh—no, thanks,” MJ breathes. “I’m good.” 

“Oh.” Peter rocks back on his heels. “Okay.” 

A beat—excruciatingly long, almost suffocating—passes between them. 

God, he should say something, shouldn’t he?

But what? 

What can he say that won’t make it worse? He doesn’t trust himself with opening his mouth at this point (and he shouldn’t, given his track record with terrible decisions tonight). His brain is an absolute wreck right now—utterly trashed. Filing cabinets flipped over, papers tossed about. A few desks on fire.

No, he really should just give up speaking for the night. 

The week.

Maybe the whole year. 

But shit—he’s not sure how much of this he can take. 

“I actually—uh,” Michelle spits out, lowering her voice almost immediately. 

Peter perks up, eyes unintentionally wide—comically so, he assumes. “Hmm?”

A laugh. Then, she clears her throat. “I wanted to um…” Another breathless chuckle. Followed by a beat. “I need to—God, okay.”

“Are you good?” Peter asks, his heart ready to fall out of his ass at any given moment. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m good,” MJ says, clearly flustered. A sigh that melts into a defeated laugh slips from her. “Listen, I’m really sorry about last night.”

Play dumb. Act natural. It’s no big deal. 

“Oh, what—what d’you mean?” He asks, arms folding stiffly across his chest, holding them there before settling them awkwardly on the counter behind him. 

“You know…” MJ trails off. “The thing… about me… and the other thing… about me and you.”

Peter swallows. “That?” Blinking in what he hopes looks like surprise, he scoffs, waving her off. “Oh, yeah. No—no worries.” A laugh slips from him, strained and breathless. “I uh—I totally forgot about that… thing. Yeah.” A cough. “No, yeah to be honest—?” He shrugs, not even trying to look her in the eyes. “Haven’t thought about it since. Hell, I don’t even… I don’t even remember exactly what Felicia said.” 

Nailed it.

A beat. 

Michelle blinks, somewhat surprised, maybe a bit skeptical. “Oh. Uh. Okay.” Another beat. “I mean, I’m still sorry. I know it was probably really weird… to hear… that .”

Again, Peter snorts. “Nah. We all say shit when we’re drunk. Not weird at all.”

And really, he should let it die there—he doesn’t need to keep talking. The conversation, as horribly awkward as it is, is finished. Donezo. He’s free. The air has been cleared.

“What’s weird is that it’s been six months!” 

Good God—

She narrows her gaze, scoffing lightly. “Thanks.” 

“No, no, no—!” Peter hurries to correct himself. “I mean, like… That’s just so long. To go without…” he shrugs vaguely. “That sucks.” 

Her light laugh has the warmth in his cheeks flaring. 

“It does, but—” She shakes her head. “I think I’ll be okay.” 

“You sure?” Peter asks, folding his arms across his chest. “I mean, it’s just… It’s just criminal. Is what it is.” 

The amused bewilderment in her expression deepens. “Criminal?” 

He swallows. “Well, yeah. I uh—I mean like…” God, there’s not really any way he can talk himself out of this, is there? He’s well and truly dug himself a nice little hole to die in. “You, someone like you… uh… deserves it all the time. I just want what's best for you, you know? And… And the fact that you’re—uh—not getting it daily, that’s… that’s just not right. It’s a crime. It’s criminal. ” 

Michelle chuckles breathlessly, looking down at her hands playing with a loose thread in her robe—that Peter has noted she is still wearing, much to his distress. 

“It’s a real shame,” Peter, for some God-forsaken reason, keeps going. “I mean, someone… someone’s gotta do something about this.” 

With a slow sigh, MJ leans against the counter, scrunching her nose. “Yeah, well.” She shifts on her feet. “Maybe… maybe it’s a job for Spider-Man.” 

Peter chokes—on nothing. “What.”

“I’m kidding,” she spits out, tucking her hair behind her ear. She clears her throat, disguising it behind a cough. “It was… It was a joke. Obviously.” 

“Right, right…” Peter breathes, nodding stiffly. He’s completely forgotten about the tea. Which is fine. He didn’t need it anyway. “I do…” He coughs. “Wish there was some way I could help that wasn’t… that.” 

MJ chuckles again, glancing down at the counter—and Peter can’t help but be drawn to how her curls fall forward against her face. “That’s very kind,” she replies, looking up to meet his gaze. A beat passes. She drums her fingers on the counter, lips twisting in thought. She swallows thickly. 

Then—

“Would you?” 

Peter feels as if all the oxygen’s been sucked from the room. “Would I what?” 

“Go down on—” She glances left and right. “—a friend?”

There’s a slight shake to the way MJ pushes her hair back again, her lips twitching as she bites the inside of her cheek. 

