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drefear · 1 year

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Sister's Mister

Summary: Your sister meets Miguel O'Hara, a smart playboy that goes to your college and you so happen to have a crush on. When the two start to date, he begins to act weird towards you.

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4

TW: Drinking, insecurity, family, throw up.

“Where’s my curling iron?” Your sister screamed from the other room, stomping around with a clip in her hair and her dress half-tied. You lounged on your bed as she ran around, both living at home still as you were both still in college. She was 4 years older than you, currently getting her PHD in psychology as you were currently in your third year of your undergraduate. Your major was chemistry , wanting to experiment and become a scientist that worked with enhancement drugs.

You were 21, while your sister was 25, and you two were very close. Sometimes too close. Same taste in tv shows, shared clothing styles, and sometimes even men…

But your sister was going on lots of dates, while you were woefully single. The two of you differed there.

She was always out and about, jumping from man to man, while you stayed home and preferred to be alone.

The quiet of your bedroom was comforting, just your fingers typing your essay on your keyboard as the fan cooled you down in the middle of the summer. You were taking summer classes to get a head start in your fourth year, wanting to hurry it up and jump into a career.

“Did you borrow it?” She asked again and you sighed, closing your laptop and putting it on your bed. Getting up, you saw her rushing around and trying to tie the back of her dress.

“No, I hate curling my hair.” You folded your arms as you leaned on the doorframe and watched her bend down to clasp her heels.

“Come out with us tonight, I heard that super hot guy in your honors chem class is coming.” She wiggles her brows at you.

Laughing, you shook your head. “Gianna, I already told you, I have to finish this assignment.”

We both know you’re almost done with it, so hurry up and then get dressed. Gwen’s picking us up soon.” She threw a navy blue dress at you and you just nodded. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea.

It was a bad idea. You felt awkward in between all the sweaty, dancing bodies. You hated how close everyone was to you, practically on top of each other as the bass pounded into your ears. You sipped your gin and tonic, and found a seat at the bar, not wanting to constantly be bumped into by the group of other college kids in front of you.

Gianna danced with her friends, who took you under their wing and tried to get you to be social, but it didn’t work. You stayed at the bar and watched.

A hand on your shoulder made you turn and look into the chest of the man trying to get your attention.

“Hey, you’re Gianna’s little sister, right?”

Gianna’s little sister.

That’s how you were constantly referred to, living in the shadow of your cool, popular older sister. You never minded before, but for some reason, it bothered you to hear tonight.

“Yeah, she’s over there.” You pointed and looked back at his face.

“She was talking to my friend for a while, he’s around here somewhere. I’m Peter, this is Hobie.” He pointed to the guy behind him and you finally absorbed the two men.

Peter seemed like the normal straight white dude, light brown hair and a 10 o’clock shadow with the smell of axe body spray and a bright, wide smile. Hobie wore chains around his neck and a fishnet tank top with a black shirt underneath, wicks long and pointing in every direction. His piercings were shining in the club lights and the two couldn’t look any more different against each other.

And here you were, the dress a bit tight on your front your sister’s thin, model-like frame. You had more plush to your thighs and butt than she did, as well as a fuller bust. The spandex fabric held you tight as you bit your bottom lip, shaking both of their hands. Hobie kissed the top of yours and you flustered a bit, Peter laughing.

“My girlfriend is around here somewhere, and- oh, there’s Miguel.” He pointed and you watched as his eyes widened. “Oh boy…” You heard Peter chuckle as you turned to look at where he’d pointed and saw your sister in the arms of a big, muscular Greek god. You tilted your head and recognized him.

“Miguel… O’Hara?” You said out loud. She wasn’t just fucking a guy from you chem class, she was fucking the smartest guy in your whole fucking major.

“Yeah, you know him?” Peter asked and you just sighed, nodding. Unbeknownst to your dear sister, you’d had a massive crush on him since you saw him the first day, and now he had his mouth on her neck as they grinded against each other.

The oxygen left your lungs as you felt your confidence deflate. Of course it would be him, you thought to yourself quietly and stood up.

“Dance with me, girlie.” Hobie instructed and pulled you towards the swarm of gyrating people, not giving you much of a choice. You felt his hands fall on your hips as he guided you to the beat, watching your face as you blushed a bit from the close contact and effects of alcohol. “Relax, I got you.” He spoke and looked around, making eye contact with your sister as she smiled at something MIguel whispered in her ear. Your heart sank a little as you watched and Hobie smirked more, “You wanna make ‘em jealous, get closer to me.” Hobie whispered and you gulped, pressing against him as you saw your sister pulling Miguel towards you. You heard your name as you danced with the punk boy.

“You know Miguel, right? Don’t you two have a class together?” She asked, and you were about to answer, but you didn’t even get a word out as he spoke.

“Multiple, actually.” He nodded, eyes scanning up and down your body quickly, before smiling back to your sister. The two of them together looked like a famous couple, something you’d see in an ad for abercrombie. Wth his hand around her waist, you felt out of place, like you were interrupting even though they had approached you. Hobie’s hands slipped around you and you blinked back into the conversation. “Enough chatter, I’ve got a lady to seduce, yeah?” Hobie winked at your sister and pecked your cheek, making eye contact with Miguel. Wasn’t he Miguel's friend? Why would he want to make his friend jealous?

Your sister gave you a small thumbs up as Hobie pulled you away and continued to dance with you, watching Miguel stay focused on you over your shoulder.

“Why did you do that?” You asked and he smiled down at you.

“Cause ‘m bored, and Miguel needs a swift kick to the head. He’s blind if he can’t see that you’re the best lookin’ girl in the whole club.” Hobie’s words made you turn red and nod, “just have fun and forget him, he’s stupid.” He added and you leaned in closer, dancing with the rocker boy more.

You left the club without your sister after watching her practically suck Miguel’s face off in a booth at the club, assuming she’d be leaving with him. And you’d been right, after getting an assuring text from her in the morning saying ‘BEST SEX EVER.’

You couldn’t hate your life anymore than you did at that second.

Class went by as per usual, but instead of shamelessly gawking at the back of Miguel’s head, you tried to stay focused on anything but him. Which was working until you’d been dismissed and soon heard your name.

Ignoring him, you felt tension in your shoulders. The last thing you’d wanted was to deal with the awkwardness of him asking for your sister’s number or asking about her life, or if you could put in a good word for him, or anything at all basically. You wanted to be left alone.

Days later, you watched as your sister seemed to have more of a pep in her step, smiling at her phone all the time and seemingly wearing more perfume. She was definitely obsessed with him, but you also knew his reputation, and he was a player, a fuckboy. He slept with most of the sororities on campus and allegedly, even a few teachers. So when you opened your front door to see him holding a bouquet of flowers, wearing a dress shirt and smelling expensive, your jaw dropped.

“Miggy!” Your sister called from behind you and jumped into his arms. You watched him twirl her around and just sighed, walking away. This had nothing to do with you, you told yourself, and moved into the kitchen to help your parents finish setting up the dining room table.

“I didn’t know we were having Gianna’s new boyfriend over.” You glanced up to your mom, who just nodded. “Is this the official meet the parents night?”

“Well, they’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks now, so we thought we should meet him.” Your dad added and you dreaded the world.

The whole dinner felt as if it were in slow motion, your ears filled with white noise until you heard your father say your name.

“Hello? Earth to the baby of the group?” He called out and your mom laughed, your eyes snapping up to him. “Miguel said you two have had a few classes together.”

“Uh, yeah.” You mumbled and ate a forkful of whatever-the-fuck your mother made. Looking around, you saw your sister gazing at her new boyfriend, who was staring at you expectedly. “So?” You looked between him and your father, who continued.

“So, Miguel said that there was recently a boy interested in you?” He asked and your eyes shot to Miguel, who wore an expression that was unreadable.

“What? Who?” You jumped around mentally trying to think of someone.

“Just a rumor that some guy has a crush on you.” He shrugged, as if it was no big deal and you shook your head.

“I… I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“So you’re not interested in anyone?” Your mom questioned and you just kept your eyes on your plate, afraid to even answer.

“Miggy, you should set her up with someone.” Your sister interjected and you just glanced up to her in shock, Miguel’s face mimicking your surprise.

“I don’t know anyone she’d be compatible with.” He said and you frowned. Were you that unattractive in his eyes?

You continued to stab your food as your family talked, the peanut gallery fading to the background as you thought to yourself and wished that you were anywhere else.

A text from your phone breaks your concentration and you look down to answer, agreeing to join a few friends for some drinks at their house later. What you didn’t see was Miguel’s eyes tracking your movements, watching you as you texted at the dinner table.

“Honey, don’t be rude, we’re eating together!” Your mom chidded and you snapped your head up, nodding. “Sorry. I’m gonna finish early to get ready, a friend invited me over.” You mumbled quietly and you stood with your plate, leaving the table.

Twenty minutes later and you were walking to the door as your family sat with MIguel in the living room.

“Whose house are you going to?” Your sister asked as you grabbed your purse.

“Just Miles.” You answered and Miguel’s body stiffened.

“Miles… Morales?” He asked and your parents both glanced to MIguel, who looked upset.

“Yeah, why?” You frowned in defense.

“No reason, I’m just surprised that’s the type of person you hang out with.” He brought a beer to his lips, courtesy of your father, and his eyes challenged yours. Your hands balled into fists a bit and you looked angry.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You argued and your sister sighed loudly, putting a hand on MIguel’s thigh to try and de-escalate the situation forming.

“Miles lived down the street from us for a long time, so they’re close.”

“He’s basically a delinquent.” Miguel said and your parents visibly began to think, which was never a good sign.

“He is not-” You tried to answer, but he continued.

“He graffitis the walls near my internship, he skips classes, and he’s always stumbling around like he’s high.” Miguel’s words make your blood boil.

“I’m sorry he’s not super popular or a frat boy, but he’s a good person and he’s smart, and he’s my friend!” You yelled, tears pricking your eyes as you squeezed them shut, then hating the silence that settled within the room. You looked around between everyone’s faces and found Miguel’s, still hard and on the offense. You sniffled and swiped your keys from the little dish in the doorway, looking at him again. “Shouldn’t you be less focused on me and more focused on banging my sister?” You hissed and left as your parents shouted your name in disgust, not even looking back when you slammed the door. You wiped your tears with your sleeve and ran to your car, getting in and driving off as fast as possible.

The night was a blur, Miles and Gwen feeding you drinks to make you feel better after you told them you got in an argument with your sister’s new snot-nosed boytoy.

“Who does he even think he is? Big and fuckin’...” You droned on, slurring your words as you laid your head in Gwen’s lap. She pet your hair as Miles drew something in his notebook, probably his girlfriend who was holding you as you drunkenly vented about your secret crush.

“Mind if I invite some other friends?” Miles asked and Gwen shook her head while you were too distracted to even hear him.

The door opened twenty minutes later and you saw Hobie walk in with a 12 pack of beer on his shoulder, and that made you smile. “Hobie!” Gwen got up and hugged the skinny-jean wearing boy, who set down the beers and then dapped up Miles. His eyes found you and he gave you a small grin.

“Looks like you managed to get loose finally.” He handed you another beer and you happily took the bottle, taking a swig as you nodded. “You look absolutely fit.” His eyes took you in as you did a little clumsy twirl, watching another boy follow behind him. He was either Indian or middle eastern, with shaggy black hair and a big, white smile. “This is Pav.” Hobie introduced you two and he hugged you, taking in your outfit.

“You look so nice, even drunk!” He added and you just laughed, enjoying the little bits of attention you got, not used to being the center of attention.

Everything moved fast as you pumped music louder and the room became more and more full of people. Before any of you knew it, the entire place was packed and it had become a house party. Heavy music played and you danced wildly, swaying your hips and rolling your body to the beat as Gwen laughed and danced beside you. Pav and Hobie were currently occupying the couch, as Hobie had a girl on his lap and Pav talked excitedly to Miles about something he saw that day. The feeling of freedom coursed through your veins, intertwined with alcohol. It wasn’t like the night at the club, no, you were hammered and it felt great. The feeling was interrupted by vibrating in your pocket, to which you went to find a quiet place to answer the call.

Stumbling into Miles’s room, you sat down and checked your phone.

“Hello?” Your sister’s voice came through and you pouted.

“‘M busy.” You sputtered out.

“Are you drunk?”

“...No.” You hesitated, knowing you were an incredibly shitty liar. Especially while you were trashed.

“Oh my god, I’m coming to get you.”

“No! ‘M happy!” You yelped, then threw your body down on the bed and stretched out. “I’m staying. Go suck Miguel’s dick or somethin.” You smiled at your funny joke. You were so funny.

“No, we’re coming to get you, so stay there.” She spoke and before you could answer, she hung up. Sighing, you furrowed your brows and laid there for what only felt like a minute before you stumbled back out of the bedroom, finding the sliding glass door and making your way to the backyard.

The grass felt good on your bare feet and you plopped yourself into it fully, laying back and spreading out in the greenery.

“Get up.” The strong, deep voice was fuzzy in your mind and you just smiled, not recognizing it right away.

“Lay down with me.” You answered and closed your eyes again, fingers playing with the blades of grass by your sides. “Look at the sky with me.”

“Your eyes are closed.” He answered and you giggled.

“The stars are so beautiful.” You rambled, and a large hand brushed against your cheek, eyes now opening to see Miguel crouching by your drunk, splayed out body.

“So are you.” He answered and you felt your stomach tighten, nervousness pulling at your insides as you suddenly couldn’t breathe from butterflies.

Not butterflies. Throw up.

And then you were hacking and wreching to the side of you into the grass, coughing up your dinner from before and feeling someone hold your hair back. A soft ‘oh my god’ was heard from the back door and soon you heard the hurried clacking of heels. Your sister bent down by Miguel and squeezed one of your hands, worry all over her face. That’s when everything turned black.

#miguel spiderverse #miguel x reader #miguel o’hara smut #miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel spiderman #miguel o'hara #miguel smut #angst #atsv miguel

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yandereaffections · 2 years

Text

Marvel Masterlist

looking for spiderman/peter parker? He has his own Masterlist ❤

Steve Rogers

Delusional Steve

Pregnant S/o

Single Parent S/o

Headcannons

Tony Stark vs Steve Rogers

Bucky Barnes vs Steve Rogers

Touchy with friends S/o

How Steve spoils S/o

Amnesiac S/o

Nuclear Apocalypse

Killer Steve

Werewolf Steve

Avenger S/o

Rebellious S/o

Steve finding S/o after running away with another man

Hearing S/o sing

S/os friend helping them Escape

Trying to break up with him

S/o goes missing

Steve protecting Villain S/o

Famous S/o

Delusional 50s Fantasy

Clinging onto S/o who doesn’t like being touched

Hospitalized S/o

S/o Framed into Execution

Living in the 40s with S/o

S/o who can die from pregnancy

Bucky/Steve sharing S/o

S/o who is already dating

Insecure S/o

Professor Steve dating College student S/o

necromancer S/o

Haunted House w/ Steve and Bucky

Werewolf Vampire Hybrid Steve

Alien S/o hiding parts of themselves

Ghost Steve communicating through Ouija Board

Figuring out S/os a Lizard human hybrid

S/o suffering from constant headaches

Someone attempting to drug S/o

Model S/o

At a BLM Protest

House spouse S/o

Easily scared S/o who loves horror movies

Doing his makeup when hes asleep

Platonic relationship with his daughter

S/o spending more time with bucky and sam

Magical girl hero S/o

S/o being on team Iron man during civil war

Bucky Barnes

Headcannons

Winning you over

Bucky Barnes vs Natasha Romanoff

S/o that loves their Stalker

Bucky Barnes vs Steve Rogers

Winter Solider Falling for a Civilian

Gore + Torture TW

Hunted Down

Trick or Treating w/ Bucky

Perusing Dating after Hydra

S/o who is affectionate towards friends

Bucky as a Parent

Prioritizing your child over him

Bucky being in college while S/os still in HS

Bucky w/ Daughter, platonic

S/o w/ cystic fibrosis

S/o who is scared of Bucky

Shoving Buckys head into your chest when angry

King Bucky

Soulmate AU

Crush with a shit boyfriend

S/o that loves pampering Bucky

Running away cause Someone broke in

Running away to the Police

Steve/Bucky sharing S/o

Recently freed Bucky taking refuge with you

Cuddlebug S/o

Pro baker S/o

kpop fan Dancer S/o

Halloween Date

Yandere Letter

Haunted House w/ Steve and Bucky

Shy S/o

Werewolf S/o

Witch S/o accidentally turning herself into a cat

Oblivious S/o

Darlings scared of bugs

Petite S/o

Artistic s/o

Getting a handmade blanket from S/o

S/o insecure about their high pitched voice

S/o whos always tired

Treating his wounds

Torture

Touch starved S/o that doesnt know how to show affection

S/o drools in their sleep

Air head S/o

Darling who enjoys being taken care of

S/o whos kidnapped by random people

Fluff Headcannons

“it feels like home when im with you”

S/o who was verbally abused as a kid, made to believe youll never be loved

Darling who has shit friends

Hydra S/o who tries to brainwash him again

S/o who jokes around when nervous

S/o that likes to be carried by his metal arm

S/o with a regular prosthetic arm

S/o got injured trying to escape

General protective HC

Stephen Strange

Using his powers to get his S/o

Chasing S/o down

Insecure S/o

Single Parent S/o

Apprentice S/o

Jealous of his Cloak

Using his powers on his Dead S/o

Kidnapping S/o

Yandere Cloak

“Be good for me this time. I don’t want to see you cry again.”

Jealous

Patient S/o

Tony Stark vs Stephen Strange

Taking their S/o away from their abusive family

S/o with a flat chest

Red string of fate AU

S/o with PTSD

Oblivious S/o

Apprentice S/o getting hurt

Poly Naga Stephen + Tony

Cannibal S/o

Accident Prone S/o

Comforting Anxious S/o

Watching S/o sleep

S/o getting hurt during a city attack

Healer S/o distrusting him cause they think hes using them

S/o favoring his cape as a coping mechanism

Asexual S/o

Darling with narcolepsy and chronic pain

S/o is as good and talented as him

Sneaking out only to come back with puppies

S/o who has bad anxiety attacks

Using his cape to find S/o who sleeps in odd places

Chaotic s/o

Quiet s/o playing ACNH

S/os first time seeing snow

S/o whose ok with being kidnapped as long as they can go to amusement parks

Kidnapped S/o keeps passing out due to fear

S/o wanting to dance in the rain

S/o has the power to teleport

Demon S/o

Thor Odison

Headcannons

NS FW headcannons

Loki vs Thor

Loki vs Thor Preference

Stronger than Thor thinks S/o

Teaching Thor about Halloween

Finding Puppies

Loki Odison

Headcannons

Loki vs Thor

Loki vs Thor Preference

S/o in arranged marriage

Using a Love Potion on his S/o

Naga Loki

Affectionate S/o

Teasing his S/o

Valentines Day

S/o who can sing

Insecure S/o who keeps rejecting him

S/os Suicide TW

Brutally taking his Soul mate

Supportive S/o

Harassed S/o

Possessive S/o

Liking his Hair touched by S/o

Halloween Date

Someone cat calling his Darling

Drunk S/o

Asexual s/o

S/o whos best friends with Tony

Depressed S/o

Magica girl S/o

Vampire loki hunting down a s/o whos having fun with it

Platonic yandere HC

T’Challa

Headcannons

T’challa Vs Erik

S/o getting Married to someone else after he gets Snapped

Tony Stark

Headcannons

“I sent you more gifts! do you like them?!

NS FW headcannons

Sugar Daddy

S/o getting attention to the constant attention he attracts

Tony Stark vs Steve Rogers

Cold in Public yet Cuddly in Private

Pushover S/o

Tsundere S/o

Jealous of the amount of attention Steves giving S/o

The Purge

Plus size Lingerie model S/o

“How else would they know you belonged to me?”

