Chapter Text
Deep breaths.
Faint police sirens wailing blocks away. The damp smell of her wallpaper-pasted walls.
She’s back in New York City.
Queens, to be exact. In a studio apartment just slightly above her price range that she’d promised to give up her habit of stopping by the 7/11 in Chinatown back in San Francisco and grabbing a bag of hot Cheeto fries on the way home from work. Now, she's back to the drawing board, a future she chose in front of her.
She’s already a new person. In an old city.
All of her boxes are organized, tucked against the back of where she believes the kitchen table should be. She’d spent all of Saturday morning, and a little touch of the afternoon, hauling her dolly through the lobby, up the elevator, and down the hallway. Three doors down, to the right. Just next to the laundry room and the corner apartment.
The place is cozy—reminds her of home. San Francisco, she means. Her home for the past five years now since graduating law school. She graduated there. She spent most of her summers in an internship there. It is her home, just as much as the old, thick bedsheets of her twin bed just a few stops away on the subway is.
Now, this new studio apartment is her home. She likes it. The wide ledge of the window sill is wonderful for a makeshift reading nook. She can already envision the setup that maximizes the most space.
Her phone starts to ring.
“Hello?” she answers.
“Meesh.” Her mother’s soft voice soothes her already. “You settled back in the city okay?”
“Yeah,” MJ says. “Just fine. I think I’ll sleep on my futon for tonight. I’m too lazy to set up the bed.”
“Do you need help, baby?” June asks. “You know you and Dad are clo—”
“No.” MJ shifts her weight onto her left leg, arms crossed. Her scoliosis won’t get any better with her current posture. “It’s okay. I just need a nap actually. I’ll unpack more boxes. And my bed, Mom. But please, let me get settled in first, and then host a dinner.”
She’s an adult now. She can make this decision. Call the shots of her own home. Make sure it’s neat and tidy before her family comes by and silently judges it as any family would.
“Okay, sure.”
MJ’s chest loosens. She lets out a breath. “Love you, Mom. Thanks for calling.”
“Love you, too.”
She hangs up the phone and aggressively stares at the pile of cheap metal frames that make up her bed. She can work through it.
And she does, three hours later. There are still a few boxes scattered, most of them full of little trinkets that belong on unbuilt shelves. MJ had only given herself the energy to set up her bed and drawers, throw her best comforts on and fold a few essential clothes.
It’s a step, and tomorrow’s Sunday. Her body’s soreness begins to creep faster and heavier. She plops on top of her bed, looking outside of the window as the moon greets her back. Welcome home, it says—she can feel it.
MJ pulls her phone from beneath her, unlocking it to catch up on scrolling through social media. It’s a habit she still can’t shake off, too nosy to even try to deactivate Instagram once in a while. She double taps Cindy’s selfie from her drip down to Malibu, the same trip they go on every year together except now MJ’s across the country. Starting fresh at a new job.
Back in New York City.
She opens her app to a few notifications from what she presumes are replies to her story of the small but bright view from her window and a mug of tea accompanying the sill.
Her eyes widen at the first person to respond. Viraj, from her American Capitalism Theory course fall of junior year. Back in ESU. Back when she’d just broken up with Peter. God, it’s been years.
Viraj: You’re back in the city? Would love to see you! Are you free for a welcome back wine?
Though it’s grown-up, innocent message, she knows tonight can lead to something. She’d never gone beneath the surface with Viraj. It’d been strictly physical, especially after breaking up with Peter for the first time. Then, again, after breaking up with Peter for the second time—senior year, spring semester.
The phone’s bright, blue glowing screen stares back at her, waiting for a decision. She can ignore it. She needs rest, reminding herself again how tense her calves feel from lugging boxes back and forth. Then again, she doesn’t mind getting welcomed back, either.
MJ shrugs.
She replies to his message.
--
MJ loves a hot, steaming shower. Especially after a long one full of wooden box splinters and dusty floors. Especially one when you’re anticipating someone to come over with a bottle of Dom Perignon to welcome her back in town. She forgets how grown up everyone is at 26, how everyone has their jobs and set paths to life. Everyone appears put together. Viraj is bringing an expensive bottle of wine. She has a job at a top immigration law firm. She’s back home, close to her family. Settling down.
Which is why she invited Viraj over.
She doesn’t want to get serious with him. They never have. It’s been mutual. It’s been the best sex he’s ever had—he’s admitted quite a few times. The few times she’d been back during winter break or internship-less summers, he’d always wanted to see her again. She’d said no. She said she’s busy. The reality had been far from that. The reality had been her missing Peter.
There’s a knock on the door. Her luck is by her side, too reluctant to confront the wave of feelings that almost eclipsed her entire night. When she opens the door, she smiles. She pulls at the side of her flowing dress out. It’s September. The perfect time to be in the city. The essence of summer is slipping away slowly, but still there.
He holds out the wine and a bag of groceries.
“I figured we’d eat some cheese and crackers with it?” he grins. He looks the same, stubble peppering his jaw. I grin back. Cool as a cucumber. Cool as a 26-year-old with a sudden urge to have a one-night stand can be.
“Come in,” she says, holding out her arm for Viraj to follow her instructions.
“Do you have a charcuterie board?” Viraj asks. He pronounces the words correctly in French. She can almost feel butterflies dancing across her inner thighs. He has not lost his charm. She’s distracted by it.
So distracted that—a bottle of Dom and an empty paddleboard once dressed with assorted meats and cheeses later—MJ finds herself straddling Viraj, her legs around him as she grinds down against his body. They’re on her futon even though she’d spent a good amount of time building her bed for this very reason. She’s not ready for the bed yet.
She is aroused though, a tingle of sensation transforming into a pleasurable force traveling across her skin. She puts on a show for Viraj. Her dress is off, but her bralette is still waiting to fall against her mattress.
“Wow,” he sighs dreamily.
“What?” she raises her eyebrow, panting.
“You look great,” he says. “I’m glad we were on the same page about tonight.”
“Right,” MJ agrees, still working against him. He bucks up and she keens forward.
Fuck it. She ushers him to the bed. She even throws the sheets over for Viraj to laid down on. For her to mimic the same position and grind down against him once again. They began to fall into it naturally, MJ sighing, her hands now balancing against her metal headboard rail.
Then, a loud crash against her wall. The pots hanging from the kitchen wall shake. A beat. Then more stumbling, like someone had fallen and couldn’t get up.
Viraj suggests, “Should we check that out?”
MJ sighs. Of course she has the loudest neighbor who lives in the corner apartment. But right now, she’s dripping at her center from having worked herself up so much that she chooses to ignore it. She dips down and kisses Viraj, hopefully solidifying her answer.
She tosses a condom from the box she’d tossed on her nightstand as a precaution over to Viraj, and they gently switch positions. As MJ gets ready to turn around and go on all fours—her favorite one night stand position—he presses his hand against her bare ass to stop her.
Both of them jump at the third gentle thud through the wall.
Viraj asks, “Can I go down on you?”
Her eyes glow with pleasure. Hell yeah you can.
Her hands are twisting the sheets. Viraj is great with his mouth. He always has been. She can feel the pit of her stomach coiling, chasing her climax slowly then all at once. Just as she finds herself balancing over the edge, closing to pushing herself over, she hears a moan.
Not from Viraj. Certainly not from herself. MJ would have noticed that.
