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Catch Me

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Fluff-uary Prompt - Trust

Prompt - ‘Keep your eyes on me and everything will be just fine, trust me.’

The sound of screaming from six blocks away had Peter launching himself from the roof he was currently perched upon, his pulse racing as the cries of children, screams of adults, panic from everybody continued to reach his ears. He could already see the smoke rising up into the air, thick and black as he swung closer, dread reaching his stomach as he entered the neighbourhood and silently, selfishly, begging it wasn’t your apartment.

Those pleas went unheard though as Spider-Man swung around the corner, freezing momentarily against a building as he watched flames engulf your apartment building. He swallowed against the lump in throat as he swung into action, entering the building through a window that had smashed from the heat pressure.

He made quick work of searching the lower floors where the flames were at their worst, helped four children, one teenager, two adults and dog out onto the street before he re-entered the building, panic running through his veins as he took in just how many scared people were trapped up here.

“C’mon, I gotchu,” He said as he scooped two children up into his arms, gently instructing them to hold on as he made quick but careful work of getting them outside. He went door to door helping everyone he came across but no matter how many people he helped his thoughts kept going back to you.

It wasn’t like he could run up to your apartment to check you weren’t home, not with the flames spreading higher and higher like it was nothing. There were still six more floors for him to clear and he could practically feel the fire under his feet.

Quickly he managed to clear the next five floors before he was finally able to get to yours. The flames had spread up to the floor below him and he still had six rooms to check.

He knocked on each of the doors as he made his way to your apartment, thankful that they were all empty with the exception of one where an elderly woman stood in fear. He quickly made his way to her, glancing at your door but knowing he had to make sure everybody was safe.

Peter began to web his way back up the apartment building, his heart stopping as the floors finally began to cave in on themselves. He watched frozen in horror as different parts of the building fell to the grounded and pleaded desperately, begging that you weren’t home.

Please don’t be home.

Peter couldn’t get up to your apartment, there was nowhere for him to web to, no place for him to get his footing. He managed to land on one of the lower floors, the fire dancing dangerously close to the suit, sweat beading under the mask as his view was obscured with the thick layer of smoke.

But then he heard a nose that turned his blood cold.

He heard your cry, heard you beg for help.

Peter turned his head upwards, quickly spotting you as you clung to the window sill, the only wall still standing, though for how long Peter wasn’t sure. He looked around, desperate for a way to get to you but there wasn’t one, either it was covered by flames or quickly crumbling to the ground.

“Oh my God.” He heard you gasp, choking on sobs and smoke as you looked down.

“Hey,” Peter called, trying to figure out a plan. He didn’t have long.

He watched you look around wildly before finding him through the smoke, sobbing in relief as you realised Spider-Man was there.

“You’re gonna be ok,” He told you, darting past the flames so he was directly underneath you.

“I can’t,” You tried to tell him but the smoke had you coughing and Peter felt his heart stop as the building shook, watched as you slipped down, barely managing to catch yourself on the window sill with a scared scream.

“You have to let go,” He yelled up to you, watching as you looked down at him with wide, scared eyes.

“What!?” You shouted back, looking past Spider-Man and down at the drop before shaking your head widely and clinging further onto the ledge. “I can’t!”

“I’ll catch you,” He promised, “I’m gonna catch you.”

He watched as you continued to shake your head, tears that filled your eyes finally made their way over the edge and down your cheeks as you sobbed, curling further into the wall in a desperate attempt to hold on but you could feel your fingers slipping, could feel the flames getting closer.

Peter watched them get closer, getting too close to you. He needed to get to you now but he couldn’t, the only way he could save you was for you to let go.

“Y/N, I’m going to catch you,” He swore but you just continued to look past him, look down at the drop.

Peter sobbed himself, he couldn’t lose you.

“Hey, look at me, look at me Y/N/N,” He called, watching as your eyes flickered from the ground to him before looking past him again, “That’s it, eyes on me,” Finally your eyes settled on him, watching him with fear clear in them.

“Attagirl,” He said, making sure your attention was solely on him as he reached up and ripped the mask off.

“Peter!” You gasped, choking out a sob as you looked down at him.

“Y/N, baby, you gotta trust me right now,” He called up to you, watching as you stared at him in shock before you took a deep breath.

“I trust you,” You told him, more tears making their way down your face.

“That’s my girl,” He smiled, watching as you nodded, psyching yourself up to do as he instructed. “You just gotta let go baby, I’ll catch you.”

“Promise?” You asked, voice too soft for a normal person to hear but Peter picked it up as clearly as if you’d shouted it at him.

“I promise baby, I promise.” He assured you, blinking back his own tears not wanting to scare you even more, he needed you to trust him right now.

“Let go,” He told you, watching as you scrunched your eyes close and, just as the flames came closer to you, the heat almost painful, you let go off the ledge and felt yourself fall.

It seemed to last for far too long, fear flooded you as you realised Peter wasn’t going to catch you. And then you felt your body stop suddenly in the air, the force of it ripping the breath out of your lungs but then you opened your eyes and saw Peter above you. You let out a choked sob as you looked from him to the floor, seeing that you were safe.

Peter had saved you.

Peter pulled on the web that had attached to you, pulled it until you were within arms reach of him before he pulled you up into his arms. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your face nestling into his chest as you soaked his suit with tears.

Peter held you tightly, one hand resting on the back of your head and keeping it against his chest as he lowered the two of you to the ground before he carried you away from the flames and pieces of falling building, his mask firmly back in place before he stepped out onto the street.

People cheered around the two of you as Peter set you down on the floor but you refused to let go of him, you couldn’t if you wanted to.

“Are you ok if I swing us to my house?” He asked you, voice soft and gentle.

He smiled sadly as you nodded into his chest before he shot a web and started in the direction of his house as carefully as he could, you clinging to him tightly the whole time.

It wasn’t long before the two of you arrived, thankfully Aunt May was working the night shift so it was only the two of you home. Peter hadn’t let you go though, instead he carried you up to his bedroom and over to his bed.

He held you close for what felt like hours, neither of you saying anything as you came to terms with the fact that you were safe.

Peter had saved you.

Spider-Man had saved you.

“You saved me.” You mumbled against his chest, voice thick from crying and the smoke.

“I’ll always save you,” He promised as he placed a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Spider-Man.”

“I don’t care, I’m just glad you’re him. I wouldn’t, couldn’t have trusted anyone else like that.” You told him honestly, trusting a man in a mask seemed ridiculous, trust Peter Parker though, that came as easily as breathing.

“I’ve never been so scared in my life.” He told you, causing you to let out a slightly hysterical laugh.

“You and me both.”

“Thank you for trusting me,” He said softly after a few moments of silence in which you had let your eyes close and slowly began to fall asleep.

“Thank you for catching me.” You replied equally as quiet as you shifted closer to him, not wanting to let him go.

Eventually you drifted off to sleep but Peter remained awake as he listened to the sound of your breathing, the steady beat of your heart…the reminders that you were ok, you were alive, he had saved you.

The thought of losing you, the thought of him not catching you sent a pain through his heart that he couldn’t have explained if he tried. It left him feeling cold and empty, the thought of not being quick enough and seeing your lifeless body…

Peter took a deep, steadying breath, watching as you cuddled closer to him and pushed those thoughts away because you were here and you were ok.

He had caught you.

He let himself lay with you for an hour or so before he untangled himself from you, smiling as you grumpily mumbled in your sleep before curling into his pillow. He hated to do it but he had to get the Spider-Man suit off before Aunt May came home.

He made quick work of stripping out of it, slipping into a soft pair of pyjama pants before he turned to you and gently started pulling your jeans off, pausing twice as you shifted. It wasn’t long before he pulled a pair of his own pyjama bottoms onto you and climbed back into bed, pulling you into his arms again.

He placed a lingering kiss to the top of your head before closing his eyes, focusing on your heartbeat that let him know you were alive.

“I love you so much, baby.” He told your sleeping figure before he finally drifted off to sleep himself.

____________

AG Peter Parker Taglist (Link in bio to add yourself!) - @haroldpotterson, @imjustassaneasyou, @dindjarinsspouse, @rottenstyx, @asherhunterx, @powerpuffluuvv, @filmsbyblair, @mrs-scottmccall, @roseslovedreams, @janesofia7, @cinderellacauseshebroke, @black-rose-29, @wierdstark, @runawaywithmyghost, @chaoticevilbakugo, @ppgrayson, @onyourgoddamnleft, @divanca2006, @90sbella, @siriuslyfearless, @mystic-writings, @levisbloodcut, @mrs-brekker15, @alexxavicry, @sweetdreamsjg, @alwaysclassyeagle, @peterpgrace, @asherhunterx, @vx-vexedvixen, @ordinarylokix, @carmellasworld, @ellabellabus07, @battinsonn, @labellapeaky, @lokismidnight, @maeve-7, @caediae, @benhardyslut, @apolysius, @jasontoddthezombie, @instabull, @qfton, @honkroselyn, @inflatabledinosaurs19, @lazysheepperfection, @theodorenottswhore, @parkershoco, @gal-obsessed-with-marvel, @father-violet, @ur-mom21, @rosesinmars, @mystic-writings, @mmaiamore, @izzyyy-1, @littleredjason, @mmaiamore, @lizamango, @beaconings, @leftmooninfluencer, @urbestgrrl, @randomwriter1021, @lazysheepperfection, @lucyysthings , @morganaah, @sylvies4ever, @taylordidsomthingbad, @kaitieskidmore1

Trust Your Senses

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Febuwhump Prompt - Spiked Drink

Prompt - ‘All you have to do is believe in your senses, just do that.’

You were in desperate need of a break. It felt like you had been staring at the same four walls of the library for weeks now, you’d hardly seen your friends, seen even less of your boyfriend and were relieved that finals were finally over.

The first weekend after finals were done found you in your dorm, adding the finishing touches to yourself before you grabbed your keys and phone and made your way out of the room with your friends ready to celebrate one of their birthdays.

Peter had been invited but had declined, saying he still had his own studies. You’d felt put out by that, not having seen him properly for two or so weeks but knew school came first.

The club was loud and packed as your group walked in, making your way to the bar and ordering a few drinks so none of you had to queue up again before making quick work of them all. It wasn’t long before you were on the dance floor with them, rolling your eyes and smacking off a guy who wrapped his arms around your waist.

You glanced back and watched him glare at you, even with the alcohol in your system something about him set your senses on edge but you shrugged it off as your friend held another drink out for you.

You couldn’t say for sure just how long you stayed on the dance floor, more drinks being pushed into your hand without you even checking who was handing them to you, but eventually you felt light headed.

You figured it was a mix of the flashing lights, alcohol and loud music so headed to the bar and slurred out a request for some water. By the time you’d drained the cup you turned around, back to the dance floor, and tried to find your friends but couldn’t see any of them with the lights and fog.

You swayed dangerously, grabbing hold of the bar as you felt sick build up in your stomach, burning your throat and with a glance at the line for the bathroom you steadied yourself before stumbling out of the front door, sighing in relief at the fresh air.

The bouncer at the door caught you as you wobbled again, held you up as you giggled and took your shoes off blaming your lack of balance on them before walking further away from the club, glad to have a moment to yourself.

You let your eyes fall closed and leaned your head back against a brick wall, begging the world to stop spinning and missing the guy who walked over to you and pulled you forward, far enough so that he could wrap his arm around your shoulder, tugging you into his chest.

You frowned as you pried your eyes open, though it was difficult as they felt so heavy but you managed and saw a man you’d only seen once before, it was the man from back in the club, the one who had tried to dance with you but got shrugged off instead.

You tried pushing against his chest but couldn’t lift your arms as they suddenly felt like weights against your side and you could only groan as the man pulled you along.

“Hey, she ok?” You heard somebody ask and saw the bouncer who had held you up.

“Think she’s had too much to drink,” The guy told him, an easy, charming smile making its way onto his face as he pulled you closer to him, “She’s my girlfriend, I’ll see that she gets home safe.”

You looked at the bouncer through half lidded eyes, in your head you were screaming at him, begging and pleading with him to get you away from the stranger. In your head you were pushing away from the man and running far away.

All the bouncer saw was a concerned boyfriend who was taking his girlfriend home after one too many. So with a smile he bid them goodnight and went back to his post.

“Come along, darlin’.” He said into your ear causing you to whine, begging for somebody to help you.

The man led you away, far enough so that the music from the nightclub couldn’t be heard before he roughly shoved you into an empty alleyway, pinning you up against the wall like it was the easiest thing in the world.

In your head you were screaming at him, clawing at his face but in reality your head lulled back to hit the wall as your vocal cords became useless and your hands lay limp at your side.

Somewhere in the distance a man sat on a rooftop, legs thrown over the edge as he chewed on a hotdog, ears honing in on anybody needing trouble but it seemed like it was a quiet night tonight.

He sat up straighter and tilted his head as he listened, trying to determine whether something was wrong or if it was just a drunk couple taking advantage of a dark alleyway. He heard no other sound but something was telling him that whatever was happening wasn’t right, his spidey senses were screaming at him to at least check it out.

He stood up and flung himself off the roof top, chewing the last of his hot dog as he swung the few blocks over, landing with an inaudible thud before creeping closer to the alley, not wanting to get caught if it was just a couple.

It was dark out but he’d recognise you anywhere, he watched as a guy kissed your neck, letting his hands trail the length of your body and you stood there, motionless. Peter paused for a moment, his blood running cold before he jumped into action.

“She looks a little drunk for that, don’t you think man?” Peter asked, watching as the man startled and moved away from you an inch causing you to sway forward dangerously but the man caught you, turning on the boyfriend act and honestly if Peter didn’t know you, if he wasn’t your boyfriend then he might have actually believed this guy.

“Hey we’re not hurting anyone, she just gets a little frisky when she’s had a drink.” The guy grinned.

“Right, right, my bad,” He said, holding his hands up and watching as the man nodded at him, “one more thing though,” Peter said, taking a step closer to the man before drawing his fist back and letting it connect with the guys face, using enough strength to send him flying to the opposite wall and hitting it with a painful crack before the slumped down on the floor, Peter webbing him up quickly.

Peter caught you just before you could fall, wrapping his arms around your waist and letting his forehead rest on top of your head. Peter smiled sadly as you whined against him, obviously trying to push him away but not doing more than swaying gently.

“You’re ok, baby,” Peter murmured, “I got you, let’s get you home.”

Your dorm was thankfully only a few blocks away and Peter pulled your keys out, unlocking the door as he guided you into the room before leading you over to the bed and setting you down as gently as he could, watching as you looked up at him with unseeing eyes.

“You’re alright, yeah, I got you Y/N/N,” Peter let all thoughts of secret identities go out of the window as he took his mask off and lay next to you, pulling you into his arms and bringing you in close.

“Go to sleep, Y/N, nobody can hurt you, I promise.” Peter continued whispering against your hair, whispered praise, whispered soft reassurances and nonsense words and kept talking well after you’d fallen asleep.

It took great effort to pull himself out of your bed but he managed it, pulling the suit off and changing into a pair of his sweatpants he pulled out of your closet, convinced more than half of his closet was in your own.