“I mean. I—” Her question has well and truly broken him, he thinks. This time, for sure. If it hadn’t been busted before, it certainly was now. He takes longer than he’d like to admit to come back down to Earth, to realize that he’s been staring with his mouth just hanging open. Because how the fuck does he respond to this? No amount of daydreams could have possibly prepared him for this exact moment. None of the scenarios in his head ever seemed plausible enough for him to try and come up with any sort of response, and yet…

“You… You know I’m… I’m always happy to help a friend.” 

A moment passes where Peter wants nothing more than to kick himself. 

He blinks, hoping the puff of laughter he lets out doesn’t sound as lame as it feels. 

Wow. 

The air is unseasonably hot, sticking to his skin in a way that’s less mid-November and much more end of June—though he’s not too dumb to think that it’s anything to do with the time of year. 

Thankfully, MJ seems more confused by his answer than anything. “Is that… is that a yes?” 

The sudden shyness in the way she keeps averting her gaze makes him feel like a kid with a dumb crush. 

“Well, uh—” He clears his throat again for the nth time. Be cool, be cool. “I mean, hypothetically. If, say, you were to ask…” It’s truly an out-of-body experience, watching himself just Say Things without thinking—like watching a car crash in slow motion but being completely helpless in stopping it. “You… you have a need, and I would just want to be a good friend and uh, help you with that need. I guess.” 

MJ nods. 

“And… given my particular… skill set…” He disguises the rasp in his voice with another cough. “It’d be—it’d be selfish of me not to give a helping hand—or, mouth, I guess in this case.” 

That earns him a laugh—a giddy, breathless one that tugs at the bottom of his stomach. 

A beat pulses, the air between them crackling. 

“But this is hypothetical, right?” Michelle asks, her tone tinted in teasing humor. 

Peter nods profusely. “Oh, yeah. Yes. All hypothetical.” 

Another beat—one where all they can do is stare at each other, neither one willing to break the thick silence. 

Then, in the next second, both of them are bursting into fits of laughter. 

The feeling is intoxicating, as if Peter’s been downing shots the entire evening and he’s in this weird, drunken stupor. 

MJ’s laugh melts into a groan. “God, this is—” 

“—Weird, right?” Peter finishes for her, somehow able to speak through his stupid little giggles. 

She nods, squeezing her eyes shut as she tries to gather her composure. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she takes another moment, pressing her lips together as if to trap the laughs inside. She shakes herself off before heading to the fridge. 

“Wine?” She asks, the laugh still hiding under her tone. 

“Please.” 

God, yeah, a drink would probably do him some good right now. 

—

“Did you think about it?” 

The peace (that’s lasted less than a half-hour)  is shattered, the episode of Jeopardy forgotten, by MJ’s question. 

“Did you think about it?” Peter counters. 

“I asked you first.” 

Damn, he could really go for some fresh air right now. Maybe some grass—or concrete, courtesy of Manhattan. 

“I mean… I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it.” 

Please, he can’t stop thinking about it. 

“I—” She huffs out a laugh. “Same.” 

He has to do a double take, brows raised and eyes wide in surprise. “Really?” 

“Yeah,” she nods slowly, finishing the rest of her wine. The glass lands on the table with a soft clack. “It’s kinda hard not to when everyone was just… saying it, right?” 

Peter nods quickly—maybe a little too quickly. “No, yeah, exactly! Like the thought was just there as soon as they said it. It was completely natural.” 

“Yup! Completely natural,” MJ agrees readily. “And the more you’re like don’t think about it, the harder you think about it.” 

“And then you’re stuck in this loop of like… imagining what it would be like, and you’re like… sure that you know but also you don’t?” 

MJ nods. 

A beat passes. 

“So, yeah. I—” Peter finishes his glass, coughing softly. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it,” he finds himself admitting breathlessly, scratching the back of his neck, his other hand drumming against his thigh. “Actually.”

MJ settles back into the couch, tilting her head slightly. Her expression is soft, yet impossible to read. 

“Yeah, me too,” she finally says.

Peter wonders if it’s possible to die from whatever feeling this is—whatever’s making his heart feel like it might explode out of his chest Alien-style. 

“Oh—oh?”

There’s that damn catch in his voice. 

Michelle shrugs, shifting in her seat. “Yeah, I don’t—I don’t know… I just keep thinking how…” she scoffs, shaking her head. When she finally meets his eyes again, his stomach flips. “Maybe Cindy had a point?” 

Peter swallows thickly, again. “Yeah?”

Because fuck —he can’t say anything else. He can’t even think straight right now. 

“Yeah, like—” MJ sits forward slightly, toying with her hands in her lap. “You’re not just some rando. You’re my friend. Someone I trust. Someone I actually like hanging out with.” Again, she shrugs. “You’re Peter.” 