“its like you were made for me”

S/o who doesnt mind his Yandere tendencies

Jealous Tony

Finding a kitten

Shy/Book-wormy S/o

Valentines Day

Stephen Strange vs Tony Stark

S/os first relationship

Nerdy S/o

Poor yet incredibly Sweet S/o

S/o not wanting anything to do with Tony

Touchy S/o Hiding behind him

Zombie Apocalypse

Sugar Daddy to a Male College student S/o

Single Parent S/o

Learning S/o has Terminal Heart Cancer

S/o with a Prosthetic Leg

Cute S/o that listens to Death Metal

Drawing Tony in a maid outfit

Blind S/o

Vampire S/o

S/o who shuts down after kidnapping

Yandere S/o protecting their Love interest

Punishing S/o who tried to escape

Artist S/o

S/o who can see ghosts

Suicidal S/o TW

“Hey demons its ya boy”

Making Halloween costumes

Poly Naga Stephen+Tony

Tonys Type

Hunted Down

S/o having a delayed reaction to being Kidnapped

Injured S/o

S/o being hit on by Quentin Beck

Cyber stalking

S/os in the military

Crush thinking his Flirts are only jokes

Losing S/o to the Snap

Comforting S/o after a bad day

Strong Kick ass S/o

Not knowing S/o immortal, watching them get stabbed

S/o loving DIY stuff

Finding out S/o been begging to Jarvis to help them escape

S/o secretly making robo stuff

S/o having inhuman strength

terrorist S/o

S/o calling ptsd “spicy nostalgia”

Tonys s/o phasing through security after being kidnapped

Life Threatening Situation

Male S/o is a single parent

Modest S/o wont let him spoil them

S/o in a depressive episode

What kind of gifts does he buy his darling

How he shows affection

dealing with competing suitors

Proposal HC

Vampire Tony Hunted down

Incubus Tony

Assassin S/o

Natasha Romanoff

Headcannons

Dealing with competition

Wanda vs Natasha

Bucky vs Natasha

S/o whos not into girls

Hunted Down

S/o Disobeying

Avenger S/o

Choosing S/os Clothes

Shy s/o

Wanda Maximoff

Wanda vs Natasha

Headcannons

Bisexual S/o

Vampire Wanda

ADHD & Autistic S/o

Okoye

Headcannons

S/o who runs away

Nick Fury

Headcannons

Shy and Quiet S/o

Bruce Banner

Being able to control his emotions

Headcannons

Hela Odison

Headcannons

Carol Danvers-

headcannons

Powerful S/o

Single parent s/o

Oblivious S/o

Oblivious S/o is getting flirted with

Vision

Hunted down

Doc Oc

Parental/Platonic HC

Steve Rodgers

NS FW HC

Cockwarming

Vocal Steve

Turned on during a mission

College Virgin S/o slightly

Breeding HC

Femdom

Bucky Barnes

Stealing S/os underwear

Another Underwear Stealing

NS FW alphabet

NS FW Headcannons

Sexually frustrated Bucky

Getting Caught

Dominate Bucky

Sitting on his face

Stephen Strange

NS FW headcannons

Thor

Werewolf Thors Heat

Loki

NS FW headcannons

NS FW alphabet

Orgasm denial + Aphrodisiac

Tony Stark

NS FW Alphabet

S/o has a high Sex Drive

S/os First Time

Corruption

NON-CON Bdsm TW

Submissive tony

Natasha

“You’re such a pretty little thing tied up like that”

NS FW headcannons

Wanda

NS FW headcannons

857 notes · View notes

catnipaddictt · 5 months

Text

jailbreak

scott barringer x gn!reader

synopsis: You and Scott decide to escape New Horizons, a camp for at risk teens.

wc: 1.3k

tw: none

comment: there is a lack of Scott content on tumblr so I decided I wanted to write something. Also I fell in love with higher ground, i didn't think it was going to be that good, but i binged it in under a week.

You kick at the ground with your beat-up old sneakers, watching as moisture falls from the blades of grass. Grumbling could be heard from in front of you as the ground of teens treked behind their leader. Ever since you had arrived at New Horizons, it was basically walk after walker. You swear once you are out of this place you would never hike again. But alas you had now been here for almost 2 months, and Peter sure wasn't letting you out anytime soon.

Picking up your feet, you begin to follow your group as they walk uphill through the forest that surrounds the school. You make up the back of the pack, mostly just because you prefer to walk at a more leisurely pace.

“Hey” you glance to your side to be met with blue eyes. Scott. He had been here for around the same time you had meaning that you were both ‘fresh meat’. If you could even call yourself that anymore. You reply back with a “hi” focusing on not tripping on any tree roots. Scott was at New Horizons for a drug related problem, something a lot of the students had issues with. He was normally standoffish and refused to participate but you two got along just fine. Which led to the little problem of your not so little crush on the tall boy.

“I hate walking” he states plainly and you agree, nodding your head. “I mean, how is this supposed to help, walking up hills isn't going to fix a bunch of messed up kids” Scott continues. “It sucks, I just want to get out of here” you reply. “Hey, what if we-” Scott seems to want to say something but changes his mind, shaking his head. “Nevermind.” You glance at him confused. “C'mon, you have got to say it now” you laugh. “It was stupid anyways” he grumbles at the ground.

“Oh boo-hoo, just tell me” you practically beg. Scott sees this and ultimately starts to speak, “we could get out of here you know? It's only the forest holding us back I mean. And we have pretty much walked all of it twice over.” You turn your head to look at him, “you mean run away?” you ask. He has caught your full attention now. “See, told you it was dumb” Scott answers.

“Let's do it.”

“Sorry?” He states, “you can't be serious.” He raises an eyebrow. “Oh I'm serious. I have had enough of this place. Worst case scenario we get caught, that's like a few days of confinement to the cabins.” You reply smoothly. It was definitely a horrible idea but it's not like life was too exciting for you at the moment.”I mean, I'm down if you are” Scott shrugs. You think for a moment before replying. “Okay two days from now there is the school bonfire thing. We pack bags beforehand, I'll sneak into the kitchens and get us some food and stuff, and we can meet up by the docks. They won't notice we have gone for a few hours at least.”

Scott looks at you “a few hours head start is probably as good as we are going to get.” He makes up his mind, “okay I'm in.”

The next two days passed rather slowly, with not much really happening apart from lectures about personal wellness. What a waste of your time. You were counting down the minutes until your and Scott's escape out of here.

The final hours of your time at New Horizons were spent packing a bag, light enough to not slow you down, but enough to keep you going until you could get more supplies. Your next job was the kitchen.

The sun had almost disappeared by the time you reached the space, quietly opening and shutting the door behind you. You grabbed two large plastic bottles of water, placing them in your bag, as well as a few cans of food and lots of snacks. This was definitely enough to last you a few days. Getting through the forest should only take a few hours, the tricky part was not being seen around town.

Zipping up your bag you sneak out of the kitchen, making your way to the docks. You could see Scott's shadow cast on the wooden planks, giving his location away. You walk almost silently up to him and he jumps a little at you appearing. “Don't sneak up on me like that” he says playfully.

You nod your head in the direction of the path leading to the forest “time to go?” The light from the bonfire flickers over the landscape, making it feel like something out of a 80’s horror film. “Yeah, let's do it”

You both make your way out of the school and into the dense forest. There is nearly no light apart from the occasional bit of moon peeking through the canopy. Scott pulls two flashlights out of his bag, passing one to you “borrowed Auggie’s, hope he doesn't mind” he shrugs and you laugh. Poor Auggie had been robbed of his only torch.

After about an hour of walking Scott starts telling you clearly made up stories about people getting lost in the woods never to be seen again. Typical teenager boy behavior. You roll your eyes in response - not that he could see. “That's so not real” you speak, only to be met with a yelp as he trips over a tree root. You cannot contain your laughter at the action. “Not funny” he grumbles.

The next few hours pass in a blur. The clear night makes your walk nicer than you thought it was going to be. Scott being there helped a lot. You both exchange tales of your lives before New Horizons, Scott tells you about his football games and school. Up ahead of you, you can see where the ground drops about 6 feet or so, meaning you will have to climb down. Scott goes first, passing you his bag so you can throw it down to him once he is on solid ground. Once he reaches the earth again you throw down his bag followed by yours. He catches them and puts them down on the ground. Now it's your turn to make the descent.

You make it most of the way down without fail, but the place where you put your left foot collapses and you are forced to jump back and onto the dirt covered ground. Luckily you don’t hurt yourself but in the process you manage to basically slam into your companion. He lets out a sound at the impact, “woah there.” “Sorry Scott.”

After another hour you finally reach the edge of civilization and you exchange grins with the blonde boy. You had made it with close to little hiccups. Making it onto town, you and Scott begin to brainstorm what to do now. “We need to get further away before first light, then people might see the two of us. And when Peter comes asking they will know we were here” You think out loud. “We could hitchhike?” Scott suggests “It's risky but if we walk further out of town we have a better chance of someone who is passing through and not a local?”

You agree to the plan and after a quick break from walking you both set out again. Now that you are out of the dense forest you can see the night sky. It's clear tonight and you can see all the stars, you will miss it in a way. But you made your decision. As you walk, your hand brushes against Scott’s prompting you to snap your arm close to your side, embarrassed. You can sense his head turning to look at you briefly before he looks straight ahead again. Then, if on second thought, he grabs your hand in his, interlocking your pinkies. You look down at your and Scott's hand and smile. Maybe, just maybe it would all work out fine.

I'm not sure about the ending of this one as I kinda didn't know how to finish it but oh well. Im also finishing writing a whole heap of requests, so expect those soon!

#hayden christensen #hayden christensen imagine #hayden christensen x reader #higher ground #higherground #higher ground tv show #scott barringer #scott higher ground #scott barringer x reader #scott barringer x you #hayden christensen x you

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officiallyossy-haywooddent · 24 days

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August 29th.

This is a fanfic / open rp starter so it’s kinda long. The writing might not be great, sorry.

TW for child death, loss of a sibling, minor mentions of bad parenting, minor drug use, minor toxic relationship

Every year without fail the week of August 25 was maybe the worst week of Ossy’s life. Every year they’d go through the same calls, same arrangements, same people. It never changed, even if their life circumstances did. Every year they would end up with a crown of flowers and a box of Halloween candy, completely and utterly alone.

It had been the same when they were eight and had been flown home from camp to give their testimony to the police. It had been the same when they were twelve, reeling from the loss of their brother and best friend and so, so many others; lost and alone in the middle of New York.

It had gotten worse when Ossy was thirteen, their palm sliced open over a marble altar, clasped in the hand of their best friend somewhere in the wilderness of the Yukon. Being fifteen in Gotham would be no different.

—

August 25.

It began, the preparations; the prayers. They called Frank first. Ossy hadn’t talked to him in years when it had first happened, he’d left the island with his mother to live with his grandmother in Vancouver, and they’d drifted apart.

A three hours on the ferry was a long time to travel to see someone, it wasn’t like they’d been good friends. They’d been five and eight, quietly talking in the forest behind their school every couple of days. That was all, Ossy didn’t think they’d ever speak to him again.

Then came the second war. He was there; they weren’t. He stopped by the med bay, asked where they’d been. They answered. He’d talked with them for hours, but he would always have to leave.

Nevertheless Ossy picked up their phone, dialled his number. They let it ring, once, twice. They hung up. It wasn’t right to bother Frank nowadays, and he hadn’t really known her anyway. Most people hadn’t.

They ordered a bulk box of Halloween candy. It would arrive in two days. They wished it would never come.

—

August 26.

Ossy’d found a place that did rush flower arrangements. They ordered three flower crowns, one for them, two for her. The place they’d gotten it, Belle Flore, was this tiny shop in North Gotham that imported seeds from everywhere in the world and grew all the flowers in a grow room above the store. The clerk, a red-headed guy probably less than a year older than them named Rhys, had been nice about the whole thing, suggesting an arrangement of Pheasants Eye, Prince’s Feather, Baby’s Breath, and Buttercup.

The combination was odd but sweet, symbolic. Buttercup had been her favourite after all. The crowns would be done in three days, the 29th.

Ossy would pick it up in the morning, flowers were always better fresh.

They spend the rest of the day asleep. The tranqs they’d gotten from Peter were nice, though they’d had to ration them out. They’d told him 2 wasn’t gonna be enough.

August 27.

Ossy sleeps through the day. They don’t move, but it’s fine. They don’t need to. Sleep is quiet, calming. Hypnos must have taken pity of them, each dream is an altered memory of their life before everything, a kinder one.

August 28.

The phone rings five times before going to voicemail, their mums soft voice letting them know to leave a message and that she’d get to it in the morning. She wouldn’t, not when she saw the caller ID.

“Hey, mum. It’s me. I just wanted to say I’m sorry, and I’m..I’m doing something for the 29th. You can always join me, I’ll pay for your flight and everything.”

Ossy pauses, taking a shuddering breath. It’s been a while since they’ve cried properly.

“…I miss you. And Grandpa. I’m sorry..about everything.”

They hang up quickly, regretting every second of it. She’d just delete it when she saw it, she always did. They leave the message anyway.

The package with the candy arrives at the manor, nobody asks what’s in it. Ossy doesn’t know if anyone even noticed it arrive. They request the day off tomorrow from the Deli, Mr. Maroni approves it. He’s been nice since he found out about the mugging, probably thinks they’re still scared of doing the night shift. They are, but they wouldn’t tell him that.

The night roles around and they pop the second half of a tranq. They don’t know if they want to wake up in the morning, sleeping away the 29th doesn’t sound half bad. It would be mean though, she would never have done it. She didn’t sleep, it was genetic. The gene had skipped Ossy.

August 29.

At 5:30 AM they show up at Belle Flores, it’s the same clerk, Rhys. He quietly hands over a pastel blue box with a subdued smile. He knows what the crowns are for, they’d told him. It’s easier to talk to strangers about these things.

Ossy stops back at the manor, grabbing the cats before hopping on one of the busses. They need to get out of the city again. Sometimes Gotham, with its constant noise and soaring buildings, felt like a maze. This then made them the rat, trying to find its way out before getting zapped.

The concrete held an energy they could never quite get used too. Ossy missed the blue pine of the salmon and rain forests; trees so large and thick they muffled everything within their shade, where oceans crashed against the conifered cliffs of their piece of home. They’d stolen that line from John Vailant.

The bus pulled to a stop outside a rocky beach. The cats had been quiet for the ride, good travellers. Ossy realized she’d never gotten to meet them.

They set up camp on a fallen log near the tree line, setting up a fence so the cats could be let loose to roam. Two of the flower crowns were laid side by side, the third resting on their head. It was good work, better than either of them had ever been capable of.

Ossy sat there for a while, listening to old songs they had long forgotten the words to, taking two bowls and pouring them full of the candy. It was stale, but that didn’t really matter. Stel had always saved her Halloween candy until Easter. They ate quietly, watching the cats play fight.

Ossy wasn’t sure how long it took for them to break down but they’d like to think it was close to an hour, a respectable amount of time to hold vigil before they imploded.

It was stupid for them to think they’d escaped it, moved past it. Not her death, no, they could never get over that, but being alone each year.

Not even having a picture of the family together. It was starting to get to them. Ossy would never admit it but they were starting to forget her face. People had always said they’d looked similar. They could never believe it. Stel had been good, so much better than any of the rest of them. Ossy would never be sure how she came from a family like theirs. Truth be told, they weren’t even sure what they looked like anymore, but that had little to do with the comparisons.

Ossy pulled out their phone, dialling half the numbers in their phone before deleting each one. They didn’t want to feel the need to explain it all to anyone. Deanna had told them to stop over analyzing their emotions, it wasn’t actually a form of processing apparently.

Finally, they landed on someone they wouldn’t mind calling. The gnawing sensation in their gut growing ever stronger as the phone rang, the soft click of the receiver letting them know there wasn’t really a way back.

“Hey.”

#angst #open rp starter #open dc rp #open pjo rp #oc fanfiction #oc angst #mun is tired and can’t decide if they like this or hate this #but go apeshit if ya’ll want #dc rp blog #dc rp #gotham city #pjo rp blog #crime alley #gotham reports #maroni’s deli #bruce wayne #park row #red hood

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sharp-silver4795 · 2 months

Text

Liu Woods Headcannons

The people have spoken! On a poll that I made, I asked if yall wanted me to post my own stuff and…. Oh god- I set it for a week cuz I thought no one would see it- 40 FUCKING PEOPLE RESPONDED-

So, I hear you! I’m gonna start with just random head cannons cuz… yeah…

TW!!!

Suicide, Murder (duh), abusive families, definitely not the Liu most ppl know.

I will put a warning before each group of bullets.

Least Sensitive >> Mildly Sensitive >> Most Sensitive

The first two aren’t head cannons-

I pronounce it like “Lee-oh” (Leo). I made a post about it earlier. However, I’ve said it like “Loo” for a long time- I’m tryna break that habit

He is my favorite. I remember seeing a post that was judging ppl based on their fav creepypasta…. No I won’t shut up about him.

HEAD CANNON TIME

General

He’s Chinese. Jeff is his half brother on their mom’s end. There is no fucking way an American kid would have a Chinese name.

So, Liu moved from China when he was 5 and his mom married Peter. Jeff was born when he was 7.

When Liu was young he didn’t have many friends cuz his English sucked and his little brother wasn’t even a year old.

He likes brownies and cinnamon rolls like their made of gold

Man can cook 🧑‍🍳 🤌

Has a bunch of plants that he forgets exist and cries when they die

Boy is tough. A lot of ppl see him as a teeny bean, hell nah!

Wears combat boots, skinny jeans, and sweaters consistently.

The scarf is to cover scars.

He’s about 6’5 (nearly 200cm).

Murder, Gore, Blood

Mainly uses a crowbar to beat his victims to death.

Remember how I said he wears combat boots? Well those things have heels and he tends to “stun” kill people by jumping up and stomping down on the side of the person’s head. 240lbs in a surface area the size of a US quarter is definitely gonna break your skull.

In the mansion his job doesn’t really revolve around murder as much as it’s about torture. He’s fucking good at it too.

Sexuality, Gender, and Such

He’s gay. You can’t change my mind.

I see him as being Agender and not caring about the pronouns you use for him. (Note: I usually switch up the pronouns but since this is the first HC post I’m making for them, I wanted this to be said first)

Married to EJ. If you don’t like the ship, I’m sorry!

⚠️ SA, CSA, Abuse, Suicide, SH, Grooming ⚠️

DID usually forms before 9yo and I can’t believe him getting DID at 19.

So, he hung himself when he was 19. This is what set Jeff off, because he was the one who found Liu’s body.

So, Keith is about 11 years older than Liu, and, when he was looking for friends, Keith took advantage of them. This lead to Liu basically being groomed until he was 12. I HC that Randy had a lil “crush” on Jeff and Keith kept Liu “out of the way” by consistently r—ping him.

Things at home weren’t great for him either. Peter was under the impression that his mom was a virgin with no kids (incell vibes), and when he found out Liu existed Peter decided to take it out on him. He would be locked in a dark closet of the basement for days on end. If he “misbehaved” too much, Peter would put him in the clothes dryer (also in the basement) for however long he deemed necessary.

Eventually Liu couldn’t take it and he hung himself.

Liu’s Alters and System

⚠️ similar themes from before, drugs/alcohol abuse, religious trauma ⚠️

Hannah: gatekeeper, what Liu “would have been” like if nothing happened.

Jinx: Sexual protector, the response to Keith’s abuse

Sully: Physical protector, response to Peter’s abuse

Jessie: Mental persecutor, encouraged Liu to kill himself.

Leviathan: Trauma holder, response to constant guilt from religious trauma

Vex: persecutor, response to alcohol and drug addiction.

Nigh: Trauma holder, response to all those lonely years

So, about Jeff…

Liu has zero issues with Jeff.

Jeff didn’t kill him, he had to make his way back to life (I will post more abt this another day).

