aFireFist
A Life in Marvel
Chapter 14 - Part 2
"Gwen."
"I can still see the block." She pulled him with her toward the door, not gentle. "I just watched a girl film me because she thought it was funny. Peter was close enough I felt him in the air and I didn't stop. I want to look at the street I didn't disappear from and I want you in me while I do it."
He let her pull him through the door.
The stairwell smelled like old concrete, rust, and the faint sour of people who used the landing to smoke. One flight down, a blank stretch of wall faced a narrow window. Through the dirty glass: the avenue, the dead-end, the glow of a bodega two corners over. No camera in the stairwell. No sightline from the street that would catch more than a shadow.
Gwen put her back to the wall beside the window. She was still in the hoodie. Still in the black compression leggings she wore under it for drops. Her blonde hair had come loose on one side. There was a smear of brick dust on her cheek. Her mouth was already parted, not for a kiss — for air, and for the thing she was about to ask for.
"Don't take it off yet," she said. "The hoodie. I want it on. I want you to fuck me with it on so if I look down I still look like the girl on that video."
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 wall if she wanted. Her pussy was wet when his fingers found her. 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 her. That's her. Like I was a show."
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 street."
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, a cab, an empty sidewalk — and her cunt clenched hard around him.
"That's it," she whispered. "That's the street. That's the one I didn't vanish off of."
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. I just got recorded, Morgan. I want to feel you stretching me while that file is sitting on somebody's phone."
He gave it to her. Each thrust lifted her an inch on the wall. Her tits moved in his hands, soft weight spilling between his fingers, nipples dragging his palms. He pinched both at once and her pussy fluttered. The smell of her hit the stairwell — hot, wet, mixed with sweat and the leftover metallic sting of the lot.
"You hear yourself," he said against her ear. His voice was low, rough. "You're dripping down my cock because a girl with a phone called you her. Because Peter landed in the same light. Because you didn't smash the screen."
"I know." It came out wrecked. She kept her eyes on the window. "I should hate it. I can still see the red dot. I can still see him on the dumpster. And my pussy's soaking you anyway. Fuck. Don't stop talking."
He spanked the underside of her ass, the part he could reach with her leg hooked. The sound cracked off the concrete. The flesh rippled under his palm. He did it again and she moaned, loud, then bit it back like the building might care.
"George is going to see some version of this silhouette," he said, and felt her clench so hard he had to grit his teeth. "Not this. Not my cock in you. Ten seconds of white and blonde and tight webs. He's going to sit at a desk and watch his daughter's work on a phone a stranger filmed for fun."
"Don't—" Her face twisted. Pleasure, shame, the ugly mix that always made her wetter. "Don't stop. Say it. He's going to see the hoodie. He's going to know the name is me and he's not going to say it."
Morgan fucked her through that. Deep, wet slaps, her ass meeting his hips, her tits bouncing whenever he let them go and then catching them again to maul. He leaned down and sucked one nipple through nothing — the hoodie was up around her collarbones now — and her head knocked the wall.
"Morgan—I'm—"
"Already?"
"The fight, the phone, you—fuck, I'm gonna cum—"
He kept the angle and rubbed her clit with his thumb, tight circles, and she broke. Her mouth opened on a silent shape first, then a broken sound. Her cunt clamped down in hard pulses, wetness spilling around his shaft, running down her thigh. Her hooked leg shook. Her face was all of it at once: eyebrows up, eyes glassy, cheeks hot, a little crease between her brows like it hurt in the good way.
He didn't stop.
He fucked her through it until she was twitching, oversensitive, still looking at the window in dazed little glances like the street might have changed. His own orgasm was close. He buried his face against her neck, hips snapping, the wet plap-plap-plap filling the stairwell.
"Gonna fill you," he said. "Right here. First load. You can watch the block while I pump it in."
"Do it. Fuck—give it to me. I want it in me when we climb down. I want to walk like the girl on that video with your cum leaking out of her."
That finished him.