If he weren’t feeling as if his insides were about to cave in, he might be more touched. 

“And—” GOD, she inches the tiniest bit closer. “I dunno, Felicia gave you some… pretty glowing reviews earlier, and I just…” she presses her lips together, looking down at her hands, her voice trailing off. “It’s a lot to think about.” 

Peter hums, brows pinched together, nodding as if they aren’t discussing him going down on her as a friend. 

“Uh, yeah. It… it is.” 

It’s then that MJ grimaces. “God, sorry I should… I should just stop talking—”

“—no! No, it’s cool,” Peter’s quick to reassure her sitting up to meet her, now feeling the warmth of her bare knee through his sweats. “You’re right. It’s definitely, uh, something to think about.” 

“And like you said, you get stuck just…” Her gaze briefly dips lower, lingering for a moment before meeting his again. “Imagining everything and…” She trails off. “Wondering…”

His heart is pounding in his ears, the blood rushing. It’s a wonder he can hear anything else. 

“Yeah,” Peter breathes stupidly, unable to keep himself from staring at her mouth, at the way her lips are parted ever so slightly, at the way her bottom one catches between her teeth in thought. 

Deafening silence pulses between them. 

And it takes a moment, but the quiet brings out the way her heart is hammering in her chest, the way her breathing has shifted. 

It’s dizzying. 

Now he knows even more. Now he knows that MJ’s been struck just as he had—that she, too, has struggled with these thoughts. The idea that she’s as affected as he is… 

It’s a bit too much for his brain to handle without blowing another fuse. Especially right at this moment.

Honestly, it’s doing a lot more for him than it should. 

“I have an idea,” MJ says, breaking the silence, tucking her legs underneath her, facing him fully. 

Peter hopes the scream in his head is, in fact, in his head. 

“Yeah?” He asks, trying desperately to play it cool and not like he’s been half-hard this whole time. 

“I mean, it kinda sounds like… we both just need to get this out of our systems.” The words come out so quickly that he’s not quite sure if he’s heard her right. “Like, maybe that’s all we need to be able to…  move on, I guess.” 

Peter’s always thought Michelle was the smartest person in the universe—and this only proves that further. She’s a fucking genius. 

“I think you might be right,” he replies, unconsciously mirroring the way she’s sitting across from him. “That… that sounds like a great idea.”  

And he means it. His first attempt at getting it out of his system hadn’t worked. At all. But this would be different—this, he would actually sate that thirst, that mind-numbing desire for knowledge. 

Instead of an iced coffee, he’s giving it water. 

“Right?” MJ asks. “And—it’s not like it’ll make things weird or anything. It’s just a one-time thing.” 

“A one-time thing. Yes. Exactly.”

“Just a favor between friends.” 

“That’s all.” 

MJ’s lips press into a faint smile. “Same page. Awesome.”

And then, a solid five seconds pass before either of them say anything, much less move. Though that five seconds feel like an eternity with how much Peter wants to start getting it out of his system. It’s almost like he’s forgotten how to breathe in the last ten minutes, all the blood in his head going to, well, his other head. 

It’s hard to miss, though, when MJ’s smile fades. “Do you actually want to, though? I don’t want you to feel like—”

“—No!” Peter’s somehow able to use his last brain cell to cut her off. “No. I mean…” He huffs out a laugh, a little disoriented from how quickly his life had flashed before his eyes. “I do… want to. I mean. I want to help. I’m happy to help.” He clears his throat. “It’s what friends do.” 

Deep down—or not so deep at all, because duh —he knows that this is very much not something that friends just do. 

But while friends don’t go down on each other, they do help each other. 

And it’s not as if this is just for shits and giggles. No, there’s a reason for this madness. 

It’s mutually beneficial—they both have a curiosity that’s begging to be satisfied. MJ has needs, Peter has the means. 

The sharp, amused exhale through her nose brings him back. It’s now that he realizes how close they are, and the sudden rise in temperature becomes abundantly clear. He finds himself drawn to the slight uptick of her lips, the way her breathing has slowed and quickened all at once, how she can’t seem to keep her gaze from drifting down to his mouth. 

He can hear the soft ticking of the clock on the other side of the apartment, the faint ding of their building’s elevator, the cars honking in the street seven stories below. 

Yet he’s here, grounded in this moment. It’s all white noise, completely drowned out by the way Michelle’s heart is beating faster and faster. 

“You’re a good friend, Pete,” she says fondly. And then—

In a split second, her lips are on his. 

He freezes for a moment, his brain wiped clean, unable to catch up with his body as his eyes flutter shut. 

But her hand coming to rest on his thigh instantly wakes him up. 