Viraj is too busy buried beneath her sheets to notice, and continues his work. Her legs writhe against his touch, but she can’t help but listen in on the noise from across the wall. She shuts her eyes, both from the pleasure of Viraj’s mouth and the gratuitous groaning from her next door neighbor and their guest.
She’d been trying to withhold her own moans as a courtesy, but her neighbor seems like they won’t mind considering they’re basically bunnies creaking and thudding against the wall.
Her thighs start squeezing together with Viraj’s head placed in between. His hands grip her thighs, pushing them in more. She gasps at his control. She gasps at the way the entire apartment is shaking from her neighbors' escapades. She hears grunting, accompanied by whimpers. MJ can’t comprehend what her ears are hearing. She feels wrong.
Yet, Viraj is focused on pleasing her, so she simply can’t let him stop. Especially if she wants to keep going. To combat the sound of her two neighbors secretly arousing her, she decides to put herself more into the moment. To continue the show she’d planned in her head for Viraj. It’s going accordingly, so as a way to establish her presence in the hallway, she increases the volume of her moans.
It’s only right, since that’s what her neighbor is welcoming her with.
Plus, the reaction gets Viraj moving, bringing MJ exactly where she needs to be.
Joining in on the sexual conversation through muffled exhalations across a poorly constructed thin wall backfires. Why did MJ even think it would be a good idea?
Because now, as wrong as it feels, MJ’s eyes are shut and she’s following the rhythm of the mysterious couple next door. She hears them, loud and clear, and she ruts against Viraj’s mouth, wanting to come to the harmonious sounds of pleasure echoing from one apartment to another. It’s too much, so much that the couple feels like they’re right next to her, but that doesn’t stop MJ. She keeps going, hoping that maybe if she reaches her goal fast enough, the moment will disappear and she can bottle it up as a one time situation.
God, she’s so horny for planning.
As she finishes, Viraj plops his face against her chest. He starts kissing her breasts. She feels him against her bare thigh. She smirks at him, and he hovers over her, finally placing on the condom. They shift positions and, as he pushes in, as that couple falls back to silence, MJ falls back into her mattress, back into the pleasure she’d been looking for.
--
7:15am is the second time MJ wakes up on Sunday.
The first was at 3:45am when Viraj poked her shoulder and said goodbye. He didn’t kiss her, which is good.
Her head is pounding from a killer wine hangover, and the senseless little act she’d done last night. Listening to her neighbors like that. Carelessly. She shivers at how embarrassed she is. She promised herself to avoid eavesdropping as much as possible. Maybe she can do laundry, or go out when she starts hearing the noise again. Not stupidly join them. Not come as they come. But, of course—with the very same luck that had graced MJ with this loud neighbor—her first test already comes into fruition. Because her neighbors are fucking. Again. On the Lord’s day! She can’t believe this.
MJ almost hops out of her bed, the blankets falling to the floor. She slides across the wood and lands by the boxes pressed against her kitchen wall. After rummaging through various memories and realizing how unorganized she’d packed her boxes at her apartment in California, she finally finds them.
Noise-canceling headphones. Perfect. This will work. This will distract her.
After a few seconds, MJ connects them through Bluetooth on her phone. She opens her music app and selects the most beautiful ballad of all time. She takes a deep breath, grateful she’d been quick on her toes in finding a solution to the mess she’d sign the lease on for at least one full year.
IS THIS THE REAAAAAL LIFE
The quick beat of silence in the song allows MJ to hear another thud to the wall. She cranks up the volume.
OR IS THIS JUST FANTASY?
She runs away from the wall facing the foot of her bed. As far as possible from the neighbor.
CAUGHT IN A LANDSLIIIIIDE
MJ leans against the kitchen wall. Relief lifts her shoulders lighter as she sticks her back against the wall, feeling the laundry machines kick and spin, adding more noise to distract her. She hums along to the lyrics.
NO ESCAPE FROM REALITY
A decision kicks her up on her feet, pacing the room to keep her heart rate up and beating heavily inside her own ears.
Two minutes into the song MJ realizes how dramatic she’s being.
She just needs to suck it up. Be an adult.
You’re 26, Jones. MJ scrunches her face, pulling her headphones out as she gets ready to do the scariest thing anyone can do at the tender age of 26: confront her rude neighbors.
Yet, as she strides across the room, a sudden rush of confidence pushes her to cut this out once in for all. She swings her door open, and heads right to the door inches to the right of her apartment. Her hand hovers over, balled in a fist, ready to knock when she hears something that makes her stop.
“Oh, Peter!”
She does not need this right now. She does not need him.
Peter.
Anger boils through her more than it had when the couple had just been a stranger. Now it’s a potential ex-boyfriend. Potentially Peter.
The Peter next door also… doesn’t have to be the Peter she thinks it is. There are hundreds and thousands of Peters that exist in the world, let alone New York City. It can’t be. It isn’t.
It is not because if it is, she can’t stand him. She can’t stand the way he’d easily agreed to end the relationship the first time and the second. She can’t stand how easily he’d moved on from her, never mind how stupidly she’d hurt him two weeks after their first break up. They were mean to each other. They were not ready for each other, not ready to be older, maybe not ready ever.
This has always made MJ angry at Peter.
He didn’t try. Then, he did. With someone else.
It’s a shitty feeling. One that now feels heavier knowing that he could be the annoying neighbor, too inconsiderate of the thin ass walls of this outdated apartment building.
No, she thinks to herself. Please, no.
Too distracted with her spiral of thoughts, she only realizes the couple had finished their morning session by the sound of the rattling doorknob from the other side. She leaps two steps over, grateful for her long legs, and tucks back into her apartment.
She leaves the door creaked open, just observing.
A woman with blonde, almost metallic hair, strides out without kissing the other person goodbye, who’s walking down a few steps while waving dumbly. MJ scoffs, but the mockery leaves her when the other person finally turns around, and she’s never been so disappointed for being right because just there, a few mere feet away—residing as her next door neighbor who’s pretty damn good as sex—is Peter Parker.
--
MJ does the most sensible thing anyone does when they're faced in a less than comfortable sexual situation with their ex: complain to their best friend.
So, naturally, MJ has her hand tucked beneath her chin, elbow propped on her now built table, video call open with Cindy. Cindy had been her roommate throughout all of law school, both of them bonding from growing up in New York, despite Cindy having left earlier for undergrad. She’s her best friend now, even if they’re thousands of miles away now.
“So this is the guy that—”
“—that I was in love with all throughout high school and college and never really figured out if I even lost feelings for him anyway because I was too pissed off at him for breaking my heart?” MJ vents, pouring out all of her feelings on a silver platter.
“Oof.” Cindy says, literally sipping a mug of tea. “And he’s your next door neighbor? Who has loud sex?”
“Yep.”
“Did you guys have crazy sex when you were together?”
“Cindy!”
“What? I just want to get more details of your history.”
“I mean… It was fine. We were each other’s firsts. We didn’t know what we were doing, and we didn’t even have sex until college because our family was always home.”
“Oh,” Cindy says. “Did you like it?”
“Of course I did, Cindy. But did I ever elicit those types of noises inconsiderately to my next door college neighbors? No!”
