Archive of Our Own

Rain clung to the edges of the city like it didn’t want to let go.The wrecked sedan smoked against the curb, engine hissing, glass scattered across the asphalt in glittering fragments that caught every flash of red and blue. Sirens cut through the night, overlapping, chaotic, but the danger had already passed.

Up above, balanced on the edge of a bent streetlight, Spider-Man finally exhaled.
Below him, the NYPD swarmed what was left of the car chase, dragging suspects out, shouting over each other, adrenaline still buzzing through the air.

A crowd had already formed, drawn in like it always was, phones raised, voices rising, people talking all at once like they’d witnessed something personal.

“Suspects are in custody!”

Relief rippled outward.And then someone saw him.

“Spider-Man!”

It spread fast. Too fast.

Heads tilted up. Hands pointed. More voices joined in until it wasn’t just a crowd anymore, it was something louder, something expectant.

He dropped down anyway.

Landed light, controlled, like he hadn’t just run halfway across the city chasing a car that refused to stop.

An officer stepped forward, clapping him firmly on the shoulder.

“Hell of a job, kid.”

“Yeah,” another added, shaking his head in disbelief, “you just saved a lot of people tonight.”
Peter ducked his head slightly beneath the mask, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Just doing my job.”Cameras flashed.

Too many.

The press pushed in next, microphones appearing out of nowhere, voices sharper, more focused.

“Spider-Man, can you comment on the escalation of high-speed pursuits in the area?”

“Do you think this is tied to organized crime?”
“Are New Yorkers safe tonight?”

He answered those easily, short responses, deflecting, keeping things moving.

That part, he knew how to do.

Then someone laughed.

Light. Curious.

“So what does a night like this end with for you?”
Peter blinked behind the mask.

Another voice, louder now, eager:
“Yeah, what’s waiting for you when you get home? Anyone special?”
The crowd reacted instantly, energy shifting.
“Ohhh-”
“Come on, tell us!”
“You’ve gotta have someone!”
A third reporter leaned in, grin sharp.

“What’s your type, Spider-Man? People are dying to know.”

Peter’s throat went dry.

Heat crept up his neck, fast and unavoidable.

“I-uh-”

“You don’t have a girlfriend?” someone called out from the back.

“No way,” another voice cut in, “look at him!”
“I bet there’s a line around the block!”

Laughter. Shouting. Phones lifting higher.

“I bet there’s a wife waiting at home!” a reporter added, half-joking, half fishing.

The noise pressed in closer.

Too close.

Peter shifted back a step.

“Yeah, I don't, I should probably get going,” he said quickly, already half-turning.

“Spider-Man, just one more!”

But he didn’t stay.

A sharp thwip, a blur of motion, and he was gone, leaving the noise behind like it couldn’t follow him past the skyline.

The city felt different from above.

Quieter. Distant.

Manageable.

By the time Peter slipped through the narrow window of his dorm, the adrenaline had dulled into something softer, something heavier.
He landed silently, already pulling the mask off, dragging in a breath like he hadn’t taken one properly in minutes.

For a second, it was still.
Then-

A low laugh.

Peter stilled.

Right.

Not alone.

The bed across the room creaked, rhythmic, accompanied by muffled voices trying and failing to stay quiet.

“…you’re gonna get us caught,” someone whispered, immediately followed by a hushed laugh.
Peter closed his eyes briefly, like maybe if he gave himself a second, the situation would reset.
It didn’t.He stepped around a discarded shirt on the floor, then another, keeping his gaze firmly forward as he dropped his bag by his desk.

“Hey,” his roommate muttered, breathless but casual. “Didn’t think you’d be back yet.”
“Yeah,” Peter said, already grabbing a hoodie.

“Wrapped up early.”

“Cool-”

The rest of the sentence dissolved into something softer, distracted.

Peter sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the glow of his laptop as it flickered to life.

This wasn’t new.

None of it was.

The noise. The lack of space. The constant reminder that connection, for everyone else, seemed easy. Immediate.

His jaw tightened slightly.
Not bitter.

Just… aware.
He pulled up his assignments, scrolling absentmindedly through pages of notes and half-finished drafts, until a name snagged his attention like a web line catching on brick.

Michael-Jordan.
MJ.

Peter leaned back.

Of course.

Campus never let you forget MJ.
Flyers were plastered on every wall, bulletin board, and lamppost . some crisp and new, others torn at the edges from wind and careless hands, but still unmistakably him. There he was, frozen mid-shot in perfect form, jersey clinging to the broad cut of his shoulders and the powerful lines of his chest, the bold white number stretched tight across his deep brown skin. In another photo he was smiling, head tilted just slightly, that sharp, effortless white grin cutting through even the cheap print quality, eyes dark and knowing like he was looking straight through the paper.

And in person?

It was worse.

It was so much better.
Impossible to ignore.

Peter had noticed it from the very first week of the semester: the way heads turned when MJ walked across the quad. Girls slowed their steps. The guys pretended they weren’t staring. Whispers followed him like shadows. MJ moved through it all with that same calm, unshakable confidence, his jersey somehow always clinging to every sculpted inch of his powerfully athletic physique, with that perfect, mouthwatering curve of his ass.

Everyone watched MJ.

Peter had tried not to.

He’d failed miserably.

His thumb hovered over the trackpad.The cursor blinked on MJ’s name like a heartbeat.Peter swallowed hard.

MJ’s grin.
MJ’s eyes.

Not in the loud way others did, not the shouting or the obvious staring.Quieter than that.The way MJ moved like space made room for him.The way conversations shifted when he stepped into them.
The way people leaned in without realizing they were doing it.

Peter swallowed, eyes flicking back to the screen.
Assignment details loaded fully now.
Game coverage.

Photos.
Written report.

He blinked.

Scrolled.

Read it again.

“…you’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath.

Next game.

Court-side access.

Close enough to..

He stopped that thought before it finished.
Behind him, the room was still filled with quiet noise, movement, someone else’s closeness bleeding into his space.

Peter barely registered it anymore.
Because now his focus had shifted entirely.
To the court.

To the assignment.
To MJ.

The gym was already alive before the game even started. Music echoed off the walls, bass heavy enough to feel in his chest. Sneakers squeaked against polished wood, sharp and constant, voices overlapping, energy building with every passing second.

Peter stood near the baseline, camera hanging from his neck, adjusting the settings more times than necessary just to keep his hands busy. He told himself it was about the shots. The angles. The lighting. Not the crowd reacted before he saw why.

A shift.

Subtle, but immediate.

Then MJ stepped onto the court.
And just like that, everything clicked into place. Movement sharpened. Noise focused. Attention narrowed.

MJ didn’t rush. Didn’t need to. He moved like he knew exactly where every set of eyes was, like he could feel it without looking. Jersey catching the overhead lights, number clear, unmistakable. Sweat already started to gather at his temples, skin warm under the glare, expression calm like this was just another night.

Peter lifted the camera almost on instinct. Click. Another. MJ pivoting. MJ laughing at something a teammate said. MJ glanced toward the stands like he was already aware of the reaction he was getting.

Peter lowered the camera slightly, breath catching in a way that had nothing to do with the noise around him. Right. That’s why.

The whistle blew. The game began.

The court came alive in an instant.

Sneakers squealed against polished wood, bodies colliding, pivoting, breaking apart in fast, controlled chaos. The overhead lights burned bright against the shine of sweat and motion, every pass snapping clean through the air, every dribble echoing in tight, rhythmic beats.

Peter lifted his camera again, instinct kicking in.
Click.