Jeff mispronounced his name, but Liu was too nervous to correct him (bc trauma)

He is about 6yrs older than Jeff.

I probably have other HCs that i forgot, but anyway- that’s all the energy I have rn….

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star-quill · 1 year

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₊‧.°.⋆˚₊‧⋆. sam's masterlist post !!

peter mowing your lawn

peter mowing your lawn part 2

nsfw headcanons part 1

nsfw headcanons part 2

sfw peter headcanons

pillow talk with peter

enemies to lovers with peter

peter sneaking sex songs into another playlist

aftercare with peter

nascar racer peter

peter x nurse!reader

riding peter

domestic peter

corruption kink with peter

more corruption kink with peter

husband!peter

onlyfans!peter

age gap + jealous!peter

age gap with peter

more age gap with peter

more age gap with peter part 2

breeding kink with peter

flirting with neighbour peter

oral fixation + peter's dog tags

more oral fixation with peter

peter + sleeve tattoos

hatefucking with peter

more hatefucking with peter

hatefucking + age gap

dad's best friend!peter

peter fucking you outside a dive bar

peter's in a cover band

kids soccer coach!peter

tw drug use peter snorting cocaine off you

rockstar!peter x groupie!reader

pr relationship with rockstar!peter

rockstar!peter + brooklyn baby

making a sextape with rockstar!peter

rockstar!peter + pregnant groupie

being needy for rockstar!peter

neighbour!peter meeting your parents after fucking you

rockstar!peter + daddy

falling for rockstar!peter after starring in a mv with him

peter getting a tattoo of your name on his chest

protective rockstar!peter

being inexperienced with owen

#felt like my blog needed this #my masterlist #peter quill #peter quill drabble #peter quill smut #peter quill x reader #peter quill angst #peter quill headcanons #peter quill fluff #peter quill fic #guardians of the galaxy #gotg #✎ peter quill #text post

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crazyrav3n · 3 months

Text

The devils Mark - chapter 4 (Peter Steele x reader)

!! TW FOR THIS CHAPTER, drugs, fighting, partying, getting drugged mentions !!

sorry for all the drama!! fluff and romance next chapter!

“I wanted you to know, that whenever you are around I can't speak.“

Flashing lights and the smell of weed lingers in the air- music blasts in your ears almost loud enough to overstimulate your senses. You feel like you're floating on your feet. Molly was her name.

Slipping in a pair of earrings- a cute outfit and something modern- something that would draw attention.

Tonight was the night for intense partying- it was going to be amazing and horrific at the same time.

You had decided to go to the type of negative concert- which was a little underground club. It seemed like a bad idea but you've done worse. Like last night.

Peter had picked you up in his car to go to the concert. It was an awkward ride.

“So… what was wrong last night?” Peter muttered quietly.

“Leave it alone asshole.” Peter almost zipped shut, staring at you and his face dropping.

“So it was me?”

Of course, it was you.

But you couldn't say that.

“No.” you lied between your teeth, keeping your eyes on the surroundings outside the window as he drove the car.

“What's… the hickey from?” Peter stared at your neck, hands on the wheel as he made a turn.

“None of your business,” you muttered back, you gave him the cold shoulder until you made it to your destination.

“I have to go get ready for the concert in the dressing room with my stylist,” Peter said with no emotion in his expression as he stepped out of the car- looking at you as he handed you the tickets.

Suddenly-

He pulled you in for a kiss- holding your hips with his callused and large hands as he went no farther than just passion with his lips- smiling softly as he kissed you.

You were the one to pull away after a few seconds- looking away and shaking your head. You could practically smell the perfume on him from last night as you made a disgusted face.

He stared at you for a few seconds before grabbing you by the arm, dragging you inside the building into his dressing room, and locking the door behind him.

“Why are you mad at me? Is it because you saw me kissing that girl at the party last night?” Peter grumbled, furrowing his brows.

“No, it's not that. Not at all..” you mumbled back sarcastically, trying to exit the dressing room to get into the concert.

“You're not leaving until we talk about this. I was drunk, y/n.” His tone got a bit more aggressive as he pulled you back once again.

“I'm not talking with you about this right now Peter.” You said back, your voice cracking out of anger.

“Yes, you are. I'll wait as long as it fucking takes y/n.” Peter groaned, crossing his arms and looking down at you.

“We aren't anything either- we just started talking. And should we talk about the hickeys all over you?” Peter shook his head, speaking before you could.

“That's none of your business. Go run off to that bitch you were kissing last night.” You snapped back.

“Who did you sleep with?” Peter mumbled, his voice aggravated as his stare got more intense.

“I didn't sleep with anyone.” You said back- lying through your teeth once again.

“Tell me. Right now.” Peter moved closer to you, threateningly.

“You really wanna know? It was fucking Kenny. Your guitarist. Happy?” It seemed to just fall out of your mouth in the heat of the argument. Peters's stare seemed to get even more jealous. You could see those strange sharp canines hanging over his bottom lip once again.

“I'll fucking kill him.” you heard Peter mumble under his breath, shaking his head. He almost looked more pale than before- his pupils shaking.

“What is it with those weird ”vampire“ fangs?” you asked quietly, rolling your eyes at him as you walked to the dressing room door once again.

He froze. “Don't-… god.” he put his head in one of his hands.

“I can fuck you so much better than that loser Kenny can,” Peter mumbled quietly. It almost took you off guard how upfront he was about it.

You didn't say anything in response besides opening the door and walking to the line for the concert, later when the line calmed down handing in the tickets and wandered around in the front row of the concert.

It drove you mad how he was mad at you for being upset with something he did. Was he a fucking monster or something with those fangs? He seemed a little off.

The lights suddenly turned off- and you felt someone grab you as the lights turned off- introduced to new flashing green lights as the band members quickly began to play.

Their starter song was Black NO.1. You almost recognized it immediately, but now focused on the girl randomly.. Kissing you. The kiss felt a little strange- like there was something in her mouth that she put in yours. Before you knew it- she pulled away and the little thing she put in her mouth was… dissolved in your mouth.

It was worrying. Had you just been drugged? What was happening?

After a few minutes of listening to the concert- a few famous songs being played and the sound of thousands of cheering fans.

Peter took a glance at you as he held the mic, staring at you and furrowing his brows with a… little worry.

It felt like your head was beginning to spin. The music began to distort a little- sounding… a little off?

Before you knew it- you were stumbling around feeling nauseous. The floor underneath you wobbled- twisting up underneath your feet.

It felt like you could puke at any moment from the dizziness.

The lights flashed too fast as you tried to get through the crowd- the music blasted inside of your ears making them ring as your eyes felt like they were sinking.

You were for sure drugged.

and… as your vision began to feel more and more distorted you finally found your way out of the stage and into the bathroom. Hunching over the toilet- releasing your guts into the toilet it only seemed to get worse as you puked. You couldn't even go home- you had a ride here instead.

Your phone?

You pulled your phone out of your back pocket- and as you opened it to see your lock screen it quickly died.

Fuckkk me. This was a horrible decision. What was happening?

(time skip)

“Y/n?” you heard a deep and silky voice call out to you- it seemed like you were dreaming… in a way.

The floor was black- it rippled like water as you walked through it. Everything felt confusing- your mind flooded with strange and random thoughts. The water-like floor twisted around your feet- climbing up your body as it seemed to make its way up to your hair- stroking it like a hand.

What the fuck was happening?

…

It felt like you were going mad.

“Y/N? Sweet thing, get up.”

You saw Peter's face- your vision tunnel vision. You were back in the dressing room, on the couch. He had a hand in your hair, holding you as you were heavily intoxicated.

U..Ugh

What were you drugged with?

#type o negative #reader x peter steele #peter steele x reader #x reader #reader insert #fem reader #female reader

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moonysfurrybigproblem · 4 months

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Aight I'm Sirius Black, I'm in Gryffindor house,and my birthday is the 3rd of November,just in case you want to get me anything.😘

Other stuff

Sexuality: Queer as fuck,and proud as fuck.♥️❤️🧡💛💚💙💜💗(people are hot)

Gender: Idrk

Pronouns: He/They

Talents: Music, pranks, cocking stuff up, being hot, getting tattoos

Likes: weed, cigarettes, alcohol (maybe too much), queen, motorcycles, hair dye, doc martens, leather jackets, handmade badges, remus,peter james, james parents, quidditch, dancing, singing, david bowie and the sex pistols, Marlene, dorcas, lily,makeup

Mates: @sconewithjamesplease, @moony-toast-1960 @marlsboronights @mary-had-a-little-lamb @cas-medowes @sillylilygryffindor

BF: @moony-toast-1960

Frenemies: @barty-thefreak @bleeding-rose-1

@givemesomebones

Enemies: @snapeinacape

Profile art was done by the wonderful @literallytoogaytofunction

blog tws: underage drinking, drug use, smoking, sex mentions, abuse mentions

Ooc

My main is @touslin.

I don't own Sirius.

If you don't like the way I portray him, tough.

The rp group is run by @dracosleftarsecheek, ask them if you want to join.

My ooc tag is #ooc, in case you dont want to see that stuff (or want to)

#sirius talks #sirius

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liz-allyn · 1 year

Text

sugar and vice, pt. 20 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader-oc]

summary: no more running. no more cages.

words: 10.7 k

chapter warning: heavy chapter warnings for S&V John Walker (it's a warning), SA, death, violence, gore

series warnings: mob-typical bang bang violence, hurt/comfort. Spicy smutty situations. spousal abuse. family trauma. Drug use. coercion. manipulation. kidnapping. gore. blood. toxic/yandere!peter (maybe, sorta), negative self talk, shameless forced proximity trope. ‘only ten one bed oops’ trope, imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions. extremely toxic relationships.

This version of TASM Peter is not canon. The relationships and characters here are not healthy.

Don't date a mob boss.™️

18+ You’re responsible for your own media consumption, but if you don't know these TWs by now, then don't go here.

Back to Part 19.

Note: your comments and notes keep me alive, but please be careful to use section breaks and spoiler tags!

Part 20

Once when she was a little girl, she cut her baby sister’s nails. She had to. It was something that their mother would have done—should have done—but she hadn’t been home in several days. Her older sister had the most experience, but she was stuck working a double shift. Rebecca had been sick with a cold for days, and Selena was just a toddler.

After all, it was her job to look after her younger siblings.

So that left Honey in charge.

Poor Gabriella. The infant couldn’t stop scratching her face. Red lines marked up her round cheeks like tiger stripes. Honey knew if any of the children had too many marks, people would start to notice. Then something bad would happen, her mother assured her. People would come and take Gabriella away.

She tried everything to prevent the baby from digging her tiny claws into her own skin. She tried rolled socks as makeshift mittens. She tried using a bath towel as a swaddle, but that turned out to be an awful idea once the infant realized she was stuck and didn’t like being restrained.

By contrast, being tied up wasn’t something that ever bothered Honey.

The obvious solution was to trim her nails. She had to. It had to be done. They didn’t own a pair of nail clippers, Honey knew that. But it was on her to fix things. She was in charge. So she took a pair of kitchen scissors and tried her best.

After that, she was never okay with the sight of blood.

It used to bother her tremendously. She’d become agitated for a few days out of every month. Her other sisters would joke about it. ‘She must be on her period.’ They were right.

As a teenager, the smallest knick from shaving her legs in the shower would send her into a dizzy spiral. Over time, it got better. John changed that.

Mrs. Walker became an expert at cleaning up blood. She learned to ignore the smell or at least put a dab of Vicks beneath her nose to block the stench.

The only helpful thing she learned in high school chemistry was how blood cells expanded when coming in contact with warm water. Thus, her teacher told her, cold water was best for removing blood stains.

“You know. In case you ever have to hide a dead body.”

It was a joke. Until it wasn’t.

John changed that.

She sat on the tiled floor of her bathroom, shoulders slumped and expression blank. Now, it was impossible to get rid of the blood on her hands. She could strip off her clothes and burn them, but she felt it on her skin. She could shove an entire eucalyptus tree up her nose, but the scent would linger.

She was stained in rust colors, starkly contrasting the pristine ivory of her bathroom. Silently, she gazed at how the blood crusted on her skin, following the ridges of her pores like brush strokes in oil paint. The cotton hoodie and joggers she’d been wearing were soaked through. There had been so much carnage and death she didn’t even know whose blood she was wearing.

Helen’s. Johnny’s. Her own, probably. Blood from ‘that’ guy, whose scalp was torn off.

Eddie’s blood.

All that was left of his life stained her skin. She should be nauseous by now. She should be at least a little woozy. But, instead, the thought of just washing him away made her want to die inside.

She would wear it, then. Needed to wear it—she had to. On her arms and face. On her neck. On her chest, like a scarlet letter. Irreversably stained.

Is this what it means to be desensitized to gore?

Indeed, she felt nothing at all.

What happened, happened. The Bunker was in shambles. It would take months to repair. Would have if Peter hadn’t instructed them to burn everything left.

Every piece of incriminating evidence, every tool at their disposal, and every chapter of their history was on fire underground. Nothing would be left, no matter when the fire department showed up. Johnny had re-routed the gas lines years ago. With the flip of a switch, everything would go up in flames. Nothing could be salvaged. It would be an empty cave filled with useless, charred artifacts from an irrelevant time.

On second thought—she considered—that’s what she felt.

It was as good of a description as any.

After that morning’s attack, she was dropped off at the Penthouse. Peter would follow soon after, they told her. She shouldn’t wait up.

She had limped into her bathroom to clean off the remnants of the massacre. There she remained, for over an hour. Couldn’t get up off the floor. Couldn’t force herself to get in the shower.

At this rate, she may never be clean again.

Her eyes wandered to the smartphone beside her, tucked near her thigh.

John’s phone.

This was the weapon that killed Eddie Brock.

The second she had entered her room, she pulled the cursed object out from the box spring. She wanted to hand it over quickly so that Peni could analyze it. Could... study it, or whatever it is that tech nerds do. Honey would do anything to fix things.

But nobody cared about the phone. It was as good as a gun without bullets. A time bomb, two seconds too late. It was of no consequence.

She picked up the smartphone, glaring down at it with contempt. Sticky red fingerprints covered the cracked screen. Her blood. Their blood.

Eventually, she came to a stand. Then, bitterly, she dropped the phone into the toilet bowl, submerging it in water.

Peter was finally home. But it didn’t feel like home.

His home was on fire, riddled with bullet holes. Just like the home he grew up in.

He stood before the full-length mirror in his wardrobe and wiped the blood stains away with a damp, pink-tinged towel. His flesh was now rubbed raw. The cotton fabric felt like sandpaper against his tender skin.

The obvious solution was to take a proper shower. But he didn’t have time. He only needed to get enough blood off to pass in broad daylight without someone calling the cops if they saw him. He wouldn’t get very far if he looked like an ax murderer.

With all the rage he held inside, an ax was unnecessary. Overkill. And yet, not enough ‘kill.’

He had redressed in clean clothes, wearing a pair of midnight-navy trousers with creased edges that were sharp enough to cut. He paused midway through buttoning a crisp, white dress shirt, momentarily taking in the gruesome sight of himself.

His torso was a canvas splashed with deep purples and reds, stretched over a frame of broken ribs and pinched nerves. His eyes rested on the delicate box chain around his neck, which held two gold wedding bands near his heart.

Ben and May’s wedding rings. Tarnished. Stained with blood.

He quickly reached for the towel.

Minutes later, he carefully shrugged on a matching double-breasted blazer, wincing as he pulled it over his shoulders. Every part of him felt broken, in every possible way. But physical pain hadn’t stopped him yet, not when something more important was driving him.

He regarded his reflection with tight lips. He didn’t wear this jacket too often. It was a tuxedo cut and hung looser than he was accustomed to, making his frame appear boxy. A little too retro, maybe.

Perfect for concealing weapons. After all, he was dressing for a funeral.

His skin prickled. He was familiar with the sensation. He recognized it instantly, like an earthy scent before a rain shower. Honey’s reflection came into view as she approached the doorway behind him.

The sight of her covered in blood made his stomach clench. He reminded himself that it wasn’t all her blood, and only then did the tension in his chest release. But not entirely.

“Thought you were getting some sleep.” Peter’s tone was flat. His eyes flicked back to his reflection as he tugged on the lapels of his blazer.

He didn’t say it as a question; rather, he stated it as an expectation.

She stared back, unfazed, wearing a stone expression. “What are you going to do?”

Similarly, it wasn’t a question. More like a demand.

He briefly glanced at her before returning to the mirror. His jaw set firmly. “You don’t wanna know.”

She marched into the room. “You’re going after John. I want to help.”

“Help me?” he repeated with a scoff. “I don’t think so.”

Her forehead creased, offended. “Look, I can help—”

“Just what do you think is about to happen right now?” he snapped. He squinted his eyes, turning on his heel to face her. “Ya think we’re just gonna pull up on ‘em and that’s it? Ya think he’s just sittin’ around at home watching TV?”

“No,” she said. Her tone was unwaveringly resolved. “I think he’s expecting you to come after him.”

“No shit,” Peter sighed with frustration. “I’m expecting to be expected.” He fixed a stern gaze on her, tension pulling at his vocal cords. “Only difference is I don’t care if he knows I’m comin’, or how many cops are in my way. There’s only one way this ends, and it ends bloody. And you don’t want any part of it.”

He brushed past her and stomped towards his bureau. Her eyes followed each movement, crackling with lightning bolts. “Fuck you, telling me what I want!” she hissed. “This is my mess, too!”

He pivoted toward her. “And what, ya think killing him is gonna fix it?” His face went grim, sorrow etched into his features. Remorse welled in the bottom of his eyes. “Think it gets easier after that? Ya think it’ll make you somehow feel better—?”

“I don’t care about feeling better!” she barked back. He neatly flinched at the sharpness of her tone. Fury bubbled beneath her skin. “The only thing I care about is that he suffers.”

Peter contemplated her for a quiet moment. “Well,” he said, voice soft. His melancholy briefly overshadowed his rage. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

He didn’t meet her eye. Instead, he studied the grain of the wood beneath his feet, letting his shoulders deflate. He looked beyond tired, deep lines creasing his features and flecks of gray in his beard. Yet, when he lifted his chin, his eyes were resolute. He arched his path to avoid her.

Unsatisfied, she trailed him with fire in her eyes. “How will you know where to find him?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Who’s going with you?”

“Stop asking questions, Honey.”

She grasped him by the shoulder and yanked him around to face her. “Jesus Christ! The phone is gone, you unbelievable asshole! Do you really think I’d tell anyone—?”

“You’re not getting involved,” he stated firmly.

“Not involved? Are you fucking serious?!”

“Too many people have already gotten hurt.”

“Holy shit,” she blanched, freezing in place. Her eyes widened in horror. “You’re not telling the others, are you?”

He paused, for eons, she thought. Peter tried to keep his face neutral, but it was useless under her scrutiny. His eyes were ablaze with stubborn resolve, lips in a line. He turned his back and continued down the staircase.

Blinking rapidly, she watched him walk away. She felt dizzy, but not from weakness. Instead, rage pulsed through her veins, each blood cell embedded with fear. She rushed after him, hot on his heels.

“You’re going in alone?” she growled, her nose crinkled. “That’s your fucking genius plan? Go in, guns blazing, and hope you don’t get yourself killed?!”

“I have no intention of getting killed,” Peter said. “Not unless I’m taking him with me.”

His reaction enraged her further as they approached the base of the stairs. “Who does that work out for, huh?” she spat.

Ignoring her, he marched on. Peter spotted one of the guards standing watch outside his office door. “Rollins!” he ordered, voice booming. “Bring the car ‘round.”

“Yes, sir—”

“Rollins, don’t you dare bring the car around!” she commanded, blocking Peter’s path and skewering him with a defiant glare. It was as if she dared him to move her. His dark eyes flashed angrily as he clenched his jaw. He looked as if he was considering it.