He made sure the door was locked and pulled the trash can close to the bed in case you needed it, he also grabbed a box of pills and filled a glass of water up, placing it on the nightstand before he crawled back into bed with you, tucking you against his chest and holding you close, falling asleep without meaning to.

Peter woke up the next morning when he heard a groan followed by the sound of you throwing up. He sat up with a grimace, seeing you leant over the bed and making use of the trash can he had left there.

You almost smiled as you felt a hand rub comfortingly up and down your back as Peter rested his forehead on your shoulder, placing a soft kiss to the skin. You didn’t know how long you spent being sick but eventually you sat up, Peter wiping your face on the blanket before he reached over to grab the glass of water, holding it to your lips.

You drank it gratefully and drank some more with the pills he had given you, hoping they would settle both the queasiness in your stomach and the pounding in your head.

“Can I get you anything else?” Peter murmured softly as you curled up against his chest with a shake of your head.

“Thank you,” You croaked out and relaxed as he kissed your head. “What happened? What are you doing here?”

Peter stilled for a second before he went back to rubbing your back. You didn’t remember last night, you didn’t remember being spiked…you didn’t remember he was Spider-Man.

“You called me, remember?” Peter lied, feeling bad but it was better than the truth. “Said some guy had been creeping you out at the club, you must have gotten separated from the girls and he spiked your drink.”

Peter hugged you close as you squeezed your eyes shut but some tears escaped, falling onto his chest.

“You’re ok, I got to you in time, you’re safe, I got you.” Peter told you softly, kissing your head again as he murmured more assurances as you nodded into his chest, taking a deep breath after a few minutes before relaxing in his hold.

“Thank you.” You murmured tiredly, letting your hand trace his chest, eyes feeling heavy again as you let them shut.

“You never have to thank me,” Peter told you, just as quiet as your words have been but they held so much honesty that you couldn’t help but smile, “Never.”

Peter watched as you fell asleep again, running his fingers up and down your spine as he swore to himself he would never let you go through this again, glad he’d trusted his senses and got to you before anything terrible happened.

____________

AG Peter Parker Taglist - @haroldpotterson, @imjustassaneasyou, @dindjarinsspouse, @rottenstyx, @asherhunterx, @powerpuffluuvv, @filmsbyblair, @mrs-scottmccall, @roseslovedreams, @janesofia7, @cinderellacauseshebroke, @black-rose-29, @wierdstark, @runawaywithmyghost, @chaoticevilbakugo, @ppgrayson, @onyourgoddamnleft, @divanca2006, @90sbella, @siriuslyfearless, @mystic-writings, @levisbloodcut, @mrs-brekker15, @alexxavicry, @sweetdreamsjg, @alwaysclassyeagle, @peterpgrace, @vx-vexedvixen, @ordinarylokix, @carmellasworld, @ellabellabus07, @battinsonn, @labellapeaky, @lokismidnight, @maeve-7, @caediae, @benhardyslut, @apolysius, @jasontoddthezombie, @instabull, @qfton, @honkroselyn, @inflatabledinosaurs19, @lazysheepperfection, @theodorenottswhore, @parkershoco, @gal-obsessed-with-marvel, @father-violet, @ur-mom21, @rosesinmars, @mystic-writings, @mmaiamore, @izzyyy-1, @littleredjason, @mmaiamore, @lizamango, @beaconings, @leftmooninfluencer, @urbestgrrl, @randomwriter1021, @lazysheepperfection, @lucyysthings , @morganaah, @sylvies4ever, @taylordidsomthingbad, @kaitieskidmore1, @lucyysthings , @hydeonysus, @freeshavocadoooo, @writeroutoftime, @loki-laufeysons-wife

The Story of Us

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Angstember Prompt -  “I hope it's worth it.”

You could still remember the first day you had met Peter Parker, despite the years that had passed. You remembered your eyes meeting across the room, remembered him walking up to you in the cafeteria and asking to join you for lunch, you remembered the sparks that seemed to fly instantly, the way the conversation flowed easily between you like you’d known each other for years rather than the few moments you had. The boy before you had made you laugh like no one had before, had made you feel more at ease than you’d ever been and from there you knew he was going to be important to you. 

You loved telling the story of how you and Peter met, loved sharing how the two of you had gone from two people alone in the cafeteria to best friends to dating, loved how people smiled and gushed over how cute it was. 

Telling the story of how Peter had asked you out was another favourite of yours, it was a story you hoped you were telling years down the line to anyone who would listen, a story you could recite in your sleep. Telling them how he had he had invited you out into the city on New Year’s eve, telling them how you stood surrounded by people cheering and laughing, of how Peter had nervously pulled you close and told you how important you were to him, about how he couldn’t picture his life without you and how much he cared for you. He had timed it perfectly somehow and by the time you were grinning up at him, overwhelmed with happiness, he had cupped your cheek, giving you a chance to pull away from him if you wanted before he pressed his lips to yours softly just as midnight struck, even as people cheered around you the noise seemed to fade as you could only focus on Peter.

From there not much had changed between you and Peter, you already spent so much of your time with the other, shared everything between the two of you, the only thing that really changed was that you could kiss freely now instead of having to shove the urge deep down for fear of messing your friendship up. 

The first year of your relationship passed in a blur of happiness, you and Peter falling harder in love with each other every day. Of course you had had a few arguments here and there but nothing serious and nothing that wasn’t resolved the same day. Everything between you and Peter seemed perfect, like you were in a fairy tale. 

So the moment everything changed you felt it straight away, it felt like your world had shifted, like things were falling out of place when Peter began to pull away from you. You tried to figure out what had happened, replayed every moment of the last few weeks in your head but couldn’t come up with anything that would have upset him.

It wasn’t like he pushed you away completely but he had definitely put distance between the two of you. It wasn’t until Ben died that the wall between you came crashing into place and it wasn’t like you couldn’t understand his pain, his grief but despite attending the funeral, despite Peter gripping your hand throughout the service he pulled further away, completely ignoring you for days at a time.

You had tried to be there for him but he wouldn’t let you and so you allowed him his wish to be alone, to hopefully work through everything. It wasn’t until he came to school with bruises that you finally had enough, weeks passing since the funeral, and pulled Peter into an empty classroom.

You tried to talk to him, tried to ask him where the bruises came from and why he was being so distant. Peter had just rolled his eyes, his exhaustion clear and only adding to his tenseness. He had told you he was fine, that the bruises were nothing, he told you to stay out of it, that whatever he did was none of your business. You had only been able to scoff at him, shaking your head in disbelief before walking out of the door leaving Peter to regret his words as he slumped tiredly against the wall but he couldn’t stop himself from pushing away from you. 

Ben’s death was already on his hands, he refused to put you in danger too.

From that day things had changed, Peter’s resolve to keep away from you only strengthening as he settled into his role as Spider-Man, hating the distance between you, hating the first secret he had to keep from you but knowing it was necessary. He’d rather have you alive and away from him than at his side but dead. He knew he was picking Spider-Man over you but after Uncle Ben…he could save people now. That was his responsibility.

You yourself had gone from being able to walk into any room and knowing your place was a spot next to him, a seat he always made sure to save for you no matter how many people were hanging out in your group, to standing alone, awkwardly in the cafeteria, scanning the room for an empty seat in the span of a few weeks. 

You didn’t know what page the two of you were on lately, didn’t know what was going to happen between you. You hoped that he would sort through whatever it was that made him feel like he had to distance himself from you, hoped he’d come back to you but as time passed you found yourself losing hope. 

It was clear he was keeping something from you, a secret that he refused to share. It was strange, the two of you had always been so openly honest with each other, never feeling like you had to hide anything, not with how much you trusted each other but now it was clear you’d done something to lose that trust, to make him think he couldn’t tell you things.

As time passed and Peter continued to shove you away despite your countless attempts to show him you were still there for him, to show him you still loved him you felt his walls building themselves higher and higher, too thick for you to be heard from outside them.

Not speaking to Peter was agonisingly painful, having gone from spending everyday with him to not even being able to speak two words to him because he rushed away from you hurt more than anything. You wondered, as you lay in bed alone, if it was killing him, if it was tearing him up, the same way it was you. You wanted to know just what you had done, just what had happened for him to become so closed off from you, wanted to know when your love story seemed to turn into a tragedy, so sure that it wouldn’t have a happy ending.

Spider-Man quickly made a name for himself and Peter was aware of the public opinion, of the supporters he had and of the enemies he was making. He was aware people tried to piece together who the man under the mask was and aware of how much some people wanted him gone. His bruised eye and busted lip as well as his sore muscles really hammered home just how much some bad guys really hated him but he was doing the right thing, just last night alone he had stopped several muggings, webbed a guy who was about to shoot up a shop and stopped a guy as he followed a woman home.

He was doing the right thing, he knew he was and yet as he saw you across the room, alone with an air of sadness around you, doing your best to seem busy even when he could tell you weren’t, his heart ached. He watched as you fiddled with the ends of your sleeves, saw how uncomfortable you looked and he knew it was wrong, the image was completely wrong because you weren’t supposed to be sad, you weren’t supposed to have a frown on your face and he was supposed to be next to you. 

Instead he stayed as far away from you as possible, avoiding you so that you wouldn’t find out his secret. He couldn’t risk you, he would never do it. He knew you’d have rolled your eyes at him, knew you’d be furious at him for making the decision for you without giving you a choice but he couldn’t lose you. If somebody did somehow put together that Peter was Spider-Man then they would surely exploit every weakness he had and you were the biggest one he had. He would never put you in that position, no matter how much it hurt to see you this way.

He was doing the right thing, it was a mantra he repeated in his head, forcing himself to remember it every time he saw you.

Being forced to see Peter every day at school, to see him and not be able to touch him, to even speak to him was tearing you about, it felt like you were losing your mind. It was clear that whatever had caused him to pull away from you wasn’t going to fix itself. Peter seemed more than happy to hold onto whatever it was keeping you apart than to hold onto you. It was a thought that cut you deep, at one point you thought you were worth more to him than that but clearly not. As the days passed it became more and more obvious that when you told the story of you and Peter it wouldn’t be about love anymore but more about your descent into madness as you struggled to understand how things had gone so wrong.

You knew the relationship was done but neither one of you had uttered the words and despite knowing that it was the unavoidable outcome you were still scared for the ending, at least now there was the tiniest shred of hope but you knew it wasn’t worth holding onto anymore. All you wanted to do was curl up in his arms, tell him you missed him but you couldn’t, you didn’t even know how to speak to him anymore and yet despite the fact that no words had passed between the two of you the silence was louder than anything.

You had been waiting for it and yet when it happened it felt like you hadn’t been prepared at all, not when Peter walked up to your locker after school, running a hand through his hair as he asked if the two of you could talk. You’d nodded of course, knew logically how this conversation was going to go and yet somehow, somehow there was still a part of you hoping this was him ready to put aside whatever had happened and work it out together.

The two of you walked for a while until you came to a quiet spot and sat down side by side on an empty bench. It was a nice day out and you kind of hated it, it felt like it should be pouring rain, maybe storm clouds hanging over your heads whilst this conversation happened but instead there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the sun shone brightly.

“I’m sorry, Y/N/N,” Peter began, finally breaking the silence that had settled between the two, “I’m so sorry for everything.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat as tears stung your eyes but you tried to blink them away as best you could, knowing there wasn’t a different ending to this story and wanting to get it done with, knowing it was going to hurt more the longer it was dragged. 

As you sat at his side you allowed yourself a moment to draw comfort from having him this close, allowed yourself a moment to memorise him, not knowing if you’d have the chance again. There were so many things you wanted to say to him, were sure there was so much he wanted to say to you but those words would go unspoken, kept only for yourselves to know, never to be shared.

“Will you at least tell me what I did?” You pleaded, the question had been plaguing you for so long now and you just wanted an answer.

You watched as Peter turned to you, his own eyes wide and watery as he shook his head, hand reaching out for you before he pulled it away. You took a shaky breath, desperately trying to keep your tears at bay, wanting nothing more than to feel his touch but knowing you couldn’t.

“No, no baby,” Peter said, wincing as the word slipped out of his mouth without him meaning to but carrying on anyway, “this isn’t because of you, this is all me.”

“What happened? I thought we were happy.” You figured you weren’t going to get a solid answer, you thought you deserved one but weren’t holding your breath.

“We were. I’m sorry Y/N, I really am but I just…I have to protect you, even if you hate me at least you’ll be ok, you have to be ok and you won’t be, not around me. I can’t lose you, Y/N.” Peter told you, the words falling from his lips like he couldn’t stop them, him rambling as you looked at him in confusion, not making sense of the words.

“Peter, what are you talking about? I’ve always been ok around you, I’ve never felt safer than when I’m with you. You’re saying you can’t lose me and yet you’re the one walking away from us.” You couldn’t understand his reasoning. Confusion, anger, sadness all running through you as you looked at him.

“I can’t explain it, Y/N/N.” He whispered, looking away from you and down at his hands resting in his lap. “I want to, I really do but I can’t.” 

His voice was thick with emotions, tears pooling in his eye, threatening to fall as were your own but you only took another breath and sat up straighter on the bench. This wasn’t the ending your story with Peter deserved, it wasn’t the one you ever thought it would get and yet here the two of you were, saying goodbye to everything you had together. 

“I really hope it’s worth it.” You told him, voice barely a whisper as you choked back tears, standing from the bench. 

You watched Peter straighten, watched his hand lift again to pull you back before he decided against it. He knew he had to let you go, knew it was the right thing even if it didn’t feel like it. He couldn’t risk losing you, you were too important to him. 

Even so, as he watched you walk away from him, keeping his eyes on you until you disappeared from view he couldn’t help but think about your last words. Was being Spider-Man worth it? Yes it was, he made a difference, he saved people but having to lose you to do it left him feeling empty.

You forced yourself to walk away, forced yourself to hold the tears back until you were far enough away from him before you had to stop, sitting on the stairs of a random apartment block to finally letting the tears fall freely, not caring about any glances sent your way.

It seemed like such a terrible ending, so many good memories, amazing experiences together. The way he made you feel had just been thrown to the side, no longer good enough for him. It hurt more that you still didn’t know the reason behind the decision, hated that your mind would always focus on the what if’s now. This was not the ending you deserved with Peter, your story was supposed to be good, it had been good and yet the ending was playing out clearly in real time with you, alone, sobbing in the streets of New York and Peter left alone, still sitting on the bench with his own tears falling down his face.

That was the end of the story of you and Peter.

/

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Last Kiss

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Prompt - ‘But I never planned on you changing your mind.’

Notes - Happy Speak Now month! Request a fic for any of the remaining Speak Now tracks, click my masterlist to see which songs are left!!💜

You could safely say that falling in love with Peter Parker was the easiest thing you had ever done. Everything about him was easy to fall for. He had been your best friend for as long as you could remember, for so long it had been the two of you against the world. He had been there for all the good moments in your life and you had been there for his.

You’d known for years you were in love with him, long before either of you confessed it to each other. You had thought of telling him for a while but every time you’d thought you’d built the courage to do it you always backed out, not wanting to ruin your friendship.

