#jeanne Can break someone's arm just by clenching her hand i KNOW IT!!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tsuki-chibi · 4 years

Text

BlackBerries (Adrinette April) Day 11: Scarf Reveal

Or see it on AO3: Blackberries

-------

"Are you okay, Sabrina?" Marinette asked anxiously, wrapping an arm around Sabrina's waist as she and the rest of the class hurried down the hall. Sabrina staggered a little, and Kim came to Sabrina's other side and slipped her arm around his neck, helping to support Sabrina's weight. Marinette shot him a grateful look.

"I feel funny," Sabrina said, her eyes looking a little glassy. The grey kiss mark on her forehead stood out starkly against her paling skin. It was obviously doing something to her, but what?

"Everyone downstairs!" Marinette called out. There wasn't enough space for her, Kim and Sabrina to walk down the steps together, so Marinette went down first and let Kim help Sabrina down. As they got to the first floor, Marinette glanced around to see who was missing. Her heart thudded in her chest as she realized that Alya, Nino, Lila and Chloé were all gone. She hadn't even noticed them breaking away and so had no way of knowing where or when they'd gone.

"What do we do?" Rose said, clasping her hands anxiously in front of her chest. Out of the corner of her eye, Marinette saw Marc and Aurore running out the front door of the school and knew they had the right idea.

"We need to run," Marinette declared.

'Are you okay,' Adrien thought to her. He could feel her panic. Marinette pushed a wave of reassurance back at him and spoke out loud.

"We have to get away from the school as long as Zombizou is still here," she said. "We should - Sabrina?!"

Sabrina let out a low groan from where she had doubled over, slowly sliding to her knees with her hands clasped across her stomach. "I don't feel good," she whined, lifting her head. Marinette took a couple of steps towards her before stopping as a purple haze flashed over Sabrina's eyes.

"Sabrina?" she whispered.

"Kissou!" Sabrina shouted suddenly, leaping at Kim. Kim let out a screech as she tackled him to the floor and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He managed to swat her away, but the damage had been done and it was much quicker this time. In a matter of seconds, Kim's eyes flashed purple just like Sabrina's had and the kiss mark faded from his cheek. He sat up.

"Run!" Marinette shrieked, jumping backwards. "Don't let them kiss you!" She raced towards the front doors of the school, glancing over her shoulder. Her heart ached as she saw Kim pounce on Nathaniel and Sabrina throw herself at Mylène. Ivan yelled and went back.

"Marinette, come on! You can't help them!" Alix grabbed her arm and literally dragged her out the doors. Juleka shoved them shut. Marinette looked around at her remaining classmates. Max and Rose both looked petrified.

"It'll be okay. We just have to wait for Ladybug and Chat Noir to come," Max said breathlessly, shoving his glasses up on his nose. "They should be here soon."

'No, they won't,' Marinette thought, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. This was maddening in a way that she hadn't anticipated. She wanted to transform. She wanted to challenge Zombizou. She wanted to protect her friends. But she couldn't.

'You need to find someplace safe,' Adrien thought. 'Somewhere that Zombizou won’t get to you or to them. You can do that much.'

"Right," Marinette said out loud. "We need to get away from here. They're going to -"

The doors slammed open. Marinette gaped as about a dozen students swarmed out chanting "Kissou". She couldn't believe how fast this was spreading! She grabbed Rose's hand and took off across the yard, heading for the gates. If she were Ladybug, she'd slam them shut and find something to tie them shut to contain the infection. But regular old Marinette didn't have the luxury of increased speed right now. All she could do was run across the street and down the block towards the bakery, trying to ignore the sounds of screams behind her.

"Maman, Papa!" Marinette burst into the bakery, startling her maman and the handful of customers inside.

"Marinette, what are you doing?" Sabine exclaimed.

"There's an akuma!" Rose cried.

"People are turning into zombies!" Alix shouted.

"We need to barricade the door!" Max said, stepping aside for Alix. Then he pulled the door shut and locked it, backing away from it.

Sabine hurried out from behind the counter over to the window, peering out. She gasped at the sight of what was going on. "Oh my goodness! Okay, that's it. No one is leaving the bakery until further notice," she declared. "We're shutting the lights off. Everyone get in the back. We'll pretend that no one is here. Hopefully, that will make them pass by the bakery without coming in."