Rollins stared at the two of them, back and forth. Frozen with indecision.

Enraged by his sudden hesitancy, Peter’s nostrils flared. He shot a dangerous glare at the guard before glancing down at the young woman with ire.

He lifted his gaze back to his man, narrowing his eyes. “Rollins...” Through gritted teeth, his guard’s name sounded more like a declaration of war.

Rollins sprang into action. “On it, sir.”

As his guard disappeared, she kept her feet rooted to the floor like a mythical beast guarding a castle. She breathed flames from her mouth and conjured curses and plagues with her gaze.

“You asshole—you’re in such a hurry to kill yourself!” she said viciously. “Who for, huh?! You think this is about the others? For Miles? You’re not doing this for us, Peter! And you’re not doing it for Eddie, either!”

“You’re damn right, I’m not!” he snapped indignantly, jabbing his finger into his bruised sternum. “I’m not doing this for anybody but myself!”

Heat radiated from him in waves, like steam from a hot spring. He bent his neck, leering over her. Volume dropped low, his voice thickened into a threatening rumble. “If I were doing this for Eddie,” he said, “I’d make ‘em watch me kill everything he ever loved, ya feel me? ‘Course, I highly doubt you were ever on that list, so you’ve got nothin’ to worry about.”

She barked a bitter laugh. “So this is, what, payback? Your stupid, dick-measuring way of defending my honor?”

“This isn’t about you, Honey,” he said, dark as night. He leaned down until his lips were inches from her forehead, eyes as cold and sharp as a jagged iceberg. “If it was—knowing what I know now,” he added breathily, “I promise you—it wouldn’t be anything like this.”

A misleading smirk formed on his lips, betraying the brutality staining his thoughts. She felt the heat of his rage in each whispered word.

“No,” he said, deathly grave. “For what he did to you—I would keep him alive for as long as I possibly could.”

The unabashed, murderous smile on his lips sent a shiver down her spine. Her discomfort didn’t faze him this time. He didn’t care how scared she was of him. If anything, the more afraid she was, the better.

“He’s a disease,” Peter ranted, directing his frustration back towards himself, “that I’ve allowed to spread. He’s a threat to everything I give a damn about! And I will not let him hurt somebody else I lo—”

Blinking, he cut the sentence short, just millimeters from a leap he wasn’t willing to take. She stared intently up at him, unaware that she was holding her breath.

He pursed his lips, eyes heavy with regret. He looked away, avoiding her gaze while he composed himself. Finally, he took in a slow, tense breath. “I need to do this, Honey,” he whispered ruefully. He had calmed slightly, swallowing back his rage.

The only thing left behind was a tiny, heartbroken remark. “It’s the only thing I’m good at.” The corners of his mouth turned down sharply.

She didn’t hesitate. “Even if that were true, you don’t need to do it alone.”

He shook his head in frustration. “Why are you so desperate to know what it’s like to kill somebody?”

A vicious yell burst out of her mouth. “I already have killed somebody!” she shouted, as if it were obvious. Her voice echoed off the walls while anguish pooled in her eyes. “It’s my fault Eddie is dead! I know it is—”

He shook his head again. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine—”

“Of course, it’s your fault!” she roared. “It’s both of our faults!”

The comment stunned him, only slightly less than the bitterness of her tone. He snapped his mouth closed, taken aback.

Despair twisted her face, and anger lit up her eyes. “Don’t you get it?” She was green with sickness, spitting out words like they were poison. “This is what he does! He turns people against each other!”

Peter stayed quiet as he observed her intensity. Her feet were rooted while her whole body raged, “He turns you against yourself! He twists you up until you can’t even trust your own instincts! Until you hate yourself enough to feel like you had it coming!”

A dam had broken, and a river of acid spilled through her lips. Resentment from years of abuse writhed in her chest like a tsunami, threatening to flood every street in New York. Her fingers itched to wrap around the collective necks of the city and drown it in her devastation.

She pointed at Peter, eyes flashing furiously. “You’re willing to get yourself killed because you feel responsible for every bad thing that’s ever happened!” She jabbed her thumb back at herself. “I’m willing to suffer in silence because I feel responsible for every bad thing that’s happened!”

“Meanwhile,” she added, with a livid hiss, “John Mother Fucking Walker—who is actually responsible for all of this—feels Nothing. At. All! Because he is a fucking psychopath!”

Peter blinked, contemplating her in silence. Her firm eyes narrowed on him. “That’s how he beats us, Peter!” she exclaimed. “Fear! Guilt! That’s how he wins!”

The frustration in her voice reverberated off of the walls, sending a tremor that penetrated the bedrock. Peter observed her, stoic save for the sorrow in his gaze.

Her chest heaved as unshed tears dampened her lashes. Exhausted, she sighed heavily. “I am tired of letting him win,” she said in exasperation. She was more composed but no less grave. “And if you think you’re gonna do what I think you’re gonna do—which is go after him alone—then that’s exactly what will happen.”

Peter’s eyes glistened, red-rimmed and raw. His silence stretched on forever until she was nearly inclined to choke him for a response. Eventually, he simply bowed his head, casting his eyes down.

“What if fear and guilt are the only things I have left?” It was a meek, feeble reply from someone so powerful. She blinked up at him, watching as he chewed on his lower lip. “Wish it wasn’t that way. I wish I had—”

He stopped, leaving the thought unfinished.

“Doesn’t matter what I wish, does it?” he said. “Doesn’t matter what coulda been.”

A crease formed between her brows. Her face softened. “Peter—”

“Just let me say this, please,” he blurted out with urgency as if the words would claw their way from his chest. “I need to.” She regarded his desperate gaze, and eventually, she bobbed her head gently.

He gazed down at her. His lower lip twitched for a moment. “I had my suspicions about your past,” Peter explained mournfully. “Knew something bad happened, but... bad shit happens to everyone, though. First, I thought it was your mother. Then after Pym, I... I figured it was some old boyfriend, some jerk who treated you like trash.”

Her face flushed red. When she looked back at him, his glazed eyes were fixed on her. Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. With shards of glass on his tongue, he murmured, “I-I didn’t know... wh-what he—”

“I don’t blame you, Peter, if that’s what you think—”

“I didn’t wanna know,” he firmly replied, silencing her. Guilt weighed down his features. “Didn’t wanna ask, if I’m bein’ honest.” He gulped, nearly choking on his words like a razor blade stuck in his throat. “I was afraid of what I would do if I knew the truth.”

She felt warmth sting her eyes, tears budding at the corner of her lids.

“I thought, I guess—” Peter’s voice tremored before he pressed on. “I-I thought I could save you. From what, I didn’t even know. Maybe that was my mistake all along.”

He raked his fingers through his hair, eyes heavy with shame. “I was so stupid. I’m the one that let him in. I let this act—this dance between us—I let it go on.” He sniffed with a bleary gaze. “He played me against me,” he declared with finality. “My fear. My doubt, self-hatred—whatever you wanna call it. Whatever voice in my head that tells me... th-that you... You could never love somebody like me.”

She flinched at that. Her resolve to remain stoic buckled under her feet.

His eyes dropped to his feet. “I told myself this was just business, and that if the Feds could use you, so could I.” Vulnerability poured from his eyes as they met hers. “I pretended it didn’t kill me every time you looked me in the face and lied.”

Despite his apology, her stomach twisted with shame.

“And each time it happened,” he explained, “I couldn’t figure out what they had on you. Something awful, I figured. Something that scared the shit out of you.”

Peter looked at her somberly, lower lip wobbling and eyes dark with regret. “I thought it was me.”

Her face crumpled at his admission, grief seizing her at last. She bit down on her lip to keep a sob from escaping.

“It’s like he already won,” he said, with a broken soul. “I thought I was the one he wanted.” He sniffed, peeking down at her through wet lashes. Deep, raw heartache thickened his voice. “Turns out, it was you all along. And I led him straight to you.”

Her vision flooded with tears at his admission. It sounded like a confession from a dying man. After a few gut-wrenching moments, Peter lifted his chin and met her eyes, resolved. “That’s why I’m doing this without you, Honey. This is my mistake to fix.”

Overwhelmed with grief, she stared up at him in a daze. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she gently shook her head to protest.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” she said. It sounded like a eulogy.

His eyes glistened as he nodded, love and loss in their depths. “Me too.”

He gazed at her, the coffee color of his irises shining bittersweet. She stared up at him in adoration and agony. She debated whether she should wrap her arms around him and cry or kiss him dizzy.

He paused, letting his eyes linger, then turned away and trodded down the hall. “I’m gonna fix this, Honey,” he said. “I promise. You’re free.”

Perplexed, she darted after him. “Wh-what—?”

“No more running, no more cages,” he resolutely replied. She followed closely as he approached the oak doors to his office. “Won’t hafta be afraid of anyone comin’ after you. Not Fisk. Not me. And not some asshole ex. ‘Cos win or lose...I’m ending this. Tonight.”

She fluttered her lashes with concern, following him blindly into the room.

“Why wait?”

Honey stopped short in her tracks like her feet had been fused to the floor. Peter froze. Swayed dizzily. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck didn’t just prickle, as they had been since the beginning of their conversation. It inverted, the sensation feeling like his skin had peeled off and been turned inside out.

John Walker coolly watched them come to a sudden stop. He lounged back casually in the executive desk chair with a devil-may-care expression and his leather oxfords up on the tabletop. Stunned, they stared at the lithe man with growing alarm. The icy blue of his eyes twinkled with delight at their fear, fixing them with a Cheshire smile.

“Why don’t we do this right now?” he shrugged nonchalantly.

Each bruised muscle in Peter’s body went rigid. In a matter of moments, he was hit with a surge of emotion that he barely managed to contain beneath his skin. Pupils dilated, fingers shaking, heart pounding—fury washed over him, and all Walker had to do was smile.

Over the sound of blood rushing, Peter registered the fluttering palpation of her heart.

His Heart.

His Honey.

She was terrified.

It reminded him of the moment she walked in on the meeting between him and “Steve,” only this time it was worse.

An arctic chill surrounded her from the ice running through her veins. She paused mid-breath, rendered motionless, eyes wide with horror. For a moment Peter worried if she would ever start breathing again.

His palms began to tingle. He kept his attention straight ahead, while he fought between the urge to comfort her and the visceral need to tear John’s face from his skull.

Before he could do either, another warning sensation—sharp and jagged, like his name being carved into a chalkboard with a steak knife—sliced through his brain.

After having been suppressed, ignored, and nearly incapacitated by the Symbiote, his senses were in overdrive. Every cell in his body alerted him to impending danger, which came in the form of footsteps.

He turned quickly, dragging Honey behind his back, as he laid eyes on the new threat. Three of his guards, Malick, Ward, and Rollins—fucking Rollins—stepped into the room. Ward and Malick were vigilant with their weapons drawn, but Rollins sauntered at a leisurely pace. He glanced over at his boss, unworried, and a malicious grin widened his lips.

Peter’s shoulders slumped as he realized that their bullets were meant for him. He frowned sourly, betrayed. “Jack,” Peter coldly muttered, hiding his disappointment beneath the threat in his tone. “Wha’cha up to?”

Rollins simply shrugged. “Sorry, Boss,” he smirked. “‘S’just business.”

Peter’s eyes darkened as he observed Gideon Malick aim his pistol at Honey, while Grant Ward slammed the office door closed, locking them in. With Rollins drawing his sidearm, three guns were now trained on him and the shaking woman behind him.

Peter couldn’t see her face but didn’t need to. He could feel her fear radiating through his fingertips. Her body became both lighter and heavier as if her bones had turned to water. He sensed her increasing dissociation, barely tethered to the Earth and dangling at the end of his reach. Only terror cemented her feet in place. She was sluggish as he pushed her closer into his back as if he could somehow hide her there.

“I have to say, Pete,” John called to him matter-of-factly. Peter split his attention between his backstabbing guards and the monster seated behind his desk. “At first, I was impressed with your organization. But it seems like you have a few serious issues with staff retention to sort out.” John spoke with a self-satisfied smirk, kicking his feet off of the desk and coming to a relaxed stance. “You should think about setting up a meeting with H.R.”

“Believe me,” Peter glowered at John, briefly glancing at Rollins with clenched teeth. “It’s a priority.”

John took an unrushed stroll to the front of the desk before leaning back on the corner’s edge. He moved through the office as if it was his home. It was unnerving for Peter to consider how many times he might have been there without his knowledge, with his treacherous guards granting him access to anything he wanted.

“‘Course, I always thought you shoulda gone into human trafficking,” John said, with a mockingly sincere tone. A crease split Peter’s brow, his face twisting with revulsion. “You would’ve made a very lucrative pimp.”

Peter glared at him, disgusted, as he chuckled softly at his own joke. The laugh faded, as did the humor in John’s ice-blue eyes. They narrowed with contempt, looking beyond Peter to the trembling girl behind him.

“Lord knows you got the world’s biggest whore right behind you,” he sneered maliciously. “With a mouth like hers, you’ll get anything you want. If you throw in an extra five-thousand dollars, of course.”

Peter felt her bristle at the jab, and he reached back further to steady her.

“Don’t look at her,” he ordered coldly, never breaking eye contact. “You don’t get to look at her. Ever.”

The blonde snickered, licking his lips scandalously. “Oh, I’ve done a whole lot more than just look.”

Peter’s jaw tensed at that.

John’s humorless gaze turned into a cold glare. “I don’t know if you’ve heard,” he added vindictively, “but that’s my wife you have behind you.”

Despite his own outrage, Peter kept a straight face. He listened intently, studying how Walker’s nostrils flared and how his pulse sped up at the sight of the couple embracing.

Good, he thought. He needed every second of time he could get.

Peter took a step backward with her, slowly approaching the wall.

His eyes lightened, and a callous smirk formed on his lips. “You mean that’s ‘your wife’ I’ve had beneath me,” Peter sneered lewdly.

The remark splintered beneath John’s skin. Peter watched with satisfaction at how the blonde’s brow twitched. He could smell the agitation leaking out through his pores.

“Yeeaah,” Peter chuckled mockingly, fueling John’s anger. “She told me all about you. Short story. If ya catch my drift.”

Peter took another step backward, bumping her along, teeth flashing with amusement. “In fact,” he parried, matching John’s sardonic tone, “maybe you should talk to a doctor about your little problem. You know, instead of torturing women.”

John glowered with his lower lip curled. “Well. Since we’re sharing.” He tilted his head with a predatory grin, while his eyes shot daggers at them. “I wouldn’t trust everything she says. The girl’s a freak. She tell ya about all of her filthy rape fantasies, too?”

Her breath hitched. A tiny shiver racked through her body. It was barely noticeable to the other men, but to Peter, it felt like a tectonic movement. He could hear the way her stomach shifted, her nausea roaring in like a rising tide.

“She likes it rough,” John snarked. “It’s practically the only thing that gets her off. Pretty fucked up, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you.” Inwardly, Peter seethed, resentment darkening his gaze.

“‘Course not. Why take my word for it?” John laughed, having momentarily taken the upper hand. He glanced around at the other traitors mirthlessly before turning back to Peter. “Why don’t we just find out for ourselves?”

Peter’s anger spiked at the insinuation, rage stuttering his heartbeat. He watched as John glanced at Rollins and the other men with a menacing grin. Cruel laughter trickled from the traitors that made his blood boil further.

He took a measured breath. “I know you boys don’t know me that well,” Peter remarked calmly. “But lemme be very clear.” He slid his eyes over and leveled a threatening glare at the men behind Rollins. “Anyone touches her, and I’ll send ya back home to your families in garbage bags.”

Peter’s men dropped their smiles suddenly. He heard a stutter in the heartbeats coming from that direction as they attempted to suppress their reaction. “Don’t take my word for it,” he said directly to Rollins with a murderous gaze. “You know what I’m capable of, Jackie.”

“Is that what you did to Gwen?”

Peter’s anger spread through him like epinephrine as John carelessly spat out his deceased wife’s name. His shoulders tensed, and the cords in his neck pulled tautly.

“You send her back to her daddy in a body bag?” John snickered. “Sure—Call me a shitty husband. But at least my wife never took a swan dive off of the Brooklyn Bridge.”

The fresh swell of rage in Peter’s belly twisted him into knots. A gentle press from a tiny palm on the middle of his back was the only thing that anchored him.

“Oof. Hit a nerve, did I?” John grinned with satisfaction at how the color drained from Peter’s eyes and complexion. “What else did you two lovebirds talk about?” he said. “She tell ya about our little talks late at night?” He grinned salaciously. “Lotsa juicy stuff.”

Peter swallowed hard, unflinching.

“She told me everything,” Walker continued. “Her plan to seduce you. To pretend she cared about you. How much she despised you.” John tilted his head, musing. “How’d you put it, Peach? You could ‘never love a monster like him’?”

He heard a soft gasp from behind him. As strong as their resolve was, the remark punctured its armor. Honey clenched the fabric of his jacket, her touch pleading for forgiveness. Steadfast, Peter took another careful step backward, keeping her close.

“‘Course, that’s no big surprise,” John continued ruthlessly. He could see through Peter’s indifference, knowing each word cut into him like a jigsaw. “‘Everyone that ever loved you is dead.’ Ain’t that right?”

Honey gripped Peter’s shoulder tighter, a swell of nausea creeping up her esophagus. Her vocal cords were paralyzed, with nothing but a whimper escaping her lips. “No...” she muttered breathlessly, stunned and enraged by the twisting of her words.

“Poor, pitiful Peter Parker,” John said in a sing-song voice. “Sad, psychotic little orphan boy. No mommy. No daddy. His aunt and uncle both turned into swiss cheese.” He punctuated each word with viciousness, spitting them out like curdled milk. “Clinging desperately onto the memory of his dead whore.”

Nostrils flaring, Peter glowered at John, dipping his chin. Another step backward nearly had the woman behind him up against the wall, backing her carefully up to a marble-top bar. “Gloat all you want, asshole,” Peter mumbled with disdain. “She still dumped you.”

John’s eyes flashed red with a serpentine hiss sliding off his forked tongue. “And yet, I’m the one that finger-fucked your girl while you were on your little date! Greedy slut was wetter than a swamp when I touched her—”

“Liar!” she screamed, voice cracking like shattered glass.

She lunged forward but Peter blocked her. He practically shoved her back, her spine hitting the edge of the bar. A chorus of chuckles erupted, with Rollins, Ward, and Malick joining in on John’s amusement. She stumbled backward, using her hands to steady herself until she came in contact with a metal object on the bar top.

A camera.

Peter’s old camera. On top of the box disguised as a book.

Both items were out of place.

Presented out in the open, where they shouldn’t have been.

Honey’s eyes darted back up to the front.

“S’okay, Honey,” Peter muttered, his glare still trained on Walker. He held his arms behind his back as if to hide her from view. It formed a ‘cage,’ concealing her movements as she stealthily shifted the camera, keeping her eyes forward. “The longer this clown talks, the more desperate he sounds.”

John’s eyes flashed with malice. “Oh, you wanna hear what desperate sounds like? How ‘bout I push your little bitch off the roof, huh? Have your men make you watch me turn another woman you love into Humpty Dumpty. She’ll be runny eggs on the sidewalk in a matter of seconds—”

“Why are you all still smiling?” Peter sharply cut him off. He shifted his glare from John to his snickering accomplices. “Is it ‘cos you're scared? Or are ya just that stupid?” The laughing ceased immediately as Peter fixed John with a cold gaze. “Either way, you’re about to be a dead man.”

With her hands behind her back, she blindly fumbled to lift the lid of the box. Her fingers scavenged across the bottom, expecting to find a weapon of some kind, or a knife, or perhaps even—

“Lookin’ for this?” John said. The bang of a gunshot deafened her.

A splatter of wet, hot liquid covered her cheek and she flinched at the sound of an agonized cry. She screamed. At the gunshot. At the blood. And at the sight of Peter dropping forward to his knees in excruciating pain.

“No! No! No!”

