Spider + Cat + Redhead update

The partition came down in a droning rush, the blunt mechanical noise somewhat calming under the circumstances. Such a normal sound might as well have been ocean noises in their situation.

“Sorry about the detour, friends,” Natasha said. “Operational security.”

She spoke in a slight Russian accent, not so much because she possessed one after long years of being an American expat, but because having it as a normal speaking voice lulled others into a false sense of security. If the so-called master spy spoke English with an obvious accent, people tended to underestimate her. In truth, Peter had seen her be hailed as a native in all five boroughs, even Harlem.

Seeing who it was, the apprehension Peter felt about their abduction gave way, let out the fury at his family being endangered. Of course, knowing and trusting Natasha as he did, that fury quickly became simple frustration. “What the hell, Nat? You picked a hell of a time for grand theft auto!”

Natasha glanced over her shoulder at him, scanning for hostile intent just in case. She wore a chauffeur’s cap over her short, chic hair, which Mary Jane couldn’t help but think looked nice even as she mentally roasted the bitch. “I said sorry. But come now, you can’t expect the Avengers to let you elope like some kind of tsarist…”

“It’s called a secret identity! I know you don’t mind getting married at the Triskelion with the Vision overseeing the ceremony—you don’t have any family, you’ll be in Milan the next week, wearing a wig and pretending to be a fashion designer!”

“Peter,” Felicia chided, flicking at him, and Peter belatedly realized that essentially telling Natasha she had no loved ones—at least, not ones she didn’t work with, who had powers or abilities of her own, which was its own insult—was a bit harsher than even she deserved.

“I mean…” he started.

Natasha interrupted him, with enough of a lilt in her voice to say it was a non-issue. “We know. It’s a small party at the old Avengers Mansion—“

“That’s still going?” Mary Jane asked. “I thought it blew up.”

“Totally rebuilt,” Natasha answered. “It’s something of a historical landmark now. They give tours. Very rich people rent it out. Mostly Japanese, for some reason. And tonight, us.”

Peter tried to process the thought of a bunch of tourists going through Triathlon’s painstakingly reconstructed room. Nope, couldn’t do it. “So it’s just going to be the really Avenger-type Avengers? The ones who know my secret identity?” He looked at Mary Jane and shrugged, signaling it wasn’t so bad.

“Well…” Natasha said, fixedly keeping her eyes on the road.

“Oy vey,” Peter said.

“We have a lot of Avengers these days,” Natasha said defensively. “But it’s not like we just hand out your secret as a door prize. But—it’s not like we can’t invite them to a pretty official Avengers party…”

“Speaking as someone who remembers four long years of high school, yes, you can absolutely not invite someone to a party.”

“Don’t be rude,” Natasha chided. “There is more than one Spider-Man these days. This is a good way to get your parking space handed over to Miles Morales.”

“What’s he gonna park there, his hoverboard? His hoverboard that isn’t even a hoverboard, it has wheels? And blows up?” Peter rolled his eyes. “So how are you planning to explain this? It’s just some Bill Murray thing where Earth’s Mightiest Heroes just decide to throw some random couple a wedding party?”

“Two couples,” Felicia said. “Technically.”

“This has been thought of,” Natasha assured Peter. “You were, after all, a valued employee and close personal friend of Mr. Stark, as was Mary Jane.” She glanced over her shoulder again. “Very good taste in woman, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Mary Jane said, flipping her hair.

Felicia pouted. “I did the leather catsuit first. I’ve seen her idea of a costume, she used to wear more fishnets than The Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

“Yeah, I remember that,” Peter said, now having reached the point of pointedly ignoring Felicia’s griping. You’d think two Blacks would get along better than they did. “All the tabloids assumed Tony was sleeping with my wife. Or me. Or both of us. Or Aunt May, if you went online…”

“It’s not as if Tony Stark needs big excuse to throw a party,” Natasha said. “And there will be no social media, nothing big—if anyone asked, the Avengers are just blowing off some steam with a few old friends after a long day of training. And Spider-Man is somewhere in the Bronx, being very loud and obnoxious.”

“Who’d you get to pretend to be me? Mystique? Is she good again?” Peter paused a moment. “Please tell me you didn’t get Deadpool.”

Natasha paused herself. “He said he’d do it for free. And it’s not like you wouldn’t get framed for murder sooner or later anyway…”

“Not funny.” Peter sighed. “And where the hell’s Ana?”

“Tony offered to give her a ride.”

“Really not funny.”

***

The pool shimmered in glistening yellows and pinks as the sun set, letting everybody know that it was one of those really fancy pools. Tabitha Smith wondered if she should go skinny-dipping in it.

She moved restlessly through the living room of the mansion. Even throwing a birthday bash or whatever it was they was doin’, the X-Vengers (was that what they were calling themselves?) had to clear the area to make sure the only fighting they had to worry about was Hercules having one too many drinks.

Tabitha spotted two mugs on a window ledge, half-filled with cold, dank coffee. She took them to the nearest kitchen, rinsed them off, chiseled away a lipstick mark from one, then turned them upside-down on the drainboard. There. Let someone tell her she didn’t go her share of cleaning now. Not that she should, she was an Avenger, she should get a butler. Everyone knew the Avengers had a butler.

