#that is to say... Me. 🕷🕷🕷 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

batsovergotham · 24 days ago

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PROLOGUE: THE BITE

"You've got the costume. You've got the power. You're Spider-Woman. Act like it." 🕷🕸️

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: SMUT, violence, passing out, blood,

w/c: 8.9k

a/n: okay so i was planning to post the kryptonian fic first, but after looking over it again… yeah. it needs a little love before it’s ready. it’s super long, super heavy, and honestly gonna be a bit draining to get through right away. i do still plan to post it, i just wanna make sure i have the energy to really do it justice. so in the meantime, i’m gonna give you the mark x spiderwoman!reader fic instead :) it’s way more chill, still emotional and fun, and honestly feels like a good breather between heavier projects. the kryptonian fic is still coming just after i rest my brain a little <3 thank you for being so patient with me!!

You feel it before your eyes even open, the sweet brush of a breath at your neck, the warmth of another body drawn close against yours like he never wanted to let go, and the creak of Mark’s mattress underneath the both of you as he moves slightly. Morning light streams through the curtains in languid golden slats, cutting across the dorm room and putting everything in a calm of gentle, tranquil hue. You’re still buried in slumber, locked between a dream and the weight of a boy's arm slung around your waist.

You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. The big chest against your back, the familiar warmth, the way his fingers quiver slightly as if even in repose they’re attempting to cling onto something precious, him. Mark Grayson.

You let your eyes flicker open and then quickly squint at the ceiling. Your throat’s dry, your hair's certainly a mess, and you’re still wearing his shirt, oversized and soft, smelling faintly like his detergent plus something else that you’re too weary to define but know is just him.

You stayed over. You really stayed over. You hadn’t intended to, precisely. But one thing turned into another, cheesy sci-fi marathons, sarcastic commentary, a slow drift into each other’s arms, and suddenly you were dozing off against his shoulder while William grabbed a hoodie and vanished off to Rick’s dorm for the night with an exaggerated wink and an even worse “you kids behave.”

You'd rolled your eyes. Mark had just blushed.

Now his arm’s still over you like he never quite received the memo that the movie finished and morning came.

He breathes in deep, leisurely, and you feel his chest rise behind you.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice low and tired.

You can’t help it, you smile. “You always open with poetry?”

“Only for special occasions,” he says into your hair. He shifts a bit closer. “Like waking up next to you.”

You slide onto your back, turning to face him, propped up on your elbow. His eyes are still half-lidded, but they’re already fixed on you, azure and velvety and full of something that makes your breath catch in your throat. He looks like he doesn’t want to be anywhere else. Like you’re it.

Your voice comes out softer than you meant. “Thought you had class this morning?”

He moans, full-bodied and theatrical, and collapses backward like a man shot. “Ughhh. Don’t remind me.”

“Responsibility calls, Grayson.”

“So does your mouth,” he mumbles under his breath, smirking.

You freeze.

Then snort, because what the hell. “Excuse me?!”

“I meant-!” He’s laughing now, genuine and brilliant, and it’s so disarming that your heart flutters with it. “I meant I wanted to kiss you again and now I’ve ruined it forever.”

You press his shoulder, but your palm lingers. “Yeah, well, that’s what you get for flirting before caffeine.”

He observes you for a second. That languid smile turns into something else, quieter, more earnest.

Then, without a word, he leans forward and kisses you.

No jokes, no buildup this time, just lips on lips, unhurried and sure, his fingertips stroking your jaw. You kiss him back, smooth and steady, like there’s no urgency. Like this morning might stretch out forever if you let it.

But then his hand moves, down your side, landing at your waist, and something changes in the way he kisses you. His mouth widens gently, deepening it, and your breath catches. His other hand tangles in your hair, not tugging, but there, holding you to him like he’s worried you’ll drift off again.

Your body responds before your intellect does. You press closer, one leg slipping over his, fingers digging into his shirt like you need anything to grasp onto. His grasp on your waist tightens just little in reaction.

He kisses you like he’s wanted to all night. Maybe longer.

You break the kiss to breathe, forehead crushed to his, and try to make a joke, but all that comes out is, “God.”

Mark smiles, eyes flitting across your face. “Yeah. That’s about where I’m at too.”

You chuckle, breathless and trembling, and kiss him again.

And again.

And again, until you’re half on top of him and the sheets are a jumble and none of you remember what time it is or where you’re meant to be.

His fingers glide under the hem of the shirt you stole, brushing bare skin. Your breath catches, part nervousness, half something else you don’t have the words for yet. Your heart is hammering in your chest, loud and dramatic THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

Mark pauses. Looks at you.

You nod, just once.

And he kisses you like he’s been holding back.

He draws you in with both hands, lips ravenous now, his tongue stroking yours, and it’s messier, hotter, his body pushed tight to yours. You feel the weight of him between your legs, the hardness he’s not bothering to disguise anymore. Your body responds instinctively, hips pressing against him, lips opening wider, hands going beneath his shirt now, across his back, his sides.

You don’t know what you’re doing. Not really. But you know you want this. Want him. Every inch of him, every gasp and tremble, every secret thought behind those watchful brown eyes.

You don’t know that he’s a superhero. That he’s lifted buildings, fought monsters, saved lives while keeping all of this secret from you. You just know that he’s Mark, and right now, he’s kissing you like the world outside the dorm doesn’t exist.

And you’re kissing him back like you’ve never believed in anything more.

You melt under him, unable to resist that low groan he lets out when your tongue meets his. It’s a soft morning kiss, warm and thick with the drowsy heat of sleep, but there’s something more under it. A current humming beneath his skin.

“God, you’re cute when you wake up,” he whispers, voice rough like gravel, and you roll your eyes but you blush. Of course you do. You always do.

“I look like Seance Dog after that dumpster fight,” you mumble, pulling the sheet up to your nose. But his hand’s already slipping lower, fingers gliding over your stomach, your pajama pants thin and already doing nothing to hide how warm you are underneath.

His thumb strokes your skin just under the waistband. Testing. Teasing. You twitch, not out of resistance, but anticipation.

“Shut up,” he grins. “You look like you. That’s the best part.”

And then his hand moves lower.

You gasp, breath hitching as his fingers slip past the fabric, finding heat, slickness, the subtle throb of your body waking up faster than your mind can process. He watches your face as he touches you, eyes narrowing just slightly, lips parted. He’s focused. Not cocky. Not groping or rushing. No, Mark is intent. Studying you like he’s discovering a part of you for the first time. Like each inch of you is a secret he wants to learn by touch.

“You’re already this wet?” he breathes, voice barely above a whisper, more wonder than tease. “Fuck.”

Your cheeks burn. Your thighs press tighter around his hand but you don’t stop him. You couldn’t if you tried. He slides two fingers along your folds, slow and deliberate, making you bite your lip to stop from moaning out loud.

“Mark…” you whisper. Not a protest. Not a plea. Just his name, breathy and unsure, because it’s all new. This is new. Not the kissing. Not the cuddling. Not the way he looks at you like you’re made of starlight and lightning. But this, his fingers in your pants, his mouth against your cheek as he murmurs, “It’s okay. I got you.”

Your hips twitch, grinding down just slightly against his hand without thinking. He catches that. Smiles. And moves his fingers lower, circling your clit with the softest, slowest motion that makes your toes curl under the sheets.

He leans closer. You can feel the heat of his breath against your ear. “Can I make you feel good?” he asks it like a promise, not a question. “Can I keep going?”

Your breath is shaky, heart slamming against your ribs, and your body answers before your brain can. Your hips roll forward, pressing harder into his hand, chasing that friction, that pleasure just out of reach.

He kisses your neck, and then he moves again, fingers slick with you now, pushing inside, slow, gentle, coaxing your body open as he watches your expression shift. Surprise, heat, need. Your hand flies to his shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle as his thumb brushes your clit again and again with each thrust of his fingers.

“You feel so fucking good,” he whispers, low and rough and raw.

You moan. This time you can’t help it.

And still, you don’t know.

You don’t know that Mark Grayson isn’t just the too-cute, weirdly poetic guy who treats you like you matter in ways no one ever has. You don’t know he’s stronger than steel, faster than light. That the fingers inside you have punched holes through spaceships.

All you know is this, his mouth, his breath, his touch, and the sound of your own voice breaking around his name as his fingers fuck you deeper, curling just right, finding that spot that makes you tremble all the way down to your toes.

You’re trying to be cool about it. You really are.

But your head’s thrown back against the pillow, your eyes fluttering half-shut, and your whole body’s betraying you, hips twitching, stomach flexing, legs trembling under the slow, obscene rhythm of Mark’s fingers still buried inside you. Every time he curls them just right, that electric jolt lights up your spine and short-circuits every dumb, stammering comeback you were trying to form. You're stifling moans with your knuckles, eyes wide, staring up at the ceiling like it might explain what the hell is happening to your life.

Because holy shit. This is happening.

Mark Grayson, dorky, sweet, absurdly hot Mark who somehow fell into your orbit and never left, he’s got his fingers inside you and he’s not acting like it’s a game. He’s looking at you like it matters. Like he’s memorizing every twitch, every breath, every broken sound that slips from your lips. His brow furrows when you gasp, and he shifts his hand just slightly, hunting for that same reaction again. He finds it.

“Yeah,” he whispers, half-smiling. “Right there. That’s it.”

You nod furiously, too breathless to form actual words, one hand tangled in the sheets, the other gripping his bicep like it’s the only thing tethering you to Earth. He’s strong, stronger than he should be. His muscles don’t bulge obnoxiously, but you can feel the power under your palm, the way his arm doesn’t give an inch even when you clutch at him in desperation.

“God, Mark-” you choke out, biting your lip hard as he thrusts his fingers deeper again. “I-shit…I haven’t-”

He pauses, lips brushing your temple, voice a low, reverent hush. “Hey. You okay?”

Your laugh breaks halfway into a moan, shaky and high-pitched. “Yeah. Just. You’re really good at this, and I’ve… not exactly had a lot of practice. You know. In real life. Not with anybody but you.”

Mark’s eyebrows lift. His fingers don’t stop moving, but he slows them, lets you breathe a second. “You mean like, what, just crushes? Or…”

You snort. “I mean I’ve kissed my own hand more times than actual people. And one of those kisses ended with braces involved and both of us bleeding.”

That makes him grin. Like, wide. Like you just told him the greatest thing he’s ever heard. “Jesus. You’re adorable.”

“I’m mortified.”

“You’re hot as hell.” His voice dips again, right against your neck. “And you’re clenching around my fingers, so either you’re secretly a world-class actor or you’re really into this.”

“I’m trying to play it cool,” you whisper, which would be a lot more convincing if your thighs weren’t shaking.

He chuckles softly, kissing your neck. “You’re doing so bad at that.”

You squirm, trying to glare at him, but he hooks his fingers just so and your head jerks back with a whimper you couldn’t stop if you wanted to. He moans into your skin, the sound of him loving every reaction you give him, it’s shameless, filthy, real.

“Mark,” you breathe, voice catching. “If you keep doing that, I’m gonna…I’m gonna-”

“I want you to,” he whispers, his fingers moving faster now, rhythm steady, confident. “You should see how good you look right now. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

Your whole body coils tight, tension winding through your core, and suddenly you’re right there, teetering, begging for that final push. You grip his arm like a lifeline, gasping out ragged little half-sobs as he brings you closer.