MJ already had the ball.Of course he did.
He moved like the court belonged to him, like every line had been drawn with him in mind. Fast, but not rushed. Controlled, but never stiff. There was a looseness to him, something fluid, like he could shift direction before anyone else even realized there was a choice to make.

 MJ was untouchable. He sliced through the defense like the court belonged to him alone, effortless crossovers that left defenders stumbling, pull-up jumpers that kissed the rim and dropped clean. 

Every move was precise, predatory, the kind of basketball that made the whole arena forget to breathe. He wasn’t just playing; he was performing. A no-look pass behind his back that found a cutter for an easy layup. A hesitation dribble that froze two defenders, then a lightning-quick step-back three that swished through the net with a sound like applause itself.

The cheerleaders picked it up first, their voices cutting through the roar like a siren song. “M-J! M-J! He’s the one! Watch him run! Watch him run!” They stomped in perfect sync on the sidelines, pom-poms flashing red and gold, but their eyes were locked on him. 

The crowd answered in waves, a thunderous chant that shook the rafters: “MJ! MJ! MJ!” It wasn’t just support; it was worship. Phones waved like lighters at a concert. 

Signs bobbed in the bleachers with his name scrawled in glitter. He was campus royalty, and tonight the kingdom was on fire.

Peter’s lens followed every second, but his focus kept slipping. God, the way those tight basketball shorts clung to MJ’s body thin, athletic fabric stretched taut over powerful thighs, riding up just enough with every explosive cut and jump. And that ass… Peter hated himself for it, heat crawling up his neck like shame on a leash, but he couldn’t stop staring. The bounce of it as MJ sprinted down the court, muscles flexing and releasing under the glossy sheen of sweat. 

The way the shorts cupped him perfectly when he planted and launched into a jumper, the fabric pulling tight, outlining every curve, every shift of weight. 

Peter’s thumb hovered uselessly over the shutter button, pulse hammering in his ears louder than the crowd. He was supposed to be capturing the game for the campus paper action shots, team spirit, the big story. Instead, his camera kept framing MJ’s lower body in ways that felt filthy and private, like he was stealing something he had no right to want.

Just the physicality. The power in those legs. The way that ass bounced round, firm, hypnotic every time MJ planted his feet and exploded upward. Peter’s mouth went dry. He adjusted his stance, cheeks burning, forcing his eyes up to MJ’s face… only for them to drop again, traitorous and ashamed.

The game tightened in the final minute. Down by one. Clock ticking. The court held its collective breath as MJ caught the inbound pass at half-court, eyes scanning like a hawk. He dribbled once, twice pure poetry then exploded past his defender with a shoulder fake that left the guy grasping air. The crowd surged to their feet. Cheerleaders screamed his name in a frenzy: “M-J! M-J! Win it for us! M-J!” MJ pulled up at the three-point line, body suspended in that perfect, sculpted arc shorts riding high on his thighs, ass flexing visibly as he released the ball with a soft flick of the wrist.The crowd reacted instantly.

“OH—!”

Peter barely kept up, adjusting his lens, tracking-
Click.

The ball leaving his hands in a smooth arc.

Swish.

For a split second, there was silence.

Then the gym exploded.

Louder than before. Wilder. Uncontained.
People were on their feet, shouting, jumping, losing whatever composure they had left. The cheerleaders broke formation, screaming, the chant dissolving into pure noise as the team rushed the court.

MJ barely had time to land before they were on him.
Hands grabbing, pulling him in, lifting him up like he weighed nothing, like he was the moment.
And he let them.Head tipped back slightly, laughing, breathless now, the composure finally cracking just enough to show something real underneath.

Peter raised his camera again.
Click.
MJ above the crowd.
Click.
That smile, wide, bright, unguarded.
Click.

The way everyone reached for him.Peter didn’t stop smiling.Didn’t even realize he was.Because through the lens, through the chaos, through the noise.MJ looked untouchable.

And somehow, still close enough to feel real.
The noise didn’t settle after the buzzer.If anything, it got worse.Teammates crowded in, hands everywhere, shouting over each other as they lifted MJ up, the energy spilling over into the stands, into the aisles, into every corner of the gym. His name was still being chanted, louder now, messier, less organized, but somehow more real.

“MJ! MJ! MJ!”
Peter kept shooting.
Click.
MJ above the crowd, head tipped back, laughing.
Click.
Arms around him, jerseys blurring together.
Click.

That smile, wide and unguarded, something brighter than everything else happening around him.
Peter didn’t stop until the moment started to break apart, until MJ was lowered back down, still grinning, still catching his breath as his teammates crowded him, talking over each other, reliving the shot like it hadn’t just happened seconds ago.

And then.

MJ looked up.

Not in the crowd.Not on his team.At him.

Peter froze mid-adjustment, camera still half-raised.There was a beat, small but undeniable.

Then MJ said something quick to the guys around him, clapping one of them on the shoulder before slipping out of the center of it all like it was nothing.
Like he could just leave the spotlight whenever he felt like it.

And then he was walking straight toward Peter.
Peter’s brain did not catch up fast enough.By the time MJ stopped in front of him, close again, too close, Peter was still holding his camera like a shield he didn’t know how to use.

“So,” MJ said, slightly out of breath, voice still edged with adrenaline but easy, like the last five minutes hadn’t just happened. “You got proof of greatness or what?”

Peter blinked.

“I-uh-yeah, I mean, I got some shots, but-”
MJ tilted his head, glancing at the camera.

“Lemme see.”It wasn’t really a question.

Peter’s grip tightened instinctively.

“Oh- I don’t-I mean, I can’t, actually,” he said quickly, words tripping over each other. “It’s, uh-journalism program policy. We’re not supposed to show work before publication. It’s like- academic integrity, or something.”

MJ just looked at him.

Then smiled.

Slow. Bright. Dangerous in a way that didn’t feel like danger at all.

“C’mon,” he said, leaning in just slightly. “Pretty please?”

Peter’s brain short-circuited.
Completely.

Because that shouldn’t have worked.
That was not a valid argument.
That was..

“…okay,” Peter heard himself say, already handing over the camera before his thoughts could catch up.
MJ’s smile shifted.

Smaller now. Sharper.Like he knew exactly what just happened.

“Appreciate it,” he said, already scrolling.
Peter immediately regretted every decision he’d ever made.

“Okay, but just- some of them are like- test shots, so they’re not all-”

He stopped.

Because MJ had gone quiet.

Not confused.

Not unimpressed. 

Just… focused. 

Scrolling slower now. 

Peter felt his entire body go warm. 

“Oh my God,” he muttered under his breath. “Okay, wait-” 

MJ huffed a quiet laugh. 

“Damn,” he said, almost impressed. “You really locked in, huh?” Peter reached for the camera.
MJ lifted it slightly out of reach, not even looking at him. 

“MJ-” 

“These are all me.” 

“They are not-” 

MJ glanced up. 

One eyebrow raised.Then back down at the screen. 

Scroll.
Scroll. 

“…okay, yeah, no, these are definitely all me.”
Peter’s face burned. 

“There’s-there’s other ones, you just didn’t- those are just-angles, it’s about angles, like movement and form and-” 

MJ stopped scrolling.Tilted the camera slightly. Peter’s stomach dropped. 

“Oh no.” 

MJ’s mouth curved, slow and knowing.
“Angles or ass shots?” he repeated. 

Peter wished the floor would open up and take him with it. 

“Okay, that one-that’s not- I wasn’t- it just-”
MJ finally looked back at him. 