All Cindy does is cackle. MJ can’t help but laugh back at her—what a crazy situation this entire thing is: living next to Peter, the boy who used to live deep in her dreams, the boy who is now a little cocky in the way he moves. He’s so cocky that MJ almost wants to just… get back at him. To be better than him, she has something to prove despite the fact that he has no idea who lies right across the wall of his apartment.
“I still can’t believe you had sex while another couple was having sex and you kept going. That’s pretty spicy, MJ.” Her face is full of heat. She blames it on the open window and the rays of sunshine hitting her exposed back. She doesn’t say anything. “We’re in our late 20’s now, Em. People have to find some kind of way to not make their life all about work. Some people do that with sex. And you were hooking up with someone, too, you know!”
“I was being courteous,” she says. “Up until the end. Then, somehow the other couple got louder.”
“Interesting,” Cindy thinks, then snorts. “It’d be really funny if you guys just kept getting louder and louder to see who’s the best.”
MJ’s eyes light up. She hasn’t heard of a silly idea in so long—long enough that it sounds like a good idea. Long enough that she wants to try it. For science!
“MJ…” Cindy says, reading her mind.
“I mean—”
“—No.”
“Cindy.” MJ pushes. “You said it yourself. Your late 20’s have to have some kind of spice. Peter doesn’t even know that it’s me anyway. What can go wrong?”
“That he sees you in the hallway in a few weeks. You can’t avoid running into him. It’s not like he’s never home.”
He rarely is, knowing his responsibilities.
“Okay, you sound psychotic right now. I’m sorry,” Cindy offers. MJ rolls her eyes.
“I’ve never done anything stupid in my entire life. I have always been three steps ahead. What if I want to do something stupid before I turn 30?”
Cindy looks down, probably picking at her nails because that’s what she does when she has nothing to say—when she knows MJ has a good point (which she does, often).
“Well, you know how I feel about it, but I can’t stop you,” Cindy smiles, and MJ knows it’s genuine but cautious.
“Thanks, Cind.”
“Wait.” MJ looks up at Cindy, who’s squinting as she pulls out a memory deep from the past. “Peter is the one that started dating someone two weeks after you broke up?”
She swallows. “Um—yeah. Yeah, kind of.”
Not really. The thing about having a past when you meet someone new is that you have the freedom to omit the details you don’t want to share. It’s not exactly lying. It’s being guarded, a trait that falls at the center of MJ’s personality, a trait that she holds to her heart. MJ’s never been good at getting close to people. She tries, and sometimes she succeeds.
What she’s being guarded about exactly is a memory she can no longer forget about now that it’s relevant, raw and in the open, staring at her to confront it because who she hurt is next door.
Three days after MJ broke up with Peter, she had a one night stand. They didn’t move past oral, but MJ knew it hurt Peter all the same when he found out. MJ told him. She couldn’t lie. She never does, even if it hurts people. Even if it hurt Peter.
“Listen, I’m not exactly—” MJ begins to back out, only for Cindy to interrupt her with a surprising response.
“Actually, this is a good idea.”
“What?” MJ asks.
“Like you said: you’ve never done anything risky. Maybe this is like an obstacle you have to overcome to unlock this new era in your life. You’re on vacation. Live it up. Have some revenge sex.”
Of all advice Cindy’s ever given MJ, this sure one is pretty… bad. But why does MJ want to do it? Why does she want to potentially trap herself in a web of complications? Why can’t she just mind her own business and stay away from the person she’s never stopped holding an, albeit unfair, grudge against?
“You’re right,” MJ says. She could kick herself right now. Then again, she already knows who she can message that fits under the category of revenge sex. MJ hears a knock on the door inside their old apartment. Cindy turns around to the front door. The person outside is probably delivering her dinner because it’s Sunday, and Cindy never cooks dinner on Sundays.
MJ’s right, and they say their goodbyes. After she’s off the phone, she shuts her laptop, tossing it softly against her mattress. She paces in the little area of the apartment that the ad called the living room. Her studio isn’t ideal, but she’ll get there.
She has to, so she can run away from Peter Parker after outdoing him.
She knows she’s being petty—she knows she’s reenacting the behavior of a college student, of someone who’d just freshly turned 21, someone who had her entire life planned out in her fingertips.
In her honest opinion, MJ is still that same person.
But right now? In her little summer break—one month—before she starts her new job, she’s determined to have fun. To be a little reckless because what if it’s the last time before she has to take life more seriously than she had before?
Her lips smack.
A decision had already been made longer before her phone call with Cindy ended.
She’s going to get her revenge.
--
MJ invites Harry Osborn over the following Friday night.
Staring at the glossed rim of her tea mug, she makes a mental note to reapply before he shows up at her door. The gloss adds a nice touch, an edge to her look that she knows will make him tick, and holy shit—she invited Harry Osborn over.
Peter lives next door.
Why did she talk herself into thinking this was a good idea? She should cancel. She can cancel right now, and have a peaceful night full of smart decisions that someone at the tender age of 26 would make. Yet…
There’s a knock on the door.
He’s early.
He always is.
Harry understands what to do, what to say, and where to be. He’s a perfect boyfriend. He just wasn’t...isn’t… MJ’s future. Right now, she’s choosing to live in the present, not planning ahead. She’d been transparent with her motives, so he must understand what will happen tonight.
MJ omitted the Peter being next door part of the story.
She swings the door open, Harry’s calculated smile still tugging on her just like a memory tucked away in a shoebox. The circle around his eyes is darker. His father passed away just a year and a half ago, the news became international because Oscorp had just opened a new branch in Silicon Valley.
Business stalled after that until Harry took over and swore to throw away the schemes his father built from the underground.
At least that’s what the New York Times posted.
“Hey,” he says. No bottle of wine, just both of his hands tucked into his coat. The lack of Dom Perignon reminds MJ that she hasn’t eaten dinner. She’s been too ramped up on figuring out the perfect responses to Harry, then planning out her night, that she’d cut food out.
“Shit,” she says aloud.
Harry turns behind him looking around the hallway.
“Sorry,” MJ stammers. “I didn’t mean shit at you . I just forgot to order dinner.”
“We can order together,” he says, walking in after MJ waves her arm out to lead him. She closes the door behind her, locking it. “On me. Welcome back to Queens, Jones.”
She rolls her eyes. It’s so like him to do this. To just waltz right in with such charm that he’s too aware of having. Yet, that very exact detail of his persona is what will make this fun because MJ’s not looking serious, she’s not looking for someone to pay for dinners or whatever young white dudes who inherit the business do. That’s not what she wants in love, nor is she searching for it.
What MJ wants is to get railed, and tonight will be the night—the first with Harry, the second of her fun. They’re both sitting at the kitchen table as he calls out to a Thai restaurant, MJ pulls out her phone and schedules an appointment with her gynecologist two weeks from now. Safety first, always.
“Okay!” Harry says. “They said 30 minutes, but they always make it in 20.”
Her stomach is clawing her insides. She takes a sip of her now very cold green tea. She winces.
“Um—so, did you want to watch a movie?” She motions her thumb to point toward her living room. She hasn’t bought a rug—they’re so expensive—and none of her decorations are on the walls yet, but her TV stand is sturdy and the wifi is set up. “Something depressing, or—”
“—horror?” Harry grins.
“Maybe comedy?”
He shrugs, walking up from the table and plopping on the couch shortly after. “Up to you.”
