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spider-stark · 10 months

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A DARK AGE

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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!

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kestisvrse · 4 months

Note

i love your harry fics!! i wanted to share a funny bit of info with you because it made me think of you 🫶

did you know that harry’s middle name is theopolis?? that’s such an extraordinary middle name, i was wondering if you could write a fic about it?? maybe the reader calls him theo as a nickname of endearment?

sorry this took so long, i only opened my requests back up recently :) i kinda went above and beyond for this one i hope u dont mind☺️

nickname collection

pairing ⋆ harry osborn x fem!reader. fluff. established relationship.

synopsis ⋆ the names you and harry call each other

warnings ⋆ reader is implied to be shorter than him. | wc: 1.2k

1. babe

you and harry hadn’t been dating long, one full month in a few days.

it was new, after being friends for years (and crushing for years) it was a little odd to say you kiss your best friend.

in saying that, sometimes things he does will shock you, forgetting he’s your boyfriend because you were already so used to him being around.

it was a thursday morning, he had slept over which lead to you both cuddled in bed as sun peaked through the curtains.

“i have to go.” harry whispered into your hair.

“few more minutes.” you muttered sleepily, not wanting his warmth to leave you.

“you said that five minutes ago.” he responded, “i’ll see you tonight too.”

“call in sick.” you suggest, refusing to let him leave.

he chuckled. he stays for five more minutes before randomly shooting up out of bed, careful to immediately cover you with the blankets so you didn’t get cold.

“nooo pleasee.” you groan out, opening your eyes but quickly shutting them as the sun shone in blinding you.

“i’m sorry but me and peter have a big meeting.” he huffed out, you could hear him undressing from his pajamas to put on clothes, too tired to function you just mumbled in response.

“i’ll see you later babe, i promise.” he said, placing a kiss to your forehead that poked out from under the blankets.

as you heard him leave your apartment, you poked your head out from under the blankets, face bright red.

“did he just… BABE???” you scream out like an excited teenager.

2. honey

despite sleeping in, you had quite the productive day and were able to get a lot done before harry came over again.

you two were having a week of just seeing each other a lot, you didn’t know why, you just wanted to be in each others presence as much as possible recently.

after preparing dinner you heard a knock at the door, opening it to reveal harry.

“hi.” you grinned at him which he happily returned, pulling you in for a hug.

“hi.” he mutters into your shoulder as you shut the door.

“i made you dinner.” you mentioned, causing him to pull away and look down at you, quickly pulling you in for a kiss.

“you’re my favourite person, ever.” he muttered against your lips causing the corners of your mouth to curve up.

you both got situated onto the couch, bowls of food in hand, you observed him eat before starting.

“what’s up?” he asks, feeling your gaze.

“you seem tired, did you have a good day?” you questioned, placing your food on the table so you could talk first, he repeated the action.

“the meeting didn’t go great, not in our favour i mean.” he confessed, “just feeling a bit down, i guess.”

“oh, honey i’m sorry.” you said moving over to hug him which he happily returned.

“honey?” he questioned

“what?” you pulled back

“you called me honey.”

“oh- sorry i didn’t even notice, it slipped out.” you said, embarrassed.

“say it again.” he asks, you gave him a puzzled look, but he just smiled at you.

“honey?” you barely got to finish saying the word before you were pushed back against the couch as he kissed you.

“please keep calling me that.” he beamed, kissing all over your face, causing you to laugh in response.

“okay honey.” you teased.

“you’re going to be the death of me.” he stated, kissing you again, distracting you both from dinner.

3. sweetheart

you and harry had gotten pretty serious at this point.

having said i love you, having arguments but quick to resolve them, it felt a lot more real now.

you forgot about the jealousy factor, though.

often, when you were with harry in public you two were always next to each other, either side hugging, his hand on the lower part of your back or holding hands, so you didn’t worry about people coming up to hit on him.

but, you and mj had both needed to use the bathroom while at the fair, so as harry and peter waited for you outside, someone took the opportunity.

“oh my gosh! it’s been so long.” you heard a voice outside the bathroom say, as you finished washing your hands.

the conversation was muffled until you got outside and you were met with amanda, harry’s ex in high school. she didn’t notice you as you snuck up behind harry.

“oh hey babe.” he smiled at you, immediately grabbing your hand to interlock fingers.

“hi amanda.” you spoke up, causing her to tear her attention from peter, saying your name in shock.

“oh hey! wow full high school reunion here huh!” she said, nudging harry’s arm as your jaw clenched.

‘she’s acting like we were all friends, she only knew harry and mj.’

“-well i’m leaving the fair now, so you guys have fun! we should catch up soon.” she said it as if she was talking to the whole group, but she kept her eyes on harry the entire time.

after saying your goodbyes, harry let mj and peter walk ahead a bit.

“you are breaking my hand.” he jokes, causing you to snap out of your jealous trance, loosening your grip and apologizing, “i love you okay? don’t think about her, you have all my attention always.”

he brought his free hand up under your chin to make you look at him.

“okay, sorry.” you replied

“it’s okay sweetheart, i probably would have done the same.” he commented.

a blush was creeping up on you at the nickname, “i love you.”

“i love you too.”

4. theo

“you’re kidding. how did i not know this!” you and mj laughed together in a coffee shop, just catching up.

“i’m so serious, his full name is harold theopolis osborn.” mj revealed, giggling

“i might have to start calling him that.” you joked

and you did.

“hi babe.” he says entering your apartment, it had basically become both of yours because of how often he would stay the night, “how was your day?” he asked, sneaking up behind you to rest his chin on your shoulder and snake his arms around your waist.

“good, i saw mj.” you grinned, “she told me something really interesting.”

“really? what’s that?” he asked, embracing your warmth, closing his eyes as if he could fall asleep standing there in the middle of the kitchen.

“well it was something about you, theo.” you held in your giggles, as you felt his head raise.

“i’m sorry?” he spun you around to look at him.

“theopolis.” you snicked, he shook his head in disbelief

“do not start calling me that!” he chuckled

“why! i think it’s cute, a name for you just from me.” you whispered, pulling him closer by his collar.

he paused, looking into your eyes as he thought of your offer, “fine. but not a lot, it is like your calling me by someone else’s name.” he muttered.

“i have eyes for you only, theo.” you whispered pressing a kiss to his lips

“you are the worst.” he groaned, pressing his forehead against yours.

“you love me.”