Your orgasm hits like a jolt, like falling out of your body. Your back arches, thighs squeezing his hand, breath punched from your lungs as you cry out, no filter, no shame, no idea what sound just ripped out of you because everything else has gone static-white and trembling and so goddamn wet. You ride it out on instinct, hips jerking, eyes squeezed shut, Mark holding you through it, murmuring your name, pressing kisses to your shoulder, your cheek, your temple.

When you finally collapse back to the bed, your whole body boneless and blinking through the afterglow, he slowly eases his hand out of your pants, fingers slick and glistening. He stares at them a second, then looks at you.

“Can I be honest?” he says, licking his bottom lip.

You nod, still dazed. “Please don’t say something dumb. I’m too weak to handle it.”

“I’ve imagined that a lot,” he says, voice low and warm and serious. “But I never imagined it would feel this good to actually touch you again like this. Like... fuck. That was incredible.”

You want to say something witty. You want to make a joke, be cool, shrug it off like you’re not melting into his sheets. But all you manage is a breathy, “Y-you too,” and a dumb, blissed-out smile that makes him lean down and kiss it off your lips.

What you don’t know, what still hasn’t hit you, is how much he’s holding back. How careful he’s being. How strong he actually is. You don’t know that the same hands that just made you cum so hard you forgot your own name are the same hands of Invincible.

And he won’t tell you. Not yet.

Not while you’re still glowing in the aftermath, tangled in his arms, whispering against his jawline that he’s not allowed to disappear in the morning.

You're lying there with your cheek pressed against Mark's chest, still trying to come back down to Earth, and not metaphorically. Your heart’s drumming like you sprinted up ten flights of stairs, your legs feel like spaghetti, and your thighs still twitch every now and then with aftershocks. You’ve never felt that before, not from another person. Not even close.

And now?

Now there’s a low, needy tension humming in the air. But this time, it’s him.

You feel it under your fingertips, the way Mark’s chest rises just a little too fast, the tight coil in his abs, the slight tremor in the hand resting near your waist. You glance up at him, your breath still catching in your throat a little, and his eyes are already on you. Big, blue, vulnerable. His lashes are unfairly long for someone so stupidly good-looking. He blinks once, then offers you a crooked smile that’s trying way too hard to be casual.

“You okay?” you whisper, letting your hand drift across his chest, drawing nonsense lines with your fingers.

He swallows. Hard.

“I’m great,” he says, and he is, technically, but his voice is rough and low and not nearly as confident as it usually is. He’s squirming just the tiniest bit under your touch, his cock pressing up through the thin fabric of his boxers, already hard and straining.

It’s your turn to smirk.

“Yeah?” you ask, your hand sliding lower, fingertips teasing the waistband of his boxers now. “You look kinda like you’re suffering.”

That makes him exhale through his nose, almost a laugh. Almost. But he bites his lip and nods, his voice dipping into something softer, more needy.

“I mean… yeah,” he admits. “A little. But like… the good kind of suffering?”

You raise a brow. “So if I just… did nothing right now…”

He groans, half a whimper, half a plea. “That would be evil.”

You laugh quietly. Your hand dips beneath the waistband.

His breath catches instantly. You feel it, heat, stiffness, that pulse of tension that tells you just how badly he’s been holding back. You take your time, drawing his cock out slowly, letting your fingers curl around the thick, velvety length. He’s hot to the touch. Hard, but twitching, his hips subtly shifting up toward your hand without him even realizing he’s doing it.

You glance up at him again and his head’s tipped back against the pillow, his lips parted, eyes fluttering. He looks wrecked already and you’ve barely touched him.

“Jesus, Mark,” you whisper, marveling at how sensitive he is. “You’re, uh… really worked up, huh?”

He lets out a breathless laugh that breaks halfway into a moan when you stroke him once, slow and steady.

“You just made me watch you lose your mind from my fingers,” he groans. “Of course I’m worked up. You were…” He grits his teeth, his voice trailing into a hiss as you squeeze around the base and drag your hand up again. “You were fucking perfect.”

You bite your lip. That rush of heat shoots right back through you but this time, it’s paired with this weird little swell of power in your chest. He’s always been the calm one. The capable one. The guy who looks like he was born with good lighting. And now?

Now he’s melting under your touch. Whining quietly as you stroke him again, a little faster now, thumb teasing along the sensitive tip just to watch him flinch and gasp.

“F-fuck,” he pants, one hand grabbing the sheets like he’s trying not to fall apart. “You’re… really good at this.”

You snort. “I watched a lot of porn and imagined doing this never in real life. So, thanks for that.”

He laughs, even as his breath hitches again, hips twitching into your hand. “Well, your imagination deserves an award.”

You keep stroking him, slow at first, building rhythm, curling your fingers just enough at the top to make his thighs flex. His cock pulses in your grip, pre-cum slicking the head as you twist your wrist on the upstroke, and he moans loud. He doesn’t even try to muffle it.

His other hand slips up, gently curling around your wrist, not to stop you, but just to feel you. To anchor himself. His fingers tremble.

“You’re so fucking soft,” he murmurs, eyes opening to look at you. “And your hand fuck, it feels too good. I’m not gonna last.”

That makes your stomach do a somersault.

“Oh? Gonna come for me already?”

He bites his lip hard. Nods. His voice is practically a whimper now. “Please.”

The way he says it, please, makes your legs clamp together instinctively. You pump him harder, faster now, hand slick and confident and soaked in the kind of desperation he’s wearing all over his face. His abs tighten. His moans are ragged, drawn out, high in his throat like he’s trying not to cry out your name.

You lean in, whispering hot against his ear, “Come for me, Mark.”

And he does.

His whole body locks up under you, shoulders flexing, thighs trembling, cock jerking in your fist as he spills over your fingers with a strangled, guttural fuck that makes you ache. Hot ropes of cum splatter across his abs, thick and sticky, as he pants through the aftershocks, clinging to you like he’s unraveling.

You don’t stop stroking until he whines, an actual whine, and grabs your wrist gently to stop you, his body twitching from overstimulation.

His hair’s a mess. His cheeks are flushed. His lips are red and bitten and absolutely begging to be kissed.

So you do.

And he kisses you back like you’re the last thing holding him together.

You barely pull your hand back before Mark’s grabbing at you again, shaky fingers on your waist, his breath still uneven, his chest still rising and falling like he’s just run a mile. You expect him to flop back, wrecked and dazed and maybe ready to nap like a normal person, but instead, he’s crawling on top of you like a man possessed. Eyes glassy. Lips parted. Cock still hard and twitching between you like it didn’t just unload itself across his abs.

“Wait, seriously?” you breathe, not quite laughing, but stunned, looking down where his cock presses hot and slick against your lower stomach. “Mark, I just jerked you off, aren’t you supposed to be done for the day?”

“I don’t know,” he mutters, leaning down to kiss you, slow, desperate, heat pulsing through every inch of him. “I should be. I’m trying to be.”

You blink. “Trying?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you.” He nuzzles into your neck, lips brushing your pulse point, voice breaking into something raw. “The sounds you made. The way you looked when you came. The way you touched me. I’m still hard. I can’t stop.”

Your mouth goes dry.

And then he grinds down.

It’s clumsy at first, he’s just pressing against you, bare skin to skin, your pajama pants still clinging to your hips. But the slide of his cock along your pelvis, still slick from your hand, still pulsing with leftover heat, is enough to make you gasp. Your thighs twitch, your fingers dig into his back, and he groans right into your collarbone.

“Mark-” you whisper, not because you want him to stop, but because you don’t know what to do with all of this. No one’s ever wanted you like this. Not with that kind of hunger. Not with need written all over their face.

He doesn’t answer at first. He just keeps moving, hips rolling, cock grinding against the seam of your pants, his whole body shivering like the friction alone is dragging him closer to the edge again. His head dips low, lips pressing wetly to your throat, your jaw, your cheek.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he pants. “You’re driving me crazy.”

“You just came,” you whisper, half in awe. “You came, and you’re already-”

“Look at me,” he grits out, and you do.

His eyes are wild. Not unhinged, just lit with something sharp and aching and deep. His cock is trapped between your bodies, sliding along the damp, clinging fabric of your pants, every motion dragging the head right against your clit. You suck in a breath. It’s not even inside, and it feels too good.

“I’ve never wanted someone like this,” he breathes, hips jerking harder now. “You don’t know what you do to me. You act like everything’s normal, like you don’t see it, but you’re, fuck, you’re killing me.”

Your hips buck without thinking, grinding back up against him, and he moans, loud, open, filthy. He thrusts again, and again, pace stuttering, desperate. You feel how hard he is. How hot he is. Your body starts pulsing all over again, heat building low and slow in your stomach, every friction drag of his cock against your clothed cunt sending sparks through your spine.

Your fingers slide up into his hair, dragging through sweat-damp hair, pulling him down for another kiss that’s all teeth and breath and messy tongue. His body presses you into the mattress, thighs braced around yours, grinding harder now, faster, using your soft body to relieve the ache in him.

You whimper into his mouth. “Mark, fuck, if you keep doing that-”

“I want you to feel it,” he growls against your lips. “I wanna make you come again like this, just like this. Let me.”

You nod. Your hips move with his now, both of you locked into it, your hands on his back, pulling him into you, guiding him, feeling every twitch and throb of him through the soaked fabric between you. The way he moans, ragged and helpless, when your thigh clamps between his legs?

It sounds like he’s breaking.

He buries his face in your neck, breath catching, voice muffled but full of that same pleading edge. “Fuck, baby, you feel so good, don’t stop, don’t stop-”

Neither of you do.

He should go.

You both know it. The sunlight’s too sharp now, cutting in from the window across his back. His phone buzzed once, twice, maybe more. Somewhere in the pile of clothes on the floor, there’s a vibrating little rectangle full of frantic reminders and missed alarms. First period, second period, probably a text from Amber asking if he got the notes from Stats.

And you?

You’re still under him. Warm. Soft. Wide-eyed and flushed, hair mussed against his pillow, lips swollen from too many kisses, your pajama pants shoved halfway down your thighs like you got caught mid-strip and never finished. You’re biting your lip in that way that makes it look like you’re trying to pretend you’re not turned on out of your mind.

Mark grinds down again, slow, deliberate. His cock slides through the wet heat pressed between your thighs, and your hips jerk, a gasp bursting from your mouth like you weren’t ready for it even now. “Mark-” your voice catches, breathy and nervous and wrecked. “You’re gonna be late.”

His mouth curls against your neck. “I am late.”

He doesn’t stop moving. He can’t. The tension in his muscles is unbearable now, coiled up with that same aching energy from earlier, only worse. Raw. Insistent. He needs more. Needs you.

“You gonna stop me?” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

Your fingers flex against his back. You should. You should. That would be the reasonable thing to do. Let him go. Keep pretending this is something you can laugh off, something casual, like he didn’t just look at you like you hung the fucking moon.

But you’re not reasonable.

And your body’s already answering for you, hips bucking up again, thighs spreading wider, that greedy little pulse between your legs begging for more. For him.

Mark pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand cupping your jaw. His eyes search your face. His voice goes quiet, trembling at the edges. “I wanna be inside you.”

He says it like a confession. Like it matters.

“Yeah?” you whisper, heartbeat ricocheting through your ribs.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “I don’t wanna stop. Not now. I wanna feel all of you.”