And he was smiling. 

Not mocking. 

Not mean. 

Something warmer than that. 

“If it helps,” MJ said, easy, handing the camera back, “that’s one of my best physical attributes.” 

Peter blinked. 

“W-what?” 

MJ’s smirk deepened, eyes flicking down to Peter’s camera before sliding back up to his face. 

“I put in work,” he said, voice low and lazy.  
 
“Especially those squats in the gym. Glad somebody’s finally paying attention.”He let the words hang for half a second, just long enough for Peter’s ears to burn, then gave him a slow, knowing wink and melted back into the crowd. 

Peter’s brain fully stopped functioning. 

Heat climbed all the way up his neck, across his face, down into his chest, nowhere to go, no way to hide it. 

“I wasn’t- I mean, I was, but not like-” 

MJ laughed. 

Not loud. 

Just enough. 

Then he stepped back slightly, giving Peter space again, but not really. 

“Relax,” he said. “You’re good.” 

A beat. 

Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world:
“We’re throwing something tonight. Team thing. Whole campus is gonna show up.” 

Peter hesitated this time. 

Not the automatic no, but close. 

His grip shifted on the camera, thumb brushing the edge like he needed something solid to hold onto.
“I- I actually can’t,” he said, a little too quickly. “I’ve got stuff due. Like… a lot of stuff. Midterms, and the article, and-” 

He trailed off, realizing he sounded exactly like he felt. 

Nervous. 

MJ watched him through all of it. 

Didn’t interrupt. 

Didn’t look bored. 

If anything, he looked… amused. 

“Damn,” MJ said softly, tilting his head. “You always got an excuse ready like that, or..” 

Peter huffed a quiet breath. 

“It’s not an excuse, I actually have to” 

“I bet Spider-Man would come.” 

The words landed clean. 

Effortless. 

Peter’s brain stalled. 

Completely. 

His stomach dropped somewhere near his shoes, heat rushing up just as fast, sharp and immediate, impossible to hide. 

“Um…what?” he said, quieter this time. 

MJ was already smiling.Not wide.Not loud. 

Just that same knowing curve, like he’d thrown something out there just to see what it would do.
And it worked. 

Peter could feel it.The way his pulse kicked up, the way his thoughts scrambled, the way that one stupid sentence hit a little too close to something he wasn’t ready to unpack. 

MJ let the moment stretch just long enough. 

Then he laughed.  

Light. 

Easy. 

“Relax,” he said, taking a small step back, hands up like he was backing off. “I’m kidding.”

Peter let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. 

“Right,” he said, nodding once. “Yeah. Obviously.”
MJ’s eyes stayed on him a second longer than necessary. 

Like he was still reading something. 

Then he shrugged, casual again. 

“Alright,” he said. “Maybe next time.” 

But the way he said it. It didn’t sound like a dismissal. It sounded like a promise.
He turned, starting back toward the noise, toward his team, toward everything that pulled at him without effort. 

Then paused. 

Just slightly. Glanced back. 

“Try not to work too hard,” he added, a little softer. “Wouldn’t want you missing out on everything.”
Peter’s chest tightened in a way he couldn’t quite explain. 

“Yeah,” he said, even though MJ was already half-turned away. “I’ll try.” 

MJ’s mouth curved again, just a hint of that same teasing edge. 

Then he turned fully and started walking off.
And Peter’s eyes followed. 

Immediately. 

Automatically. 

Zero hesitation. 

Because MJ didn’t just walk, he moved, easy and loose, like the game was still in him, every step controlled without trying. The fabric of his shorts shifted with each stride, hugging in all the wrong, very noticeable ways, and Peter blinked.

Did not look away. 

Because..yeah. 

That was- 

“…okay,” he breathed, voice barely there.
MJ’s build was already unfair, Peter knew that, had already documented that extensively, apparently, but from behind?It was worse.The fit of the uniform, the movement, the very real, very distracting shape of his ass, round and defined in a way that made it impossible not to notice, especially when he walked like that, like he had no idea what he was doing to people. 

Or worse. 

Like he did. 

Peter swallowed hard.
“Don’t stare,” he muttered to himself. 

He stared.Fully.Unapologetically.For at least three more seconds than he should have. 

“…oh no.” Because now his brain had decided to lock in. Focus. Study. Like this was somehow still part of the assignment. 

Angles. 
Right.
Angles. 

“Okay. Nope. We’re not-” he cut himself off, dragging his gaze up, then immediately back down like his eyes had completely betrayed him. 

This was bad.This was so bad. 

Because there was now a very real, very physical hard erect situation developing that he absolutely did not have time for, not here, not in the middle of a crowded gym where anyone could see.
Peter grabbed his camera, holding it lower, angling it just enough to hide himself, like that would somehow fix anything. 

“Cool,” he whispered, nodding once like he was handling this with dignity. “Yeah. Totally fine. Super normal. We’re good.” 

He was not good. 

Not even a little. 

MJ disappeared into the crowd, swallowed back into the noise like he belonged there.Like he always would. 

Meanwhile, Peter stood frozen at the edge of the court, fighting for his life internally over something that had no business affecting him this much.Because now he had another problem.
And this one? It was a lot harder to ignore..The noise of the gym slowly started to come back into focus around him, conversations overlapping, sneakers still squeaking against the court, people spilling out of the stands in clusters of laughter and leftover adrenaline. 

But it all felt… distant. 

Like it was happening somewhere just out of reach.
Peter exhaled, slow, trying to ground himself, trying to pull his thoughts back into something manageable. 

Didn’t work. 

Because every time he tried, his brain just circled right back to-“I bet Spider-Man would come.” 

His grip tightened slightly around the camera.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” he muttered under his breath, more to hear it out loud than anything else. “That’s just- that’s a joke. People make jokes like that all the time.” 

Right. 

A normal joke.
Totally normal.
Except.. 

MJ had looked at him when he said it.
Not past him.
Not through him.
At him. 

Peter dragged a hand through his hair, pacing a small half-step before stopping himself.
“Okay. Cool. Great. We’re overthinking it,” he decided, nodding once like that settled it. “That’s what we’re doing. We’re not gonna—”
He stopped. 

Because his brain, incredibly unhelpful, supplied the memory of MJ leaning in earlier.
Pretty please. 

The smile. 

The way he hadn’t looked surprised.
The way he’d just… known.
Peter groaned quietly, dropping his head forward for a second. 

“Yeah, no, that’s worse,” he mumbled. 

Because it wasn’t just the comment. 

It was everything around it. 

The way MJ paid attention. 

The way he closed distance like it was nothing.
The way he said things that felt casual but landed way too direct. 

Peter straightened again, forcing himself to move, to do something other than stand there spiraling.
He adjusted the strap of his camera, glanced down at the screen like he had a reason to, flipping through a few shots without actually seeing them. 

MJ mid-shot. 

MJ laughing. 

MJ ass- 

Peter immediately clicked the screen off. 

“Okay,” he said under his breath, sharper this time. “Focus. Assignment. That’s why you’re here.” 

Right. 

Photos. 

Article. 

Normal, manageable things. 

Not whatever this was. 

He slung the camera bag over his shoulder, starting toward the exit with the rest of the crowd, letting the noise pull him along this time instead of pushing it away. 

Peter didn’t go to the party. 

He told himself that at least three times while sitting at his desk, laptop open, cursor blinking at the top of a blank page that was supposed to become an article.

“Campus Star MJ Delivers Game-Winning Shot in Final Seconds”

It sounded good.
Professional.
Detached.