Well, fuck ‘em. If the Avenger-Men didn’t get a butler, at least they—her—had some damn fine kush. And nothing felt better than making herself a kite in a tidy living room. Tabitha kicked back, lit up, and took a deep drag, sucking in the pungent smoke until it was like a secondary mutation. She didn’t stop until she felt something burn at the back of her throat. Maybe it was that little hiccup thing from the cartoons.

Tabitha un-inhaled and took another, more prolonged drag. Now she remembered what the fuck was going on. It was a marriage. Some fucking flatscan was marrying two chicks at once. Bet Cyclops wish he’d thought of that. Fucking flatscans. Some of them were cute, sure, but the fuckers could marry fucking robots if they wanted to. She couldn’t even not get stepped on by a Sentinel.

(Tabitha didn’t consider Scarlet Witch a mutant, not because she was an Inhuman or a Celestial or an Eternal or anything, but because she was an Avenger, so fuck her and her gay kids.)

Tabitha couldn’t stay mad, though. Already her head was feeling deliciously light, as though she were slowly drifting into a friendlier portion of the atmosphere. She giggled to herself and turned on the record player, undulating her body to the pulsating beat of some of Cap’s old music. Steve liked the jungle sound. Quelle scandale.

She danced across the rug in delightful abandon, swinging her arms loosely out in front of her and turning in fast circles, freezing suddenly when the drums came in and jerking her hips from side to side with their pounding rhythm.

The slowly burning jay, now dangling loosely from her mouth, sparked and glowed from the swish of air that played across its burning ember. Tabitha whirled and twisted herself into absolute dizziness, then finally collapsed onto the rug in complete exhaustion. There, she made carpet angels.

Tabitha wondered when the party was starting.

***

The reception was small but lavish, a good deal more expensive than Peter ever could’ve hoped to afford, unless he became a billionaire industrialist like Tony Stark. Then again, he had married a supermodel. And Felicia, who slept with supermodels. Quite a lot.

It was a throng of sweating, talking bodies vaguely ordered into a receiving line or three of them. Felicia Hardy had had quite a few team-ups—Peter tried not to put scare quotes on that—while Mary Jane had put in enough time as his girlfriend to cultivate her own relationships in the superhero set. Janet van Dyne, Jennifer Walters, and sundry other super-sisters were eager to squeal over her ring and playfully chide her for robbing them of a big church wedding.

And he himself, when not known as Spider-Man, was seen as something of a Rick Jones or Amadeus Cho. Known for taking good pictures, working with Reed Richards, Tony Stark. He still supposed it must’ve confused the hell out of, say, Jack of Hearts to see him roughhousing a little with Thor as if they were bosom buddies, but judging from the punch, that could be attributed to the same reason Tony and Carol were sticking to bottled water.

It reminded Peter of his few team-ups with the Avengers before he actually pulled a Groucho and joined a club shabby enough to have him in it. Maybe it was just the inferiority complex talking, but the Avengers back then—even the West Coast ones—had had this zeal of righteousness about them. Even in emergencies, crises that had pegged him as a reserve member, there’d been a joyousness in assembling for a common cause. It was unfettered by any real doubt or misgivings. No splits down ideological lines. No friends who were really enemies. It was all for one, one for all.

He couldn’t be mad at Nat and Tony, and everyone else, for commandeering his nuptials with Mary Jane and Felicia. It seemed like lately, being an Avenger had been less about saving people, less about justice, then it was about simple damage control. This was a rare reason to celebrate, and if it helped remind him of what the Avengers were, maybe it helped them too.

He just wished Felicia received as much respect as Mary Jane did in her role of bride. He knew it was kind of an unwieldy arrangement to grasp, and Felicia received plenty of attention, but Mary Jane just seemed to command respect in some odd update of high school social hierarchy. As beautiful and lovely as Felicia was, she didn’t have that it-factor that turned players into kings, and that was what made MJ the de facto belle of the ball.

***

Perhaps it was just that in her wedding gown, Mary Jane was the archetypal image of the blushing bride. Not just in her dress’s whiteness, not just in her beauty, but with the chastity in her huge, innocent green eyes and the sensuous, cherry-red lips that spoke of sexual maturity. She was so clearly a woman on her wedding day, a woman about to embark on her honeymoon.

Mary Jane did find herself wishing her gown hadn’t been so low cut. Back when she’d first worn it, she’d been a bit younger, and beholden to the near-anorexic standards of the fashion industry. And of course, she hadn’t yet gotten pregnant. An overall healthier, more mature and robust body, coupled with the pregnancy during their first marriage, had left her with an ample bust that squeezed up into the scoop neckline as though trying to escape. The homage paid by most of the men—and quite a few women—seemed directed to the deep valley between those smooth hills.

When the line ended, Felicia patted her on the cheek and Peter held her soft hands and kissed her lightly on the opposite cheek. He’d better be gagging for it as much as I am, Mary Jane though, feeling his fingers slide back and forth across her palm.

***

Firestar’s entire body felt light and free from any weight, even the pull of gravity. It was like flying, only flying never got her away from the bullshit anymore.