“i do.” he replied, muttering your middle name instead of your actual name.

“see! we are even, little nicknames just for us.” your eyes sparkled, he could have melted right then and there just by the softness of your voice.

“we have a whole collection of names already.” he commented.

“what’s two more?”

#harry osborn imagine #harry osborn ps5 x reader #harry osborn x reader #harry osborn #spiderman 2 ps5 #spiderman #spiderman 2 ps5 x reader #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #marvel #sienna’s fics

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imagine--if · 9 months

Text

A/N: I've always loved Harry but I've rewatched TASM and I've gotta write for him now to fill up his tag a bit.. and cus it's hArRy 🥰 so there are more fics for him to come!! also, am I the only one who rambles when I'm nervous? I'm gonna safely assume not lol 😅 dorky readers are cuteeee

Wordcount: 460

It was interesting, to say the least, to see how the lucky few got to live in San Fransico, all the executives and bosses and CEOs gathered together for their fancy gathering poorly disguised not to look like a place to trade business and earn even more money, though their conversations always drifted back to it.

You grabbed your things together from your desk at the end of the day at Oscorp, swinging your bag over your shoulder and brushing your hair out of your face tiredly. Everyone knew by now about Norman Osborn's death, and there were a lot of contrasting opinions about his son taking over the company at such a young age. You'd never met him properly yourself, and were pretty convinced that he wouldn't be much different from the other money-makers strutting through the building and giving you more and more work to do.

That is, of course, until you walk right into the man himself when you turn around to get to the elevator.

Your eyes widen in confusion and mild annoyance until they meet the cool, vaguely interested blue gaze of Harry Osborn, who surprisingly doesn't look at you like you're something he's scraped off his shoe. If anything, he looks a little amused, raising a brow slightly as your brain short-circuits to think of a good enough excuse.

"Uh- I'm sorry, I wasn't.. looking where I was going," you say with an awkward smile, unconsciously rambling. "I was looking... that way, because... it's where I came from."

Again, instead of the look of disdain and apprehensiveness you half expected, Harry looks like he's trying not to laugh, glancing in the direction before looking back at you.

"It's okay," he says simply, a small smirk on his face, as he takes you in for a short moment. "You work here?"

You nod, smiling. "Yeah. And you do too? I mean... you're Harry Osborn, so... you're the CEO."

Harry's smirk grows. "I am, yeah."

You smile awkwardly, feeling as if the young man is searching your eyes for something, in a kind of interest or intrigue about your personality, and glance at the lift.

"I should probably..."

"Hang on," he calls after you as you go to walk away, and you turn back to see his cool blue eyes shining with curiosity... and something more that you couldn't quite identify. "What's your name?"

You tell him with a half-smile, and Harry repeats it thoughtfully, his gaze drifting for a moment before returning to you with the same intrigued smile and oddly intense stare.

"I'll see you around."

You smile, reaching the elevator. "You will?"

Harry smirks, pressing the elevator button for you as the thick glass doors seal close between you and him. "You will."

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fcknstar · 1 year

Note

Can you do (amazing spider man 2) Harry Osborn, x fem reader? With a reader that’s had a bad day? Maybe struggling with depression and such.

,,may i? "

harryosborn x fem!reader

a.n : omfg m so sorry for the inactivity, i js have alot of school stuff going on, but i do have something coming up, sooo GET READY!! can gen! reader too ngl.. my taglist. this is a vv short one cause i had like afew minutes

warnings : mentions of past

**lowercase intended**

walking into your shared penthouse, you quickly ran up the stairs hiding in the bedroom. you didnt want to attract any attention, wanting to be alone for awhile.

hearing footsteps, you threw yourself onto the bed, covering yourself with the sheets.

" baby, i heard you come in and- are you okay ( name ) ? " harry pulled the sheets off, seeing your tear stained eyes.

" its nothing harry.. " you turned away from him, not wanting to look at harry.

" okay, but may i hold you? " harry heard a sniffle. it was rare to see you like this and it worried him.

seeing you nod slightly, he slipped into bed and wrapped an arm around your waist.

" if you want to talk about it, m here okay? " that was when you turned to face him.

" i just had the most horrible experience with this old lady and she was so insufferable. she just couldn't understand what i said. she wanted this chocolate croissant and i told her that it was sold out and that we are not able to make more of it and that she could come the next day, but then she started shouting at me and that i have to make her one now, free of charge because of how rude i was. my colleagues helped me explain to her but her focus was on me and she continued shouting at me. and i dont know why im crying about this. i just really hate getting shouted at, you know. " you spilled your heart out. you thought that youd be used by now with all the fights that occured at home, but no. it didnt help one bit as it felt like you got launched back into time.

" my gosh, how disrespectful can she be? she really thinks that she has all the right to scold my girl here? " harry caressed your face comfortingly.

" harry.. " you whined, he wasnt helping with the pet names. " not now… "

" sorry darling. you want to wash up? i can order food, or would you like me to make you something? " harry suggested.

" anything thats easier for you.. " you smiled, hugging harry.

harry wasnt the best at comforting but he tries, and thats all that matters right now.

taglist :

@idontdocomplicated

#imagines #oneshots #dane dehaan #harry osborn x reader #tasm!harry osborn #tasm!harry osborn x reader #valerian and the city of a thousand planets #valerianxreader #valerian #dane dehaan imagine #tasm fic #tasm #harry osborn imagine #harry osborn #answered

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mxtantrights · 11 months

Text

oh, to be in it with you

This is splices of a long work I had drafted up years ago. That being said I tried my best to make it more of a wordy one-shot than an ongoing thing because I just don't think I could return to this original idea, but if you like this then come into my inbox and request something for our Harry Osborn.

Harry Osborn x fem!reader, spidey!reader

PRE SNAP

Sighing, you picked up your phone to answer the call. It was always something with that boy. As soon as you took the call he was speaking. You thinks it's the rich boy complex.

"-ay I know I said I wanted an espresso but I take it back." Harry spoke.

"Oh yeah? What do you want now?" you asks.

"Just a regular black coffee." he says.

"Really?" you asked. But you knew already.

"I'll venmo you for the trouble."

"Please do." you ended the call.

You just earned herself four bucks. You knew he would change his mind. That's how Harry operates. And also he can't handle sugar after ten in the morning.

You carried the two regular coffees in the paper tray and exited the cafe. The trip to MoMA had been canceled due to the weird donut in the sky that appeared not too long ago. No it wasn't normal but the superheroes were on it. They always were.