Exactly how it was supposed to sound. 

Peter stared at it. 

Then backspaced. 

Because every version he tried to write ended up the same way, too focused, too detailed, too aware of things that had nothing to do with journalism and everything to do with..Him. 

The way he moved.
The way the crowd reacted.
The way he looked at Peter like he already knew something. 

Peter scrubbed a hand down his face. 

“Focus,” he muttered. 

Didn’t work. 

Because even now, hours later, his brain kept replaying it. 

I bet Spider-Man would come. 

His stomach flipped again. 

Annoying.
Unhelpful.
Persistent. 

Peter sighed, snapping the laptop shut with a little more force than necessary. 

“Okay,” he said to the empty room. “Cool. Great. We’re not getting anything done like this.” 

A beat. 

Then -“…fine.”

The Spider-Man suit felt different tonight. 

Not heavier,Not lighter. 

Just… purposeful. 

Peter adjusted the mask as he crouched at the edge of a rooftop, the city stretched out in front of him, glowing and alive in that quiet, late-night way where everything felt like it was waiting for something to happen. 

So was he. 

He wasn’t chasing anything specific. 

No calls. No alerts. No clear danger. 

Just Looking. 

Listening.
Lingering. 

Waiting for something to go wrong so he could be there when it did. 

A reason to move. 

A reason to not think. 

He pushed off the ledge. 

The city caught him instantly. 

Swing, release, catch. 

Again. 

Faster this time. 

Through Queens, over intersections, past lit windows and empty sidewalks, the rhythm settling into his bones until everything else faded out.
For a few seconds ..It worked. 

Then he saw him. 

Just a flash at first. 

A familiar shape moving under a streetlight, too late, too alone. 

Peter slowed mid-swing, landing lightly on the side of a building, eyes narrowing. 

“…you’ve gotta be kidding me.” 

Because there was no way.  

No way,MJ stepped fully into view.Like he’d been waiting to be seen. 

Peter didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t question it. 

He moved. 

Fast. 

Too fast. 

Landing in front of him in a clean drop, body already angled between MJ and the two guys lingering too close at the end of the street. 

They scattered immediately. 

Didn’t argue. 

Didn’t push. 

Just left. 

Like they knew better. 

Silence followed. 

And oddly ,MJ didn’t react the way he should have.
 
No panic. 

No relief. 

Not anything that made sense. 

He just… looked at him. 

Slowly. 

Deliberately. 

Taking him in. 

Peter straightened slightly. 

“You okay?” he asked, defaulting to routine even as something in his chest tightened. 

MJ didn’t answer right away. 

He took a step forward instead. 

Closing the distance. 

Close enough to notice details. 

The way the suit fits. 

The way it moved when Spider-Man breathed.
Close enough to..

“Damn,” MJ said quietly, almost impressed. “You always build like that, or is that part of the whole thing?” 

Peter blinked behind the mask.
“…what?” 

MJ’s mouth curved. 

Not shy. 

Not subtle. 

“Just saying,” he added, gaze dragging once, slow, intentional. “It works for you.” 

Peter’s brain short-circuited. 

Completely. 

“I- that’s not-I’m just-” 

MJ tilted his head slightly.
Then, softer. 

“You always show up this quick…” 

A beat. 

“…or am I special?” 

Peter froze. 

Half a second.
Just enough.
And MJ caught it.
Of course he did. 

That smile shifted, smaller now, sharper. 

Peter cleared his throat, stepping back just slightly.
“I was in the area,” he said quickly. 

“Mm,” MJ hummed, like he didn’t believe him for a second. 

Then, just as easily, like the moment hadn’t shifted at all. 

“You gonna stick around, or you just drop in, save the day, and disappear?” 

Peter hesitated. 

“Umm I-I can take you home,” he offered instead.
MJ’s eyebrow lifted. 

Then he smiled. 

“Yeah?” he said. “Thought you’d never ask Spidey.”

Swinging with someone else was different. 

Heavier.
Closer.
More… distracting. 

MJ’s hands settled at his shoulders at first, grip steady as they lifted off the ground in one smooth motion. 

The city dropped away beneath them. 

Wind rushed past. 

Lights blurred. 

And then. 

MJ adjusted. 

Arms sliding lower.  

Around his waist. 

Firm. 

Secure. 

Close. 

Peter’s breath caught. 

Focus. 

He needed to focus. 

Because MJ was right there, pressed against his back, weight shifting with every swing, every movement sending a jolt of awareness straight through him. 

“Don’t drop me,” MJ called over the wind, voice edged with something that sounded a lot like amusement. 

“I won’t,” Peter shot back, maybe a little too fast.
“Good,” MJ said. 

And Peter could feel the smile in it. 

They landed just outside the dorm building with a soft thud, Peter’s sneakers scraping concrete.
He let go of MJ almost instantly too fast, like the suit might burn him if he lingered. But momentum had other ideas.
His hand slipped. 

For one humiliating, electric second, his palm slid right over the full, firm curve of MJ’s thick ass, and way too perfect under those joggers. The kind of accidental contact that felt anything but accidental.
Peter’s brain short-circuited. 

He yanked his hand back like he’d touched a live wire, stumbling a full step away.
“Okay! that was! shit, I didn’t! that wasn’t- physics! Momentum! Center of gravity, or..or whatever the hell Newton said” His voice cracked halfway through the word “gravity.” He gestured wildly with both hands like that would erase the last three seconds.

 “I swear I wasn’t trying to .. I mean, I would never… just fuck.” 

MJ stood there, one eyebrow slowly arching, completely unbothered. That calm, focused, dangerously amused look was back in full force. He tilted his head just slightly, letting the silence stretch long enough for Peter to feel his soul leave his body. 

Then MJ’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk.
“…You good, Spidey?” he asked, voice low and teasing, like Peter was the one who needed to be handled with care. “Or do you need a minute to recover from all that… physics?” 

Peter’s face burned hotter than any villain’s plasma blast. He could still feel the ghost of that perfect, round weight against his palm. 

“I’m.. I’m fine,” he squeaked. “Totally fine. Never better. Definitely didn’t just cop a feel on my-on you. Ha. Who does that? Not me. Nope.” 

MJ’s smirk only grew. 

He took one lazy step closer, eyes flicking down to Peter’s still-twitching hand and back up again.
“Shame,” he murmured. “I was starting to think you finally had a good aim for once.” 

Peter’s face burned hotter than any villain’s plasma blast. He could still feel the ghost of that perfect, round weight against his palm. 

MJ didn’t move.
Didn’t step away.
Didn’t break eye contact. 

“You know,” he said slowly, “I never told you where I live.” 

Peter’s stomach dropped. 

Hard. 

“I-you just..you look like..a college-person,” he said, immediately hating every word coming out of his mouth. “And this is…statistically a high density of-college buildings- so I just.. guessed” 

MJ stared at him. 

Then laughed. 

Soft. 

Real. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Lucky guess.” 

Peter nodded. 

Too fast.  

“Yep. Very lucky. Okay. Goodnight.” 

And before MJ could say anything else. 

He was gone. 

A sharp thwip, a swing, disappearing into the night like if he stayed one second longer, he’d give himself away completely. 

“Thanks, Spider-Man!” MJ called after him, voice carrying just enough. 

There was something in it. 

Something that lingered.

And it didn’t stop. 

That should’ve been it. 

One clumsy landing. One accidental handful of MJ’s big, juicy ass. One mortifying escape into the night.

A coincidence. 

Twice?

Maybe three times if Peter really stretched the definition. 