She’d found Tabitha celebrating another safe landing in the living room, and dragged her off to the billiards room to slump it off. There, Tabitha had been good enough to share, and now that the job was done and they’d made the world safe for bad dancing, Angelica saw nothing wrong with regulating her thoughts.

They were all good now, even her most disturbing problems miniscule and unimportant under the haze of the mary jane wrapping up her skull. She lay next to Tabitha, completely enjoying the lifting sensation in her head, a sensual heightening of her mind as her thoughts spiraled beautifully around in her brain. The colors she saw and the things she touched were all part of a new, privileged perspective.

“Ain’t this better than listenin’ to a best man speech?” Tabitha slurred. You couldn’t blame everything on weed; that was the alcohol talking. “Lemme tell you who the best man is; the one that doesn’t talk.”

Angelica agreed so far as a grunt, reaching the final draw on her joint and crushing the tiny butt into an ashtray. Avengers had used to smoke; there were great big cigar butts in there. Angelica sighed regretfully as a plume of ashes sprayed minutely into the air, lingering in shafts of setting sunlight the way bullshit did in her conscience, self-pity in her self-awareness.

The misery was coming in gradually, and all Angelica did to fight it was swing her legs onto the parlor chair and lay her head down on Tabitha. Bitch didn’t want to cuddle, she should smoke weaker shit.

“Here,” Tabitha said, passing her a foaming bottle of beer. She’d tried to open it for Firestar and the effort had gone awry. “One million alcoholics can’t be wrong.”

Angelica greedily gulped it down, wiped off the sides of her mouth, and heaved a sigh of relief… she felt almost human. She shouldn’t let morbid feelings persist. Just because Kitty Pryde didn’t want her teaching mutant kids, like Wolverine got to do, like multiple Wolverines got to do… there was nothing she could do about it. Shit was best ignored or suppressed.

“You know it’s hard to find a good man when bitches are splitting ‘em up like timeshares,” Tabitha said.

“If you find a good man, promise I can have half of him?” Firestar asked.

“Which half?”

“Top.”

“Sure.”

***

On the dance floor, Mary Jane found herself wishing her gown was cut even lower. Felicia was making quite the sensation of herself, even though she was too pregnant to fly. It was like they were the so-called ideal woman: a lady in the streets and a freak in the sheets. Just split in two. And with the music playing and the lights dimmed, the freak was stealing the spotlight. Mary Jane wanted the look in a man’s eye that was kindled by exposed flesh and open sexuality. She wanted Peter to be looking at her that way, and she wanted to give him plenty to look at, but if he was too busy self-sacrificing to allow his buddies their fun—well, it was an open relationship.

Not that Mary Jane would take advantage of that on this of all days; she didn’t think even Felicia would. But she didn’t feel any guilt in fantasizing about the men who had given her the traditional well-wishing kiss. Reed Richards kissed her lightly on the cheeks, yet she was sure he would be amazing in bed. And then there was Tigra—not one of ‘her’ Avengers, but an old friend of Felicia’s who’d come back for more from MJ.

She was tall and svelte, with large, shapely breasts and a soft, pretty mane. Her nipples were hard as a rule and her tail twitched in a way that seemed continuously sexually. After she and Felicia had parted, Mary Jane had seen in Cat’s eyes that Tigra knew how to take care of a woman.

With Mary Jane, she had held the redhead’s cheeks in her palms and kissed her hard on the mouth. She had the audacity to use tongue; Mary Jane chided herself for being excited.

***

“Guess it’s too late for an intervention?” Johnny Storm teased.

He was barely dancing, more like absorbing the spectacle of the sexy women all around him getting hot and sweaty. Mary Jane had kicked off her shoes and was dancing barefoot like the good old days, grinding her hips provocatively, preemptively winning every insult swordfight Peter would ever get into with his best friend. Johnny may have lived in one-fourth of his own building, but he came home to HERBIE. It was something MJ’s dance wouldn’t let him forget.

“Too late for a threesome.” Mary Jane was merciless. “Felicia has a strap-on.”

Her breasts bounced and swayed under her silky bodice, and Johnny couldn’t take his eyes off him. She danced closer to him, as if to hide them in the playing card distance between their bodies, rubbing her flesh against Johnny’s. Johnny couldn’t help himself and made a grab for her—hey, it was an open relationship, and if Ana had gotten in after trying to kill him…

Mary Jane giggled and danced away. She was getting hot from dancing, just like she used to, saving it up for Peter—grinding her hips, shaking her breasts, spreading her legs and lowering herself toward the floor. There was sweat pouring down her face and over her exposed cleavage, soaking her chest to the bra. She danced with her face reddened, her lips half-parted, singing along with the lyrics the DJ was spinning.

Johnny just tried to keep up.

***

Shy of the dance floor, over by the bar, Steve and Tony sat on stools. Jarvis, playing barkeep once more, served them both ginger ale and oh, how Tony would’ve loved to make fun of Steve for ‘enjoying the taste’ if his own reason for drinking it weren’t so… twelve step-y.

“I can’t believe you’re not dancing,” Steve said.

