It's Wednesday and Peter wakes bleary-eyed, groggy, and slightly disoriented. His hair is sticking out every which way, curling toward the ceiling like a flower reaching for sunlight. He's squinting because Jesus it's bright. Like "turning on a phone in a totally dark room, getting blasted with pure light, and experiencing temporary blindness" several times reveals that he's much too close to the window and his curtain is not where it should be.

Peter Parker is not the sort of guy that usually makes bad decisions. Well, scratch that. He makes at least four bad decisions a day, but not many of them result in him trying to piece his

night back together. He thinks he might have brought someone back to "his" (read: his aunt's) place. Which is not the smartest choice he could have made because he hasn't properly cleaned his place in several months. He's been doing a lot of what May calls "spot cleaning" which is where: "you just pick a spot and tidy it up". A person can only tidy so much before it becomes obvious that they haven't really cleaned.

Half of him is uncovered and his chest is bared, but the rest of him is safely cocooned in the warmth of his thin cotton blanket. Swiveling his head to the left, he catches his reflection in the dirty window and immediately looks down at himself. He's littered with kiss marks and small bruises beginning to blossom.

Peter prays that whoever gave him these doesn't take personal offense to the fact that he absolutely does not remember a single thing about them. He also spares a few moments to throw a few extra prayers out that they didn't see the stray boot from his costume sticking out of his closet. Christ, had he completely lost his mind?

Peter isn't sure how long he lays in bed trying to put his previous night back together, but its long enough for his phone to start buzzing with texts from his best friend and his aunt to duck her head into his room.

"You up yet, hun?" Her voice is soft and soothing, maternal in that it's both caring and irritated at the same time.

He manages a noise of confirmation, it's the summertime but his aunt has been ducking into his room like clockwork every morning to make sure he doesn't waste the day away. In his state of grogginess, he forgets to cover his chest when she looks into the room, which gives her plenty of time to observe the marks littering his chest. She whistles in surprise.

Peter, of course, squeaks in response and ducks his entire head beneath the blanket because he can't stand the thought of looking at his aunt's amused expression.

Her voice turns mildly stern the next time she speaks, "Well, I sure hope you used protection."

He groans, half in shame and half embarrassment because he honestly can't remember. To his dismay, she keeps talking despite the fact that he is clearly in the midst of internally panicking. "You're definitely going to want a shower. Dried body fluids are itchy the next day-"

"May!" He squawks. Now he feels scandalized, and he throws the blanket off his head to fix her with a deep frown and his eyebrows drawn together in frustration. He is the picture of a typical young man scowling at his mother for saying something "gross".

May only giggles at him, with a hand on the doorknob and a grin, she leans back dramatically as she pulls the door with her. Peter rolls his eyes even though she can't see it, silently steaming as he gathers the courage to get up and out of bed. How is he supposed to face the world?

Peter, it turns out, is not as good at piecing together his normal social life as he is at cleaning up the streets as Spiderman. The mystery of the night before only comes back in flashes of skin and heat, sweat glistening like molten sugar. He can remember the delicate curves of her body, shaped like fine glass, but still flexible enough to twist with ease. The memories bring a hot rush of red to his cheeks, he has to scrub his face a bit harder than necessary to cover the embarrassment.

He tries to stay busy to keep the memories from coming back to the surface, but a piece of toast and idly walking to the train station only keep him distracted for so long. His fingers push the earbuds in just a little too far, his ear is aching by the time he steps off the train on the way to campus. He nearly jumps out of his skin when Ned manifests at his side on their way to morning class.

His friend snorts, clearly amused by his skittish behavior. Peter can only smile sheepishly as he continues to compress the memories of skin dancing behind his eyelids every time he blinks. When he relays the information about his missing time his friend is absolutely no help.

Ned gapes like a fish with his mouth opening and closing in some sort of abject horror.

"You got laid?" He says, aghast.

Peter frowns deeply, his chin and forehead wrinkling. "You don't have to sound so surprised. I'm not a total loss."

Ned's eyes narrow, squinting at him as if he'll see through some sort of bluff.

But Peter isn't bluffing.

And it takes Ned far too long to realize that. He shovels a few fries in his mouth, chewing as if he's trying to discern the ingredients in the seasoning. "I dunno man I always considered you in...well you know. Not quite an uggo but maybe-"

"An uggo?" Peter squawks.

The uggo category is reserved for the likes of Flash Thompson and Carrot Top. It was only to be used in the most dire of circumstances. Peter is quite honestly offended by this notion. He and Ned had been together for years, the fact that he would direct such a powerful insult in Peter's direction was a downright betrayal.

He huffs at his friend and it's petulant and not very becoming of a college student. Alas, Ned was now too busy snickering and waggling fries in Peter's direction to be of any real use. This leads to Peter fielding useless questions regarding how many parties they would be attending now that they were in college.

Thankfully he has two other classes to distract him, providing enough coursework to keep his mind reeling for several hours after he makes his way back to the train station.

When Peter thinks about the night in question, his heart flutters.

