aFireFist
A Life in Marvel
Chapter 11 - Part 1
Gwen stirred slowly, the morning light filtering through the half-closed blinds in Morgan's room. Her body felt heavy in the best way—muscles aching from the night before, thighs sticky, pussy still tender and full. She shifted under the sheets and felt it immediately: a warm, low buzz humming through her limbs, like her body had been plugged into something alive. Morgan's new thing. That energy he pushed into her skin with his hands. It didn't just feel good during sex anymore. It lingered, making her feel stronger even while she was sore as hell.
She turned her head. Morgan was already awake, propped on one elbow, watching her with that calm, focused look he got when he was reading her. His hand rested on her hip, thumb tracing lazy circles over her skin. The second he touched her, the buzz intensified, a gentle current flowing straight into her muscles.
"Morning," she murmured, voice still rough from all the moaning last night. She stretched, feeling her tits shift under the sheet, nipples tightening from the cool air. "You didn't sleep much, did you?"
"Couldn't stop thinking about how you looked riding me," he said, voice low and easy. His hand slid up her side, cupping one of her full tits, fingers sinking into the soft weight. He gave it a slow squeeze, thumb brushing over her nipple until it stiffened completely. "And how fucking wet you still are right now."
Gwen let out a breathy laugh that turned into a soft moan when he pinched her nipple lightly. "You're terrible. But yeah... I can feel you leaking out of me every time I move." She rolled closer, pressing her body against his. Her thick thigh slid over his leg,
{R-18 Scene Morgan x Gwen 2278 Full Word Count aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n}
Eventually they rinsed off and stepped out, drying each other with towels. Gwen's skin was flushed pink from the heat, her tits and ass still marked faintly from his grip earlier. She pulled on one of his oversized t-shirts that barely reached the bottom of her ass. Morgan threw on sweatpants, his cock still half-hard and tenting the fabric a bit.
In the kitchen, they moved around each other easily. Gwen started the coffee maker while Morgan cracked eggs into a pan, scrambling them with some cheese. The smell of butter and toasting bread filled the small space. Gwen grabbed plates and set the table, her bare thighs brushing against Morgan whenever they passed close.
Gwen flipped on the small TV on the counter for background noise while she buttered the toast. The morning news came on, the anchor looking serious.
"Breaking news from last night at the pier near the waterfront. The vigilante known as Spider-Man was involved in a violent confrontation with the armored criminal called the Vulture."
Gwen froze, toast in hand. Morgan turned from the stove, spatula still in his grip.
The footage started rolling—shaky clips from security cameras and bystander phones. Vulture's jagged metal wings cutting through the air, green energy blasts lighting up the dark pier, Spider-Man swinging desperately between shipping containers and the cargo plane. The plane erupting in a massive fireball, flames and debris flying everywhere. Then the dramatic moment where Spider-Man yanked Vulture clear just before the whole thing went up in flames.
"Holy shit," Gwen whispered, setting her toast down. She moved closer to the TV. "That's Peter. He really went after the Vulture at the pier?"
The reporter continued: "Authorities say the Vulture, operating an illegal weapons smuggling ring using scavenged Stark technology, was loading a cargo plane when Spider-Man intervened. The fight caused significant damage, including the destruction of the plane. In a surprising turn, Spider-Man pulled the Vulture from the wreckage and left him webbed up for police along with evidence and what appears to be a bag of cash. The young hero was briefly seen speaking with Iron Man before leaving the scene. No civilian casualties reported, though emergency crews are still assessing the area."
Morgan stepped behind Gwen, wrapping his arms around her waist as they both watched the rest of the report. His chin rested on her shoulder. "Kid actually did it. Took on the Vulture and still made sure the guy didn't die."
Gwen leaned back against his chest, one hand resting on his arm. "People could have died if that plane blew up near the pier with all those containers around. The Vulture was moving serious weapons. That could have been me out there if I was ready. I want to help more, Morgan. Not just training in parks or stopping random crew guys at dances. I want to really do something about threats like the Vulture before they get that far."
Morgan squeezed her gently, the energy flowing soft and calming through his hands into her skin. "I get it. You've come a long way since that spider bite. You're strong as hell now, fast, and smarter than almost anyone. But we do this smart. No rushing in like Peter did last night. He got lucky—the Vulture's suit malfunctioned at the worst moment and the plane nearly took him out with it. You're gonna be better than that. More prepared. More in control."
She turned in his arms, looking up at him. Her expression was determined but soft around the edges. "I know. But with this energy thing you're doing to me... I feel ready. Like we could actually make a real difference. Street level for now?"
Morgan nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her face, his hand lingering on her cheek. "Street level for now. We handle what we can see and control right here. The Vulture's done, but there'll be more small-time threats out there. We'll train harder, push your limits, and I'll keep figuring out how this power works best for us. No jumping into big league messes yet."
Gwen smiled, leaning up to kiss him. "Deal. But I'm holding you to helping me get stronger. Especially if it feels half as good as this morning."