Holy shit holy shit holy shit holy shit—

And somehow, it’s nothing like he’d ever expected. 

Nothing like how his dozens upon hundreds of stupid little daydreams have ever shown. 

It’s better. 

It’s almost… relief? Sort of like a breath of fresh air on a warm evening—like the nights where he’s just finished patrol, and he’s absolutely had his shit fucked up, and he can finally just rip his mask off—as her lips move slowly against his. 

And very much the opposite of weird, like he’d been afraid kissing one of his best friends would be like.

Which, now that he thinks about it—as he finally gets the balls to touch her, moving his hand to her waist, the other to her jaw, gently tugging her close and wanting to live in the way her breath hitches ever so slightly—makes sense. 

They are best friends after all. 

Of course, it’d feel good to kiss someone he feels this close to!

Especially with that baseline of attraction that had already been laid out.

It’s science, really. 

So he doesn’t question it. Doesn’t question how this somehow feels both new and familiar all at once as one of her hands finds a home at the back of his neck, her fingers threading through the curls there. 

They’re both so good at this—just kissing—it almost makes him mad they didn’t try this earlier. 

And while it’s a little clumsy at first, MJ just as jittery as he is, they settle into a rhythm, one that has Peter dangerously close to melting into the couch. 

Still, as good as it feels right now, he knows it’s some unspoken rule about hooking up with a friend—there’s that small voice, what he assumes is the elusive final brain cell, somehow making through the fog that’s taken over his mind. 

And it’s unfortunately loud enough for him to tap gently on the breaks. 

When he pulls back, it’s not much—far enough that they’re no longer technically locking lips, but close enough that they can still dive right back in. He rests his forehead against hers, breathless as he mutters against her lips, “Should we be kissing?” 

Right before he kisses her again. 

The soft, airy laugh he gets in return makes his heart flutter oddly. 

And though his eyes are closed, he can see the way her tooth pokes through her lips as she grins. 

“Well,” she starts, leaning against him, her hand winding its way through his hair, before planting another kiss to his lips. “Honestly?” Another kiss. “I don’t really see—” Another. “—how it—” And then, another. “—matters.” She pulls away, just enough that she can meet his gaze, their noses barely touching. “You’re already gonna be going down on me anyway, so…” 

Peter nods, perhaps a bit too eager as he surges forward and catches her lips into another heated, yet brief, kiss. 

And the soft, barely-there feeling of her tongue brushing against his bottom lip makes him wonder if he’s well and truly blown a fuse in his brain, because it takes him more than a second to verbally respond.

He can already see the light and he hasn’t even eaten her out yet. 

“You’re right.” 

Again, she’s the smartest person he knows.

What’s a kiss going to do that some casual oral won’t? 

Besides, this is all about MJ—all about what she likes, what she wants, what she needs—and Peter just wants to make sure it’s done right. 

No skipping steps here. 

And furiously making out is one of the most important steps. 

“It’s like a warm-up,” he reasons between kisses, breath catching when she climbs into his lap. His head spins, feeling her warmth through the fabric of his sweats. 

MJ smiles against him, wordlessly nodding as she deepens the kiss. 

It’s dangerous though, when she starts to clumsily grind down against him, rolling her hips over the hardness in his sweats, and he’s unable to keep himself from bucking up into her.

Peter sucks in a breath, and in a brief moment of clarity, the dumb, horny fog in his brain lifts, and he remembers the mission. Hooking a hand underneath her thigh, he gently guides her back against the couch, letting his lips trail across her cheek, along the sharp line of her jaw, down her neck.

He breathes her in, unable to help himself, dragging his lips along her collarbone as he pushes her robe over her shoulder, giving easier access to her impossibly soft skin.

It’s dizzying how good she smells. 

Fuck. 

There’s a slight shake to his movements as he trails his hand down her stomach, taking a moment to toy with the tie just barely holding the robe in place, before wandering lower as he licks and sucks at the sensitive skin on her neck. 

God, the little sounds she makes even now are driving him insane.

Peter swallows as his hand smooths up her thigh, pushing past the slit in the robe—only to suck in a breath when he feels the heat of bare skin, the brush of curls against his knuckles. 

Oh.

“Oh,” he says out loud, somehow managing to get the word out. “Wow! Okay.”

MJ stiffens momentarily. “Uh—yeah. I uh…” she huffs out a strained, giddy laugh. “I forgot I wasn’t… wearing anything.” 

Peter pulls back slightly to look at her, gaze narrowed playfully. 

“Were you planning this?” 

Jaw dropped, Michelle glares. “No!”

Though he can still see the way the corners of her lips are fighting to stay down.

Because it’s not all that uncommon for MJ to be walking around in just a robe—though Peter’s never realized she’d been going commando every time. Still, it’s fun to tease her. 

