CHAPTER 12
THE DREAM

18+ warning: mild smut.

SLOANE HAD PETER PRINT out a report of the machine's scan. Finally, she knew for sure that something weird – she wasn't quite sure what yet – was going on with her step-brother. Frank had said he wanted proof, and the sheet she had in her hands was cold hard. Both he and Sabrina couldn't argue with evidence.

Unfortunately, she was not met with the reaction she wanted. Perhaps she should've expected it. This was her uptight mother after all – the woman who called her a problem child for coping with her father's death with alcohol, but said her step-son who was sneaking out at night to vandalize property a goddamn saint.

Sloane had shown them the report as soon as she got home, as well as the can that Peter let her take home. She made sure it was in a sealed plastic bag before handing it to her mother and step-father and pinpointed where in the report it listed Everett's fingertips. Thankfully, Everett wasn't home to hear Sloane's claims. He was on a date with a girl, apparently. But with the way Sabrina was screaming at her, Sloane wondered if Everett could secretly hear their conversation wherever he was, if he was whispering in her mother's ear.

Sabrina was erratic, throwing the papers back in Sloane's face and calling her psychotic. Frank rubbed her shoulders, trying to get her to calm down. Sloane sat on the couch while her mother paced in front of her. "I told you to not talk to me about your work, Sloane! This is ridiculous," she shrieked, jamming a finger in her daughter's direction. "And how dare you come in here and accuse my step-son – Frank's son – of this, of a crime! You would never say this to his face, would you now? He isn't involved with a murderer!"

"I didn't say that, Mom." Sloane groaned, hunching over and resting her elbows on her knees. "I said that he's involved with the vandalism, the ones that are happening literally right down the street. I've seen his empty room after you go to sleep. His fingerprints are right here." She tapped the report with the end of her black-painted nails. "Not to mention, he also lied to me about knowing the victims. They were his friends. I saw it on his Instagram."

Sabrina paused, looking deep into her daughter's eyes. For a moment, Sloane thought she finally cracked, that she understood. But then, her mother muttered, "You're egregiously drunk. Do you realize how serious these accusations are?"

Sloane exhaled heavily. "For once, I'm actually not intoxicated, Mom. Will you listen to me, please?"

Her mother violently shrugged Frank's hands away. "How can you be so calm?! She's accusing your son."

"I'm not going to argue about something so ridiculous with a drunk, Brina," he tsked.

Sloane stood, splaying her hands at her sides. "I'm not drunk!"

Sabrina turned back to her daughter. Her eyes cut like daggers. "This conversation is over. I don't want to hear it or talk about it ever again."

Frank quirked a brow. "Now, Brina –"

"Fuck off, Frank." Sabrina whisked a hand in his direction and stomped down the hall to their rooms.

Sloane added, "Mom, can we please –"

"STOP IT!" She appeared in the archway again, connecting the hall to the living room. Even from a distance, Sloane could see the small tears pricking at her mother's eyes. "I don't want to talk about this anymore, Sloane. Say one more word and you find another place to stay."

Sloane's mouth zipped closed, despite herself, and Sabrina stomped back to her bedroom. Frank didn't even acknowledge her as he strode out of the room, following his enraged wife. With a huff, Sloane swiped the report and plastic bag off the table and headed to the guest room. She could already hear the beginning of Sabrina and Frank's second fight of the night from the other end of the penthouse.

The door slammed shut behind her once she entered her room. Sloane wasn't sure if the room was now boiling or she was simply angry. It could be one or the other. Her jaw locked as she fought the urge to scream. How could her mother be so ignorant? How could she stand up for a child she hadn't even given birth to, and then call her own flesh and blood a liar? Sloane wanted to tear this report in two; she wanted to run it through a shredder. It's not like it mattered anyway.

In a fit of rage, she threw her arm down and whipped the can in the plastic bag on the floor. The metal dented on impact and then rolled into her open closet. She couldn't give less of a shit. None of her evidence mattered anymore. Why the fuck did she continue to stick around?

She pulled her half-empty bottle of Smirnoff out of her bedside table. If she was going to wallow in her own misery for the rest of the night, she was going to do it thoroughly intoxicated.

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Sloane wasn't sure when she fell asleep, but at least she remembered to change her clothes. The room was pitch black. The only light came from the pale moonlight streaming in from her floor-to-ceiling window to the right of her bed. She looked down to notice that she was wearing a baggy pair of men's pajama pants with a hole on the inner left thigh and a ratty shirt with the North East Post written in big block letters on the front. She had gotten it the first week she started at the Post, and now it had been reduced to a comfy pajama shirt. Very relatable to how she felt her career was going after that argument she had with her mom hours ago.

She reached over and tapped on her phone. The screen read: 1:03 AM. Now that she was awake and looking at a bright screen, there was no way she was going to be able to get back to sleep. She might as well try to stay up until she eventually crashed. Just as Sloane yanked her phone from its charger, she heard the fire escape outside her window creak. Her head snapped in that direction.

She dropped her phone back on the nightstand.

Perched on the railing of the fire escape, eyes peering into her window, was Spider-Man. He was staring straight at her, unwilling to release her gaze, as her hand slowly sunk underneath the comforter. She didn't say anything; she didn't move. Something about this didn't feel entirely real, but there he was, watching her.

He jumped from the railing and ever so slowly, slid open her window. It wasn't locked, for some reason. She locked it every night before bed. Perhaps, tonight she had really gotten too drunk, and sure enough, there was her empty Smirnoff bottle at the top of her small trash can. Sloane's eyes raised again, meeting his as he stood at the foot of her bed, head tilting to the side.