You swallow, hard. “You know I-…”

“I know.” He kisses you, slow and aching. “I’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you. We don’t have to rush.”

You blink up at him. “You’re literally skipping class for this.”

He laughs softly, cock twitching against you, still grinding slow and messy between your folds. “I already missed class. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

Your stomach flips. Your nerves tense. But you nod.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay.”

Mark kisses you again, deeper this time. His hand slips down, tugging at your waistband until you lift your hips and let him peel your pajama pants off completely. You shiver when the cool air hits you, but he’s already there, sliding between your thighs, spreading you open with reverent, trembling fingers.

“God, you’re perfect,” he mutters, voice ragged.

Then he wraps his hand around his cock, lines himself up, and pauses, his eyes locked on yours.

“You good?” he asks. “You sure?”

You nod. “I want this. I want you.”

He pushes in slow.

Your breath hitches, sharp and high, as you stretch around him, inch by inch. It’s always more than you expect, thicker, deeper, intimate in a way that makes your whole body tense up with anticipation. But he moves gently, carefully, kissing your cheek, your jaw, whispering your name like a prayer with every inch he sinks into you.

“Shit,” he groans. “You feel so good. So fucking tight.”

Your nails dig into his back. You can barely speak. He bottoms out with a slow, careful thrust, hips pressing against yours, and the fullness makes your head spin.

You’ve never felt anything like it.

He holds still, letting you adjust, just breathing with you, forehead resting against yours. “Tell me when,” he murmurs.

You swallow, tremble, then whisper, “Now.”

He starts to move.

Each stroke is slow at first, rhythmic, measured, his hips rocking into you with that perfect drag that makes you gasp and writhe beneath him. The sensation is overwhelming. Pleasure rolls through you in waves, and the way he looks at you, like you’re his whole world, is almost too much to take.

Your legs wrap around his waist. He groans into your neck, fucking you deeper now, his pace picking up as your body adjusts, as your moans shift from startled to needy.

“God, you’re so warm,” he pants. “So wet, fuck gripping me so tight-”

You’re clinging to him now, your fingers locked behind his neck, pulling him closer with every thrust. You can feel him everywhere. The wet slap of skin, the creak of the mattress, the heat building low and fast in your core.

He thrusts harder, kissing you between moans, tongue sliding against yours. “You’re doing so good. Taking me so good. I’m not gonna last, I’m not gonna fucking last-”

You cry out when he hits just the right spot, your body arching into him, legs shaking.

“Mark! Mark, I’m gonna-!”

He grabs your thigh, thrusting harder now, desperate, hips snapping into you, chasing that last edge as you clamp down around him and come apart underneath him. Your orgasm slams through you like a tidal wave, your body locking up, mouth open in a silent scream.

Mark follows you seconds later, hips jerking, cock pulsing deep inside you as he spills himself with a broken, desperate moan. His whole body shudders on top of you, and for a second, neither of you can breathe.

Silence.

Then his forehead falls to your shoulder. You both laugh, breathless and wrecked.

“Class is so fucking overrated,” he mutters.

You don’t disagree.

You’re both a mess.

And not the sexy, movie-mess where your hair falls in soft waves and the sheets magically cover just enough skin to be tasteful. No, your legs are twitching, your inner thighs are slick, your hair’s plastered to your forehead, and you’re pretty sure one of the pillows exploded somewhere behind you. Your body’s buzzing, your brain’s static, and lying on top of you is Mark Grayson, shirtless, flushed, completely out of breath and looking like he just survived a natural disaster.

“Okay,” he pants, voice muffled against your collarbone, “so that might’ve been… a little excessive.”

You laugh, weak and stunned. “A little?”

He lifts his head and gives you this look, half proud, half guilty, his cheeks still bright red. “You’re not mad at me, though, right?”

“I can’t feel my legs,” you say.

“Okay, but like… in a good way?”

You don’t answer. You just grab his face and kiss him.

Because yeah, it was a lot. He didn’t just fuck you once and call it a day. He went down on you until you came so hard you forgot your name, then got on top of you like he was starving, thrust into you until you were clinging to him, came inside you, then stayed hard and kept going. And again. And again. Every time you whispered, “Okay, I’m done,” he kissed your neck and begged, “Just once more. I swear. Then I’ll stop.”

He never stopped.

“You’re a menace,” you murmur against his lips. “You don’t need to prove anything, you know. I already like you.”

Mark snorts and drops his forehead to your shoulder. “I’m not trying to prove anything. I just, every time I touch you, I want more. I think I’m weird. This feels illegal.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling like an idiot. Your body aches, sore and deliciously used, your thighs still sticky with him. “You’re not broken. You’re just obsessed.”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, lifting his head again and motioning vaguely to your naked body. “Have you seen you?”

You go to swat him, but he grabs your wrist, kisses your palm, and says, a little more serious, “It’s not just that. I’m not, God, I’m not good at this stuff. I mess up. I get in my head. But with you…”

His voice dips.

“Every time we do this, it feels real. Not just like sex. Like I’m with the person I’m supposed to be with.”

Your chest tightens. That little insecure voice in the back of your head tries to mutter something about how you’ve never done any of this before him. How he’s dated, had sex, lived, and you’re still playing catch-up. But he never makes you feel behind. He looks at you like you’re the most natural thing in the world. Like all his experience means nothing compared to this.

“You’re not what I expected,” you whisper.

Mark raises an eyebrow. “Uh… good unexpected or wow, she’s lowering her standards unexpected?”

You smack his shoulder. He grins. “I just mean,” you say, softer now, “I didn’t think anyone could make me feel like this. Like my body’s not weird. Like I’m… wanted.”

“Hey,” he says, more serious now. “Wanted is an understatement. I’m obsessed. I think about you when driving. Do you know how hard it is to stay on the roadwhen you’re picturing someone naked?”

You laugh. He kisses your cheek. Then your jaw. Then lower. Lower still.

“Mark-”

“I know, I know. But I swear,” he murmurs against your skin, “I’m not trying to wear you out.”

“You already did.”

“Cool. Then I’m just doing a victory lap.”

You groan, but when he nudges your legs apart again, fingers brushing over your overstimulated heat, you shiver. Because yeah, you’re sore. You’re exhausted. But with Mark, even after everything… you still want more.

And the look in his eyes?

He’s right there with you.

You’re still entwined in Mark’s arms when your phone begins vibrating on the nightstand.

At first, you don’t move. You’re curled into him, his chest warm against your face, his heartbeat steady and anchoring. His fingers are still sketching languid, absentminded shapes into the curve of your spine, and the weight of his arm over your back feels too lovely to give up just yet. The morning light slips through the slats in delicate stripes over his skin, and you think, maybe, if you stay motionless long enough, time will forgive you for skipping out on your obligations.

But the buzzing doesn’t stop.

Mark grumbles something incoherent, his grasp tightening like he’s already expecting you sliding away. You sigh, planting a short kiss to his jaw before stretching, awkwardly, to retrieve your phone. You anticipate it to be a text. Maybe a reminder from the University or a spam notice seeking to sell you anti-virus software.

It’s not.

It’s Uncle Ben.

Shit.

You swipe to answer and roll slightly to the side, cradling the phone between your ear and shoulder as Mark nuzzles into the crook of your neck like a drowsy cat that refuses to be leave from his favorite area.

“Hey,” you say, voice hoarse with sleep. “Sorry, I meant to call you last night. I… uh… slept at a friend’s place.”

Mark snorts at that, cocky as hell, and you instantly stab your elbow into his side. He yelps, gently, still smiling. Jerk.

“Mm-hmm.” Ben’s voice is suspicious, but he doesn’t press. “You said you’d be back by dinner, kid. Everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you murmur, bowing your head to hide Mark’s grin. “Everything’s fine. I just lost track of time. We were… studying.”

Ben doesn’t answer straight away. You envision the grimace he’s wearing, a mixture of frustration and that soft disappointment that usually makes your stomach twist a bit. “Well,” he replies finally, “if you’re gonna be out all night, the least you could do is shoot me a text so I don’t think you’ve been kidnapped.”

Guilt seeps in. You get up carefully, untangling yourself from Mark, who gives out a grunt of complaint, sinking back dramatically into the mattress. “Sorry,” you mumble, pulling a hand through your hair. “That’s on me. Won’t happen again.”

“You’re lucky I like your voice too much to be upset at you,” Ben says, softer now. “Anyway, I just wanted to check in, and remind you, you’ve got that internship thing today. At the lab?”

You blink. Hard.

And suddenly your heart drops into your gut.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, struggling upright. “That’s today?!”

Mark sits up, startled. “What’s wrong?”

You clap a palm to your forehead, terror surging up. “I’m late. I’m so late. We took an trip to the Midtown campus spider genetics lab this morning. I was scheduled to see my professor half an hour ago!”

Ben chuckles, though it’s tinged with pity. “Thought you might’ve forgotten. It’s okay. Just get dressed and book it. I’m proud of you, kid. You’ve got this.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, already moving around the room attempting to find your jeans. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Looking forward to it.”

You hang up and virtually toss your phone into your backpack. Mark is eyeing you, one brow arched and the blanket pooled low around his waist, naked chest on full view. He seems like he’s ready to taunt you, something sarcastic, probably, but your terrified flailing gives him pause.

“Spider lab?” he says, amused.

You shoot him a glance while tugging your shirt over your head. “Yes, spider lab. I’m a biochem major, remember? We’re investigating gene splicing in arachnids this month. It’s a major thing. There are really people that got waitlisted for this opportunity.”

Mark lifts his legs off the bed, stretching. “Wait. So you’re telling me you’re gonna be in a room full of spiders?”

“Yes,” you deadpan, shoving your feet into your shoes. “Real spiders. Radioactive spiders. Possibly genetically engineered nightmare fuel.”

“…Cool.”

You roll your eyes. “I swear to god, Mark, if I end up with extra limbs-”

“You’ll still be the hottest eight-legged nerd I’ve ever met.”

You sigh, grabbing your luggage and hitting his arm on your way out the door. “You’re the worst.”

“You love me.”

Unfortunately, he’s right. You do.

You halt at the door, heart still beating but for a different cause now. He’s standing there, all sleepy-eyed and naked, a gentle grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Text me when you get there,” he adds, coming closer. His voice is lower now, the amusement dissolving into something more honest. “Just so I know you’re okay.”

You nod, eyes softening. “I will.”

He leans in to kiss you, quick and warm, the type that stays just a little too long for someone who’s apparently in a rush.

You depart with your heart racing and your hair still unkempt from bed. And as you hurry down the hall with your lanyard bouncing and your lab coat packed into your bag, you can’t help thinking…

If something does happen with those spiders today, at least you’ve already acquired a superhero-sized infatuation to match.

You're halfway down the street before you realize you’re wearing one of Mark’s shirts.

It’s not subtle, either. It’s the worn burgundy shirt with the little rip under the neck and a mysterious spot on the sleeve that he maintains “adds character.” It’s entirely too huge on you, submerging your frame, sleeves bunched around your elbows like they’re trying to eat your hands. It smells like his detergent. Like him. And honestly, if you weren’t already late for a very science-y, very formal lab trip, you might've turned back just to kiss him again.

But you don’t have time to be nostalgic.

You're power-walking to the train station like your future depended on it because, really, it sort of does, and mumbling under your breath the entire way. You're going over your professor’s talking points in your brain, trying to remember if you were meant to bring safety goggles (you were), and hoping to any benevolent deity out there that you don’t turn there with morning-after hair and a hickey on your neck. You should’ve looked in a mirror. You knew Mark was going be handsy last night. You knew better. And yet.

