When Spidey Met Oracle

CHAPTER EIGHT: ...Bees Do It

As she tried to push out against the wall she'd been webbed too, Huntress could feel it digging into her back... That extra expandable bo she kept strapped between her shoulders, hidden under her cape just in case she needed it. Before, Helena would have done anything to grab it so she could shove it right up Spider-guy's ass. Now she'd kill for the chance to shove it somewhere else entirely…

This was completely unlike her, of course. Helena knew she had a bit of a reputation -- mostly because she'd made the mistake of sleeping with both Nightwing and Arsenal and the original Teen Titans were gossipy little dicks -- but as slutty as everyone seemed to think that she was, she did not masturbate with her crime-fighting equipment. Right then and there, though, was a different story… Helena just felt so crazy turned-on.

Thanks to fucking Spider-guy and his webs, she wasn't even in the position where she could rub her thighs together. All her struggling had accomplished so far was shifting the material he had so unceremoniously tugged to the side of her pussy so he could fuck her. She'd felt a brief thrill and a glimmer of hope when the heavy, wet fabric slid over her clit, but it wasn't enough to get her off, and now everything was more or less back in place over her aching cunt.

So Huntress was just stuck there, on the wall, cum dripping down her long legs while she watched that dumb dirtbag passed out on his back, his purple, mushroom-headed cock twitching. How long had it been since Spider-guy's cock was inside her? Seconds? Minutes? An hour? Somehow, she wasn't sure. That was also unlike her. Helena Bertinelli had an excellent sense of time.

What the hell happened to him?

Helena couldn't believe he'd left her like this, and she swore, when she got out of this dannato webbing, she was going to kick his ass. First, she was going to fuck him sideways, but right afterwards she was totally going to kick his ass.

As she wriggled and fumed in futility, she could hear Osborn's device drone on with its incessant humming, vibrating through her and him and out into the city beyond. And in a brief moment in which her primary concern wasn't finding some way to get free and get herself off, Huntress realized that this stupid machine was supposed to affect the whole city. Were other people feeling this... this... need right then, too? At least she had some inkling what was going on... Unless Oracle was getting the word out, Helena realized that the rest of New York wouldn't be quite so lucky…

And through it all, Norman Osborn's unintentional Eros Engine hummed and hummed and hummed…

*

Carlie Cooper couldn't honestly say her life had improved since she'd met Harry Osborn. Quite the opposite actually. In the year or so since Harry started dating her best friend, her entire life had been turned upside down.

For starters, that best friend of Carlie's, Lily Hollister, lost her damn mind and terrorized New York City as the goblin-lite terrorist known as Menace, all in some harebrained scheme to help her father win his mayoral campaign. Bill Hollister won the election, but more or less imploded when it was publicly revealed that his daughter had become some murderous supervillain. That had been hard for Carlie to watch. Bill had practically been a father to her. The only thing worse than that was the moment months later when she found out that her actual father, Ray Cooper, one-time legend of the NYPD forensics division, the man she'd idolized and based her whole life around, had faked his death so he could work with the costumed, megalomaniac scam artist Mysterio to help mobsters do the same.

Carlie didn't blame Harry for any of this. How could she? Her father had made the decisions he made long before Harry came into her life. And Lily had done what she'd done all on her own -- although the argument could certainly be made that Lily never would have stumbled upon that shape-shifting superstrength formula she injected if she hadn't been with him at Oscorp…

But the intrepid young CSI had come to learn that Harry had his own demons to battle. His father cast a long shadow to be sure, and she could certainly understand coping with that. Ever since she'd joined the department, Carlie had to hear how much she failed to live up to her dad's example. And she started to believe it, only to find out that it was all just a lie.

But it's like she'd told Harry's friend, Peter Parker, after she'd arrested her father: a gauntlet makes you stronger. All you have to do is make it to the other side.

Harry had certainly made it to the other side of his. When Norman had been named the new director of H.A.M.M.E.R. after resolving the Skrull invasion, he'd managed to lure his estranged son into a job working with Osborn's Avengers by dangling the prospect of helping Lily, who'd just told Harry that she was pregnant. Harry dove into that madness headfirst because Lily told him the baby was his, but when he refused to join the Iron Patriot as "American Son," his old man announced that he was the true father of Lily's baby.

Things almost got back to normal after that -- if schizoid Sandman murders and killer lizard men in the New York sewers counted as normal -- when Lily literally flew back into their lives ready to pop with Doctor Octopus and a legion of supervillains chasing her down. Octavius was desperate to steal Lily's baby, convinced that the combined goblin-serum-infused genes of the child could cure his degenerative disorder, but by the time Spider-Man swung through and saved the day, a DNA test proved Harry was the baby's real father all along.

And again, Carlie had to admit that this level of soap-opera-meets-Maury insanity had never been part of her life before she met young Mister Osborn, but come on. Harry hadn't been near any of that wackiness with the mad mathematician who was going to sacrifice her to a Mayan God during that random snowstorm last April so he could gain cosmic power, or when she and that obnoxious reporter from Front Line got captured by those micro-octo-bots right before Peter's aunt married the mayor's father... As a scientist, Carlie was all about the concentrated application of cause and effect. If she was going to blame Harry Osborn for all the chaos in her life, she might as well hang it on Peter Parker, too… right?

No. All this probably had less to do with Harry and more to do with the fact that she'd joined the force...

Besides, Harry was doing his best to take what responsibility he could for everything that happened. Lily ran off after all the Doctor Octopus business, leaving him alone with their son, Stanley, and Harry was determined to keep the boy safe. He knew that Norman wasn't done with either of them. His father clearly had a pathological sense of patriarchy and influence that could extend behind even the thickest prison walls, so Harry decided to take Stan and go into hiding.

Which is why she had Harry and his little bundle of joy in her apartment right now. He needed a crash course in baby care, and in her preteen years, Carlie Cooper had once been considered one of the best babysitters in Midtown. Of course, if she realized just how much help he was going to need, she probably wouldn't have suggested that he come over at seven after she got back from her shift at the station.

"Shouldn't you be better at this?" Carlie teased as she watched him try to change Stan for the umpteenth time. "I thought this was going to be more of a refresher than a beginner's class, but I swear, it's like you've never seen a diaper before..."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked her then. "I thought you said I was getting the hang of it..."

"We've been at this for a couple of hours..."

"These little tape-tabs are a bitch to work right," Harry muttered, ripping another one right off. "I thought they still used safety pins or something. I practiced with safety pins…"

"You're not exactly a new father, Harry," Carlie sighed. And he certainly wasn't. He had another son who lived with his ex-wife Liz out in Jersey. "Didn't you ever change any of Normie's diapers?"

"I was kind of running a multinational corporation at the time," he told her. "Plenty of nannies on the payroll to handle the really dirty stuff while I was dutifully polluting the East River..."

Carlie wondered briefly what it was about the Empire State University alums in her life that allowed them to keep their sense of humor in the face of tragedy after tragedy. Pete was the same way. Maybe Sardonic Wit 101 was a required freshman course. As for Harry's current academic regimen, it was nearing midnight by the time they'd covered everything from proper formula preparation and burping to bathing safety and advanced soothing. Harry's parenting skills were now at about a C+ but she'd decided on pass/fail grading.

"Thanks for this, Carlie," Harry said. "And not just the baby tips. For everything. You've been a better friend to me than I've been to you."

"It's fine," she assured him. "Besides, it's the least I can do for my fugitive godson."

"Speaking of which, we should probably get going," he yawned. "I still have to see that guy about the fake passports and IDs."

"As a duly appointed officer of the law, I'm going to pretend I heard you say 'I need to speak with a qualified professional about travelers cheques'," she informed him.

"I appreciate that," Harry said, bending to pluck Stanley out of the portable playpen where his tiny infant was still fast asleep.

"Harry, don't," she whispered, grabbing his arm to stop him. "Let him sleep. You two can spend the night…"

The look he gave her then underlined just how odd the suggestion Carlie had just made really was, and it occurred to her that this was the first time someone other than her had been in the apartment since Lily had been arrested. God. Could that be right? Carlie had friends, but she never really had them over. And it's not like she was the type to bring a guy back to her place...