It wasn’t. 

Because MJ kept showing up. 

Different nights.

Different corners of the city.  

Always just on the edge of something going wrong. 

A group of guys had MJ backed against a pillar, voices low and ugly. Peter felt the familiar prickle at the back of his neck half a second before the first shove happened. He dropped from the ceiling like gravity had changed its mind, webbing two of them before their feet left the ground. When he helped MJ up, their eyes locked for a beat too long. MJ’s fingers brushed the inside of Peter’s wrist, right where the suit ended. Neither of them looked away fast enough. 

The other time was on the rooftop of an old theater in Hell’s Kitchen. Neon lights across the clouds. MJ was leaning over the edge, camera in hand, trying to get a night shot of the skyline while three shadowy figures crept up the fire escape behind him. Peter swung in low and silent, taking them down in a blur of red and blue before MJ even turned around. When he did, that same calm, amused smirk was waiting. 

“Fancy meeting you here, Spider-Man.”
Peter’s spider-sense was screaming for an entirely different reason now. 

The next situation it was pouring. An alley off Bleecker Street. MJ’s back pressed to wet brick, a knife glinting under a flickering streetlamp. Peter landed between them so hard the asphalt cracked. After the last thug was webbed to a dumpster, MJ just stood there in the rain, water running down the sharp line of his jaw. He didn’t flinch when Peter stepped closer than necessary to check for injuries. Their chests nearly brushed. Peter could smell rain and faint cologne and something that made his stomach flip. 

Every single time Spider-Man was already there.
Too fast. 

Too precise. 

Like he’d been waiting. 

Like he’d been watching. 

Peter told himself it was the spider-sense.  

Heightened awareness. Hero responsibility. Pure coincidence piled on coincidence until it looked like a pattern. 

But lying in bed at 4 a.m., mask off, heart still racing from the latest save, he couldn’t pretend anymore. 

MJ was becoming a habit. 

And Peter was becoming obsessed. 

He swung higher now, farther, telling himself he was just patrolling. 

Yet every night his route curved, unconsciously, toward wherever the night felt… dangerous in that specific way. The way that somehow always led back to tall, calm, dangerously pretty MJ with the sharp brown eyes and the ass that Peter still felt warm against his palm. 

And every time their eyes met through the mask, MJ looked at him like he knew something Peter wasn’t ready to admit. 

Like he was waiting for Peter to stop pretending it was all just luck. 

And every single time, it was the same.

MJ never panicked.

Never flinched.

Never ran.

He simply watched Spider-Man drop out of the sky like he’d been expecting him all along. Then he stepped closer ..always closer, slow, deliberate, until the space between them felt charged enough to spark. His voice dropped into that low, velvet drawl that made Peter’s spider-sense hum for reasons that had nothing to do with danger.

“You stalking me, or is this fate?”

“You always land that smooth, or you been practicing for me?”

“Gotta say… you make this look easy.

“And damn… that suit does incredible things for your dick, by the way. Looks real good in that spandex.”

That tone.

That look.

That calm, unshakable control.

And Peter… Peter was losing his mind.
His heart slammed against his ribs so hard he was sure the suit’s sensors were picking it up.

Heat flooded his face beneath the mask, a deep, traitorous flush crawling down his neck and across his chest. The fabric suddenly felt too tight clinging everywhere, especially where MJ’s eyes had just shamelessly lingered. Peter’s dick gave a helpless twitch at the casual compliment, trapped and half-hard under layers of reinforced spandex, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from making a mortifying sound. 

He started noticing everything.

The way MJ’s gaze tracked every subtle shift of his body.The way he never seemed surprised, only quietly pleased, like he was winning some private game.

The way he stood just inside Peter’s personal space, close enough that Peter could smell rain and faint cologne and something warmer, something that made his pulse spike and his palms sweat inside his gloves.

One night the city had gone strangely quiet around them, streetlights painting long amber streaks across wet pavement. MJ was closer than usual, shoulders relaxed, head tilted like he was studying something precious instead of a masked vigilante. The air between them crackled.

That was when it finally clicked sharp, undeniable, terrifying in its clarity.

MJ wasn’t reckless.

He wasn’t unlucky.

He wasn’t stumbling into trouble night after night by accident.

He was choosing it.

Every dark street.

Every risky shortcut.

Every lingering second after the danger was gone.

Every teasing word.

Every deliberate step that closed the distance just a little more.

Every bold little comment about how good Peter looked in the suit.

Peter’s chest tightened under the Kevlar-weave, breath coming short and shallow. His heart was racing so fast the world tilted for a second. The suit felt suffocating now too hot, too clingy, every inch of fabric a reminder of how exposed he felt even fully covered. His dick was definitely interested, traitorously pressing against the tight material, and Peter wanted to melt straight through the rooftop in embarrassment.

Because if MJ was choosing it…he wasn’t reacting to Spider-Man.

He was drawing him in.

Intentional.

Calculated.

Like a moth deliberately flying into the flame, knowing exactly how bright it burned and exactly how good that flame looked wrapped in red and blue spandex.

And somehow that made everything between them feel infinitely more dangerous.

Peter’s fingers twitched at his sides,He suddenly understood the game they’d been playing all along.
MJ wasn’t the one being saved.

He was the bait.

And Peter had been biting hard every single time.

It didn’t feel like a coincidence anymore.

It hadn’t for a while.

But Peter still clung to the lie like a fraying web line telling himself it was just timing, just the city, just bad luck wearing a familiar face.

Even when MJ started making it easier.

The next game was massive. The gym throbbed with noise and heat, bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder, bass from the speakers vibrating through the floorboards and straight into Peter’s ribs. He stood courtside again, camera raised like armor, pretending this was normal. Pretending he was normal. 

MJ wasn’t.

Tonight he moved like the court belonged to him alone sharper, faster, every pivot and drive executed with predatory grace. Sweat gleamed on his rich brown skin under the bright lights, highlighting the cut of his shoulders, the long powerful line of his back, and the full, firm swell of his ass when he planted and exploded toward the hoop. His low-to-mid fade was crisp, the dark hair on top still damp from the game, gradually tapering down to smooth skin at the sides and nape.
Click.

MJ glanced up mid-dribble.

Not at the roaring crowd.

Not at his teammates.

Straight at Peter.

Click.

The shutter stuttered.

Peter’s breath hitched. The ball left MJ’s hands in a perfect arc anyway, nothing but net as the buzzer screamed. The gym detonated.

But MJ didn’t ride the celebration.

He let the chaos swallow him for three seconds, then slipped away deliberately, smoothly breaking from the swarm and heading not toward the locker room, not toward the exits, but up.

Toward the restricted upper hallway. Storage rooms. Equipment closets. Doors that were usually locked tight.

Private.

Peter’s pulse spiked hard enough to rattle his spider-sense.

“…you’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath.

Because that felt less like coincidence and more like an engraved invitation.

He waited thirty agonizing seconds, then moved.
Out the side exit, up the fire escape, across the brick exterior until he found it the right window on the upper level, cracked open just enough. A thin slice of darkness waiting.

Too easy. Too deliberate.

Peter slipped inside like smoke.

The room was dim and quiet, a narrow slice of overhead light cutting across stacks of folded bleachers and forgotten equipment. The roar of the gym below was muffled now, distant, like it belonged to another life.

MJ stood in the center of the cleared space.
Jacket half-zipped over his broad chest, rich brown skin still glowing with post-game sweat, dark neatly trimmed hair on top gradually tapering down to smooth skin at the sides. He looked like he’d started to leave and then… decided not to.
Like he’d been waiting.