Typical.

You’re panting by the time you make it to the lab building, exactly thirty-six minutes late. You sneak in through the back entrance, squeezing behind a janitor cart and nearly tripping over your own shoelaces in the process. You can hear the group discussing already. A cacophony of overlapping voices, the occasional “Whoa!” and “Cool!” and one very distinct cry that sounds like it came from Gwen, the girl who thinks all bugs should be nuked from orbit.

You glide through the doors of the viewing room as discreetly as possible.

And quickly regret not combing your hair.

Dr. Octavious doesn’t halt his lecture when he spots you, thank god, but he does raise an eyebrow when you sneak into place at the back of the group. He’s standing in front of a giant containment glass, gesturing toward a line of tanks filled with… yes. Spiders. Big ones. Some of them blazing. A handful of them twitching abnormally, like their actions are half a second ahead of their own thinking.

“Glad you could join us,” he adds without looking, jotting something on a clipboard. “I trust your morning was… educational.”

You blink. Your face warms up. Does he know?

"Uh, yeah,” you respond hurriedly, voice quivering midway through the word. “Definitely. Learned a lot. Big supporter of education. Love it.”

A few kids peek your way. One of them, Flash, the irritating sophomore who usually asks too many questions, leans over and snickers, “You smell like boy.”

You elbow him. Hard.

Still, as the presentation proceeds and Dr. Octavious goes off about CRISPR gene-editing and venom adaptability, you feel your pulse finally starting to relax. You’re in your element again. Scientific jargon dance comfortably in your brain, and you’re genuinely understanding it, retaining stuff. Which is sort of astounding considering how severely Mark messed with your head last night.

The tour passes through a set of reinforced passageways equipped with climate-controlled viewing tanks. Spiders. Everywhere. Massive ones, little ones, neon-striped ones. Some twitch. Others sit terrifyingly motionless. Each tank has a computerized interface with data items running across the screen, things like venom production, regeneration rates, genetic recombination markers.

Your nerd brain is trying to take it all in, but your emotional brain is still fixated on the fact that you woke up with Mark’s arm slung around your waist and his voice mumbling something sweet and drowsy into your hair.

Focus.

You scoot closer to the rear of the gathering as Dr. Octavious motions to a glass tank with a big, long-legged animal poised on a lattice of synthetic webbing.

“This specimen,” he explains, “has undergone four successful protein modifications in the past six months. What you observe in the shimmer of its exoskeleton is a composite reflective compound produced from octopus chromatophores. The objective is adaptive camouflage.”

The spider moves. Just barely.

You feel your throat constrict.

It’s not that you’re terrified of spiders. You’ve dissected them, analyzed their muscular tissue under microscopes. You’re a biochem major. You live for these things. But something about this one unsettles you.

You gaze sideways at the security panel on the wall. Nothing out of the usual. Still, you can’t ignore the sense that it’s watching you.

You adjust your weight and take a step back, banging against a cabinet.

“Relax,” Gwen says behind you. “It’s not gonna leap out and snatch you. Probably.”

You give her a bland expression and say, “Thanks, really comforting.”

As the group continues on, Dr. Octavious taps his pen against a clipboard. “Keep up. We’ll be headed to the live demonstration lab next. And no one touches anything. I don’t care if you think you’re the next Marie Curie.”

You follow after the others, attempting to absorb the information, nod at the correct times, and take mental notes you’ll type down later when your hands stop trembling.

You’re thankful the tour is fairly quiet, just the gentle shuffle of lab coats, the low hum of ventilation systems, and the odd scribbling of a pen on paper.

And below it all, you still feel the ghost of Mark’s kisses at the back of your neck from this morning.

Your cheeks flush. You focus harder on the notes. You convince yourself this is OK. You’re focused. You’re a serious student.

…Even if you did stroll into a world-class spider genetics center wearing your boyfriend’s shirt, thirty minutes late, with his aroma still clinging to your skin.

Totally fine. Normal. You’ve got this. Probably.

“This is one of our more recently altered specimens,” he says, gesturing toward the main tank in the center of the room. “We’re observing the behavior of arachnids after selective protein editing. What you’re looking at here is a hybrid strain, manipulated for visual camouflage, venom production, and web complexity.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, notepad tucked under your arm. The spider within the tank is enormous. Not horror-movie large, but near enough to make your skin crawl. It’s practically black, but when the light strikes it, there’s this flicker of deep red beneath its surface, like something molten, fighting to come out.

You push yourself to seem interested. You are interested, you swear, you didn’t spend your whole childhood buried in scientific textbooks only to zone out on your first actual tour but your body is exhausted, your brain is still playing catch-up, and your fingers keep brushing against the hem of Mark’s shirt under your coat like a nervous tic.

You slide a bit to the side as Dr. Octavious urges everyone to divide into pairs for the log review section. Most of the students spring into formation like they’ve been rehearsing since preschool. You hover awkwardly until Gwen offers you a courteous nod and tilts her iPad toward you. You smile, grateful, awkward, and walk up next her.

“We’re supposed to compare mutation cycles and gene log timestamps,” she continues, immediately loading up the file index. “Want to take the second sample?”

You nod. “Sure. Sounds… fun.”

She’s not really listening.

While she swipes through the logs, you inch a bit closer to the enclosure, drawn in despite yourself. The spider has moved. It’s up at the top corner of the glass now, motionless and properly positioned, legs extending in that weird, methodical way that makes you feel like it’s waiting for something.

You gaze.

It glances back.

And then, barely a blink, it’s not in the tank anymore.

You frown, leaning in. No one else appears to notice. Gwen is still talking to herself, while the rest of the group is split about the room in pairs, concentrated on the data.

You straighten up slightly, a shiver prickling down your neck.

And suddenly you feel it.

A sting, sharp and abrupt, right beneath the edge of your collar.

“Ah-” You flinch, swatting at your neck instinctively. Your fingertips capture something little and quick, barely a flash of motion as whatever-it-was slips to the ground and skitters behind a neighboring cabinet before you can get a clear look.

You peek around, pulse ticking up a little.

No one noticed. Gwen still scrolling. Octavious is chatting to a pair of pupils near the front of the class. The lab hums with fluorescent light and gentle chatter and the low static of air vents like nothing occurred at all.

You rub at your neck.

It doesn’t actually hurt. More of a pinch. Like a mosquito bite. It’s already disappearing.

Still, you drop your hand and catch a little speck of blood on your fingertip.

You wipe it on your coat before anyone can see.

Probably nothing.

You rejoin Gwen, eyes glancing back to the enclosure which, you now realize, does in fact still have a spider within it. Sitting very still.

Was it always there?

You swallow, nod like everything is okay, and mutter something about switching samples.

“Yeah,” Gwen answers, barely looking up. “Hey, did you see the mutation tags on specimen E-7? The CRISPR splice isn’t holding. They’re going to have to re-sequence.”

You mutter a half-agreeable tone and try to shake the tightness out of your shoulders.

It’s fine. You’re fine. Probably just an electric shock. Or dust. Or…

Whatever. You're overthinking it. You always do.

So you push your tongue to the inside of your cheek, scrawl something that loosely resembles a note into your diary, and try your best to stay focused.

You’ve got thirty more minutes of this tour.

You’re going to appear professional.

You’re going to act normal.

You’re going to ignore the odd heat still pulsating weakly at the base of your neck.

Because clearly, everything’s fine.

The bus trip home is difficult.

Not because of the route, you’ve traveled it a hundred times before, but because every time the brakes screech or someone coughs too loud, it seems like it’s reverberating within your head. Your head is hammering in this deep, full-body way, like the bones behind your eyes are vibrating. You chalk it up to skipping breakfast and the whole sprinting-across-campus-in-a-lab-coat thing. Plus, your neck still kind of hurts where that spider bit you, or… whatever that was. You keep telling yourself it’s nothing. It has to be nothing.

You tap your fingers on your thigh, trying to focus on anything but the pressure mounting in your skull.

The spider didn’t even leave a mark. Just a small dot of dried blood you wiped away, and that was it. No rash. No swelling. No allergic reaction. You didn’t faint or puke or turn into a creature from a late ‘90s sci-fi reboot, so that’s gotta be a victory, right?

Still. You feel odd. Like your limbs don’t entirely belong to you.

The city slides past outside the window, cars, bright lights, the classic rise of red-brick buildings giving way to the more residential things as you get closer to your stop. You close your eyes and lean your forehead on the glass. The chill feels good.

Too good.

When the bus pulls to a stop, you almost miss it.

You stagger down the steps, murmuring a tired “thanks” to the driver before hitting the sidewalk. Your legs feel unsteady. Your stomach lurches unpleasantly. You grab the straps of your backpack and draw in a breath of chilly evening air, hoping it helps.

It doesn’t.

By the time you reach the front door, you're sweating.

Uncle Ben unlocks it before you can even knock. “There you are,” he says, standing aside to let you enter. “Was starting to think you ditched me again for your mystery friend.”

You manage a feeble grin. “No ditching. Just… long day.”

He squints at you, his countenance softening. “You alright, kiddo?”

“Yeah.” It comes out too fast. You try again, quietly. “Just tired.”

You slip off your shoes and hang your bag by the entrance. Your coat gets tossed over the railing as you walk for the stairs. You can feel his gaze on your back the whole way up.

“Dinner’ll be ready in an hour,” he calls. “You want me to wake you if you sleep?”

“I’ll set an alarm,” you murmur, one hand holding the banister like the wood is the only thing keeping you standing.

You don’t make it to the alarm.

The second you enter into your room, something in your body gives out.

You manage to close the door behind you. That’s it.

You rip off Mark’s shirt in sluggish, awkward strokes and hurl it onto the side of the bed, too sweaty and nauseated to care where it goes. Every muscle in your body feels like you just got smashed by a city bus. You wobble toward the bed, clutch the mattress, and drop yourself down like your limbs are made of wet paper.

You don’t even change out of your clothes. You just cuddle up on top of the blanket and put your cheek to the soft pillow, eyes clamping tight as your head spins.

It’s not simply weariness.

It’s wrong.

Your skin is scorching, yet you're shivering too. Your fingertips feel like they’re buzzing. You hold them against your chest, attempting to anchor yourself, but it simply makes you feel more disoriented.

Your breath starts coming in shallow gasps. You can’t tell if it’s worry or fever or something else completely. The room tilts. You strain your eyelids tighter.

You think about yelling out for Ben.

You don’t.

You don’t want to worry him. You don’t want to explain that you might’ve gotten bitten by something in a government-funded gene lab and are now having the worst flu symptoms of your life.

You’ll just rest.

It’s probably just the day catching up with you. You’ve pushed yourself too hard before. Finals week had you running on energy drinks and vending machine trail mix, and you got through that. You’ll get through this.

Just a nap.

Just a little rest.

The last thing you detect before everything slips away is the quiet hum in your ears becoming louder, like static, or maybe your heartbeat. It fills your whole mind, and then

Black.

