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Peter returns to Queens from, holy shit, outer Space. He still doesn’t quite feel like a whole person. Not like who he used to be. He insists on walking back from where they land in Manhattan, isn’t quite ready to be back in a helicopter. Or a car. Or a subway train. Or anything that reminds him of a spaceship. He might not be able to for a long time, he thinks.
He goes back to Midtown Sci & Tech, or at least what’s left of it. MJ’s there. Standing next to a pile of overturned lockers. Biting her lip and holding some kind of controller in her hand.
She’s the first person he sees that he knows. He’s so happy to see her, so happy that she’s alive, that some semblance of the world as he used to know it still exists, that he almost collapses. Instead his body settles for slamming into her and wrapping her in a lung-crushing hug.
She drops the controller.
“Peter.” She whispers. “You’re okay.” She didn’t think he was coming back. She’s not hopeful like that, generally speaking. She thought it was goodbye forever for 1/2 of her weirdo lunch buddies when she watched him climb out the window of their school bus and web away, and goodbye forever for her a few hours later.
She feels his chest shake against hers. His whole body is racked with sobs. “Peter. Are you okay?” She pulls back enough to look at him. He is not okay. That is her official diagnosis. “Peter. Peter. Look at me. Look at me.”
They’re eye to eye. He won’t look at her. He doesn’t think he can. Her vision is getting blurry at the edges but she doesn’t know why. She is not okay either, but she doesn’t cry. Not even when she dreams horrifying dreams, could swear she remembers feeling her face, her body, her whole world, turn to ash and float away.
“I’m sorry.” He says as his breathing starts to even out.
“Don’t be.” She says, “We’re still here.” And she doesn’t know what in earth or hell compels her, but she bumps her nose to the end of his nose. And she kisses him. Gently, quickly. Right on the mouth.
He breathes out, heavy. “Yeah,” he blinks, “we’re still here.”
She wraps her arms tight around his neck and upper back, pulling him to her. He re-settles his grip around her ribcage, tucks his head against the side of her face. This heavy, vulnerable, feeling is too much for her.
“Parker,” she says, “I think you need to get laid.”
He practically jumps away from her, startled.
“What?” he says.
“Get laid. Fuck it out. What returning soldiers do. In Novels. Fables. Valhalla and all that. Fight, fuck, feel better.” She says with a shrug.
He looks at her with his bloodshot eyes that still, somehow, remind her of Bambi.
She thinks maybe he’s going to cry again. He mulls it over. “D’you really think it could make me feel better?” his voice quivers. He’s not sure anything could make him feel better. She sees his eyes briefly flick down to her lips. MJ wasn’t really thinking she’d volunteer, but, um, okay. “Yeah.” She swallows, “Yeah, I do. Life-affirming. And all.”
Peter nods. He seems to believe her. He shouldn’t, not when she would say anything to try and make him feel a little better. It’s stupid, probably, that she wants to.
“Okay," he says and he closes his eyes and kisses her.
And they kiss again. And again. And somehow she ends up rubbing her hips up against him, pushing him toward the door, breaking off a kiss to say “Through the door. Through the door, dummy,” another kiss, slightly off center, “We can’t-out here-It’s not locked.”
They stumble through the door of their ruined school building and Peter is hard now, aching. It feels like he’s been struck by lighting. Electric. Alive.
He’s running his hands down every part of her body in his reach, there’s a tiny voice in his brain that thinks maybe he’s subconsciously trying to hold her in place, verify that she’s still here in this physical realm.
She’s trailing her fingers around the neck of his t-shirt, pulling it down as she kisses his neck, right below his ear. Through her lips she can feel his pulse, fast, strong, alive.
His fingers brush lightly over where he’s inadvertently rucked up her shirt, making goosebumps erupt over her flesh.
“Can I—“ he starts.
She cuts him off “Yeah, yeah, you can.” And he runs his fingers, then his whole palm, over her stomach, her ribs, her back. His fingers slide under the backband of her bra and she arches into him and moans, a low, keening sound that she didn’t know she had tucked away in her lower brain somewhere.
“Oh god, MJ” he breathes out, “I’m so-”
“What?” she says.
He winces a little bit like it embarrasses him. “Hard. I’m so ha-ohhhh,” he says. MJ’s reaching down between them and she’s running one finger over the outline of his cock through his jeans.
MJ smirks. She’s immensely pleased with the stunned look on Peter’s face and the shallow hitched gasps he’s breathing. She can feel herself soaking through the crotch of her underwear.