Just a little. 

“Hey, it’s okay. No judgment here,” Peter half-assures, half-teases. “You were thinking ahead. Makes things a lot easier.” 

Knocking him with her knee, she squints up at him. “Really? I would’ve thought you liked getting to take them off.” 

The image immediately flashes across his mind and goes right between his legs, tugging MJ’s underwear down her thighs—or even ripping them off—the reveal of her spread out for him, completely bare. Something tugs at his gut, arousal pulsing. 

He nods. “That would be right. Yes.” 

“Mm.” MJ hums, leaning up to press her lips to his neck. “Another time, maybe.” 

Another time? 

Peter might pass out. 

Maybe die, even. 

Just fall face down in her tits. 

(Though he supposes it’s not the worst way to go.)

The feel of her teeth grazing his skin brings him back, and though he’s still riddled with stupid nerves—the painfully horny kind—he picks back up where he left off. 

His hands ghosts up her inner thigh again, and he tightens his jaw, holding his breath as he finally touches her. 

They both share a soft laugh when the muscles in her stomach twitch and jump when his hand meets her cunt, when he slowly, experimentally drags a finger up and down her center. 

The little shuddering breath she lets out is probably his new favorite sound. 

And holy shit he’s touching her.

Holy fucking shit.

It’s not a dream. Not an illusion. Not something his brain’s made up in the shower. 

It’s real.

His hand is actually, one-hundred percent for real, between the legs of his best friend and roommate. 

Biting the inside of his lip, he dips his finger down to her entrance, playing with the arousal gathered there. Feeling just how wet she already is, his cock twitches, the knot in his stomach tightening the more he slides her wetness around. 

The breath he’d been holding comes out in a shaky sigh. “Damn, you really were ready.” 

“Shut up!” She replies in a sort of laugh-groan. 

But even if he’s teasing her, he wants to also make her feel good.

“No no no!” He tilts his head, leaning closer to kiss the underside of her jaw, right under her ear, murmuring. “It’s good. So good. So hot.” 

Her next laugh catches on a soft moan as he starts to rub her clit—again, slowly, almost calculating in nature; taking his time, taking note of which movements make her muscles twitch and her breath hitch. 

Because, yes, while the mission is relatively simple: eat MJ out, make her come, it’s also not something he wants to rush. He wants to take his time, to make sure she feels good. To learn everything he can about her body.

And even though everything in his body is screaming at him to keep going, he pulls away, sitting back on his heels. He looks down at the wet fingers that had just been playing with her cunt, the heat in his belly flaring wildly at the way they glisten. 

Michelle props herself up on her elbows, staring up at him from under her lashes. “What—?” 

Peter can’t resist, popping his fingers into his mouth and licking them clean—just for a taste. 

His eyes flutter closed, and he lets out a soft hum.

Because finally. 

“Oh,” she breathes, blinking rapidly—the shyness in her expression, in her faint smile, only makes him harder.

“Fuck, I can’t wait to eat you out.” 

Again, MJ knocks him with her knee. “Then get to it, man,” she teases. Half a beat passes, a nervous snort escaping her. “You don’t want your dinner to get cold, do you?”

“MJ…” His shoulders shake with a barely suppressed laugh, taking a moment to collect himself before meeting her gaze again. Shaking his head, he smooths his hand up and down her thigh, finally resting on her knee. His thumb taps gently. “As much as I want to, I also wanna make sure this is worth it for you.” 

She looks genuinely touched at that. “Aw, Pete…”

“So don’t rush me,” he adds playfully.

With a fond eye roll, she lays back again, propping her head back against a throw pillow.

Peter can’t help but find the way she almost petulantly scoots an inch back into the corner impossibly cute. 

“Fine,” she huffs, her teasing expression melting into something softer. Then, she mumbles something he can quite hear.

“What?” He asks, his hand on her thigh, thumb rubbing soft circles into her skin. 

Again, she’s stupidly cute with the way she smiles up at him—almost timid. Though she keeps her voice comically neutral. She swallows. “Please continue.” 

“Oh yeah, of course,” he replies with an amused huff. 

A beat. 

There’s that damn tickle in his throat again. 

They both share a soft laugh as he inexplicably gives her a stupid thumbs up before leaning in again. It’s dizzying how surrounded by her he feels as he buries his face in the crook of her neck, knowing that it’s only going to be so much more, his hand climbing up her thigh again, continuing where he left off. 

Again, he’s always thought MJ smelled good—in general, you know, the general smell of good, how one might smell something and think hey! that smells good! —but now being so close, having the soft floral notes taking over every sense… It’s a wonder he’s still able to function. It does something to him. Something unhinged. 

