aFireFist
A Life in Marvel
Chapter 15 - Part 2
They took the connected roofs south without speaking. Four blocks. Gwen moved first, the duffel slung tight against her back so it wouldn't swing. The white hoodie caught a scuff along the left sleeve where she'd clipped the edge of the bay door on the way in; the fabric dragged once against a vent pipe and she adjusted without stopping. Morgan stayed one roof over and half a length behind, reading the street below and the roofs behind them. Surface thoughts from the sidewalks. A couple arguing about whose turn it was to walk the dog. A man on a stoop only thinking about the game on his phone. No one looking up. No new minds following.
They stopped on the parapet of a closed walk-up that faced a dead-end and a thin slice of avenue. Gwen set the duffel down and braced both hands on the low wall, breathing through her teeth. The hoodie had ridden up on one side. When she straightened, Morgan saw the new mark — a dark bloom starting along her left ribs, just under the fabric, where the bay door edge had caught her on the drop. Not the old water-tower bruise. Fresh. Smaller. Already deepening.
He stepped in and put his palm over it through the hoodie. Warm energy moved into the muscle. Not enough to wipe the color. Enough to take the sharp catch out of her next breath so she could stand up straight without hissing.
"Decoy never saw us," she said.
"I know."
"The one in the van's going to talk once the stutter wears off. He was the only one who got a clear look at both of us. The other two only got webs and a pulse. They'll talk too, but he's the one who'll have the details." She looked at the duffel, then at the avenue below. The streetlight on the corner was out. The bodega two blocks down was still open. "Lincoln's people are going to hear it from someone who isn't on his payroll. Partner's real. Girl doesn't freeze when it's loud. Still left clean."
"That's what he wanted to know."
"Yeah." She laughed once, short, no humor in it. "And we gave it to him without walking into the camera he let them set up. He wanted to see if the clip made me sloppy enough to perform for an obvious lens. We skipped it and still took the cell."
Morgan kept his hand on her side. Under the low current he could feel the rest of her: the leftover tightness from the drop, the focus that always sat in her shoulders after a clean job, and something sharper on top of it. Not relief. The specific satisfaction of having seen the trap, named it, and walked past it anyway.
"We should keep moving," he said. "This roof's open if anyone looks up."
"I don't want to hit the street yet." Her voice stayed flat. "Not until the first cars clear. If that survivor calls it in before we're off the roofs, I don't want to be on a sidewalk when the scanners light up. I don't want to be the white hoodie someone spots from a cruiser window."
"Then we stay up here a while."
She nodded. They picked up the duffel and moved one more building south, to a lower roof with a stairwell door that had a broken padlock and no direct sightline to the avenue. The door stuck once, then gave. The landing inside was dark and smelled like old concrete and the faint sour of cigarette smoke that had soaked into the walls years ago. They stopped just inside, still dressed, the duffel on the floor between their boots, and let the door settle shut behind them.
No patrol cars yet. No new minds on the roofs behind them. The decoy lot was three blocks back and still waiting.
They stayed just inside the stairwell door while the city settled.
One flight down, a narrow window faced the avenue. Through the dirty glass Morgan could see the glow of the bodega and the empty stretch of sidewalk where the decoy lot's light didn't reach. The red light on that dumpster was still on. He could feel it even from here — not the phone itself, just the absence of any mind that had realized the white one was never coming. Gwen kept one hand on the doorframe and listened. Her breathing had evened out. The white hoodie was still on, hood down now, blonde hair loose on one side from the drop and the movement across the roofs. The new bruise on her left ribs pulled when she shifted her weight. Morgan's palm stayed over it through the fabric, low current of energy moving in a steady line so the catch didn't turn sharp again.
"Van driver's going to be the one who talks first," she said. "He saw both of us. He'll tell them the partner put him down before he could get a warning out. The other two will back it up once they can talk, but he's the one with the clear version."
"He'll tell them you took the cell and left."
"And that I didn't stay for the camera." She looked at the window. The avenue below was still empty. "Lincoln's lieutenant let them set that lot up. He wanted to see if the clip made me sloppy enough to walk into an obvious lens and perform for it. We skipped it and still took what we came for. He's going to get that from someone who isn't on his payroll. Not one of his lookouts. A scavenger who thought he was going to sell me."
"Outside confirmation."
"Yeah." She was quiet for a second. Her eyes stayed on the dirty glass. "Partner's real. Girl doesn't freeze when it's loud. Still left clean. That's going to sit in his folder next to the word he already wrote. He's going to know we saw the setup and walked past it."
Morgan felt the first distant siren, two neighborhoods over, not for them. It rose, faded, and was gone. The avenue below stayed empty. No new minds on the roofs. The decoy lot was still performing for no one.