So while everyone else went home, or wherever, Harry and you stayed together and headed over to the Osborn building. You two were gonna fool around with the lab equipment, maybe make 3d printed donuts. What else was there to do?

The cafe, was located right across the street from the building.

Harry was looking out the window when it began to happen. The scientists that were in the room with him started disappearing one by one. He didn't catch on until he saw it with his own eyes. What once was an employee was now dust.

You were waiting to cross the street when you heard her phone vibrating in your hand. It was under the coffee tray. You balanced it in one hand and looked at the screen.

Harry. You thinks that he just called, so surely he couldn't have changed his mind again. Maybe he just needs the coffee a bit more than he let on.

Weirdly you picked up the phone. "Harry I'm coming. Calm do-"

"Somethings wrong, everyone is disappearing."

"What ar-" you began to say as a man stepped up next to you, waiting to cross the street too. You looked over to see the man begin to crumble like crumb cake. The dark dust began to get swept up by the wind as you gasped.

"You have to get over here now." Harry pleaded with you on the other side of the line.

"i'm coming, meet me at the front door." you didn't hang up the call.

You dropped the coffees and looked up and down the street. The cars were stopping in the middle of it, people getting out. Dust was becoming everyone. Or everyone was becoming dust.

Carefully you ran across the street over to the building. Looking inside you could faintly see the familiar blonde boy approaching the front door. You began to run to it, to him, at that moment.

When you reached the door- he wasn't there. The faint trail of dust was all you could see. Your heart sank to your feet.

"Holy shi- Harry?!" you shouted to no one in particular.

Your hand grabbed the door handle but you couldn't feel it. You could see your hand begin to turn dark and begin to crumble. It didn't hurt as you fell to the concrete ground.

It wasn't long before it was your arms then you legs.

Then you.

POST SNAP

The sound of your name is want brings you back.

"Can you hear me? Wake up!" a voice says.

Your ears started to ring as you opened your eyes. You'd recognize that voice anywhere. Harry was in front of you, looking panicked and anxious. You looked around and saw- not your world. This was someplace else.

A deserted waste land. Red dirt, yellow skies. Two suns.

"Harry where the hell are we?"

"I- I don't know. But there are other people here. I don't think we died. But this is- this is crazy."

"You think this is it?" you asked him, and he knew exactly what you meant.

In a world full of superheroes things were bound to go wrong. Dreadfully wrong. The attack on New York proved to everyone that nothing was out of limits. And now here we are. People turning to dust, waking up in a new world.

Harry shook his head. "No this can't be it. Theres no way- Tony Stark would never let this happen."

"What if it was out of his control? What if it's out of all of our control?"

After that Harry did he best to calm you. Which included getting you off the floor, compartmentalizing the current catastrophe, trying to joke about his awful dad. And it worked.

For a while. You needed to be alone with your thoughts for a while.

You were walking as your eyes became watery. Osborn was doing what he did best, assembling a group of smart minds to get to the bottom of the situation. Which included you, you was the first mind he thought of actually, but you needed to take a moment.

Your arms were wrapped around herself as you walked in the foreign place. It wasn't like they were in a parallel universe or something. There was just nothing here except the red ground beneath them. There were dried trees with no leaves like the place had only known death. And there were so many people.

You stopped after a while because you didn't want to get lost from Harry. So you stood underneath a tree, with your back pressed against the root. You thought that your body was actually vibrating from the fear. You held yourself even tighter.

There were no avengers here. No Tony Stark to save them. You think that something must've happened and it must've been bad. Yo wonders about your parents and whether or not they are here too or if they were back home?

"Ah!" you yelped.

Your hand reached the back of your neck where the sudden pain was. You couldn't feel anything but the back of your neck felt warm. You squinted her eyes and looked up at the tree branches above you but there was nothing.

So you looked down.

And there in the red dirt was a twitching spider. It didn't look real honestly. It was black but on it's back there was a neon blue and purple hour glass. Like it was a cartoon or something. You bent over to get a better look at it but then something happened.

It glitched out of sight. Like when water is poured over a computer and the screen malfunctions. Theres a quick flicker of static and colors. The spider didn't come back.

You reached for the back of your neck again and thought to yourself. You hoped that the spider wasn't poisonous. The whole thought of being infected by a spider just irked you so much that you decided to go back to where Harry was.

You walk over to where he's assembled a group.

He's talking to someone on the side when he sees you. He pats them on the shoulder and makes his way over to you.

"Hey, your head cleared enough?" he asked.

You nodded. "I just wonder where everyone else is."

Harry holds out his arm and you on instinct places yourself underneath it. He holds you close and rubs your arm. You know that it's in attempt to sooth you and you lets out a breath at the thought that you're with him during the midst of all of it.

"They're gonna save the day, they always do."

You reach up to feel your neck again.

FIVE YEARS LATER

It happened all at once. One minute you were dozing off in the middle of a conversation with Harry and then everything around you changed. You awakened with a headache. You couldn't forget the whole dust thing and as soon as you remembered you jolted up from your position.

You are on the floor. The floor of the Oscorp building.

A bunch of people are.

Harry.

You look around for him as you get to her feet. You couldn't help to see that the building looked different. The elevator that you used before was no replaced by a new one. The insides of the labs looked different.

"Harry! Harry!" you shouted.

It wasn't him that came up to greet you. Instead it was a woman- a woman with a familiar face- that grabbed onto your shoulders. Her expression sad, shocked, a range full of emotions.

"Oh my god it's you." she said and instantly latched onto you.

You grew confused at who the stranger was that was hugging you. You kept your arms at her sides and still looked for Harry. Until a whiff of perfume snuck up to your nose. The scent of Daisy by Marc Jacobs flooded your nose in an all too familiar way.

You know who wore that perfume?

Oscorp's resident lab engineer, Melanie Malone. Melanie who had been given the job straight out of college. The same Melanie who's hair was always slicked back into a puff.

You remove yourself from the woman's embrace to find that the likeliness isn't a coincidence. No.

Here is Melanie Malone. Standing in front of her. With dark circles under her eyes. And her hair grown out significantly. She didn't look like that same college girl who worked here. No she looked like a woman now.

"Melanie how long has it-" you began to ask but Melanie beat you to the punch.

"Five years." she answers.