His transformation into this repressed regency man or some shit, losing his goddamn mind over some pretty shampoo, is almost complete. 

The slight hitch in her breath as he presses his fingers against her clit brings him back to reality. He has to bite back his own groan, feeling the heated, slick skin underneath his fingertips, and already he’s losing himself again, lost in the thought of how she might feel on his lips, his tongue.

His chin.

The tip of his nose. 

God, just the thought of her sitting on his face—

No! Focus!

He shifts his fingers slightly, almost curious in nature as he rubs her clit up and down rather than side to side. 

The way her lips part, the way she sighs, the way her back arches ever so slightly—it’s like a reward. 

Very interesting. 

Peter may be an idiot sometimes, but he’s not stupid—he keeps the new motion and rhythm he’s found, though he keeps it spicy, of course, by increasing the pressure enough to where MJ’s hand reaches out to lock around his wrist, holding him in place. 

There’s a certain thrill that rushes through him feeling the tips of her nails digging into his skin, and he wonders what it might feel like having them rake across his back, up his neck, through his hair. 

God—

He wants to say something to her, to let her know how good she is, how beautiful she is—but he worries his caveman brain is perpetually stuck on the words warm and wet. 

“Peter…” his name falls out in a pretty sigh that only eggs him on. 

But he keeps his pace—steady and firm. He’d even say stoic if he didn’t feel like he was about to bust in his sweats any second. 

Determined. That’s the word. 

Still, something comes over him when he feels her muscles tensing and twitching, when her breathing grows even more ragged, when her thighs start to close around his hand—

Not yet.

He pulls away.

The look of betrayal tinted in annoyance on MJ’s face as she groans at him somehow only makes him laugh—light and breathless. 

“Peter!”

It’s not a blissful sigh this time—but still just as nice to hear.

Even as she smacks him gently on the arm. 

“You’re fired.”

Stifling any further giggles, he presses his lips to her neck, gently smoothing his hand up and down her thigh. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles into her skin.

He can feel her steely glare. “Are you?” 

With a cheeky grin, he pulls back, meeting her gaze, the tip of his nose brushing hers. “A little. But I promise,” he plants a deceptively chaste friendship-kiss on her lips. “I’ll make it up to you.” 

Michelle hums against his lips. “You better.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he winks, hoping in the moment that it looks at least a little bit sexy and not stupid. 

Judging by her breathy laugh—it’s both. 

Peter drags himself down her body, sinking from the couch and onto the floor below,  settling between her legs—all while his heart and lungs climb into his throat, impossible to swallow back down. He glances between her face and the slit in her robe. 

“Can I—?”

MJ nods, pressing her lips into a thin line.

He almost loses himself in the slow, heavy rise and fall of her chest. Blinking to snap himself out of it, he reaches out, focusing all of his energy on opening the robe without his hand aggressively shaking in excitement.  

Thankfully, he’s able to get it out of the way without embarrassing himself further, though his victory is quickly forgotten, all thoughts flying from his brain when he looks down and sees her. 

It takes everything in him not to dive right in, every ounce of pathetic self-control he has left. His throat goes dry, his lungs give out at the way she’s glistening— all for him. 

The last remaining shreds of self-control are dwindling. 

He reaches out, sliding his thumb up and down her slit at an achingly slow pace. And he stays there for a moment, overcome with focus. Amazingly, he can’t look away—though it’s not like he’d ever want to. No, he’s very happily stuck, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he watches himself idly play with her clit.

And honestly, he could probably sit here forever. It wouldn’t be that hard. He could easily give up everything else if it meant getting to do this all day every day. Goodbye nine-to-five, hello to the new double life. 

When he glances up finally—breaking the world’s longest staring contest with his best friend’s pussy—MJ’s watching him, propped on her elbows, lips parted. 

The corner of her lips twitches upward—a soft, almost innocent smile considering what he’s about to do. 

Oh god oh god oh god oh god be cool be cool—

Scooting even closer, his hands hook underneath her thighs, resting them on his shoulders. He takes another second to marvel at how soft her skin is, almost forgetting to breathe as he smooths his hands up and down her legs, fingers pressing and squeezing gently. 

Not taking his eyes from hers, he leans down, pressing a deceptively chaste kiss to the inside of her thigh. And then another. And another. Each getting higher and higher, until…

He plants a soft, barely-there kiss to her clit before finally—fucking finally —slowly dragging his tongue along the same path his thumb had been taking. 

The moan he lets out is less than dignified, but honestly, at this point, he doesn’t give a shit. 

Because good God, she tastes even better on his tongue. 

And with the way she just melts into the couch, whatever noises come out of him are the last thing on his mind. 

How he’ll survive, he’s not sure. How he’ll be able to go on after, he has no idea. 