Gwen turned her head. Her eyes were still on the window, but her weight had shifted toward him. The hand on the doorframe dropped.
"I don't want to go down yet," she said. "Not until we're sure the first cars aren't coming this way. And I don't want to stand here dressed while we wait."
"Gwen."
"Hoodie stays on." Her voice was flat and direct. She looked at him now. "I want it on. I want to look at that street — the one we didn't show up on — and I want you in me while I do it. So if I look down I still look like the girl on the clip who didn't walk into the trap. The one who skipped their camera and still took the cell."
He felt the decision lock in her. Not a question. She had already made it.
He let her pull him the rest of the way onto the landing.
She put her back to the wall beside the window. Still in the hoodie. Still in the black compression leggings. Her mouth was already parted. Not for a kiss. For air, and for what she was about to ask for.
"Don't take it off yet," she said. "Fuck me with it on."
Morgan's hands went to her hips. He could feel her through the leggings — the tight muscle of her ass, the heat already sitting between her thighs. He shoved the fabric down just far enough. She kicked one foot free and hooked that leg around his waist, strong, the kind of hold that could have put him through the concrete if she wanted. His fingers found her. She was wet. Not a little. A thick, slick coat that made the first pass of his fingers sound filthy in the quiet stairwell.
"Fuck," she breathed. "Don't tease it. I can still hear that talker's loop in my head. She's gonna show. Like I was going to perform for his phone."
He opened his jeans. His cock was already hard, thick, the head wet. He dragged it through her folds once, coating himself, and she made a sound that was almost a snarl.
"In," she said. "Now. I want to feel it while I'm looking at that avenue."
He pushed in.
She was tight and soaked and the first thick inch made her mouth fall open. He kept going, slow only because of the angle, until his hips met the firm cheeks of her ass and she was full. Her head tipped back against the concrete. Then she turned it. She looked out the dirty window at the block — the bodega light, an empty sidewalk, no white hoodie anywhere on it — and her cunt clenched hard around him.
"That's it," she whispered. "That's the street we didn't show up on. That's the camera we walked past."
He drew back and drove in. The wet sound was immediate. Skin on skin. Her hooked leg tightened. The hoodie rode up her waist with the first few thrusts until the bottom edge sat under her tits, fabric bunched, her stomach bare. He shoved it higher. Her tits spilled into his hands, full, warm, nipples already tight. He squeezed them together, thumbs on the peaks, and fucked up into her in a steady, heavy rhythm that made her ass flex against the wall.
"Ah—fuck—" Her face changed the way it always did when he was in deep. Eyebrows drawn. Mouth open. Eyes half-lidded, then widening on a thrust that hit right. A flush starting on her cheeks. "Harder. I don't want gentle. We skipped their trap and I still want to feel you stretching me while that survivor is going to tell Lincoln we did it clean."
{R-18 Scene Morgan x Gwen Stacy 4786 Full Word Count aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n.}
They stayed like that. Her weight in his lap. His cock still in her. Cum leaking in slow pulses every time either of them breathed.
Gwen lifted her head. Flushed, mouth swollen, eyes wet, hair stuck to her cheek.
"Okay. I can go down after that."
He kept his hand on her side, energy low. "We dress. Down the way we came. No open street."
She lifted off slow. The mix spilled down her inner thigh in a thick white line. She pulled the leggings on anyway. The hoodie went on next. It dragged across the bruise; she hissed. His hand found the spot until she could settle it.
They went down the stairwell, past the window where he'd had her with the hoodie on, alley to alley. He stayed a half-block off her shoulder. No new sirens for them. At the corner before his block she stopped.
"Van driver's going to talk," she said. "Lincoln gets it from someone who isn't his. Partner's real. Didn't freeze. Left clean. That's the damage."
"Yeah."
She kissed him once — short, still tasting like both of them — and left the cell with him. He would move it before dawn. She took the roofs the rest of the way alone.
In the back room above the closed pawn shop, Lincoln's lieutenant set a phone on the desk and played the voice note once.
The van driver's voice was shaky. "Partner's real. Big guy. Put me down before I could yell. Girl in the white hoodie took the cell. Didn't freeze. Didn't stay for the camera. Left clean. We never even saw her on the lot."
Lincoln listened. No change in his mouth. When it ended he turned the phone face-down, opened the folder, and wrote one line under the word he already had.
Outside confirmation. Not performing.
He closed it.
"Do not escalate. Not for a scavenger who thought he could sell her. Watch the new routes. Do not make me a second video."
"Yes, sir."
The lieutenant left. Lincoln stayed seated, hands folded, looking at the closed folder. Outside proof she could see a trap and walk past it. That changed the math. It did not change his timeline.
Not yet.
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