Your whole body stilled at that. It wasn't long ago for you. It felt like a few hours. It felt like you had taken a nap. A weird nap in a weird place. But just a nap. How can it feel like that for you but for everyone else it's been five years?

Harry's voice cut through your thoughts. He's calling your name.

Your eyes moved franticly throughout the crowd that was forming in the lobby. You could see something moving towards you. Something fast. It didn't take long before you saw the long blonde hair.

Harry stopped when he reached you and Melanie. He stopped because he recognized Melanie- but not like this.

"They're saying it's been five years- that can't be true right? It didn't feel like that for me. It felt like a couple of hours or something. How can this be possible?" He couldn't stop himself from the fear induced rambling, or his hands from trembling.

You reached out to take his hands. "It was out of our control."

It happens when everyone is at the diner. Well, almost everyone. It's MJ, and Ned on one side. Harry and you on the other. Miles is in the bathroom. The bell to the front entrance rings out and you can see brown curls walking in. You know it's Peter.

But then the feeling happens. The tingle that shoots from your spine to your head. And you're staring right at him. He's staring right back at you. He stops in the middle of the doorway too. You look away and try to distract yourself.

You gulp down your dry throat, which Harry notices.

"You good honey?" he asks.

And yes you're used to him calling you pet names. It doesn't mean you doesn't blush when he does it. MJ, close to the window now, notices it all the time but she doesn't say anything.

You nods.

Peter slides in with Ned and MJ. And just as he does Miles is walking back and sliding in with you and Harry. No they didn't understand boundaries sometimes, and it shows.

"Finally Parker. Anyways, so what are the plans for this weekend?" Miles asks.

"You don't remember? We have our trip to Europe." Ned says, pointing to himself, Peter and MJ.

Harry and Miles sigh while you nod your head. You all go to different schools so it's really weird when one of you has to explain to your families how you met. You remembers having to tell your father the whole story and even he was confused.

You can feel Peter staring at you every few seconds or so.

"Oh wait I think I have a trip with my father coming up, oscorp business." Harry says.

Miles looks at you. "So it's just us'"

"You follow me around all the time anyways, nothin' new." you say.

Miles lightly shoves you and you shove him back. Then you remember your other plans for the night.

"I can't stay too late guys, I have to meet up with someone else later." you say.

Every head at the table turned. It's not because they all think you doesn't have friends. They know that you are the most friendly and kind person in their lives. However your social interactions are almost always limited to them.

Harry, Miles and MJ specifically.

"Is that so surprising? So mind boggling?" you say to the faces of surprise.

"Do you have a date or something?" MJ asks.

MJ thinks, fuck it. Now is a great time to get into the whole Harry and you situation. There probably would be a better time, but when has loved sat quietly in the corner and wait for the perfect moment? Never, she thinks. Besides she was actually thinking about her feelings for Peter, and possibly telling him on their school trip.

Your eyes widen a bit. "No! I'm just meeting a friend-we're hanging out? I think?"

Miles laughs. "How do you think? You don't know?"

"Hey hey, she's allowed to have friends besides us," Harry starts and you sends him a small smiles before he continues, "but let's be mindful that I can get you Starbucks everyday."

Everyone at the table laughs at that.

The first time you saw Harry's hands tremble you thought it was from the cold. So you did what any friend would do and took your own gloves off and handed them over. Of course, Harry wouldn't accept. Something about how the plaid pattern didn't match the 'vibes' from his coat. You rolled her eyes and shrugged your shoulders.

Harry never forgot that night. It was from then on he did his best to hide his condition even better. Especially from you, the girl he had fallen in love with several times over.

He tried his best, but you picked up on it from time to time.

There was the time at the coffee shop when he was holding his black Amex. When he had taken it back from the barista, you could see the card shaking in his hands. He let a small grunt escape from his lips before slipping it into his wallet.

You clapped his back softly before moving over to the pick-up station. Harry, with ray-bans attached to his face at that point, let out a sigh relief.

Another appearance was during a study session. The two of you had been going strong for two hours until Harry suddenly wanted to do anything else. Even though you both had exams coming up, he began moving around his own house. Like he had misplaced something that he needed desperately at that very moment.

The silence on your end was in part because you were watching him. And very subtly, his hands, out of your peripheral. You had been connecting the dots over some time now. How after you offered your gloves that one night, his shaking hands seemed to be a common occurrence. Or that one of them gets coffee for the both of them now. Or that he never hands you anything anymore.

You just laid out your textbook and notes on his coffee table and leaned back on his couch. With your head laid back, you asked if he wanted to order some take-out. His hand was shaking so much he couldn't take notes, you understood.

There was one time that he cannot hide it though. At the school dance- trivial, yeah he knows. He's pointing out that some kids are in the middle of spiking the punch bowl. And his finger is stretched out.

You takes one look at the kids before your eyes linger on his finger. His hand. His shaking hand. And you didn't have the words to speak about it with him, not when he worked so hard to deny it. You know that he doesn't have the words either. So you took his hand and dragged him to the dance floor. Well, the gym floor.

Not in the middle. Just a ways off from where they were on the bleachers. He instantly places his hands on your hips. Your arms reach up and dangle off the end of his shoulders. Harry is looking off to the side with a bit of a smirk.

"Oh don't you say anything Osborn." you say.

He shrugs a bit and looks at you. The heels gave you bit of an advantage that night. Your face is close to his. Not enough that your noses touch. But enough that you could feel his breath warm your cheeks.

"I just think you're trynna woo me a bit. I mean I'm flattered, but it's unneeded. I already write about you in my diary." he said.

You laughed.

"Just the one?" she asked.

He smiled.

He pulled her closer to him. The two swayed to the music in the gym. And you swore that he thanked you. Under his breath. Below the bass of a Jason Maraz song. You didn't respond, only squeezed him a bit tighter.

(dirty) Harry

hey so I just got done with this seminar thing

wanna hang?

You snicker and type out a yes and asks for his location. Harry doesn't send it, he wants to know yours. After all he's got the driver. With a roll of your eyes, you drop your location. And you let him know that you'll wait in the bookstore.

Miles had something to do so the two of you wrapped up early.

You go inside and the bell rings. Harry lets you know his ETA while you browse the store. After starting down the comedy section that is displaying twilight, you make a turn. As soon as you does, Maya sees a woman at the end of the aisle.

Your phone buzzes.

would you hate me if I said something just came up?