“You’re the one who wears the thigh-highs,” Tony replied.

“They don’t come up to my thighs…”

“They would if you didn’t roll them down like a buccaneer.”

“It’s how they’re supposed to be worn!”

Tony dismissed him, stroking his goatee as he looked out at the crowd. Thankfully, this wasn’t the Defenders—no one was so uncouth as to wear white when they weren’t the bride, or brides. He could see Mary Jane dragging Peter onto the dance floor. A redhead. Good for him. Damn good.

“You think they can make it work this time?” Tony asked.

“If anyone’s the settling down type, Peter is.”

“That’s only half the battle, though.”

“In my experience, half the battle is all you need. The rest is up to you.”

Tony signaled for another ginger ale, hoping to make up for quality with quantity. “Yeah, remember when Johnny married Alicia Masters and it turned out to be Lyja Lazerfist? I thought she had a porn name or something…”

“I’m sure Peter’s checked if they’re Skrulls.”

“I’ll say. Remember when Jan married Hank because he’d gone crazy and wouldn’t ask for a pre-nup?”

“They were engaged to be engaged when he was sane, though.”

“Remember when Carol married her son?”

“You think we should stop this?”

“They already did the ‘speak now or forever hold your peace’ part.”

“You think Peter’s gonna need to sleep on your couch?”

“I have, like, a ton of Blu-Rays just lying on all but one cushion, I really need to clean it off, I have shelves…”

***

After some pop songs, the DJ played a big band piece—slow and jazzy, which meant it was time for Felicia to take the stage. She always thought she’d have made a good torch singer, crooning into an old-timey microphone in some speakeasy, going through hard times and harder men. Not that she was going to put her singing voice to the test anytime soon, but a slow dance would let her get some dancing in without spraining anything.

Unfortunately for her, Mary Jane had already claimed Peter, so Felicia decided the only thing to do was punch out of her weight class. She walked right up to Steve Rogers’ table.

“So do you dance for just anyone or do I have to buy a ticket for a USO show?”

Steve’s teeth clicked together in a quick grimace. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a dancer—musicals to the contrary…”

“C’mon, Steve,” Tony needled. “It’s not like she’s an unwed mother. Not lately, at least.”

“I don’t have anything against—you’re right, Mrs. Parker. It would be an honor to have this dance.”

Felicia grabbed him, held his body to hers, the sedate pace of the present tune lending itself well to her ponderous movements, making Steve’s carefully considered motions a graceful art.

“You don’t strike me as the one for slow dances,” Steve said.

“You would be surprised how many high society bashes you have to infiltrate in my line of work.”

“Mine too,” Steve said, recalling several occasions on which he’d busted out his dress uniform. “Although I usually get an invitation.”

“Is that a note of reprimand I detect?” Felicia asked. “Don’t think I’m good enough for your protégé?”

“Not at all. You remind me a lot of a close friend, Diamondback.”

“The Serpent Society,” Felicia recalled with a grin. “I would’ve joined, but I’m pretty married to the cat thing.”

“She’s a bit of a renegade as well,” Steve said, dipping her. It should’ve been next to impossible, given her condition, but his mixture of carefulness and well-played strength sprang her back up to her feet as if she were no more than a waif. “So was I, by some standards.”

“You? The blue boy scout?”

“I didn’t like the Nazis, but a lot of people did. Before and after Pearl Harbor. Diamondback’s stance wasn’t so principled, but I find there’s a thin line between rebelliousness in pursuit of selfish goals and rebelliousness against corruption. One can easily become the other, if they’re not careful. Or if they make good decisions.”

“Good decisions?” Felicia asked. “I never touch the stuff, myself.”

“I’m not so sure. Of all the people you could’ve ended up in a relationship with, Peter Parker and Mary Jane Watson are just about the best I can think of.”

Felicia batted her eyelashes. “This your way of asking to make this threesome go four ways?”

“Oh, uh, no. No. Sharon would kill me.”

“Her loss.”

***

With the preliminaries out of the way, the champagne flowed. Several brimming glassfuls did wonders for Mary Jane. She felt even more sensual, more desirables, and she wished her bodice was even lower. She liked to be admired. By Peter, by Felicia, by everyone.

Felicia, on the other hand, had wedding cake. As it turned out, it was exactly what she needed for her pregnancy cravings. Peter held her tightly and told her he loved her. She told him the same, and that she would make him a good wife.

And then she danced with Tigra in a mad whirl, a slice of cake and a dance with another man and then another slice of cake. By the time Matt Murdock got his turn, her unjacketed suit was becoming soaked with sweat.

Once he’d pulled her into his arms, Felicia imagined she could feel his cock against her thigh as they danced. It was difficult not to imagine it. They’d been lovers once, and she knew his prick—it was long and hard and it excited her. And this relationship was one without boundaries, without jealousy. The only reason not to was that she wanted to save all her energy for Peter. She knew it still might not be enough.

When she’d redressed in the limo, she hadn’t put on her panties. Felicia felt the moisture on the insides of her thighs, slick and jangly on her skin.