It wasn’t until nearly two in the morning on some random night in fall when you heard a tapping on your window that things changed. You awoke with a groan, not having been asleep for long but exhausted from the day before.

At first you weren't sure what had woken you up, ready to just brush it off and let your eyes fall shut again. Just as you shifted in your bed, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself you heard more tapping and sat up with a frown.

It took a couple of moments for you to realise it was coming from your window and you felt a smile pull at your lips, wrapping the blanket around yourself because the room was cold. You climbed out of your bed and pulled your curtains back to see a masked Spider-Man grinning at you.

You were quick to push the window open, smile dropping as you took in the busted lip, bloody cheek and blackening eye. Peter didn’t seem all that fazed about it as he climbed in through the window, quickly catching a book he had knocked on his way in before it could make a noise and closed the window for you.

“Fun night?” You asked as you made your way to your desk, pulling out the med kit you kept handy ever since you’d found out that the friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man happened to be your best friend.

“Yeah, it was great!” Peter grinned, causing you to wince as more blood leaked from his lips, Peter ignoring it as he relayed the events of his night, making himself comfortable on your bed.

As he spoke you gently got to work on cleaning the blood coming from the different spots on his face, knowing that his healing factor would take care of the rest and in just a few hours you wouldn’t even be able to tell that he had been hurt.

“Better?” You asked as you threw the bloody wipes onto your nightstand, along with the med kit, too tired to bother putting them away.

“Thank you.” Peter nodded, smiling softly at you before he pulled himself off the bed.

As he stripped out of the suit and opened your wardrobe for a pair of clothes you’d stolen from him months ago you fixed the blanket and settled back against the pillows, stealing a glance or two before he was dressed and climbing into bed with you.

The two of you had been sharing a bed since you were kids, back then it was fine, easy, he was just your best friend then but now, now it was different. It was harder to ignore your feelings when you were pulled against a warm chest, Peter’s arms wrapping around you, holding you close to him.

You were so stupidly in love with him that it hurt some days.

“Thank you for always patching me up.” He murmured into your hair and you smiled into his chest, smoothing your hand along his shirt.

“Somebody’s gotta watch out for Spider-Man whilst he’s saving the world.” You laughed, feeling the rumble of Peter’s chest as he chuckled.

The two of you were quiet for a while after that, your eyes had drifted back shut and you let yourself relax even more against Peter, selfishly savouring the way he felt wrapped around you, memorising the way his thumb automatically stroked soothingly up and down your hip, cherished the way you’d never felt quite as safe as you did in Peter’s arms.

“I love you.” Peter whispered into the dark, the words catching him by surprise.

He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He hoped you had fallen asleep, hoped you hadn’t heard his whispered confession and yet another part of him wished you were awake to hear it. He wanted you to know that you were the one for him, that he’d been in love with you for longer than he could remember.

You were silent for a moment, not daring to move as though it would break the spell and Peter would take the words back, play them off as a joke. It took you a few more seconds before you were able to force yourself to move.

You shifted out of Peter’s grip only far enough away so that you could look over at him with disbelief on your face. It wasn’t that you didn’t believe Peter couldn’t love you, it was just that you had never let yourself think he could love you the way you had loved him for so long.

“Y/N/N,” Peter started, torn between backtracking or just admitting it all over again, thankfully he was saved from having to decide when you smiled at him and reached out to cup his cheek, your thumb gently brushing over his already healing cut.

“I love you too.” You whispered back to him, watching as he froze for a second as if he wasn’t registering the words before a smile broke out and his whole face seemed to light up the dark room.

“Really?” He couldn’t help but ask and you laughed softly as you nodded, Peter leaned in and pressed your lips together, both of you smiling too much for it to be more of a brushing of your lips before Peter pulled you even closer and kissed you properly, the kiss soft and slow as he cupped your own cheek.

By the time the two of you were forced to pull away for air, you were dizzy and breathing heavily, Peter resting his forehead against yours and feeling just as intoxicatingly dizzy as you did.

Your first kiss with Peter turned into two then three until you couldn’t recall how many kisses were shared on that first night alone, neither of you able to stop until the pull of exhaustion forced you away from each other and you were able to fall asleep in his arms, not having to feel guilty for how much you enjoyed it anymore.

It went on for months, you and Peter shocking nobody when you announced that you were dating. Aunt May pulled you into a hug and told you she’d been waiting for you two to figure it out since you were six years old causing you both to laugh and share smiles.

Everything was perfect. The two of you were made for each other. You weren’t surprised that nothing much seemed to change between the two of you, Peter and you were still attached at the hip both during and after school, Peter still knocked on your window more nights than not to crawl into your bed after patrolling, the only difference now was that the two of you could be open with how you felt and that you could pull him down for a kiss whenever you wanted.

“You look gorgeous, love.” Peter said as he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, resting his head on your shoulder as you looked at each other through the mirror.

Peter had never been shy with the compliments, even before you started dating he always seemed to want you to know how beautiful you were and yet somehow they never failed to make you blush.

“You don’t look so bad yourself, handsome.” You smirked, turning around in his hold to drape your arms around his shoulders, leaning in to press a kiss against his lips.

The two of you were finishing getting ready to head to Gwen’s, her parents were away for some business trips and since school had just ended it seemed like the perfect time for somebody to throw a party.

As you headed in you felt Peter’s hand resting against the small of your back. That was another thing about Peter, he seemed incapable of keeping his hands to himself around you, there was always some part of him attached to you.

You weren’t complaining of course, you loved that Peter wasn’t afraid to show you off, you loved the feeling of him close by. Peter had always felt like home, felt safe, you would never push him away.

Peter was like the life of the party whenever he walked into a room, he didn’t care who anyone was, he’d say hi to you if you were popular or not, he’d pour you a drink and hand you some snacks and draw you into a conversation if you looked left out.

It was truly a wonder how people hadn’t figured out he was Spider-Man, both of them cared so much for other people, always willing to take a hit before he’d let someone else take it, always looking out for others.

Peter headed off to get you both a drink and you found Gwen in the crowd, letting her pull you in for a hug before she immediately started talking to you. You laughed along with her, joining in with the group she was with and were only pulled away when Peter found you with two drinks in hand.

You smiled at him, continuing with what you were saying before you were cut off by Peter’s lips pressing against yours and you couldn’t help but laugh into it as the others around you cooed and giggled.

“I was talking.” You said once he pulled away, Peter grinning down at you as he passed you a drink.

“Sorry, you just look so beautiful tonight.” He told you, causing you to roll your eyes playfully even as you blushed.

A few drinks later and Peter stumbled over to you, a happy grin on his face, his eyes bright as he wrapped himself around you, nuzzling into your neck and placing soft kisses against your skin.

“Dance with me?” He whispered into your ear, placing a kiss against it.

You weren’t usually one for dancing but Peter kept pressing kisses along your shoulder and you couldn’t help but give in to him, letting him lead you to the living room which seemed to have been turned into a dance floor for the time being.

Dancing with Peter was just as intoxicating as all of thing involving Peter seemed to be, the way his arms wrapped around you, gripping your hips as he pulled your back to his chest, moving against you, his lips still mouthing at your neck whilst he nudged you to tilt your head for him as you moved to the beat of whatever song was playing.

Peter danced with you for a song or two before he was pulling away from your neck, trailing a series of kisses up to your ear.

“Let me take you home?” He whispered, his voice thick and heavy with want and you wanted him just as badly, nodding against him and letting him lead you out of Gwen’s place and back to yours.

You had noticed straight away when something shifted, Peter knocked on your window less and less as the weeks went on, the two of you were so close that you felt the loss immediately. When the two of you were together he acted differently, pulling away more and more and if you thought that was bad in public it was even worse.

Suddenly Peter, who was usually so open with his affection for you, treated you like you were a stranger. It was strange to go from having him always with you to him pulling away. You had tried to accept that maybe he just needed some distance, you did spend a lot of time together, maybe he just needed to be alone for a bit.

But after weeks passed where you would go days without receiving a reply from him, without feeling his arms around you or his lips against yours you didn’t know what to do. Something was obviously wrong but instead of talking to you about it he was pushing you further and further away.

Peter, meanwhile, was freaking out.

He had been swinging through the city, ready to call it a night as things seemed to be quiet and head over to your house when he heard somebody frantically calling out for him. His spider senses immediately honed in on the voice and he swung faster towards it, dropping into a crouch in front of a scared girl.

“What’s the matter?” He asked, scanning the scene for any danger but other than the girl's pale face and shaking hands there wasn’t anything out of place.

“Spider-Man,” she breathed out, looking at him in fear. “He told me to give you this.”

The girl held out a large thick envelope that caused Peter to frown. He hesitated for a moment before he took it off her but didn’t open it just yet.

“Who gave this to you?” He asked, watching as she shook her head.

“I don’t know, he just grabbed me and dragged me down here. He told me I had to make sure you got that or he’d hurt me.” The girl began to cry and Peter shushed her gently, pulling her up and wrapping his arm around her.

“I’m really sorry, will you let me walk you home?” He asked her softly and spent the next twenty minutes walking through New York, making sure the girl got home safely before he swung a few blocks away.

He landed on a rooftop and sat down, opening the envelope and feeling his heart stop when a picture fell out. It was a picture of you with Spider-Man and when he tipped the envelope out he saw dozens more of the two of you together, thankfully each time he was fully suited and masked.

‘The itsy, bitsy Spider-Man sure would be crushed if something happened to his little girlfriend.’

Peter’s blood ran cold as he tried to run through all the people he had dealt with recently but couldn’t think of anybody who would be furious enough to stalk him and threaten you. He had always been nervous about mixing you and Spider-Man but you both thought you were being careful.

Clearly he was wrong and now you were in danger because of him.

Putting space between you made Peter feel like the biggest jerk in the world but he knew if he told you it would cause you to panic. He didn’t want you looking over your shoulder every second of the day, startling at every sound you heard and being too scared to leave your apartment.

He was torn. Being away from you hurt but he had to protect you. He never thought he’d have to choose between you and Spider-Man, you had accepted his masked side immediately but now he had to protect you even if you never knew.

“Will you stop!” You exclaimed as you tried to catch up to Peter, the man had gotten good at avoiding you. “Seriously, tell me what’s going on!”

“There’s nothing going on.” Peter insisted as he stopped walking to let you catch up to him.

“Don’t lie to me, don’t do that. I haven’t seen you in weeks and you’re telling me we’re fine?” You cried, hating the way tears stung at your eyes but suddenly you were exhausted, being away from Peter for so long was wrong.

“Baby,” he sighed, stepping closer to you to cup your cheek. “I’m sorry, ok, I just…you’re right there is something wrong but not with us.”

“Tell me what’s wrong.” You pleaded and Peter’s own eyes filled with tears as he shook his head, leaning down to press your foreheads together and just savouring the feeling of having you so close.

“I love you so much.” He murmured, leaning down to press his lips against yours, kissing you so softly, so carefully, like you’d break if he was too rough.

“Peter, please just talk to me.” You begged when he pulled back but he shook his head again.

“I can’t baby, I can’t.” He told you tearfully, leaning in to kiss you one last time before pulling away. “Just do me a favour please.”

“Anything.” You told him sincerely, worried for him and wanting nothing more than to help him.

“Tell me you love me.” He asked, looking at you with wide, watery eyes that made your heart break.

“Of course I love you, you know that right?” You asked and he nodded at you, his lips thinning into a line as he fought back tears.

“Yeah, yeah I know that Y/N/N.” He forced his lips into a smile, taking you in before he knew he had to leave. “I gotta go baby.”

You went to open your mouth but Peter just shook his head, murmuring an apology before he raced away from you, leaving you standing in the street, watching as he blended into the crowd of strangers.

If you had known that would have been your last kiss with Peter you would have held him close a bit longer, you would have made it last until you were both gasping for breath, you wouldn’t have let him walk away without an explanation like the many years of your friendship, of your love meant nothing to him.

But you didn’t know that would be your last kiss with him, not until you got a call from Peter whilst you were in the shower. You hadn’t heard the phone ring but you smiled once you sat on your bed, changed into a pair of clothes you had stolen from Peter, to see a voicemail from him, it had been over a week since the last time you’d seen or heard from him.

“Um, hey…hey baby.” Peter said shakily and your smile immediately turned into a frown. “God, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. I should be doing this in person but I can’t, I can’t because it’d kill me to see you cry. I…Y/N, I have to break up with you. I’m so sorry, baby but I gotta. It’s for the best.”

For the best? How was him breaking up with you for the best?

“You did nothing wrong, Y/N, you need to know that. This is all me and God, Y/N, one day I promise you, one day I’m gonna make up for all of this but right now…just know that I love you so much, baby, I really do love you.”

Tears were streaming down your face by the time the message ended and you were left in silence, the only sound was your occasional sobs as you struggled for air.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be, you and Peter were meant to be it, you were meant to be with only each other, that’s what you promised each other. It was always supposed to be you and Peter against the world.

Now you were alone, with no explanation as to why only a promise that he would fix it one day. You weren’t sure how he was supposed to fix this when he couldn’t even stomach being in the same room as you.

You and Peter had planned a future together, it was impossible to see it without him. You didn’t want to see it without him. You weren’t supposed to have a last kiss with him, he wasn’t supposed to be something you missed.

You were so set on a future with Peter, thought he was so sure about one with you that the idea of him changing his mind had never even occurred to you. You wish it had though because then maybe you would have expected this a little bit but nothing could have prepared you for this.

You didn’t want this to be the end of your story with Peter, this was never how you’d imagined it to end and yet there was nothing you could do to change it, the only thing you could do was hope that one day Peter kept his promise and made things right again.

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Thank you so much for reading!💜

I am liking this story a lot. Drew me in, and darned if I wasn't sitting at the table with the lead and Harry Osborn, jumping every time there was a BANG.

Can't wait for an update, but yeah, summer classes are intense--usually cramming a semester's worth of material in 5-10 weeks depending. Good luck!

A DARK AGE

summary - it's been nine months since you watched your best friend, gwen stacy, plummet to her death; an event that ultimately caused new york's hero to abandon the city entirely. now that he's finally returned you find yourself being forced to confront the ugly truth you've been running from.

series warnings - 18+, minors DNI, will contain depictions of violence, sexual content, dark themes, and more. i will do my best to place warnings at the beginning of each chapter, but please read at your own risk.

word count - 10.3k

// a dark tasm!fan fiction // masterlist // send me your thoughts //

THE BUGLE was buzzing to life in a way it hadn’t in ages. Landlines were ringing off the hook, accentuated by a chorus of email and text notifications crying out from every cell phone in the building. As you stepped out of the elevator you found yourself staring at a sea of amateur reporters, all of them gathering on the far side of the office around a television set. 

You clutched the coffee in your hand tighter to keep it from spilling as a young man accidentally bumped into you, quickly moving to join the herd of his peers. You shot him a nasty look, ignoring the swift apology he muttered out as he continued to rush past you. 