She could hear her own shrieking in the distance as she grasped at him. Groaning, he writhed in agony. His hand, once again bloody, clutched a bullet hole piercing his upper right shoulder. She threw her already-stained palms over his, adding his blood to the fresco decorating her flesh.

Tears spilled down her cheeks. Lip wobbling, she glanced up with wide eyes as John pointed Peter’s pistol at them menacingly.

“Did ya really think I wasn’t gonna search this place for weapons?” he scoffed in offense, glaring at them through slitted eyes.

Nostrils flaring and teeth clenched tight, Peter breathed through the pain. He scowled up at John feeling like a flaming sword had severed his arm at the shoulder. His heart hammered as he watched John raise the pistol again, this time aiming between his brows.

“Please, don’t!” Honey sobbed. “John, please! I’m begging you!” She wrapped her arms around Peter as if she could shield him.

The smile faded from John’s lips. Contempt radiated from his blue eyes, turning them into blackened sapphires. “C’mon, Peach. We both know you can beg better than that.”

Peter shoved her away from him, jumping to his feet. He charged and knocked John’s aim off target. Another shot rang out and pierced the wall next to her.

Shrieking, she dropped to the floor and cowered down.

With one bloody hand on John’s wrist, Peter smashed him in the abs with his injured arm. He put his back muscles into the punch, snarling as the bruised flesh burned like his body was on fire.

His rage partially numbed the pain as Peter advanced forward. He shoved John back into the desk. The injuries made each move sluggish, but Peter managed to land another hit, this time to John’s face. With his other hand clenching the gun, he slammed it into the tabletop, loosening John’s grip. With another vicious whack, the weapon fell from his hand and clattered out of reach.

Amped with adrenaline, Peter reared his uninjured arm back. Balling his fist into a cannonball, he drove it down hard enough to break through concrete.

Right into John’s palm.

He blinked, stunned. Looked up at John. His face twisted with confusion, as the supposedly weaker man grinned smugly up at Peter.

“Oh, yeah,” John smiled with red teeth, slowly crushing Peter’s hand like an empty aluminum can. “And then there’s that.”

With a flick of John’s wrist, he inverted Peter’s arm and tossed his body like a garbage bag. Peter collided with the wall and toppled to the ground, sending plaster and drywall raining down.

John straightened up, taking labored breaths as he adjusted his light blue collar, now dotted with tiny spots of crimson. He fixed Peter with a wry smile. “I know about your little science experiments, too,” he smirked. “Your buddy Eddie stole the outdated model. Say ‘hello’ to Anti-Venom.”

John rolled his shoulders, tipping his head to crack his neck. As his joints popped, he rolled his eyes back into his skull—literally. Honey gaped with horror as she watched her ex-husband grin at them with a demonic stare, pure white engulfing his eyeballs. The milky, opaque clouds in his eyes seemed to part in the middle, like a crocodile opening an inner set of eyelids, revealing the dilated pupils of his sadistic stare.

Peter struggled to get on his hands and knees as John stalked towards him, feet heavy with malice. Honey screamed with almost no breath, “Peter, look out—”

In a flash, John was on him, jabbing his elbow into his back. Peter gasped at the stab to his spine, feeling another rib snap. The force slammed him chest-first back to the floor. With dazed eyes, he glanced blearily at the secret box, now tossed to the ground a few feet away. Photos of May and Ben were scattered about, among the shards of broken glass, chunks of wood, and twisted metal.

Weakened from the fall, the gunfight, and now the beating, Peter strained to reach for the box but was stopped short. Walker’s steel fingers clamped on his shoulder, yanking him to his feet. He jabbed a boulder-like fist into Peter’s sternum, violently ejecting the air from his lungs.

Honey sprang to her feet, grabbing a chunk of wood and charging toward them. Rollins and Ward were there instantly, scooping her up and restraining her.

She writhed desperately, screeching as they twisted her arms back. The sound of her attack vexed Peter, as he straightened his back, landing an upward thrust of his fist into John’s chin.

“Get off of her!” he hissed at Rollins and Ward, but John intercepted him.

Like thrashing wild animals, they pummeled each other until sweat and blood coated the floor. Yet, with every hit, John seemed unfazed. Whatever was running through his body was just as formidable as the Symbiote that had once possessed Peter. Both men tossed each other about, but Peter was at a disadvantage.

“Stop!” Honey cried out painfully in a shrill voice, which wrenched Peter’s heart. “John, don’t do this! Stop it!”

Peter swayed with cloudy eyes as he felt John hook his fist into his jaw. It felt like being hit in the face with a brick. Right after, John landed another jab with the opposite hand. And then a third. And a fourth.

“No, John! Please stop! Just stop! Please!”

His vision blurring, Peter jabbed left, only to have his wrist caught in John’s grip. With a twirl, John wrenched Peter’s arm out of its socket. He doubled over and howled in agony, his dislocated arm hanging limply at his side.

“John, stop it, stop it, please, stop!”

“When I’m done with you,” John whispered in Peter’s ear, “Fisk will have to scoop up what’s left of you with a shovel.”

Fighting to stay conscious, Peter met the man’s vindictive glare. John’s piercing blue eyes locked onto his. “Yeah. Wilson Fisk. I said his name. Wilson. Fisk. Meanwhile, you’re running around, afraid to say it like he’s Bloody Fucking Mary.”

Peter was on the floor again, launched into a glass console table. Unable to break his fall, the glass and metal crunched under the momentum of his body, shattering in all directions. He rolled, coughing up blood, his face covered in bruises and cuts. His vision swam, gaze darting across the room until he spotted the secret box.

With one arm limp, he dragged himself forward with the shoulder that had been shot, inching closer to the overturned box. He flicked the container away, his eyes landing on a delicate watch-like device. He reached for it.

John’s foot came down hard, stomping on his web shooter and crushing it beneath his foot. Peter choked back a frustrated scream, having another weapon fall short of his grasp.

“John, please! I’ll do anything you want! Just please don’t do this!”

John lifted his foot and slowly brought the sole down onto Peter’s wrist. He cried out, grimacing at the crushing pressure of the grown man standing on his forearm.

“You know what else I call ‘em?” John said, ogling Peter as if to gloat. It was a victorious stance. He was like a giant about to crush an insect. A bloody half-smile hung on his chiseled face as he waited for Peter to make eye contact. When he finally did, John provided an answer.

“Sir.”

A crease formed between Peter’s brows as he gazed up at John, panting with shallow breaths. His face paled with realization.

“Yeah,” the blonde crooned with an evil smile. “That’s right.” A horrifying picture emerged from Walker’s self-satisfied expression. "Arrogant little prick. Did you think that you could beat the Kingpin?”

John crouched down low, leering over Peter like a vulture about to peck on its prey while it was still living.

“Did you think changing your name and hiding underground would stop him from wiping you off the face of the Earth if he really wanted to?” Walker sneered in disgust. “You’re only still alive because he allows it!”

Honey sobbed with tears streaming down her face as John revealed his hand to them. Beside her, Rollins chuckled darkly, relishing in his boss’ despair.

“You have the audacity to run your mouth all over town,” John hissed, pouring putrid waste into Peter’s ear, “like you’re gonna walk him right up to the Pearly Gates! Like you’re judge, jury, and executioner! The monster at the end of his book!”

Peter pressed his lips into a thin line, rage boiling beneath his battered flesh. John reached down, gripping him by his thick tuft of hair and wrenching it back. The action forced Peter to gaze up at him; his neck bent backward and vulnerable. The way Walker glared at him, he half-expected the man to grow fangs and bury them in his throat.

“Well, I got news for ya, Peter Parker,” John spat out each word mockingly as he narrowed his eyes. “Mr. Fisk doesn’t give a shit what you call yourself.” He fixed Peter with a beaming grin made up of pure, sadistic evil. “He doesn’t even know who you are.”

He let the words hang in the air as if they were going to carve themselves into Peter’s headstone. For his part, despite his physical agony, Peter held himself steady. Kept his eyes fixed on John’s. Kept his jaw set firm. Anger pooled beneath his chest, cleansing him as it spread through his body.

“Guess you’ll have to explain it to ‘em next time you see ‘em,” Peter muttered, his lip curled into a snarl. “Might be curious to know who it was that killed him.”

The smile dropped from John’s eyes as a fresh wave of fury overtook him. He glared down at Peter, who fixed him with an insolent smirk.

“And for the record,” the beaten man glowered in defiance, his gaze glittering with spite, “I’m not walkin’ him to the Pearly Gates—I’m takin’ him straight to hell. So you be sure to save him a seat... you pathetic... wife-beating sack of shit!”

John growled and pulled his arm back. Drawing on the power of the entity inside him, he envisioned putting his fist through Peter’s skull and not stopping until he hit the concrete beneath their feet.

“I won’t fight you.”

The men froze at the tiny whimper, the voice carrying it shattered and frail.

John glanced over to see his ex-wife hanging limply in the hold of the two guards. Her eyes were empty, her face colorless and ashen. The woman swayed like a bedsheet in the wind.

“You can do whatever you want with me,” she spoke meekly, her spirit detached from her body. “I won’t fight back. I won’t run away.”

Hopelessness marked her features as nausea threatened to choke her. She wished that it would. Drowning in her own bile was a better fate than witnessing the grin form on John’s face.

“Please,” she mewled desperately, eyes red and glossy. “You’ve already won. He doesn’t matter anymore. Let Fisk finish him off.” Her voice trembled, quivering in her throat. “You can have me. However you want me.”

The silence that followed was deafening. John leered, foaming at the corners of his mouth. Lecherous eyes appraised her from head to toe. His chest heaved with short pants, like a rabid animal in heat.

“Atta girl,” he murmured with satisfaction before tossing Peter aside like a rag doll.

Peter coughed raggedly, choking on his red-tinged saliva, and rolled to one side. Gripping his wrist and using his foot for leverage, he wrenched his shoulder back in place with a sickening pop. An agonized whimper squeaked out, despite his best efforts.

John crossed the room in a few strides and gripped the woman by the throat. “No,” Peter gasped through bloody lips, exhausted and breathless from fear. “No...nono...please—”

“Where the fuck are you goin’, Boss?” Malick barked as Peter struggled to stand. The guard stalked forward, gun trained on him.

Ward joined him, grabbing Peter by his wounded shoulder and kicking his shin out from under him. Their boss was on his knees again, held steady at gunpoint, with Ward pushing the barrel of his weapon into Peter’s temple.

When Peter looked up, John was dragging Honey by the back of her neck, scruffed at the nape like an animal. She stumbled as he forced her behind Peter’s desk, kicking the chair away. He shoved her forward. The veneer stung her cheek when she collided with it, and she let out a whimper.

“Let her go!” Peter writhed desperately. Ward whacked him over the back of the head, driving him forward. He put his foot on Peter’s spine while Malick twisted his wounded arm behind his back. With his chin scraping the floor, he peered up through the fringe of his lashes. “Don’t fuckin’ touch her! You hear me?”

“Get ‘em up,” John ordered coldly. “He’s gonna wanna see this.”

With a hand on his hair and his arms locked in place, Peter’s men yanked him to his feet. He pulled himself forward, only to have Ward dig his fingers into the bullet hole, tearing at his flesh. They pulled him back down on his knees, driving a foot into his calf. Helplessly, Peter writhed, thrashing against their hold a few mere yards away from the terrified girl.

John sauntered up behind Honey, a smug grin plastered on his face. The woman lay motionless like a possum, bent over the edge of the desk. She stared at the mess of objects on Peter’s desk, shards of the battle. They shifted in and out of focus as her glossy eyes welled with tears. She let her mind take flight, drifting off to a cabin in the mountains.

“No!” Peter felt his voice crack and a scream lodge in his throat. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you, Walker! Ya, hear me? Look at me, you sonuvabitch! I’ll rip ya apart, sweartogod—”

John glanced at Rollins who kept careful watch over his boss. “If he makes a move, put a bullet in his back. That way he can still watch me snap her neck like a toothpick.”

Panic surged through Peter at the order, his amber eyes bright with terror. “I’m the one you want, yeah?” he pleaded, chest heaving. “Fight me like a man, you fuckin’ coward!”

John ignored him. He pressed his hips up against the seat of Honey’s joggers. He gripped the collar of her zip-up hoodie, tearing it down her shoulders.

She was elsewhere. Watching Peter’s fingers dance across the ivory keys of a piano. She liked being wherever she was. It was always easier for her to go there. Always easier for her to run away.

John ran his greedy hands down her spine and back up again beneath the filthy camisole she wore. His touch felt like a centipede crawling across her skin. A shudder racked through her as vomit climbed up her throat.

“Somebody’s excited,” John chuckled sadistically.

She breathed out a silent sob. She climbed the limbs of the maple tree in her backyard. Picturing the home she would make there one day.

John leaned down, pressing a rough kiss to the back of her shoulder. “Just like old times. Ain't that right, Peach?”

It was like being shocked by electricity. Letting her fingertips brush against the metal of a wall plug while still in the outlet. Every muscle in her body tensed. Her eyes darkened. Pupils blown wide.

“I don’t like that.”

John paused as his hands reached the waistband of her sweats. He glanced up at her, still amused, eyeing the back of her head. “What’d you say?”

She blinked. Her vision sharpened. “That’s not my name.”

His brow furrowed, his agitation spiking. “You’re gonna have to speak up.”

“I said ‘that’s not my name.’” Her volume grew louder, every syllable coming out sharper and more jagged. Her teeth ground together as she fixed her gaze forward, focusing on the grain of the wood.

“My name isn’t Peach,” she hissed. Molten-hot fury filled her while her tone hardened like rapidly cooling lava. “I’m not your Peach. I’m not your Kitten.”

Each word punctuated with a twitch in her eye and a tremor in her voice.

“I’m not your Doll Face. Or your Whore. Or your Pawn.”

Acid rolled off her tongue as she trembled with anger. Her rage was so thick she nearly choked on it, barely able to form words. Slowly, she pushed herself up off the desk, her spine turning to steel even as he towered over her.

“And I’m not your fucking wife,” she gritted her teeth, eyes black with hatred. “Not anymore.”

She turned her head to glance back at John, leveling him with a vengeful look.

“My name is Maricella Jimenez,” she hissed, sounding out each syllable carefully. “And you will remember it.”

The hand positioned on the desk sprang forward at his face so fast that John could barely see it. His head whipped back and all he could register was white-hot, piercing pain shooting through his skull.

John roared, reaching up with one hand to cover his face while the other hand dragged her off the desk to the ground. The guards jumped with shock, mouths agape, trying to discern what just occurred.

“Aggghhh!” John cried out with an agonized scream. Enraged, he clawed at his face, growling like a mildly-wounded grizzly bear. His thirst for blood compounded.

“Fucking bitch!” he roared, the creature inside of him twisting his vocal cords. When he straightened, half his face was covered in blood. His fingers shook as he struggled to see the damage she had done.

His men gazed at him with dumbfounded stares. Which he could only half see.

With a four-inch shard of broken glass from the console table lodged in his left eye socket, he’d never see anything out of that eye again.

“You fucking bitch!” he sneered, practically drooling with outrage. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you, you fuckin’ bitch!”

The sight of John’s face was nausea-inducing. Not only had the glass pierced his eye, but it sliced clean through, with half of his eyeball dangling from the nerve ending on his cheek.

“Holy shit!” Ward gasped at the ghastly sight.

Rollins hissed at other men, their jaws still gaping wide. “Don’t just stand there! Do something, goddamnit!”

“You screwed up now, you slut!” John raged with ragged breath. “You know what you did? You assaulted a Federal Agent!” He wheeled around to spot her cowering on the floor behind the desk. He stomped toward her, murder in each footfall. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you have any idea who I am???”

John grabbed her by the forearm, wrenching her up. She faced him with fire in her eyes. In her free hand, her finger curled around the trigger of Peter’s gun.

“Who gives a fuck?” she sneered.

Looking John in the eyes, she pulled the trigger, watching as his forehead imploded. The bullet ripped through his brain, tearing it apart and exploding out the back of his skull. From there, his brain matter splattered like a microwaved tomato, spraying across the room.

“Oh shit!” The guards cried out in horror, swallowing back sickness as fragments of John’s skull rained down on them.

Rollins lunged forward, his weapon still drawn. He took three steps to the edge of the desk.

“No!” Peter howled.

Another shot rang out. Honey held the gun firmly in her grip, shooting at the first human form that approached her. Rollins grunted, eyes wide with panic, as the bullet tore through his throat. He clutched his neck as hot liquid spilled out of his severed carotid artery. His look of agony was only matched by his look of astonishment.

Peter knocked Ward’s gun away from his temple, grabbing his wrist and directing the barrel at Malick. With Ward still clutching the gun, Peter pulled the trigger and shot Malick in the side.

Malick doubled over, releasing his hold on Peter’s wounded shoulder. Ward strained to regain control of his weapon. They struggled briefly before Peter reached behind Ward’s suit jacket and yanked a combat knife out of its sheath. He buried the blade into Ward’s ribs, before ripping it out and plunging it in again and again. With a few quick jabs, the traitor’s torso was carved up into wet spaghetti.

Malick stumbled, struggling to recover from the bullet wound. Peter’s brain buzzed as Malick attempted to shoot him. He pivoted out of the way, using Ward’s body to block the shot.

Honey fired the gun in her hand again, the bullet hitting the ceiling, but it was enough to distract Malick away from his target.

In a few blinks, Peter was on his feet and gripping Malick by the arm. Before the treacherous guard could fire his weapon, Peter skewered him with the hunting knife, driving it into the soft flesh behind the man’s chin.

Malick’s eyes went wide as the blade impaled his mouth, piercing his tongue. Peter snatched the back of the man’s head with a steel grip, even as his hands trembled with rage. He glared into Gideon’s eyes with bloodlust, pushing the knife up further—slowly—watching Malick squirm until the blade was buried to the hilt.

The man went limp in his hold. Once Peter watched the light fade from his eyes, he released him, finally sated.

The sirens in his head quit blaring as soon as the threat was eliminated. The intense pressure dissipated as if a boulder had been lifted off Peter’s skull.

He let out a long, ragged breath, his body broken and yet still pulsating with adrenaline. His eyes darted to the desk. He spotted the traumatized woman that held his heart standing behind it. His face softened. Took a step towards her.

She pivoted, still clutching the gun. Aimed it at him.

Peter went still. Fawn-hued eyes went wide. He glanced down the barrel, then back up at her.

She was astral. Her soul was only tethered to her body by a thin wire. She was a kite, tossed about the atmosphere, observing the scene outside the plane of time.

She stared at him. Barely able to breathe. Her hand shook from the weight of the gun.

“Whoa...” he whispered, his voice soft. He lifted his hands outward in a placating gesture.

Her eyes were glazed over. Staring right through him.

He watched, heart pounding, as she turned her gaze downwards to the river of blood that leaked from Rollins’ corpse. Heart going cold, all that was left of his life leaked out of him like a broken faucet. No more damaging than a spilled glass of wine.

Lips sealed tight, her eyes darted over to the body closest to her.

John’s body.

Her monster lay slain at her feet. His jaw hung open in a disturbing grimace, a permanent final expression. The top of his head was now a concave shell. The image of him imprinted on her, burrowing in her memories.

She had never seen so much blood in her life. It was everywhere. Beneath her fingernails. In the tiny valleys of her skin. Dripping from her hair. It stained everything.

“Honey...” She looked only vaguely aware of Peter as he cooed gently at her, growing more apprehensive the longer her silence stretched on. “...Honey...?” he repeated slowly, his tongue going dry.

This time, she brought her attention back to the front, her eyes finally finding his. Peter looked sick with worry, terrified of the irony that this was the exact same position they were in less than 48 hours before.

Honey held her arm outstretched, fingers tremoring around the handle of the pistol, as she fixed Peter with an unreadable expression. He felt his heart thumping up into his throat. His growing alarm threatened to strangle him.