When the music stopped she curtsied low, and Matt looked flagrantly into her unbuttoned shirt. It was only the fact that he didn’t actually see it that made it less than wicked—and Felicia knew that he really could see, in some sense of the word. See without looking, his senses extending through walls, clothes. He was seeing her naked whenever they were together.

“Do you like what you see?” Felicia asked, looking wickedly into his eyes. She liked her reflection in his sunglasses.

“That’s not very PC,” he told her.

“Neither were those names you called me… even if they weren’t far wrong.”

“You told me to talk—“ Matt broke off as another couple waltzed by, the music starting up again.

Felicia knew she was being foolish, but something in the air had her feeling giddy, It was the thrill of being able to excite someone so much while also being, in a way, off-limits. Her harmless flirting was now a weapon. Taking it as more than teasing would be so… naughty.

“Tell me, bloodhound, where’s Mary Jane? Or can’t you smell ginger?”

Matt smiled back at her, enjoying her game. “She went to lie down. Exhausted from all the excitement.”

“That’s not what excitement does to Mary Jane,” Felicia said confidently.

***

Mary Jane danced like she’d been born to the big band era, all easy swaying grace and crimson hair shimmering across her back.

She’d always been a romantic girl, all the more so for being born into an unromantic life. Growing up, she’d been addicted to novels about lovely heroines in fine gowns, dancing with charming nobles and devilishly handsome rogues—sometimes one was the other, just wearing a domino mask.

The stories were sentimental, about men and women deeply in love but never doing anything more than stealing a few tender kisses, and on the last page, the dashing hero would always lead his innocent young lover up the stairs. The rest was either unromantic or too romantic for the books. How MJ saw it tended to depend on how much her father had been drinking.

Now, Mary Jane felt as alluring as one of those heroines. The soft, sweet music was like the soundtrack to her own personal romance, and she loved the way Peter held her, gazing at her with dazzled eyes.

“You look lovely this evening,” he told her.

“You said that.”

“I keep thinking it, so I keep saying it.”

“Well, I keep feeling it, so you can keep saying it.”

Some days, Peter could hardly get over how much of a match he was with Mary Jane. He remembered himself being timid, almost painfully shy, and now he had MJ’s soft, enticing body pressing against his. He used to think it was a case of opposites attract, but now he wasn’t so sure they were opposites.

He enjoyed being Spider-Man, every bit as much as she enjoyed dancing the night away. He didn’t belong with some hapless nerd, some untouched virgin. That wasn’t who he was, wasn’t all he was. Aunt May had been right to set him up with Mary Jane. The three of them—he, MJ, and Felicia—all had their share of damage and their share of boldness. And in all their relationships, all their double lives, they’d been seeking balance. Maybe now they’d found it, as Peter Parker and Mary Jane Watson and the Black Cat and Spider-Man and Felicia Hardy.

Mary Jane rolled her hips and teased his manhood with the pressure of her undulation. In one way, she felt very different from the innocent young maidens in all those sappy romances she’d read. Her book went on way past when the couple went upstairs.

“Uh-oh,” she said. “Everything’s perfect, you’re in a stable relationship, the world is safe, Spider-Man doesn’t have a bounty on his head—seems like your cue for a freak-out.”

“When have I ever freaked out?”

“You just do. You dress in black, call yourself the Spider, live out on the streets—“

“Hey, you were dead for some of that, I don’t think you should judge.”

“I was around when you were four different superheroes. You’ve been more superheroes than Hank Pym. That’s messed up.”

“Well, I’m not going to freak out this time.”

“Are you sure? Because it’s okay if you are. Just give a girl a heads up. I don’t think Felicia’s dated you long enough to find out how charming neurotic you can be. Let me break it to her gently.”

“I’m not going to freak out,” Peter said firmly. “And I’m not in denial, either. I know it’s not always going to be this good. Green Goblin or Doc Ock will show up with another plot to take over the world, there’ll be a new symbiote, someone will come back from the dead—whatever. We’ll handle it.”

“That’s it? We’ll handle it?”

“Yeah. For so long, I turned every woman I met into Gwen Stacy. I thought you all had to be protected. I even thought Aunt May had to be protected. But she didn’t have a heart attack when she found out I was Spider-Man. Neither did you. Felicia—okay, Felicia told me to put the mask back on initially…”

“Kinky,” Mary Jane said.

“Hey, I’m not an old Superman comic. I don’t need you to get superpowers before we’re married so you can defend yourself from the underworld. But you can handle it. We can handle it. If something goes wrong, the three of us will be up to the challenge. Maybe you can’t punch out the Sandman, but you’re no shrinking violet. You can take care of yourself. I don’t have to worry about you.”

“Honestly?” Mary Jane smiled. “I kinda like being worried over.”

“Then I’ll worry a little. Just for old time’s sake.”

“Good. I shouldn’t have to be the only one, superhero.”

They kissed, and Peter truly seemed unworried, undamaged. Mary Jane didn’t think he was—he’d always worry about another Gwen Stacy, another Aunt May, another Uncle Ben. But maybe now he was more looking forward to another Mary Jane, another Felicia—another child.

“Peter,” she said, “you know how you vowed to love, honor, and obey?”