"Come on," Marinette said, beckoning to her classmates. While Sabine took the customers into the storage room of the bakery and went to tell Tom what was going on, Marinette ushered her friends upstairs to the living room. She could tell that they were all freaked out, and it made her feel a little better to put another door between them and what was going on outside.

"This is so scary," Rose said shakily, leaning into Juleka.

"There's never been an akuma that could infect people like this," Juleka whispered.

Marinette looked around at their scared faces, heart twisting. 'This is horrible,' she thought. 'I hate the fact that I just have to sit here and do nothing! How do people stand this?'

'They've all been like this since the beginning,' Adrien thought. 'They don't know what it's like to be able to do something about the akuma. Horrible as it is to say, they're using to sitting back and letting Ladybug and Chat Noir do all the work.'

He sounded a little distracted, so Marinette took a quick peek through his eyes and realized that he was strutting down a runway. Jeanne was walking beside him, and Adrien was concentrating on making sure that they were walking perfectly in sync. It was harder to do than she would have guessed. Particularly since, when they got to the end of the walkway, Jeanne slipped her scarf down to her elbows to reveal the design of her dress. At the same time, Adrien took his jacket off to show the embroidery on his shirt. Both movements had to be perfectly synchronized.

"Let's turn the television on and see what's going on," Alix suggested, picking up the remote.

" - no sign of Ladybug or Chat Noir yet," Nadja Chamack was saying. "But -" She let out a shriek as she was tackled by someone.

"Shit," Alix whispered.

"Where is Ladybug?" Rose wailed, covering her face. "Why isn't she out there stopping this?"

Guilt hit Marinette so hard that her knees went weak and she sank onto the sofa. She opened her mouth to apologize but stopped. What good was there in apologizing? Her friends wouldn't understand why she was apologizing, and it wasn't like she could tell them that she had been Ladybug. They would only want to know why she wasn't Ladybug anymore. The thought of having to admit that she couldn't protect the city anymore was paralyzing. She closed her mouth and clenched her hands into fists, digging her nails into her palms.

'Shit!' Adrien thought.

'What? What is it?!' Marinette thought, looking through his eyes again. The doors had burst open and an intern was standing there, a very familiar glazed look in her eyes.

‘The whole city is going to end up a zombie at this rate,' Adrien thought grimly, his hand shooting out to catch Jeanne's arm. 'Whatever the hell Fu is planning to do, he need to do it fast.'

'We're watching the news. Nothing is happening,' Marinette thought.

'I hope that Fu didn't get kissed,' Adrien thought; he pulled Jeanne back down the walkway and through the curtains at the end. Backstage was teaming with people and it was impossible to know who was a zombie and who wasn't. Adrien changed course, heading towards the emergency exit with Jeanne and a few other models right behind him.

A jolt of pure horror shot through Marinette. 'Oh my god, I didn't even think of that!' she thought, clasping a hand over her mouth. 'What do we do?'

'I don't know. We don't even have a phone number to call him,' Adrien thought regretfully. 'I hope that's not the case.'

'Should we try to get to his shop?' Marinette thought.

'What if we get kissed too?' Adrien thought, worry churning in his stomach. ‘Then there would be no one who knows how the miraculous work except for Hawkmoth…’

Marinette ground her teeth together in frustration. 'Crap. I really hope Fu has already given the Ladybug and Black Cat miraculous to someone, and that whoever it is, is just taking their time,' she thought. It had been six days since Fu had taken their miraculous. Surely that was enough time to identify two more candidates. But then again, they hadn't seen anything on the news about a new Ladybug and Chat Noir... and Fu hadn't given her and Adrien their miraculouses until Stoneheart attacked...

If no new heroes showed up, what were they going to do?

#miraculous ladybug #marinette dupain-cheng #adrien agreste #zombizou #adrienette #blackberries #soulmate au #fruitful verse #adrinetteapril2020

82 notes · View notes

bun-writes-things · 4 years

Text

Pairing: France x Hungary set during WW1

Cross posted from my deviantart account

Hungary had her eyes closed as they danced. A slow, mournful dance as the music played in the background. She could not believe that this was happening. Already her dear Austria was falling and she would too, if she didn't leave him. The man she danced with seemed to not mind her being distracted, but the numbing movement of dancing seemed to do little to ease her mind Francis hummed to himself as he danced with her. He was well acquainted with the tune. They spun around the floor together. Elizaveta in his arms was quiet. Her steps were precise but something that should be there wasn't: Connection to the dance. There was something going on up in her mind. "Ma cher?" "Hmm?" she asked, eyes opening to look into his. She had pushed away the thoughts that plagued her, she refused to let him know how much this decision hurt her.