She starts to palm at his clothed cock in earnest, exploring. So this is what they call Penis Parker. Peter starts to lose focus, backs himself up against the wall and starts to shift down, pulling MJ with him.
She’s more or less straddling his lap and he slides his hands around to the front of her chest, palms her breasts, pushes up her shirt and bra and stops breathing when he sees her.
“Breathe, Peter, geez,” She says. He surges forward and licks her right nipple. He’s going by instinct, fueled by his own fantasies rather than experience. She feels like there’s a direct line from her nipple to her pussy, sure that she’s never been this wet before. She grinds down onto him as he closes his lips around it and sucks. When he goes to move over to the other side his teeth graze over her nipple and she feels like she needs him inside of her.
She reaches for the button of his pants. Slides down the zipper. Scoots back and pulls his pants and underwear down just far enough that he’s mostly bare-assed on the filthy tile floor and she can get her fingers on his balls. She rubs her middle finger over the seam between them, curious, and he whines, high pitched and needy.
MJ scoots back up close to him and they kiss more and touch more and she starts to rub her still-clothed crotch over his naked boner. They kiss again, sloppy, and he puts his hands under the waistband of her leggings. Her hands join his and they slide her leggings down. He gets distracted seeing her pubic hair, reaches to run his fingers through it. She stretches her leggings to one side and off that leg, hanging from the other.
She rests her hand around Peter’s junk, very conspicuously not touching it. He puts his hand on her vulva, cupping her crotch, and he still can’t believe he’s doing this, can’t believe that she’s here, that they’re both here.
His brain is definitely starting to short out. He can feel her wetness on the pads of his fingers. He thinks he would die all over again just to feel like he does in this moment. He rubs his fingers, all of them together, over her vagina. She shudders as a bolt of pleasure runs down her spine.
“We don’t have to.” he says.
“Of course we don’t have to.” She says, and she looks him in the eyes.
He swallows, “I’ve never-” he says.
“No shit.” She says. She adds, softer: “neither have I. But I want to.” She leans her forehead on his, "Do you?"
"Yeah, yeah, I do," he says and he slides his fingers forward, parting her labia as she wraps her hand around his penis and holds it steady while she lowers herself onto it.
It doesn’t hurt, but it’s weird, MJ thinks. Not bad-weird, but a completely foreign feeling. Being stretched, opened. It’s not good, exactly, but it feels like entering a new plane of existence, something primal, maybe, with Peter slotted exactly into her.
Peter is breathing wildly, trying to keep himself from bucking into her. His hands have found their way back to her hips and he’s flexing his fingers lightly, so lightly, over her, ineffectively searching to release this new, overwhelming feeling flooding through his body.
“M, M,” he says, “Can we, could you-” he says without realizing he’s incoherent.
“Sure, yeah,” MJ says, not quite sure what to expect. Peter rolls them over so he’s on top of her. He lifts his hips and thrusts, keeping his face tucked into MJ’s neck. His pubic bone bumps her clit, and that, she thinks, feels very good. She puts her fingertips on the back of his neck.
“Peter, Peter,” she says, “Look at my face.” He rams into her clit again. She gasps, “This is-.” Feelings are dumb. “I want to see your,” it happens again and her eyes flutter shut for a second “-face.”
He pushes himself up on his arms, kisses her, looks her in the face and thrusts roughly five times before he collapses on her chest, hips stuttering, and pushes his face onto her collarbone.
She rolls her hips against him for a few seconds before she gets it. She can feel his softening cock inside her. She could ask him to get her off, he would do it, she's sure, but she thinks she's had enough for now, feeling a little sore and overstimulated.
She taps his shoulder blade, “You’re squishing me.”
“Oh.” He says and pulls out. That feels weird for both of them. She puts her leggings back on correctly and he pulls up his pants. They both end up sitting shoulder to shoulder against the wall.
“Do you feel better?” She asks.
“Yeah.” he says, “I think I do.” He feels a little more whole. A little more like he can breathe again. “Do you?” he asks.
She inhales deeply. “Yeah. Me too.” She feels a little more tethered to the earth, to this reality, she thinks grounded is maybe a good term for this feeling.
“Good,” he says. There’s a moment of silence. As MJ stands up, she feels his cum ooze out of her. Gross. But maybe a little bit hot. A reminder of what they just did. She’ll clean that up in a minute, google what should be done after forgetting about condoms.
“MJ?” he says.
“What?” She answers.
“You know I love you, right?” He says, searching her eyes.
She thinks about him climbing up the Washington Monument to rescue his classmates, and about him sneaking out the window of a school bus to rescue New York. She snorts. “Yeah, dork. I know.”