Admittedly, the last two weeks or so of their relationship had been rather cortisol-inducing. It was expected, Michelle knew, for couples to argue every once in a while, especially couples that had been together for over a few months. Over the last year and a half of their relationship, Peter and Michelle had their fair share of spats. Still, they were few and far between, and typically ended with Peter at her window, spewing apologies for whatever reason she was pissed off.
But every good relationship requires balance, and thus, this time, Michelle Jones found herself standing on the fire escape outside the Parker’s apartment window, her fist raised to knock. Before her knuckles–one of them split and stinging from a tumble she may have had whilst climbing up the fire escape–could rap the glass, Peter appeared before her, his expression briefly surprised but quickly shifting to be more flat.
Freaking spider-sense. She threw her hands out, like Are you going to let me in?
He blinked in confusion before the understanding kicked in, and then she was clumsily climbing into the now-open window. It led into their main living area, a combination of kitchen, living, and dining room. Beneath the aroma of May’s jasmine-scented candles lingered a faint burning smell, but combined with the warm lighting and the scattered clutter, it all wrapped up in one big picture of domesticity.
“Is May here?” Michelle asked, fiddling with a Christmas card from the Leeds that had been placed on the window sill. He nodded, avoiding eye contact. Ugh. Michelle was the worst girlfriend ever. She probably deserved that bleeding knuckle, which was starting to trickle down her wrist.
She took a big breath. All right, Michelle. Time to spit some fucking poetry. Touch his heart (haha penis) STOP don’t be weird, it’s tear time. “Um…so–”
“What happened to your hand?” Peter interrupted, grabbing her left arm and inspecting it.
“Cut a bitch.”
He spared her a glance that said he wasn’t entirely sure if she was joking but pulled her into their bathroom nonetheless. He propped her onto the counter and began to rifle through the medicine cabinet for Neosporin and a bandage while she rinsed the blood off. They don’t talk, even as Peter begins to wrap a comically large bandaid around her knuckles.
Normally, Michelle didn’t mind silence, even the awkward genre. But the kind she found herself in right now was tense and uncomfortable, which were not terms she ever wanted to use when describing herself and Peter.
“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly, feeling a wave of shamefacedness.
He didn’t look up from where he was gently bandaging her. “For what?”
“Not communicating with you. It’s not fair for me to expect you to read my mind and magically know what I want or need.”
“It’s not.”
“And I’m sorry for being the world’s biggest bitchiest bitch to you the last week…I think I was unfairly taking my stress out on you…which, again, not fair. I’m sorry.”
Peter cracked a small smile. “You weren’t the world’s biggest bitch.”
WHOOSH. Big wave of relief
Michelle looked away so he wouldn’t see her own grin. They returned to their quietness, but with the air cleared, it was softer now, more intimate. He stood a little closer now, resting against the counter in between her legs.
In the yellowed old bathroom light, Michelle thought he looked like a painting. His skin was rosy and his dark eyes were reminiscent of pools of amber. She could almost see the brush strokes rendering the perfect slope of his nose, the flop of his dark curls, his jawline.
She wanted to touch him, see if he was real.
Somewhere, somehow, something had changed, and when she looked back to his eyes, they were flickering between her own and then her perfectly parted lips. She recognized the expression on his face, and seizing the moment, moved her face closer to his, a question written upon it.
Peter responded well, moving his own closer and after only a few moments, their lips were gently connected, her thumbs brushing his jawline, his hands firm on her hips.
Hahaha. She liked where this was going. This kiss was slow, soft, and sweet, but she wanted a more detailed taste. She pressed her body firmer against his, letting her tongue slip into his mouth. He tasted like blue raspberry Airheads. Peter nipped her bottom lip in response and she couldn’t help but grin against his lips.
They carried on like that for a while, except then the sink kept stabbing her in the back and her butt started getting pins and needles, so Peter, while maintaining his mouth on hers, hoisted her up like a reverse backpack (perks of boyfriend with super strength), and oh-so-romantically dumped her on his bottom bunk-bed. He lay atop her, his knee in between her legs, and she enthusiastically started tugging at his shirt.
“This–off–” she mumbled, and while Peter fumbled with his shirt, she got to work on his jeans. Unsurprisingly, his blood flow was pumping successfully beneath his now-visible blue boxers. Those went away too, and Michelle forced herself to be brave and not avoid eye contact with… it. She was kind of scared of penises. Historically. But, not to be too vulgar here, she liked Peter’s, so she reached towards him. She felt a spike of satisfaction when he gave a sharp gasp, briefly breaking the kiss and exhaling his blue raspberry-scented breath. It wasn’t long before he gave a shaky shudder and one last push against her hands.
“Peter–will you–?” Michelle did not want to touch her sticky hands against her clothes, so Peter tugged her tank top off (briefly getting it stuck around her head) and peeled her sweatpants and underwear down to her ankles. Now, while she liked her body a lot, that didn’t mean she loved being butt-naked in front of other people. Except Peter was her boyfriend, and based on the way his dilated pupils were raking her in, she didn’t mind all that much.
He kissed her collarbone, between her boobs, and her belly button, trailing steadily on a downward path. Oh great. Oh great. After he threw her legs over his shoulders, she stopped thinking for a bit. Just feeling–his hair between her fingers, his breath fanning over her thighs.
And once she had finished her own shuddering and panting, Peter was again on top of her, easing gently into her, his room quiet except for the sounds of their heavy breathing and the creak of his bedsprings. A few tears trickled out of her eyes and he wiped them away, kissing her cheek and her neck. Her arms were spread out behind her head, so he laced his fingers with hers.
Afterward, she curled up into a ball, her back against his stomach as he traced shapes on her arms. They didn’t talk; anything they needed to say had been conveyed another way. Her body felt like one slow beating heart.
“Are you okay?” Peter’s breath tickled her neck. It smelled like her strawberry lip gloss.
“Yeah,” she replied.
His hands moved to the bareness of her back, drawing pictures and patterns on it. The quiet resumed. His fan whispered in the background and she could feel his heartbeat. All was well.