“One of us might’ve…”

Mary Jane pumped her hips and sighed anxiously, feeling the throbbing of his cock through his pants. “I can’t wait for the honeymoon suite. I want you to drag me off scandalously and have your wicked way with me. Maybe record it.”

“What about Felicia?”

“I said we could record it.” She pumped her hips. Peter grunted, pleasure impossible to separate from anticipation. She twirled and took him by the hand. “We can do it anywhere. And I do mean…” Her tongue pressed deep into the inside of her cheek, bulging it out. “Anywhere.”

***

In Avengers Mansion, there was no turnover in the rooms. If a member died, their room was left exactly as it had been. This was partially done in tribute, partially in case they came back. Peter couldn’t help but think this policy had a lot to do with why both the Avengers and the X-Men had lived in mansions… and why the Avengers’ next headquarters was a skyscraper.

Still, he didn’t feel comfortable ducking into a dead person’s room for a quickie, even if they were likely only mostly dead. So he went into Doctor Druid’s. He’d heard the man had come back recently… and was now gay, somehow. And he’d thought the Punisher being black was weird.

“I can’t believe we’re standing in Doctor Druid’s room,” Mary Jane said sarcastically. “Talk about star-struck…”

“To be fair, I don’t believe he’s ever turned down a redhead. Or a… whatever hair color Felicia has.”

“Whitehead?” MJ teased. She slapped his shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Petey. You know better now.”

Peter pushed the strap off one of her shoulders and moved the front of her gown over her breast. The scanty bra offered little restraint. Her soft breast was freed almost immediately, the nipple standing out dark and hard.

“Don’t tear my dress,” Mary Jane whispered.

“Hard to take my time when I want to see you so much,” Peter answered, one hand cupping her exposed breast, the other pushing the remaining strap from her shoulders.

“I’ll remember that next time I’m putting an outfit together,” she said as Peter turned her around, working the zipper down her spine. “I should show you my belly button while I can, baby daddy…”

Peter had both of her breasts freed now, her gown and bra pushed down to her waist, her arms pinned to her sides by the straps. He nuzzled at her neck and shoulder, his hands gently massaging her heaving tits.

Mary Jane’s hands inched backwards along her waist until they were on his thighs, and then she gripped his rigid member through his trousers. It was massive, the biggest cock she had ever felt, and one day she would stop thinking that her memory exaggerated its size. She had to be getting Alzheimer’s, the way she kept being surprised by how long it was, how thick it was.

Peter released one of her breasts, reaching down to open his fly. He got his cock out and it fell into her waiting hand, the feel of her fingers marvelous as she pushed the foreskin over the knob of his thick glans.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” Mary Jane gasped, her hand moving up and down on Peter’s cock. Her husband’s cock. She was Peter’s wife and she was touching her husband’s cock.

“Are you ready for it?”

“Oh yes, yes, I want it. Fuck me, Peter!” She wasn’t just saying yes to him, but to them. This life, Felicia, kids, a white picket fence—whatever happened, as long as it happened to all of them.

He turned her to face him. “Put your arms around me. It’s your honeymoon.”

She did as he said, enjoying his newfound forcefulness—the maturity of it, the masculinity. He seemed so much more confident than he once had. As if in Peter Parker, the truth behind the act of Spider-Man was showing. He was not just a man, he was her man.

Her arms went around his neck to pull his mouth down to hers. She suckled hungrily on his tongue and hunched herself against his groin, imagining his cock going right through her wedding down. Feeling it wasn’t enough: she wanted to see it and kiss it and suck it.

“Undress me, Peter,” she said. “Take a good long look at the rest of your life.”

Peter led her to the neatly-made bed and then bent over to grasp the hem of her gown. “No. I want to fuck you in your wedding dress. I want you to remember me inside you as much as you do this fabric on your skin.” He straightened, bringing the dress up with him, and Mary Jane didn’t think she would be able to remember anything else.

He lowered her to the bed, hiding her behind the full skirt. All but her long legs, wide apart, and what was between them.

“Kiss the bride?” he said, kneeling. His face went between her open legs.

Mary Jane cried out as his tongue was lavished on her sex. She pushed against him, her legs spreading even wider, but he stopped and stood over her.

“Don’t stop, please! Kiss it more, kiss it all better…”

“It has to hurt before I kiss it better,” he said, and came down on top of her. Fitting his cock into the opening of her cunt. His fat glans spread her labia and pushed inside, not stopping until there was ten inches of fat, rigid manhood inside her. “Does it hurt?”

“Oh God no,” she moaned softly, her hips moving in time with his slow thrusting. “You’re not trying hard enough.”

***

Felicia plodded up the circular stairway and down the long hall of Avengers residences. A stray heel had Cinderella’d itself halfway down the corridor. Mary Jane had put her shoes back on, but not tied all the intricate straps, and it had slipped off as she moved.

Felicia bit at her lower lip: so where was her redhead? If she’d gotten herself kidnapped on her wedding day, Peter would go so neurotic that her plans for a summer in Barbados would be kaput.

Then Felicia heard sounds coming from one of the rooms. Felicia went to the door and gingerly tried the knob. It was locked. Then it wasn’t; benefits of a misspent youth. Felicia pushed the door ajar and found Mary Jane.