When Carlie really thought about it for a moment, she realized that she hadn't had sex since she'd left the academy. That never seemed like a big deal -- she was busy with work and still proving herself on the job -- but right then, it seemed… silly… somehow. It's not like there hadn't been any opportunities. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Carlie hadn't been completely oblivious to Vin Gonzales' thing for her… but she got him arrested, too, didn't she? Lord knows that Johnny Storm had… expressed an interest… when she took him to May's wedding. It wasn't that she wasn't attracted to him, but she didn't want to be another one of the Human Torch's cheap conquests, did she? It wasn't that she'd been scared, was it?

God, she wished Lily was still around so she had someone -- anyone -- to talk to about this. That wasn't a thought Carlie had permitted herself too often since the Menace scandal broke. After all, Lily had turned herself into a freaking supervillain. But after she came back and had the baby, Carlie had come around on writing Lily off completely.

Carlie's dad used to say that being a cop was a never-ending lesson that the world wasn't black and white. That you started out with this simple notion of right and wrong which started to complicate itself the longer you were on the job. She used to think that was his way of warning her that trying to follow in his footsteps would force her to grow up in ways she couldn't expect. After she learned the truth about Ray, though, she just wondered if that was just how he justified his own criminal activities… She thought she knew better now, because after this last mess with Lily, she realized life really wasn't that simple. Yes, Lily was a sociopath who'd killed Councilwoman Pafrey, but she was also the same girl Carlie used to tell all her secrets to... still the one who'd taught her how to French kiss in her bedroom... still her friend...

Was that why Carlie now had sex on the brain? Because as she thought on it, it was very possible that Lily was also the person through which Carlie had been vicariously living her sex life. It wasn't something they'd ever done consciously. Lily just had this tendency to talk about sex in a way Carlie never could: freely and openly. The two of them would be chatting about an old elementary school acquaintance, and Lily would segue into some frank anecdote about how she'd had sex with them in high school, or how he reminded her of some guy she was seeing. Over that last year, it'd been all about Harry...

Lily's sexual candor often included her disappointments. The boys who came up short. The guys who were in it just for themselves. None of that had ever applied to Harry, though. Lily's Harry stories always ended… satisfactorily. Lily said he could get a little rough sometimes, but considering this was a woman who'd once told Carlie the graphic details of a weekend spent at a seedy Gotham City sex club in a bored tone while painting her toenails, Carlie wasn't sure she wanted to imagine what "a little rough" meant to little Miss Hollister…

So why was she trying to imagine it now?

"I'm not sure about staying over," Harry told Carlie, breaking her from her reverie. "That might be weird..."

She realized then that Harry hadn't been back to the apartment she'd shared with Lily these last several months for a reason, and god, Carlie hadn't been trying to drudge all of that up…

"Okay, Osborn," she said, spreading her arms, "but don't imagine for one second that you're going to disappear from my life without at least a hug."

Harry smiled briefly before embracing her.

It was supposed to be a hug and a little peck on the cheek to say goodbye. That had been the plan at least. But that hug lingered a bit too long. And it wasn't her fault. Not completely. He wasn't letting her go, either.

But again, that was crazy. Harry couldn't be interested in a girl like Carlie, could he? He wanted Lily the wild child. And he'd been trying to set her up with Pete since he'd introduced them. It only made sense... She was a geek. Pete was a geek. Match made in heaven, right?

So why could Carlie feel his hands roaming her back, stopping briefly at the spot where her bra clasp snapped together? And moreover, why, instead of lightly brushing his cheek with her lips as she first intended, did she find herself shoving her tongue down his throat?

*

On a night like tonight, Jimmy Olsen realized just how lucky he was. It wasn't just that he lived the kind of life where he could have dinner with the occasional supermodel-turned-actress-turned-reality-competition-show-hostess like Mary Jane Watson. It was that he lived the kind of life that provided him with amazing stories that would make her laugh while her dazzling green eyes lit up like sparklers.

There were, of course, certain downsides to being "Superman's Pal," and no, not just the constant threats from the Man of Steel's enemies. Sometimes you could tell that a girl wasn't really into you nearly as much as she wanted to hear about him. This had proven  especially, devastatingly true in the case of the handful of famous women he'd met... Everyone from Kirsten Dunst to Emma Stone... Teri Hillman to Terri Jewel Jackson… Ugh. Don't even get the poor guy started on the former star of Wendy the Werewolf Stalker...

Jimmy had actually saved Metropolis by himself a few times, you know!

But it was exactly this heartrending trend among your typical Hollywood ingenue that made his dinner with MJ so singular.

There they were, enjoying a nice after-dinner coffee at a quant, cramped Latverian bistro in Greenwich Village and she hadn't asked him about Superman once as they sat at their tiny table for two, where their knees kept accidentally knocking. That was usually the ugly thing about Manhattan real estate; if you were a small business owner you had to maximize your limited space or you died, which is why everyone was always on top of each other in these kinds of places. This time Jimmy didn't mind that much, because the closer to this stunning vision before him, the better. Mary Jane just exuded fun, which is why he was fine telling her a Superman story or two. Hell, even the girls who liked him for him were at least a little curious about the guy. MJ didn't seem to care about any of that superhero stuff, though. In fact, she almost started to seem bored by it.

She actually interrupted him when he was recounting his daring escape from the Microverse with Robin and Batgirl. "I don't care about her," she blurted. "Or him, either." There was this brief cloud over MJ's head, but it cleared and she was bright and sunny again. "Tell me more about you, Jimmy," she insisted. "Don't you have any funny stories just about working at a great metropolitan newspaper?"

"Oh, of course," he assured her, straightening his bowtie. Miss Lane once told him he did that when he was nervous. What was there to be nervous about? Dinner had been great. Heck, the last time he'd been on a date this good, the girl turned out to be some mischievous mite from the Fifth Dimension. Not that this was a date or anything. He had a hard enough time explaining this particular assignment to Chloe Sullivan, the ex-girlfriend Jimmy was determined to un-ex. Besides, Mary Jane's outfit clearly stated that this was strictly a dinner between temporary co-workers, but yowza, the lady certainly filled it out in all the right places.

"Jimmy?" she asked. "You okay?"

"Yes!" he asserted, realizing he had spaced out. "Sorry!" Okay, maybe he was nervous. "The Daily Planet's a great place to work," he told her. Why did he feel so warm all of a sudden? "The Chief tends to run a tight ship, so for the most part, everybody's nice and professional, but I guess there are cut-ups in every office, right?"

"I guess," Mary Jane admitted. "We have a few teamsters on set that can get a little rowdy with the catcalls and pranks."

"Exactly my point!" he said. "At the Planet, that's our sports editor, Steve Lombard. He's a 40-something high school bully, but everyday he gets decent copy in under his deadline and we all wonder how. Especially considering all the dumb shit he pulls..."

"Oooh, like what?" she asked him. "Forget Superman. Tell me a Steve Lombard story!"

You know how sometimes you tell someone that something always happens, and then when they want a concrete example, you can't think of one? That happened to Jimmy just then. It's not like what he was saying wasn't true. In fact, the problem was that the statement was soooo true it had just blended into the fabric of his reality. Established fact: Steve Lombard was a dumb asshole. Sometimes hilariously so. But right then, Jimmy couldn't think of one good story to prove it. It felt like trying to tell her about "that time the sky was blue": Well you see, MJ, I looked up a few days ago, and yep. It was blue alright…

Jimmy realized that he needed to say something. Anything. He didn't have to win the woman over. This wasn't a date. He had no shot here. The neckline of Mary Jane's sweater vest was low enough to give her three or four shirt buttons to play with, but only the top one wasn't done, denying him and every other man in the room even the slightest hint of cleavage. Not that you needed to see skin to get some sense of what lay beneath all that cotton and cashmere…

Damn it, he was spacing again!

"A Steve Lombard story," he murmured, fighting to get his mind back on track. There was one instance of Steve's incredible crassness that flashed through his mind right then, but no. He couldn't tell her about that…

"What is it?" she asked him. She must have seen it flicker across his face. "I just know you've got something juicy..."

"You wouldn't like it," Jimmy said. "It's not a story you tell to women…"

"I'm not other women, Mr. Olsen," she scoffed. "I give it back to those teamsters just as hard as they give it to me."

"I certainly agree that you're one of a kind," he said, stifling a chuckle. When had he suddenly reverted to a thirteen-year-old? "That's kind of the problem with this one. Hell, it's probably why it's the first thing that popped in my head…"

"Well now you have to tell me, tiger!" MJ was leaning in closer, her elbows on the table.