Peter landed softly behind him in his suit, boots barely whispering on the concrete.

“You need to stop doing this.”

The words came out sharper than he intended, frustration bleeding through the modulator.
MJ didn’t turn right away. He finished adjusting his sleeve with slow, unbothered fingers before glancing over his shoulder.

“Doing what?”

Spider-Man stepped closer, chest tight. “Putting yourself in danger.”

That earned his full attention.

MJ turned fully, calm and steady, dark eyes catching the low light as he faced him.

“You mean,” he said, voice dropping into that velvet register as he took one measured step forward,
“making sure you show up?”

Peter’s jaw clenched. “That’s not-”

“Because you always do.”

Another step.

Closer.

“Every time.”

The air thickened. MJ’s gaze flicked down once slow, appreciating tracing the tight lines of the suit before rising again.

“Especially the way that spandex hugs you… fuck, it’s distracting. Looks so good on you. Makes it real hard to focus on anything else.”

Peter’s face ignited beneath the mask.

Heat rushed south without permission; his dick twitched hard against the reinforced fabric, suddenly half-hard and trapped, the suit feeling impossibly tighter across his hips and thighs. His heart hammered so violently he was sure the lenses of his mask were fogging.

“You don’t know that,” he managed, voice rough.
MJ’s mouth curved into a small, knowing smirk, full lips pulling with quiet confidence. “Don’t I?”
He stepped in again close enough now that Peter could feel the heat rolling off his body, smell the clean sweat and faint cologne. Spider-Man held his ground.

Barely.

Then MJ closed the last inch.

Spider-Man actually stepped back.

It was small. Barely a shuffle.

But it happened.

And MJ saw it.

Of course he did.

The shift was immediately subtle, electric. MJ didn’t chase. He simply let the new distance sit there, let Spider-Man feel the loss of control like a live wire against his skin.

“See?” MJ murmured, soft and dangerous. “There it is.”

Before Peter could answer, MJ reached out and caught his wrist.

Firm.

Controlled.

Not aggressive.

certain.

Peter’s entire body locked up. The grip was warm and strong against his gloved hand, thumb pressing lightly over the pulse point where his heart was racing out of control.

The suit suddenly felt like it was shrinking, every inch of spandex clinging to his flushed skin, his cock now fully interested and straining noticeably against the front. He prayed the dim light hid it. He prayed harder that MJ hadn’t already noticed.

MJ didn’t let go. His gaze stayed locked on the white lenses of the mask, steady and unreadable.
“You’re not as hard to read as you think.”
The words landed quiet, but they hit like a punch to the sternum.

Peter’s breath stuttered. Because that wasn’t just about tonight. It was about every alley, every rooftop, every too-long look. The way he always showed up too fast. Too precise. For the same person.

MJ’s thumb brushed once slowly , almost absent over the inside of Peter’s wrist, right where the suit ended and skin began. A tiny spark of skin-on-skin that made Peter’s knees want to buckle.

“You keep acting like this is random,” MJ added, softer now, voice laced with something darker, “like you don’t already know how this goes… like you don’t feel it too.”

Peter swallowed hard. He tried to pull his wrist free.
Didn’t.

Not right away.

Because some treacherous part of him, the part currently throbbing hot and heavy in his suit didn’t want to.

That was the problem.

This wasn’t him managing the situation anymore.
MJ was.

Peter finally wrenched his arm back, creating space that felt necessary even if it came a second too late. His voice came out tighter, almost cracked. “You should go.”

MJ let him.

Didn’t chase.

Didn’t argue.

He just watched, that same calm, knowing look now edged with quiet confirmation.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

“I will.”

A beat.

Then, just barely, like he couldn’t resist:
“See you around, Spider-Man… suit and all.”

The name and the tiny flirtatious emphasis — shouldn’t have felt different.

It did.

Peter didn’t stay.

Couldn’t.

He was out in a heartbeat, swinging wildly into the night, web-lines snapping faster than necessary, breath ragged, blood still roaring in his ears and lower.

Because something had just shifted.

Not subtly.

All at once.

And the worst part?

It didn’t stop when the mask came off.

The next afternoon on campus, nothing had changed.

And everything had.

MJ leaned against the table outside the student center, laughing low and easy with a friend, relaxed, effortless, his rich deep brown skin glowing warm under the afternoon sun. He’d traded the jersey for a soft gray hoodie that clung shamelessly to every line of his broad, athletic frame stretched tight across his chest, sleeves pushed up to show the corded muscle of his forearms, the fabric hanging just low enough to tease the powerful cut of his hips.

But when his eyes flicked up and landed on Peter plain, awkward, glasses-wearing Peter that same look was waiting.

Sharp.

Knowing.

Focused.

Exactly the same as it had been in the dim storage room.

Peter’s stomach dropped. His face flushed hot all over again, the memory of MJ’s grip, his voice, his eyes tracing the suit tracing him flooding back in vivid color. His dick gave another helpless twitch at the phantom praise.

There was no difference.

Not in how MJ looked at him.

Not in how he spoke.

Softer with Peter, almost fond, but still laced with that same teasing edge.

Not in the way he held eye contact just a second too long, or let his gaze drift downward like he was remembering exactly how the spandex had looked.
Peter tried desperately to keep the two lives separate.

Spider-Man and Peter Parker.

Two masks.

Two versions.

Safe. Controlled. Contained.

MJ didn’t let him.

Every glance blurred the line.

Every word felt like it was peeling another layer away.

And Peter was starting to feel seen straight through.

Like there was no version of him that MJ wasn’t already reading perfectly.

He tried to ignore it, push it down.

Tried to tell himself he still had control.

But the truth sat heavier every day.

Quieter.

Impossible to shake.

MJ wasn’t guessing.

Wasn’t hoping.

Wasn’t accidentally getting too close.He was closing in deliberately, patiently, one private room at a time.And Peter…Peter was running out of places to hide.

It started small.

A Monday morning in the library stacks. Peter was reaching for a book on the top shelf when MJ appeared beside him, close enough that their arms brushed. MJ’s fingers grazed the back of Peter’s hand just a second too long as he “accidentally” took the same book.

“Oops,” MJ murmured, voice low and soft, eyes locked on Peter’s. “Didn’t mean to crowd you, Parker.”

Peter’s skin tingled where they’d touched. He swallowed. “No problem.”

MJ smiled, slow. “Good. Wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

He walked away without looking at the group of girls giggling a few aisles over who had clearly been trying to catch his attention.

Tuesday afternoon, the campus coffee shop.
Peter was waiting in line when MJ slid in behind him, chest nearly brushing his back. The heat of MJ’s body radiated through Peter’s thin shirt.

“Still thinking about those pictures?” MJ asked, voice quiet enough that only Peter could hear. “Or are you too busy avoiding me?”

Peter’s pulse spiked. “I’m not avoiding-”

MJ’s hand rested lightly on the small of his back for half a second as he leaned in to read the menu board. “Relax. I can wait.”

A girl from MJ’s econ class waved from across the room, calling his name brightly. MJ didn’t even glance her way. His focus stayed on Peter, brown eyes steady and knowing.

Wednesday night,They passed each other on the narrow path. Peter tried to step aside. MJ didn’t.
Their shoulders brushed, then their hips. For one electric second, MJ’s thigh pressed firmly against the side of Peter’s leg, warm, solid, deliberate. Peter felt the hard muscle, the heat, the way MJ’s body seemed built to fit against his.