"What is it?" Her voice was painfully kept even. The sudden heaviness of the violins seemed to cause a shiver to go through her spine as they moved in time to the music, the pace a slight faster then it was before. "You were quiet... as if there was something wrong." He whirled her around gently, watching the Hungarian with curious blue eyes. "What is on your mind, ma cher? You know I am far from able to read you. However, I am sure if I could, you would be better than the most interesting book in my library." "I am just thinking, that's all," she said gently, letting herself be whirled around. It was better to not think about it, not thinking of how heart broken he would be, her dear Roderich. But how could she support him when her government was failing? "It is nothing." The finality in her voice said more then should be needed. Francis listened to her. "I see. If that is what you say, Elizaveta." He leaned down to kiss her cheek. That was not the end of it and he knew that there ware more to this than Elizaveta let on. "But do know... if you need to talk to someone, I am here." "Talk?" She asked, anger filling her with a poison she felt only when it came to Romania. "How can I talk when I am betraying someone I love!" She started, voice rising barely above a loud indoor voice as she clenched his hand tighter, the other gripping his shoulder as they stopped dancing. The green dress she wore shimmered in the lighting of chandeliers that illuminated the room. It was a familiar dress she wore once before, long ago. The emotions attached to it only seemed to be heightened as they stood still. How could François know that she wore a dress like this once upon a time? The Frenchman raised an eyebrow as the music continued to swirl around their stationary forms. He had certainly not expected that. "You have chosen to betray Roderich, the man you are married to?" he asked, more to make sure that he had heard her correctly. "On what grounds?" Sure he had been becoming rather fond of the woman, but he had not pressured her to make this choice, not at all even if he did need her help. "My people..." she started. "I...I can't support him anymore not at the same time as my people. They want to break away and..." she seemed to go quiet, eyes cast down to the ground, fighting back tears. "I do not know if he'll ever recover but we can't win this war...we're loosing. I don't want to watch him fall. Besides he...we're not on the best terms either..." Francis nodded slowly as they stood there in the middle of the polished wooden floor. "I see... But if you are weak and you break from him, all strength he can offer you, no matter how small, is lost. You will be even weaker alone. What will you do then, ma cher?" "I will align with you." she said resting her head on his chest. "I'll join the allies. I just want this war to be over with. I can't handle the stress of it anymore. Even if..." her voice wavered then as she shook silently. The thought of actually switching over scared her but not as much as the hurt in his eyes. "...even if I will never be able to see him again." "Oh, ma cher..." The other said, removing himself from the proper position for their dancing and embracing the woman. She did not need frivolity. She needed comforting, and it was his job to do it. "Do not speak of it like that. I am sure that no matter what you do, he will understand, and that the two of you will see each other again. God works in wonderful and mysterious ways, after all." "You have no idea..." she whispered hotly, tears spilling from her eyes. "You don't understand..." she clung to him tighter. The music ebbed around them like a sea, crashing against them, bringing her emotions to a fevered pitch. Damn music. "I do not understand?" he repeated. The words angered him. But he would not raise his voice to a lady. "Non. I suppose you are right. I watched the one woman I loved the most be murdered by the man I hate the most. I am thought of as nothing but extra space when it comes to matter of war. My country and my people are walked over daily as per the whims of others, and I do not have anyone to share the burden of loss with. No, ma cher. I do not understand." Elizaveta looked up at him before sighing, her eyes tired. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean it...I'm sorry." she said breaking away. "Forgive me..." He sighed and looked away from her. Having brought up the memory of Jeanne... he almost wished he had not. The pain of her death still weighed heavily on his heart. "Oui... When one is in turmoil, it is easy to say harsh things that no one means." However, he meant every word. "I know..." she said looking away. "I ... we're both hurting it seems, aren't we?" "Unfortunately." He looked at her now that she was looking away. For some reason Francis couldn't bring himself to making eye contact with this young beauty that was in pieces in his arms. "We both are." "Will you be waiting for me...when I tell him?" She asked, suddenly scared again, grabbing his hand, looking at him. Green looking into sapphire. "Please...." She leaned in to him, lifting herself onto her tiptoes, brushing their lips together. "Please... " He knew he would have said yes, even if Elizaveta weren’t on the verge of tears and kissing him. "Oui..." Francis breathed before closing the distance between their lips. There was no way he could deny her, no matter the circumstance. "I shall be waiting for you." Thank you," she said returning the kiss, pulling from him as she buried her face into his neck. "Thank you" "Non, ma cher... merci beaucoup..." he replied, whispering into her honey-brown locks, closing sapphire eyes sot hat all that existed in this world was them and the music. No war, nothing but them. "You are the one who deserved thanks." "Why?" She asked. "Why do I?" Green eyes looked to him with confusion. Why did she deserve the thanks? What for? "Because, Elizaveta... you could have been like all the others. To let me think I had someone and then just disappear. But non... you are wanting me to wait for you when you are done. You have... no idea how much that means to me." "I am scared to be alone. I...you...will not tell will you?" she asked, looking desperate. "What I'm going to do...is something that I...that will be hard." He nodded. "Oui, it will be hard. But I will be with you every step of the way. And I would never tell." Francis kissed her forehead. "I will stay by your side." "FRancis...." The following night Elizaveta, the nation of Hungary, burned the documented which aligned her to Austria. It was the begining of a downfall for an empire that would no longer be. 'I'm sorry...God please forgive me.'