Her legs were rigid even as she trembled like a tightrope walker stranded between skyscrapers. She gazed at him with a look of dread, shock seizing her body.

Peter mumbled her name desperately, chanting it like a prayer. “Honey, Honey, Honey, look at me. Look at me. Okay? Look—”

He took a step forward and she responded with a step backward, positioning him at the end of the barrel. He blinked, going still once again. His eyes misted over as he gazed at her with empathy.

“S’okay,” he softly said, closer to a plea. “Everything’s gonna be okay. You’re safe—”

“Stop telling me that.” She was firm, her eyes cold.

Peter felt silent, eyes darting back and forth between her and the gun. Her breaths were short, nostrils flaring. His shoulders curved into a slump. Carefully, he lowered his hands. “I meant what I said before,” he delicately replied. “No more cages.” Her eyebrows furrowed sharply. “I made you a promise. You’re free.”

She blinked wide eyes, motionless in every other way. Warily, he glanced down at the gun. “You don’t hafta do anything—”

“Shut up!” she hissed, voice shaking. He shut his mouth immediately. Her gaze wandered, her mind spiraling out of control. She flicked her sights on the four corpses stretched out around them. Her tongue tasted like metal. The gunshot was still ringing in her ears.

“Get on your knees,” she commanded. Unlike the last time she said it, there was no sense of control in her tone. No sense of pleasure to be gained. Instead, she sounded desperate.

Peter closed his eyes, heart sinking in his chest. “Okay.” Reluctantly, he slowly sank down until both knees were on the ground.

Her eyes flashed wildly as she glared, holding the pistol tighter in her hand.

“S’okay,” Peter whispered out a lament. “S’okay, Honey. You’re gonna be okay.” With every repeated phrase, he relinquished more of his hope. Her eyes may have been unreadable, but her position was not.

They were on opposite sides of the room. A continent apart. He was exiled to the unfortunate end of the barrel, along with the other men who used her as a means to an end. This was where he belonged.

A lump formed in his throat as he gazed up at her with wet eyes. “Everything is going to be okay now,” he said with a bittersweet curve of his mouth. “You have all the power, remember? Always did.” His eyes landed on the gun, then back up to hers. “No one’s gonna hurt you again.”

He watched as a tear rolled down her cheek. Fear weighed heavily on her, dragging her down into its depth. Her eyes shined like glass. The glisten in his gaze was a mirror reflection of her sorrow and regret.

“Whatever you gotta do,” Peter assured her. But it was more than reassurance. It was a gentle promise made to a frightened girl that the monsters were all gone now. “I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

He hesitated to speak the true meaning of his implication. Instead, his eyes shined brightly on her like rays of moonlight, as if he could illuminate her path through the dark. A sincere apology sparkled at the bottom of their bourbon glow, but also, he offered forgiveness. He fixed her with a look of compassion before closing his eyes.

He let go.

Let go of his rage. Of his vendetta. Of his grief. Of his fantasies.

He let go of the idea of Honey.

From the depths of his bitter heart, he gave her his unconditional love.

“What I want...”

He stirred at the closeness of her voice, his eyes snapping open to find her standing inches over him. The gun rested at her side until she let it fall from her grasp. She stared into his eyes, her tears cresting over the ridges of her heart-aching smile.

She surged forward in the blink of an eye, crashing her lips into his. Her arms crossed behind his shoulders as she collapsed into his embrace. Her tongue breached his mouth, and with it, he felt like his heart would leap out of his chest. She breathed him in, relishing in the taste of his devotion, responding to it with love letters written on her lips. It was like her whole body was on fire, and only he could control the flame.

His hands wrapped around her lower back as he worshiped each twist of her tongue. Her kiss was better than morphine, numbing his body and heart to every injury he’d ever suffered.

Only when they were both dizzy and out of breath did she break the kiss. She gazed down at him with eyes that could scorch.

“What I want... is for you to touch me.”

Continue to Part 21

[back to masterlist]

A/N: I want to say thank you for the incredible support you all have shown me in this last break. Part 21 is already finished and will be released this week. Real compassion exists even on the internet and I just can't even deal...

Part 23 will be the end.

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reidscanehand · 1 year

Text

you’re the northern star

Inspired by this song by Dom Fera Pairing: Rockstar!Remus Lupin x fem!Reader (Modern AU) Category: Hurt/Comfort/Fluff TW: implied alcohol/drug use (really just overdoing it on Remus’ part)

Well, this is different, innit? I was rewatching the Taylor Swift Miss Americana documentary and I got an idea about a rockstar not sure of what to do with himself. Also, this is a really fucking stunning song that I’ve loved and wanted to use for a while. The other lyrics Y/N sings are another Dom Fera song called “Midnights in October”.

Three rum and cokes and a couple beers in Some lucky drunk stood up, heavy with where he’d been And he held onto someone, and he sung out compelled “You’re why I was right to trust myself”

~~~

Being a rockstar was everything Remus ever dreamed of. The Marauders had kicked off when the boys had all finished school together. Peter had quickly left before they really took off - unsurprising, really, but no less saddening - quickly replaced, though, by Frank Longbottom, who was, in fact, a better player anyway. With Frank on keyboards, Remus on bass, James on drums, and Sirius on guitar and vocals, the band really began to gel for the first time. Remus and Sirius wrote all the music and lyrics - mostly Remus, really. He could play piano, guitar, and bass, making it easier for him to arrange everything, but Sirius did his fair share. The addition of Frank seemed to symbolize a new beginning for everything, really.

That and James and Lily finally getting together. If James wasn’t so head over heels for the girl, Remus could’ve sworn he’d asked her out just for her connections.

With Lily installed as their manager, The Marauders started to play bigger venues, their songs started getting more streams, and, suddenly, they were releasing EPs, then an album released to stunning reviews and an enthusiastic and ever growing fan base. They were invited on Graham Norton, then played a UK tour, then a US tour, performing on Jimmy Fallon, and Saturday Night Live. Then the Grammys came - Album of the Year, Record of the Year, Best New Artist, and Best Rock Album, all in one fell swoop.

And Remus suddenly realized that that was all he’d ever wanted. All he’d ever wanted...and now that he had it, what was he to do? He didn’t really know. He suddenly felt embarrassed and uncomfortable. He couldn’t write, he couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t do much of anything. He played with the group, but even Sirius got on him for how bummed out he sounded while singing backing vocals. He didn’t feel like he could talk to his bandmates. He started drinking...aggressively, really. When he couldn’t sleep, he would drink to knock himself out, sometimes popping pills to help in the endeavor. Then he’d take pills to wake up, take pills to energize himself to do a show. He knew it was bad, but he felt just numb.

It was an unspoken problem with his bandmates. They knew something was wrong, especially Sirius, who was so furious with him after their last writing session - a session to which Remus arrived late and hungover - that he didn’t speak to him for almost a week unless he absolutely had to. This last leg of the US tour couldn’t be over quick enough in Remus’ opinion. Tensions were high and maybe...maybe he just needed a break? He wasn’t sure. Their Reno, Nevada shows had been sold out and with the weekend over, they’d leave the next morning for Los Angeles. Dropping his stuff at the bus and then going to his hotel room to pick up his wallet, he left the hotel without telling anyone, doubting they’d miss him. James and Lily were...canoodling in their room, Frank was facetiming back home with his girlfriend, Alice, and Sirius was seducing whatever groupie he’d brought back that evening. Remus had tried the groupie route, hoping that feeling something would bring him back to earth, but it just made him feel even more numb, really.

So, he took off. Their hotel was near enough to a bar that he walked over pretty quickly. It was some local place, he didn’t pay the name too much mind, settling at the bar and hoping no one recognized him. It was pretty dark, anyway. There was a little group playing popular music covers on a small stage in one corner, but it wasn’t too busy. Remus asked for a rum and coke, heavy on the rum. The bartender seemed to get the message and Remus quickly chugged back a couple of drinks, asking for a third when the band caught his attention.

“This is a less popular song,” a young woman says while pulling a stool up to the mic, “but it’s one of my favorites. I hope you like it.” The opening chords of the song caught his attention. He watched, transfixed, as the young woman began to sing.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh. There’s a story I tell, really just to myself. Like a prayer I sing to empty shores, so how’s it sound just like yours? How’s it sound just like yours?” she sang wistfully, her pretty voice lilting around the lyrics.

Remus hoped he wasn’t drunkenly imagining things...because he’d written this song. It was one of the first songs released by The Marauders back before...before anything, really. Before they’d turned to rock, even. It was one of the songs he’d recorded with Sirius when it was just the two of them. He’d recorded all the parts in his closet at university, sitting cross-legged on the floor to fit in there with his various instruments, and mixing the parts on his computer instead of writing a paper for his intro to philosophy course.

“There’s a spirit over midnights in October and it sings to you and only you. So, how did I hear it too? How did I hear it too?” She continues to play on ukelele as the rest of the band comes in on piano, bass, and drum, but Remus remains focused on the young woman. Her eyes are closed, but she’s smiling to herself as she sings. She looks so...peaceful. He can’t believe it’s his song that’s made her so...so happy, so wistful. The fans loved the music, sure, but Remus hadn’t seen someone love someting he’d created like this before. He sips his drink slowly, methodically. He doesn’t want to get drunk for the first time in ages. He wants to speak to this beautiful girl. He wants to tell her...he doesn’t know, but he needs to be more put together to talk to her.

“And if we try to say what we need we could be okay. We clearly believe in believing, baby, we’ll try slow, we’ll try slow. There’s a spirit over midnights in October and it sings to you, only you and now I’m singing too. And now I’m singing too. And now I’m singing too.” She finishes the song and there’s a small round of applause, led mostly by Remus. The guitarist steps up to the mic and thanks everyone, announcing the end of the set for the band. The group gets offstage and Remus tries not to seem creepy as the young woman crosses to bar, leaning over it and ordering a Jameson on the rocks.

“I’ll get it,” he hears himself say. She turns to see him and her eyes widen.

“Oh my God, you’re...you’re Remus Lupin,” she almost whispers.

“Yeah,” he shrugs unsure of what to say. He’s still not used to the fans. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem the type to freak out. In fact she looks almost embarrassed.

“I promise I had no idea you were here,” she says quietly, “I would never have played that if I’d known-”

“I loved it,” he cuts her off. “You have a beautiful voice.”

“Um,” she looks surprised, “thank you. I really...um, I’m not really a singer or-”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he teases. The bartender hands her her drinks and she seems to remember where they are.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Y/N,” she answers shyly. She looks down at her drink and opens her mouth, quickly closing it again, unsure of what to say. Remus feels the most sober he’s felt in ages. There’s something about this girl that’s warming him. He can feel his heart beating and it’s the most he’s felt in ages.

“Well, Y/N,” he smiles, scooting over and sitting next to her. “Tell me more about yourself.”

“I...what?” Y/N looks at him quizzically. “Don’t you have a show or...groupies to...or something?”

“I don’t have anything to do,” he teases, “except talk to the pretty lady that sang one of my oldest and most favorite songs in a random bar in Reno. So how’s about you tell me everything about yourself, hm?”

She looks at him, head tilting slightly, “Can I get you a drink?”

“A water,” he answers quietly. Her eyes glance for the briefest second at the three empty glasses next to him, but she doesn’t ask any questions. She orders him a water and scoots closer.

“So, my name is Y/N Y/L/N.”

~~~

He said Keep me up, keep me out late Keep me close, I need your faith Keep right where you are ‘Cause I followed this far Like I’m sure that you’re the Northern Star I’m sure that you’re the Northern Star

~~~

“I need a ticket for tomorrow’s show, please,” Remus asks suddenly, not quite expecting the silence that follows. He looks up and sees everyone on the bus staring at him. “What?”

“For tomorrow?” Lily questions, clearly trying not to sound surprised.

“Yes, please,” Remus replies.

“Who the hell do you know in LA?” Sirius asks far more aggressively than Lily.

“She’s not from LA,” Remus answers. “But she couldn’t get a ticket to the Reno shows, so I invited her to the LA one.”

“So there’s a she?” James teases, wiggling his eyebrows. Lily elbows him gently and then pulls her iPad over to her from the box it rests in on the bus. She opens it and clicks a few things.

“VIP, I’d imagine?” she asks without looking at him.

“If you can, that’d be cool,” Remus tries to sound nonchalant. Lily nods and continues typing.

“And what’s the name of this she?” Frank heckles, glancing at Sirius and James.

“None of your business,” Remus replies, trying to hide his smile.

“I will actually need her name,” Lily corrects.

“You can’t just put it under my name?” Remus almost whines.

“Not if you want her in the VIP area,” Lily looks at him mock accusingly. “And from the sounds of things, I assume you do.”

“Y/N,” he tells her, sighing exasperatedly. “Y/N Y/L/N.” He looks back down at his notebook, scrawling down a few ideas he’d had in his head since last night. He and Y/N had talked until the bar closed, then sat outside talking about everything and nothing until he’d had to leave for the bus. The couch shifts as Sirius plops down next to him.

“You writing?” he asks, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Maybe,” Remus shrugs, not looking at him. He can feel Sirius staring at him, but sees him nod out of the corner of his eye.

“You hungover?” Sirius asks quietly.

“No,” Remus clears his throat, finally looking up at his friend. “I’m, um...thinking of taking a break from drinking for a bit, actually.”

“Cool,” Sirius nods, a small smile playing on his lips. “Pills, too?” Remus nods and Sirius practically beams, clapping him on the shoulder and nodding. He stands, heading back to his bunk before turning around, now facing everyone, a shit-eating grin on his face, “So, will you be dedicating every song to Y/N, or...”

Remus throws a pillow at him and pretends to be annoyed, but can’t ignore the genuine joy edging its way back into his numbed heart.

~~~

Three hours in to a three minute call Some gambler wondered if she’d just won it all And she laughed when he asked if his head seemed alright Singing, “I’ve seen the bright side my whole lovely life”

~~~

“How’s the writing going?” she asks, taking a sip of water from her Stanley cup that’s just off camera. Remus leans back against his headboard and groans in response. He’s thrilled when she giggles and he looks back at the screen to catch her smile.

“It can’t be that bad,” Y/N teases.

“It’s not, actually,” Remus replies. “Album’s due to the label in about two months and we’ve finalized all but two songs in terms of lyrics. So that’s two left to record? Not too shabby since it took us so long to write the damn thing.”

“That’s amazing. More songs about...oh, what’s that new one I loved? Um...the one about Aperol?”

“’Spritz’ was more Sirius’ baby than mine, I’ll have you know,” Remus explains, “but I’ll tell him you like it, he’ll rub that in my face for ages.”

“Maybe he’ll hate me less for distracting his bassist,” she quips.

“No one hates you, darling,” Remus assures her. “If anything they’re just happy I’m smiling again.” It’s getting dark outside his window and he leans over to turn his lamp on.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N says suddenly. “I shouldn’t be keeping you up. I know the time difference is-”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he cuts her off, sitting up straighter, “I wouldn’t answer if I didn’t want to talk, love.”

“I know, but we were just going to say goodnight and then-”

“We both know,” he tilts his head teasingly, staring at her through the webcam, “that we weren’t going to just say goodnight.”

Y/N rolls her eyes but smiles, “There are better ways of telling me I talk too much.”

“I’d love it if you could talk to me all day long,” Remus assures her. “And you know that.”

“I’d like that, too,” Y/N whispers, smiling gently at him through the webcam.

“Really?” Remus asks, sitting up slightly.

“Yeah, there’s all this stuff that I want to tell you throughout the day...and I’d text you, but then I feel dumb for texting you-”

“You can text me whenever, you know that,” he reminds her. She giggles and his heart soars.

“I’ll keep that in mind when you finally get annoyed of me sending you pictures of my morning smoothies,” she teases.

“Smoothie time? Babe, I’d be heartbroken if I missed it!” She laughs and he uses the warm feeling in his chest to talk about what he’s wanted to for a few weeks now. “But...but what if...what if you were able to talk to me all day?”

She freezes, eyes growing wide, “What do you mean?”

“I know that we...I know we haven’t been together all that long,” he begins. “But, I would...I’d really like it if you’d be my girlfriend. And I’d...I’d love it if you’d come here and just be with me. You can still pursue your music here...I know that you’re...”

“I’d do it,” Y/N replies quietly.

Remus’ heart does that thing that it’s done since the moment he saw her. It feels like it’s expanding in his chest.

“Really?”

“How soon do you want me there, lover boy?”

~~~

Three weeks away from a year since the score And the reckless thieves reckoned they could get even more They ain’t casing out weddings, nah those are too big a sight They’re just looking at dresses and rings that she likes

~~~

It’s warm in the Ed Sullivan Theatre, but Stephen Colbert is easily the nicest host Remus has ever had the pleasure to meet. Despite the fact that he agreed to letting them present the new song instead of playing the lead single, Remus is still nervous.

“Three more weeks, dude,” Sirius whispers to him.

“Yeah, I know. How’s James holding up? Ready to get married?” Remus jokes, leaning back so James can hear him, whispering even though they’re on a commercial break.

James isn’t annoyed, though, he grins hugely, “Never been more ready, boys.”

“No, not that, I mean, yeah, but, you and your girl,” Sirius corrects. “One year, right?”

Remus beams himself, “Yeah, just about three weeks. Our anniversary’s, like, two days after the wedding.”

“You, um...you thinking about it?” Sirius hedges, passing side glances with Frank and James.

“About what?” Remus asks with faux innocence.

“Come off it,” Frank groans, rolling his eyes. He and Alice got married during their last break, just before the release of this new album, timing it perfectly before the madness kicked back up again.

“You guys gonna be copying everything from me and Lily’s wedding?” James teases. The boys laugh, but Remus just smiles. He glances around and spots you talking to Lily, probably going over your set list. You’ll be opening for The Marauders in most cities during this next tour. You’re a bit more indie pop than The Marauders, but the boys genuinely wouldn’t have it any other way. And the fans will likely love how you close with one of Sirius’ and Remus’ oldest songs, bringing the boys onstage with a tune of their own.

Seeing that you’re distracted, he turns back to his band, his oldest friends and whispers conspiratorially, “No...no, but, um...I mean, I’ve had the ring for about six months now.”

All three men turn and face him, eyes widening, jaws dropping.

“Dude-”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN?”

“Six months?!?!?”

“Chill,” Remus whisper yells. “I’m gonna ask when we go to Paris after the tour’s over.”

“That’s so romantic!” Frank whispers, turning away as a cameraman signals for them. James smiles and sends him a thumbs up.

Sirius stares at him for a moment longer and smiles. He mouthes, “Happy for you, dude” as Colbert introduces them.

“Back stateside for their new tour, the British rock band The Marauders is with us tonight. Originally they were going to perform the newest lead single from their new album, which Rolling Stone has called, ‘a near perfect sophomore album’, but their bassist, Mr. Remus Lupin, emailed about a week ago and asked if he could perform a bonus track. This is a bit different, isn’t it, Remus?”

Mr. Colbert looks to the band and a camera zeroes in on Remus, a kind PA holding a mic up to him.

“Yeah, it’s not...not really a rock song, I guess,” he grins as the audience titters.

“It’s called ‘Northern Star’,” Colbert says, smiling widely at him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Remus nods.

“When we started writing, Sirius and I, we had a lot of songs that sounded like this. And it took someone very special,” Remus finds Y/N’s eyes and his smile deepens, “to remind me how wonderful it felt to write like this again.”

“Well, please take it away,” Colbert finishes.

Remus nods and looks down at the piano, pulling the attached mic closer to his face as silence falls over the audience. He can feel Y/N staring at him, not expecting this at all.

“Three rum and cokes and a couple beers in Some lucky drunk stood up, heavy with where he'd been And he held onto someone, and he sung out, compelled ‘You're why I was right to trust myself’

He said Keep me up, keep me out late Keep me close, I need your faith Keep right where you are Cause I followed this far Like I'm sure that you're the Northern Star I’m sure that you’re the Northern Star

Three hours into a three-minute call Some gambler wondered if she'd just won it all And she laughed when he asked if his head seemed alright Singing, "I've seen the bright sides my whole lovely life"

She said Talk me up and talk me down Talk too long, I'll stick around Talk me into following you somewhere far Like I'm sure you're the Northern Star I'm sure you're the Northern Star

La la la

Three weeks away from a year since the score And the reckless thieves reckoned they could get even more They ain't casing out weddings, nah those are too big a sight They're just looking at dresses and rings that she likes

They said Keep me up, keep me out late Keep me close, I need your faith Keep right where you are Cause I followed this far Like I'm sure that you're the Northern Star Oh, I'm sure you're the Northern Star I'm sure And I'm sure that you're the Northern Star.”

Remus hits the last chords staring at Y/N, hearing his friends playing his beautiful song all around him, and knowing that he’s happier than he ever thought he could be. Rockstar be damned, this is what he’d always wanted.