To no one’s surprise, what they choose doesn’t matter because Harry’s tongue is trailing down MJ’s almost naked body. The pleasure rides across her skin, gentle and simple, but consistent the moment his mouth reaches between her legs.
Next door has been quiet all night. Friday night is a big crime night, which is one out of the many facts that have never left her brain since breaking up with Peter. She still thinks about him all the time: how his ears turned red when she teased him, Aunt May’s favorite baked good to make for Peter for his birthday, his birthday—even if she hasn’t greeted him in years.
She scoffs. She doesn’t need to feel like this right now.
Her hands dig deep into Harry’s luscious, jet black hair. Harry, who’s been at work since they made their way to her bed, above her sheets. MJ only now wonders how long she’d been thinking of Peter because, distracted enough, she’s coming already.
Her orgasm is nice.
They freshen up and open a bottle of Merlot that Harry ordered from some kind of app he’s testing for his buddies in the Bay Area. Their glasses clink, and MJ chugs the wine down as an extra coat of both bravery and energy to keep the night up. She’ll want to stay on good terms with Harry.
Another consistent booty call who doesn’t want anything more than what she wants as well? Ideal. Her guilt from thinking this way? Very much not ideal.
Her fingers balance the glass in her hand before she leans against the brick of their building, both she and Harry tucked outside the fire escape, both of them having squeezed outside of the little window. It’s insufficient architecture, and MJ hopes she’s never inside if the place catches on fire.
But the fire escape itself is wide. Spacious to run, she guesses. Or spacious enough that Harry grabs her glass and tucks it with his on the wide window sill. He starts kissing her again, unexpectedly but MJ isn’t opposed. She sinks into it, letting the glass of wine stir in her tummy as she throws her arms around his neck, still in a criss-crossed position as Harry shimmies his entire body to the opposite end, maximizing their space as he hovers over her, lips now traveling to her neck.
“Wow,” she whispers, “again?”
“Why not?” he asks deviously. Goosebumps appear across her skin.
“Okay,” she says. As she’s about to suggest going back inside, Harry’s hands grip her thighs and she succumbs to his guidance, pushing herself up for her arms to lean against the railing of the fire escape for support. He starts playing with her against her panties, mouth aimed at her collarbones.
“Fuck, Harry—right there.”
He’s on his knees, landscaping her body with his mouth as she pushes herself up higher and higher, her back arching outwardly enough that she’s nearly leaning over the rail—Harry going lower, and lower until—
Thwip.
“Fuck,” she says, Harry all the way down, tucked under her dress, mouth hot against her center.
“You like that?” he asks in between her legs. She presses her hand down his head, positioning him in a way that takes time to untangle from.
Her eyes widen at the lenses of one very, wide eyed Spider-Man, now sticking right against the wall. He’s upside down, but that’s because her entire, long ass body is arching out of the railing.
She almost screams, then stifles it quickly as Peter holds out one finger to his masked mouth, hushing her. MJ begins to moan, masking out the rush of adrenaline that comes from being caught having sex on her fire escape by her damn ex—as if she didn’t 100% know this was a strong possibility late night on a Friday after a patrol. As if that hadn’t partially been her intention.
The moment she meets face to face with the mesh of blue and red, her heart tenses. The very reason she’d broken things off with Peter is right in front of her face. Spider-Man. The responsibility. The injuries.
She hates him, she hates him, she hates him.
At least she didn’t have to look directly into Peter Parker’s damn eyes.
MJ shuts her eyes for a beat, and opens them again hoping she’d been dreaming.
She’s not.
She wonders how much of that Peter heard or saw.
Once she closes her eyes again, she feels nothing but foolish—no triumphant revenge win at all. When she opens them, he’s gone, and the lights to his apartment are already off. She taps Harry’s head to stop him, and he listens.
“I’m tired,” she says. Harry nods, and pats himself before heading through the window again.
They say goodbye. He asks to do it again sometime.
“Maybe,” MJ offers, gently closing the door. Her nerves are still embarrassingly shot up. She wants to kill the entirety of this Merlot, but she decides not to make two bad decisions in one night.
She lies in bed that night tucked in and freshly cleaned, but trapped with thoughts that not even an incredibly heated shower can wash away easily. Her adrenaline is still high, but not in a good or bad way. In a way where she understands that her decision was fucked up, but there is nothing else that can do about it now. Peter wouldn’t even accept her apology.
Yet, just a few feet away—on the other side of the wall—Peter Parker’s back is pressed, sitting on the floor of his dim apartment because he’d missed the electricity bill five days ago.
Speechless.
--
What the fuck?
Did Peter just see what he saw with his own two eyes and own two lenses?
His ex-girlfriend and the look in her eye—both the panic and pleasure—as they locked gazes, as if she's getting head from someone else? Someone that looked like…
Maybe it’s better Peter doesn’t confirm the identity of the man between Michelle’s legs.
Maybe he’s just lying to himself because he knows who it is.
Had he been the same person the night before? Peter had been distracted during his hookup—the strength of his powers refusing to blur out the noises elicited through the nearly paper thin walls of his apartment building. At least it’s better than the old man upstairs lifting weights grunting ferociously for no reason.
Finally, he finds the energy to push himself off the ground, still battered and bruised from his fight with Scorpion. He’d been so distracted at the sight of Michelle, the gash right below his ribs has weakened. With one press of the emblem on Peter’s chest, the suit slips down his body. Before he sits on the couch or bed, he knows he has to get into the shower. Another depressing session standing as the poor water pressure trickles down on his back.
(He’d missed the water bill, too).
The universe is out to get him in the name of Parker Luck—something he’d coined years and years ago, even before Spider-Man happened. And even after the bite, despite 15-year-old Peter thinking this would change his social life, too.
At least there had always been one person who saw him.
He shakes his head. Cut it out, man.
Then, just as Peter’s about to step down the hallway and into his sad man’s shower, he hears her again. Michelle.
Don’t listen to it, Peter.
Peter tries to tune it out, but the way her breath inhales sharply, the way she whimpers—it’s hard to let go of the noise when it’s so easily engraved in his head. The familiarity of her voice, the same one he’d been so lucky to be the first one to hear, the same one he’d spent years trying to forget.
He slides across his wooden floor, escaping to his bathroom, locking the door shut behind him as if he’s hiding from something other than his own feelings that followed him to the same room.
Of all the people that could be a few feet away from him, it’s Michelle. It’s always been Michelle. It’s the fabric of the universe that ties her back to Peter.
That angers him.
Confuses him.
He drops his boxers, not even waiting for the water to heat up even a little bit before going inside. The lower water pressure is making him impatient, and the icy feeling digging on his back, and the sound of Michelle echoing in his brain. Her voice can never leave Peter’s memories, and although he’s doing his best to fight his invasive powers in the present time, doesn’t mean he can’t stop thinking about every other time he’s actually heard her in the past.
Only until his hand wraps around his erection does Peter realize how hard he is.
Fuck. How does Michelle have the capability to do this to him still? Years later, and his jaw is clenched—frustrated at his ex-girlfriend for reasons he knows he should forget by now. His hands are now pumping up and down himself, imagining the pent up tension that’s built from the distance between them and now, the proximity.