MJ hadn’t gone to lie down. At least, not on her back. She was on all fours, and certainly not exhausted—not yet. She was being fucked doggy style, Peter on his knees behind her, sawing his long, hard cock slowly in and out of her. He would lunge in to the hilt and then pull out until only the tip was lodged inside, only to slowly push himself all the way back in.

Mary Jane moaned loudly each time he went in, and then again as he pulled out. She had plenty to moan about.

“My God,” Felicia mumbled softly, “I’d forgotten what that felt like.” She swallowed hard, a tingly pulse of excitement forming in her crotch. She felt slick between her thighs. “All of that.”

Mary Jane had an ass as good as Peter’s cock.

***

Mary Jane hadn’t gotten to see it, and she had so wanted to see it, but she was feeling it. She was feeling all of it, and that was what she had needed. It felt so good it almost hurt, and she’d wanted that too. Her pussy was made for this, for him, and she held still and let Peter do what he was made for. The sensation of it consumed her.

***

Peter was hunched over MJ now, fucking hard, his arms around her, a full breast in each hand. Mary Jane grunted and rocked back against his every thrust. It was wicked unfair. Felicia was the one who was hot for it all the time now, getting hornier and hornier the more her belly swelled, and Peter was the one who had done it to her! Was he doing something about it? No, he was fucking Mary Jane. Sweet, sweet Mary Jane…

“Fuck me, tiger, fuck me hard!” she cried. She was rocking back and forth on her hands and knees like a hobby horse going full tilt. “Make me come, please make me come… I missed coming for you so much… oh sweet Jesus, do it faster, faster, I’m getting close!”

Felicia was so enthralled by the wild sight, so absorbed in Mary Jane’s pleasure, that she didn’t notice Tigra coming up behind her until the woman had Felicia’s breasts cupped in her hands.

“Savage, isn’t it?” Tigra asked, forcing two fingers inside Felicia’s shirt. “When you’re doing it, it feels so loving, but from the outside, it’s animalistic. Like gorging yourself on good meat. The better the taste, the more beastly the eating.”

Felicia couldn’t turn, Tigra held her too tightly, but she didn’t mind. “Watching a beautiful woman in rut is much more exciting than watching someone eat a steak.”

“What about a beautiful man?” Tigra asked. Her two fingers were caressing Felicia’s nipple, but it was already hot and hard.

“That’s not a man,” Felicia replied. “That’s a monster… attached to a man.”

“Looks like your honeymoon’s starting early.” Tigra pushed Felicia’s platinum locks to the side and pressed her mouth to Felicia’s neck. Felicia gasped, her full round ass going back against Tigra’s groin.

Felicia turned her head and Tigra’s lips met hers. It was a deep, satisfying kiss and Felicia’s mouth barely pulled free. “When Peter asks me when I started using a new lipgloss,” she said, her whisper landing directly on Tigra’s puckered lips, “I’m going to tell him you came on my tongue.”

Mary Jane stole her attention: jerking wildly, crying out, drool running from her mouth.

“She’s coming, Felicia. Look at her! She loves it and you will too.” Tigra hunched against Felicia’s ass. “Look at him push that prick up inside her cunt until you’re so hot you can’t stand to have yours empty.”

“I can’t stand it now,” Felicia replied.

***

Mary Jane’s eyes were closed and she imagined his huge cock, long and hard, veins standing out in relief all along its impossible length, the head all red and shining, its slit full of cum. She could almost taste it, and wanted it against her lips, filling her parched mouth.

Her first orgasm shocked her. The second, coming very quickly on the heels of the first, left her tingly and excited and needing the third. But her third climax held off, lingering hungrily in the pit of her stomach until she was screaming for its arrival.

She jerked wildly, trying to get Peter deeper, until his zipper cut cruelly into her soft thighs. Then her third and most satisfying orgasm split her open. She braced her head down, thrust her ass up, and she hunched into him like a wild mare fighting the bit—only she wanted it in, not out.

His ten inches only made her want more and she remembered what she’d told the Human Torch.

Felicia did have a strap-on.

***

“Watch them, Felicia,” Tigra said. “He’s about to come too.”

Peter stopped just before he came, pushing Mary Jane off him, down to the bed. Moving quickly over her body, he straddled her, jerked his cock, and lashed her face with cum. Mary Jane opened her mouth and grabbed at his lurching prick. She got it between her lips after only two spurts and drank hungrily.

***

As the thought of Peter’s taste filled Tigra’s mind, her own urgently pulsing cunt reminded her of her own need.

“Felicia,” she said softly, caressing the woman’s pussy, making her moan. “Give you any ideas?”

Felicia didn’t hesitate for a second. “What are friends for?”

***

Peter felt the charge from his balls and grunted. His seed spurted into Mary Jane’s mouth in huge white globs. He pulled out until only his glans was still in her mouth, lingering between her lips like the tongue in a goodnight kiss.

“You get every drop, MJ,” he told her, milking the thick shaft with his hand. “Every last drop down your throat…”

The famous lips of her famous smile clung to his cock and sucked at the few remaining drops of cum, drawing them out and swallowing them with a gluttonous hunger that had not been diminished at all by the volume of his previous offering.