~~~

A/N: This is different, but I hope you liked it!

Didn’t include my taglist because it’s been so long, plus this is a different fandom! Love you all xx

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tomurderornottomurder · 1 year

Text

if we could just pretend; peter parker

pair. ceo!peter parker and male!reader

summ. peter reunites with an old friend. his old friend is a recovering drug addict. his old friend doesn't recover.

gen. angst, fluff, hurt/no comfort

wc. 8.8k

tw. death, drugs, addiction, overdose descriptions, blood, injury descriptions, decomposition descriptions, body descriptions from drug use, alcohol, guilt, food/eating mentions

note. can you tell i'm clearing out old drafts? song is if we could just pretend by flatsound. this has been sitting in my drafts forever and also this is the longest oneshot i've ever written. this has been two years in the making simply because i forgot it existed and got stuck several times and i did not know how to end it, so please enjoy and feedback is appreciated. as it's been sitting, my writing might show some of it's age but overall, i think it's solid. lastly, disclaimer that i have never dealt with drug addiction myself but have been around people who have so if anything is incorrect please let me know so i can improve/change it.

Where did you go, and what did you do,

With all that time, you too scared to move?

"I really appreciate this, Pete." You slap a hand on his shoulder, "I promise to make it up," You point a finger at him, "and you can hold me to that, alright?"

"You don't owe me anything, you know that," Peter replies, holding one of your bags.

The elevator dings and you step out. Peter's penthouse is extravagant and honestly just not like him. "Holy shit," You mumble. "You sure you live here?" You turn to him with raised brows.

Peter laughs softly, "I've got a few spare rooms so let me know which one you like best."

You throw your arms around his neck and press a kiss to his cheek. "Peter!" You drop your arms to wrap around his torso, "Ah, thank you so much."

Peter freezes up as his face turns bright red. He drops your bag to reciprocate your hug and rubs a hand up and down your back, "It's no problem." He's forgotten how affectionate you can be.

"You're the best, Petey!" You give him a squeeze before pulling away. You laugh softly, "Sorry 'bout the kiss, I'm just so excited! And oh my god have I missed you!" You wrap him into another hug and squeeze.

"Can't breathe," He mutters.

You pull away and put your hands on his shoulders, "Sorry, man."

"Well, I hate to leave you but I'm going to be late for a meeting. I should be back soon, feel free to explore."

"You sure?" You quirk a brow at him, putting your hands on your hips.

"Definitely. Enjoy yourself,"

"Oh," You laugh as Peter heads to the elevator. "Peter Parker, you have made a mistake giving me such freedom."

He just laughs, "Don't burn the place down." He flashes a smile before the elevator doors close.

You twirl around in amazement, "You have really outdone yourself, Pete." You tour each room and finally pick one down the hall from Peter's. You unload your things and roughly set up your room to keep yourself busy. You explore the penthouse to get an idea of the layout and your mind piles questions up to ask Peter later. Out of pure curiosity and boredom, you peek into Peter's room. You smile at the light blue walls and vintage, framed posters. You take a step inside to get a better view and quirk a brow at a discarded bra on the floor. "Oh," You mutter. What have you been up to Peter?

"I'm back!" Peter announces, stepping out of the elevator.

What is it like, to be by yourself, for three and a half years

For roughly three and a half years

"Welcome home, Pete." You smile at him. "So, what's on the menu?"

"I'll just cook something," Peter shrugs, taking off his suit jacket and hanging it up. "What do you like?"

You shrug, "Anything you cook, I'll probably eat."

"Great," He flashes a smile but you can clearly see how tired he is. He rolls the sleeves of his button-up to his elbows as he strides into the kitchen.

You follow Peter into his kitchen, taking a seat at the island while he sifts through pots and pans. "So, the famous Peter Parker doesn't have a personal chef or something?" You rest your head on your hands as you lean your elbows onto the island. You watch Peter as he gracefully pulls out ingredients and prepares them.

"I like cooking," is his simple reply.

"For your lady friends?" You smirk.

He cranes his neck in your direction with wide eyes, "What?"

You laugh, "I saw a bra on your floor. Is it from a girlfriend or a mistress?" You bite your lip to hold in another laugh as you watch Peter become more and more flustered. This is the Peter Parker I know.

"I don't have a girlfriend or mistress," He points a pan at you. "But it's probably from a one-night stand," He shrugs, turning back to his stove.

"One-night stand? Is this my Peter Parker who couldn't ask out Liz Allan or Mj? How's Mj doing by the way?" He really has changed.

"She's in Europe right now,"

"Good for her," You reply. "But back to my point, since when has Peter Parker been a one-night stand kind of person?"

He shrugs, "I grew up I guess."

"Being rich turned you into Tony Stark?" You chuckle, looking at him with pure adoration. He shakes his head with a low giggle. "Onto my next line of questioning then," You get up from your seat walking to his side. "You have alcohol?" He points to a cabinet. "Great. Now that wasn't my question," You reach up and grab some alcohol of your choice. "Why do you have so many paintings?" You lean onto the island, alcohol in hand.

He shrugs, "I enjoy art." He starts throwing ingredients into a pan.

"Are you okay? Did your meeting turn to shit?"

He quirks a brow and looks at you as he tosses in more ingredients. "Why?"

"You're kinda snappy today. You can tell me what happened," You grab the bottle of alcohol and offer it, "and have a drink."

He sighs, "Sure, pour it." He throws in a few more ingredients before pouring a bit of vegetable oil.

"Anything special?" You ask, grabbing a glass from a cabinet. He shakes his head, focusing on his cooking. You smile and decide to whip him up the same thing you had when you got him to drink alcohol for the first time. "This is a classic, Peter Parker. And frankly, if you don't recognize it, I'll be offended." You smile at him as you mix his drink.

He chuckles and shakes his head before turning his attention back to cooking. His mind is all over the place, especially with you here and by his side, he needs to focus on his cooking though.

"We make such a great pair," You start as you finish pouring his drink. "You can cook and I mix a mean drink." You slide over his drink and start downing your own. You sigh, leaning onto your hand and watching Peter. This is a nice moment, a nice break from the hell of your life.

Silence takes over the kitchen with the only noises being the moving of glasses and sounds of the food cooking. Peter's entire focus is on his cooking while your mind wanders. You watch him for a bit before momentarily drawing your attention away to refill your glass every so often. You think about how much he's changed since high school. How he's still the same yet vastly different. How your worlds greatly differ and how lucky you are for your path having come across his again.

"Peter," You start -a bit too quiet for your liking- with your throat burning, guilt coming up just like puke does. "Peter," You repeat and this time your voice is at a volume you like. "What did you do?" You ask this too quickly. You catch how vague the question is and expand further, "I know we weren't the closest and we still aren't and I'm sorry but what did you do? What did you do in those years I was gone? I know I didn't keep in contact like Mj and everyone else did- and Ned stayed here so-" You cut yourself off. You're rambling too much. "I shouldn't have left like I did. No contact, not even a text or DM. That was shitty but I want to know what you did? What did you do by yourself?"

Peter turns to you with a soft smile but you can feel the sadness behind it. He really doesn't know what to say. "It's okay, you know?" His head is tilted down but his eyes peer up to look at you. "It's okay that you left," He wants to assure you and hope he does. He can't be sure that he's reassuring though because he's not sure the words he's using are right. "By myself," He mumbles to himself but doesn't realize it. He sighs before explaining what happened after graduation, how he graduated college early, and lastly how he inherited some of Tony Stark's company and started his own.

"God," You shake your head after Peter finishes. "I wish I could say the same," You chuckle sadly. Your mind wanders back to before now, before college, just at the beginning of the disaster that your life is.

If we could just pretend, that I went to college

And that is why you, you haven't seen me

Your future looked bright. You just graduated and were sorting through college acceptance letters. Peter was doing the same with his Aunt. You really wanted to go to a college out-of-state; you'd lived in New York forever and wanted to branch out. Not only did you want to attend college across the country but you planned to study abroad; hopefully the college you chose to attend had one of those programs. You needed a new adventure and sure there was always something going on in New York with all the battles and things but you needed to be the adventurer.

Your first weeks of summer were spent thoroughly vetting the few colleges that truly spoke to you. You were planning to visit each campus, even one with Peter though he was set on attending school near his home. It made you kind of sad to think about; you and Peter were set on different paths. But you knew Peter would keep in touch; he never broke a promise. He was good like that, such a good person, such a good friend.

---

Two weeks into college; things were rough. You liked- well, no. You loved it. A new atmosphere was really what you needed. It's just that starting over is hard. You knew no one, had to navigate campus virtually by yourself, and classes were difficult; nowhere near what high school was like. It was exhilarating, too! So much to learn, so many people to meet, so many opportunities. You were honestly so caught up in all the newness you had forgotten about Peter; obviously, you knew he existed, and every so often something would remind you of a memory you had with him but when he texted and called, you never answered. You were just so busy and every time you checked your messages, it was late and you didn't want to bother Peter; you were sure you'd get back to him soon enough.

A year had passed before Peter stopped texting and calling. You didn't blame him and soon he completely left your mind. He hadn't been new enough for you and the guilt of this still burns in your chest.

Two years in and you were abroad in France. The country was beautiful, the people were interesting, the nightlife was exciting, and the drugs... the drugs were out of this world. The drugs took off the edge, they helped you forget, and they came in handy to crank out assignments. Well, that's how they started off, that's always how it started.

It wasn't long before you were in a week-long bender and lost in France. While high, you dropped out of college in a short, curse-filled phone call. You had missed your flight back to America anyway. From then on, you went spiraling further and further. Your mind was a blank slate and France held no consequences. You weren't native to the country and whatever happened there would stay there. You could abandon the country and fly home and forget it all ever happened. At least you thought you could.

I wanted to go, but not for this long

"Why can't you? What happened?" Peter asks as he slides a plate over to you and takes a seat next to you. He's truly worried, he hasn't seen you in what feels like forever and he just wants to know. He wants to be able to help someone he used to and still holds so close to himself.

You shake your head. You can't tell Peter what happened; there is no way you won't throw up if you do. You shrug and twirl the pasta Peter had made around your fork. "Well, I didn't graduate, unfortunately," You bite your lip. Fuck, I think I'm going to cry. Your childhood dream of graduating slipped through your fingers and all you have to blame is yourself.You choke down a sob before continuing with a chuckle to cover for yourself, "But hey! At least I got to get out of New York and I even went to France!" You beam at him before trying the pasta he's made you. Filling your mouth with Peter's wonderful cooking helps to stave off the sobs and quiet the burning sadness within you if only for a little bit.

"You can always go back," He proposes. "That's what Mj did," He adds, looking up at you with that bright smile of his.

That smile sends you back to high school and all the good times you had with Peter. Your heart is full, swelling, bursting at the seams. This is a good feeling, you miss this; feeling good all over, your whole body filled with goodness. "I guess," You shrug. "But it feels like it's too late." The statement is one of defeat and both Peter and you know that. You gave up so easily and you can only hate yourself for it.

"It's never too late," Peter beams at you again.

You can't help but smile back before replying, "I mean-" You sigh, "I guess I could but money's kind of a problem and I don't know if I can do the whole uh, going to lectures and mingling thing." You want to believe his words because some small part of you does but it's too real for you to face right now.

Peter wants to act laid back but he quickly replies, "I could always pay for it. I- I wouldn't mind at all," He suggests. "And if you want, we could sign you up for online courses! You could um," He bites his lip. Should I? And he does, "Stay here and attend your classes." It was hopeful and a stretch but Peter wants it. He misses you. He is worried about you. He doesn't quite realize it yet but now that you are back in his life, he wants to keep it that way; to keep you around and more importantly, keep you safe. He can't lose you again, that's too real for him to face.

You don't know what it is. Maybe having someone care for you is too much. It is terrifying. It's even sickening in a strange way. You really haven't kicked your addiction yet and it is so easy to get drawn back in. You wish it weren't but it just is. And now you're lying on Peter's living room floor, foaming at the mouth, eyes rolling to the back of your head, and reaching out for someone who isn't there.

I overdid it

Well, Peter is there. He steps out of the elevator but he doesn't see you right away. Your body is blocked by his sofa but your coughs and gurgles fly over it. Peter's ears perk up and his spider-sense starts going crazy. He dashes and then jumps over the couch. He kneels beside you, his eyes wide, mouth going a mile a minute as he tries to say something- anything coherent. He quickly calls 911, holding your hand throughout and swiping his thumb over the top of your hand. He assures you that you'll be fine and keeps repeating that he's there.

Soon enough sirens flood the building and paramedics stampede into Peter's loft. Yelling and screaming ensue as Peter screams, fighting to stay by your side while police and paramedics yell. Three police officers have to not only drag Peter away but hold him down as he fights relentlessly to stay by your side. He just wants to know- he needs to know that you are okay. He can't lose you, it's too real.

As his body and mind calm so do his thoughts. His mind explores the possibility of him getting in the way of paramedics saving you and so he gives up, letting the officers restrain him with ease. But his mind wanders further and further. How did you get drugs? Why? Did he do something to set you off? What had he done?

Of course, none of his thoughts hold any truth but the possibility that they could, begin within Peter a ceaseless torrent of tears. He's sure by the time you leave the building and the police finally let him go, he could fill thirty pools with all the tears he's shed. But there's no time to dwell on his thoughts, he has to get to the hospital and be at your side! He won't let you leave him so easily, not again.

Why did you say, that I was one in a million?

Everything's been a blur. This moment now is blurry but you are present within it. Peter is sitting at your side, slumped over in a chair, one hand holding yours and the other holding his forehead as he mumbles curses to himself.

Slowly, you turn your head and unknowingly squeeze Peter's hand. In an instant, he's looking up at you and your eyes are open staring back at him. He could just scream! "Y/n," Your name rolls off his tongue and out of his mouth breathlessly, desperately. You both hold each other's gaze and each other's hand. The moment is blurry but it is nice.

"Peter," You whisper back, voice sore and croaky. You squeeze his hand again, it says more than your words ever could.

The pooled tears that have been swimming next to Peter's eyes finally fall and flow down his cheeks. Most tears follow the red paths down his already tear-stained face, a few divert creating new paths for the seemingly endless stream of tears. "I-" His voice and his pain catch in his throat. What can he say? What could he possibly fucking say?

"Why did you have so much faith in me?" You have to ask. You have to know. And you assume by now he has lost all that faith and so you must phrase the question the way you do. Your chest and whole upper body hurt like hell. There's a burning near your heart and in your throat, there's a tightness strangling your throat and crushing your ribs but the look Peter gives you hurts much more. The guilt within you burns hotter than Hell could ever be imagined to.

Because I believed it

You lean into Peter and Peter into you as he helps you walk out of the hospital. At the very moment that your foot hits the pavement, rain starts to fall, pelting you both in a way that can only be seen as some divine punishment. Even so, to you, the rain is heavenly and a respite from the thick cleanness and infuriatingly boring white inside the hospital. Peter quickly slips his jacket from his shoulders and carefully pulls you closer to him before covering both of your backs and heads with the jacket the best he can.

He rushes with you to the passenger side first, letting you slip into the seat he closes the door for you. You watch him only for a moment as he reaches the driver's side. You keep your head down, looking at your lap, and unwittingly begin to pick at your fingers. Your nerves are through the roof now more than they ever were in the hospital. At least in the hospital, you can expect Peter to be mostly calm but now you don't know how he might act. He's changed so much after all this time and who's to say he won't scream and yell at you? You swallow down your nerves as you hear Peter plop into his seat next to you.

Surprisingly and thankfully, the car ride is quiet. The rain pelting the car helps to ease your mind if only for a bit. You allow yourself a quick glance at Peter. His expression is almost unreadable if not a bit sad. Quickly, you turn away before you can start crying yourself and watch as cars and people and buildings pass you by.

Peter's mind is swirling with thoughts and question after question bounces around in his head. He wants to ask so many things but he can't and he knows that. He doesn't want to make you feel worse than he knows you're feeling right now. He just wants to let you have this time and hopefully, you can gather your thoughts enough to answer him when you're back at his loft. The whole time he drives though, his knuckles burn white as he grips the steering wheel too tightly. There's a tension that won't leave his body.

---

You two reach the building and before Peter reaches your side of the car, you step out, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, head held down as rain pelts the back of your head. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. The pelts of the rain help you keep a rhythm as you silently curse yourself and demean yourself with names. Each drop of rain against your skin serves as an insult your brain must deliver to itself. It isn't going to help but it does make you feel better. All the while you've been standing just outside the car, Peter has pulled his jacket over himself and motions for you to come under. You shake your head and trail a foot or two away still following him.

In minutes, you reach an entrance into the building and Peter holds the door open for you. You step through the threshold, head still down, and arms still wrapped around yourself. It's almost as if you were to move your arms away, your body would simply fall to pieces. Peter is at your side in a moment and you continue to follow him into the elevator. You both stand awkwardly and shivering a few feet apart as your clothes and body drip rain onto the marble floor of the elevator. This ride is as silent as the car but has a more threatening ambiance.

The elevator dings and Peter motions for you to go first before he follows. "You should take a shower," He proposes quietly.

It must have been some coincidence because right at that moment a shower is exactly what you crave. You nod at him, following him to the nearest bathroom. You try to peel your shirt off while Peter fetches you some towels but you have no luck.

"Do you need any help?" Usually, he would be asking this in a teasing manner but the words could not have left his lips any sweeter than they just did. His voice is quiet and calm, a little wavering but not so much as to cause concern. He's still shivering and dripping wet himself yet he stands there looking at you with such kindness.

You nod, "Please."

He shuffles to your side and slowly peels your shirt from your torso. He lifts it slowly, softly asking you to put up your arms. He gets a quick glimpse of your bones just barely being held behind your skin and bruises littering your torso. His face is close to yours as he pulls the shirt over your head and you can feel his breath. One more moment and he is pulling the shirt off of your arms. He gets a glimpse of the bruised injection sites on your arms and has to hold his expression. "There," He smiles, looking into your eyes.

"Thanks," You immediately cross your arms back over your chest, both from the cold and embarrassment. God, I probably look like shit.

Peter hasn't seen you like this since high school gym class and even then it was rare to catch you without a shirt on.

"I've got it from here," You tell him and he nods before closing the door.

Peter lets his mind wander to high school gym class. You hated it so much but Peter needed it. He had so much energy and he needed an outlet. That was of course before he had become Spider-Man and then he joined in on your hatred of the class though, he always did better than everyone there.

He wanders into his room to change before grabbing a towel to dry his hair as his mind wanders to a vivid memory of one of the only times he had seen you shirtless back in high school.

The class had gotten done swimming and everyone was out of the locker rooms, except Peter who had to do extra laps and had just gotten out of the pool. He dried his hair as he walked over to his locker but stopped in his tracks when his spidey sense started to go crazy. He looked in every direction but there wasn't anything he could see. A few more steps revealed you, sitting on one of the benches, your shirt laying in your lap and a towel wrapped around your waist.