Despite your intrigue at the collective panic of your coworkers, you didn’t bother moving to join them around the TV. Instead, you walked the clear opposite direction, making a beeline for the office of the only man in New York City that you trusted to know exactly what all of this fuss was about. 

“What the fuck is going on?” 

Workplace etiquette had flown out the window for you a long time ago. Reporters didn’t have time for benevolence. 

“They’re acting like rowdy animals out there. Foswell is running around the office like he’s in a goddamn marathon! Nearly gave me a third degree burn trying to get past me.” 

A vehement grunt was the first thing to leave Jameson’s mouth, which constituted a typical greeting for him. Following it was the shrill squeak of his old office chair as he spun around to face you. “Haven’t seen the news, y/l/n?” 

You furrowed your brows. “We are the news.” 

Another noise of discontent, followed by a hand coming up to rub viciously at his eyes. If you had learned anything during your time at the Bugle, it was that Jameson was always upset, which meant that you rarely found his vexed appearance very concerning. Yet, despite that, you couldn’t help but get the feeling that something was off. 

“The Daily Globe.” The name of the Bugle’s biggest competitor slipped past his lips like a slur, Jameson’s lip curling as if it had somehow left a bad taste in his mouth. “Some jackass at the station leaked info to them before they even got the crime scene taped off. Bushkin had everything plastered on their front page this morning before most of us even had time to pour a bowl of Special fucking K!” 

“What crime scene?” 

His hand dropped from his face down to his lap, shooting daggers straight at you. “You’re a reporter, y/l/n! Check the fucking headlines for once in your life!” 

“Sorry,” you sneered at him, “some of us actually have a life outside of work.” 

Of everyone at the Bugle, you were the only one with the authority (and the audacity) to backtalk Jameson and actually live to tell the tale. It was a perk of being his top investigative reporter, one that you never let go to waste. 

If anyone else dared to get snarky with him, he’d likely send a paperweight flying at their head. But, since it was you, he only responded to your comment with a dry chuckle—primarily because he was aware that you were lying through your teeth. 

The Bugle was all that was left of your life, the one remaining piece after you had lost everything nine months ago. Jameson knew how fresh the wound still was, how hard you fought to ignore what you’d gone through, and so he elected not to make an actual comment on your remark; a subtle indication that the crotchety man actually did have a heart. 

“Remember Aleksei Sytsevich?” 

You nodded, patience already growing thin as you waited for him to finally just tell you what happened. At this point you were beginning to think you would have been better off to gather around the TV with the rookies. “Of course I remember him,” you told him, “I’m the one that wrote the story on him hijacking that Oscorp truck last year. He goes by the Rhino now, right?” 

Each of you formed your own twisted expressions at the name Sytsevich had picked for himself. The name was fitting given the military grade battlesuit he’d managed to snag from Oscorp, but it was a tad too on the nose for your taste. It lacked creativity, though neither of you really expected anything better to come from the former Russian mafia leader. 

“Sometime last night he was found in an alley off 102nd.” Jameson declared, following you with his eyes as you moved towards his desk, taking a seat in one of the old chairs that sat in front of it. “Beaten to a goddamn bloody pulp.” 

Your nose scrunched up slightly. 

If it were anyone other than Sytsevich that had been left to bleed out in the dead of the night, you might have felt a bit of sympathy for them. But, instead, you only felt hopeful that Jameson would confirm the question that already fell past your lips, “He’s dead?” 

It was cruel to wish death on anyone. You should have felt guilty for the way your chest swelled with hope as you waited for Jameson to reply, but you didn’t. New York was running short on heroes these days, which meant that more and more criminals had begun to use that to their advantage, making a hobby out of terrorizing the innocent. 

Sytsevich had already escaped the Vault once, the so-called impenetrable prison, which meant that sending him back to jail was all but useless. But death? Not even Sytsevich would be able to crawl back from that. 

“No.” 

Your heart nearly sank, and you could tell that the sentiment was shared by Jameson, who looked equally as disappointed. After all of the innocent lives Sytsevich had claimed, he deserved to be put six feet under. 

“Not yet, at least.” He clarified, “As soon as they noticed a pulse they had him life-flighted to North General. Good news is that they don’t think he’s gonna make it through the weekend.” 

You snorted at Jameson’s execution of the comment, as well as the childlike joy that seemed to twinkle in his eyes as he thought about the possibility of Sytsevich finally being gone for good. Still, you could tell that there was more. That he hadn’t quite told you the full story. 

While the impending death of a former mafia leader was quite a story, there was little chance that it had been enough to piss Jameson off so much that the Daily Globe got word of it first. 

Criminals die every day, especially in a city like this. It was hardly front page material. 

“So you mean to tell me that the world is in hysteria all because Sytsevich is about to kick the bucket?” You questioned him, nudging your head in the direction of his office door, encouraging him to acknowledge his frantic employees as they paced the office floor. 

“It sucks that the Globe got to it first, but we should be celebrating!” As demented as it might seem, it was true. “But instead you’re in here wallowing as if we just missed out on the story of the year.” 

The joy that he had felt just moments ago was now extinguished entirely, replaced with an expression that carried far more weight. 

“You’re right. Sytsevich dying an excruciating death would be a fucking fit from a God I don’t believe in, y/l/n.” His forehead creased, thin lines appearing between his brows as he pressed a button on the laptop in front of him, tapping a few keys before turning the screen around to face you. “But the story isn’t just about his death—it’s about who killed him.” 

A wave of shock slammed into you like a ton of bricks, hard enough that it made you lose your grip on the disposable cup in your hand, the contents of it staining the old carpet that lined Jameson’s office. Neither of you paid any mind to the mess and you became consumed by the headline on the homepage of the Daily Globes website. 

SPIDER-MAN RETURNS - BRUTALLY ATTACKS ESCAPED CRIMINAL 

Your eyes grew wide, air getting caught in your lungs as you worked to keep yourself from vomiting right on Jameson’s desk. 

“No.” The word slipped out from under your breath without approval, a flash of pity washing over Jameson’s face as he took in your reaction. He had expected it, though, aware that of every reporter in New York, you would likely have the most intense response to the news. 

But your shock quickly began to morph into something more closely resembling rage. “There’s no way, right? Spider-Man’s been awol for months, J! They really expect us to think that out of every enemy Sytsevich has made that Spider-Man would be to one to fucking kill him? It’s bullshit! They’re just trying to get eyes on their shitty paper!” 

Jameson’s brows raised, clearly agreeing with the sentiment. He was never one to miss an opportunity to slam the Globe. “Normally I’d agree with you,” he mused, turning the laptop back around, “but the NYPD confirmed that Sytsevich was restrained with webs, y/l/n. It doesn’t look good.” 

Your blood ran cold, turning to ice in your veins. Darkness started to take over your peripheral vision, threatening to consume the entire space around you. Images flashed through your head—asphalt painted with thick blood, bones snapping, his gruesome screams—it was a past that you had fought so hard to put behind you, only for it to now creep back up on you. 

You instinctively clutched the bag at your side, half debating reaching inside for the little orange bottle you hadn’t touched in months. You restrained yourself though, terrified to feel as if you needed to rely on the pills again. Things were getting better. 

“Spider-Man’s not a murderer.” Your voice was so hesitant, so uncertain, and it made it difficult to tell who the statement was meant to convince, Jameson or yourself. 

Jameson’s shoulders lifted into a lazy shrug as he leaned back in the rickety chair, the plastic creaking at the shift of his weight. You were aware of his stance on Spider-Man, but even he had never considered the possibility of the vigilante committing something like this. 

“No, he isn’t.” He agreed with you, evoking a bit of shock. “But he’s about to be. He’s the only one that can be linked to the crime scene. If Sytsevich dies—and it’s only a matter of time—then Spider-Man’s the one going down for it.” 

Your mind was reeling, yet your body remained motionless, your gaze fixed onto the floor. Coffee still leaked from your cup, forming a sizable stain that only grew with every second that passed. You didn’t care. 

It had been months since anyone had last seen Spider-Man, and during that time, New York had already begun to turn on him. Citizens hadn’t yet forgotten their debt to him, the countless times in which he’d nearly laid his life down for the city, but that didn’t mean that many hadn’t grown to resent him. 

They had been abandoned by their hero, left to question if he was even still alive. And if this was how he returned? A killer? 

“It’ll turn into a man-hunt.” 

There was no other outcome for it, you both knew that much. Since his disappearance, an eerie sense of unrest had settled in the streets. Spider-Man’s absence had created a whole slew of problems, things that the NYPD weren’t equipped to handle. Hope had already become such a precarious thing, and if it were confirmed that their lost hero had abandoned his own code of ethics? It would destroy all that's left. It would unleash pure chaos. 

It would be the dawn of a new age. 

A dark age. 

“Maybe.” He was being cautious with his approach, aware that this topic had the ability to turn you into little more than a ticking time bomb. “Still, there’s not any cold hard proof that he was the one to send Sytsevich to his death bed. All they know for certain is that he was at the crime scene.” 

It was strange to hear those words from Jameson, crafted as a defense for the vigilante he swore to hate. If anything, that only increased your already heightened level of fear. 

Of everyone in the world, you would have never imagined that Jonah J. Jameson would be willing to testify that Spider-Man was innocent in anything. 

“I already told Urich to assemble a team, get out on the streets, and start finding some real proof. I’ve got a source at North General giving me hourly updates on Sytsevich, but we still don’t have much time to put together a story.” 

Your eyes snapped up to meet his, your face contorting into a sour expression as you flung out of your chair, ignoring everything about his statement except for one detail. 

“Fuck Urich!” You screamed loud enough that more than a few heads turned from outside Jameson’s office, a few of them now attempting to eavesdrop as the conversation became heated. “This is my story, J.” 

He sucked in a deep breath, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He’d anticipated this reaction too. 

“No, y/l/n, it’s not!” Jameson’s own voice boomed, easily rivaling yours in volume. You didn’t so much as flinch. “Last time you chased a story with that Spider-fuck you nearly died! You’re staying away, got it?” 

You gritted your teeth, taking another step towards his desk, closing in on him. “You said it yourself J, we’re running out of time, right? You need someone that knows what they’re dealing with. Urich doesn’t have any connections to Spider-Man! I do!” 

Somehow you believed that preaching these facts to Jameson would change his mind, as if he didn’t already know about your past encounters with the hero, like he wasn’t the one that published the stories you had done on him. 

“I’m one of the last people to even see him alive, J!” You reminded him, finally letting your tone drop back to a normal volume as you continued, “Urich might be able to snoop around a crime scene, but I’m the only one with a chance of getting an actual statement from him.” 

Both of you knew that your claim was a bit far-fetched. If this were last year, getting a statement from Spider-Man would have been a piece of cake for you. But now? 

It was different. 

Either way, Jameson didn’t seem willing to budge. “A statement isn’t worth losing my best reporter.” 

If the circumstances were different you likely would’ve teased him for the comment, for making it so obvious that you were one of the only things to matter more to Jonah J. Jameson than a story. 

“Fine.” You snapped, clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth as you challenged him. “Then I quit.” 

His face blanched. “You what?” 

“I’ll pursue the story on my own. Get a detailed fucking statement from Spider-Man—a few pictures, too.” You crossed your arms over your chest, entirely unwavering as you held his gaze. “Then I’ll sell it to the Globe.” 

Jameson’s face turned beet red, his eyes narrowing at your threat. “Don’t be stupid. You’d need an entire team to go after a story this big.” 

You mocked the lazy shrug he had offered just moments ago. “No, Urich needs a team. All I need is a few hours and some phone calls.”

Ben Urich would need access to several of the Bugle’s best reporters in order to conduct enough research to even know where to begin. Aside from that, you and Jameson both knew that one of the best potential sources for this story layed beyond the gates of Ravencroft—and Jameson would have a hell of a time trying to get authorization for an interview with any of their prisoners. 

But you? 

You could get in with a simple phone call. 

“This isn’t a game, y/l/n.” Jameson cautioned. “The night Spider-Man disappeared—when I got that call from the hospital—I thought you were gonna be dead, y/ln.” 

A pang of guilt shot through your chest and he reminded you of that night. When you arrived in the emergency room they had tried to call your emergency contacts—but you knew they wouldn’t answer, that they were the reason you were even there. Jameson was the only one that answered, the only one to show up. 

You knew how much guilt he still faced for pushing you to chase another Spider-Man story, for encouraging you to get closer to the vigilante, only for it to land you in a hospital bed with several broken bones and a grade three concussion. 

Sometimes you wished that you could tell him it wasn’t his fault. That you were already in too deep, long before you had started chasing another story, even if you didn’t realize it at the time. But you couldn’t. 

“If you take this story then you’re putting yourself at risk. Again. You’ll be destroying everything you’ve worked for.” 

Blood pooling, bones snapping, his screams echoing. 

You bit your cheek until you tasted crimson, shoving the hellish thoughts from your mind. “Are you gonna take Urich off the story or not?” 

Jameson’s shoulders immediately slouched, his disappointment evident as the corners of his mouth turned downwards. But he knew you—too well, which meant he knew that nothing would stop you from following this story. 

So, against his better judgment, he straightened his posture and tried to mask his own emotions, but you could still tell how much it had hurt him to mutter out the word—“Fine.” 

You didn’t plan on waiting around long enough to hear anything else he might have to say, already turning on your heel and aiming for the door, knowing that it was best to leave before he changed his mind altogether. Still, just before the door slammed closed behind you, you heard him speak. 

“Your funeral.” 

His snide comment left a bad taste in your mouth, pungent and unpalatable, but you did your best to ignore it. There wasn’t any time to comprehend the gravity of his statement, to consider just how close you had come to death last time. 

If Jameson was right about anything, it was that time was of the essence. The sooner Spider-Man could be proven innocent the better. 

So instead of dwelling on it and risking uprooting your past trauma, you shoved your way through the crammed newsroom, coming to a halt only when you could plant yourself at the edge of Urich’s desk. He looked up at you through his thickly-rimmed glasses, brows knitting together. 

“This your team?” You asked him, an idle finger pointing to the crew of unfamiliar faces that surrounded the desk. 

Urich gave a stiff nod. 

“Great.” The smile you gave was sickening, filled with misplaced animosity. You scanned over the group, your gaze ultimately settling on the figure directly to his left, a somewhat tall woman with neatly bobbed hair. Out of everyone, she was the only one armed with a pencil and notepad, having taken note of his every word. “What’s your name?” 

The women seemed stunned, her voice shaking the tiniest bit as she responded. “Betty. Betty Brant.” 

“Nice to meet you Ms. Brant.” Your tone was much milder when speaking to Brant, though it quickly turned harsh again as you shifted your attention back to Urich. “I’m taking over the story. Jameson already gave me clearance, so please, if you plan on whining about it, keep it between the two of you, mkay?” 

Urich’s usually squinty eyes suddenly widened behind his lenses, thin lines settling into his forehead. He didn’t even have time to open his mouth in protest before you had already cut him off. 

“Anyone who isn’t Brant can get out of my face. I don’t have a use for you.” A dismissive hand was waved at the small crowd, although none of them bothered to move more than a few feet away, too interested in eavesdropping to venture any further. 