"Okay, so this one time, Steve called me over to his desk to help him with something," Jimmy began to tell her, and the moment he started, he knew he was making a mistake. "I was bracing myself for whatever sadistic prank he was planning, but this turned out to be maybe the one time he's shown me something close to professional respect... So I go over there and he says 'You used to be a photo-monkey, right?' and I say 'Kind of.'"

"Kind of?" Mary Jane interrupted, with a smile. "I've heard you've won awards…"

"Maybe one or two," Jimmy admitted humbly. "I've been very lucky. But it's not like that matters to a guy like Lombard, so I wonder what he wants. He says, 'Take a look at this,' then turns his monitor so I can see what he's been staring at all day and, of course, it's porn."

"Of course!" Mary Jane beamed, rapt with attention. "What kind of porn?" God. She was actually starting to fiddle with that second button on her blouse.

"It was pictures this time, thank god," Jimmy told her, "because when he plays a video for someone, he makes you stay and watch the whole thing, which is weird because he's staring at you the whole time, gauging your reaction... uh, so I hear..."

"So you hear, huh?" Jimmy watched MJ casually undo the button, unveiling the barest glimpse of the creamy, well-rounded skin at the top of her breasts. He tried not to think too much of this. It really was getting a bit too hot in here… "What kind of pictures?" she asked.

Jimmy couldn't believe he was about do this. Shit. It was probably going to ruin the evening, but he couldn't stop now. "Pictures of you -- um, you know… a naked girl…"

"Well I figured out that much!" she laughed. "What did this naked girl look like?

"Like a… like a model," Jimmy said.

"A naked girl who looked like a model… Seriously?" she scoffed. "That's all James Olsen, man of American letters can give me? Are you suggesting all models look exactly the same?"

"Some of them look... similar…" He was chickening out. This was definitely a mistake. The dumbest.

"I just like to think I'm one in a million I guess," Mary Jane sighed with this adorable shake of her head that seemed to ask, What am I ever to do with you? "That's not the whole story, is it?" she asked. "Some jerk at work asks you over to his desk and shows you some porn. So? You didn't even tell me what this poor girl looked liked…" She was now twirling a long strand of her hair with a finger.

"She was a… redhead," Jimmy murmured.

"Was she, now?" MJ gasped, quirking an eyebrow. "Do go on…"

He started to suspect that she'd figured out where this was going, but it was so hard to tell. "Well, I'd been looking at the screen for a bit," he said, "while Steve's going on and on about… about this woman's, uh, bosom, and then he suddenly asks me if I think they're real or not."

"Excuse me?"

"Crazy, right?" Jimmy said. "But he does this all the time! Steve'll just plop down on your desk and ask if you think someone's breasts are fake. Sometimes it's a co-worker or a girl you're dating for petesake. But mostly it's famous people, like, well, like you… Actresses... Models…"

"Hmm." Mary Jane sat back, losing interest in her hair as she mulled this new tidbit over. "So, what did you say?"

"Well, I didn't want to say anything," Jimmy assured her, and he didn't really want to say anything now. This was a make or break moment in whether MJ would find this story amusing or not. "I mean, it's none of anyone's business if someone's had a boob -- had some work done…"

"Now that you mention it, Jimmy," Mary Jane said flatly, "I completely agree with you."

He still couldn't read her, but plundered on anyway. "But Steve's shouting 'Come on, kid! I ain't emailing these out unless I know they're the real deal!' and his voice tends to carry, so the whole bullpen's starting to take notice and I just want to get back to work, so I told him that they looked… surgically enhanced."

"You said they were fake?"

"Surgically enhanced," Jimmy corrected. "That's important…"

"Is that soooo important?" MJ bent forward and her breasts brushed the edge of the table. He could feel himself getting hard looking at them, but he'd been stealing glances at them all night…

"It's just important t-to the story," he swore.

"Well, if it's important to the story," she huffed and they bounced ever so slightly.

Her chest hung impossibly high and full, two perfect globes swelling heavily. The absolute definition of too good to be true. "So, you told Stevie that you thought this girl's boobs were surgically enhanced…" she said, resuming Jimmy's anecdote for him since he was spacing again.

"Oh." Jimmy snapped to. "Well then he goes, 'Is surgical enhancement some kind of photoshop tool?"

"Photoshop?" Mary Jane sat back in her seat again. A neutral position.

"I was confused, too, and it must have shown on my face, because he keeps staring at me then at the pictures then back at me, and this light suddenly goes off in his head and he says, 'Not the tits, you moron! I meant the pictures!"

She laughed at that, so Jimmy let himself, too. It wasn't a huge laugh or anything like he would have gotten telling her about how he got turned into a giant sea turtle, but if MJ was faking her merriment, she was a much better actress than anyone gave her credit for, and it sure beat a faceful of hot coffee. Maybe Jimmy was going to get away with this…

"I don't get one thing," she giggled as her fits died down. "Why would he think that the photos weren't real?"

Crap. "They were leaked nudes of… of this celebrity," he told her. "Supposedly."

"Oh, I see," Mary Jane said, no longer laughing in the least. "You know, that kind of thing's not really so funny when it happens to you, Jimmy." Her voice wasn't cool, but it wasn't nearly as bubbly.

"I guess not," he gulped, now fairly certain she wasn't going to let this go.

"It happened to me, once," she sighed. "Not too long ago, actually."

"I may have heard about that," Jimmy replied as innocently as possible. Maybe if he was lucky he could still fix this…

"Oh, so I guess you know that, story, too," she smiled sweetly, but it wasn't really a smile. "Of course, you do. It was a bit of a big deal because I've never bared my breasts for a movie or done any topless shots in the lad mags... And sometimes I get bored and I make the mistake of googling myself, and eventually, I always find some guy out in the world who's just got to know, When's Watson going to show us her tits, already? I mean, Jimmy, come on... Just because I've been in a few pin-ups and popcorn flicks, does that mean every guy in the world has some basic human right to see my breasts?"

She didn't wait for him to respond.

"I lived with this photographer for years, which isn't that important to the story but becomes a bit of a factor..." she continued. "We broke up, and all of a sudden, there were all these nasty little websites claiming to have naked pics of that prudish, boob-hiding, Mary Jane Watson. No one was saying that my ex definitely sold them or anything, but gossip blogs talked about how poor he was since I left him or something. No one ever suggested that they could have been stolen by someone with a grudge against him or me or both of us, though. Nope. If those pictures were out there, it was because I broke some poor dweeb's heart, but he had the goods to get his rightful revenge, right?"

Jimmy shrugged.

"I guess it doesn't really matter how these photos are supposed to have gotten out, but everyone just knew that if the pics were legit, he was the one who snapped them, because they were homemade boudoir shots, you know? The kind of thing a girl might do for some guy she loves and trusts when he absolutely promises that those photos are for his eyes only and will never see the light of day…"

"I understand," Jimmy said.

"I bet you do," Mary Jane smirked, squirming in her seat. "I mean, what kind of girl would do that if the guy doesn't at least have his own darkroom? But that got people wondering, because the photos weren't that good, you know?" Jimmy wasn't sure when her hands had left the table, but she was definitely up to something. Was... was she hiking up her skirt? "The pictures were hot in their own way -- because if those were really my tits, boy oh boy, all my ‘fans' had finally won, right? But at the same time, the photos weren't all that professional. You might have a better idea about that than I would, Jimmy… since you're a photographer..." She winked.

"Like, maybe, they were grainy and a touch out of focus, I'm guessing?" Jimmy suggested. One of her hands returned to the table, drumming its fingers. "And all the composition was off… Clearly amateur work."

"I don't remember the specifics, but that sounds familiar," she replied. One of her shoulders, the one attached to the hand he couldn't see, the one under the table, was bobbing ever so slightly. "And poor me, I really just can't help but google myself sometimes. I look online a few weeks after these supposed nudes hit the web and now there was all this doubt if it was really me or not. This shutterbug I lived with was a bit famous, so people figured it couldn't have really been him who took them, so it probably wasn't really me, but other people argued he wasn't really that good to begin with, so it probably was."

Mary Jane sighed, low and deep. It was more like a moan. "You know what I always wondered, Jimmy?" she asked, but he could not have guessed what she was thinking right then and there to save his life. There was no mistaking it now, she was breathing so hard. "How come no one considered the possibility that th-they all… that those wuh-were sexy little sn-snaps of me and… and that mmm-my ex was a… was an amazing -- fuh! -- photographer but w-when he took those pic-pictures… he was a luh-little… distracted?" Her shoulder was actually rolling now and he could hear a steady squishing. "I-I-I mean, h-haven't you ever buh-been distracted t-taking a photo…?"