No amount of daydreaming had prepared him for just how this would be, how it would feel to have the warm weight of her thighs on his shoulders, her heated skin under his mouth. 

And again it’s funny—this weird deja vu—because it’s almost as if he had known how it would feel, but he’s still completely thrown at how much more everything is. 

How every sense is flooded with her. 

Dialed all the way to eleven. 

It takes everything in him not to go at her like a starved man, to keep himself from getting washed away in the undertow after just one taste. There will be time for that in a moment—for now, he’s still figuring her out. No need to rush through this. He wants to keep taking his time, to savor the moment, to savor her. 

“Fuck —” He murmurs against her, his eyes fluttering shut. 

MJ hums in agreement.

Again, he licks her with the flat of his tongue, gathering her wetness and spreading it messily over her clit. He lingers there, flicking gently—up and down, just as he had before. The way her breath hitches in response, the way her muscles twitch has that same heat tugging at the bottom of his stomach. 

A groan slips from him as she reaches down, fingers carding through his hair, tangled in a fistful of curls, her grip already tightening as he picks up a steady pace. 

“God, MJ—” He breathes, the tightness in his sweats becoming almost painful. “You taste so good.” 

Yes, he’s thought it a million times, but he wants to make sure she knows. 

And he’s glad he did—he can’t help but crack a smile at the way she moans. 

For a third time, he’s struck by how both new and old this whole thing feels—how he’s riddled with first-time nerves, yet somehow feeling the most comfortable he’s ever been. As if they’ve always been practicing friendly oral sex. 

There’s not much time to mull over that, though, given that another flick of her clit at a slightly different angle has her bucking against his face and yanking on his hair. 

“Shit—sorry,” Michelle huffs out a breathless laugh, smoothing out a wayward curl that’s stuck to his forehead. 

Peter laughs with her. “You’re good,” he replies, a roughness in his voice that he almost doesn’t recognize. He dips his tongue down to her entrance again, swirling and playing in the arousal that’s dripping down her skin. “So good.” 

When he looks back up again, her head has fallen back against the corner of the couch, the hand not tangled in his hair gripping the fabric of her robe on her shoulder, tugging it down just a bit to show a flash of collarbone. 

The idea of letting his tongue follow the sharp line is tempting, but he shoves it away, saving that thought for later. 

And now, along with the one in his sweats and lower abdomen, there’s a new tightness in his chest, and he can’t stop himself from thinking how pretty she looks right now. 

God—

The coil in the pit of his stomach twists, burning hot as he takes her clit into his mouth, sucking harshly, his tongue continuing to flick it at that new angle he’d found. 

That’s what has her arching off of the couch, her grip on his hair tightening as she lets out a wet gasp of his name that goes straight to his dick. “Peter—!”

Bright colors burst behind his eyelids as he screws them shut, his own arousal pulsing as he desperately clings to her.

And it’s as if something snaps in him, because in the next moment, he’s decided that he’s not nearly close enough, and if he’s not absolutely drowning in her in the next five seconds, he might well and truly die. Having his face buried between her thighs is a matter of life and death. He hauls her closer, one hand gripping her ass while the other lies flat on her stomach, holding her in place as she starts rocking her hips against his face. 

Fuck—the heat in the pit of his stomach is dangerously close to boiling over, the twitching and tightening of his muscles as he focuses on not busting right then and there burning hot. But there’s the telltale warm prickle traveling up and down his back, the one that melts into his belly, down his legs and into his toes as he curls them against the rug. 

He’s so close.

So God damn close. 

Shit. 

And it doesn’t necessarily help when he instinctively brings the hand that was gripping her ass and starts teasing her entrance with his middle finger—he has to bite back his groan at how easily he slides in, momentarily losing his focus on her clit. 

But he catches himself, humming appreciatively as he starts to fuck her with his fingers, curling them just so, matching the pace he’s set with his lips and tongue in a way that gets another reaction from MJ—one that has him involuntarily rutting his hips against nothing. 

“Fuck! God, Peter—” 

Her legs tighten around him, locking him in.

Though it’s not as if he’d ever want—or need—to escape.

He’s perfectly content right where he is. 

If someone gave him the key, he’d simply throw it away.

If he dies here, so be it. 

“Peter…”

She says his name again—something she’s said maybe a thousand times in him knowing her, but it’s never sounded quite like this. It might be his new favorite word. 

The rhythm in her breathing falters, growing ragged and uneven as she stiffens. Peter keeps his pace steady, moaning filthily and needily into her cunt—hoping that somehow gets his point across. 

(He’s enjoying himself, obviously.) 

“God, yes. Shit—that feels so good.” Her voice is strained and rough, sounding like a round of applause at this point. 