“And, um, what is it that you’d like me to do?” Betty Brant was quite the apprehensive woman, her lack of confidence shining through in quite literally everything she did. She was new to this, that much was obvious, but you still found yourself with some sort of intuitive faith in the girl. 

“I need you to track down some information for me.” 

A pit suddenly grew in your stomach as it dawned on you that this would be the first time you had so much as uttered his name since that night. He had essentially become a ghost to you, capable of haunting every corner of your mind without ever reentering your life. It was easier that way, though. Avoiding him had been the best way to recover from him; even if that meant treating his name like a curse. 

You took a deep breath, garnering every ounce of strength you had left to ensure your voice wouldn’t crack. “I need a way to get into contact with Peter Parker. He used to work here, but the number we have on file isn’t in service anymore.” 

Once. 

In the nine months since it happened, you had only tried to call him once. With the phone pressed to your face you had already prepared yourself to hear the dial tone go on for ages, fully aware that he’d just let it go to voicemail. He didn’t want to talk to you—he didn’t want to talk to anyone. But, instead, you were greeted by a prerecorded message saying the number had been disconnected. 

And that was the closest you ever got to a goodbye from Peter. 

“Parker?” Urich finally got a word out. “What’s he gotta do with this?” 

You didn’t have any intention of offering him a detailed explanation, your back already turned to him as you spoke over your shoulder. “He’s the only one to ever get a clear shot of Spider-Man. If everything goes as planned, I’m gonna need his skillset.” 

It wasn’t a complete lie, but it also wasn’t the full truth. Regardless, it was the best defense you had for needing a way to contact Peter; one that wouldn’t raise any suspicions. If anything, you would have preferred to start your hunt for information with Peter, because then you would’ve been able to avoid Ravencroft altogether. But, unfortunately, Peter was little more than a dead end right now. 

“Jameson has my number–get it from him and text me as soon as you have a lead!” 

It was the last order you barked before disappearing into the elevator, quick to rush off to the first destination on your list. You had to get moving, at least until you could find a way to talk to Peter, which meant you needed to start gathering the names of anyone who might’ve actually wanted Sytsevich dead. 

Unfortunately, that meant hailing a taxi to Westchester County and digging up another ghost from your past. 

You hastily pressed the button for the ground floor, your other hand already delving into your bag, grabbing your phone and dialing the number that had called you many times over the past months; a number you rarely answered. 

“Hi, this is y/n y/l/n calling,” a weight settled deep within your stomach, accompanied by a shiver running down your spine as you forced yourself to speak, “could I speak with Leonard Samson? I would like to take him up on his visitation offer. Please tell him that I want to speak with Harry Osborn as soon as possible.”

The Ravencroft Institute for the Criminally Insane was not for the faint of heart. 

At first glance, most would consider it a fine establishment. The ornate iron gates lining the property seek to paint a picture of elegance, while the impenetrable stone walls offer those on the outside a sense of security—serving as a silent oath that those on the other side can’t get out. 

While technically labeled a prison, Ravencroft always insists that they place treatment above punishment for those incarcerated here. They pushed this motto, staff members regularly appearing on the local news to preach of mercy and remission; despite the fact that no one committed to the facility had ever made it out alive. 

Ravencroft’s prisoners weren’t always as willing to keep up the facility's pristine public image though, well known for spitting in the face of that ‘guise of elegance they’d worked to build. It was because of their sharp tongues that Ravencroft rarely let reporters past the front gates, petrified of what they might learn from those on the inside, worried that someone might get the chance to uncover their true nature; or worse, expose their unlawful ways of curing the prisoners. 

You were the only reporter to ever be invited onto the property, even if it was under special circumstances. 

“Truth be told, I was shocked to hear you called!” Director Samson confessed. His tone always rubbed you the wrong way, always coming off as far too exuberant for a man in charge of a psychiatric facility for criminals. “What’s it been, five months? Six, perhaps, since we last spoke?” 

“Seven.” You noted, sporting a rather sardonic smile. He didn’t seem to notice your ill-intent. 

“Well, either way, it had been far too long!” He chortled to himself, a chorus of keys clanking against his hip as he led you down another winding hallway. 

Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, illuminating the immaculate white linoleum beneath your feet. The smell of bleach was incredibly pungent, burning your nostrils with every breath you took. You did your best not to breathe at all. 

“You’ve been checking your email, yes?” Director Samson was a few long strides ahead of you, moving at a pace you couldn’t manage to keep up with. “When you stopped answering your cell, I decided to have my secretary begin forwarding you all of our notes from his treatment sessions. It’s pivotal that you’ve stayed up-to-date on his progress, especially if you finally plan on becoming an active role in his recovery!” 

You braced yourself for the tainted oxygen that would fill your lungs as you lied, “Of course. Even gave them a quick review on the ride over.” 

In the seven months that you had been dodging Samson’s calls, you had never once opened any of the emails from his secretary. You always saw them come through though, and you always found yourself staring at the subject line for just a moment too long. 

Patient #121394 - Progress Report 

It made you sick sometimes, the way he had been reduced to a number. Other times, you were thankful for it. It helped to create a divide in your head, allowing you to create some sort of separation between who he was and who he is. Harry Osborn was your friend. Patient #121394 stabbed you in the back. 

Regardless, you could never actually make yourself read them. But you also couldn’t bring yourself to delete them, stashing one-hundred and eighty-four daily progress reports from Ravencroft into a separate folder, out of sight but kept on hand, just in case you ever needed them. 

You weren’t sure why you ever would. 

“Good, good!” He chirped loudly, both of you now approaching a large armored door. It didn’t match the rest of the hallway, the rusted surface polluting the otherwise pure white space. 

Your attention was pulled away from it as Director Samson spun on his toe, index finger suddenly wagging in your face, your eyes growing wide as you tried to lean back a few inches. His nails were a touch overgrown, caked with a substance you didn’t recognize. Describing him as eccentric would be kind, although disconcerting fit him better. 

“You must promise me something before you speak with him!” He sputtered out. You did your best not to flinch as his saliva spewed onto your face. “I understand you may have felt a need to…” his head bobbed side to side, squinting as he considered his wording, “distance yourself from Mr Osborn. That is why I did my best to respect your need for space the past several months-” 

Ah yes–you thought to yourself, fighting the urge to laugh in his face–calling bi-weekly and sending daily emails is clearly a sign of respecting someone’s wish to be uninvolved. 

“But!” He shouted out, his rotten nails now close enough that you could smell whatever laid beneath them. “If you cross this threshold,” his hand moved to the large door behind him, offering you a chance to swallow back the bile building in your throat, “you cannot abandon him again, Ms. y/l/n. Progress is a volatile thing, especially for the damaged souls that call Ravencroft home. I need to know that you’re prepared to devote yourself to Mr. Osborn’s treatment.” 

Abandon him—the claim was enough to make your blood boil. You wanted to scream at him, remind him of what had happened that night, remind him that you were the one who had been abandoned. You wanted to turn around, to leave and never step foot in this cursed building ever again. 

If you did that, then maybe you could keep lying to yourself. Harry Osborn could remain your former friend, one of the few crumbs you had left of the life you so desperately wanted back. He could be innocent, and Patient #121394 could be the murderer. 

“Well Director Samson, I can assure you that I have absolutely no intentions to abandon him!” The mask you put on was sickly sweet, more than palatable enough to hide the animosity behind it. 

His bug-eyed stare remained locked onto you, unnerving and wild. “You must promise.” 

“Okay,” A sigh managed to slip out, quickly covered by your response, “I promise.” 

He instantly relaxed at the vow, easily returning to the childish ebullience he’d displayed previously. You wondered how he would react if he had noticed the hand behind your back, if he knew your fingers were crossed as you spoke. 

Abandonment was a much kinder fate than Harry Osborn deserved, so you were certain that if a higher power existed, they would forgive you for breaking your promise to Director Samson. 

Metal jingled about as he removed the keys from his belt loop, somehow knowing exactly which one to grab from the couple dozen crowded the thick ring they hung on. 

“Now, please, do your best to remember the rules!” He began unlocking the various deadbolts on the door. “All patients in the visitation area will be secured to his or her station, for your safety as well as theirs. Under no circumstances should you touch any of the patients. Should you notice a patient is acting out of sorts, please remain calm and notify the warden-” 

You already knew the do’s and don’ts of visiting prisoners, having interviewed several of the inhabitants at Ryker’s Island for the Bugle, and so you found yourself droning him out entirely, watching as he moved from one lock to another, until he finally reached the last one. 

“Most importantly, do not forget that this time is meant to inspire and encourage your loved ones to continue on their new path towards righteousness!” He displayed a toothy grin, cavity filled and displeasing. In return you offered a much less prominent smile. “And please, when you’re done with your chitter-chatter, come by my office. I would love to discuss next steps with you!” 

You gave a curt nod, aware that you would not be doing that. Interacting with Samson was enough to drain even the most extroverted people, which was one of the many reasons you’d stopped returning his calls only two months into Harry’s sentence. 

He viewed you as a valuable tool for curing Harry—mentally, at least. His actual disease was of little interest to Samson, his physical health naught in comparison to his damaged mind. Harry had no next of kin, which meant all of Samson’s hopes had been placed onto you. He believed in order to cure Harry’s mind, he needed the assistance of someone who was dear to him, someone to act as a tether to his sanity. 

Director Samson also believed that the venom Harry injected into his veins was the cause for his self-proclaimed insanity. This told you all you needed to know about the Director; he was clueless. 

You knew the truth. After all, you were the one that had fed his lawyers the story and loaded them up with all the evidence they’d need in order to paint a picture for the jury, illustrating Harry Osborn’s mental descent. It was you that had convinced them to make him swallow his pride and take the insanity plea—your final act of kindness towards Harry. 

The clunky metal door groaned profusely as Director Samson pushed it open, heavy enough that it required him to use both hands and the majority of his body weight. Once it was open, he bowed in a particularly odd manner, motioning you into the room with a dramatic flair that made you nauseous. More than anything in the world, you couldn’t wait to never see him again. 

The small space you walked into had distracted you from Samon’s bizarre attitude, immediately taking note of them in case you ever felt like breaching Samson’s trust and writing a story on Ravencroft. 

First–it didn’t share the same suffocating scent as the hallway, the smell of chemical cleaners having completely vanished. You took advantage of this, letting your chest expand with several deep breaths. Your nostrils no longer burned, however this came with a price, this room much grimier than the rest of the facility. It didn’t shock you. 

Second–there was nothing white in here, a stark contrast from the unsoiled appearance of the never ending hallway you took to get here. This room truly felt like a prison, despite Ravencroft’s insistence that they were far from that. Muted shades of chipped paint coated the walls, the floors nothing more than poured cement. 

And, finally, third–no one, and you truly meant absolutely no one, appeared as if they were on the road to recovery. 

To your left there was a red-headed girl chained to a metal bar fastened to the wall. A bit of drool dribbled down her chin, her eyelids drooping as if she had been drugged. On your right was a boy no older than nineteen, handcuffed to his chair and left with nothing to do except stare at the floor beneath his feet. 

They looked miserable, and you almost felt bad for sticking Harry in a place like this. 

Almost. 

Behind you the door shut with a crash, the symphony of locks clicking back into place. Your heart rate spiked as you realized you were now trapped in here with them, taking a glance at the warden. He was a burly man, yet the only weapon he had on him was a baton, lazily stuffed into his waistband. It only added to your growing apprehension. 

Anxiety, you reminded yourself through gritted teeth, is another thing reporters don’t have time for. 

Each second brought you closer to Sytsevich’s impending death, which meant you didn’t have time to waste on fear. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier, still feeling as if you were frozen in place, wishing that they hadn’t made you leave your bag in the main office. 

If Brant had managed to find a number for Peter then you could just skip this whole mess, go straight to the source and get hard proof that he was innocent… but it was too late to turn around now. 

You were already here. 

In the furthest corner of the room you saw a steel table, placed directly in front of the patient’s only source of natural light—an incredibly small window, armed with thick black bars. Your heart lurched as your gaze settled on the table's only occupant. Even with his back turned, you could still recognize him. 

Lifting just one foot had been the hardest part, terror pricking your bones as the single step caused one of the patients to whip their head around towards you. 

He was an enormous man, standing several inches over six feet with muscles that rivaled the Hulk. Fortunately, you didn’t hold his attention for long, hesitantly watching as he went back to staring at the old-style television set that had been stuffed in the corner. Static painted the screen, and every once in a while the large man would give a swift hit to its side, making the other patients flinch. The warden didn’t stop him. 

Each step after that was rushed, an attempt to get out of his line of sight. He was restrained, as were all of them, but he still filled you with a sense of unease. When you finally reached the table and quickly slipped into one of the metal chairs, eyes still darting about prudently, you heard the patient sitting across from you laugh. 

You had thought the terror seeping into your veins had been intolerable, but it was no match for the misplaced grief that fought to consume you at the sound of his voice. It simultaneously sent chills down your spine and relaxed every muscle in your body, a paradox of a reaction that only the living dead could possibly provide. 

“Aw, what’s wrong?” He drawled, leaving you hanging onto every syllable. “My new friends scare you?” 

A bit. 

“Hardly.” You snapped back a bit faster than intended. Beneath the table you clenched your fists, fingernails prodding into the soft flesh of your palms. 

Stay calm. Hide your weaknesses. 

You were disappointed with yourself, your inability to mask your discomfort, especially here. A penitentiary wasn’t the best place to rollover, and you knew that the moment you fucked up and showed your underbelly you’d be as good as dead. You needed to be better. You needed to be incomprehensible. 

“You look well.” You spoke again before he’d have the chance to beat you to it, determined to be the one holding the reins in this conversation. “I’m shocked.” 

It truly wasn’t meant as a slight though the scoff you received in response made it clear that he’d taken it as one. It was God’s honest truth though; you hadn’t expected him to look as good as he did. 

Last time you saw Harry Osborn was when the venom had already invaded his bloodstream, transforming him into something near unrecognizable. That was the Harry Osborn you had been expecting to see today. A nightmare, a killer, a monster. 

Instead, you found yourself looking directly into the cerulean gaze of a boy you had mourned for nearly a year. There were subtle differences; the natural dark pigment of his hair still hadn’t returned, leaving it a dusty shade of brown, and the disease that fought relentlessly to claim his life had spread, a scaly patch of skin taking over his cheek bone. 

But, for the most part, he looked like himself. He looked like Harry. 

And that simple fact was almost enough to break you. 

“Wow, less than a minute in and you’re already spitting out back-handed compliments.” Harry's mouth twitched into a smirk. “You sure know how to greet an old friend.” 

Was he antagonizing you on purpose? Or was he simply delusional? Either way, you only offered him a tight smile, “We’re not friends.” 

You had no way of knowing if your words actually had any effect on him. Having been raised in the limelight meant that Harry had years of practice in maintaining his composure, always working to maintain the Osborn image. You had never been good at reading Harry, and that’s how he liked it. Like most powerful men, he enjoyed keeping secrets. 