"Sure," Jimmy gulped. "Sometimes." MJ writhed in her chair, closing her eyes as he mumbled. Was she even listening? "Like, if… if there's an explosion somewhere," he continued, his unruly erection pressed painfully against his inner thigh, trapped by his pants while she worked herself up right in front of him. "You… you might look away at the wrong time or something." He couldn't imagine anyone in the room wasn't watching her now, but he wasn't going to check just right then…

"Oh yeeeesssss, Jimmy!" she agreed, nodding her head as she practically hopped up and down in her seat now. Her breath grew quicker and quicker and she started pounding the table with the flat of her free hand. "Mmm-maybe he was tuh-taking those…those fuuuuucking  puh-pictuuures… and there was a… an ex-PLOOOOOH!-shun… ah! ah! HAAAAAHHH!"

Mary Jane fell back in her chair as she cried out, her spine curving as she climaxed. Her chest thrust forward and he saw them. Two thick, cashmere-covered tips poking out from the mountainous peaks of her rolling rack.

Eventually, she stopped wriggling in her chair, but she didn't open her eyes as she panted, still quivering. "That's… possible… right...?" she asked in an exhausted whisper.

"Yuh-yes," Jimmy groaned, something hot and oily seeping onto his leg as he fought not to cum himself. He forced himself to look away from her. The restaurant had been clearing out when this discussion had started, but somebody else had to have just seen that! But as Jimmy scanned the room, he realized that the few stragglers and staffers left all seemed busy having similar conversations… or non-conversations as the case may be…

The place reaked of sex.

"Then my ex got caught digitally altering some pictures," MJ casually sighed, as Jimmy turned back to her. "Those ones with the mayor? It was quite the scandal." She was wiping her wet fingers with her napkin. "Everyone said he was pretty good at it, too… and that just threw everything more into doubt, didn't it? Especially since, at the end of the day, those leaked, naked pictures of Mary Jane Watson could have really been of some naked girl who just kind of looked like some model." Her choice of words was not lost on him. "No one really knows for sure," she shrugged. "Besides me, I guess."

"You've never publicly stated to the press," Jimmy said. He could still smell her arousal, but if she could compose herself after all that, then so could he, right?

Obviously, there was something really weird going on here. It wasn't a riots-in-the-streets level of danger or anything -- so it's not like Jimmy needed to switch on his signal-watch -- but this whole Cinemax After Dark vibe wasn't natural...

"Oh, I can't belieeeve you got me talking about all that drama!!" Mary Jane squealed, her old, sunny self. "I thought tonight wasn't part of the interview, Mr. Olsen..."

"It's not," he assured her. "I just wanted to get to know you…"

MJ put her elbow on the table and rested her cheek on her hand, appraising him. The same one she was just using to… "You're not trying to take advantage of me, are you?" She'd wiped her fingers, but they still had to feel sticky…

"Um, no?" he guessed, but he wasn't too sure. None of this felt real anymore. Everything had two meanings now…

"Promise?" she teased with a sly smile, "because I know how tricky you reporters can be and I'm having such a good time with you..." Her smile faded a bit. "I'd hate for that to stop."

"Me too," Jimmy swore. Mary Jane brightened again, those green eyes glittering as her hand fell from her face to the collar of her blouse. God, she was gorgeous. Even when she was being kind of mean...

"Let's go back to that story about Steve," she darkened, her gaze burning now. Fuck. Especially when she was being kind of mean…

"Okay," Jimmy swallowed.

"Was it just the one time?" she asked.

"The one time for what?"

"The pictures, silly," MJ said. Her finger lazily trailed down her neckline until it reached the center of her exposed flesh. "Did you only see them that one time with Stevie?"

"We don't have to talk about this if you don't want…"

"Oh, I want to, Jimmy," she insisted, pointedly unfastening another shirt button. "I can't explain it, but I really reeeally want to right now…" Her blouse fell open a touch more, exposing more of Mary Jane's flush, glistening skin.

"Anything you want," he just barely whispered, watching a bead of sweat slide slowly from her neck down to the deep hollow between her breasts before it disappeared beneath her shirt.

"I want to know how well you remember that... that naked girl who looked like a model," she told him.

"I remember her," Jimmy swore. He could see the lacy edge of MJ's light blue bra peeking out as she sat back.

"From seeing them once?" she scoffed again. "I find that hard to believe, Mr. Olsen…"

"It wasn't just the one time!" he blurted. "I… I found them on my own... later..." That'd been one of his problems with Chloe. It's next to impossible to hide a discreet folder of porn from your computer-whiz girlfriend.

"Oh did you now," Mary Jane gasped. That's when he felt it... Her foot lightly brushing his pant cuff under the table. This wasn't one of those accidental kicks like before. The toe of MJ's pump was making its way up to his calf.

"Which one was your favorite?" she asked.

Jimmy tried to focus…

There had been six pictures. All the websites used the one of her lifting her shirt up over her head, those unbelievable tits jutting out at an angle, for the teaser. That was the image that would draw you in. Then there was the profile shot of her on all fours on the bed, her ass in the air while her boobs hung beneath her. The most explicit picture had her sitting on the corner of the mattress in just her panties, pulling them down to show you her clean-shaven pussy. Even as grainy as they were, those pics were incredible. All of them were. But she was always just smiling or looking off in the distance. Except for the one…

"It's you on… you see the girl on her back," Jimmy told Mary Jane. "Her arms are stretched up past her head, which makes her breasts kind of pop up... but the way it's cropped, you can't really see them... Maybe a bit of nipple at the bottom... It's just that your, um, you're looking at her face…"

"What about her face, Jimmy...?" MJ's toe was nearing his knee. Jimmy wasn't a foot guy. Never saw the point. But he was coming around…

"Well, you can only see half of it because… because her hair's falling over one of her eyes... but the other's looking right out you and it's half closed and… and her mouth's open like she's… like she's moaning… That's the one that made me… The one I like…"

"I like that one, too," Mary Jane whispered as her foot reached his thigh. Had she just admitted…? "The way you describe it just... paints this picture…"

Sure it does, Jimmy thought.

"Did you think she was pretty?" She had just reached his thigh and his dick swelled.

"Y-yes," he groaned.

"And what about me?" she whispered, inching closer to his manhood. "Do you think that I'm pretty?"

Jimmy just nodded, gritting his teeth and clutching his chair, pulling himself down into the seat, fighting not to erupt. He didn't have words…

"Do you think…" She was just nearing the throbbing bulge strapped to his leg when she... when she stopped. "Do you think I'm prettier than her?"

Jimmy had screwed his eyes shut, hoping that if he couldn't see her, he could control himself, but it had only heightened his sense of her touch. Now they fluttered open in confusion only to find hers waiting. Unflinching.

"Wh-what do you mean?" he asked. Her foot had stopped so fucking close, not quite touching the tight tent in his slacks. Just close enough so there was that... that electric sixth sense of her just at the edge...

"I want you to really consider the question before you say anything," Mary Jane explained, as her shoe drew away from his needy cock. "I want to know that if something were to ever happen between us it was because you felt a certain way about me. Especially if it was the first time." Her pump slid back up the length it had just traveled, stopping just south of his cock again, and he felt that tension between true sensation and mere anticipation.. "Fantasy is a wonderful thing. I completely believe that… but if me and you -- oh, I don't know -- ran off into the bathroom right now to fuck ourselves silly, I'd like to know it was because you wanted me and not because I was wearing… because I looked like this naked girl you saw in some pictures one time…"

This took Jimmy aback. He'd seen MJ happy and outraged -- shit, he'd seen her get off -- but this... this was her sad. "Mary Jane…" he started to say...

"I mean, unless I was the naked girl you saw in those photos," she smirked. Back to the game. "That would mean you were thinking of me because I was your fantasy, right?" She shifted back in her chair.

God, who did she think she was?

But as her eyes bore into his, Jimmy Olsen realized she knew exactly who she was:

Mary Jane Watson was well fucking worth it.

*

The day he finally got his new powers, Wade Wilson was shocked and surprised but ultimately pleased in the best possible way...