You sigh. You're about to type a response when you hear someone clear their throat. You looks up from your phone and it's the same woman. Except now she's closer.

"Hi, can I just get," she points to the shelf, "in there?"

You move to the side quickly, "sure, sorry about that."

"Nice jacket by the way. You a fan?" she asks.

You look down. Your jacket has the spider emblem on it. It wasn't really your choice. More like MJ had snuck a pocca pen session on your jacket one time. your phone buzzes again but you turn the screen off.

"Yeah, well he's pretty cool." you say.

The lady smiles, "Yeah, but you're pretty cool too, aren't you?"

There are a million alarms ringing in your head. Maybe more. But the bookstore isn't loud. You could scream and someone will hear. You backtrack to the front of the store. Where was the cashier at the front register?

Your phone buzzes.

"Are you the only one in here with me?" you ask.

The woman nods.

"I don't want to scare you. I just wanted to offer you my card." she says.

She digs into her leather jacker pocket. Out comes a white card. Her hand extends out to you, who is weighting your options. Harry's earlier text buzzes your phone again.

You decide to take the card from her.

MARIA HILL

xxx-xxxx

When you look up she's gone. And you gets that feeling on the back of her neck. The one you hate feeling. It makes your gut turn and twist.

You stuff the card into your pocket and unlocks your phone.

(dirty) Harry

sorry. do you wanna hang out later?

hello??

You press on the phone icon. You pull your phone up to your ear and it starts ringing. He picks up in a few seconds.

"Hey I'm sorry, something really did come up. I didn't mean to bail on you."

"It's fine H, but I think I might have to raincheck you." you answer.

"Ouch."

"Aw, poor baby. You won't believe me but something just came up."

"Uh huh. Well whatever it is, isn't me. So it can't be as amazing." he jokes.

"You're right rich boy. Oh speaking of which when do you leave with your dad for that business trip thing?"

"A few days, after everyone goes on that Europe trip. Why?"

"I was wondering if we could fit in one of our old city trips?" you ask.

"You just want me to use my money to get you into the museum." he says.

"Ah, you know me so well." you laugh.

You tucks her phone into your pocket as Harry comes over with churro sticks. He hands one to you while he bits off a mouthful of his own. It makes you look at him in pure concern, because you know that he tends to talk with his mouth full. He calls it resisting the etiquette classes from his childhood.

"Please don't choke on that." you say.

He makes a face, which earns him a smack on the shoulder. Harry holds out his arm and you links it with your own. The two of you begin to walk down the block. It's fairly empty as it's 11am and everyone is either trying to get to work or already there.

When he finishes off chewing, Harry nudges you a bit with his shoulder. It makes you look up at him, which you often do. It's hard to not look at Harry, he's a pretty boy of course. But as one of a few people who have been up real close to his face, he has freckles. Very faint, but seeable.

"What are you and Miles gonna do with all this free time?" he asks.

You chuckle, "Miles was talking about hanging out with my dad. They've got that bond thing so."

"And you?"

"I'll probably read a book. Or two. And meet up with my friend." you answer.

"Is this friend hotter than me? I meant to ask when you first brought them up, but I figured I should hide my jealousy in front of our other friends." he jokes.

"Yes she is." you answer.

"Damn. I have some competition don't I?"

You nudge Harry this time as you both end up at the end of the block. At the corner, you two watch two adults with their fingers intertwined and swinging cross the street. You're the one who started looking at them, Harry was looking at you and then followed your line of sight.

The Osborn knows that one of these days he'll tell you how he feels about you. It wouldn't be a surprise or anything. He flirts with you all the time, and you flirt right back. Harry is just scared that at some point he'll have to share his other secret with you. He knows you knows and you just don't talk about it. But he knows.

So he does the next best thing.

He untangles your arm from his, which makes you look at him. With your focus on him he smiles.

"Can you hold this?" he asks.

You sees his hand formed into a fist and thinks he's talking about his change from the food cart. It wouldn't be the first time he's done this. He liked to make it a habit of letting you 'hold his change' and then he's at home and you're left with a couple of dollars. It's add up so much that you keep a jar at home specifically for him (that he doesn't know about).

You sigh and open your right hand to receive what you think is change.

Harry instead opens his fist and it's empty. He grabs your hand with his and interlocks their fingers. You look at your joined hands, up at him and then back at your hands. You fight back a smile and look dead ahead.

"If you wanted to hold my hand you should've asked."

"Thanks for indulging me anyways."

The music from the party blared throughout the apartment. It had to be a high school crossover. Uptown, downtown, midtown. A few kids from upstate and a few from across the turnpike. All packed into two levels of a brownstone.

Drinks were flowing and snacks were being passed around. At some point someone was handing out caprisuns and it felt like a kindergarten party. Especially when they started shotgunning them.

"Hell I even think someone from Staten Island is here." Harry shouts over the music.

You shake her head, "That doesn't really count."

You look at each other and share a quick laugh.

The two of you are at a party that only Harry was invited to. It was the night before he left for his trip with his father and he wanted to take the edge off. You knew that he just wanted to pretend for one night that he was normal. So you indulged him.

You thew on the most festive outfit you had in her closet and met Harry at his place. He had told you to stop doing that, that he could 'send' for you' but you had a thing about using his driver so that was a definite no.

Harry stood next to you the whole time. He hadn't known anyone personally, but they all seemed to know him. It was normal but it wasn't comfortable as he had put it once to you. Being famous for being the son of someone famous as kinda weird.

The arch that Harry was standing under should have been enough. All the earthquake tips say so. But this wasn't an earthquake. This was an evil man, with alien technology and a point to prove. No one was safe.

You call out, "Harry! Don't move!"

"If I don't move I'm toast!" he replies.

"Harry-" you begin.

Harry moves. From under the arch he runs to the center of the apartment. The floor has been proven unsteady the moment the fire had started. You weren't sure if it was because the fire had spread to the floor below or not.

He runs and your perception slows down. It's like someone hit slo-mo on life. And every little detail is for display. The creaking of the floor boards, wood splitting in half. The heat of the fire, the orange glow it has set upon the walls. Harry's eyelashes and his pulsing heartbeat.

It shouldn't happen. It shouldn't be possible. But nothing seems to be impossible anymore.

Iron man carrying a nuke through a wormhole. Thor, the actual God of Thunder. Sakovia. The Snap. Captain America on the moon.