“Aren’t we though?” He countered, a swift tug at the reins, an effort to regain some semblance of control. 

Your jaw clenched. “Not anymore.” 

Harry leaned forward a touch, those menacing eyes glistening as his palms remained flat against the cold steel, secured there by thick cuffs. “You think I don’t know what you did? That I don’t know who fed my lawyers all that bullshit about childhood abuse and disease warping my mind?” 

That bullshit had saved his life. Forced the jury to see him as more than another twisted villain, coerced them into feeling some sort of sympathy for Harry. By no means was Ravencroft comparable the the fucking Four Seasons, but it was far better than the alternative. Without the insanity plea, Harry was on a quick path to Ryker’s Island—a place you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. 

“You’re right. I gave them everything they needed to build your case.” There was no use in denying it. The recounts of the trauma his father had inflicted on him were too detailed, too intimate, and Harry knew only three people in this world had access to that information. Himself, you, and Norman; and the latter was already dead. “But not because we’re friends.” 

He cocked a brow at you, once again leaning back into the uncomfortable metal chair. “Then why bother?” 

“Because I’m not like you.” 

And you wholeheartedly believed that. Caring about him had nothing to do with your choice to try and spare his life, your decision to aid Gwen’s murderer. 

“A rich boy like you wouldn’t last a single day in Ryker’s. Those guys would’ve eaten you alive.” You asserted, the only physical sign of the anger coursing through you being your flared pupils. You were in control. “I had an opportunity to save your life, so I took it. Not because of friendship,” the word tasted acidic, burning as it rolled off your tongue, “but because I’m a good person—better than you ever were.” 

It wasn’t until you were done talking that you realized how desperate you had been for the declaration to cut him. You only recognized it afterwards, irritation flooding you as he remained perfectly still, seeming entirely unphased. 

Then after a moment of nothing, he sighed. Not out of annoyance, not out of sadness. Instead, it seemed to be out of pure boredom, which only made your irritation towards him grow. 

“Guess that means you’re not here to help with my treatment, huh?” He said it like a joke, as if he too thought he was incapable of redemption and found this whole thing to be a waste of time. “Samson’s gonna be so disappointed when he finds out.” 

“You’re right, I’m not here to help you.” you confirmed, sucking in a deep breath and biting back at your pride, “But you’re gonna help me.” 

His brows snapped up—a reaction, subtle, but there nonetheless. “And why would I do that? I mean, you already made it clear that we’re not friends. So why should I do anything for you?” 

“I’ll keep coming here. Participating in whatever stupid shit Samson has planned, keep acting like I wanna help you get better.” You sneered, eyes rolling. People like Harry Osborn were incapable of better. “There’s gotta be something for you to gain in all of that, right? Some sort of reward for making progress. If you’re lucky then maybe they’ll give you more playtime with your little buddies or something.” 

Your gaze flicked over his shoulder, once again landing on the enormous man that had noticed you earlier. He was still beating against the side of the television, the thumping of his palm against thick plastic echoing through the room. No one seemed to mind the noise. 

“Besides,” you continued while shifting your focus back to Harry, “you owe me.” 

He did owe you—him and Peter both—but pulling that card made you sound desperate, like you had truly run out of options and were now using everything left in your arsenal to sway him. 

But that was the point. 

It was a calculated move, entirely deliberate, right down to the doe-eyed glance you shamelessly flashed at him, feigning a moment of vulnerability. You hadn’t rolled over, hadn’t exposed your weak points, but you wanted him to believe you did. 

There were certain benefits that came with knowing Harry—who he used to be. You knew about his insatiable desire to be needed by someone, to feel wanted. There had been a time in which you wouldn’t have dared to exploit the trauma that desire stemmed from, but things were different now. 

Even when armed with his stoic mask, you could tell that you had hit your mark perfectly. He remained silent, considering your words. A rational part of him was likely screaming to tell you no, to send you out of Ravencroft without so much as a second glance. Odds were that he knew this was an attempt to manipulate him, to play at the side of his that ached to be essential to another. 

But Harry Osborn wasn’t known for making rational decisions. He was rarely driven to act by his near-genius level IQ, instead always finding himself a victim to the gnawing pain in his chest; and you were banking on that. 

Then, it happened. 

For a moment—mere seconds, at most—the mask slipped. A single muscle twitched in his jaw, his nose wrinkling the slightest touch. The shift in his demeanor was so subtle, yet so apparent to you. Having once been so close to him, you’d all but trained yourself to detect the moments in which his arrogance would melt into something far more innocent. You used to crave those moments; live for them, even. It felt like an honor to witness the side of Harry in which he fought to keep locked away, a side he tried to ignore. 

Now, though, you felt almost nothing. 

Harry finally let out a gruff sound, his tongue darting along his chapped bottom lip. “You’re here about Peter, aren’t you?” 

You were careful not to outwardly react. “You’ve seen the news?” 

“Of course.” He rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner. “Not everyday the city hails Spider-Man a murderer.” 

He said the vigilante’s name like a curse, as if it were the dirtiest word he’s ever spoken. It was laced with a bone-chilling sense of contempt, one that only deepened your resentment towards Harry. You didn’t like it—the way he spoke as if he had a right to hate Peter. After everything Harry had done, after everything he’d taken—your nails dug deeper into your palms as you fought to keep your eyes peeled. terrified that if you so much as blinked you’d catch a glimpse of Harry’s sins. That you’d catch a glimpse of her.

“Are you gonna help or not?” You struggled to stay composed, his brows raised in amusement at the snipped statement. 

An unfortunate oversight in your plan had been in failing to acknowledge that Harry knew you just as well as you’d known him. It didn’t matter if you rolled over, because you were already exposed. He knew that Peter was a soft spot for you, that he had always been a soft spot, and all he had to do in order to push you over the edge was jab a little harder at that unhealed wound.

Surprisingly, he chose to leave it alone. 

“You’ll come four times a week. Minimum.” 

You fought the urge to grin at his demands, aware that it meant the rational side of him had lost. 

“Twice a week.” You countered.

“Make it three.” He almost sounded pitiful, coming off more like he was begging than demanding. It caught you off guard to hear him sound so desperate, and for a moment you wondered if he had turned the tables; if he was now manipulating you, playing on your emotions and trying to make you feel bad for the loneliness Ravencroft had inflicted upon him. 

But there was something about the look in his eyes, how transparent they suddenly seemed, that made you feel like this hadn’t been done with nefarious intent. His desperation was genuine, and you weren’t sure how to feel about that. 

“Fine.” You agreed, aware that you didn’t have time to negotiate with him all day. You had a story to write, and in order to create a solid defense for Spider-Man—for Peter, you’d need help. You’d need a culprit, someone that had a motive to kill Sytsevich. “Deal?” 

Harry grinned, that same arrogant and flashy sort of grin you’d seen him give heiresses and models. You always wanted to be on the receiving end of that smile, to be the one he was trying to win over, but now it only made your stomach sink. “How can I be of service?” 

“Do you know anyone who might want Sytsevich dead?” You decided to be blunt with the question, keeping your voice low. 

“Uh, yeah. Try the entire Soviet Union. From what I’ve heard, it sounds like he made a real fucking mess of things when he left Russia.” Harry noted. 

“O-kay,” you drawled, “what about locally? People talk in prison, yeah? If somebody was planning something you would’ve heard about it.” 

His nose scrunched up. “What do you think happens in prison? That we all just get together like it’s a slumber party and swap hit lists?” 

You didn’t bother responding, not verbally, at least. Instead, you opted for shooting him a sharp glare. It didn’t phase him. 

“Look,” he glanced towards the warden, scooting forwards a touch once he noticed the negligent guard had become distracted by his phone, “a guy like Sytsevich doesn’t go down without a good fight, alright? I saw the blueprints for that armor he wears, right before the board locked me out of Oscorp’s systems. I know what it’s capable of. Most people wouldn’t even have a chance to get a hit in, let alone send him to the hospital.” 

“Perfect,” you snapped, his eyes widening slightly, “if you know what his armor is capable of then you should know who would be strong enough to take him on.”

Harry scoffed at the simplicity of your deduction, “Yeah, I’ve got a pretty good idea, actually.” 

You gritted your teeth, aware of where he was heading. “It wasn’t Peter.” 

“How’re you so sure?” He asked you, a thin crease settling between his brows as he glowered at you. “I know you like to fixate on my fuck-ups in favor of avoiding his but you were there that night, y/n!” 

The banging sound of the prisoner’s palm colliding against the side of the thick television kept the guard from hearing Harry’s raised voice. 

“He wouldn’t kill Sytsevich.” You held firm in your beliefs, even as your gaze faltered and fell away from Harry’s, settling on the surface of the table. 

Bang. 

“He almost killed me!” His voice was consumed with bitterness, with pain. 

“And you killed her.” 

Was that truly a good defense? Had Harry’s sins somehow absolved Peter’s? A life for a life—the logic behind the sentiment was skewed and you didn’t want to think about it. You didn’t want to venture into the memories you’d fought so hard to block out. Your stomach suddenly became taut, unwilling to face the question you didn’t want answered. 

“You know what he’s capable of.” He pressed further, still leaned in close, as if trying to close the gap between you both, the shackles securing him to the table preventing him from doing just that. “Sytsevich was restrained with webs, y/n. Don’t be dense-”

Bang. 

“Peter isn’t a murderer, Har!” You hissed through your teeth—too overstimulated to notice the pet name slip from your mouth and too livid to care. 

He went to argue the statement when another bang sounded out against the side of the television, this one finally powerful enough to knock some life back into the formerly deceased device. Your eyes darted in it’s direction, Harry’s neck snapping around to do the same as you both listened to the hum of the static clear, a female voice breaking through. 

“-just moments ago we received word from the NYPD that former Russian mafia member Aleksei “the Rhino” Sytsevich passed away less than an hour ago. Sources from North General hospital confirmed that Sytsevich’s condition began to rapidly worsen, until he eventually gave in to the fatal wounds sustained in last night's mysterious assault.” 

The tautness in your stomach grew stronger, a wave of nausea settling over you as the organ began to tie itself in knots. 

“Chief Davis with the NYPD will be holding a press conference this afternoon, however officials have already confirmed that there is now an active warrant out calling for Spider-Man’s arrest. Individuals with any information on New York’s fallen hero are being asked to call the number displayed on the bottom of the screen, and police advise citizens to avoid their Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man at all costs-”

Harry twisted back around to face you, cautious and uncertain as he met your stare. He almost appeared concerned—not about the news, not about Peter, but about you. The corner of his mouth twitched downward, forced to watch as your face blanched, mind reeling. 

It’s not too late. There’s still a chance. He can still be proven innocent. A warrant doesn’t mean jackshit. 

The metal legs of your chair screeched against the ground as you pushed yourself back from the table, “I need to go.” 

Harry’s wrists pulled against the shackles that held him in place, instinctively reaching towards you, as if he’d nearly forgotten they were even there. “Wait!” 

Against your better judgment, you listened to him, though you weren’t entirely sure why. You needed to go. You need to contact the Bugle, needed to see if Brant had found a number for Peter. As much as you hated to admit it, Ravencroft had wound up being a deadend, and you needed to keep moving—but you just didn’t. You stayed, staring back at a boy you once knew, waiting for him. 

You always waited for them—Harry and Peter both. 

“You’re not-...” he hesitated, blinking and shaking his head as he debated whether or not he should even continue, if it would even make a difference. “You’re not going to see him, are you?” 

“Of course I am!” You ignored the groan that escaped his parted lips. “You’ve been fucking useless, so Peter is all I’ve got left. He didn’t kill Sytsevich, alright? But he was at the scene. He’s gotta have some idea as to who did this.” 

It was obvious that the offhand insult had stung, evident by the way he winced as you launched it at him. You nearly found yourself apologizing for it, but decided against it as you watched him quickly stiffen back up, always refusing to wear his pain so blatantly. Norman had trained him well, drilling into his head that weakness wasn’t a part of the Osborn way. 

“Don’t get involved.” 

Your stare narrowed. What he offered hadn’t been a recommendation, rather a demand. “They’ll hunt him down, Harry! If the police convince the entire city that Spider-Man’s a murderer? The city will turn into a fucking disaster. I’m not gonna let him go through that alone.” 

“You could get yourself killed!” Harry barked back, clearly indifferent to whether or not Peter suffered alone. You found yourself laughing in response, finding humor in his attempt to show concern for your life. 

“It’s Peter.” You stated plainly, devoid of any emotion as you rose to your feet. Harry’s head tilted upwards, following you with his eyes. “He wouldn’t let anything happen to me.” 

“Remind me again who saved you that night.” His jaw clenched, his tone turning callous as he decided to prod at the old wounds. “Cause it sure as hell wasn’t Spider-Man.” 

Your fists balled up tighter, blood beginning to seep from your palms and pooling beneath your nails. You zoned in on the stinging sensation, digging deeper into your flesh, using the pain as a tether to keep you from slipping too deep into your own subconscious. You didn’t have time to think about that night. You didn’t have fucking time. 

So you bottled up the thousands of thoughts running rampant in your head, biting your tongue instead of allowing yourself to spit anymore insults at him. He’s not worth it–you tried to tell yourself, starting towards the warden–it won’t change anything. 

“y/n!” He growled as you moved past him, electing to ignore him entirely. He thrust his arms against the shackles again, rattling the thick metal and grunting as they tightened around his wrists. You were just a little over a foot away when he spoke again, “Don’t fucking tell him you know!” 

You paused, suddenly feeling as if your feet had been cemented to the floor. You cursed yourself as you responded, refusing to look back at him. “What are you talking about?” 

“Have you talked to him since that night?” He asked. 

“No.” You chewed on your bottom lip, ignoring the abrupt pang in your chest. “I haven’t.” 

“Okay. Great. Then he doesn’t know for sure what you saw that night. That you saw him without the mask, that you know he’s Spider-Man.” He was talking uncharacteristically fast, as if he was worried you’d leave before he’d get the words out quick enough. “So don’t tell him.” 

You frowned, shifting to the side, now looking at him through your peripheral. “Why?” 

“Because.” Harry squeezed his eyes shut, fending off the growing headache that this situation had brought on. “As far as he knows, I’m his only loose end. The only one that knows who he really is.” 

Your chest tightened as you realized what was happening. Since walking into Ravencroft, you’d concerned yourself so heavily with keeping your guard up, with guarding your weakest points—only for Harry to be the one to rollover. He was exposing his hand, and you found it unsettling, especially when you realized that there was no selfish intent behind his words. 

Harry had nothing to lose in this situation. 

Except for you—his friend. 

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s not a murderer. But if he did kill Sytsevich? Anyone who knows about Spider-Man’s secret identity is gonna have a huge fucking target on their back.” His eyes remained closed, drawing in a shaky breath before he continued, “So please,” his voice shook, desperation lacing each syllable, “just–don’t tell him, okay?” 

Goosebumps arose on your forearms, unable to hide from the fear that radiated off of him. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t find an ulterior motive for the statement. There was no clear sign of manipulation, no indication that he wanted to do anything other than protect you; and that made you feel sick. 