He can't picture it clearly, but he slowly recalls bits and pieces as the days pass and his dreams begin replaying the images lost in the abyss of his subconscious.

There's something in the air. There has to be because Peter can't think of any other reason he'd have another body on top of his, lithe and sweet like candy. Her lips are shiny with gloss, it leaves his skin sticky and it smudges everywhere. Little flashes of gossamer gloss peppered on his cheeks and neck, trailing down his sternum and stopping to dive around the curve of his hip. The sound he makes when her lips bully the skin just above the line of his jeans isn't dignified. He's melting against her, helpless under her confident ministrations.

It's downright pathetic. Stifling and suffocating. His hands are tied somewhere above his head. They must be because he can't move them freely. Part of him is glad for it cause if they were free he wouldn't have the first clue what to do with them. She seemed too delicate to touch.

Her fingers are careful but confident as they pop open the button of his jeans and pull down the zipper. The sound of it is so loud in comparison to the quietness of the room. Heavy panting and soft gasps follow. He tries to warn her that his stamina isn't the best, he isn't used to holding himself back.

A shower of silvery blonde locks tickles his stomach and thighs as her head dips down, the gloss melting against the heat of him in a hot slick motion as she sinks lower. He's encased in velvet wet heat.

It's unbearably hot when Peter wakes, aching and confused, in his bed. He's alone. The delicate sugar-spun body that had been rolling against him in his dreams is absent.

He feels like he's being haunted by a ghost. A sexy ghost.

Sighing, he shuffles out of bed and slides into the sad little rolly chair he'd gotten from a thrift market. His laptop is shut and sitting in the middle of his desk, surrounded by an array of half-completed projects. Everything ranging from old computers to preliminary gadgets for his suit. It looks like an artist's workbench, tools splayed out in a crescent, with diagrams jotted messily onto college-ruled paper. The sort with the large spaces between the lines because his handwriting is atrocious and large.

It's one in the morning. If he hurries he could put on his suit and do a quick sweep of the neighborhood. He isn't motivated to perform a proper patrol though and he knows he'll be distracted. There's too much on his mind. He could always...take care of it on his own.

Peter rolls this idea around in his mind for several moments. His eyes fall on his door and then on the screen of his computer again. Aunt May usually went to bed between 11:00 PM and midnight. It was a safe bet that she'd be passed out by now.

Steeling himself, he resolves to wash the sweat off himself and yanks a used towel off the floor as he pads to the bathroom. To his shame, he only makes it a few minutes in the shower before he's wrapping a hand around himself. Peter's eyes fall closed under the rain of the shower head and as the droplets trickle behind his ears he thinks he can hear her voice. The rush of hot breath against soft cartilage as she gasps. His forehead is pressed to the cool tile of the shower wall, his fingers curled in a fist, he's chasing down his orgasm with images of a ghostly figure. Her features begin coming back to him.

Her is like starlight, he remembers the way it slipped over her shoulders as she rolled her hips. She has small hands. Her fingers close around his wrists, pressing them down against the mattress. Her mouth is a thing of sin, shiny and slick with gloss and spit, trailing kisses down the line of his jaw and neck.

Peter wonders, fleetingly, what he would have done if his hands were free. Would he bury them in those silky locks? Would he get a hand on her neck and push her down? Would he grab her hips? Pulling her down to him as he helplessly writhed beneath her?

He imagines it every way he can. His mind is stuck on the sight of her finally sitting up and shaking with release, her head tossed back. His hips stutter against his fist. He recalls the sound she made as she came and the way her hands ran blissfully over her own body. How could he forget such a sight? It doesn't take him long to finish with the image of her look of ecstasy so clear in his mind.

When he comes, it's a mix of relief and shame. He's panting into his arm, teeth sinking into the muscle of his bicep. He leans away with the tang of copper on his tongue and frowns. Gargling some of the shower water, he spits the taste out and quickly scrubs the rest of the sweat from his body. Scrubbing away any evidence of his little indulgence.

He continues on like this for days, distracted and unable to string the details together into a cohesive picture. Then, by some happenstance or a miracle, there's a fleck of silver in the corner of his eye and that's the only warning he gets before he feels like all the air has been punched out of his stomach. He'd just collided with the closing door to the building as he saw those delicate wisps of silver tumbling over a slender shoulder. He knows that shoulder. It's the shoulder of the sexy ghost.

Sputtering, with his face throbbing, Peter scrambles to get back inside the building to jog after her. Ned is left behind, blinking in confusion and trailing off in the middle of whatever thought Peter wasn't paying attention to.

The day is bright and cool, rays of sunshine peer in through the windows and reign down to cast an angelic spotlight on the woman in question. He's in front of her before he thinks of anything to say, which is a terrible plan cause he's left standing there with his mouth hanging open like a jackass.

"Uh," He says, dumbly.

She looks at him, her bright blue eyes flickering with recognition, her look of vague confusion turns to one of amusement. A sly grin spreads across her lips. Her soft, pink, glossy lips.

The gloss is what does him in, he thinks. Or perhaps it's the way she greets him.

"Hey there, Spider."

Oh shit.