Marvel – I am Spiderman

At some point they'd moved to the sleeping bag.

He didn't remember exactly when. The floor had been cold and she'd been in his lap and then they were lying down, the sleeping bag unzipped and spread under them because neither of them wanted to move enough to get inside it properly. His suit was off. Her catsuit was off. He'd pulled the hoodie back over her because the space heater was fighting November and losing.

She was on her side, facing him, wearing the hoodie and nothing else. Her white hair was loose on the sleeping bag and she was pulling the zipper tab back and forth, the metallic clicking steady and small in the quiet apartment.

"There's a mini-fridge," she said. "Behind the radiator."

He got up. She watched him cross the room. The mask was still on, pushed up to his nose, and everything else was off, and the floor was freezing under his feet. The mini-fridge was plugged into the same power strip as the space heater and contained four water bottles, a block of cheese, and an apple that had seen better weeks.

He grabbed two water bottles. Came back. She took one and drank half of it without stopping and he watched the line of her throat as she swallowed and then drank his own. The water was cold and his body was still warm from her and he shivered.

He lay back down. The sleeping bag was thin and the floor under it was hard and she was warm where she pressed against his side.

She put her hand on his chest. Drew a line down his sternum with one finger. Then a circle.

"You move differently," she said.

"What?"

"Without the suit. When you're just walking." She gestured at the room. "Your shoulders change."

He didn't know what to say to that. Spider-Man moved like a guy who could stick to walls. Peter Parker moved like a guy who'd spent most of his life trying not to be noticed.

Her hand moved over his side. His ribs. Down past his hip and around to his back. Her fingers found the raised lines between his shoulder blades and stopped.

"These aren't from fighting," she said.

He didn't say anything.

Her fingers traced the scratches. Three parallel lines, healed to thin ridges. Cindy's fingernails. Three weeks ago, in his bedroom, the compass at ten, the webbing stuck to the headboard. Cindy had dug into his back and pulled him closer and the scratches had taken a week to fade enough that he could wear his suit without wincing.

"Someone else," Felicia said. Flat.

"Yes."

Her fingers stayed on the marks. She didn't pull away. Her breathing tightened and she was quiet long enough that the space heater cycled off and back on with a click.

"Is it serious?"

"Yeah."

She traced one of the lines from end to end. Then she pulled her hand back and put it flat on the sleeping bag between them.

"Good," she said.

He blinked. "Good?"

"I don't do jealousy." Flat. Certain. Practiced. "And I don't do serious. So. Good."

The words came out rehearsed instead of spoken. She was going to figure out she was lying. But that was a later problem.

He kissed her.

Slow. His hand on her jaw, turning her face, and the kiss was different from the ones before. No urgency. No teeth. Just his mouth on hers and her lips parting and her hand coming up to hold his wrist where his hand was on her face.

She was nervous. It was in the grip on his wrist, too tight. In how her breathing had changed since the catsuit came off and there was nothing between them. Round 1 she'd been partly Black Cat. Leather and attitude and walls that happened to be unzipped. Now she was Felicia Hardy on a sleeping bag in a cold apartment and the only thing she was wearing was his hoodie and her body was bare underneath it and the pretending wasn't available.

He took his time.

Down her neck. She tilted her head back and the sound she made was small, a caught breath, surprised. Different from R1's bitten-back aggression. He kissed her collarbone. Her sternum. She was warmer now, her skin losing the chill, the hoodie riding up as she shifted.

His mouth found the scar.

Left side. Below her breast, running along the bottom edge of her ribs. Old, healed white, slightly raised from the skin around it. His lips touched it and she flinched. Her whole body locked and her hand went to his shoulder and pushed.

He didn't ask. He moved his mouth along the scar, slow, following its line from the front of her ribs around toward her side. The push on his shoulder weakened. Her fingers curled into his skin instead. She made a sound.

Low. From the bottom of her chest. Her eyes closed and her lips pressed together and the sound kept going, quiet and shaking, and it was the most honest noise she'd made all night.

He didn't know what the scar was from. He had guesses. All of them were bad. He put his mouth on the next part of her.

He kissed the soft skin below her navel. Her hips twitched. He kissed the inside of her arm where the veins were visible. She shivered.

His mouth on the tendon below her ear made her breathing stutter and her hips shift toward him. His hand in her hair, pulling gently, made her chin lift and her throat go long and a sound come out of her that she tried to swallow. When he took her wrist and pressed it against the sleeping bag above her head, holding it down with one hand, her eyes went wide.

"Fuck." Quiet. Awed. Her hips rocked and her wrist strained against his grip and her eyes were wide and she was looking at him like she was trying to understand what had just happened inside her body.

He held her wrist down and kissed her and she kissed him back. His other hand went between her legs. She was wet. Slick from round 1 and from this and his fingers found her clit and rubbed and her hips came off the sleeping bag.

"That-" she breathed. Her free hand gripped the sleeping bag. Her pinned wrist pushed against his hand. "Yeah, don't-"

He pushed into her.

She gasped. The angle was different from the wall. Deeper. She was swollen from round 1 and the first push was tighter and she wrapped her free arm around his back and pulled him down. Skin on skin. Her breasts against his chest, the hoodie bunched around her shoulders, her legs wider, and he sank into her and the heat was everywhere. She was wet enough that the push was one slide and she groaned and her pinned wrist went slack in his grip.