You had long since buried Harry Osborn, having told yourself countless times that two of your friends died that night. For two-hundred-and-seven days you had mourned both of them. 

With every fiber of your being you had believed that the arrogant boy that had weaseled his way into your life was gone, having been replaced with a malevolent monster. 

But now you could feel him.

It no longer felt as if you had just been staring at his corpse, but rather as if someone had actually breathed life back into him, offering you a glimpse of what still remained. 

It caused the tiniest spark of hope to ignite within you, a spark that you would do your damndest to extinguish. 

Harry Osborn was better off dead. 

“Our deal’s off.” You asserted, cold and uncaring. His eyes shot open again, a desolate expression washing over him. He didn’t try to conceal it, didn’t bother to adjust the mask he always wore. “You gave me absolutely nothing, so I’m not obligated to hold up my end.” 

Harry’s lips parted as if he were going to protest, as if he were going to do something—but nothing came out, and you hadn’t expected him to find the words, anyways. Try as you might, the three of you had never been capable of such candor; never willing to shine a light on the darkest corners of your minds, too scared of the risks that came with exposing what laid beneath the surface. 

You couldn’t help but think there was something poetic about it; the melancholy cord that bound you to Harry and Peter. How you were all fated to don matching wounds, but always be too afraid to admit to one another that you were bleeding. 

Sometimes you wanted to show them the stains on your hands, the red that you could never scrub off. You wondered if it would have made a difference, if maybe then the three of you could have bore the weight of it all together, rather than crumbling beneath the pressure. 

But none of that mattered anymore. 

None of you were the same anymore. 

And so you gritted your teeth and held your head high, letting the blood continue to collect under your nails, hiding it from his view. You took a heavy breath, your chest heaving beneath all of the pain you chose to carry. 

“Coming here was a mistake.” 

It was the only thing left to say, the only other admission you’d let slip past your lips. It hung in the air between the two of you, resonating with each of you in an entirely different manner, knowing that you’d never share your own interpretation with the other. 

Harry didn’t respond, choosing to drown in his silence, having grown used to watching people walk away from him. And you forced yourself to leave, choking on the remnants of your own grief; having grown used to abandoning what you once loved. 

a/n - ah, so it's definitely not june BUT i did post it finally! i've put a lot of time and effort into this fic cause i do just genuinely love the idea of it and it brings me a lot of joy lol. with that being said, it takes a ton of effort for me to write it because i'm putting in a lot of little details, so updates on this won't be the quickest, especially while i'm taking summer classes!! but i'll be doing my best! please feel free to leave comments, opinions, etc. and look forward to getting loads of peter content in the next part! also feel free to check out THIS if you want to see an edit of the newspaper headline!

INFINITELY YOU

part one // back at the beginning

SUMMARY - In every universe, Peter Parker seems destined to fall in love with you. And, in every universe, he realizes it too late. When universes collide and two of them are granted a second chance at rectifying their biggest mistake, neither of them are willing to let the opportunity go to waste–even if you end up not being the person they thought you were.

WARNINGS - 18+, story will contain mentions of blood, broken bones, weapons, suggestive language, and more. all versions of peter are between the ages of 19-23 in this story. I will try to update warnings accordingly for each chapter, but please read at your own discretion

WORD COUNT - 5.4k

// masterlist // series masterlist // send me your thoughts // playlist // no way home fan fiction //

The world seemed to slip out from under you, fracturing beneath your feet and leaving you to sink into a deep, dark hole.  

It was quiet—so unbearably quiet—and the tension between you and your estranged friends had become so thick that you feared it would soon take form and seep into your lungs. Maybe that would be for the best, you thought, wondering if suffocating on your collective grief would somehow be easier than whatever came next.  

“Aunt May…” You sputtered, unable to force the words out. Shaking your head, you asked, “Are you sure?”  

God, what a stupid question. You almost wanted to slap yourself for asking something so mindless.

Ned’s lips pressed into a thin line, trying to swallow his own sorrow. “I wish we weren’t,” he said with a small, wistful chuckle, still too shocked to fully acknowledge the gravity of it all. “But… yeah, we’re sure. She’s… She’s gone.”  

Your heart sank, unable to think of the right string of words to form a reply.  

With your mind reeling, you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking that this was some sort of cruel joke–the kind where the punchline would never quite hit. But all it took was one look at the red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks of Ned and Mj to know that they were telling the truth.  

She was dead—Aunt May was dead.  

And, somehow, it seemed as though that wasn’t even the worst part of the mess your friends had gotten themselves in.  

“I know that it’s a lot to take in all at once,” Ned started back up, perhaps noticing the way the color seemed to drain from your face. “If you need me to go back over it or explain anything then I can-”  

You stopped listening to him, staring blankly at the doormat beneath their feet. They hadn’t even bothered to come inside your apartment, too panicked to waste any time before delving into the details about Doctor Strange and the multiverse and other Spider-Man’s.  

But honestly, you didn’t care about any of that.  

You didn’t care about string theory or whatever multiversal villains had apparently slipped into your world—because you couldn’t stop thinking about what Ned had said about how May died. It hurt to think about it, the shrapnel and debris that had torn her flesh, the glider that had punctured her side and left her bleeding out in Peter’s arms…  

Aunt May had died a horrific and brutal death, and you weren’t sure that there would ever be any way for you to come to terms with that.  

“Peter,” you finally spoke, fire raging in your eyes as you looked at Ned. “Where is Peter?”  

He spared Mj a sidelong glance, as if silently asking for her permission to answer. Frustration began to prick your skin, crawling up your spine as your stare turned harsh, offended that he didn’t just tell you outright. You knew that things between the four of you hadn’t ended well, but this… 

Mj crossed her arms, looking almost as frustrated as you were with Ned’s choice to look to her for permission, and decided to answer in his place.  

“Downstairs,” she told you, her tone purposefully clipped as a way to show that the wounds sustained in the downfall of your friendship had not yet healed–and you didn’t care, because you knew that yours hadn’t either.  

“Is he…” you trailed off, not sure how to say it. If May’s death had been so brutal, then God knows what kind of injuries Peter might’ve sustained in the fight?  

But you didn’t have to speak, because whether the two of you liked it or not, you had been friends—and she always knew what you were thinking. “He’s safe,” she told you, quelling your nerves just a little. A reluctant sigh slipped her lips, shaking her head as she added, “But he’s not okay.”  

You knew what she meant—physically Peter had survived the fight with this Goblin man that they had told you about, but mentally…  

You understood why she was hesitant to tell you about it, too. Of the three of you, there was only one that had ever been able to delve down into the depths of Peter’s trauma and help him claw his way back out of the gnawing pit that threatened to consume him—and it wasn’t either of them.  

And, just as Mj knew you, you knew her. 

She didn’t want you around Peter, not anymore—and so if she was willingly telling you that he wasn’t okay, then it meant that she knew how much he truly needed you right now.  

“You guys should’ve told me sooner,” you grit your teeth, desperately trying to bite back against the resentment rising in your throat. “You should’ve told me as soon as all of this started, instead of waiting until everything went to shit.”  

It wasn’t your intention to sound bitter, but that didn’t stop you from coming across that way. Ned recoiled from your tone like a blow, but you didn’t have it in you to feel guilty right now.  

They had been dealing with all of this multiversal crisis bullshit for nearly a week now—and yet none of them had thought to say a single word to you until now. And while you knew that your presence likely wouldn’t have changed the course of events that had unfolded, it still hurt.  

And it still made you angry.  

“What do you need me to do?” You asked after realizing that neither of them intended to respond to your sharp statement.  

“Well,” Ned started, nervously rubbing his sweaty palms against his khakis, “it’s gonna take us some time to figure out where the villains are hiding, and even longer to work out what to do with them. And, since these other Peter’s have dealt with these guys before, we could really use their help…”  

He trailed off, once again looking to Mj, this time to silently urge her to finish his sentence.  

She rolled her eyes. “We need you to let them stay here.”  

Your brows furrowed, glancing between the two of them as if once again waiting for some sort of punchline to hit. It didn’t.  

“It might take us a bit–a few weeks, maybe—to find all of them and stop them. And now that Happy’s complex was literally blown to pieces, we don’t have anywhere for the two of them to stay while they help out.” Mj tried to explain. She looked defeated when she said, “We didn’t know who else we could go to that would actually understand.”  

Understand.  

If you weren’t still reeling from everything they had just told you, then you probably would have laughed at the word. You would hardly say that you understood what was going on—but you knew what she was getting.  

Mj’s dad would hardly allow two random men to stay in his house with them, and Ned’s Lola probably wasn’t too keen on the idea either. With Happy’s place destroyed, they had nowhere left to turn.  

You weren’t sure how to feel now that you knew they had only come to you because you were their last choice.  

At the risk of aggravating Mj, you said, “I wanna talk to Peter.”  

“I don’t know if now’s a good time,” Mj swiftly shot back. “I told you that’s he’s not okay—”  

“But he’s here,” you stated, nodding your head towards the stairs somewhere behind them that led back down to the lobby. “And you’re insane if you think I’m gonna agree to let two random ass men stay in my house without at least knowing what his plan is.”  

Mj bristled at the harshness of your tone; and so did you.  

You weren’t used to this.  

Mj had been your friend for far longer than she had been whatever she was to you now, and neither of you were used to this—to your once special connection being reduced to nothing more than strained conversations and fractured feelings towards one another.  

“Fine,” Mj surrendered, her hands lifting slightly. “Do whatever you want.”  

It wasn’t until then that you realized that you had been waiting for her permission, even though you didn’t believe you truly needed it. Peter was your friend—and he had been your friend long before he even knew Mj. If you wanted to talk to him, then you had every right to.  

Yet you still hadn’t been able to will yourself to push between the two of them until she had spoken, side-stepping to let you pass. When you started descending the stairs to the lobby, you were shocked that neither she nor Ned followed, offering you a sense of privacy with Peter that you hadn’t expected—as if she still held some shred of trust in you.  

You didn’t want to think about it though, unsure of how you felt about that, too.  

Halfway down the dank stairway of your complex, you felt a shiver dance along your spine. It prickled your skin and set your nerves on edge, but it didn’t catch you off guard. You always felt this way when Peter was around—as if your body could always sense when he was around, even when you hadn’t yet seen him.  

The last step creaked when you placed your weight onto it, and from across the poorly maintained lobby, Peter’s neck snapped in your direction at the sound.  

It felt like ice skittered across your bones at the sight of him, your heart lurching against your ribcage.  

You had gotten used to seeing Peter battered and bruised years ago. Even before he became Spider-Man, he often found himself the victim of bullies and assholes, rarely going more than a few weeks without a busted lip or a new bruise. But this…  

This was different, somehow.  

It wasn’t just the blood-stained suit that set your heart racing, nor was it the lacerated skin or his sweat-matted hair. No, those things were normal—in the same way that being bitten by a radioactive spider was normal.  

It was even normal to see him standing before you, his chin high and shoulders back, presenting a perfect image of strength even after experiencing something as traumatic as losing May.  

Peter’s relationship with trauma had been intimate enough these past few years that you weren’t shocked to see him like this, standing tall rather than balling up and crying on the floor. You figured that was what most others would do if they were in his situation.  

But Peter wasn’t like other people.  

Peter was a hero—and if you had learned anything about heroes in your lifetime, it was that they were incredible liars.  

His eyes couldn't lie, though.

Bloodshot and ringed with exhaustion, his eyes were what had made you feel so sick, your stomach twisting itself into knots.  

They lacked the life and hope of the boy you had loved so dearly, replaced with something like rage—a pure, unbridled and unrelenting type of rage. Looking at him now you couldn’t ignore the burning talon that seemed to rake against your mind, filling your brain with thoughts you didn’t want to think right now—telling you that looking at Peter now, with the light draining from his eyes, was the same as looking in a mirror.  

“Peter,” a metallic tang danced on your tongue as you dug your teeth into your cheek, biting back against the tears threatening to well-up in your eyes.  

Letting your instincts guide you, you rushed across the lobby to where he stood by the front door, reaching for his hand without a second thought.  

His suit had been torn along his palm, and as you felt the warmth radiating from his calloused skin, you tried to take some comfort in the fact that at least he had survived—even if you still weren’t ready to accept that May hadn’t.  

“Don’t,” He yanked his hand back from you, his voice hoarse. “Don’t say you’re sorry.”  

You froze for half a heartbeat, your hand hanging awkwardly in-between the two of you. “I wasn’t going to.”  

You weren’t sure if you were telling the truth, but it didn’t seem to matter either way.  

Either way, you tried to understand his reaction, even as you winced from the sting of rejection. What good would an apology really do for a boy who had already lost everything?  

It wouldn’t bring the light back to his eyes.  

It wouldn’t bring May back to life.  

“Ned told me everything,” you told him, unwilling or unable to say Mj’s name right now. You clenched and unclenched your fists, painfully aware of the absence of his warmth. “You know I’ll do anything I can to help, so just tell me what needs to be done and I’ll do it.”  

Peter scoffed, his jaw tensing. “We both know that what I want doesn’t matter,” he said bluntly. Motioning to your surroundings, he continued, “If what I wanted mattered, then we wouldn’t even be here. We wouldn’t be asking for your help—wouldn’t be dragging another person into this and asking them to risk their life!”  

You did your best not to react, knowing that he hadn’t meant it quite as bad as it sounded. It already hurt knowing that you had been Mj and Ned’s last choice for help, but knowing that Peter didn’t want you to be a choice at all hurt far worse—even if it was to keep you safe.  

“Well, you’re here now,” you told him, keeping your voice steady. “So you might as well tell me what your plan is—or at least tell me how long I’ll need to play bunkmates with strangers.”  

You were lying when you had told Mj and Ned that you needed to talk to Peter before agreeing to let the alternate Spider-Men stay in your apartment—you didn’t care about housing with strangers, aware that there was nothing they could do to you that you haven't endured before.  

Selfishly, you had just wanted a reason to come down and talk to him. To see him. To know that he was alive. You didn’t care about anything else.  

Sometimes you worried that you didn’t even care about your own life, only Peter’s.  

But Peter cared about your life—far more than you would ever want him to.  

“My plan doesn’t matter,” he said, his tone clipped, “cause I don’t want you getting involved. And I definitely don’t want you to let those guys stay here, alright? We don’t know them.”  

You steeled yourself, resisting the urge to argue with him and instead asking a simple question. “Do you have anywhere else for them to go?”  

He didn’t respond, huffing out a breath, already frustrated with the defiance he knew you were about to display.  

“You might not want my help, but if Ned’s right–” you told him, gesturing backwards towards the staircase, “–which he usually is—then you’re gonna need these guys.”  

“But that doesn’t mean we need you,” Peter protested gruffly.  

Your chest tightened, but you kept shoving back against the hurt. Later, you would deal with that later.  

“It doesn’t matter if you need me,” you retorted with a defiant tilt of your chin, unwavering as his rageful gaze seemed to pierce through your skull, “because you’re stuck with me either way.”  

You hadn’t expected the statement to affect him, but it did, his voice softening slightly. “I always have been.”  