Then those dudes started fucking in earnest.

Ever since that slutty Brit X-bitch got the diamond skin option and the Beast went all fuzzy blue Thundercat, Deadpool had been waiting for his secondary mutation to kick in with the desperate fervor of a flat-chested school girl wishing her tits would pop. Every once in a while, he'd ask one of those big brain X-Jerks when he could expect to get some cool eye-beams or maybe three foot blades that slid out of his wrists, and it was always the same answer: "You're not a mutant, Deadpool!" they'd insist. "Hey… How'd you get into the building?" they'd wonder. "No! No! Put down the gun, Wade!" they'd beg. "Logan! That guy's here again!" they'd bellow.

Friggin' X-Jerks.

But fuck them. Wade had finally hit the next stage in his evolution. He certainly hadn't expected it to finally happen on his first mission with his new teammates. Hell, he thought he was going to jail.

S.H.I.E.L.D. made the crime scene at LexCorp Long Island just ahead of Checkmate, but after some inter-departmental squabbling, Checkmate got jurisdiction, fitting the Secret Six in chains, handcuffs and an inhibitor collar for the hot banshee before loading the lot of them into some high-tech hovering paddywagon. Deadpool wasn't all that surprised by this outcome. He and his erstwhile sidekick, Bob: Agent of H.Y.D.R.A., had got trapped in World War II: Electric Boogaloo with Captain America and Bucky, and while the runt had that killer edge, Cap was a dedicated softie. No wonder Rogers rolled over when the big kids showed up...

Wade was all set to do the time. He'd seen Shawshank Redemption. He just needed to find a magic negro who could get him things, then he'd rock hammer his way out of the place twenty years later. Maybe play a little Italian opera as he made his great escape. Good times, great oldies, right?

Deadpool was just deciding to go with This Mortal Coils' It'll End in Tears album instead of fat ladies singing when the prison transport was intercepted by a surprisingly adept two-chick job. Wade had never actually met Black Alice before. He only knew her by reputation and that stupid fourth wall breaking crap writers used as a crutch when they penned him, but he recognized her right away when she and her partner appeared in a flash of light in the middle of the hover-wagon. Guessing by the top hat and tails Alice was sporting, the witchy little minx was borrowing the magic mojo of Zatanna Zatara for this delightful little prison break, and dear gods on New Genesis, those tattered fishnets were really doing it for him...

"Xis eb eerf!" she enchanted, and the various fetters that had been holding the team fell apart.

Deadpool had met Scandal Savage briefly when he first showed up for this Secret Six gig, but she'd been all business then. Seriously, she'd been wearing a fucking pants suit! If he'd seen her in the black leather tubetop she was rocking now as she sliced and diced her way through the surprised guards like a pro, he would have made much lewder banter back then. Even if she was using those Wolverine knock-off gauntlets. Why was everyone into the Wolverine claw thing these days? Wade certainly understood biting Logan's style to a certain extent -- Wilson did have the dude's healing factor -- but you didn't see him running around with knife-fists, did you? Okay. Maybe that one issue toward the end of Kelly's run… but that was still the 90's for fucksake!

God, Wade missed Joe Kelly. Amazing Spider-Man #611 had been a cruel tease…

None of that really mattered, though. Wade and the team had been busted out was the point. Black Alice teleported them to a safehouse in Hell's Kitchen, and that's when the fun really began.

Because it was while they were laying low that it happened. Catman and Deadshot were fighing over whether they had to pay Wilson or not when his new powers kicked in. He remembered hearing somewhere that these things tended to happen in times of great stress, which totally tracked, because honestly, Wade was tired of this shit. He worked a lot of gigs where he didn't get paid for one reason or another… Okay, yes, it was usually because he ended up killing the sneaky fuck who'd hired him to do something he didn't really want to do because they thought he was an idiot, but what was going on with dark kitty and the gunslinger wasn't that…

"If we'd hired anyone other than Wilson, we wouldn't have had our asses handed to us by a chump like the bug," Catman snarled. But what he really meant was, Oh god, Lawton, I'm so fucking hot for you!

"I wish we went with Taskmaster, too, but I ain't no welsher!" Deadshot replied, the obvious subtext involving whip cream topping on Blake's Good & Plenty's.

No. This spat wasn't really about paying Wade. This was two guys who fought over everything because they were just too self-hating and closeted to engage in their most obvious exchange…

"Jesus, Floyd," Deadpool said to Deadshot eventually. "Why don't you guys just fuck and get it over with already?"

And when he said it, it happened. Deadshot and Catman… kissing. Things quickly escalated shortly thereafter. Wilson was always surprised how easy it was for some folks to slip out of spandex. Personally, it tended to bunch up on him, but good for those crazy kids, right?

But why was this happening?! And that's when he realized. It was him! Deadpool said they should just fuck and now they were fucking. Because he commanded it! Clearly Wade now had powers of persuasion, or maybe even reality-shaping meta-abilities like Scarlet Witch or that Fantastic Four brat. Worst case scenario, he was releasing sex pollen or something. No matter what, it was secondary mutation. He always assumed it'd be teleportation. Especially with Nightcrawler "dead," but nope. He now had the power to bend men's minds. That apparently included bending Floyd over so Blake could have his way with him. Wade was surprised Lawton would be a bottom, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The best marksmen were always compensating for something. Floyd seemed so happy to just let himself go… And now Wilson was starting to wonder why he'd been watching these two burly boys get down for so long…

Deadpool turned away from them then, only to see that flexi-freak Ragdoll trying to suck himself off in a corner. Wade's newfound glory had clearly gone haywire! And the thing that both repulsed and fascinated him about what he was now seeing was that Merkel was actually limber enough to get his limp little dick in his mouth. For some reason, though, it wasn't responding.

"Such a cruel fate," the cocksucking contortionist mumbled around his flaccid prick. "Lithesome enough to fellate my own member yet I haven't the genitals! O! Why must I be a eunuch in love?"

Fuck! This was just too sad too watch! Wade briefly considereing snatching the .22 out of his ankle holster to put the poor wretch out of his misery before deciding to simply avert his gaze from Ragoll, but that got Deadpool another eyeful of HeadGot and Catmandon't making the beast with two backs.

"Gah!" he shouted, screwing his eyes shut and spinning around. He tentatively lifted an eyelid to spy a naked Scandal and Jeannette kissing. Yes! Yes! This was more like it!

Wilson didn't want to ruminate on the ugly undercurrent of homophobia and unjust gender politics at play on his mind-grapes. Just because Wade was evolving didn't mean he was all that evolved. He thought girl-on-girl was hot and dude-in-dude was not. Sorry. He also shot folks in the face at bargain basement prices.

Wade's eyes went wide to take it all in, and that's when he got the full picture. Bane was masturbating furiously between the hot lesbian action, and Deadpool guessed all the problems he heard about steroid jockeys were wrong, because the dude was sporting some massive wood. Massive, veiny, grotesquely muscled wood. He tried to keep his eyes on the girls, but somehow he couldn't quite focus squarely on them...

Not that Wilson was like that! Not that there was anything wrong with that! Not that anyone should still be making that lame Seinfeld reference in this day and age!

Deadpool was all set to see if his teleporter belt was still in continuity and get the hell out of the Secret Six Sex Orgy when Black Alice pounced on him…

"Oh! Fuck me!" she screamed. "Fuck me you beautiful monster!!"

Now this was definitely more like it. Wade could put up with a little hanging brain in his periphery if it meant some barely legal pussy all to his lonesome.

Before he knew it, she was reaching for his mask. For fucksake, Wilson wore a full face mask for a reason, and this was the bit where the ladies usually recoiled in disgust -- assuming they hadn't already done so due to his casual dead baby themed icebreakers. What was the point of calling them pros if they couldn't be professional?

To his eternal relief, Black Alice just smiled when she saw his scarred, deformed face. "You're so hot," she murmured before kissing him.

Thank the Source for goth girls with daddy issues, Wade thought as she tugged down his pants. Then she was hopping up and wrapping her legs around him. His dick settled between the crux of her thighs where he felt her wet pussy. No panties under that tattered black skirt. Why wasn't he surprised?

"You ready for my cock sauce you sexy little teenage twat?" he said in his deep, porno voice.

"Fuh-fill me!" she groaned as he impaled her on his rod.

