A Life in Marvel
Chapter 6 - Part 2
"Right," Flash said, grabbing his bag. "Productive. Let's try to be a little more productive next time, shall we? Without the distractions." He shot a pointed look at Morgan, who didn't even bother to acknowledge him.
Gwen stood and stretched her arms over her head, the easy motion drawing a few glances around the room. "I've got to get to the lab," she said calmly. "They're expecting me."
She walked over to Morgan with relaxed confidence and leaned down to give him a quick peck on the lips. It was brief and casual, but unmistakably public.
"Don't have too much fun without me," she murmured with a faint, teasing smile meant only for him.
Morgan just smirked, his eyes dark and knowing. "I'll try," he replied, his voice a low, amused rumble.
As Gwen walked away, her hips swaying with a newfound confidence, Flash couldn't resist one last parting shot. He stopped in front of Ned, who was still fuming, his face a mask of suppressed anger. "Tell your boyfriend I said hi," he sneered, his voice dripping with condescension. "Tell him I hope he's enjoying his early retirement. Maybe he can get a job as a Stark Internship mascot. They could pay him in tears."
Ned's hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles turning white. He opened his mouth to retort, to defend his friend, to wipe that smug, arrogant grin off Flash's face, but the words wouldn't come. He just stood there, his face burning with a mix of shame and impotent rage, his jaw working soundlessly.
"Leave him alone, Flash," MJ said, her voice a low, dangerous growl that was surprisingly effective. Flash just laughed, a harsh, grating sound, and walked away, leaving them alone in the quiet, empty room.
Ned let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. "God, I hate that guy," he muttered, his voice a low, angry grumble. "I just… I hate him."
MJ just nodded, her expression unreadable. "He's not worth it, Ned. He's just a loud, insecure bully who gets off on making other people feel small. Don't give him the satisfaction."
Ned looked at her, his eyes softening. "Yeah. I know. It's just… Peter. And I'm worried about him. I haven't heard from him in days. It's like he just… vanished."
MJ's expression softened, a flicker of genuine concern in her eyes. "He'll be okay, Ned. He's Peter. He's tougher than he looks. He probably just needs some time to sort things out."
"I hope you're right," Ned said quietly. "I really do." He glanced down at his watch, then pushed himself up from his seat with a sudden resolve. "Actually… I think I'm gonna go check on him. If he's been hiding out at home again, someone should probably make sure he's still alive."
He gave MJ a small, uncertain smile. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Okay," she said, her voice a little too quiet. "Be careful. And tell him… tell him we're thinking about him."
"I will," Ned said, forcing a weak smile. "I promise."
He walked away, his shoulders slumped, his steps heavy, leaving MJ alone with Morgan in the quiet, empty room. The silence was a heavy, living thing, a thick, suffocating blanket that seemed to press in on her, making it hard to breathe. She could feel his presence, a steady, calm force that was both reassuring and utterly intimidating.
She stood there for a long moment, her mind racing, her heart pounding in her chest. She could feel the weight of his gaze, a physical touch that made her skin tingle, her body tremble with a mix of nervousness and a deep, aching need. She knew what she was about to do. She knew it was a mistake. She knew it was a betrayal of her friendship with Peter, with Ned, with Gwen. But she couldn't help herself. She was drawn to him, a moth to a flame, and she knew, with a cold, hard certainty, that she was about to get burned.
"You're right, you know," she said, her voice a low, quiet murmur that broke the heavy silence. "About Peter. About… everything."
Morgan didn't say anything. He just watched her, his eyes dark and unreadable, his expression a mask of calm indifference that was both infuriating and incredibly arousing.
"The three of us… Peter, Ned, and me… we're close," she continued, her voice a little shaky, her hands trembling at her sides. "We've been through a lot together. And… I'm worried about him. He's not himself. He's… different. Distant. I don't know what's wrong, but I know it's bad."
She took a step closer, her movements a deliberate, fluid grace that was both confident and incredibly vulnerable. "If he's struggling… if he needs help… we'll be there for him. We'll do whatever it takes to bring him back."
Morgan just watched her, his eyes dark and knowing. He could feel the shift in her, the change in her energy. It was no longer just concern; it was a plea. A desperate, silent plea for something more, something she couldn't bring herself to say out loud.
She took another step closer, her body now just a few inches from his. She could feel the heat radiating from him, the sheer, undeniable power of his presence, and it made her stomach clench with a mix of nervousness and a deep, aching need. She looked up at him, her eyes dark and intense, a silent, electric current passing between them.
She stepped in front of Morgan and slowly sank to her knees between his legs, her gaze never leaving his. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air thicker.
Her fingers moved to his belt, unbuckling it with practiced ease as she spoke, voice low and edged with heat
"What if I'm the one who's struggling?" she murmured, the words barely louder than a breath as her fingers hooked under the waistband and tugged his zipper down with slow, deliberate intent. The metallic rasp seemed impossibly loud in the stillness. "Liz has been giving you fuck-me eyes the entire time during reviews. The whole damn session. Leaning forward just enough to let her shirt gape, biting her lip every time you spoke, staring at you like she's already picturing you bending her over that conference table and taking her hard while everyone else pretends not to notice."
She eased his jeans open and freed his cock—thick, heavy, velvet-hot against her palm, already thickening and lengthening under her gaze. She wrapped her fingers around the base, marveling for a split second at how her hand couldn't quite close fully, then began stroking him slowly, deliberately, feeling every vein pulse and swell beneath her touch as he grew impossibly harder in her grip.