They had been so young—foolish, even—to latch onto each other without growing first. It was for growth, they both agreed, and yet, just a few days later…
His wrists start clicking rapidly, the coil in his stomach feeling tighter as he leans his free hand on the wet wall of the shower, feeling heat in the chilly waterfall crashing against him.
How dare she come back into his mind?
How dare she remind Peter that she’d never left it in the first place?
“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes squeezing shut, stroking himself just enough to bring to the edge, suddenly slowing his pace and biting his lips. The tight feeling in his chest starts to dissolve as anger turns into pleasure, focusing on the thrust of his hips as he pumps himself. He needs this, this release. It’d been a long day, and to come home finding out that the person he’d heard last night moaning in complete ecstasy was Michelle Jones.
Peter starts coming, tipping over the edge as he spills onto his fingers.
He blinks as the shower continues to pour down on him before remembering how behind he is on his payments to the landlord. After actually scrubbing away the filth from his patrol damage, he finally shuts the water off, sneaking out of his own bathroom as if he shouldn’t be in his own home.
So he dresses up in his cleanest clothes and leaves his apartment, walking away from the past that has come back to confuse him, searching for clarity.
--
“Dude, what? ” Ned asks, mouth agape. Peter nods, while grabbing his cup of coffee and sipping it—this brew is much better than the reused grinds he has in his kitchen. They’re sitting at their favorite café, a half eaten muffin sitting in front of Peter.
He’s officially lost his appetite for bringing up the entire recount of what he’s experienced in the past half a month.
“Yup,” he sighs. “I haven’t heard anything since… last weekend, but…”
He’d spilled everything to Ned—sans the explicit detail (especially the one of Peter masturbating desperately in the shower)—hoping to find somewhat of an answer from his best friend.
“I can’t believe MJ’s back!” he says, grinning. Peter pouts at him. “Hey, man. We were friends before she left for the West Coast.”
“I know,” Peter says. “It’s just—”
“I know,” Ned interrupts, smiling gently. “But, hey, you two were young when you got together, and still young when you broke up. People make mistakes. People grow. Maybe MJ has grown.”
Peter shrugs, the shocking image of Michelle still engraved. “The walls are so thin. And the first time, it’s almost as if…”
Click.
“No,” Peter shakes his head. “No, she didn’t.” He chuckles. “I bet she wants me to hear.”
Ned blinks. “What?”
“She totally knows. She’s just being so— wow. Of course,” he starts muttering senselessly to the point where Ned looks bewildered. “Don’t you see?”
“I’m completely lost,” Ned says.
“Ned, MJ— Michelle—she’s… she somehow knew I’d been on the other side already. She’s doing this on purpose ,” Peter explains. “She must have seen me crawling through the window or something before. She’s observant, you know. Then she hooks up with this person, and me and Felicia were already—but it was quiet until Felicia—and—”
“Peter, please breathe,” Ned says, eyebrows raised in concern.
Inhale, exhale.
Then again.
“You’re seriously not making any sense,” Ned says. “How would she have seen you?”
“I’m kind of an idiot with hiding,” Peter responds. Ned nods, accepting his answer. “I just get her, Ned. I just know she would do this, like when we broke up and we just started… trying to out-date each other. Especially after Harry.”
Ned frowns. “You just have to take the higher ground, Peter, even if you’re certain she’s doing this on purpose. You’re better than this. We’re on the express train to move-on-ville. We arrived at the destination years ago!”
“I appreciate you using ‘we’ in this,” Peter says. “But you’re right. I have to show her I’m better.”
“Wait,” Ned says. A beat. “Peter, no—”
“Thanks for the advice, Ned!” Peter says, lifting up from his seat, ready to get a refill of his coffee. “You’re the best.”
He ignores the sound of Ned groaning as he walks away.
--
“I don’t have much luck in getting close to people. So I lied,” MJ says, her eyes glowing as the sunlight shines against her. She’s glistening, even in the destruction surrounding them. “I didn’t watch you just because I thought you were Spider-Man.”
Peter wakes up from the same dream he did yesterday and the day before. Now, halfway through the workweek, he fights the urge to keep the dream going—waking up when the good memories start to fade away as if his body knows when his mind is ready to forget.
He forces himself in early morning patrol before heading over to the Bugle building—debating whether or not to snap fresh photos of himself for Jameson, or just sulking on the corner of the top of his favorite building in the city.
The latter wins.
Yet, as he sneaks out the window with just a sliver of sunshine seeping through the sky, he feels the fresh breeze welcome him before fully pulling his mask on. Soaring through the sky calms him—almost reminds him of why he’s doing a patrol in the first place.
“Karen,” Peter says. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Peter. Early start today.”
“Yeah. Can you scan the radio and see if there’s any kind of suspicious activity going on? I’m feeling… lucky.”
“Sure, Peter.”
The mornings start to blend with the nights for the rest of the week, and before Peter knows it, he’s finishing up a slow night in the city, expecting to meet up with Felicia back at his place, and proving MJ wrong. About what, he doesn’t know. All he knows is he has to win whatever game it is she’s playing.
--
MJ paces around her little living room, hands pulled behind her back for good posture, mind deep in thought. Should she invite Harry over again?
No, that’s too fucked up.
Shut up, Jones, that was your intention from the beginning.
I changed my mind.
“God, I’m not okay,” she whispers to herself. Her phone buzzes just as her kettle begins whistling. Knowing how loud noise travels easily through the air here, she wonders what else Peter can hear from her side. The other apartment is quiet. She stares at the clock and knows for a fact he’s still out swinging wherever the hell he goes these days.
Then, her phone buzzes again.
As MJ makes her way to the kitchen, she pulls her phone out to read her new messages. Her eyes light up. The universe has made the decision of inviting Harry or not.
Viraj: Are you free tonight after dinner?
She snorts. Not subtle at all, Viraj.
Viraj: I’ll bring Dom Perignon again.
But very… attractively forward.
After turning off the stove, MJ writes up a quick response and presses send. Grabbing her favorite mug, she pours hot water, steeping chamomile tea in it. She lets it settle, lets it cool down a little because of its temper.
She purses her lips together, Cindy’s real advice ringing through her head, floating like its own conscience making her confront her own morals. She shouldn’t push whatever she was going to do with Peter anymore. MJ needs to be civil, and most importantly, mind her own business.
Getting older isn’t a choice, but choosing what stress your wrinkles come from—for the most part—is. She decides: no more Petty MJ. Her motive is now to have the best month vacation in her life before becoming a cog in the machine.
Finally, she grabs her mug, the warmth traveling to her hands hugging her comfortably, relaxing her before she has to get ready for her dick appointment with Viraj. Luckily, life as a temporarily unemployed woman is luxurious, and Peter isn’t home, making absurd amounts of noise. Two weeks into being his neighbor, and she knows when he comes home from patrol—if he comes home more hurt than the night before, or if he doesn’t even come home at all.
The linger smell of camomile slips through her nose. She’d bought it yesterday even though she hadn’t had it in literal years, since before moving to California. Now she remembers why she’d been so compelled. Her thumb massages the rim of the mug.
“You drink tea a lot, don’t you?” Peter asked in the cafeteria. Ned had been absent that day—a doctor’s appointment—and it was the first day that MJ ever had to carry a conversation with Peter by herself, freshman year.
“Yeah,” she said as she tilted her mug as a toast to him.