You reach out- out of fear- to Harry. And his hand is no where near yours, neither is he. You're in one of the corners of the perished living room. He's barely reached the center of it. There should be no way.

But suddenly there is.

You can feel it all at once. It's the goosebumps on your arm. And the tingly feeling. The one you remember from childhood. You used to play with the static on the TV all the time. It was the exact same feeling.

Then his hand is in yours. You can feel it- him. He's shaking. You pull him in, encasing his body in your arms.

And you do it again. This time, outside of the building. To the safest place you can think of. The pier.

You let out a breath. Not once did you close your eyes. You were too scared to miss something. Harry did close his eyes though. They opened when he felt the cold breeze and smelt the ocean water.

"He calls out your name.

He pulls back from you a bit. You're still holding onto him, not letting go. Harry looks around in utter shock. The bench the two of you usually sit at. The street lamp that, by the grace of Loki, is still working after decades.

"Did I do it- I didn't think I could do it," you start and pulls yourself away from him, "Are you okay? You're not hurt right?"

You start to examine him. And he's somewhere in-between shocked silence and inappropriate laughing. You cup his face with both hands. He might've lost an eyelash and enhanced a couple of freckles from the flames, but he wasn't hurt. He wasn't hurt.

You exhale.

"You just teleported us out of a fire!" he said.

"I-I know. It's just- I told you not to move Harry! I told you it wasn't safe! Why didn't you listen to me?" you weren't really asking.

Harry takes in a deep breath, "You saved my life."

"I- I saved your life."

(dirty) harry

When I get back from this trip we have to talk about this

it's crazy and insane but we need to talk about it

and thank you again for saving my life

You sent back a message agreeing with Harry and wishing him a safe trip. Then you shut the phone off. Sleeping was going to be rough tonight. How did you save his life exactly? You can't put into words, it's inexplainable. But you could remember the feeling. The static, the fear and hopelessness.

And then you did something about it.

Is that what you were supposed to do now? Something bad happens and you do something about it?

You plug your phone into it's charger and rolled onto your back. Staring at the ceiling. It had been weird coming back and your home had been lived in by other people. You had a new room. All of your stuff was given away. There are people in New York that probably have a sweater you cared for dearly.

The one thing that remained the same was the ceiling. A week after being brought back you recreated the ceiling you used to have in your old room. Glow in the dark stars were your favorite thing growing up. And after the snap it made you feel like not too much had changed.

Your phone buzzes again on the nightstand. You look over at the illuminated screen. You can't tell who it is from this far. You reach out with your arm and grab it.

When your eyes see his contact name you sit up.

(dirty) harry

I'm at your front door.

"what?" you whisper.

Then it hits you. It's Harry. He's not going to let this go. He's not going to just wait for answers. And he means what he says so he is definitively at your front door.

You get out of bed and throw on a sweater. You open your door quietly as you can and tip-toe to the front door, trying not to wake your parents.

You slowly open the door and peak your head through. There he is. He hasn't even changed out of the clothes he was wearing at the party.

You slip outside and keep the door open a crack.

"Harry? What's going on?" you ask.

He shakes his head, "I don't know it feels like-I just have to say something. I can't just go to bed or go on this trip and not say this to you."

Harry stops for a moment.

You nod your head for him to go on. He lets out a strangled breath. And then you reach out and take his hands into yours.

"Tonight was scary. I mean the scariest feeling I've ever felt because I thought it was over. And not for me, but for you. And if you-if something ever happened to you I wouldn't know how to move on, I wouldn't move on. There is no living without you." he starts.

He raises both of your hands to his mouth and places chaste kisses on the back of your hands. You watch in shock as he does so. How his thumbs brush your knuckles. How close you two are now.

"I have been in love with you for so long it's so annoying. And I needed you to know after you saved my life tonight. I should've said something sooner but I'm saying it now and that's all I've got." he ends.

You forget how to speak. You actually forget the words you've known your whole life and how to use them. He's holding onto you and telling you he is in love with you. He's standing here in front of your house, telling you he's in love with you.

And it's the most Harry Osborn thing you can think of. That his mind was probably running a thousand miles per hour and he couldn't sleep, couldn't leave any of his thoughts for tomorrow. He had to say this now.

"Harry Osborn," you start,

and when you let go of his hands you see him visibly sigh. You hate the look of hurt that flashes across his face. But you know as your hands come up to cup both side of his face that what he's feeling won't last.

"I've been in love with you for a long time too." you say.

He smiles. He actually cracks a smile and then he's chuckling. All of a sudden there is no space between the two of you. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you close. Your arms go around him as well.

And in the warmth of Harry Osborn's arms you're glad that spider bit you, so that you could save his life and he could come to your front door and tell you he's in love with you.

#marvel x reader #marvel imagine #marvel fic #harry osborn x reader #harry Osborn fic #harry Osborn imagine #marvel

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theaawalker · 4 months

Text

His Little Lamb [ HARRY OSBORN ]

chapter II. friends

Pairing: Harry Osborn x Demetra Jones Series: 0 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 Song Inspo: Perfect by One Direction Word Count: 1,001 Summary: Demetria Jones is your classic model citizen. Smart, helpful, organized, sophisticated, and above all innocent. But that changes when she gets a new boss, Harry Osborn. She's not looking for trouble, but that might be what she's in for. Unless, maybe, she can change Harry... that is, if he doesn't change her first. Warnings: mentions of workplace abuse, forced proximity Masterlist: see fandoms (pc-friendly)

I did as Harry... I mean... Mr. Osborn requested and documented every file on the list. I hadn't seen him since his departure at the board meeting yesterday. Nevertheless, I wanted to make sure I actually did my job. So I stopped by his office and dropped off said paperwork. Much to my annoyance, he wasn't in there. It was his second day as CEO of OsCorp and he hadn't even bothered to show up.

This was gonna be a long day.

I marched out of his office to the elevators and began to dial Menken. He was in charge whenever Norman was gone, which usually meant an occurrence of verbal harassment for me. I knew with Harry's absence I couldn't get any work done because I had no further orders. I considered following my usual orders, but those existed under Norman Osborn's authority. Now that his son was in charge, I had no sense of direction. Which was ironically proven when I then bumped into one of the elevator doors.

I pushed the bottom button and put the phone to my ear. As I waited for the doors to open, I listened to my phone ring before going to voicemail. So I hung up and proceeded to dial again as the doors finally opened and I boarded. Once again it rang and there was no answer. I groaned, removing the phone from my ear. Then suddenly...