"I -- uhn! -- take it -- uhn! -- take it all back!" Deadpool shouted to whatever benevolent, almighty creator had allowed him the glorious gift of the tightest pussy he'd fucked in his life. "Best fanfic ever!" he groaned.

*

When his friendship with Peter finally, irreparable, inevitably came to its ugly end, Harry was pretty sure it wasn't going to be about the years of resentment he felt toward Pete over his special "friendship" with Spider-Man, or even through his father Norman's near-constant meddling and manipulation. Harry knew just how crazy this was. He could remember times when, under the influence of the goblin serum, he had come at Pete like he was Spider-Man instead of just the arachnid's personal photographer, but no. When he finally, totally lost his best friend, it was going to be over a woman…

A woman like Carlie. When Harry first came back from his years abroad, he'd kept it a secret. Because, despite all evidence to the contrary, coming back from the dead wasn't something he thought anyone should take lightly. It was always the people who didn't really need to come back who showed up, as far as he was concerned. Like his dad. Or that red-headed mutie who was always slipping in and out of the stupid X-Men. Never people who really mattered, like his mom… or Pete's uncle... or poor Gwen.

Of course, Harry's version of laying low differed slightly from most folks, because the way he did it still involved hitting a nightclub or two. It certainly helped that his homecoming coincided with that stupid superhero civil war. The return of an all but forgotten former supervillain could actually get buried under splashy full color photos of Captain America and Iron Man duking it out on the front page. And it's not like he'd been hiding from the world or his father like Harry was planning now. No, Norman had been all too aware of his son's whereabouts. It was his father who'd arranged for Harry's fake death so he could get cleaned up at a nice, discreet clinic overseas.

Honestly, when he finally came back to New York, the people Harry found himself determined to avoid were the people who loved him best, like Pete or MJ or Flash. Which is why he figured it was safe to go clubbing.  The last time he checked, Parker and Watson had settled into the dull, in-bed-by-ten nightlife of an old married couple, so the chances of bumping into them on the dance floor seemed slim. As for good ol' Flash Thompson, Harry loved the guy, but there was no way Flash could afford to walk through the kind of doors Harry did.

It was on maybe his third night out that Harry met Lily and Carlie. Technically, he met Carlie first. He'd seen her standing in a corner, looking absolutely miserable, and Harry could relate. In the few nights he'd been "making the scene" as he used to say way too much back in the day, he hadn't made any new friends or even really talked to anybody. He actively avoided the few people he actually recognized, and not because they'd once been so close as much as they were the kinds of people Harry used to get high with, and Harry was bent on staying straight in his second life.

That's why chatting up the mousy girl with the cute little pout seemed like the smartest move he could make.

In his desperate college days, Harry had been a bit of a ham, always trying a little too hard when it came to, well, everything. Especially the ladies. Pickup lines had become a terrible obsession back then. There were times now, however, when he was actually grateful for all the time and energy he'd devoted to it, because he'd actually discovered the perfect way to approach an unknown female...

"Hi," he said. "I'm Harry."

"Carlie," she sighed. "She just went to get us some drinks."

He was confused. "Who?"

"Her name's Lily," this Carlie informed him, as if that cleared anything up. "No, she's not seeing anybody right now, and I'm sure she'll be happy to meet you." There was something familiar about her, but Harry couldn't quite put his finger on it...

Before he could try to figure any of this out, this statuesque blonde with the bodacious bod wrapped in golden brown skin and a delightfully revealing designer dress sauntered over and a picture started to form. Of course Carlie looked miserable. She didn't want to be here, but unlike Harry, she hadn't decided to come here all on her own. She'd been dragged here by the type of person who actually liked this kind of place.

In this case, that was Lily Hollister. When she first showed up, Harry whipped up a plan that was sheer elegance in its simplicity: he was going to speak politely with Lily for a moment or two, then refocus his attention on Carlie. This would hopefully underline his central premise that not all guys are the same. Harry was pretty sure he was underlining a lie, but the last thing he wanted right then was to spend the night talking to Lily.

It wasn't that he found Carlie more compelling than Lily, or that he didn't find her attractive. If anything, Harry was panicked by just how hot Lily was, because if this girl offered him drugs, Harry wasn't sure he'd say no.

His sobriety was more important to him than some random hookup. It had to be.

Two things foiled Harry's carefully laid out plan that night: First, Lily ended up being much more interesting than the goodtime girl he assumed, so that brief chat before turning back to Carlie went about twenty minutes too long. Second, Mary Jane Watson wandered by before he actually did the whole "turning back to Carlie" bit.

"Oh my god!" MJ more or less shrieked when she recognized him. "Harry?!"

He decided to lead her away from his new friends so they could hash it out privately, figuring "I faked my death to escape prosecution for crimes I committed as a the second Green Goblin and enter a rehabilitation program for my chemical dependence," was really more of a third date confession. It was a good ninety minutes of explaining and catching up with Mary Jane before he made it back to Lily and Carlie, and they were getting ready to leave.

"What happened?" Lily asked him. "Struck out with the redhead and thought you could pick up where you left off?"

"Far from it," Harry assured her. "That was just an old friend. I was painfully explaining to her that reports of my death were extremely exaggerated, and she was telling me she just broke up with my best friend and is thinking about skipping town."

"That's either the weirdest pickup line ever or you're much more interesting than I guessed at first glance," Lily sighed.

"I'm very interesting," Harry insisted. "Ask any of my therapists."

She just shook her head with a slight smile and stalked off. Carlie started after her before stopping and turning to Harry.

"Lily's not used to being ignored," she explained with a shrug. "Personally, I think it's good for her. Character building."

"Glad to be of service I guess?"

Carlie rolled her eyes. "I'm saying she's probably not going to forget this," she said. "Or you."

"So...?"

"So we'll probably be here Friday night, too." Then she turned to leave and Harry realized who she reminded him of. She was a lot like Gwen Stacy. Not the flirtatious, sometimes flighty Gwen who fell in love with Peter in college. More the brooding, bookish Gwen Harry met in high school...

Once Carlie walked out that door, though, things were more or less set in motion. Harry came back to the club on Friday and Lily danced with him 'til the place shutdown. He took her to dinner the next night and a month later, he was introducing her as his girlfriend to all his old friends at a surprise welcome back party that was quietly doubling as Mary Jane's bon yoyage since she was headed back to L.A.

It happened so fast Harry didn't really have the time to consider that if things had gone as he planned, he might be with Carlie now. But he'd banished the thought from his mind completely when he first saw her and Peter together.

Because, again, when he and Pete came to the end, it was going to be over a girl. And considering Harry had just gotten him back, he wasn't looking to break things just yet. Besides, back then Harry was pretty sure he was falling in love with Lily.

Even after the "American Son" fiasco, when Harry started drinking again and Carlie showed up to help him clean himself up, he was still determined to see her as a friend. Maybe even moreso. Because Carlie had become a stabilizing force in Harry's life and in his long, constant quest for sobriety, he had learned not to fuck with his support structure. He meant that literally. Sex was rarely the solution to any of his problems. Honestly it only seemed to complicate things.

Keeping Carlie Cooper in a box carefully marked "DO NOT INSERT PENIS HERE" had proven fairly easy considering her living arrangements and workplace conditions. When Carlie wasn't happily ensconced in crime scene tape, she was at the apartment she once shared with Lily or over at Bill Hollister's place, where Harry was quite sure he was persona non grata.

And yet, here he was, under the one roof he once swore he'd never step under again, his body pressed against one of the two girls he decided were absolutely off limits. He hadn't given any of this a second thought when he came over for baby lessons. The fact that there'd been a time he spent three or four nights a week there had barely registered when he walked in the door. The mere sight of Lily's bedroom door had once been enough to get him stirring, but now it was just a piece of wood closing off a dusty room everyone wanted to forget about.

Maybe this second fatherhood was really going to change him the way Harry now realized his first probably should have.

Carlie shifted within his embrace then, giving him a faceful of her hair to contemplate. She had recently undergone a radical haircut, transforming her previously shapeless and unkempt tresses into a cute little bob. A cute, fragrant little bob, it now proved, as Harry took in the enticing toasted coconut scent of her hair.

Harry was just about to crack a joke in a desperate bid to ease the rising tension, but before he could open his mouth, she met it with hers. Carlie's tongue swept his as Harry tried to figure out how he'd fucked all this up. He must have said or done something to encourage this without realizing it. Sure, his fingers had briefly lingered on the hooks of her bra, but that was just reflex. Muscle memory. He was trained for that kind of thing. He certainly hadn't meant anything by it. But still, this had to be all his fault, because it felt so damn good. Clearly he'd wanted this all along. All these years and still following the same stupid, self-destructive impulses.