It’s even more dangerous when he starts to feel her flutter around his fingers, the muscles in her thighs twitching wildly, causing her legs to shake as she teeters on the edge. Each roll of her hips against his face is messier and messier, each growing more and more desperate for release. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—”

And then—

It snaps. 

He dares a glance upward, the white-hot pressure between his hips only building when he sees the way her jaw has gone slack, her brows furrowed, her eyes screwed shut as she lets out a silent scream, body wound tight as she pulses around his fingers. 

And it’s as she’s panting his name again, twisting and tugging at his hair, thighs squeezing the sides of his head, rutting sloppily against his mouth, that everything hits him all at once. It has his skin buzzing with heat, his insides burning unbearably hot, and his mind goes numb. The hand that was inside her moves back to gripping her ass—for leverage, of course—as his own orgasm washes over him in a rough wave that has him clinging to her for dear life. 

Not unlike a sailor lost at sea. 

His face burns hot as he comes back down from that euphoric high, though his mind still spins feeling the new wetness in his sweats. 

Not entirely sure if he’s remembered how to breathe again, he pulls off of her clit—gently, once he hears her sharp intake of breath at the movement—and instinctively buries his face in her thigh. 

If he leaves a kiss there, it’s fine. 

He knows for a fact that there’s a stupid, dopey smile on his face, a dumb twinkle in his eye as he dares another glance upward. 

Something tickles his chest seeing how soft MJ looks all melted into the couch, weightless and carefree. How the corners of her lips are ticked up in a soft, almost floaty smile as she drapes her arm over her eyes, still catching her breath. 

Peter lets his smile, goofy as it is, widen. 

The feeling of relief—sweet, blissful relief—that follows is unmatched. 

He’s not sure he’s ever felt this relaxed post-nut. Which—

Damn. 

It’s definitely not the first time he’s ever busted in a pair of sweats, but still. 

Honestly, it might not be the last. 

With another kiss to the inside of her thigh, he pulls back, a little shaky as he rises onto his feet. Almost immediately, MJ reaches out, grabbing his hand as she sits up. 

“Wait, wait, wait—”

Peter feels his heart skip. “Yeah?” 

The smile on her face is now tinted in mischief. 

“Your turn.” 

A laugh bubbles up from his chest. “Oh, um—” He clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m—I’m good, actually.” 

Hurt flashes across her expression, though she hides it well. “Oh…”

“No, no, I mean—” Another chuckle, this one much harder to shove down. He can feel his cheeks and ears turning a bright shade of pink. “I’m… good,” he glances down. “I’m good.” 

“Oh,” he eyes go wide when she sees the wet patch in his sweats. “ OH!” 

“Yeah.” 

She blinks in surprise, huffing in fond amusement. “Wow.”

He nods slowly, biting the inside of his cheek. “Yeah. So, I… uh—” He throws a thumb over his shoulder. “Should probably go… do something… about that.” 

“Nice.” Something twinkles in her eye as she looks at him, gaze narrowing playfully, though there’s still a catch in her voice when she speaks. “You must’ve—you must’ve really enjoyed yourself, huh.” 

The shyness in her tone is back, and she immediately averts her gaze, adjusting her robe. 

“I mean—” Peter breathes, laughing softly. “Yeah. I did.” 

MJ meets his gaze again, lips pressed together in what he assumes is an effort to stop her smile. 

“Me, too,” she replies, barely audible. 

A beat. 

Peter rocks back on his heels, feeling oddly light as he spins around and, for some reason, heads into the kitchenette instead of his bedroom. Not knowing what exactly to do with himself—besides clean up—he stands awkwardly in front of the cabinets, tapping his feet. 

He settles on a glass of water for MJ.

Then he can change.

It’s the courteous thing to do. 

After all, she’s still out of breath—still recovering. 

Moments later, he’s back in the living room, water in hand. 

“Here,” he says, holding it out to her. 

That soft smile that makes his heart feel funny comes back as she reaches for it, taking a slow sip. “Mm, thank you.” 

Peter waves her off, leaning against the doorframe. “Anytime.”

“For the water,” she says, setting said water down on the coffee table. Her lips tug upward into an almost timid grin as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “And for… you know.” 

God, she’s so cute…

“It was… very good,” she adds, snorting faintly. “Two thumbs up. Worth the six-month wait. Thank you. Yeah.” 

And all he wants to do right now is kiss her, to do it all over again. To keep making her feel good. It’s what she deserves and more. 

Because, now he’s not sure if he has the willpower, the strength, the control to go without. 

Smiling, he looks down at the ground, knowing that the redness in his cheeks won’t be going away anytime soon. 

And still, just as before, the air crackles between them as he meets her gaze again just before heading into his room. 

“Anytime.”