#france x hungary #my writing

2 notes · View notes

forasecondtherewedwon · 4 years

Note

Hi for the smutty prompts can you do number 12 please. I love you're writing by the way 💕

Thank you, trio of anons!! I didn’t do a Halloween party as all my Halloween writing energy went into my 31 Days of Spideychelle. What these prompts did make me think of was Fight Club… so it’s a Fight Club AU!

Queens Club

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle)Rating: E/NSFW - warning: consensual violenceWord count: 3002

12. “Are you going to eye-fuck me all night or are you going to do something about it?”

43. “The things I want to do to you, baby.”

Warped is how it feels to live in a progressive city within a conservative country. MJ marches and rallies and volunteers her time with organizations whose goals she believes in. She looks around at these events and sees a youthful, diverse crowd hungry for equal pay, thirsty for renewable energy initiatives. She smiles, handing donated school supplies to underprivileged kids, donated canned goods to Queens’s homeless, donated fuck-yous from the disgustingly, ceaselessly rich to the people their hoarded wealth keeps poor. MJ wants to do more, so she does it, and things don’t change. Things. Don’t. Change.

She wants to pick a fight.

It’s comin’ on winter―an even bleaker time than the manic-depressive Christmas Joni Mitchell alluded to―and the impact of the latest article MJ’s submitted to an online zine that always takes her pieces feels like it’ll last about as long as the first ashy snowfall. Where’s the passion, she wanted them to ask. Maybe they could grab her by her shoulders and shake until her neck snaps while they’re at it. Disillusionment wasn’t supposed to come this soon for the kid who wore Jeanne d’Arc Ts in high school. The ‘Girl Most Likely’ of teen revolution.

The city’s greyer this year, she’d swear to it. Wishy-washy shadows and sidewalks for sleepwalkers. Getting from work to home? Nightmarish, but in, like, a boring way. The tiny, chilly apartment MJ shares with some woman who seems to keep opposite hours isn’t enough to revive her. At least the drama of scratching ‘DO NOT RESUSCITATE’ into her bedroom door is something to contemplate on the walk. Tomato soup for dinner, just to see the colour orange.

Not everyone she knows falls into the two categories of ‘sparky do-gooder’ and ‘veritable stranger’ like she’d thought. Someone is interesting. Someone has felt her clenched jaw and understood her cravings. MJ flips over the card she found shoved beneath the apartment’s front door, but the back is blank. She peruses the front again, eyes down while she lifts her dinner and gulps the last of the soup directly from the bowl. It sloshes over her upper lip, so she licks it off, feeling… Feeling. That’s enough.

The card says, ‘Fight Club.’ It provides a date and time, a familiar street address.