"What –" She couldn't finish her question. Her voice felt completely robbed from her, as if the chords were fried. Had she really screamed at her mother that much? She raised her head and rubbed at her neck.

The rest of her body felt frozen, paralyzed by the eyes of his mask burning into her grey irises. She wanted to sit up, to ask him again what he was doing here, but he started crawling towards her, and he looked more spider than human all of a sudden. Sloane didn't move, but she wasn't scared in the slightest. Instead, there was a slow burning that started at her head and was gradually moving down her entire body.

He was on top of her, silent as a ghost. He was so close to her that she could feel his hot breath fan her face, even through the fabric of his suit. Sloane opened her mouth to voice something – anything – as he reached out and grazed his gloved fingers across her cheek. The words died again on her tongue, replaced by an aching desire coursing through her. Her hands twisted at the end of her t-shirt. Her breathing stilled. She'd never seen this guy's face before and she was just gonna let him crawl in through her window, get on top of her, no questions asked?

His breath smelled like cinnamon gum and cheap cologne and – yep, there were no questions asked.

Sloane found the effort to lift her hand and place it on top of his own. Her core vibrated with need, and she finally allowed all the thoughts she'd been burying for weeks about this masked vigilante to come to the surface. Because he was here, no questions asked, on top of her, and she wanted him. Even if she'd never seen his face, even if she didn't know his real name.

She wondered if she should guide his hand where to touch her, since her voice didn't seem to be working otherwise. Secretly, in the back of her mind, she'd been thinking about how the gripping on his gloves would feel inside of her. And now, it was the time to find out, and her breath hitched at the thought of it. She kicked off her comforter and brought his hand lower, but he already knew what she wanted without saying a word.

His gloved fingers palmed her breasts, tracing her hardened nipples through her ratty t-shirt, before trailing down her torso and stopping abruptly at her hips. Sloane released a soft moan, wanting more, and laced his left hand with her own. She squeezed his grip, silently telling him what she desired. Her shirt lifted the tiniest bit at her middle, and once she realized he could see what she was wearing, she wished she had at least worn something a little bit more risqué to bed, like she was an old fifties housewife. But he didn't seem to care though, because his long fingers brushed against her skin, causing every single hair to stand up. She heard his soft panting and could tell he wanted to savor the moment, but with his warm breath fanning against her skin, she began to squirm. Her toes curled with each touch. She needed him – now.

Finally, his right hand lowered to the waistband of her PJ bottoms, and her breathing intensified as she anticipated his fingers entering her at last, feeling how soaked she already was. This was all she had been thinking about secretly for weeks, and now it was here – he was here – and he felt the same way and they could finally just bang it out, get it out of the way, release the tension –

His digits slipped past the elastic band, and then her underwear. He was nearly grinding against the mattress at the thought of finally touching her. She whined instinctively. Slickness gathered between her thighs, her whole body begging for the first brush of his fingers.

He paused, tilting his mask up to meet her eyes. Even in the pale moonlight, she knew he could tell how flushed she was. Sweat beaded her hairline.

She could practically hear the smirk in his words when he asked, "Were you dreaming about me?"

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Sloane woke with a start. Her phone's ringtone, Maneater by Nelly Furtado, filled the once-silent room. She looked down and realized her right hand was fully down her PJ pants. "Oh, my god," Sloane whispered to herself in horror, immediately removing her hand. She deserved a good slap on the face for that. She just had a wet dream about Spider-Man, a guy she'd never even seen before.

She couldn't deny, though, that the desire for him had been building up for weeks. Despite her horror, she almost wished it were real. She knew it had been too good to be true.

Sloane sat up quickly, head pounding from an oncoming hangover, and noticed that her phone was still ringing. What could anyone want this early in the morning? It had to be some scam caller, and she was ready to cuss them out for interrupting her sleep. With a groan, she pulled her phone off its charger and looked at the caller ID.

Speak of the fucking spider.

"Why the fuck are you calling me at –" She checked the time on her phone screen. "– Almost two-thirty in the morning?"

"Hello to you too," Spider-Man huffed in annoyance. "I wouldn't be calling unless it was important."

Hopefully more important than the wet dream I was having about you, she thought to herself, biting the inside of her cheek.

Sloane hesitated before replying, "Alright then, out with it."

"Sorry to interrupt your dreaming, but –"

"I don't care." ... It wasn't like I was dreaming about your fingering me. Absolutely not. "Stop apologizing. Get to the point before I hang up."

She heard the click of his tongue on the other end. "There's been an update in the case, Sloane."

She had been in the midst of a yawn, but upon hearing his words, her back straightened. Her eyes went wide, and she was already jumping out of her bed before he could continue. She struggled to pull on some decent attire at such a fast pace.

"The last victim's family found their living room wall painted with blood. It says, 'Fear the Jawbreaker,' just like the other vandalisms."

Sloane paused while tugging on an old crewneck displaying her college sports team. Her phone began to shake in her hand, and she couldn't stop thinking about Everett's glare. All she could utter was, "What?"

Something snapped on the other end, like a bungee cord. "I'm coming to get you. I'll be there in ten."

AUTHOR'S NOTE: OK OK OK I know that was a lot, but hey, didn't I say next chapter was gonna have a little somethin somethin ???? 😋

anyways, I've written this chapter so many times because I wanted to just get the dream scene right. but alas, I'm a perfectionist and I'll never be satisfied 😩 thankfully ! you can bet your ass that there will be more scenes like that down the line (this is a slow burn with eventual smut, I PROMISE) and they'll be better. hopefully LOL. hope you guys enjoyed!!