They finished making breakfast together—eggs, toast, coffee—talking more about the news report and what it meant while they ate at the small table. Morgan stayed cautious but fully supportive, already thinking about their next training session as they cleared the plates, bodies brushing comfortably in the kitchen.
***
Peter sat on the edge of his bed in his small Queens bedroom, staring at the cracked ceiling. The suit lay folded on the chair beside him, a silent reminder of everything that had gone wrong last night. His shoulder still throbbed from the energy blast, a dull burn that pulsed with every heartbeat. He rubbed it absently, wincing as the movement pulled at bruised ribs.
The dance replayed in his head on loop. Liz in that blue dress, the way it hugged her curves, how she smiled when he finally asked her. For one stupid moment he thought he could have a normal night—just dancing, laughing, maybe stealing a kiss under the dim lights. Instead he ditched her again. Left her standing there while he ran off to chase Toomes. Again.
He pulled out his phone and scrolled through the messages. Liz had texted him late last night: "Hope you're okay. Call me when you can." No anger, just worry. That made it worse. Ned had sent a string of excited emojis about the decathlon win mixed with "dude where did you go???" Flash had probably laughed his ass off about it. MJ… she probably just rolled her eyes and called him a loser under her breath.
Peter dropped the phone on the bed and buried his face in his hands. "I'm such an idiot," he muttered. All he wanted was to balance this—being Spider-Man and being Peter Parker. But every time he tried, something blew up. The ferry fight, the pier chaos, leaving Liz hanging. How many more times could she forgive him before she got tired of waiting for a guy who was never really there?
He thought about the money he left with Toomes. A bag of cash he'd quietly taken from one of the earlier stashes. It wasn't much in the grand scheme, but it might help Liz and her mom for a while. Still, it felt like a shitty consolation prize for blowing up her dad's life and ruining their night.
His spider-sense gave a low, warning tingle. Not danger yet—just the tracker he'd planted on one of Toomes' vans during the pier fight going off. The signal was moving fast, heading toward some private industrial park upstate. Peter's stomach twisted. He knew he should rest, ice his shoulder, maybe text Liz back. But if Toomes was making another move…
The alarm on his phone buzzed sharply. Peter stared at it for a long second, jaw tight. "One more time," he whispered. "Just end this."
He stood up and started suiting up. The red and blue fabric slid over his skin, familiar and heavy. He flexed his fingers, feeling the web-shooters click into place on his wrists. The mask came last. He pulled it over his face, the lenses activating with a soft whir. For a moment he just stood there in front of the small mirror on his closet door, staring at the reflection of Spider-Man.
"You better not screw this up too," he told himself quietly. Then he opened the window, fired a web line, and swung out into the night.
The cool upstate air whipped past his mask as he swung through the trees lining the highway. His shoulder still burned from the energy blast last night, but the suit's padding helped. The tracker he'd planted on one of Toomes' vans was pinging hard—moving fast toward some private industrial park near the new Avengers facility. Stark had mentioned it in passing during one of their awkward post-pier talks: a secure site for sorting leftover Chitauri scrap and damaged gear. Perfect target for scavengers like Toomes.
He landed on a ridge overlooking the facility, crouching low. Floodlights cut through the early evening haze. A cargo plane sat on the short runway, engines already warming up. Toomes' crew was loading crates fast—big ones marked with faded Stark logos. Peter's spider-sense tingled steadily, not screaming yet but definitely unhappy.
"Alright, Mr. Toomes," he muttered under his breath. "Time to end this."
He dropped down silently, webbing up two guys near the perimeter fence before they even noticed him. One tried to shout, but a quick web over the mouth shut him down. Peter moved like a shadow through the stacks of crates, heart pounding. This wasn't a school gym or a pier dock. This was serious—Stark property, heavy security, and whatever weapons Toomes had scavenged.
A metallic screech echoed across the tarmac. Toomes' wings unfolded, the Vulture suit humming to life as the man himself stepped out from behind the plane. He looked pissed, eyes scanning the shadows.
"Parker," Toomes called out, voice carrying over the engine noise. "I knew you'd show. You just can't stay away, can you?"
Peter swung into view, landing on the wing of the plane. "This ends tonight. No more weapons. No more putting people in danger. Walk away, Mr. Toomes. For Liz."
Toomes laughed, a bitter, tired sound. "For Liz? Kid, everything I've done has been for her. You think I enjoy this? Scraping by after the Chitauri turned half the city into a junkyard? Stark snaps his fingers and the contracts dry up. Government swoops in with their Accords bullshit. Guys like me get left holding the bag."
He triggered his wings and launched upward, blades slicing through the air. Peter dodged, firing webs at the suit's joints, but Toomes was faster tonight—angrier. A wing caught Peter across the ribs, sending him tumbling across the tarmac. Pain flared hot, but he rolled to his feet.
"You're better than this!" Peter yelled, swinging up to the plane's fuselage. "Liz doesn't want blood money. She's scared for you."
Toomes fired a barrage of energy blasts from the gauntlets. Green light scorched the ground where Peter had been. "Scared? She's got no idea what it takes to keep her in that school, that house. You think your little hero act feeds anybody? Stark throws you scraps and you eat it up."
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