She’s neutral about slipping inside Midtown Tech after midnight. Whoever did the breaking in left the rear custodial door open―the one that exits into a closet-room of buckets and rolls of rough brown paper towel. There’s no sign, not that MJ had been expecting one. It isn’t parent teacher night or the heavily-postered orientation day she attended when she started college. The lights aren’t on in the hall and when she sniffs hard (adjusting to the dry air), the sound is somehow too close. She has to get out of her own body.

What she’d pictured after the anonymous invite was a gathering in someplace a little grittier than the gym. Newly refloored, by the looks of it. She could rave about the skewed divide of school funds that favours athletics, the physical over the mental, even in a specialized tech school, but she isn’t here to champion the arts.

The things MJ might need tonight could be anything; she’s filled a decrepit duffle with a water bottle, towel, and two-thirds-empty box of band-aids. It sags pathetically and she chucks it against the wall to join the dozen people―mostly men―clumped together near the fold-away bleachers.

“’Sup.” She nods to the closest person.

How long have they been doing this? Is she the only new recruit tonight? When did it begin? Why use the gym at Midtown Tech? Who found her and how? The only thing she doesn’t wonder is what the point is. He doesn’t answer any of the questions in MJ’s head and normally she doesn’t like that―curiouser and skepticaler by nature―but the conviction in his powerful-looking shoulders and grounded posture is something she’s never seen before. The phrase is bullshit, except the air does change when he moves through the circle they’ve become without her noticing. Suddenly, MJ cares about presenting herself like she’s supposed to be here.

There are rules, blah, blah, blah, and his name is Spider-Man.

The spectacle engages her adrenaline; she has to remind herself that neither of the men swinging furious amateur punches is going to come for her. It’s the first match of the night and watching is part of what Figh―is what this is about. The noise of a nose breaking is something MJ knows now. The smear of freshly-escaped blood across both men’s knuckles is surprisingly orange. Briefly, remembering her soup, she feels a nauseated surge in her stomach.

This “Spider-Man” dude is physical. He hasn’t fought yet, but he pushes the fighters, grabs their arms and shoves them together, slaps them on the back and shrieks praise in their ears. He yanks his shirt off and when the fighters collide with him, they leave streaks from superficial wounds on his chest. Never his back, because he’s always facing them. His eyes are passionate. It’s a lot, when they land on MJ.

Two more fights and he looks at her every time he turns his head. He still hasn’t fought, but he’s jostled the crowd and the fighters enough to put a shine on his skin. When he pushes his curly brown hair off his forehead, it clings for a moment before flopping back exactly where it was. She smells him when he brushes by in front of her.

The fighters are not ‘gladiators’ because they fight for themselves, not for the approval of any authority. MJ can’t see how they can ignore the clear authority of the Club’s founder. She doesn’t bring it up.

Number four’s starting up and the guy beside her has an eye swelling shut when the shock of the evening finally numbs in her mind and she begins to get angry. All those tiny godfuckingdamn backpacks for kids who are statistically less likely to reach post-secondary because of their socioeconomic backgrounds. MJ could swear she’s handed out a thousand. And the politicians? And the rich? And the rich? Spider-Man slides by at her back, knocking into her and she whips her head around to stare while he stares right on back, moving away around the ring of Last Resorters.

Across from her―a trio beating the shit out of each other in between (it isn’t exactly the fish tank meet-cute of Romeo + Juliet)―Spider-Man stares, gaze so forceful it’s like he thinks he can yank her over there, make her step into danger like walking into traffic or off the edge of a cliff. He grins.

She shoulders through the others, circling. The action is deliberate and no one gets pissed, no one scoffs or swears or flips her off. The last person standing there between her and her objective MJ bodily propels into the fight. And she’s looking a little lower than level to lock eyes with Spider-Man. He crosses his arms, she grinds her teeth.

“Are you going to eye-fuck me all night,” MJ demands, “or are you going to do something about it?”

When he starts to laugh, voices roaring up around them after a wretched pop that could’ve been a shoulder, a finger, or a cheekbone (she’s still learning the chords for the music of injury), she slaps him hard across the face. He does react, head swinging sideways on her follow-through, but he smiles at her again.

“Never the flat of the hand,” Spider-Man instructs, leaning towards her. “But we’ll train you out of that. See, what you want… what you want is a nice closed fist.”