#invincible #invincible x reader #invincible fanfic #invincible season 3 #invincible angst #invincible x you #mark grayson x reader #invincible smut #reader insert #mark grayson x you #mark grayson smut #smut #mark grayson

756 notes · View notes

batsovergotham · 23 days ago

Text

double lives, double dates pt2

"You've got the costume. You've got the power. You're Spider-Woman. Act like it."🕷🕸️

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: smut again sorry guys im a fiend, death, hurt no comfort, canon event </3, mark is a supportive boyfriend, mentions of sex

w/c: 8.7k

a/n: canon event time</3 also, thank you for your lovely asks and comments! they truly mean the world!

You wind yourself at the kitchen table, seated across from Mark, caught between May’s judgmental toast-serving and Ben’s everlasting dad look. It's warm. It smells like coffee and eggs and the crisp citrus of freshly cut fruit. It’s nice.

And you're losing your mind.

Your hand is still tingling from when it stuck to your nightstand earlier. You had to shrug it off like you were battling off a ghost. Now you’re here, attempting to eat breakfast with your boyfriend like a regular person, but your body buzzes like it’s got additional code written into the marrow.

You reach for the orange juice. Your fingers twitch.

Don’t break the glass. Don’t break the glass. Don’t crack the-

“You gonna drink that,” Ben says unexpectedly, making you flinch so sharply you nearly drop it.

You laugh. “Yup. Uh-huh. That’s the plan. Totally in control of my motor functions, why do you ask.”

Mark raises an eyebrow across from you, but doesn’t say anything.

May lays a plate in front of him. “So. Mark. Since senior year, huh?”

He picks up his fork with a kind of forlorn certainty. “Yeah. It started with her threatening to hit me for talking during biology. It was love at first sight.”

You groan. “Why would you say that out loud.”

“She deserves context,” he adds with a piece of egg. “I deserve recognition for my emotional growth.”

May grins, but it’s the harsh, knowing sort. “You’ve been keeping this from us a while.”

You murmur, “I wasn’t keeping it. It was more of a... long-term rollout plan.”

“Three years,” Ben answers bluntly.

“We’re busy,” you murmur into your toast.

May bends over her cup. “With what, exactly?”

Mark points his fork. “She has like seventeen credits, works part-time, and watches nature documentaries at two a.m. for fun. It’s actually sort of intimidating.”

You flash him a glance. “You’re not supposed to roast me in front of my family.”

“I’m endearing myself to the judges.”

May hums. “So far, he’s succeeding.”

You gulp your juice, too fast, and nearly cough. The flavor smacks your tongue like a blow. You lay the glass down a touch too hard, just a little, and it produces a louder clink than it should.

Mark’s eyes flick to your hand. Just for a second.

You attempt to grin.

He doesn’t press it.

Yet.

Ben, meantime, sits back in his chair, cup in hand. “So. Why the secrecy? You thought we wouldn’t approve?”

“No,” you answer hastily. “It was... I don’t know. It was just ours. And then it kept being ours. And then suddenly it was three years later and we were very much lying by omission.”

Mark shrugs. “Honestly, I was just following her lead. She said wait, I waited. Like... a faithful, loving golden retriever.”

Ben grunts. “Golden retrievers don’t sneak around.”

“Golden retrievers don’t pass AP Calc either,” you add.

Mark points. “Let the record show, I passed.”

“With my notes,” you say.

“With my charisma.”

May cuts in before you can hurl your napkin at him. “Well, it’s out now. And despite the... wait, I’m glad. It’s good to see her happy.”

That makes you silent.

Because you are joyful.

But you’re also something else. Wired. Fragile. Like you’re one hard grasp away from snapping your fork in half.

Mark’s still eyeing you out of the corner of his eye.

You feel his foot poke yours under the table.

You nudge back, just slightly.

“So, Mark,” Ben says nonchalantly. “You treat her like she’s the best thing that ever happened to you?”

Mark doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. She is.”

You nearly choke on your fruit.

“Okay,” you respond, half a laugh. “That’s enough sincerity before ten a.m.”

“I’m just saying,” he says with a shrug. “You deserve to know.”

May’s observing you now, her grin a bit gentler. “We always knew you’d keep your heart close to the chest. But I’m happy he’s the one who has it.”

You go silent again.

Mark takes your hand beneath the table. Warm, steady.

He squeezes softly.

You squeeze back.

But your fingers are twitching. Still sensitive. Still too aware. You’re hyper-conscious of every point of touch. Every pulse. Every scrape of chair leg on floor sounds excessively loud. Every fragrance strikes too intensely. You feel like a balloon overfilled and tied shut too tight.

And you’re not sure how much longer you can pretend you’re just weary. Just stressed.

Because something in you has altered.

And Mark doesn’t know.

And your aunt and uncle don’t know.

And sitting here in the kitchen, with sunshine on the table and eggs cooling on the plate, you suddenly realize

You’re not simply lying about your relationship anymore.

You’re lying about you.

The plates are mostly empty now.

Toast crumbs scatter the table like polite wreckage. The coffee’s been refilled twice, the fruit picked through, and May is humming as she rinses the frying pan at the sink. Ben’s halfway through the crossword, pen tapping rhythmically on the counter. Mark’s still across from you, lazily spinning a fork in his fingers.

And you... you're pretending everything’s fine.

You haven't moved much. Not because you're full. Because you’re afraid if you grip your utensils the wrong way, they’ll bend. Or snap. Or worse.

You fidget with your napkin instead. Something soft. Something safe.

And then, like fate’s just waiting for the tension to peak, the news comes on.

May’s small kitchen TV flickers to life in the corner. Background noise, usually. Something calm and distant while breakfast happens. But not today.

Today, the name hits your ears before the anchor even finishes her sentence.

“Invincible was spotted again last night above Midtown, engaging what looked like two rogue Flaxan warriors attempting to break through into Earth’s dimension.”

Your stomach drops.

The screen shows shaky phone footage, Invincible, blue and yellow and blood-streaked, slamming through a Flaxan like a baseball through a windshield. He’s fast. Brutal. And unmistakable.

The camera pans to show wreckage. People running. Civilians yelling.

Mark shifts beside you.

Mark interrupts the stillness, voice low but steady. “People always want someone to blame.”

May peeks over her shoulder. “Blame him? He’s the only reason half this city isn’t a crater.”

“They don’t care,” Mark answers. “It’s easier to fear power than to understand it.”

That lands odd.

You gaze at him.

He’s looking at the blank screen, mouth stiff, without blinking. Like he’s still seeing the conflict happen in real time.

Something in your belly twists.

Ben folds his newspaper. Leans forward. His hands are linked now, fingers intertwined. There’s something serious about his posture like he’s going to utter something he’s been sitting on for years.

He looks between the two of you. His niece. Your boyfriend. Two kids in their early twenties, thinking breakfast is just breakfast.

Then he says it.

That line.

“I’ve always believed one thing.”

His voice is steady. Not loud. But it fills the room like thunder regardless.

“If you’ve got the power to stop something bad from happening, and you don’t...”

He stares directly at you.

“Then it’s your fault when it does.”

You blink.

Your throat tightens. You don’t react.

You can’t.

He lets the words hang. No drama. No fanfare.

Just the truth.

“With great power,” he adds, softer now, “comes great responsibility.”

It smacks you like a blow to the chest.

You don’t breathe for a second.

Because he doesn’t know. He has no idea.

But he’s right.

You feel it in your bones. In your hands. In the way your whole body feels like it’s vibrating just beneath the surface. You don’t know what you’re becoming but you know it’s not nothing.

And suddenly, everything feels heavier. This room. This moment. The weight of what you might be able to do.

And the scary option of deciding not to do it.

You try to talk. “I mean... I’m just a college student. I can barely pass physics. I don’t think I’m competent to stop any catastrophes.”

Ben doesn’t laugh. He merely glances at you.

“You don’t have to be qualified,” he continues. “You just have to care.”

Mark adjusts slightly in his seat.

You sense him observing you. Not in a suspicious way, not yet, but near. Too close. His foot touches yours beneath the table again, grounding you.

But you’re still floating.

Your voice comes out softer than you intend it to. “Sometimes I wonder if power finds the wrong people.”

Ben raises his eyebrow. “You worried about Invincible?”

You hesitate.

Mark tenses, barely discernible.

“No,” you say. “Not really.”

Ben takes a drink of his coffee. “Then what are you worried about?”

You freeze.

Mark’s eyes are still on you. He doesn’t blink.

You swallow. “That... someone could have power and not even know what to do with it. That they might mess it up.”

Ben leans back. “Then they learn. Or they suffer the price for not learning.”

His words drop into your chest like bricks.

Mark eventually speaks, voice faint now. “It’s scary. Having power. Knowing others want something from you, even when they don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

You glance at him aggressively.

He catches your gaze for half a second before glancing away.

The air feels different. Thicker.

May attempts to cut through it, delicate and lovely. “Well. All I know is, if this Invincible kid’s trying his best out there, good for him. Not everyone can say the same.”

You nod absently. You’re hardly hearing her.

You’re watching the flash of a shadow on the wall. A reflection from the TV.

You think of your hands adhering to the faucet. The power in your fingers when you cracked a slice of bread by accident. The way your body understood how to land when you leaped off your house.

You think of the way your heart leaped when you saw Invincible on-screen not because he terrified you.

Because something in you whispered

You could do it too.

But what if you shouldn’t?

What if you’re not ready?

What if you never will be?

Ben’s words come back, circling in your thoughts now

“If you’ve got the power to stop something bad from happening, and you don’t… then it’s your fault when it does.”

You breathe in deep.

And realize...

You can’t sit motionless forever.

Mark squeezes your hand beneath the table as you clear the rest of the plates. “I’ve got class in, like, fifteen minutes,” he whispers. “But I’ll text you?”

You nod. “Of course.”

His eyes linger on yours a bit longer than they should.

You know he’s still thinking about the way you froze during the announcement.

You know he’s suspicious.

But he doesn’t press. He merely kisses your temple and gets his bag from where it’s resting against the wall. “Tell May she makes a killer omelet. And tell Ben I’ll return his newspaper. Probably.”

He gives you one last look before sliding out the front door.

And suddenly it’s just... silent.

Mark leaves for class with one more peek over his shoulder, and you offer him a faint wave like you're not vibrating out of your skin.

As soon as the door closes behind him, your body becomes motionless.

The air shifts.

The kitchen is too light, too heated. The eggs are cold on the plate, and May is humming gently as she rinses dishes, the water spraying in gentle, rhythmic spurts. Ben’s chair creaks as he leans back to finish the crossword, pen pounding on the table. It’s normal. Comfortable.

But you’re not.

You can’t sit still.

Can’t breathe well.

The strain within your chest is increasing, coiled like a spring, and the quiet just makes it worse. You murmur something about needing air, about wanting to clear your thoughts, and they don’t even flinch.

You slip out the back door.

Then you climb.

The side of the house shouldn’t feel this easy but it does. Your hands know where to go. Your feet stick when you don’t expect them to. The gutter moans quietly beneath your weight, but doesn’t shatter.

You crest the edge of the roof and swing a leg over, placing yourself on the angled shingles with your knees tucked under your arms. You sit there for a while, heart still hammering from everything, the morning, the news, Uncle Ben’s remarks.

‘With great power…’

You push your palm to your chest. You swear you can feel it buzzing under your ribs.

You’re not simply terrified.

You’re wired.

Every nerve feels like it’s had coffee and electricity for breakfast.

You peek across the street, apartment complexes, electricity wires, small lanes. And you wonder

Could you do it?

Really?

You stand.

The breeze sweeps your hair back. The street below looks so far away now. You rock on your heels, arms wide for balance, trying not to think about how easy you may fall.