“I think coffee is really bad for me, and I think tea would be better. I have a hard time sleeping. What do you recommend?” Peter leaned forward, pushing his glasses upward.
“I recommend not drinking coffee,” MJ said in a deadpan voice that made Peter chuckle. “And camomile. It helps you relax.”
“Cool.” Peter said, scrunching back down in his chair. “Thanks, Michelle.”
MJ sets her tea down, losing her appetite, filling her stomach with a coil of frustration she knows will get her nowhere.
She reminds herself, Be mature. No more getting even. You’re the one that started it, Jones.
Let it be known that at precisely 5:30pm, Michelle Jones had full intentions to do a 180 and forget her revenge plan even started.
Let it be known that at precisely 10:28pm, Michelle Jones changes her mind.
--
The second Peter swings the door open, Felicia wraps her arms around his neck, their mouths finding each other quickly. He’d already been undressed, just standing around the house in his boxer briefs. This is clockwork. This is routine.
This is as it has been since Felicia found out Peter worked at the Bugle, just like her. She’d been up for a promotion for project coordinator for superhero events the same night Spider-Man stopped her from robbing a department store. She’d worn Chanel No. 5. They’d both found out about each others’ identities that night.
Yet, that hasn’t stopped them.
Cat and spider in the streets, and whatever the hell Felicia’s doing with her mouth to make him groan before even closing the front door in the sheets. Her deep kiss reminds him what his motive is tonight, his hands gripping her thighs and pulling her up around his waist.
She giggles. “You’re excited.”
“Been a long week,” he says, mouth peppering kisses against her collarbones, her skin sticky from the humidity of the summer air. “Can I rip off your clothes?”
“What?” She laughs as she grinds down against him, Peter doing his best to keep balance as he walks backward and to the edge of his full bed.
“I don’t know,” he says. She raises her eyebrow, still swaying her hips against his crotch as he lies half of his body down on the bed, his feet still touching the floor. “Just thought it’d be exciting. Are these expensive?”
He slips one finger beneath the strap of her black, lace bralette.
“Yes,” she says. “But I didn’t pay for it.”
He shakes his head. “Fel.”
“Please, it’s not that bad,” she pants, and her grinding becomes deeper, more desperate against him. “You can rip them off, if you want. Then you can punish me for stealing it.”
His face heats up, always surprised at her quips toward him, at her flirtation, at her demands. He’s learned a lot from Felicia. He nods, hands finding her breasts, squeezing them gently before doing as she says.
The noise is somewhat loud, and he may or may not have intentionally tossed it hard against the wall next to Michelle.
“You’re tense, Spidey,” Felicia says, pouting. “Can I help?”
“Fuck,” he lets out, Felicia only waiting a second and a half before lifting herself off of him and getting on her knees. She pulls his thighs out more, positioning him wherever he needs to be for her. As soon as she palms his erection, Peter completely loses it, letting go of the stressful week and even forgetting about the intense need to prove himself.
--
Three quarters of the Dom is gone. MJ’s smiling so intensely at Viraj, her cheeks are burning and she’s surprised he hasn’t run away from the wide and vague look in her eye. There’s a reason why he came anyway—why he will come—and why MJ said yes.
She’d given him a head’s up week’s ago that she was interested in seeing him again, hooking up again. And this time, Peter doesn’t seem to be getting home anytime soon. There is absolutely nothing to distract her.
Viraj and MJ clink their glasses, and MJ downs the rest of her second glass. He laughs at her fondly, but one thing Viraj doesn’t know is how incredibly paranoid she is about being too loud this time around. Maturity is hard—especially when someone is inconsiderate as Peter Parker lives next door, crawling into the window or tumbling inside in the wake of the night. This can’t happen when she starts work. Not at all.
“How are you feeling?” Viraj asks, setting down his now empty glass. He’s grinning, too. She can tell he’s nervous, but she doesn’t act on it. His nerves are endearing. His nerves make her nerves look confident on center stage.
“Very… very…”
Drunk.
“Horny,” she spits out.
Viraj snorts. “You’re very honest.”
“You know I never lie, Viraj,” she shrugs, watching him pour the last bits of the Perignon split evenly between the two of them. He pushes her glass forward a few inches. “Cheers.”
Finally, the wine is finished, surfing through MJ’s system so quickly that her head feels a little light, but her confidence has shot through the ceiling and into the upstairs neighbor’s apartment. He’s the first to get up, to lead her to the bed, which is disappointingly not a long walk. Not long enough for MJ to completely clear her mind of Peter’s arrival, but long enough for Viraj to start shimmying his jacket off.
Who wears thick jackets in the summer?
They’re both sitting on the edge of the bed, facing each other. She’s ready to kiss him, she really is. Her breath smells like wine, but she’s wearing a maxi skirt and a shirt that’s very easily accessible because MJ loves efficiency.
Their lips press together softly, and it is then that MJ understands how much Viraj loves to take his time. He takes long enough that she can have actual, full length thoughts between every movement. When she hears a gentle thud against her wall, she thinks she’s so dissociated from the moment that she’s imagining things.
Until she hears another thud.
And another.
God. Fucking. Dammit.
The irritation fuels her, letting herself take charge as her tongue slips in between Viraj’s lips. She can hear him gasp, but lean into the kiss as his fingers find the clasp of her bralette. He easily unhooks it, a breath escaping her.
“You’re talented,” she compliments him, balancing the perfect mixture of sexy and nonchalant, certain she’s thinking way too hard about this when she’s already working the buttons of his shirt as well.
Then, she hears Peter’s date moaning, and the faint sound of thrusts. She wonders if Viraj can hear all of it but chooses not to mention it. She wonders if it’d be bad to mention it, or if it’ll make their hookup even hotter.
No, no, that’s a bad idea.
What can possibly outdo his little act?
Wait—is Peter doing this on purpose now because of the other week? He must be.
Of course he is. Her stomach coils with the same twisted, animosity that welcomed itself the moment she heard someone else breathing his name in bed. How could she get over it so quickly? She never does, and she’s proven herself right again.
MJ’s been too busy brainstorming a plan that she doesn’t realize until Viraj is pulling her up to lay her properly on her bed that they’re completely naked in front of each other.
“Can I be on top?” she asks bluntly, probably confirming the bias Viraj has been building for her.
He laughs nervously. He’s always nervous, but so calm at the same time. Zero thoughts. “Hell yeah.”
Okay, there’s a little emotion there.
She scrambles quickly for the box of condoms she’d bought and hidden at her bedside table. She tosses one on Viraj, who’s pumping himself up and down as he waits—another shout out to efficiency.
MJ takes zero time to hover over Viraj, teasing him quickly with herself.
He groans, loud enough that she knows Peter can hear, especially with how much she can hear them. Then it hits her.
Peter has superpowers. He can hear. And loud. He probably listens to her all the time. What a fucking jerk, she says as she sinks onto Viraj, swaying her hips mindlessly at first, letting themselves fit into each other, but that doesn’t stop her from exaggerating her voice as she exhales a deep, gratuitous moan.
That’ll get him.
--
Peter's eyes flash open as soon as he hears the sound of Michelle gasping and panting. Her moaning only makes him thrust harder, his hands pressed hard against their shared wall.
“Wow,” Felicia pants, and Peter feels smug for a moment until she says, “Your neighbors are really fucking loud.”