He moved slow. Deep. Her face was right there. Inches from his. Her eyes were open, looking at him. Green and darker in the low light. Her mouth open, her breathing ragged.

She was nervous and she wasn't hiding it. The walls were gone and the walls had been load-bearing.

He kept the pace slow. Each stroke pulled a sound out of her and the sounds were small and honest. The aggressive noises from round 1 were gone. Her mouth opened against his and they breathed into each other and his hand in her hair pulled, gentle, and she arched under him and the sound she made was long and shaking and she closed her eyes.

Her pussy was tighter than round 1. Swollen, sensitive, and each stroke made her twitch around him. The wet sound between them was different. Slicker. Easier. The friction from the first round had been replaced by a long, smooth slide that went deeper because her body had decided to let him in.

"There-" she whispered. Her eyes were shut. Her hand was gripping his back. "Right there. Don't move, just- there-"

He held the angle. Ground into her. The base of his cock pressed against her clit on each stroke and she was tightening around him and her breathing was going shallow and her fingers in his back were digging and her pinned wrist had gone limp.

Sweat between their chests. His forehead damp. Her skin flushed along her throat and across the tops of her breasts where the hoodie had fallen away. The sleeping bag was damp under them and the cold air above them didn't reach them.

He was close. He could feel it in his spine, the tightening, the narrowing of everything to the point where his cock was inside her and the wet heat and the grip and the sound of her breathing against his mouth. He held it back. Focused on the angle. Focused on her.

Her breathing stopped.

The same pattern from round 1. Ragged to shallow to nothing. Her body tensed under him. Her hand on his back went rigid. Her eyes had been closed and now they opened.

She was looking at him. Green eyes wide, mouth open, her whole body taut, and she was right there, right at the edge, and her eyes were on his face and the word came out of her like it had been sitting in her throat for weeks.

"Peter."

She froze.

He froze.

He was inside her and her body was clenching around him in pulses and the aftershocks were running through her and the word was between them in the cold air of the apartment. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth was open. The color left her face.

"I shouldn't know that," she said.

He was still inside her. Her body was still gripping him. His hand was still on her wrist. The space heater hummed.

"How," he said.

"I followed you." Her voice was wrecked. "Twice. After the water tower. I saw you go into a house in Queens. Forest Hills." She swallowed. Her eyes were wet. "I looked up who lived there."

Her wrist was still under his hand. He let go. She didn't move it.

"Peter Parker. Midtown High School." Her voice was barely audible. "Lives with his aunt and uncle."

She was a thief. She investigated. She found a sticky note and a phone number and a house in Queens and a name in a phonebook and she'd put it together because that's what she did. The thing he guarded. The thing that kept Ben and May safe. The thing Bobbi Morse and SHIELD wanted. She'd found it by following him home twice and looking it up.

He wasn't angry.

He reached up and pulled the mask off. Over his head, the last piece of Spider-Man, and dropped it on the sleeping bag beside them.

Her eyes moved over his face. All of it. The brown hair stuck to his forehead. The hazel eyes. The jaw that was still growing into itself. The face of a kid who looked exactly like the kind of kid who got stuffed in lockers by Flash Thompson.

"You're a kid," she said.

"I'm not."

"You're in high school."

"That part's true."

She stared at him. He was still inside her. His face was bare. Her face was bare. Neither of them was wearing anything that counted. The sleeping bag was bunched around them and the space heater's orange glow was making everything look warmer than it was.

She laughed.

It came out of her startled, a real laugh, her eyes crinkling and her hand going to her mouth. Then it cracked. The laugh broke in the middle and the crying came through underneath, raw and wet, and her hand was covering her face and her shoulders were shaking and the sound she was making was both at once and she couldn't stop either one.

He pulled out of her. Careful. She made a sound at the withdrawal and he gathered her against him and she pressed her face into his chest and shook.

"I had sex with a high schooler," she said into his chest. Muffled. Destroyed.

"You had sex with Spider-Man."

"You're the same person."

"Technically."

"Oh god." She pressed harder into his chest. "Oh god."

He held her. Ran his hand over her hair. She shook and the space heater hummed and the wind pushed at the building outside. His cock was wet from her and going soft against his thigh and the cold air found the moisture and he ignored it.

The shaking slowed. She stayed against his chest. Her breathing evened out. Her hand was on his ribs, flat, feeling him breathe.

"Peter Parker," she said. Quiet. Trying the name. "Peter."

"Hi."

"Hi." Her mouth against his chest. A small wet smile he could feel more than see. "You have a stupid name."

"Says Felicia."

"Felicia is a beautiful name."

"It is," he said. And meant it.

She was quiet. He held her and the floor was cold and the sleeping bag was thin and she was warm against him and she knew his name and he knew hers and the masks were on the floor next to them and nobody was wearing anything.

"Stay," she said. Into his chest.

"I'll stay."

"Just tonight."

"Just tonight."

She pulled the sleeping bag over both of them and pressed closer. Her leg went over his hip. Her arm went around his waist. She held on like the building might move if she didn't.

The wind pushed at the window. The building held. The space heater's coils were the only light.

He closed his eyes. Felicia's breathing slowed against his chest.

He stayed.