But that’s not what terrifies you.

What terrifies you is that part of you wants to jump.

You flex your fingers and gaze down at your wrists. There’s a subtle, prickling heat just under the skin, like something waiting. You tighten your fists and murmur to yourself

“Okay. No pressure. Just... try not to faceplant into someone’s windshield.”

You aim.

Instinctively.

You don’t know how you know what you’re doing, but you do. You can feel the tightness in your forearm, the way your fingers want to lock into place a specific manner.

You close one eye, stretch your arm toward the chimney of the building across the alley, and

Thwip.

The sound is moist and abrupt, like silk ripping through the air.

A silvery-white thread bursts from your wrist and hits the brick. It sticks. Firm. Clean.

You gasp. “No freaking way.”

You tug. It holds.

Your heart is throbbing in your throat now. Your legs feel like they’re made of static. You glance at the web, then at your hands, then at the plummet to the earth below.

This is ridiculous.

This is risky.

This is exactly the type of thing you’d yell at someone else not to do.

But you were never going to walk away from this, were you?

You back up, breath frozen somewhere between your ribs, gaze focused on the web line stretching across the lane.

“Alright,” you mumble, partly to yourself, half to whatever strange new portion of your body made it happen. “Time to jump off a roof. Totally fine. People do that all the time in... cartoons.”

You take a couple steps ahead. Then a couple more. Then you’re running.

You dash straight toward the edge of the roof.

Your foot strikes the edge and you launch.

The wind rips past you suddenly. For half a second, you’re weightless. Flying.

Then the web draws tight.

Your arm yanks forward. Your body whips with it and suddenly you’re swinging.

Your legs flail. You scream, actually scream. It’s not cool. It’s not elegant. It’s half panic, part ecstasy, and your entire body is moving considerably quicker than your head.

You crash onto a fire escape.

Bounce off.

You clutch the web with both hands, dangling now, thirty feet from the ground and breathless, clinging by a thread of whatever you just produced.

You’re panting. Knees shaking.

But you’re laughing, too.

A high, exuberant, nearly insane laugh.

You’re alive.

You’re still up here.

“Okay!” you yell, voice breaking. “Not dead! Not dead!”

You swing one leg up, grab your foot against the edge of the building, and struggle upward, dragging yourself back onto a lower rooftop. You fall in a heap, gasping for air, arms shaking from the exertion.

You gaze up into the sky, still laughing, still surprised.

And then you look at your wrist again.

The skin there appears flushed, mildly heated, but not damaged. You stretch your fingers, and feel the same strain again like a second heartbeat inside your arm.

It’s you.

This power, it’s not from a machine. Not a serum. Not a weird event that left you shattered and radioactive.

It’s yours.

Part of your body now.

Maybe it always was.

You lie there, chest rising and falling, eyes wide, and murmur to the empty sky above

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

The wind doesn’t answer.

But in your thoughts, you hear it again:

“With great power comes great responsibility.”

You swallow hard.

And for the first time since this started... You comprehend what it genuinely means.

The next day, everything is louder.

The clink of the spoon in your cereal bowl. The sound of your pen tapping against your notebook. The hum of the fridge. It’s all sharper, like someone turned the world up a few notches and didn’t tell you.

You slept maybe four hours. Woke up tangled in blankets, your heart racing, flashes of rooftop swings still jolting through your mind like lightning.

You keep replaying the fall, the sound of your own scream, the terrifying thrill of not dying.

You should be resting.

But instead, you’re hunched over the kitchen table, staring at a newspaper like it’s going to explain how to live your life now.

May slides a mug of coffee next to your elbow. You don’t even flinch. She pauses.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

You force a smile. “Yeah. Just...brain fog.”

She presses a hand to your forehead, mock-serious. “You’re not allowed to get sick. We’ve already met our household’s emotional crisis quota for the month.”

You grin weakly. “Copy that.”

She moves away, humming again.

You glance down at the paper.

You weren’t even planning to read it. You just needed something to look at. Something boring. Something human. The comics page. Maybe the crossword. Something that doesn’t ask you to stick to walls or leap off roofs.

Instead, your eyes catch on a bolded headline tucked in the corner of page seven

“$3,000 CASH PRIZE! Local Wrestling Event Seeking Challengers” NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY “Step in the ring and stay in for 3 minutes!” ONE NIGHT ONLY! CASH PRIZE GUARANTEED.

You blink.

Your heart skips.

You reread it.

Then again.

You glance at the prize money. Three thousand dollars. Right there in bold. No fine print. No strings. Just survive for three minutes in a cage with a guy called “The Pulverizer.”

Your first thought is ‘That’s sketchy as hell.’

Your second thought is ‘But I could win.’

And your third thought, the one that settles like warm static under your skin is

‘Mark’s birthday is coming up.’

He hasn’t mentioned it, not really. But you remember. You always remember. He plays it off like birthdays aren’t a big deal, but you know better. He’s not the type to expect gifts. He never asks for anything. But you were there the year Amber forgot completely. The year Nolan didn’t call. You remember the look on his face. He never said anything, but it lingered.

And now there’s this necklace you saw online. Dumb. Simple. Nothing super flashy just a little silver tag with the coordinates of where you first kissed engraved on it.

You’ve never had the money for it.

But you could.

Your hand tightens around the edge of the newspaper.

You think about what your body did yesterday. About the way your bones felt when you jumped. The way the wind tasted when you flew. You think about your hands, your reflexes, your web. The power humming under your skin even now.

Three minutes in a ring?

You could do it blindfolded.

You’re halfway through planning it before you realize.

A hoodie. Loose jeans. Something to cover your face, nothing dramatic. You don’t need attention. You just need the prize. Get in, stay standing, get out.

You tell yourself it’s harmless.

You tell yourself it’s smart.

You tell yourself it’s not a big deal.

But under all of it...

You feel it again.

That need.

That pull.

The part of you that wants to test it. That wants to feel the adrenaline again. That wants to see just how far this goes.

And maybe, just maybe, you want to win.

Not for the necklace.

Not for Mark.

But for you.

You fold the paper slowly, set it aside, and whisper under your breath

“Three minutes. That’s nothing.”

You nearly don’t go.

You almost chicken out when you see the outside of the facility, a converted rec center with damaged signs and a banner duct-taped to the brick wall that proclaims "CAGE NIGHT" in a bold font.

You convince yourself you’ll simply scope it out.

Just watch.

But you brought your hoodie. And your gloves. And the mask you patched the night before out of a tattered beanie and an old red t-shirt.

And the small folded-up flier in your hoodie pocket has “$3,000 CASH” emblazoned in enormous strong letters, circled three times in red ink.

You can’t walk away now.

You head inside.

It’s louder than you thought. The bleachers are packed with rowdy, beer-sloshing males in football jerseys and cheap sunglasses. There’s a cloud in the air that smells like fried onions and old perspiration. The floor creaks under your boots as you check in with a teen at the fold-up table who doesn't even glance up from his phone.

You scrawl your name on the sign-in form.

Stage Name: The Human Spider.

It felt intelligent last night. Sciencey. Personal. A subtle little hint to what you are today.

Now, looking at it on the page, it feels stupid.

You’re escorted to the rear, a tiny hallway that might’ve previously been a supply closet, now full with tense males in tank tops stretching and moaning like they’re prepared for battle. You can hardly hear the announcer above the clamor of the crowd.

You take a breath.

This is for Mark. For his birthday. For the jewelry you couldn’t afford. The one with the small coordinates inscribed into the pendant, the place where you kissed him for the first time after school, right before it poured. He doesn’t even know you remember.

You do.

You remember everything.

You step into the hallway when they call your name.

The lights hit you first. Bright and unpleasant.

The music is booming. The floor sticky. The Pulverizer is already in the ring, throwing air punches and flashing his pecs at a bunch of people in the front row.

The announcer reaches over the ropes and swings a clipboard in the air. “And in this corner, we’ve got a last-minute sign-up... standing at what looks like... five-foot-something? Really? Okay. Give it up for... hmm... The Human Spider?”

You wince.

The crowd laughs.

“Wow,” the announcer says into the mike, dry as sandpaper. “That name sucks. What is this, a National Geographic tribute act?”

The crowd laughs harder.

Your cheeks burn under the mask.

You look down at your hands.

The announcer throws the clipboard behind him and shrugs. “Y’know what? Forget it. Let’s spice it up. Give it up for the one and only... SPIDER-WOMAN!”

The name hits like a cymbal crash.

People cheer.

You freeze.

That’s not what you wrote.

But it resonates around the gym, ringing in your ears, and suddenly it’s not a suggestion, it’s a branding.

You move, approaching the ring.

And the name walks with you.

The Pulverizer is constructed like a fridge and twice as mean-looking. He twists his neck as you climb between the ropes and snaps his knuckles like it’s intended to terrify you.

The ref mutters something about “three minutes or a pin.”

You nod absently.

Your heart is thumping. But it’s not fear.

It’s something different.

That pull in your arms.

That quiet vibration in your center.

You’re ready.

The bell rings.

He comes at you fast, a swinging punch aiming at your jaw.

You duck. Smooth.

He misses by a mile.

You turn, whirl behind him, and without thinking, put your foot into his back.

It’s hardly even a hard kick.

But he flies.

He slams against the ropes. Bounces off. Crashes to the mat like someone dropped a couch.

Silence.

Then, the audience erupts.

The ref appears startled.

The Pulverizer is knocked out.

Not moving.

The bell sounds again.

You won.

Backstage smells like dampness and crushed hopes.

The promoter’s office is merely a folding table with a cash box and a clipboard. He doesn’t glance up when you step in.

You’re still shaking. Not from terror. From energy. From the way your whole body feels like it just woke up for the first time.

“I won,” you say. “Three grand, right?”

The promoter nibbles on a toothpick. Shrugs. “You didn’t last three minutes.”

You blink. “What?”

“You knocked him out in forty-five seconds. That’s not what the fans paid to see.”

You open your mouth. Close it.

He tosses a single hundred-dollar cash onto the table. Doesn’t even glance at you.

“There. Take it or leave it.”

You gaze at it.

It’s not even crisp.

You take it.

You leave.

You’re halfway down the corridor when the yelling starts.

A door slams.

You hear the promoter shouting, someone stole from him. Took the lockbox.

Then you see him.

A guy in a gray hoodie.

Running.

Fast.

Lockbox tucked beneath one arm, eyes wild.

He establishes eye contact with you as he rushes by.

You could stop him.

You know it.

You could pin him to the wall with one hand.

You don’t move.

The promoter stumbles out seconds later, breathless and red-faced. “HEY! YOU-YOU SAW HIM! WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP HIM?!”

You meet his gaze.

And say, “Not my problem.”

Then you stroll out into the night.

The air is chilly against your face. The wind tastes like metal and rain.

You open your palm and gaze at the hundred-dollar bill.

It feels heavier now.

And for the first time since you received your powers…

You feel little.

You’re almost home when the lights appear.

Not the normal cozy porch sort. Not the glimmer of passing headlights. These are brighter, colder, red and blue flashing against the black like alarms shouting into the sky.

You stop at the end of your street.

Crowd forming.

Voices mumbling.

Sirens still booming in the air, despite the patrol vehicles are already parked.

People stand on the street in slippers and bathrobes, arms folded close, heads turned toward the familiar tiny house at the corner. Your home.

And suddenly, you know.