“Careful, Parker,” MJ said softly, voice laced with something darker. “You keep running into me like this… people might talk.”

Peter’s cock thickened in his jeans before he could stop it. He kept walking, face burning, heart racing.
MJ kept walking too straight past a cluster of girls who turned to watch him, one of them calling out a flirty “Hey, MJ!” He didn’t even turn his head.

By Thursday, Peter was unraveling.

He tried to keep the lines clean.

Peter Parker: shy, clumsy, safe.

Spider-Man: distant, masked, in control.

But MJ blurred them mercilessly.

With Peter he was softer teasing, almost gentle, voice low and warm like he was coaxing a secret out of him.

With Spider-Man he was sharper, direct, provocative, eyes dragging over the suit like he wanted to trace every seam with his tongue.

Yet the look was identical.

Hungry.

Certain.

Like he was seeing the same man underneath.
Every “accidental” touch lasted a beat too long.

Every glance felt like fingers sliding under clothes.
Peter’s body betrayed him constantly cock half-hard whenever MJ was near, suit feeling too tight on patrol, skin prickling with phantom heat.
He was being seen through.

Completely.

And he was running out of ways to hide.

The breaking point came three nights later.
MJ did it again.

This time he waited until well after midnight on a quiet rooftop downtown high enough for privacy, low enough that the city lights still painted everything in amber and neon.

No immediate danger. No thugs. Just MJ standing at the edge, jacket open, deep brown skin catching the glow, looking like he’d climbed up there on purpose.

Spider-Man dropped down hard, frustration crackling through the suit.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Peter said, voice tight, modulated edge sharp. “It’s not safe. One of these nights I might not make it in time.”

MJ turned slowly, calm as ever.

“Then take me somewhere I can’t get hurt,” he replied, simple and direct. No teasing smile this time. No jokes. Just steady dark eyes and a voice that left no room for argument. “Somewhere private. Just us. No distractions. No one watching.”
Peter’s spider-sense hummed not with danger, but with something heavier.

Something inevitable.

He should have said no.

Instead he stepped closer, webbed an arm around MJ’s waist, and swung.

They landed on the roof of an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the river, high walls, no windows facing them, nothing but open sky and the distant hum of the city. Private. Isolated. The kind of place no one would stumble upon.

Peter let go and stepped back, mask lenses narrowed.

The moment they were alone, the air thickened.

No jokes.

No easy outs.

Peter’s chest heaved under the suit. His hands clenched at his sides.

“How long have you known?”

The words tore out of him, raw and tight.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and electric.

MJ didn’t look away.

Didn’t blink.

“Long enough.”

Giving Peter every chance to move away… but already knowing he wouldn’t.

The space between them shrank until Peter could feel the warmth radiating off MJ’s broad chest, could smell the faint trace of his skin and cologne. MJ’s dark eyes dropped to Peter’s masked face, then lower tracing the lines of the suit, the visible bulge that had grown harder under his stare.

“You’ve been running from this for weeks,” MJ murmured, voice low and rough with want. “But I’m done pretending I don’t see you, Parker.” 

He lifted one hand, hovering just inches from Peter’s chest, close enough that the heat of his palm bled through the suit.

“So tell me… how much longer are you gonna keep lying to yourself?”

The erotic tension crackled in the air like static before a storm thick, undeniable, and seconds away from breaking.

Peter stood frozen, heart slamming, cock throbbing painfully against the spandex, every inch of him screaming that the line had finally been crossed.
And this time… there was nowhere left to swing away to.

Peter’s breath came faster, the suit suddenly suffocating, his cock already stirring traitorously against the tight fabric at the memory of MJ’s grip on his wrist, the heat of his body, the way his voice dropped when he talked about the suit.

MJ stepped closer.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Giving Peter every chance to move away… but already knowing he wouldn’t.

The city lights below painted long neon streaks across the rooftop concrete, turning the abandoned warehouse into a private stage under the open sky.Wind whispered over the edge, carrying the distant hum of traffic and sirens, but up here it was just them isolated, electric, inevitable.

MJ’s eyes dropped to Peter’s masked face, then lower tracing the lines of the suit, the visible bulge that had grown harder under his stare.

“He lifted one hand, fingers brushing the edge of the mask. Peter’s breath hitched. MJ didn’t ask, he simply hooked two fingers under the fabric at Peter’s chin and tugged it upward, just enough to bare his mouth and nose. The cool night air kissed Peter’s flushed pink lips.

MJ leaned in, slow and seductive, eyes half-lidded. Their mouths met in a deep, filthy kiss. MJ’s tongue slid against Peter’s, claiming and hungry, sucking on his bottom lip before pulling back just enough to whisper hot against his mouth.

“Keep the suit on,” he said, voice low and commanding. “I want you exactly like this, my masked little hero, all wrapped up tight for me. Rip a hole for that big dick… and let me take care of the rest.”

Peter moaned helplessly as he obeyed, gloved fingers tearing a neat seam right over his groin. His cock sprang free nine thick, veiny inches, flushed dark and already leaking at the tip, throbbing hard into the open air.

MJ’s eyes darkened with hunger. “Fuck, look at you. So thick and hard for me already.” 

He dropped to his knees right there on the rooftop, the city lights painting his deep brown skin in gold and shadow. The concrete was cool under his knees, but MJ didn’t care. He wrapped one strong hand around the base of Peter’s cock, stroking slowly, thumb circling the slick head as he looked up through his lashes.

“I’ve been plotting on you since that first game you attended ,” MJ confessed, voice husky and raw, lips brushing the leaking tip. “Saw you courtside with that camera, all focused and shy, and I knew I had to have you. I knew I had to make you mine. Every save, every rooftop, every touch I set it up. I needed you desperate for me.”

Then he leaned in and swallowed Peter down in one smooth, greedy motion.

Peter’s head snapped back, a broken groan tearing from his throat as the wet heat engulfed him. MJ took him to the root like it was nothing, throat relaxing around every inch until his nose pressed flush against the torn suit fabric. He held there, throat fluttering and squeezing, eyes watering but never breaking contact.

The blowjob was slow and devastatingly thorough. MJ pulled back inch by inch, tongue dragging heavily along the underside, swirling around the head before sinking down again deeper, wetter, filthier. Spit poured from the corners of his mouth, dripping in thick strings down Peter’s shaft and over his balls. He bobbed faster, hollowing his cheeks, sucking hard on every upstroke while his hand twisted around the base, stroking what his throat couldn’t take.

“Fuck.. MJ..” Peter gasped, gloved fingers tangling in MJ’s fade, hips twitching but never thrusting. He was trying so hard to stay in control, to be good, but the wet, obscene sounds of MJ choking on his cock were unraveling him.

MJ pulled off just long enough to catch a breath, lips shiny and swollen, a thick strand of spit still connecting them to the pulsing head. “Nine inches of perfect cock and it’s all mine,” he growled, voice wrecked. “You’re leaking so much down my throat… taste so fucking good. Keep moaning for me, baby. I want to hear how bad you need this.”
He dove back down, taking Peter even deeper, throat convulsing around him in rhythmic swallows.

The blowjob stretched on long, sloppy minutes of pure worship. MJ alternated between slow, torturous drags of his tongue and fast, greedy bobs that made wet, filthy noises echo across the rooftop. Spit ran freely down Peter’s thighs, soaking the suit. MJ’s hand pumped the base in perfect time with his mouth, twisting on every upstroke, thumb pressing firmly against the sensitive vein underneath.