"It's taking every ounce of self-control I have," she continued, voice dropping to a raw, husky whisper that vibrated with barely-leashed hunger as she pumped him in long, firm strokes, twisting slightly at the head on each upstroke, "not to just stand up in the middle of that meeting, walk over, grab you by the shirt, and beg you—right there in front of Flash, Liz, the whole fucking team—to fuck me. To not drop to my knees in the middle of the room, yank your pants down, and let you take me however you want. Bent over, against the wall, on the table—doesn't matter. Just… use me."
{R-18 Morgan x Michelle Jones Watson (MJ) 3283 Full Word Count aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n}
Morgan released her wrists and lowered himself beside her, pulling her down onto the floor with him. She collapsed against his chest, boneless, shaking, skin slick with sweat. He wrapped one arm around her waist, the other hand stroking slow, soothing lines up and down her spine.
They stayed like that—breathing hard, hearts hammering in tandem—while the room settled around them. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead; the air was heavy with sex, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of exertion.
After several long minutes, Morgan pressed a soft kiss to her forehead—gentle, almost tender.
"You okay?" he asked quietly, voice stripped of dominance now, just low concern.
MJ nodded against his chest, eyes still closed. "Yeah," she whispered, hoarse and raw. "I'm… really fucking good."
He huffed a small, quiet laugh—more breath than sound—and held her tighter for a while longer.
Eventually he shifted, helping her sit up. Her legs wobbled when she tried to stand; he steadied her with both hands on her waist until she found her balance. They cleaned up in near-silence—wiping themselves down with tissues from the desk, straightening clothes, avoiding eye contact for a beat or two. The weight of everything they'd said, everything they'd done, hung thick between them, unspoken but impossible to ignore.
When they were finally dressed, Morgan reached out, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face.
"Next time," he said softly, "maybe we talk first."
MJ met his eyes—still dazed, still flushed—and gave a small, crooked smile.
"Maybe," she agreed.
But neither of them sounded convinced.
"I'll ask him," MJ said after a beat, her voice low and steady—more vow than promise. "I'll push harder. Corner him if I have to. Find out what's eating at him. I'll help him, Morgan. I swear."
Morgan studied her for a long second, expression still unreadable in the dim light. Then he gave a single, slow nod.
"Thank you," he said quietly, the words carrying real weight. "I appreciate that."
He shouldered his bag in one fluid motion, the strap settling across his chest like it belonged there. Without another word, he turned and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality.
MJ stayed where she was, alone in the suddenly too-quiet room. Her thighs still ached, her skin still flushed and sensitive, the faint throb between her legs a lingering reminder of how thoroughly he'd taken her apart. Guilt curled in her chest—sharp, familiar—but it didn't drown out the deep, bone-deep satisfaction humming through her veins. She knew she'd carry both for days.
The lab smelled like acetone, warm electronics, and the faint metallic bite of ozone—comforting, familiar, home. Gwen moved between workstations with quiet precision: adjusting a burette, noting a color change, tapping numbers into her laptop. The low hum of the fume hood and the soft whir of the stir plate were the only sounds she needed right now. Here, everything made sense. Variables could be controlled. Results could be replicated. Chaos stayed outside the glass doors.
But tonight the city pressed closer than usual. She could feel it through the walls—the distant siren wail, the low vibration of traffic, the constant undercurrent of danger that never quite left New York alone. And beneath her skin, that other hum: the electric buzz from Oscorp, the bite, the change. It never fully quieted. It just waited.
She felt the shift before she heard the door—air displacing, temperature ticking up a degree, a presence that filled the room without trying. She didn't turn right away. She finished pipetting the last sample, capped the vial, wiped her hands on her lab coat. Only then did she look.
Morgan leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, one shoulder against the frame. Casual. Watchful. The bored half-smile on his mouth didn't reach his eyes.
"You're late," she said, voice light but edged with tease.
"You're worth waiting for," he answered, the low rumble of it sliding straight down her spine.
She crossed the room slowly, heels clicking softly on tile, stopping just close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off him. Her eyes flicked over his face—jaw tight, hair slightly mussed, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his neck. And then she caught it: the ghost of a scent that wasn't his. Musky. Feminine. Recent.
Gwen's stomach twisted—possessive heat flaring sharp and sudden.
"You smell like her," she murmured, leaning in until her lips brushed the shell of his ear. "That bitch. I can practically taste her on your skin." Her voice dropped lower, sultry and dangerous. "Wish I'd been there. Watching you bend her over. Watching you use her until she couldn't remember her own name."
Morgan laughed—quiet, dark, more vibration than sound. His hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him in one smooth tug. She felt the hard line of him through his jeans, already half-hard, pressing insistently.
"I know," he whispered against her mouth. "But you're the one I come back to. Every time."
The kiss that followed was slow at first—claiming, thorough—then deeper, hungrier. His tongue slid against hers like he was trying to erase every trace of anyone else. Gwen melted into it, fingers curling into his shirt, nails digging just enough to sting. When they broke apart, both breathing hard, she rested her forehead against his.
"Good," she said, voice husky, wrecked. "Because I want you tonight. I want you to fuck me until I can't walk straight. Until everything else disappears. Until the only thing I can feel is you."
Morgan's smirk was slow, wicked, eyes darkening.
"Oh, I will," he promised, thumb brushing her lower lip. "I'll wreck you so good you'll still be feeling me tomorrow. Next week. Whenever you sit down."
He laced their fingers together—firm, possessive—and tugged her toward the door. She flicked off the last bank of lights as they passed, plunging the lab into darkness. They stepped out into the cool night air, the city noise rushing back in like a tide.
They walked in easy silence, shoulders brushing, steps syncing without effort. The guilt and satisfaction MJ carried alone in that empty room felt miles away now. Here, with Gwen's hand in his, the world narrowed to just them—two people carrying too much power, too many secrets, and still choosing each other in the dark.
They were a unit. Dangerous. Unstoppable.
And tonight, they were going home.
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