You know.

You run.

You don’t ask. You don’t shout. You just run.

The mob swirls around you as you surge through. Someone grabs your arm,“Hey, kid, you can’t be here-” but you pull free and dart under the tape before anybody stops you.

Your steps slow as you move passed the cruiser.

You saw the car first.

The passenger door is still wide open. Headlights throwing lengthy shadows onto the pavement. The engine is off, but the keys are still in the ignition.

Then you notice the form on the ground.

A body.

Unmoving.

Covered in a white sheet.

But not all the way.

One hand sticks out, familiar and aged, fingers curved just slightly, like they were grasping for something.

You recognize the ring.

Your throat locks.

You walk closer, slowly, like your body’s fighting to refute what your eyes already know.

A police officer tries to stop you. “Miss, please don’t-”

You ignore him.

You don’t utter a thing.

You fall to your knees beside the body and look at the hand like it would move. Like this is all a misunderstanding and any second he’ll wake up and tell you to stop being theatrical.

But he doesn’t move.

And that sheet isn’t raised.

You notice his sneakers. His watch. The corner of his flannel shirt. The same one he was wearing when he made you coffee this morning.

And suddenly it strikes.

Not everything at once.

Not like a scream.

But like water rising in your chest, sluggish, choking.

Your breath hitches. Your shoulders tremble.

Your fingers press to your mouth like they’re trying to hold everything in.

You let out a sound you don’t identify. Guttural. Choked.

Your vision blurs, and suddenly you’re weeping so hard you can’t see. You hunch forward, forehead on your knees, body shaking like it’s trying to break apart.

You don’t know how long you sit like that.

In some time, May is there.

She kneels alongside you, not saying anything, simply drawing you into her arms. Her hands massage your hair, but even she’s shaking. Her breath stutters on your skull.

“He just, he tried to help,” she murmurs. “They said it was a mugging. That he said for them to stop. That he tried to do the right thing and-and then the man just-”

She can’t finish.

You don’t beg her to.

Because you already know.

You see it again in your mind, the man who rushed by you in the corridor.

Gray hoodie. Lockbox clasped to his chest. Eyes wild and terrified.

You stepped aside.

You informed the promoter “Not my problem.”

Now it is.

You stare back to Ben’s corpse. You want to reach for him. You want to take it back.

But you can’t.

He’s gone.

Because of you.

A deep, scorching fire grows in your gut, sadness entwined with something harsher. Anger.

At yourself.

At the man who pulled the gun.

At the version of you who walked away.

You wipe your face.

Stand up slowly, eyes burning, hands clutched firmly at your sides.

You’re not sobbing anymore.

Your jaw is locked. Shoulders squared. Your pulse pounds with purpose.

Because now you know what you’re going to do.

You’re going to find him.

You don’t care what it takes.

This isn’t about becoming a hero.

Not yet.

This is personal.

The world is ringing.

You can’t hear May weeping behind you.

You can’t hear the murmur of the neighbors, the cops attempting to gently take her back into the home, the paramedics speaking to each other.

All you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears and the sound of your feet hitting concrete.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

You run.

Harder than you ever have before.

The wind slashes at your face, and your hoodie flares behind you as you speed down the street with no strategy. No direction. Just purpose. Just rage.

The night is harsh. Cold. The streetlights make everything gold and wrong. And down in your breast, underneath the shock and the sadness, lies something else

Heat.

Boiling.

Growing.

Your fingers twitch. Your knuckles hurt.

You hear the words again.

“If you’ve got the power to stop something bad from happening…”

Your teeth grind together. You don’t finish the statement in your brain. You can’t.

You see his face. The man in the hallway.

Gray hoodie. Lockbox clasped to his chest.

You stepped aside.

And now Ben’s dead.

You scale a building without thinking. One jump. Then another. Your fingertips touch brick and metal and your legs propel you upward like you’re weightless.

You spring onto the rooftop and sprint full-speed across the tarpaper and gravel, leaping between buildings, air burning in your lungs.

Below, you spot him.

The same man. Same hoodie. Moving through side alleys swiftly, scared, peering over his shoulder like the devil is behind him.

He’s right.

You follow.

He slips inside by a side entrance of a nearby warehouse. You land on the roof seconds later, staring down through a dirty skylight.

Dim lights flicker. It’s abandoned. Half-packed containers and piled shelves threw lengthy shadows across the cement floor. Puddles of rain pour from fractures in the ceiling. The walls are coated in graffiti and lost messages.

You creep down the side, quiet, hands adhering to the wall like magnets.

You drop to the floor without a sound.

Then, from deeper in the warehouse, a noise.

A door creaking. A mumbled curse.

You step forward.

Fast.

You grab him toward the back.

He turns barely in time, eyes wild.

Recognition shoots over his face like lightning.

"You-" he starts.

You don’t let him finish.

You move. Fast. You grab him by the jacket and slam him into a support beam with a crack. The sound echoes. Dust falls from the rafters.

"Why did you kill him?" you demand, your voice like gravel.

He struggles. "I didn’t-I didn’t mean to, I just-he surprised, me, dude! I didn’t know!"

"You shot him."

He’s shaking now. "It wasn’t supposed to go that way!"

He swings. A fist to your stomach. It barely connects. You slam him back again, harder. He gasps.

He stumbles free, pushing off the beam, and dashes for the stairway at the far side of the warehouse.

You chase him.

He scrambles up to the catwalk level, high above the floor, past rusted-out rails and an old dangling chain.

You follow.

You reach the top as he struggles along the platform, nearly tripping on a puddle of old rainwater gathered near the edge.

"Don’t come any closer!" he cries, drawing a little blade from his jacket, holding it out like a threat.

You stop.

Your breath is steady. Measured.

He’s panting.

"You don’t get to walk away from this," you say, quietly. “You killed someone. You killed my uncle.”

"It was an accident!"

"So was this.”

You lunge.

He slashes frantically. You dodge. Grab his wrist. Slam it against the railing. The knife falls.

He panics.

Backpedals.

And steps incorrect.

The railing creaks.

Then breaks.

He slips backward, falling into the corroded crack.

You reach out.

You grab him.

Your hand wraps around his wrist, firmly. His body jerks to a standstill, hanging twenty feet above the concrete floor.

He yells.

Your grasp slips slightly, his skin is slippery with perspiration and blood. You tighten.

“I’ve got you,” you gasp, breath shaking.

He glances up.

And you see his face again.

The fear.

The recognition.

"You could’ve stopped me earlier,” he says, voice shaking. “You-you let me go.”

You freeze.

Your stomach lowers.

And in that hesitation

Your fingers lose him.

He slides.

Falls.

You lunge too late.

CRACK.

The sound of his body hitting the hard floor is definitive.

Sickening.

You look.

You lookat the fractured figure below.

The silence.

The quiet.

Your hands quiver.

You back away from the railing. Stumble. Fall to your knees.

He’s dead.

You didn’t mean to murder him.

You wanted justice.

Closure.

Something.

But this?

This feels like neither.

You don’t know how you got there.

You’re perched on a rooftop someplace blocks away, high above the street. The wind rips through your hoodie like razors, and your body hurts from the pursuit, from the fall, from the guilt.

You’re curled into yourself, arms wrapped tight over your knees.

Your mask lays crumpled beside you.

In your palm is the hundred-dollar note the promoter gave you.

The paper’s moist now, smeared, discolored. You unfold it, gaze at the ink spilling onto your hand.

Then you rip it in half.

Then again.

You let the fragments disperse off the side of the building, fluttering down into the lane like dead leaves.

You sit in the dark, your breath short, your face sticky with dried perspiration and tears.

And for the first time since this began, you say it out loud.

"...It was my fault."

And you mean it.

The church is too silent.

Too still.

It’s one of those modest neighborhood chapels that smells like dust and wood polish and something slightly fragrant. Rows of pews border the central aisle. Candles glimmer softly at the altar. The organ is silent, but for the occasional murmur of aged pipes adapting to the heat.

You sit in the front row, hands folded in your lap, eyes distracted.

You can’t recall how you got here.

You recall the night. The fall. The sound. The way your hand slid.

But this?

This is fuzzy. It everything moved too fast. The coroner. The papers. The casket. The outfit you didn’t know still fit.

Ben is sleeping just a few feet away, locked within a pinewood box you had to help May pick out.

Because she couldn’t do it alone.

And neither could you.

You’ve scarcely uttered a word since that night.

The silence is easy.

May hasn’t asked where you were. What happened. She’s mourning, buried so deep in grief that she rarely eats, barely looks up. She clutches your hand when people speak to her, but never too firmly. Like she’s frightened of breaking you too.

Your eyes wander toward her now.

She’s seated next you, clothed in gray, slimmer somehow. Her face is pale, but her jaw is firm, composed in the manner only someone who’s gone through this before could manage.

She hasn’t cried today.

You have.

Not loudly.

Not noticeably.

But your hands won’t stop shaking.

You’ve had to sit on them the whole time simply to keep motionless.

The service goes on in a flurry of eulogies and silent songs. Someone reads a chapter from Psalms. Another neighbor adds something about Ben constantly volunteering to trim their grass, even in the heat. You hear the words, excellent man, amazing, kind, always had a tale to tell, and they all land like stones in your chest.

Because it’s all true.

And he’s gone.

Because of you.

Your eyes hurt again.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Not now.

You can’t weep again. Not here.

Not with everyone watching.

Not with him watching.

Because somewhere between the commencement of the ceremony and now, Mark Grayson sneaked into the back row.

You spotted him as you turned slightly, head down, arms wrapped tight across his chest, clad in black.

You haven’t seen him since the day before it all happened. Since the match. Since before.

You didn’t text him. You didn’t explain.

And still… he came.

Your stomach knots.

He captures your sight briefly.

Nods once.

You glance away.

The service concludes.

People rise in silent clumps. They converse in low tones. Some leave flowers at the coffin. Some embrace May. One woman, a friend of Ben’s from down the block, lays a hand on your shoulder gently.

You attempt to smile.

It doesn’t reach your eyes.

Eventually the church empties, sluggish as a tide pushing back. Only a few individuals remain now. May is chatting gently to the preacher.

And you’re still sitting in the same location, unable to move.

Then there’s a gentle shuffle of shoes approaching the pew behind you.

You glance up.

It’s Mark.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

He just sits down next you.

His suit’s a tad too small in the shoulders. His tie’s crooked. His hair’s still wet, probably raced here straight from class or a shift.

But he looks at you like he sees you.

Really sees you.

“I didn’t know if I should come,” he replies gently.

You shake your head. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

Your throat tightens.

He stares down at your hands, still curled tight in your lap.

Then at your face.

“I’m sorry,” he says. And he means it. All of it.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

He’s quiet for a minute. Then, a bit softer,“You okay?”

You nearly laugh.

It comes out strangled.

“Not really,” you say. “But thanks for asking.”

Another beat of quiet.

“He talked about you.”

Mark’s brow furrows. “Ben?”

“Yeah,” you mumble. “He liked you.”

Mark delivers a sorrowful smile. “I liked him too.”

You nod.

And suddenly, as if all at once, it breaks.

Your shoulders tremble. Your face twists. You cover your lips with your palm, but the sound still escapes, a breathless sob, piercing and abrupt and dreadful.

Mark moves without thinking.

He pulls you in.

His arms wrap around you like a shield, and you bury your face into his shoulder, shivering, breathing, trying to calm yourself, trying not to make a spectacle, but failing.