Carlie really did have an amazing body. How had he never noticed before? He didn't realize just how hard he was until she started rubbing his cock.

Harry, spurred by his shock, reluctantly forced himself to push her away. "Whoa," he blurtled. "Wuh-what about Peter?" Harry wasn't sure if the fact that Pete was the first thought in his head in the face of some strange was off or not, and honestly, he didn't care. He was just glad he was holding himself back for once in his adult life.

"Peter's not here," Carlie told him, "because he doesn't want me." He watched her back her way toward her bedroom while pulling that frumpy NYPD sweatshirt up over her head. "Do you want me, Harry?"

He wracked his brain for some reason to talk himself out of this as she disappeared through the door. He was still wracking his brain as he started to follow.

"You don't have to be a nice guy tonight, Harry," Carlie said when he stopped at her doorway. She'd already stripped down to her panties. "I wanna be a bad girl."

"I can't stay here and be with you Carlie," he told her, crossing the threshold. "I'm leaving with Stan and I don't know if we can ever come back…"

"Are you leaving right now?" Carlie asked. The whole time he'd been telling her this, she'd been sliding her last shred of clothing down her legs, and Harry really started to wonder why he was trying so hard to talk her out of this. Was the stodgy Parker morality finally starting to rub off on him?

Oh hell no, Harry thought, giving in and undressing.

He might have made a recent pledge to emulate Pete's sense of responsibility, but there was no fucking way Harry was going to go Full Parker. Peter was a great guy. The greatest. But he never had any fun. Right before his aunt got married, May's new husband had tracked down her family, introducing Pete to his three smoking hot second cousins from Boston, Alexa, Amanda and Amy. Harry had encouraged him to make something happen with any of them, explaining that they weren't blood-related in the least, but the stupid genius refused. Which is why Harry didn't feel too bad about starting things up with cousin Amy shortly thereafter, but damn...

At the same time, Harry wondered why he bothered. It's not like Peter really needed his help. That cursed "Parker luck" never seemed to extend to the ladies. Hell, it was half the reason Harry became friends with the guy back in college. There always seemed to be this flock of beautiful women hovering in Peter's orbit. The tragedy was that the idiot never seemed to realize it. Harry was convinced that Pete had some secret fuck buddy somewhere. Otherwise, the guy had become some sexless monk…

Maybe all those years with Mary Jane was all the sex Peter would ever need for the rest of his life. Harry had only been with her a short time before things went south, but he could almost believe it. At the same time, it'd been so long since those two broke up. And Carlie had been throwing herself at Pete since they met -- as much as she could throw herself at anyone, Harry had once thought. And as he watched Carlie back herself toward her bed, he realized, once again, that Peter Parker was the dumbest man he knew. It seemed a ridiculous thought, because Pete was the only reason Harry had his bachelor's degree. Business calculus would have ruined him without his former live-in tutor, and the entire time, Pete kept muttering about how much easier Harry's class was than his own advanced calc class, but whatever. If Parker could pass up on Cooper, he didn't have the brain power to toast bread…

Carlie just barely turned around before she fell down on the mattress. Harry thought she'd tripped at first, but after she flopped onto the bed, she lifted her bottom and wiggled it at him and Harry thought he understood her intention.

"Tell me what you want," he said, stepping up to her round, upturned rump to rub just the tip of his dick along her steamy wet slit. She just whimpered in response with a shudder. "Say it, Carlie…"

"Spank me," she murmured -- so quietly he wondered if he'd imagined her words.  Had he heard that right?

"What?" he asked, so taken aback he was no longer stroking her nether lips with his dick, just at the edge of her cunt. He had expected her to say something like "Put it in" or "Pound me"… Maybe she'd go so far as to use the dreaded f-word…  but this? This was a surprise...

"Oh -- ah -- spuh-spank me," she whimpered again, pushing back slightly so the tip of his cock slipped into her. Damn, she was tight. Didn't this girl ever get out? "Spank my ass, Harry!" she begged, louder now, her face and neck flushing red with embarrassment. "I'm not a bad girl but I could be…" He couldn't believe she had just said that. What was wrong with her?

It's always the quiet ones, Harry thought to himself with a rueful smile. He realized that he was just standing there, musing to himself when her head started to turn so she could look back at him. If Carlie saw the smirk on his face, she'd probably stop this right then and there. Hell, she'd probably slap him. He couldn't have that so he did the first thing that came to mind, swatting the right side of her ass with a quick, stinging smack.

"Ow! FUCK!" Carlie howled, and Harry stopped smiling. He'd definitely hit her harder than he regularly would have -- especially for such an obvious first-timer -- but he'd panicked. He worried he'd really hurt her when she moaned. "Duh-do it again," she whispered. This time, he gave her more of a love tap, but she just shook her head, whining "Ah, do it right. I can take it…" He smacked her again, just as hard as the first time and her pussy clamped down on his cockhead.

"Cuh-Caaaaarlie," he roared, as her head fell forward, muffling a long high sigh in the sheets of her bed as she thrust her ass back. Her tight little cunt loosened only slightly as it enveloped the rest of his manhood with her velvety wetness. She didn't have to ask. He slapped her left cheek this time, rewarded again by a sharp, squeezing pulse in her pussy as he pulled back.

"Mphml… mfff… mulff," she moaned into the bed with his next few thrusts, balling the sheets in her fists as he plowed her depths. He started kneading her raw, red rump, fucking her faster. There was something so wonderfully wrong about taking her… This girl that should have been Peter's... The best friend of the woman who'd broken Harry's heart...

Harry didn't spank her again until her groans grew too silent, smothered in her bed. He slapped her again, grabbing a fistful of her hair to tug her head back. He wanted to hear Carlie scream.

"Hah! Hah! Haaaaarrryyyy!!!" she called out as she came. Harry wondered if she could even still feel him pounding into her. Sliding harder and faster. She'd cum so much that it was easier now.

Carlie was well on her way to a second climax when they heard the broken cry from the living room.

"H-Harry…" she whined as he fucked her rough. "We… we woke up the baby."

He smacked her with more force than he ever had then. "I don't care," he growled into her ear, slapping her ass again. "I haven't cum yet…"

*

"Congratulations, tiger…" she started to say after Jimmy had finally answered enough of her questions. She was babbling something about him winning the lottery or something as she led him toward the bathroom, but he wasn't really listening anymore. He was just watching that ass.

God, he'd waiting long enough, hadn't he?

At some point, Jimmy had realized that the only thing stopping him from mounting Mary Jane Watson right there on the table was Jimmy himself. She was just as horny as he was. Hell, as horny as everyone everywhere it now seemed, but some part of this game she was playing was getting her off, and he liked that. He'd followed her little cues because he wanted to. He didn't want to just take her. Jimmy wanted to win her. By her own rules.

But once that happened. Once she was done and he won, he didn't want to play around anymore.

Something crazy was driving him. Jimmy realized that, but he didn't care. All he cared about was fucking MJ just then. He could sort it out later. And once she'd plopped herself on the edge of that sink, he was pretty much on autopilot…

Anything for that pussy… Anything for Mary Jane… and God… those tits of hers…

It was a bit of a struggle to work that tight skirt up her long legs to her sexy hips, but a struggle well worth it. He could smell her arousal seeping through her soaked silk panties as she pulled his pants down.

"Do -- oh! aaahh!! -- do you think I'm -- hah! hah! hah! -- pretty, Jimmy?" she asked him again as he rubbed her pussy.

"Oh god yes," he hissed. "You're gorgeous."

"And you're -- oof! -- thinking ab-about meee?" she whimpered, unleashing his dick from his boxers. "Not her, just me?"

"No one else," he said. "Only you."

He held out as long as he could, kissing down her swan-like neck, stopping briefly to the explore the length of her collarbone as he slowly made his way toward that long yearned for space between her impossible breasts. That entire time he'd been fondling them, but as good as they felt under her clothes, Jimmy just couldn't wait for her to pull off her shirt and sweater vest. He knew it was a cashmere and pricey and rare, but there he was tugging it and the shirt and her bra aside so he could suck on one of those wonders, and the second his lips touched her he realized that Steve Lombard was a fucking idiot. Well, not really realized as much as remembered… but now Jimmy knew he could be just as stupid. One mouthful and he knew they were real… spectacular… the whole shebang… Mary Jane's arms wrapped around his head, directing his progress as he worshipped her teat.