He makes one around her ponytail, arm shooting out before she has a chance to stop him―if she had any idea how to do that―and drags her by it, sideways into the combat space.

“MOVE YOUR ASSES,” he orders, kicking a guy in the knee who then has to limp to the observers. “You picked the match,” he says to her, winding MJ’s hair around his fist to heighten the tug on her scalp, “so fight me.”

Abruptly, he frees her hair and she hurls her shoulder into his chest.

“You fucking started it, bitch.”

MJ never says that word, not as an endearment for friends (like she has a lot of those) or to reclaim control of a term used to harass women. Holding it in her mouth has always made her sick. Guess she just figuratively barfed on Spider-Man.

He staggers, then pushes her back. MJ’s feet are completely wrong and she falls on her ass.

“Up,” he says, raising his fists in front of his chin, arms flexing.

Her sneaker squeaks―she hopes it leaves a scuff―and somebody’s damp palm is pressing between her shoulder blades to steady her to her feet.

He doesn’t direct her with his words anymore after that, although MJ falls again and again. Looks like she’ll be finding out tomorrow if you can bruise your ass. Instead, he’ll tap her shoulder to make her lower it, grip her elbow to tuck it closer to her ribs. She knows this muscular guy isn’t hitting her full-strength, but it doesn’t offend her. A trip to the hospital isn’t in her plans for the near-future and he probably doesn’t want to whittle down his group. If anything, it’s likely spreading. Hence her invitation.

Blood has run from her lip to her chin by the time they unspokenly end their fight, and her stomach hurts from the multiple times Spider-Man caught MJ straight-on before she figured out she should turn to the side to present a smaller target. For now, he stands next to her and performs fifth-rate doctoring: he wipes the blood away with his thumb.

Watching other fights, MJ hadn’t understood how two people who’d just been attacking each other could then stand together like pals, comparing bruises as they bloomed. But her anger has curled up to rest and Spider-Man’s presence, his strength, makes her press her arm into his. She looks him up and down and though he studies the current fight, she’s sure he’s aware of her gaze. His stance is good considering she kneed him in the nuts.

“Did you get it all out?” he asks without turning to look at her.

MJ rolls her shoulders.

“For now. You?”

Spider-Man snorts a laugh.

“The things that I want to do to you, baby.”

It sort of comes across like a threat of violence, considering all they have just done to each other, but she happens to drop her gaze and see the front of his jeans is looking as swollen as that other poor bastard’s eye. The jeans are slouching on his hips as it is. MJ can see herself taking them off. She can see herself punching his cheek instead of slapping it this time. She can see herself doing several things now that she’s discovered her self is a self that can challenge a man to a fistfight and do damage. It feels suddenly female, drippingly female, to have stared down this shirtless madman with the anarchic, archaic hobby and introduced his groin to her knee. The partial nudity, the sweating, the concentrated eye contact―obviously, the boner. What’s not erotic about this?

“Come and fucking get it then,” she tells him, striding through the circle and nudging a winded woman aside, headed for the girls’ locker room off the gym.

Spider-Man isn’t following her. MJ is leading him.

She bangs the swinging door open and it doesn’t have time to shut before he slips inside behind her. Turning her head quickly, she wonders about kissing and decides against it. She doesn’t want this man in her face―just in her cunt.

His jeans seem to have dropped even lower; she can see the taut white band of his underwear and a couple inches of cotton below the elastic.

“I’m asking,” Spider-Man says with an earnest yet heated gaze. “I don’t out there, but here… I’m asking.”

Only he doesn’t ask anything, not a hint of uptick. Just comes up behind her―with MJ still watching over her shoulder―and scans down the length of her back with his eyes, keeping a foot of air between them. He won’t touch her without permission, is what he’s saying.

“It’s MJ, by the way,” she tells him, gripping his forearm and pulling it towards her to make his hand caress up her hip. “I’ll be coming to more of these things, so you might as well know.”

“Good.”

And they both go for the fastenings of their respective bottoms. She thinks she’ll beat him, only needing to yank the tie on her sweatpants, but Spider-Man’s a quick draw on the button and zipper of his jeans. It can’t be more than a second before they’re staggering to a wall of lockers, with her shoving her underwear down and him reaching into his and stroking his dick gratuitously before jerking down the front of his boxers.