“I know,” he says, face furrowed, heart pounding incredibly out of his chest, but still feeling the pleasure in between Felicia’s legs. “I hear it all the time.”
Felicia’s hands smooth the sides of his thighs as he hovers over her, a beat passing before she catches on. “Oh, Peter. Are you trying to be louder than them?”
“What are you talking about?”
She starts cackling, but still somehow moaning all at once—a woman of many talents. “Don’t worry, babe. Voyeurism is kinda hot.”
“Fel!”
“Fine. I’ll stop before I start, but…” Felicia smirks. “I’m not opposed to playing your little game.” He doesn’t respond, trying his best not to react at all, keeping the focus on their positioning. “I can be loud, and make them know you’re the only sexy neighbor in this hallway.” Peter chuckles, shaking his head, feeling her tighten himself around him.
He starts cursing, losing his breath as he picks up his pace.
Felicia does as she suggests.
She starts moaning, whimpering, and begging for more.
If his head hadn’t been in the clouds, Peter could have come right there, right now, but all he can focus on is the reaction from the girl next door.
--
“I’m close,” Viraj says, his hands gripping her ass. She’s not at all there, but she continues to ride him up and down because Peter’s putting on the performance of a lifetime, and she has to outdo him. “Woah, woah—”
Viraj jolts up, grip tightening against her skin, beads of sweat falling down her face.
She should really splurge on the air conditioning sometime—if it works.
“Wow,” Viraj says, breathing. He rarely did anything, but it’s okay because he reacted, and that’s exactly what MJ wanted. “You’re so good at that.”
It’s weirder if MJ thanks him, so she just smiles the statement away.
She hops off of him, and immediately excuses herself to the bathroom, locking the door carefully behind her. She turns on the sink, letting the water run until it warms up before splashing herself back to reality.
After patting her face with a towel, she stares at herself in the mirror. MJ very rarely stands and thinks about what she does. All of her decisions are great. They’ve all made her move forward in life, made her gain something valuable. Even her breakup with Peter taught her a wonderful lesson of moving on and not clinging onto the first person you ever fell in love with.
There’s so many people in the world—too many people are focusing on someone who acted foolishly after their breakup. Which is why they’re both good to be away from each other—MJ admitting her decision to show up with Harry in her arms just quickly after she broke up with Peter hadn’t been the very best. Now, her past actions are brought up once again, just as if she’s back in college.
Just as if she’s still in love with Peter.
--
Peter finally finds himself back down to earth after Felicia climaxes.
He’d put in a lot of effort tonight, and he’d found a bonus in Felicia actually wanting to do what he refused to admit at all. Although they’d both had a good time—Felicia especially—Peter doesn’t feel like a winner.
“That might have been your best work yet, Spidey.” Felicia slips away from the bed as they get off from each other. “Who knew listening to people fuck could get you so riled up?”
A weak laugh comes out of him. “I guess.”
Felicia turns around before heading into the restroom. “You good? Thought that little sesh would make you excited about being the number one sex champ?”
“Oh, God. Felicia, please don’t ever say number one sex champ.”
She scoffs. “Okay, fine. But are you okay?”
Peter rarely sees a look of concern paint across Felicia’s face.
Damn.
He’s absolutely screwed.
--
The entirety of Saturday is quiet as it comes and goes.
Maybe Peter thinks they should stop, too. Or maybe he’s also embarrassed.
MJ wishes she knew how he felt. She hates that she doesn’t, and she hates that she cares so much about a person she claims to...hate.
When she wakes up early on Sunday, she promises—this time, seriously—to be a better person. She even deletes her Instagram, never having exchanged numbers with Viraj or Harry in the first place. She’d had her fun for two weeks, but now, her mind is full of memories that she thought she had buried when she was 23.
Now, she can’t stop thinking about the jarring distance between Peter and her.
MJ decides that cleaning her room is the best solution to resolving every concern she has with her relationship. She certainly pushes aside the idea of knocking on Peter’s door and bringing it up. Now that she’s an Adult, she knows 100% that adults still don’t know how to communicate with one another. So why does she have to?
She starts off with picking up the depression pile of dirty clothes on her vanity chair and tosses them into an already full basket. She sighs.
Laundry is not her favorite thing in the world, but she might as well get it done. MJ stares at her watch—it’s barely 7:50am—the perfect time to beat everyone who’s still sleeping in on a weekend. After slipping out of pajamas and into her favorite t-shirt dress, she quietly makes her way outside the hall, taking a few steps just next door. The laundry room is empty, but as soon as she walks up to the four washing machines stacked on top of each other, she sighs. All of them are taken up, but finished.
Seriously? Four people in the same hallway doing this?
She crouches down to the bottom left washing machine and removes a wet ball of t-shirts, flannels, and jeans, tossing them on the folding mini folding table behind her. Whoever left it there can just toss it in the dryer.
When she gets up after shoving her pile of dirty clothes in the washer, her back cracks. Disgruntled, she yawns and stretches out her muscles. It must be from the night before, also feeling a slight scratchiness to her throat from being so loud. She wonders what Viraj thought, if he noticed anything at all, and still, if he heard Peter and his date just as much as she did. MJ would be more embarrassed if she wasn't 100% positive she outdid Peter.
Her pride and guilt are not mutually exclusive.
MJ finally shakes the feeling away, only to turn around and meet face to face with the very person that hasn’t left her mind since she moved back to New York.
“Peter,” she says, with no control of what leaves her mouth apparently.
“Those are mine,” he gestures at the wet pile she’d most certainly dumped out just five minutes ago. Of course Peter is one of those people who don’t time their damn laundry.
“You should have taken them outright when they finished,” MJ suggests. Peter scoffs. “What?”
“They just finished. I have a timer on,” he says.
“You had a timer on?” she says, unconvinced.
“Yeah, actually. You made it a habit for me.”
Oh. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t move from her place either.
Her face is dead set on the tile of the laundry room.
“Well, I just needed to get my clothes cleaned. I’ve had a long weekend.”
“I know you have,” he says almost immediately, almost like he wasn’t supposed to say that.
She blinks. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, give me a break, Michelle.”
Michelle. That stings.
“What?” she asks innocently, knowing how badly it’ll bother him.
He takes a deep breath. (She’s right on the dot with her intuition). “Look, I don’t know what little game you’re playing, but I think we should put an end to it now.”
Maybe Michelle is the immature one.
She remains speechless.
Peter shuts the door behind him, and he walks past her and closer to the window before turning back around. “Welcome to the neighborhood? And also, I think you need to know how thin the walls are.”
Yeah, she is the immature one. “I know they’re thin, Peter. I’m not stupid.”
“I didn’t say that,” Peter defends himself. A beat. “Wait, so you do know?”
“Yup.”
“So you just—”
“Let me just cut to the chase. Yes, I know the walls are thin. Yes, I know you can hear me. But also, you know your walls are thin, too. So what’s the fucking deal, Parker?” MJ seethes.
Peter, dumbfounded, has his mouth slightly open. He feels defeated, and yeah, it’s pretty fucked up that MJ gets a tad bit of enjoyment out of it.
Then, he surprises her: “I just knew that you’d still be pulling shit like this.”
MJ ignores her heart shattering, or at least, tries to.
“We broke up almost five years ago,” she says, though she doesn’t even know why she says it. “Why would you think that I’d still care?” She crosses her arms.