"Hi again!" Said a voice from behind me, making me jump. I covered my mouth mid-scream and quickly spun around to see the source. Low and behold, it was Harry Osborn. "I'm sorry." We both apologized.

"I didn't mean to scare you." He spoke first, extending his hand to me worrisomely.

"No, no. It's fine." I gasped as I clutched my heart. "My fault. I didn't see you."

He watched me catch my breath, his eyes a sparkly turquoise from the luminous rooms behind the elevator glass. "I'm... I'm Harry Osborn." He introduced himself, putting a hand on his chest.

"Yeah, I know who you are." I cleared my throat, my voice now professional. "I was in the board meeting."

"That's right, you were the one I promoted." Harry beamed as he recalled the memory.

I chuckled. "Oh, yeah. Like you were serious." I waved him off.

"Actually, yes." He stated rather authentically. I stared at his face and sure enough it read seriousness. And here I was trying to get ahold of Menken because I thought he was still my superior. Harry must've seen the shock in my face because he began to smirk. I suppose he was amused by the impact of his own power.

"What's your name again?" He asked, nodding to me.

"Demetria. Demetria Jones." I lifted my head as I reintroduced myself.

"Demetria..." My name flew out of his mouth with an unnecessary softness. Harry tilted his head and bit his lower lip, still smirking. I gulped as I stared at its pinkness under his teeth, not sure what else to do. "Tell me, Demetria." He continued. "What's a little lamb like you doing in a wolf den like OsCorp."

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't intimidated by the question. But.. did he seriously just call me a 'little lamb'?

"Uhhh, well, for one, I enjoy my work here. I was a huge fan of your father's. I can appreciate a business that's working to make the world a better place. And, uh, I good salary never hurt anyone." I joked, shrugging.

Harry just stood there and listened, not uttering a word. And once I was done, he nodded. "So you were a fan of my father? Well, that makes one of us." I couldn't tell if he was joking or not, so I didn't say anything. For a moment, both of us were silent.

Then Harry leaned off the wall and stepped towards me. We were now standing face-to-face a foot apart. He wasn't that much taller than me, perhaps an inch or two. However, height-wise our eyes actually aligned perfectly. That being said, I still felt his presence hovering over me. "Since I'm your boss now, we should keep in contact." He gestured to my phone.

I could feel his warm breath on me as he spoke, and I wondered if he could feel mine. "Um, sure." I responded before punching in his number as he recited it to me. Once he was done, I hit save to make it official.

"I look forward to working you, Demetria." Harry said, making my fingers freeze. I gazed away from my screen and looked at him. I wasn't sure if he had gotten closer, but it certainly felt like he did. He wore a blank expression with his mouth hanging slightly agape. His marble eyes stared into mine, and mine into his. Neither one of us said anything, which was strangely comforting. We stayed like that for what seemed like awhile.

Suddenly, the elevator dinged and the doors opened, making us break eye contact. In an instant, what was once comfortable had now become awkward. We exchanged embarrassed glances as Harry slowly backed up and I gathered myself to leave. "Nice seeing you, Mr. Osborn." I gave an awkward smile and stepped out.

"Call me Harry." He raised an eyebrow, smirking suggestively. "We're friends now, aren't we?"

Then, as if on cue, the doors closed, leaving me completely stunned and confused. I wasn't quite sure of what had just happened, but I didn't have time to process it because my phone started to ring. Without reading the ID, thoughtlessly I answered it.

"Hello? Who is this?" Menken huffed into the phone.

"...Demetria Jones," I replied, my eyes glued to the elevator.

"Oh." He groaned before pausing. "...Well, what do you want?"

With a big smile and a bolt of realization, I told him exactly what I wanted. "Kiss my *ss!"

• ♧ • ♧ • ♧ • ♧ • ♧ • ♧ • ♧ • ♧ • ♧ • ♧ •

If you enjoyed this imagine :

follow me 🫂 like 👍 comment 🗨 repost 🔄

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dylobilysmomg · 2 years

Text

Spiderverse Masterlist

𝗜𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀, 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗴! 𝗖𝗵𝗲𝗰𝗸 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝘆 𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸 (𝗬𝗲𝗮𝗵 𝘁𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗰𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗸 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘀!) 𝗠𝘆 𝗟𝗶𝗻𝗸𝗧𝗿𝗲𝗲. 𝗡𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗴𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻. 𝗜 𝗹𝘂𝘃 𝘂 𝗮𝗹𝗹, 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘂 𝗮𝗹𝗹. 𝗘𝗻𝗷𝗼𝘆!

𝗛𝗲𝘆, 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗦𝗽𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗿-𝗠𝗮𝗻, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗺𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘀𝗲 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁𝘀!

Peter Parker Vibes Playlist

Harry Osborn Vibes Playlist

𝐓𝐇!𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐑:

❀ ☻ Is it Really You? ~𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗿𝗲𝘂𝗻𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗣𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗹𝗶𝗽.

❀ ☻ Happy to Have You Back ~𝗣𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗱𝗼𝗲𝘀𝗻’𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗮 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗴 𝘂𝗽.

𝐀𝐆!𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐑:

❀ ☻ Teenage Romance 𝗟𝗼𝘃𝗲𝘆 𝗱𝗼𝘃𝗲𝘆 𝗣𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗺𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁.

✭ ☻ Let Me Go ~𝗪𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗣𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗮 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗴 𝗯𝗼𝘆, 𝗼𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂.

𝐉𝐅!𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐎𝐒𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐍:

☻ ♡ Backstabber ~𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗛𝗮𝗿𝗿𝘆 𝘀𝗻𝗲𝗮𝗸 𝗮𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 𝗯𝗲𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗣𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗿’𝘀 𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸.

#spiderman #peter parker #peter parker imagine #tom holland #andrew garfield #harry osborn #harry osborn imagine

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thebookanaconda · 7 months

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Guess what I saw on reddit today!!!

#parksborn #peter parker #spiderman #harry osborn #tumblr #otp #friends to lovers #friends to enemies to lovers #hero x villain #imagine your otp #peter parker x harry osborn #rich friends #flirting #otp prompts #meme #memes #funny memes #fandom #reddit

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bruciemilf · 9 months

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Peter B needs a Harry, so have some Parksborn headcanons:

Dumbass bi men who never realized they were dating

Harry had a crush since they met and Peter was so oblivious

They had a "fallout" (break-up) after Peter and MJ divorced, but Harry secretly paid Peter's rent and bought the DB so Peter could keep his job

Harry has a spare key to Peter's apartment (and they were ROOMATES) and cleans up for him sometimes. Peter cries when he finds out

Harry totally knows Peter is Spider-Man. "I mean, he's heroic, brave, kind, funny, and the world's biggest idiot. Who else would it be?"