Peter’s knees shook. The city lights blurred above him. “Please.. you’re taking me so deep… I-I want to make you feel good too. Fuck, MJ, your mouth-”

MJ hummed around him, the vibration shooting straight to Peter’s balls, then pulled off with a wet pop. A thick string of spit and precum stretched between his lips and Peter’s glistening cock.

“Get on your knees,” MJ ordered, voice low and rough. “I want that mouth on my ass.”

Peter dropped instantly.

MJ turned, braced his hands on the low wall, and shoved his jeans down just enough to bare the perfect of his ass. Peter buried his face between those firm cheeks without hesitation, tongue flat and eager as he licked a long, messy stripe from MJ’s heavy big balls all the way up to his tight hole.

“Shit!! yeah, just like that,” MJ groaned, pushing back against Peter’s mouth. “Get your tongue inside me. Make it wet and sloppy.”

Peter moaned loudly into him, licking and sucking with desperate hunger, tongue fucking into MJ’s hole in wet, filthy strokes.

Spit ran down his chin as he ate him out like he was starving for it.

MJ rocked back against his face, voice rough with pleasure. “Fuck, you’re so good with your tongue. Keep going, open me up for that big dick.”
When MJ finally pulled away, Peter was panting, lips glossy, eyes glassy with need.

“On your back,” MJ ordered, already straddling him.

He shoved Peter down onto the rooftop floor, then reached back to line up the thick head of Peter’s cock against his spit-slick hole. MJ sank down slowly, taking every inch until his ass was flush against Peter’s hips, stretched tight around his nine-inch length.

“Fuuuck,” MJ hissed, head tipping back. “So big… stretching me so fucking good.”

He started riding hard powerful, controlled strokes, ass bouncing as he fucked himself on Peter’s cock. The wet slap of skin echoed across the rooftop with every downward thrust.

Peter’s gloved hands gripped MJ’s waist, holding on while MJ used him. “MJ..god, you feel incredible… so tight around me. Tell me what you need.. I’ll give you anything.”

“Keep moaning for me,” MJ panted, slamming down harder, clenching tight on every stroke. “I love how you sound when I’m riding you. This dick is so fucking thick… feels perfect inside me.”

Peter’s moans turned broken and submissive, hips twitching up to meet every punishing thrust. MJ leaned forward, one hand on Peter’s chest, the other reaching back to spread himself wider so Peter could watch his cock disappear into that juicy plump ass again and again.

“You’re gonna make me come just like this,” MJ growled, grinding down in filthy circles. “Gonna ride you until I’m dripping. You want that? Want to feel me lose it all over your cock?”

“Yes… please,” Peter whimpered. “Come for me… I need to feel you.”

MJ’s rhythm turned brutal, ass clenching rhythmically as he chased his orgasm. When he finally came, he slammed down hard, burying Peter to the hilt.

“Fuck!! I’m coming!!” MJ groaned, thick shots of hot cum shooting across Peter’s suited chest and abs in messy, powerful spurts, painting the red and blue fabric white. Some even splashed up toward the torn edge of the mask. His hole pulsed and clenched viciously around Peter’s cock, milking him.

Peter followed right after, hips jerking helplessly as he spilled deep inside MJ, thick pulses of cum flooding his ass until it started leaking out around his cock with every twitch.

They stayed locked together, breathing hard under the night sky.

MJ leaned down, pressing a slow, passionate kiss to Peter’s exposed lips, He didn’t need the mask to feel exposed.

Not when MJ had been seeing him the whole time.

They stayed locked together, breathing hard under the night sky. MJ’s cum was still warm and sticky across Peter’s suited chest, slowly cooling against the fabric. Peter’s own release pulsed deep inside him, leaking out around his spent cock with every lazy twitch of MJ’s hips.

The city hummed far below them distant sirens, the low rumble of traffic, the occasional honk but up here it felt like the rest of the world had faded away. Only the two of them remained, tangled on the rooftop in the afterglow.

MJ stayed seated on Peter for a long moment, gently rocking his hips in slow, lazy circles, savoring the way Peter was still buried inside him. He leaned down, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along the exposed lower half of Peter’s face the corner of his mouth, his jaw, the sensitive spot just under his ear.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” MJ whispered against his skin, voice low and rough from everything they’d just done. “Not just the suit. Not just the mask. You. All of you.”

Peter let out a shaky breath, gloved hands sliding up MJ’s thighs to rest on his hips. “I thought… I was hiding it so well.”

MJ chuckled softly, the sound warm and fond. He finally lifted himself off Peter’s cock with a wet, filthy sound, both of them hissing at the loss. Cum dripped from MJ’s hole onto the torn suit as he settled beside Peter on the concrete, one leg thrown casually over Peter’s thigh.

“You were never hiding from me,” he said, tracing a finger through the mess he’d left on Peter’s chest, smearing it across the red spider emblem. “The night you grabbed my ass on that landing. I Felt how nervous you were… how hard you got. I knew then I was going to ruin you for anyone else.”

Peter’s face burned beneath the mask, but he didn’t pull away. Instead he turned his head, pressing his forehead against MJ’s shoulder. “This is insane. You’re insane.”

“Mm. Maybe.” MJ’s hand slid down, lazily stroking Peter’s softening cock, spreading their mixed fluids along the length. “But you like it. You like me having you like this..suit on, completely at my mercy.”

Peter let out a weak, embarrassed moan, hips twitching into the touch despite how spent he was.

“Yeah… I do.”

They lay there in comfortable silence for a while, the cool night air brushing over sweat-damp skin and cum-streaked suit. Eventually MJ sat up, pulling his jeans back into place with unhurried movements. He looked down at Peter sprawled, marked, claimed and his expression softened into something dangerously tender.

“Next time,” MJ said quietly, “I want you to take the mask off completely. I want to see your face when I ride you. But for now…You can keep hiding behind this. As long as you keep coming back to me.”

Peter swallowed, heart still racing. “I don’t think I could stop even if I tried.”

MJ smirked, that same knowing, sassy curve of his lips. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done with you, Parker.”

MJ stood, offering a hand to help Peter up. Once they were both on their feet, he reached up and gently lifted his mask halfway, just enough to bare his lips and the tip of his nose. His fingers lingered for a second on the warm skin of Peter's cheek, then he pulled him in for one last slow, deep kiss, the kind that promised many more nights like this.

“Get home safe, Spider-Man,” he murmured against Peter’s lips. “And text me tomorrow. We still have those pictures to look at… among other things.”

With that, MJ turned and headed toward the fire escape, jogging away with that effortless confidence. He didn’t look back.. he didn’t need to.

Peter stood there for a long moment, suit torn and cum-stained, body buzzing, heart fuller than it had any right to be. He touched the mask where MJ’s fingers had been, a small, dazed smile tugging at his lips beneath the fabric.

With a soft thwip, Peter shot a web line into the night and swung away, the city lights blurring beneath him.

For the first time in weeks, the swing felt lighter.
He already knew he’d be back tomorrow.  

Before you go…

I’ve got something else for you.

🐾 Nine Lives, One Night is already up.

A thief who doesn’t run.  
A hero who hesitates when it matters most.  
And a chase that stops feeling like justice… and starts feeling personal.

What begins as a game of control turns into something sharper, messier—  
where every move is calculated, every touch means more than it should…  
and the line between catching him and wanting him disappears completely.

Because some nights don’t end when the sirens fade.

Some follow you into daylight.  
Into classrooms.  
Into the moment you realize you were never the one in control.

If you thought this was intense…

You’re not ready for what happens when he comes back.

Go read it 👀