Capernoited: Peevish; tipsy or slightly intoxicated.

"You'd better soak it up while you can," Peter tells her, rolling over and prodding her in the side of the stomach with a sunscreen slick index finger. Gwen grunts at him, bats him lazily over the head with her magazine, and goes back to skimming through the glossy pages of People as she lounges in the warm rays of sun by the rooftop poolside on the Avengers Tower. "The UK isn't going to have this, and certainly Oxford won't be having me," Peter says, gesturing down to his pale, slightly freckled body in the lounge chair next to hers.

Gwen tells him he is starting to crack and peel, that soon a lobster will be sending her off to study abroad instead of the Almighty Spiderman.

"It's the Amazing Spiderman," Peter grumbles in her general direction before slopping more sunscreen over himself. Gwen ignores this. The sunscreen goes in all directions, spilling in little globs on the ground, and it can't be those Mai Tais that Peter snuck earlier, swallowing them down quickly and tossing the glass into a nearby cupboard so Tony wouldn't find out as he walked in the kitchen door, it can't be those that are making the sun dance across Gwen's skin, can it?

Peter looks at Gwen from around the pages of People, admires the sunkissed freckles that dot the bridge of her nose and dust her cheeks with brown. While she swats at him ineffectively, he takes the time to look down the length of her string bikini-clad body, admiring every curve and dimple and mole. Gwen is engrossed in some celebrity makeover story, and he bites his lip and inches his hand across the plastic slats of her lounge chair, reaching out a finger maybe just to skim against her smooth thigh -

"Subtle of you, Parker," Gwen mutters, rolling away from him, granting him a gratuitous view of her backside as she rolls over onto her stomach.

"I thought you weren't watching," Peter says, and he wasn't pouting. Really. The Amazing Spiderman didn't pout.

Gwen sighs, arches a perfectly sculptured brow at him.

"Are you sulking?"

"I'm not." This wasn't very convincing.

"You are."

"I'm not."

She sighs again, rolls back over to him, and drags his hand over to place it firmly on her thigh.

"Better soak it up while you can," she mimics, tossing his words good-naturedly back at him, and he laughs and runs his palms over smooth skin and hopes that the UK is good to her.

And that the Mai Tais won't make a hasty appearance any time soon.