“I’m sorry,” you choke. “I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t,” he urges, his voice low in your ear. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

“I let him die.”

Mark stiffens slightly but doesn’t let go.

You didn’t intend to say that.

Not like that.

Not out loud.

You close your eyes.

Mark doesn't ask what you mean.

He just holds you closer.

You don’t deserve it.

But you’re thankful regardless.

The sun is low by the time you walk home.

You’re alone.

Mark offered to walk you, but you shook your head.

You needed the room.

You pass stores with their lights out. Apartment windows shining soft yellow. An aging couple strolling their dog. A group of teens giggling on someone’s porch.

Life carries on.

Even when yours doesn’t.

Even when something in you is gone.

You approach the corner where Ben was shot.

There’s chalk on the ground now. Someone sketched a heart. Wrote his name. Left a flower in a glass jar.

You squat beside it. Touch the chalk dust.

And then you do the one thing you haven’t done in days.

You whisper

“I’m sorry.”

The breeze blows gently.

No reply.

But something moves in your chest.

Not forgiveness.

Not peace.

Just… resolve.

Your room. Your silence. The beginning of anything fresh.

The home creaks in the calm.

May’s already sleeping, or at least pretending to be. You passed her room on the way up the stairs and noticed the gentle bulb glow beneath the door, the shadow of her sitting in the chair by the window. She doesn’t cry when she thinks you can hear.

You don’t weep either.

Not anymore.

There’s nothing left in you to spill.

You sit on your bed, legs crossed, looking at the closed closet door. Your funeral garments are balled in the hamper. The sleeves of Ben’s flannel droop off the side of your work chair. The one he used to wear when he prepared breakfast, even in summer. The one he was wearing when-

You squeeze your palms into your eyes.

Stop.

Focus.

You take a deep breath. Let it out gently.

Then you get up.

Open the closet.

Dig past the old pants, the half-broken Halloween costume from two years ago, the box of notebooks, till your palm brushes the little duffel bag you carried home two nights ago.

The one with your improvised wrestling costume still inside.

You pull it out and unzip it carefully.

The hoodie. The gloves. The mask. It smells like perspiration and dust and remorse.

You drop it on your bed.

And then, you stroll over to your workstation.

Pull open every drawer.

Scissors. Safety pins. Sewing kit. A set of iron-on patches you never used. A red turtleneck. Your old jogging sneakers. Fabric leftovers from May’s quilting bag. An old gymnastics leotard you outgrew but never threw away.

You put it all out in rows like evidence at a murder scene.

Then you sit.

And you begin.

The scissors aren’t sharp enough.

You cut nonetheless.

Your fingers hurt from keeping the cloth taut, but you keep going. The leotard becomes your foundation layer, red, form-fitting, functional. The turtleneck sleeves get sewed on with weak stitching. You strengthen the seams where you can.

You pull a sweatshirt sleeve inside out and start tracing the spider sign by hand.

It doesn’t come out perfect.

But you don’t care.

You sew it on.

You cut the red patches into jagged cuffs and stitch them on your forearms. They’re symbolic. They’re intended to be. They’re for Ben.

When you slide the mask over your face, a new one, red with black stitching around the eyes, you gaze into the mirror for a long time.

You don’t look like yourself.

Not really.

Your eyes are the only thing still visible, and even they feel like someone else’s.

You grab for the hoodie again, this time, not to wear it.

You put it over your lap. Fingers smooth the cloth carefully. Gently.

Ben gave you this sweatshirt years ago.

You were thirteen, soaking from a deluge, shivering in the car after going home from school in the rain. He didn’t even say anything. Just took it off and put it over you.

You never gave it back.

Now you cut a portion of it away, cautious, steady, and fold it into a patch.

You stitch it inside the wrist of your glove.

Close to your pulse.

You want it to be the last thing you touch every time you put it on.

It’s nearly 3 a.m. when you finally finish.

The outfit is rough. A patchwork of reclaimed cloth and irregular stitching. The mask moves slightly to one side. The spider on your chest is asymmetrical.

But it’s yours.

It’s not about cameras or fame.

It’s not for glory or fighting in rings.

It’s not even for revenge anymore.

It’s a promise.

You settle back in your work chair, still wearing it. The metropolis hums outside your window. You may hear the occasional honk, a dog barking someplace far off.

You flex your fingers within your gloves.

And murmur, “I’m ready.”

But you’re not.

Not really.

Not yet.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

Ben is standing in the kitchen in his flannel, flipping pancakes like he’s on a culinary show. The radio’s on. Something aged and comforting. You’re sitting at the counter, arms folded on the tile, yawning into your sleeve.

“You ever think about what you wanna be?” he asks, unprompted.

You raise an eyebrow. “In life?”

“No,” he smirks. “In a dream.”

You snort. “I don’t know. Someone who doesn’t set the smoke alarm off attempting to microwave rice.”

He smiles, pours more batter into the pan.

“I think you could be something really special,” he continues, not looking at you.

You blink. “Because I make good rice?”

“Because you care,” he adds. “You act tough. You’re funny. You’re clever. But deep down? You care. Even when you don’t want to.”

You gaze at him.

He flips a pancake with impeccable timing.

“I just hope,” he says, “that when it counts, when it really, really counts, you remember to use that. Whatever you do, wherever you end up... I just hope you choose to do the right thing.”

You roll your eyes. “Great, thanks, Yoda.”

He grins. “Hey, I’m older than Yoda.”

You toss a napkin at him.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

You stand at your window now, the complete outfit clinging tight to your frame. The fabric tugs slightly at your elbows. The mask is down, yet your fingers tremble at your sides.

You open the window carefully.

The wind rushes in. Cold. Bracing.

You step onto the fire escape.

The city stretches out before you in a sparkling grid of movement and commotion.

You squat low.

Close your eyes.

Feel it.

That tug in your center.

The one that knows what you are today.

The one that instructs you to leap.

Ben isn’t here to witness this.

But you are.

And it means you have to try.

You rocket forth into the night.

The web fires before your brain fully instructs it to.

Thwip.

You swing.

Not perfectly.

You almost lose your grasp.

But you land hard on the next building over, gasping, heart pumping.

And then you laugh, breathless and half-crazy.

Because you’re alive.

Because he isn’t.

Because this is the only thing that makes sense now.

You glance out at the skyline.

You put the mask over your face.

And say it, quiet, not to the world.

To him.

“I promise, Ben.”

You leap again.

This time, you don’t fall.

The wind stings your eyes.

Your second swing is smoother than your first. Your third is almost graceful. You’re still getting the hang of it, how much pressure to use, how far to leap, how to twist your body midair so the landing doesn’t jar your knees but you’re improving fast.

Your body knows what it’s doing even when your brain doesn’t.

You land on a rooftop with a low thud, breathing hard, heart thudding against your ribs. The city stretches around you like a maze of light and steel. Cars crawl below. Horns echo. Steam rises from vents like phantom trails.

You’re wearing the suit. Your suit.

And you’re out here.

Doing something.

Finally.

The first hour is quiet. You perch on rooftops. Watch alleys. Follow sirens from a distance and stop short when you realize the cops have it handled.

You help a guy pick up a box of dropped produce. He thanks you like you’re a cosplayer.

It’s not glamorous.

But it feels right.

Then you hear it, a scream.

From somewhere below.

You don’t wait.

You drop from the roof and fire a web mid-fall. You swing around a corner, flip over a railing, and land in a narrow alley between two apartment buildings. A man’s got someone pinned against the wall, clutching a purse, shouting. The woman is struggling, kicking, trying to twist away.

Your feet hit the pavement hard.

“Hey,” you bark, voice lower, more serious than you expect. “Back off.”

The man turns.

Scoffs.

“Oh, come on,” he mutters. “Another costumed freak? What is this, comic con?”

You shoot a web.

It hits the purse and yanks it from his hand, sticking it to the opposite wall.

He startles. Turns back to you.

“I’m not in the mood,” you say.

He lunges.

You dodge easily.

It’s instinct now.

You sweep his legs with a fluid motion and drop him hard onto the pavement. He groans, tries to rise. You web his hands to the ground.

The woman runs, clutching the purse once it peels loose.

You wave faintly.

Then crouch beside the man, inspecting your own handiwork.

“Okay,” you mumble. “That went better than expected.”

Then, crash.

Something loud above you. A blur of motion.

You spring back just as a figure drops from the sky.

And lands.

Hard.

In front of you.

You stumble into a crouch, webbing ready in your wrist.

Then stop.

Because you recognize him.

Yellow and blue suit.

Black hair.

Big lenses. Sharp. jawline.

Invincible.

You’ve seen him on the news. You’ve watched him toss tanks, punch asteroids, argue with government mouthpieces and win.

And now he’s standing in front of you, slightly breathless, looking between you and the guy you just webbed to the floor.

“Oh,” he says.

He tilts his head.

“You already got him.”

You blink.

“...Yeah.”

He nods, eyebrows lifting. “Nice.”

You glance at the guy. “Thanks. He tried to do a whole ‘I’m the big bad guy’ thing. Didn’t go great for him.”

Invincible laughs.

It’s annoyingly charming.

“Seriously, though,” he says, crossing his arms. “Not bad. You’re new?”

You shrug. “Depends who’s asking.”

He smirks. “Guy who just flew in to stop a mugging that clearly didn’t need him.”

You huff a laugh. “You’re late, by the way.”

“Fashionably.”

You both stare at each other a second too long.

You fold your arms. “So, do you always land like that? Or was that just to show off?”

He raises an eyebrow. “What, the superhero pose?”

“It was very dramatic. Big ‘I’m the main character’ energy.”

“I am the main character,” he deadpans.

You roll your eyes under the mask. “Wow. Humble too.”

Another beat.

He runs a hand through his hair. It flops back exactly how it was before. Like gravity loves him too much to interfere.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” he says.

“That’s kind of the point,” you reply.

He smiles. “Mysterious. I dig it.”

You pretend your stomach doesn’t flip.

He takes a breath, suddenly softer. Looks past you at the alley wall. Then up at the stars, like he’s thinking too hard.

“Honestly, I just needed to get out,” he murmurs.

You tilt your head.

“Rough day?”

He nods. Then shrugs. “Yeah. My girlfriend’s going through something. Heavy stuff. I think I made it worse. So I figured I’d... you know.”

“Fly halfway across the city and interrupt someone else’s win?”

He chuckles again. “Pretty much.”

You smile faintly, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

Girlfriend.

You should’ve guessed. Guys like him? They’re always taken.

Still, something about how he says it, soft, a little sad, makes your stomach twist differently.

You step closer to the edge of the alley and look out at the city.

“Sometimes getting out doesn’t help,” you say.

“Yeah,” he replies. “But it’s all I could think to do.”

He glances back at you, expression unreadable.

“I’m trying,” he adds. “She’s important to me. I just... don’t always know how to help.”

You nod.

You know that feeling too well.

“Maybe she doesn’t need you to fix anything,” you say. “Maybe she just needs you to stay.”

He looks at you, really looks.

Like he’s trying to place something he doesn’t quite recognize.

You don’t let him.

You fire a web and swing up to the fire escape, crouching on the railing.

“Anyway,” you call down, “nice meeting you, Invincible.”

He blinks.

“Wait, what do I call you?”

You pause.

Think for a second.

Then smile behind the mask.

“Spider-Woman.”

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

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