“Exactly. So you might as well make this easy on the both of us and not fight me on it,” you declared, trying to conjure up the most convincing smile you could offer. “Let me help, Peter.”  

A sigh slipped his lips, heavy with reluctant resignation as he realized he wasn’t winning this battle. “We’ve already lost so many people… I’ve lost so many people. And there’s already enough blood on my hands,” he said, lifting his hands to display the torn, blood-stained fabric, driving his point home. “It doesn’t matter what I say—so let them stay here or don’t, I don’t care. But just know that whatever happens to you, it’s not on me. Because I told you to stay out of it, alright?”  

He took a step closer, and you didn’t dare move a single muscle as his lips hovered just inches from your own. “Do whatever you want,” his voice was barely a whisper, laced with a venomous edge that nearly made you tremble, “but don’t expect me to come running to save you when it all goes to shit.”  

His words hung in the air like a curse, lingering in the lobby for far longer than he did. As soon as the promise had left his lips, he was already turning on his heel and shoving the door open, abandoning you in the dim space.  

You knew better than to think he meant it.  

But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.  

You stuck your hands beneath the running faucet, scrubbing the blood from a jagged cut on your palm. It wasn’t all that deep, shallow enough that it probably wouldn't even leave a scar once healed. When you were done rinsing it, you cupped your hands and gathered the water in them, splashing your reddened cheeks.  

Crying would have been a normal part of grieving for May, and when you forced yourself to look back at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you couldn’t help but wish that you could’ve been a little more normal.  

But tears hadn’t been the cause of your flushed appearance—no, because you had never been very good at expressing the more delicate emotions, like sadness.  

You were good at expressing anger, though.  

You were very good at expressing anger.  

After Peter had stormed out of the lobby and abandoned you to choke on his cruel promise, it had taken you several minutes to work up the nerve to go back upstairs and face Mj and Ned. By some stroke of luck you had managed to keep a tight leash on your often volatile attitude, telling them your decision to let the other Peter’s stay with you.  

And then you lost control as soon as they left, loosening the reins on your anger and taking the uncomfortable feelings out on a nearby potted plant, shouting curses as you tossed it at the wall.  

By the time you thought to clean it up, after finishing another string of irate profanities, your hands had been shaking so bad that you cut yourself on one of the dirt-covered shards. And maybe, once you felt the jagged ceramic dig into your palm, you should’ve hissed or cursed more or stopped cleaning to patch yourself up.  

But you didn’t. You stayed quiet, continuing to pluck the shattered fragments off the floor until you had gotten them all, dumping them into the trash before grabbing the broom and dustpan and cleaning the dirt and scattered leaves, too.  

There were more important things to deal with than cleaning a dirty wound.  

Like making sure none of your friends could see that you weren’t nearly as composed as you tried to seem.  

The familiar rhythmic rapping of Mj’s knuckles against the front door made you forgo the bandage you were going to fix to your palm, tossing the rag you’d used to dry your face into the sink and heading straight to the living room.  

Carefully shoving your injured hand into your pocket, you opened the door and tried not to look surprised when Peter wasn’t standing in-between Mj and Ned. Of course he hadn’t come with them—why would he? He had already made it clear how he felt about all of this.  

It did become significantly harder to mask your shock however when a tall, messy haired boy stepped into view from behind them, clad in a crimson and cobalt webbed suit.  

“Get inside,” you hissed a bit harsher than intended, stepping aside and waving the three of them into your apartment.  

The last thing you needed was your neighbors seeing an unmasked, alternate version of Spider-Man standing in front of your door. It had already been risky enough that Peter had come here in his suit, standing in the lobby and sticking out like a sore thumb.  

Once they were inside, you shut the door and turned to Ned. “I thought you said there were two of them,” you noted, avoiding looking at the lanky Spider-Man who seemed just as desperate to avoid you, busying himself with walking around the room and studying the art on the walls.  

Ned shrugged. “He didn’t wanna come.”  

“Not that he didn’t want to come,” Mj pointedly corrected him, frowning at his bluntness. “He just wanted to keep patrolling. The Goblin, the one who…” she cut herself off, unable to force the words off her tongue. Scrapping the sentence altogether, she started again, “The Goblin’s from his world, so he seemed to think that he had the best chance of hunting him down. But we gave him the address.”  

You didn’t bother giving her an actual response, a subtle nod the only sign you had heard her at all. She didn’t seem to care much, just as unsure of what to say to you as you were to her.  

“So,” Ned clicked his tongue, trying to cut through the growing tension. “This is Peter 3!” He announced, gesturing to the other Peter, who was picking up a frame that had been face down on an end table. “That’s what we’re calling him, at least. Y’know, to tell them apart. The other one is Peter 2.”  

You gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Creative.”  

Done dawdling over Ned and Mj, you forced yourself to look at the un-masked hero from another world. He was placing the frame back onto the table—not face down, as he had found it, but up-right. You frowned at the photograph it displayed, a picture of you, Ned, Mj, and Peter from sometime last year.  

“You’re awfully nosy,” you told him, your voice like ice.  

His muscles tensed, hesitating as he faced your gaze. “Sorry,”  

His voice was slightly deeper than Peter’s, his hair a shade or two darker, his features a bit less soft, but still noticeably young, putting him in his early twenties at most. Truthfully, if it weren’t for the suit he was wearing, you would’ve never guessed that he was supposed to be the Peter Parker of another world.  

You had expected him to be more… Peter-like, in appearance, and yet as far as you could tell the resemblances were very slight, if they even existed at all.  

The mannerisms were there, though. The subtleties of Peter Parker, the things that most people never noticed and yet were ingrained in your mind. He licked his lips, a nervous tic that left you always carrying chapstick in your pocket. His hands hung at his sides and you saw the way his thumb tapped against each of his fingers, starting with his index and ending with his pinky, only to start over again.  

Watching him, taking note of every familiar twitch and tic and habit, made something in your chest tighten.  

And, when you told him your name, it was as if your icy tone had melted altogether. “It’s nice to meet you.”  

For a moment you thought he wouldn’t respond, his throat bobbing as he swallowed roughly, eyes darting around the room. But then, suddenly, he gave you a weak smile. “You too.” A trace of amusement laced his response, too subtle for you to detect.  

“We’ve gotta go,” Ned suddenly spoke, jutting a thumb towards the door. “Peter’s waiting outside so he can make sure we get home safe, but-” he stopped, brows furrowing as considered whether he should finish. “But text us later, okay? Just to let us know that you’re okay.”  

Your heart stuttered at the mention of Peter’s name, at knowing that he actually had come—even if it hadn’t been for you—but you didn’t mention it.  

Instead, you focused on Ned, giving your sweet friend the kindest smile you could muster—which, admittedly, didn’t feel like much. Despite everything that had happened with your friends in the past few months, your fight had never been with Ned. He was just caught in the middle, unfairly forced to pick sides.  

And you couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at him for picking Peter. Not when you knew that you would’ve done the same.  

“I will,” you promised.  

Ned gave you an equally somber smile before opening the door to leave. Even once Ned was in the hall, already descending the staircase, Mj lingered in the entryway—not for long, a heartbeat, maybe—turning back towards you just long enough to mutter, “Keep your guard up.”  

You didn’t have a chance to say anything back to her before she let the door slam shut, following quickly after Ned and leaving you alone with… this guy.  

The other Peter had abandoned his spot by the end table, seemingly done with investigating your apartment and left to do nothing but stand awkwardly a few feet away from you, clearly unsure of what to do or say now that it was just the two of you.  

“So,” you breathed out, popping your lips. “Peter 3, yeah? Good name. You go by that back home, too?”  

He laughed, a suit-clad hand nervously rising to the back of his neck. “Uh–yeah, no, definitely not. Just plain ole’ Peter Parker over there.”  

The nervous energy radiating from the boy almost seemed contagious as you started to pick at your nails. “Do you have a nickname?”  

He blinked, looking as if he hadn’t heard a word you said. “Sorry, what?”  

“A nickname,” you repeated, only for your brows to then furrow. “You have those where you’re from, don’t you? Nicknames? Like, you know, something you go by other than your actual name?”  

“Oh! Yes—sorry, yes we have nicknames in my world,” he exclaimed, his pale skin starting to flush.  

“I just thought that this whole numerical system thing that Ned’s going with to keep track of who’s who seems a little dehumanizing, yeah?”  

“For sure,” he agreed, sucking on his lip as he nodded along with you.  

You gave him a second, waiting and waiting for an answer to your apparently long-forgotten question, before asking, “So… Do you have one?”  

The slight blush that had tinged his skin instantly darkened, suddenly the same shade of crimson as his suit. His grip on the back of his neck tightened, too, his fingertips prodding into his own skin.  

“Sorry-” he apologized for the millionth time, more nervous laughter spilling out alongside it, “I do! I mean, sort of, I think. I don’t know if it’s really a nickname, but back in my world you really just called me by my last name most of the time anyway, so–I don’t know—maybe that would work?”  

The sheer quantity of word vomit spewing from his mouth was impressive and likely hard-to-follow for most, but you consider yourself a bit of an expert in the anxious ramblings of Peter Parker.  

“In your world?” You echoed, instantly catching the subtle mention. “We know each other?”  

Maybe it shouldn’t have been shocking to learn that there were other versions of you throughout the multiverse as well, and yet it was. You figured that it was plausible, of course, considering that two variations of Peter had just been thrown into your world, but for some reason it just didn’t feel right.  

You reasoned that anyone would feel that way, though.  

“Yeah,” the boy, Parker, answered, a bit clipped. “We do.”  

“Interesting.” Your brows lifted, “Are we friends?”  

Parker scrunched his nose, his head tilting slightly.  

“Yeah,” his voice was an octave higher than before, and if you knew him better, then you likely would’ve called him on the obvious tell. But you didn’t know him, and so you didn’t say anything when he decided to double-down on the lie, “Yeah, we’re friends.”  

“Well I guess that means that this is just as weird for you as it is for me, then.” You laughed, trying to add some humor to the situation.  

Parker gave a tightlipped smile. “Definitely weird.”  

The seconds felt like they stretched into minutes after that, silently racking your brain for something to say, hoping that he might say something—but, eventually, you settled on offering an escape from the situation instead.  

“You’re probably exhausted from the whole multiversal travel thing, so if you want, I can just show you the guest room and give you some privacy or something,” you told him, vaguely gesturing towards the hallway.  

Parker seemed to relax a bit at the prospect of being alone, loosing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Uhm–yeah, that’d be great, actually.”  

He followed you down the short hall, his hand finally falling from his neck and his skin returning to its normal complexion as his nerves began to wane.  

“This is it,” you told him, the hinges crying out as you shoved the door open. “It’s not much, but it’s somewhere to sleep, at least.”  

Wasn’t much felt like an understatement, though the room was typical for a New York apartment.  

A tad bigger than your average shoebox, there was just enough space to fit a full-sized bed, a small armoire, and a single nightstand adorned with an old desk lamp and a little pink teddy bear—a gift from Peter, years ago.  

Parker walked into the room, looking around and brushing his fingertips against the emerald quilt. It was a bit old and somewhat thin, but it was better than nothing you supposed, and Parker certainly didn’t seem like he was going to complain about it.  

“It’s great,” he assured you, and even though he did sound genuine, you couldn’t help but snort. He looked over at where you still stood in the doorway, giving you a timid smile as he said, “Way better than sleeping on the streets.”  

You returned the gesture, lazily lifting a shoulder. “We’ll see if you still feel that way in the morning. That mattress is about a hundred years old, so it’s probably the equivalent of sleeping on really lumpy cement.”  

Parker hummed his amusement, carefully perching on the edge of the bed, his smile seeming to deepen when he caught sight of the little bear on the nightstand.  

“I guess I’ll let you get some sleep,” you told him, reaching for the door handle, “if you need anything—extra blankets, or something—just let me know; my room’s right across the hall.”  

He muttered his thanks, but as you went to pull the door closed, you heard your name fall from his lips. It was strange sounding, strangled and foreign, like he didn’t quite know how to say it. When you turned back to face him, a subtle wince seemed to etch across his face.  

“Can I… Can I ask you something?” Parker stammered out the question, his voice faltering like a candle flame in the wind.  

You nodded once, fingers still wrapped around the knob, savoring the coolness of the brass against the now-clotted wound on your palm.

He took a breath, his gaze momentarily flickering back to the teddy bear on the nightstand. His thoughts felt heavy on his tongue as he tried to force them out of his mouth, “Are you happy?”  

You blinked at him, unsure of what to make of the hope that seemed to cling to each syllable and half-wondering if you’d heard him right.  

“I-” you tried to start, only to realize that you had no clue what to say.  

There was a fleeting moment where you realized that you could tell him the truth. You could tell him that happiness felt like a distant shore far from your reach, forever obscured by the fiery tempest of a brutal and ancient rage—a rage that, sometimes, didn’t even feel like your own.  

But then he looked at you with those big, expectant eyes; eyes that should have been foreign to you, and yet felt so familiar—and you realized that he wouldn’t like that answer.  

Sucking in a breath, you evaded his question as best you could. “Ask me again when all of this is over,” you told him, your lips curving into a soft, playful arc, “and maybe I’ll tell you the truth.”  

This time when you went to close the door, he didn’t stop you.  

series masterlist

a/n - i wish that i could properly express just how amazing (and terrifying) it has been to rewrite this story. first created at quite possibly the lowest point of my life, infinitely you has provided me with a necessary escape at a time when i desperately needed it. now that i'm in a better position, i found it necessary to give it the plot, writing style, and dedication that it deserved. i'm aware some people might not be interested in a rewrite and that's ok, but for those that are i just wanna say: thank you, thank you, thank you for giving infinitely you (and me) another shot. you're incredible.

if anyone would like to be added to the tag list, just let me know! as of right now, chapters will be posted every other monday, though i may switch that to weekly soon!

part two, titled "crullers & constants", to be released april 1st

Fucking stunning.

blood-splattered angels [tasm!Peter x assassin!fem!reader]

My own take on my TASM prompt challenge (open to anyone who feels like writing; it’s not a competition or exclusive).

Summary: THIS PROMPT - Spider-Man is kidnapped and held hostage by a mob. And then they make their biggest mistake - sending you the address. 

Words: 3.8k

Warnings: John Wick-level violence, death, blood, gunfire, whump, torture, male nudity/degradation, panic attacks, noncon voyeuristic photography, mobster-style shootout, description of flu symptoms, vomit, strong language, badass!reader, OP’s awful attempt at writing broken English in a Russian accent. 

This was bad. Really bad.

Peter was starting to come out of it, his dazed eyes flickering open—senses bombarded with harsh fluorescent light.

His face was wet with blood, sweat, and yes—he wasn’t ashamed to admit it—tears. The bile on his tongue was so putrid, he thought he’d throw up. Again. Maybe his actual stomach this time.

His body ached and shuddered uncontrollably. It felt like the worst flu of his life, and whatever he thought Ebola probably felt like. Every inch of his skin hurt. What little strength he had left in his muscles was depleting with every involuntary tremble.

He was having a very bad day.

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