Peter pushes air out of his nostrils. “So you didn’t know I was your neighbor? And you had plans to bring Harry over unrelated to me?”
Shit.
Being perceived does not feel very good.
“What does it matter to you, Peter? You moved on pretty damn fast, too.”
“I didn’t want to bring anything up, but—”
“But you did, Peter! Why are you playing along then? Why do you care so much, too? I’m not the only one alone in this,” she breathes, walking slowly towards him as her irritation starts to boil and form and move higher and higher to her throat.
They’re face to face, just inches away from each other.
He smells like the sun. Yeah, he definitely needs to finish his laundry.
“Tell me I’m not alone in this,” she says.
MJ watches Peter’s eyes flit up and down her body, moving so much closer toward him that personal space no longer exists. Instead of saying anything, Peter leans forward, pressing their mouths together, MJ automatically responding by pushing the kiss deeper, her tongue quickly slipping into Peter’s mouth. Her arms swing around his neck and his around her waist.
Her head is spinning, unsure of her surroundings, unsure if she’s having a stupid dream that she equally stupidly wishes were true. His hands move from the small of her back to her ass, squeezing her cheeks upwards, making her keen forward, pressing her center against his, chasing for friction.
She slightly pulls away as she says, “Peter, maybe we should—”
“I know,” he says, “I can make you more comfortable.”
The entire universe and her Cindy-conscience is telling her to end this right now, but Peter presses his mouth against her neck and she can’t help but see what happens next.
With MJ’s eyes closed, and her mouth open in pleasure, she listens to the sound of a chair being pulled across the floor, anxiously anticipating Peter’s next move. She shouldn’t be doing this. She shouldn’t be hooking up with the first love of her life—the only love of her life.
Yet, she ignores all smart decisions, and pulls away from Peter as he moves closer to the chair, sitting down. He locks his deep gaze with hers, patting his thigh. “Come here.”
She swings her legs on either side of him, her crotch landing against his spacious, smooth thigh. His basketball shorts are easy to slide against, and her favorite t-shirt dress has just reclaimed the title again for the next 365 days.
Peter’s hand finds the small of her back once again, and gently pushes her forward, his thigh rubbing her center, commanding more arousal as she follows his motion.
“What did you want to talk about?” He asks a genuine question with a soft smile. The duality of man. Evidently, MJ’s forgotten. She shrugs as an answer, putting her hands against the table behind Peter while she continues to rut against him.
“Fuck—” is the only other word she lets out as she feels the palm of Peter’s hands flat against her skin, moving up from her thighs to her abs, then her breasts.
“You’re not wearing a bra?” he asks, almost whining.
“Maybe I expected you here,” she teases. Peter groans, using one hand to keep her balanced, moving her hips in a calculated manner—maximizing her pleasure as if he’s memorized the landscape of her body.
"You can't just. say that," he huffs as his thumb flicks her nipple, and goosebumps run across her body.
She squeezes her eyes shut the way her lace gets caught against her entrance, massaging her clit with more friction as Peter guides her up and down his thighs. He’s gotten even buffer, and MJ can’t complain. She’s dripping wet, speechless, cursing Peter’s name.
"You're so pretty," he nearly whispers, and MJ declares to ignore the tug at the bottom of her heart.
Her hands begin to comb the curls on the back of Peter’s hand, rolling her head back as he continues to move her for the both of them, feeling his erection hard and big through the mesh of his shorts. Her thighs brush against his length, and frustrating groans escaping his throat only make MJ want to ride against him faster.
“That’s right,” he groans. She feels butterflies flutter at the pit of her stomach, pleasure blooming at her center as he says, “You like that, right? I know you do.”
“Mhm,” she whimpers as his hand leaves her breasts and traces back to the bottom of her dress, pulling it up just enough so he can press his mouth against her ribs and leave a trail all the way to her nipples, sucking on them.
“Fuck—” she gasps, the incomprehensible electricity of pleasure coursing through her as Peter guides her to orgasm, taking care of her.
“Feel good?” he asks after pulling away from her nipple, leaving it only to pay attention to the next one.
“Yes, Peter, please—”
She has lost herself in the moment of him, both of them floating on a different timeline—one where there is no spite between them, one where maybe they’d have been strangers, hooking up in an empty laundry room, one where Peter calls her Michelle.
“You feel how hard I am for you?” he asks. “You do this to me…”
Her clit starts to pulse faster as she feels his cock slip out of the fabric of his boxers, the tip slipping up near his thigh—near where MJ’s spilling all over Peter’s skin. She’s close—the heat of his erection filling her mind with filthy desires—so close that she starts panting as she grinds down on him harder saying, “Please. More. I’m—”
“That’s it, right there—”
She can feel the tip of his cock brushing against her folds—fighting all the urge to just let him slip inside her, wanting so badly to know what it's like to for Peter to fuck her.
And then she keens forward, a surge of fiery passion exploding from within her, intoxicating her entire existence as she moans, “I’m coming—fuck. Peter—I need—I want you inside me."
“Are you su—”
She responds by slipping the tip of his cock against her cunt, panties pushed to one side, guiding his length with her hand as she teases him with her slickness. The look on his eyes are dark, hungry for her—just as she is for him.
He groans, thrusting forward, letting her continue to brush herself against him, wetting him all over with her arousal. She massages the tip against her clit in slow circles, both of them panting, Peter catching her nipple in his mouth while his hands find space, gripped at her hips. After an agonizing amount of time dragging him all but inside her, she finally guides Peter inside her once, knowing how bad the consequences could be from this.
His entire body relaxes as she does so, both of them gasping in shock and ecstasy.
He says, "Fuck, Michelle."
Then, something within her snaps.
She stops her movement, lifting herself up quickly, her dress falling down by her side.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“No—that’s not—” Peter stands up. “Don’t apologize. We both did this, Michelle.”
Michelle. A name—her name—so unfamiliar coming out of his mouth.
“Rookie mistake after moving back,” she teases, though she catches him frowning for a beat before stifling a weak laugh. “Okay, I’m sorry. I… I was being stupid, and you were right. I saw you, and I freaked out, and I was angry, and I retaliated. I shouldn’t have.”
Good for her for being an adult.
Peter smiles, toothless and subtle. “I’m sorry, too. I was also retaliating. I just—I don’t want it to be like this between us anymore. Especially if we’re neighbors. We should at least try to make it work?”
“Yeah,” she says—realizing how foolish the both of them had been, only finding solace that Peter had reacted nearly the same way, the two still riding the same wavelength so many years later. “We should try.”
She swallows her pride, even though the flushed look on Peter’s face still makes her feel a certain way, unsure if it’s confusion or hatred or something she’s afraid to even say. But if Peter’s being mature enough to shake hands and walk away from the disaster of moving in, then she should, too. Right?
“Great,” he breathes, one hand brushing the back of his neck. It’s the same hand that was touching her breasts not thirty minutes ago. Life is wild. “So—um…”
“Um…?” she asks, arms crossed. Peter’s pile of laundry is probably no longer damp, and most likely incredibly wrinkled.
“Friends?”
She pouts slightly. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, that’s fine. I just—”
“But… even if I don’t… we can start with this...” she says, letting a moment pass with the look of confusion on Peter’s face.
He tilts his head, curious as he watches her.
“You can call me MJ.”