Peter will probably never get used to having MJ in his bed. Not even in a just-had-sex way. In a chilling-on-top-of-the-covers way. She’s lying down on her stomach, laptop open in front of her, feet in the hair. A rebel strand of hair falls in front of her eyes, no matter how many times she blows it away. She’s beautiful. Peter has always known that she is. He has eyes and a brain, after all, and MJ is super attractive, no doubt. But like this, soft and unguarded, a pencil stuck between her teeth, she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. On earth or otherwise. And he’s been in space. He knows his shit.
“Michelle Jones is taken,” she tells him, not looking up from her screen.
He’s sitting in the floor, working on his suit and pretending like he isn’t distracted every five seconds by her long legs. It’s the middle of summer and she’s only wearing shorts. He’s so distracted.
“Maybe add an initial, Michael B. Jordan style? Michelle J. Jones?”
She wrinkles her nose, unconvinced. Too deep in her thoughts to insult him about his dumb idea, though, which shows how much she cares about the thing. Her first proper job as an actress, paid and everything, one-way ticket to the actors guild. Except some white actress from the 70s stole her name. The drama.
“Don’t like the alliteration,” she answers. “It won’t roll on the tongue of whoever will announce my Oscar.”