MJ glances back at how he’s taken himself in hand and begins to rub her clit, drawing wetness forward from where their fight a few minutes ago got her going. Her hips jump. Her other hand backhands congealing blood off her lip, then goes to the locker door; she jerks her head to encourage him. She doesn’t quit circling and massaging herself as Spider-Man adjusts her hips for angle. There’s the prod of his dick as he feels out his destination―like somebody ringing a doorbell. But this guy isn’t shy. When he enters her, it’s not rough, but it’s all the way. One stroke. MJ inhales fast.

She settles into him over the first half-dozen thrusts (the paint on the pale blue metal of the locker is chipping, MJ notices through hazy eyes), sticking her ass out for a shallower angle that brings his cock closer to her g-spot. Her breaths are huffed when he finds it and his hands land suddenly and heavily on her waist, sliding down to knead her hips. She works herself faster, dragging her clit side to side under slippery fingertips. Spider-Man must be able to see her arm moving or, if not that, then definitely feel her clutching at him from the inside. He picks up the pace and she can feel how wet she is, how wet they are together.

MJ moans and shivers, frantically manipulating her clit. It’s like her noise gives him another permission―to make sounds of his own. These are gravelly grunts. Not wasteful: one on each of the thrusts he slams into her g-spot. Her arm buckles at the elbow, which is the beginning of the end.

She closes her eyes and rocks her hips backward fiercely, receiving him, receiving him, receiving him. Filling herself up. She will be unbearably full. She will be a nation unto herself. She will be… hitting a pharmacy on the way home to buy Plan B. That’s fine because everything is tingling. Her thighs are quaking and it’s possible that his hands on her hips are what’s keeping distance between her and the speckled floor. She can hear the shuffle of his jeans (around his ankles) against her sweatpants (around hers). MJ pictures her fingers rubbing at light speed. Her teeth clench until a gasp forces them and her eyes open and she’s pounding her hips down onto Spider-Man’s. These are deep, brutal movements, but she and he are fighters.

He climaxes while she still is, so she finds out she can either have orgasms that last for ages or can get off twice if someone’s drilling into her g-spot like he should be living in her nightstand and running on batteries she had to buy separately. Whatever he’s triggered, it’s fantastic and MJ grinds through it for as long as the sensation lasts.

It’s a mess and a loss when he pulls out. In the move that surprises her more than everything else she’s seen tonight put together, MJ feels him touch his forehead between her shoulder blades. Doesn’t stay for more than a few seconds, but she feels weirdly consecrated. When he backs up to hoist his clothes into place, she gives her face a smack. Shit―immediate regret and a wince as the pain in her lip pulses. She gets herself redressed and strides to one of the stalls at the far end of the locker room.

Does she buzz by him because she’s embarrassed? Nope. She stands tall, it’s just that she can only continue to do so for a limited time, until everything he just shot inside her is coating her inner thighs. No thanks.

She pees, grabbing her stomach because those muscles don’t like her tensing to urinate after Spider-Man’s punches. As she’s folding toilet paper in her hand (it’s nicer than the stuff she has at her apartment and she adds that to Midtown’s offenses, beneath the gym floor), she hears quiet speech. It’s him, talking to himself nearby. Memory aid? Post-sex pep talk? MJ is no man’s ego-stroker, but if this guy, who comes across as otherwise supremely confident, needs a little reassurance about his prowess, she can honestly praise him on the experience of tonight’s fuck.

Preparing to be complimentary but not effusive, MJ flushes and begins to swing the stall door open when she spots Spider-Man with his hands braced on one of the sinks, leaning his face close to the mirror. The red mark on his cheek could’ve been a bruise if she knew how to throw a harder punch. He’s continuing to speak softly and she stares at the bunched muscles of his back, his tight upper arms. Would she do it again (with a condom)? Yes.

“Peter, be patient,” he’s coaching himself, loud enough for her to hear now. “There’s a plan. The Club will scale so fucking beautifully once everything’s ready.”

“So your real name’s Peter,” MJ’s about to confirm, when the man, eyes still locked on his reflection, says five more words.

“Ok, Spider-Man. I trust you.”

Fuck.

more smut prompts

23 notes · View notes