***

Felicia didn’t know whose room they went into and didn’t care. Tigra lay before her on the bed, her creamy breasts rocking with her furious panting as she raised one foot and rested it atop a bedpost. Her sex was completely exposed, calling to Felicia’s shining eyes.

Slowly, hungrily, the lush cat burglar approached her prey. Her heart beat rapidly with a terribly exciting curiosity and a bit of petty revenge against her new spouses. If Mary Jane wouldn’t share, neither would she. And Tigra’s exquisite pink cunt looked like it was tasty enough for all three of them.

“Hurry!” Tigra gasped, cupping Felicia’s head in her hands and pulling downward, wild hope almost more intoxicating than her lust. Felicia’s the one, she thought feverishly. I know it!

Felicia planted her lips squarely against those of Tigra’s cunt, a sweet, sticky kiss that made her wonder why chapstick couldn’t taste so good.

“Yessss!” Tigra crooned, stroking Felicia’s long hair as her cunt was sucked with eager lips. “Oh yes, rrrrr, that’s good, yeah, work your tongue deeper, mrrrow, oh baby, angel, sweetheart, your mouth--! Ohhhh! Deeper, faster, I—oh, honey!”

The familiar wave was hovering now, just on the fringe of Tigra’s thrilled sex as Felicia’s burning tongue got hotter and hotter inside her. Moaning low in her throat with the hunger she’d just seen her spouses satisfying, Felicia rubbed her palms over Tigra’s soft belly and fluffy hips as she snaked her tongue inside Tigra and made ravenous laps around her cunt.

The softly screaming Tigra was shuddering from head to toe, maddeningly delightful ripples of bliss cutting right through her knotted lusts. She was close! She was closer to that elusive release than she’d ever gotten!

“Felicia, you’re the one, kitten, oh, don’t stop now! Suck harder! Faster! Eat me, you angel! Just a little—rrrreow—a little—rrrrr—a little harder, please, kitten, please, please, so close now, so close!”

***

“Nonsense,” Peter said, rising to his feet. “Complete nonsense.”

Mary Jane sat up and stared at his prick—still huge, but shriveling fast. “What is?” she asked, still under the hypnosis of good sex and a better orgasm.

“That married sex is bad.”

Mary Jane reached out and encircled his member. “I can’t wait to tell Felicia the good news.” She fondled him as he reknotted his tie. “Peter, where’s my garter?”

Peter looked around curiously, then frantically. Had he taken it off? Had she?

It had to be somewhere, it had to be!

***

“Oh God,” Tigra sobbed. “So close! So fucking close!”

Felicia held Tigra as though something terrible had happened. She didn’t understand, she’d done the best she could, she’d eaten Tigra until it was like she was licking stamps.

“I’m sorry,” she said, hugging her face to Tigra’s chest. “It must be the baby throwing me off… or I’m just used to Mary Jane. If you were her, you’d have gotten off…”

“Don’t be such a dog person,” Tigra sighed, stroking the other woman’s head. “It’s not your fault. Anyone else would’ve come a dozen times. It’s just… I can’t.”

Felicia raised her head eagerly. “I’ll try again. I have toys—spouses…”

Tigra shook her head. “No, kitten, that’s alright. I was trying too hard. Go on, make Mary Jane come a dozen times. She deserves it, putting up with you.”

Felicia made a sour pout before accepting the joke. “Tomorrow night, then. For real this time.”

“I’ll think about it,” Tigra replied, a faint idea stirring in the back of her mind.

After a lingering goodbye that left Tigra’s lips slightly swollen, Felicia’s matronly figure went out the door. Funny how Tigra had forgotten she was pregnant, sitting on her face. Felicia’s tongue was as svelte and nimble as ever.

Still naked, Tigra laid down on the bed with the wine she’d swiped from the proceedings. She drank in rapid gulps, smoldering with her hair on end. Her eyes burned.

She was so damned sure Felicia was the one. Sweet but wicked, deliciously exciting in form, experienced as hell—but she hadn’t made Tigra come. The boiling knot of frustration in Tigra’s pounding body churned and twisted and seethed, demanding its long overdue release, the familiar refrain seeming like a permanent feature of her undersexed body.

Tigra drank more with shaking fingers and a numb tongue. Her mind was starting to fray under the relentless pressure of denied gratification. She felt as if she were clinging to the edge of a cliff by her fingertips, that she had once been merely dangling her feet off the side but now she was slipping, sliding, frantically digging her fingers in to maintain her grip just a little while longer.

It could happen any day now. She’d give up hope, resign herself to a sexless life. Turn this small, dumb problem into an insurmountable one. She felt the nearness of it in every jarred nerve of her flesh. Any day now, any hour now, any moment now, she’d cripple herself with apathy. She was hanging on by a last, desperate thread of stubbornness. Telling herself that Felicia had just needed a practice run before she fixed her.

Tigra moved to set the wine down, and saw that Felicia had left her a little present. Mary Jane’s garter laid on the nightstand.

One more chance. She’d do anything Felicia wanted.

Anything.