That did catch Peter off guard but there was another thing: you were crying. Peter's stomach twisted in knots as he looked down at you. Suddenly, your eyes were on him. Shit! Why hadn't he said something? Now, he just looks creepy!

"Peter?" You asked in a hushed tone. You had looked like you'd been crying for a while. Your whole face was red along with your eyes, you looked terrible.

"Y/n," He returned your tone. He took a few steps forward and bent down a bit. "Are you okay?"

You shook your head. You were in no mood to avoid your feelings. You hurt and you hurt bad. "No," You answered bluntly.

Peter took a seat beside you. "What happened?"

The memory isn't the most pleasant but he remembers how after that you stayed at his apartment for three days and that seemed to have done you good. He wonders what happened to the Y/n he knew back then. He doesn't feel any differently toward you, not at all but what happened to you to make you so miserable now?

He finishes changing and drying himself off and steps out into the hall. At the same time, you step out of the bathroom. Peter meets your eyes and walks over. He looks you over and smiles, you have a towel tightly wrapped around your waist and a towel thrown over your head. "Here," He places his hands on top of the towel at your head and dries your hair.

You stand there, heart beating wildly as Peter helps you dry off. You notice his change of shirt and before fully thinking about it, reach out with your hand to slip it under his shirt before rubbing your thumb over the top of the fabric. You're sure Peter already saw the marks littering your body and right now you just didn't care. You want to feel his shirt and that's all you want.

Peter stiffens as you have a hold of his shirt. Your fingers aren't touching his skin since you hold the shirt out a bit but they did for a brief moment and the tingles it sent up his spine are unlike anything he's felt before. He accidentally stops drying your hair but continues as soon as he realizes that he's stopped. He sets his eyes upon you and it's a good thing you can't see his face. Anyone could see right through him at this very moment and pinpoint where his thoughts are.

He finishes drying your hair with the towel and slides it behind your head, letting the towel rest on the back of your neck. For a moment, he holds each end of the towel toward himself and he can't meet your eyes now. His head is down but he is looking at you.

Your head is down but you're looking at him. Your eyes dart from your hand still holding his shirt to the pecs you can just make out underneath his shirt. This is a moment of safety, of home, of tenderness, of friendship, of love. There's a silent agreement between you two and so, for the time you separate. You go to your room to get dressed as Peter goes into the living to wait for you.

"It's cold, isn't it?" Peter asks as you settle on his large couch. You nod and Peter sets a blanket over you. "I've got some hot chocolate on the stove," He knows that's your favorite. "It should be done soon."

I thought i had something that you

Were too scared to lose

You nod again, wrapping yourself in the blanket. "Thanks," You whisper.

He takes a seat next to you with his own blanket wrapped around his legs. He swings his legs so they rest on the couch and leans in, his shoulder touching yours. "What's on your mind?"

He genuinely wants to know, what the hell? You let out a deep breath and lean your head against his shoulder. "I was just thinking about high school. We used to be so different. I used to be so different. What happened to me?" You turn your head and stare into his eyes.

You don't know either. "I-" He's at a loss for words. "Whatever happened," He pauses and places his hand over yours. "It's not all bad." He smiles at you before standing. "Hot chocolate's ready," He says before walking off to the kitchen.

You start picking at your fingers again as you wonder what you're going to do. You can't rely on Peter for everything, that's just not how you are. You didn't even have any money after blowing what little you had on what you OD'ed on. God, why are you so stupid!? Peter's nice enough to let you crash at his place and what do you do?

"Hey," Peter's presence pulls you from your thoughts. "Here," He bends over as he hands you a cup of hot chocolate. He takes his seat next to you again, sitting a bit more straight this time so as to not spill his drink on you. "'Thinking about something?"

You nod, "Yeah, just..." You bring your cup to your cheek and bask in the warmth. It's been too long since you've truly felt any warmth like Peter's been showing you this whole time. "I can't stay with you forever," You muse, flicking your eyes to his, unsure of what he might say.

Peter chuckles, "Well if you want to, you can." He flashes that boyish smile of his at you and it hurts. His eyes and nose crinkle and his features are so bright. "I said it before, Y/n. I'll do anything for you."

God, that hurts. He cares about you too much. "Peter," You stop him in his tracks. He shouldn't be saying stuff like this. He needs to protect himself from you. "Don't say that." He's too attached, you can't let him be this attached.

Peter's soft expression turns puzzled and he turns to look at you. "Y/n?" He's looking at the side of your face while you keep your gaze straight ahead. "If it's about staying with me, I can get you your own place. I know-"

"Peter," Your voice is stern but tinted with softness as you cut him off. "I've got to do this stuff on my own."

"No," Peter protests immediately.

"What?" You sit up straighter now, looking at him deadly serious.

"You don't have to do anything alone. If it were me, you would say the same! I won't let you be alone with this." He sets his drink down on the coffee table as he continues to speak passionately. "I love you, Y/n." It's a confession masked as a friendly gesture of affection. "You're my friend." This covers his tracks though he wishes he didn't have to cover them in the first place. "I'm going to take care of you." It's the truth and it's real and he means it.

You can only look at him in awe, utter awe. He's serious about this.

"I-" He starts out confident but falters. Should I really say this? He catches the thought and tosses it aside. His confidence is back, only a bit less than before. "I can't lose you."

Something in you wants to slap him. He can't lose you? What the fuck!? You hold yourself back, hands tightly gripping your cup. You hang on his every word. Just what is he thinking?

Peter sighs, looking down momentarily, shaking his head. "I don't want things to be like before. I want to see you and be around you; I want to know that you're okay. And I want you to be happy."

You swallow his words and let them digest. They don't sound bad, at all. But there's a knot in your stomach and a scribbly, black haziness in the back of your mind setting off alarms.

Peter leans in as he says, "There's nothing wrong with asking for help." He sits back again, "You don't even have to ask, I'll just do!" He reaches out for your free hand, "I'm here for you." He gives your hand a small squeeze. "Just let me be here for you." It's a plea and it's all he can do.

Peter's greatest fear is loss. He's lost so many people in his life already he surely doesn't need to lose another. But losing you isn't exactly his main concern, it's seeing you live up to what you've always wanted, it's letting you chase your dreams and catching them, it's waking up every day with some real purpose, it's seeing you change for the better. His concern is you. His concern is your life. His concern is your well-being. His concern is your happiness and fulfillment. His concern is your recovery. And his concern is your change. He's lost you once, he won't lose you again.

It was all in the past now, you had nothing to be scared of. The road ahead is fruitful with opportunity. Peter is by your side. You're recovering. You can handle this. You've got it.

So if we could just pretend that I went to college

And traveled abroad, and did something different

Things go well for weeks and weeks, it feels as though nothing bad has ever happened before. But something sets you off. You see something on the street and return to Peter's loft as you cry like a maniac. You feel foolish for breaking down like you are, crying as hard as you are, and being unable to move from Peter's living room floor as you are. And even worse, Peter comes home.

He's taking off his coat casually as he normally would until he hears your sobs, then he rushes to your side. He rests his hand on your back and leans in close to ask what's wrong.

Your body refuses to let you answer and so, you just cry as he sits there before slowly pulling you closer and into his lap. He pets your hair and smooshes his cheek against your forehead as he quietly whispers. You two sit like this for about an hour before you finally calm down.

You try to wipe your tears away as fast and as best you can as you quickly crawl out of Peter's grasp, sudden and overwhelming embarrassment coming over you. "Please," You beg with your head held down, trying your best to keep Peter from seeing your face. "Can we just forget this all happened?" You're bent over now almost like you're praying even with your hands clasped in front of your head as your eyes though closed are pointed toward the ground. "Pretend I'm not some massive loser that wasted his life when you- you were here doing great things and I was just-" You sigh loudly, your head finally collapsing against Peter's floor. "Please," You cry out as tears start flowing heavily and you can feel a sob start to rack through your body, "please."

Your head hangs, chin pressing against your chest. Your eyes feel hazy and you can't see much. Your back is pressed against the cool brick of the wall behind you that you can barely feel due to the thick sweater and bloated jacket that warms your torso. Your legs are out in front of you and you laugh at their strange longness. You look at your feet next, the shoes they're adorned in, and how they too look strange and funny to you. You start laughing more and more, finding everything oh-so-funny.

Anything but just sitting at home

For three and a half years

Writing song, after song, after song

Your arms now look as if shooting targets were made out of Swiss cheese. The holes only seem to get larger and darker, like the darkness could swallow your body whole if you weren't careful. And you weren't. Your eyes had always been dark but now they were pits, black holes of nothingness, no knowledge held there, nothing, just nothing. Your face is sunken like the tar roads in the summer, always sinking deeper and deeper or like the deep trenches of the sea where something terrible lies. Your lips are chapped like the hands of the working man, skin always peeling off, and never able to be quite comfortable because they are raw and red and always rubbing against each other. You're as thin as a needle, legs barely able to function as you walk bone on bone, the grinding like that of teeth against teeth. Speaking of teeth, yours seem to keep falling out, leaving your mouth pouring blood flowing like the divine wine of Jesus.

Where was Jesus now? Not here to save you. Your Jesus, your divine savior, Peter Parker is far away now, not because he chose to be but because there is nothing else he could do, nowhere he could be, not for you. And you chose your new savior, it was not him. It used to sting your arm but it doesn't seem to do just that anymore. It helps you ascend but not as long as it used to. Your belief is starting to wane but not quick enough, not quick enough.

So what is it like to be by yourself

The elevator dings as Peter reaches his loft. He steps out with his coat hanging off his arm. The place is quiet, the only noise being made by Peter as he hangs up his coat and steps into his kitchen. He opens his cabinet, the grip on the little knob staying far longer than it needs to before he opens it and lets the knob go. He reaches up just like you had on your first night. He grips the bottle tightly and sets it on the counter, it makes a noise too, a sort of clinking sound almost. He grimaces as he grabs the neck of the bottle and opens it, the smell stings his nose as he brings it close. His lips kiss the bottle and he swallows some down.

The bottle accompanies Peter to his large and lonely couch, his tight grip around its neck, carrying it carelessly. He takes out the DVD that you left, your favorite movie, he's careful with it as he sets it in the DVD player (something you had ragged on him for not having when you were first there). (Something that he hadn't used since, not until today). (Something he would probably never get rid of now, only being thrown out when he was dead). He stumbles back over to his couch, falling onto it not as clumsily as he could manage but enough to shake up the alcohol in him. He extends his arm, pointing the small remote that came with the thing at the television and pressing play. His arm falls against the couch as the remote leaves his fingers, finding a new home in the arms of the faithful couch.

He watches almost angrily, there isn't anything like it, this emotion Peter feels. Is it really anger? Contempt even? Surely, not toward you. But the drug, toward the drug. ...Right? Or was he even angry? Hateful maybe. Toward you, toward the drug, toward himself. What was this that he was feeling? It's like an ache with no name or possible description. Empty isn't the right word. He's not hollow inside, he's all filled up, some even splashing out of him but what is it? What is this substance, this feeling, this emotion, spilling out of Peter Benjamin Parker? What is this thing that spills past his lips and fills up his head? Is it... you...? Surely not, that's ridiculous!

Peter doesn't notice until now, too focused on the movie he's seen far too many times, but his hands are trembling. His knuckles are a soft red, his veins are all in place, those little clumps of blueish-skin-pigment below the reddened knuckles, his fingers long and intermittently pale the ends a bit darker than the rest, all shake in chorus. He flexes his fist, bending his fingers and splaying them out, then he checks again. They shake just as much as they first did.

And not feel like you'll die around everyone else?

Your hands were shaking, that was the first thing you noticed. It's almost exhilarating, they shook like they did when you first shot up. It was heaven. This was cloud nine. You were in paradise, lost in it. Your head was delirious, your eyes were bleary, your lips trembled as much as your hands, you were about to lose it all and all you could think about was how great this high was. You were about to die outside a house, just on the steps, of a den of drugs, a place filled with people dying just like you were about to, and all you could think about was how great this high was.

Quickly, your thoughts shift to how awful this was. Your body lost control. You fell. Your head split against the concrete of the makeshift porch. Your back fell into the stairs that sat on either side were two dying drug addicts. Foam spilled past your lips and for a brief moment you thought of Peter then you were back to focusing on dying. You couldn't control your body. Your eyes would not work with you to see. They were gone now, they no longer wished to see the world. Your hands wouldn't do what you told them to. Your ears were ringing, there was so much noise, noise, noise! Why couldn't there be quiet!? Everything just needed to stop for a second, so that you could get a grip on things. You would set things straight. You wouldn't be found in places like this anymore. You would die somewhere resectable. But death doesn't care about respect, for him, there is no respectable place to die, and you are just another soul to be collected. Indifference is his gift but the indifference of the junkies you died next to led to searching through your pockets and hands all over your body and privacy violated and nothing left on you but the things they didn't care for. Your ID, some crumpled note you'd shoved deep into your pocket, a few too many wrappers for too many different things, and something else.

I thought I was one in a million

The distant clattering of silverware and private conversations set the stage as Peter sits across from a fine, young gentleman. He holds a menu in front of himself, his hair slicked back something you had told him made him look handsome you had said, his feet nervously sliding back and forth. Words come out of the gentleman's mouth and everything starts to fade out like watching a movie as your eyes blink more and more before you fall asleep.

It didn't go well whatever that was. A date, Peter supposes, an awful date.

Peter holds a large bouquet of red roses. The dark red is contrasted by the white plastic that wraps around them. He holds them with both hands. He shifts his shoulders uncomfortably, his lips moving awkwardly against each other. His stride isn't really a stride, rather a walk but a quick one, like he has somewhere to be. A date perhaps?

Well, thanks for nothing

Peter's stride leads him into a cemetery. He passes headstone after headstone, a few full-on statutes, and some grave markers. The roses are strange in his hands in this cemetery. He shifts his grip on them a few times. His collar feels like it's choking him and sticking his finger under it hasn't done anything. His thoughts don't consume him this time like they usually seem to do; some are seething, others are sad, most are guilty, and a lot are what-ifs. Never helpful, those what-ifs. Peter accidentally passes your grave before stepping back.

He reads the engraving as he always does before taking careful steps over. He sits above your dead body (that's buried several feet down), in front of your headstone (that stares back at him like a gargoyle), and underneath a weeping willow (that he wished he could see you under, not like this, not like this). "Well," Peter starts, setting down the roses, "he was allergic to roses." He sighs. "I miss you." He leans over, resting a hand on top of your headstone and closing his eyes.

He talks some more and if anyone were watching him, they might think he was having quite the conversation with a headstone. He moves his hands and looks at the headstone like a person, making eye contact with it, maybe even willing it to respond. It never does. And it never has. It's too bad you didn't have a spirit, you might have sat underneath that willow, leaning back against it, and watching Peter just for something to do. But you were dead and that was that. There was no coming back from being dead. Your body was buried beneath the earth and now you belonged to her.

Peter groans as he gets to his feet, "Well, buddy," He rests his hand on your headstone, patting it almost like you would a dog, "I've got to get going. I'll see you tomorrow, alright?" He pauses, not intentionally but he lets the silence hang in the air in hopes he might get a response. He never gets a response. There is no satisfaction or catharsis for him, only the silence of the whistling wind and the whipping of the willows as they reach as far off their branches as they can. Maybe if he hoped hard enough, one day he would get that long-awaited response and you wouldn't have died for nothing.

Peter's lids are heavy as he tries to blink away sleep. This never works just like all those other things. He always falls asleep; you never answer him. He just wishes you would answer him. Peter's eyes close rather quickly this time and nothing matters but the dream he can feel is real and he feels apart of it.

Thank you

Peter's hand reaches out as you fall, your fingers graze his. He can see the desperate look in your eyes like a dog begging for its life. Your eyes are not only desperate but terrified too. (Like a dog that knows it's going to be put down, he thinks). Some noise comes from you, some words but his ears can't decipher them, like everything in his dreams they are distant, blurry, and unmemorable. He just wants to know what you're screaming. He can see the extension of your jaw, the crinkling and wrinkling in your face, and the raise of your brows but he still can't hear what it is you're saying.

Then the scenery shifts. You slipping past his fingers is no big deal as you fall onto a hospital bed. You look at him all tired like and puppy dog kicked. You are worn out and bruised like a dropped fruit or a childhood blanket. You look like you might be molding. Your face is sunken in, your eyes hauntingly dark and blank, the flesh of your nose beginning to rot away, and the plush of your lips gone now replaced by the hard, cold warning of your teeth. You're missing a few and your gums are starting to turn yellow. Peter can't save you. He can't do anything. He watches as you rot. He tries to leave the chair he's stuck in but he can't, his arms won't even lift off the sides. He can't get to you. You're so far away.

Before your body can fully decompose and shift into sand and fly away in the wind, again, the scenery changes. Paris. He can really only recognize it by the Eiffel Tower. You had talked about it before. A lot. Before you left. Before what happened, happened to you. Peter wanted to go there with you. He never got the chance. At least you had seen it yourself. He finds it strange that he stands in Paris but he can't see you ...like you're gone. But then everyone is screaming and there from the clouds falls a body. Your body is falling, your arms are spread out, and you're limp like a fish. In seconds, your back is pierced by the spire of the Eiffel Tower. Killed by the very thing you love. Or loved. Or did you even love it all? Did you just talk about it?

There is no time for Peter to process seeing someone he loves getting killed right in front of him. He's in an alley now like the one you died in. There are homeless people and drug addicts, drug dealers, and you. You stand there like an angel with your skin glistening thanks to the sun and despite the grime in the air. Peter can't take his eyes off of you. He doesn't want to anyway. He needs to see you like this, happy and aware and bright-eyed and in good standing with life. He can't bear the reality of flesh and bone and blood and six feet underground. It's always been a flaw of his. Feeling those that are dead are not really, not really. They still linger, he feels them, he can't see or hear them but he knows them. He can feel the brush of fingers against his back or the jostle of his loose curl. They live within him, just outside of him, in his fingers and feet and the way his eyes move follows them though he can't really see them there.

A blood-curdling crack stops everything. In a moment, you're lying on the ground with blood running from your forehead down past your chin and drip-dropping against your neck. And Peter is down on his knees in front of you, holding your torso, pulling it up onto his lap, and he holds your head like a kid holds a teddy bear. He strokes your hair as you gurgle up blood. He can't do anything for you. He's stuck. He's not allowed to save you. He is not allowed to save you. You did not need saving. He didn't know what you needed and neither did you. With your head in his arms and his nose pressed against the line of blood down your forehead and your limp body against his thighs, he rocks back and forth, whispering things he doesn't know and you can't hear. You'll be okay. I've got you. I won't leave you. You can't leave me. You will live through this. And your dead, limp body is not motivated to live.

And there you lie, next to him in his bed, your head turned toward him, and you're smiling. The sun shines on both of you; Peter can feel it on his skin. Like being kissed by a god. Like being kissed by you. He's a cat in a sunspot and you're stretching out toward him. Your fingers brush against his cheeks and you're smiling at him. He fills your vision; Peter can see his reflection in your big, beautiful eyes. He wants to kiss you and you move closer. Your eyes stay on him the whole time, if it weren't so beautiful, it'd be unnerving.

You're on top of him now. Your hands -fingers and palms- caress his chest, trace his collarbone, feather down his ribs to his hips. He shudders under your touch. He wants it again. He wants it real. He doesn't realize it isn't yet. On all fours, over Peter's body, you lean down and kiss him. It holds, lasting long enough for him to hold your cheek and to satisfy him if for a fleeting moment. You pull back, your eyes staring into his; he's in love. (You're not real). Your hands trail down his chest again as you sit on top of him. You're just looking at him.

And when Peter turns, now awake, he's alone; you're not there by his side. He reaches out across the sheets like you would reach out if you could. Poor Peter, he doesn't know.

#murder writes #peter parker x reader #peter parker x male reader #peter parker x male!reader #peter parker x m reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x m!reader #peter parker you make me sad

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