He drove in to the base and came hard, cock pulsing, thick ropes pumping into her in long pulls. She felt every one. He could see it on her face — the slow-blink, the open mouth, the way she pushed down on him to keep him deep. He kept his hands on her tits while he emptied, squeezing, thumbs still working the nipples, until the last pulse faded and the overflow started immediately, warm, slipping out around his shaft and down the inside of her thigh in a white line.
They stayed locked like that for a few seconds. Her leg still hooked. His cock still in her. The window still showing the same street.
Gwen swallowed. Her voice came out hoarse.
"Take the hoodie off now."
He pulled out. Cum followed in a thick drip. She made a small sound at the empty feeling, then yanked the hoodie over her head and dropped it on the landing. Underneath she was just the sports bra, which she stripped too. Her tits sat full and flushed, nipples wet from his mouth, a faint bounce when she breathed. The new bruise on her ribs was already darkening, ugly against the pale skin. He put his hand back on it. Energy flowed. She hissed, then nodded.
"Up," she said. "Roof. I want the skyline. I want your lap. And I want you to keep talking about that clip while I ride you."
They went up the last flight in the dark, her leggings still shoved down one thigh, his jeans open, the smell of sex following them into the colder air.
The roof was colder than the stairwell.
Gravel under their feet. A low vent housing near the edge, metal still holding a little day-heat. The skyline sat there like it always did — midtown glow, a crane light, the dark cut of the dead-end below. No one looking up. Not yet.
Gwen kicked the leggings off the rest of the way and left them in a heap with the hoodie. She stood there bare in the open air, blonde hair messy from the wall, brick dust still on one cheek. Her tits were full and flushed from his hands, nipples tight in the cold. The new bruise on her left ribs had gone from red to a deeper blotch. Cum was already slipping down the inside of her thigh in a slow, thick line, catching the light when she moved.
She looked at it, then at him, and the sound she made was half a laugh.
"I'm already a mess and we just got up here."
"That's the point," Morgan said.
He sat back against the vent, jeans shoved down enough, cock still wet from her and from the load he'd just left in her. She turned around, put her feet outside his thighs, and reached between her legs to find him. Her fingers wrapped him, stroked once, smearing what was already there. Then she sank down.
Reverse. Slow. The head pushed through her messy, used folds and she exhaled like she'd been waiting for that stretch again. She kept going until her ass met his lap and he was buried to the base, the first load making everything louder, wetter. A slick sound left her when she seated herself.
"Fuck. I can feel what you already put in me." Her head tipped back toward his shoulder, then forward again so she could see the lights. "It's still warm. It's leaking around you every time I breathe."
His hands found her waist first. Then one slid up to her left side, palm covering the bruise. Energy moved into the sore muscle, warm and steady, taking the catch out of her breath so she could sit up straight on him. His other hand went to her tit, heavy in the night air, and squeezed.
She started to move.
{R-18 Scene Morgan x Gwen Stacy 6535 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. The city noise far away. Cum leaking out of her in slow, warm pulses every time either of them breathed.
Gwen lifted her head. Her face was a mess in the best way — flushed, mouth swollen from his cock, eyes wet, hair stuck to her cheek.
"Okay," she said. "Okay. I can go home after that. Not yet. But I can."
He kept his hand on her side, energy low, taking the leftover tremor out of the bruise. "We dress. We go down the way we came. No open street."
"I know the rules." She laughed once, quiet, and looked down between them at the wreck they'd made. "The rules just don't cover getting filmed."
She lifted off him slow. The mix spilled down her inner thigh in a thick white line. She watched it travel toward her knee, then reached for the discarded leggings like that was a problem she could still manage.
It wasn't. It was going to show if she moved wrong. She pulled them on anyway.
Gwen pulled the white hoodie back on over the mess.
It stuck to her skin where she was still sweaty. The fabric dragged across the bruise and she hissed through her teeth. Morgan's hand found the spot automatically, energy sinking in until she could zip it without folding. She didn't look clean. She looked like someone who had been on a roof. The leggings were worse. Dark fabric, a slow warmth already spreading between her thighs, the third load making a line she could feel when she took the first step.
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