"They're fake," she eventually told him, reluctantly pushing Jimmy back from her then to yank her collective tops up over her head. Her action had shifted the bra back in place, once more covering her up.

"I don't care," he said, squeezing her lace-clad breasts. "They're perfect..."

"Not my boobs, silly," she smirked tugging the straps down her shoulders. "The photos..."

"What?" he asked, mesmerized while she reached back to undo the clasp.

"If you print a word of this, I'll sue, or maybe worse…" She was started to pull the cups down now. "I'll stop."

What was this? A lie? A new part of the game? Oscars. This woman deserved Oscars.

What did it matter? "This is all off the record," he promised. And it certainly was. Because whatever this was and what other truths might be out there, there was one more pressing on Jimmy's mind. He had to put his dick in this goddess.

"That girl in those pictures isn't me," Mary Jane whispered. And then the bra was gone and he saw them. Jimmy had looked at those nude pics. A lot. When Chloe found them in what he thought was a well-hidden file on his hard drive, it had been a long, awkward conversation. The point being that those photos were more or less seared into his memory and that girl in the pictures certainly had the size and maybe even the shape of Mary Jane Watson's breasts, but the nipples were different. He hadn't noticed before because his lips were on them, but that girl in the photos had these small, pink nipples… even when they were stiff. But Mary Jane's were big and darker, a silver dollar-sized patch of puckering skin around those thick, deep red points. Jimmy couldn't really speak to a difference in the taste, but MJ's were deliciously chewy.

Her legs were around him before he realized she'd drawn him toward her. He was finally inside her shortly thereafter. She was still wet from before so he slid into her with ease, right up to the hilt.

"Fuuuuck," she groaned as he pushed in. A complaint?  A compliment? A command? Jimmy assumed all three and answered with another hard thrust. It briefly occurred to him that he was still clothed above his waist as they fucked and he reached up to undo his shirt.

"No no no," she murmured, her fingers stopping his. "Luh-leave it on. Bowties are cool."

Damn right they were.

*

Sometimes she sucked just hard enough for her cheeks to cave into her mouth, touching his cock and it swelled out to meet the inner parts of her maw, meeting her heat with his.

Barbara would look up at him in those moments, but Peter's eyes were usually closed as he reveled in the sensation, but there was that one time that they weren't and he looked down at her with that indescribable look. Like he was trying to process too much at once. There was a definite pleasure in that look, so Barbara knew she wasn't doing this wrong. But she read confusion, too, and maybe guilt... But most of all bliss. Peter was absolutely loving this, and really, why shouldn't he? Then his eyes closed again and he wasn't with her anymore. Not really. He was off in that happy place men go to in moments like this. Barbara remembered admonishing him about doing that the night before, needing him to truly be enthralled with her as they made love, but she hadn't this time...

A boy's first blowjob should be a special thing, right?

Did he finish in your mouth?

Barbara wondered why she'd asked herself that for what felt like a minute before she realized the question hadn't been her own. She'd been working Peter's twitching cock back and forth in her mouth with the White Queen beneath her, tonguing her pussy, for quite some time when the thought suddenly popped up in her mind. Barbara had almost forgotten Frost was still down there. Well, she hadn't really forgotten as much as she'd been desperately trying to ignore the woman's delicate work on her sex.

Did he finish in your mouth? Emma telepathically asked her again. Did he shoot his creamy cum on your anxious, aching little tongue? Did he taste good? Did you swallow or let it dribble out onto your bubbies? Some boys adore that kind of thing…

I-I don't understand, Barbara told her, taking her lips off Peter's dick because this was when she'd started her long deliberation of his balls, tonguing them before sucking one into her mouth outright. And she really didn't understand. Frost hadn't made so much as a peep since the psychic started eating her out in earnest, so Barbara was surprised by this sudden inquisition as to her preferred method of closing out a big, sloppy blowjob...

Sloppy, huh? Emma asked, picking up a stray bit of insight from Barbara's confusion. So did he finish on your face? Did you stop sucking long enough to jerk his big rod so he could blow that gooey load all over your pretty little nose? Did he plaster your cheeks with his spunk? Did it get in all that red hair?

What does that matter? Barbara wondered, now drawing the other testicle between her lips. And again, it was so weird being interrogated by the same person who had their tongue shoved up your twat, curving the tip to caress your G-spot. Oh god, Emma was good...

Thanks for the compliment, sweetie, Emma thought. It's nice to be appreciated, but you haven't answered the question…

W-Why do you want to know? Barbara could feel a flush rising inside her but fought it back down.

I don't want to know, darling, Frost corrected. I need to. To help you recreate the memory so we can reach him. I need you to remember all the naughty little things you let Spider-Man do to you before things get out of my control...

Barbara groaned in frustration around one of Peter's nuts. She still didn't understand.

Whatever's taken over his mind's getting stronger, the White Queen explained. I'm trying to filter it out as best as I can but I… I kind of like it...

Frost, it's the machine, Barbara realized, taking his shaft with her mouth again. Fight it. I need you here…

What machine? Emma wondered. Had Barbara black-boxed all the relevant specifics, too?

And then, Peter's dick pushed right to the back of her throat.

It wasn't like this, Barbara insisted internally, almost gagging. Up until then, things had gone just as she recalled it, and then he was suddenly fucking her face.

His lust's bleeding through… corrupting the memory, the White Queen explained. You've got to focus. What was it like back then?

He was sweet, Barbara remembered. Such a sweet boy. Back then, she'd been well aware when he was about to lose it, so she'd back off. Sometimes, slowing down had been enough, but there were other times when she just had to stop completely, slipping his thick dick from mouth, waiting for that raging storm within to settle before she started once more. Again, she was teaching him patience and pace, and if Peter Parker was anything, he was an excellent student...

But now he was choking her on his cock. He took hold of her head with both of his hands as he continued ramming his dick into her throat.

How did it end? Emma asked her. How did he cum?

No one had ever sucked him off before and I wa-wanted it to be special… Barbara struggled to remember. So I… so I a-asked him…

So ask him, Frost commanded. Throughout this ordeal, the White Queen had continued her concentrated cunnilingus. Emma's mouth had become this weird source of singular pleasure for Barbara as the world went wrong around her. She hadn't even realized she'd been grinding into the telepath's face with the same vigor Peter was practically raping her throat until that moment…

Ask him, Frost instructed again.

Barbara looked up at Peter then. His eyes were open and glazed. He grunted as he thrusted into her faster.

He'd never looked the way that he did now. Not with her...

I can't, Barbara realized. It's not the same. He's not…

Then why are you doing this? Emma wondered, drawing her tongue slowly from Barbara's cunt.

He -- mmm -- he's got to -- ah! -- come back, Barbara realized, scrambling to get her thoughts together.

Don't tell me, darling, Emma said, licking the length of her slit. Tell him.

Barbara had been so comfortable with reliving the memory before, but she fought it now, pushing Peter back, disengaging from the assault of his dick.

"Come back to us Peter…" she begged him out loud. "Cum for me…"

And then the White Queen bore down on her clit, sucking it between her lips as she lavished it with her soft, pink tongue.

Emma stop! Barbara screamed inside as she felt herself rising again. I'm… I'm gonna… Her thoughts were slipping…

In that moment of blind panic, Peter forced his dick back into Barbara's mouth and his seed flooded her throat. She was drowning in cum.

Sorry, darling, but it's now or never, Emma apologized. Trust me, there's a method to my muff-dying…

And then it was more than just the White Queen eating her out. So much more. If Barbara thought about it, she might realize that the psychic had just tapped the sex center of her brain, but she couldn't think about it. She couldn't think about anything but the… the…

Barbara couldn't think.

One last guttural moan burst from her lips as the pleasure spasmed through her whole being.

The room was falling apart. The bed beside her crumbled into dust. The walls cracked and collapsed. The nightstand fell away and so did Peter, but he was still blasting her with his creamy white.

This place around her, this once perfect memory of a time long ago wobbled and waned.

Barbara wasn't just cumming… she was coming undone…

Oh, bugger, she heard the White Queen murmur in her mind as their world faded away.

And then it all fell apart...

NEXT: One Moment in Mind