Miles, Gwen, and Pav meet Harry for the first time and almost lose it. " Uh, all due respect, that's the most beautiful man I've ever seen in my life how are you friends. Can he adopt us?

Parent the hell out of the spiderlings. "Okay fine, but don't tell Harry" "Just wait till I tell Peter about this"

Harry: well, you know, he didn't invite me to his wedding, so--

Peter calls Harry 'angel' 1000% thanks bye. Harry calls him Petey ofc. (Peter hates it. He secretly loves it)

Harry still has hoodies that hang off his shoulders most of the time, that smell of pepperoni pizza and tears

Peter is the embodiment of the "saw my roommate kiss guys, am I homophobic?" Reddit Guy

Harry crocheted Mayday's little hat

Ik the classic formula is that Norman wants Peter as a son while constantly undermining Harry, and I want to keep that tension, but

Peter and Norman hating the fuck out of eachother is so goddamn funny to me. Especially if the childhood best friend aspects comes in

Norman is out here beefing with Peter B's 6 year old self and Harry is planning their lego wedding

Probably tried adopting Peter just so he won't be able to marry Harry. "Here's 300$ to stop being friends with my son." "Save that money for our wedding."

Peter has a photo album with just Harry. From age 4 to 30. A collection of polaroids he sleeps with under the pillow like the sap he is

#peter parker #peter b parker #harry osborn #parksborn #parksborne #spiderman #atsv #spiderverse #text #text post #mind you i imagined hugh dancy as harry hehe

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chiapetkinnie · 10 months

Text

Mine

Warnings- unedited, unprotected sex, creampie, possessiveness and obsession. No use of Y/N, Peter kinda forces himself into reader.

---------------

Peter couldn’t take it anymore. How all these guys in your life treated you, and how you just let them. But he loved how you would run to him and cry in his arms. He loved how vulnerable you got around him.

He hated how much he loved you. The way you would get all flustered when someone would compliment you in the slightest bit. Or when his hands would brush against yours. He knew everything about you. He always watched you. No matter what you were doing. He made sure you were okay. How you would call him in the middle of the night to rant about something, and how you would sneak into his house to cuddle because you couldn’t fall asleep.

Peter loved everything about you. He had a whole shrine , a collection of you. Photos he took from his camera. You were beautiful. So beautiful you caught the attention of many guys. And he hated that. He wanted you all to himself. But it seemed that day would never come . His so called best friend got to you first. Peter tried to confess to you countless times, but he always chickened out. So Harry took it as an opportunity to steal you from him. Harry was handsome, rich, funny, no doubt you would say yes to when he asked you out. It also helped that you have been friends since forever.

He hated your relationship with Harry, at first it was sweet, he loved hearing you rant about little things in your relationship and how happy you were. But things started to take a turn. Harry started being an ass, you would run to Peter and cry to him about all the things Harry did, all the things he would say and do that mad you angry. Peter loved it , he loved how your relationship was terrible and he would add in how terrible Harry was and how you should break up with him. But you never would, you cared too much, you always do.

But this, this was Peter’s last straw. Harry was cheating on you with some hot blonde from Italy.

Of course Peter knew, but he didn’t wanna tell you himself, he wanted you to find out and come crawling to him.

“Peter”, you cried out knocking on his window.

Peter quickly let you in and you clung to his chest and cried. “Hey , hey what’s wrong?” He asked hoping his prayers have been answered. “Harry and I broke up.” Peter wipes your tears , “Why you guys were so Happy” He silently smiled. “Apparently not happy enough for him, he cheated on me” You smiled through the tears. “I walked into his room for our Friday night movie dates like we do every week, I brought snacks and everything, and there he was and some blonde chick on top of him,” You wipe your tears look up at Peter. “Did you know about this,” You ask him. Peter shakes his head, “Of course not, I had no idea about any of this, you guys seemed so happy.” He lifts up your chin. “I’ll tell you what, we can have your movie date here okay, just me and you.” Peter smiles.

You and Peter lay on the bed in each other’s arms watching a movie. Peters sits up and calls out your name. You turn towards him. “I just, there’s something I’ve needed to say to you for a while.” You tilt your head curiously , “Okay well, spit it out ”. Peter takes a deep breath, he was finally gonna do it, “ We’ve been friends for like ever, and I need to say that , Well I love you” You smile at him, “ I love you too Peter.” Peter shakes his head, “ No not like that, you don’t love me the way I love you,” he gets closer to you. “Oh” you whisper as he grips your thigh pulling you closer to him, if any closer your lips would touch. “ I just couldn’t stand all these years of all these guys not treating you right, you know I was gonna confess to you but Harry stole you from me. I’m sick and tired of not being able to have you , not being able to love you.” You blink in shock, he leans in to kiss you but you back away.

“ Peter, I just broke up with my boyfriend, who is your best friend, and you try to make a move on me.” You spoke in disbelief. “ I know but-“ Peter tried to say, “ No Peter, I can’t do this with you, not to Harry, not today.” You shook your head. Peter furrowed his brows, “ But he cheated on you, please, I just wanna make you feel good.” He pulls you back towards him and flips himself on top. He leans down and presses soft kisses to your neck. “ Just let me show you how good I can make you feel, how much I love you” He whispers in your ear. “Peter,” you whisper. He locks his lips onto yours. He caresses your face and deepens the kiss, “Please” he pleads. You look up at him and eventually nod your head yes.

Peter smiles and places his lips onto yours, his hands gently moving around your body. He makes his way down to the waist band of your shorts and slips his hand underneath and starts circling your clit. You gasp at his touch. Peter moved his hand down to your entrance and started pumping his fingers in. You let out a soft moan as Peter starts kissing and biting your neck. “ So pretty ,” He says , picking up some speed in his fingers. You try to hold on your moans. Peter pulls his fingers away and grabs your face. “ Don’t hold back your moans baby, I wanna hear you” you nod your head as a response.

You look up at him as he takes unbuckles his pants and takes out his length. Your mouth agape and he smirks. He brushes his thumb over your lips as he pushes himself into your core. Moans escaping both of your mouths from the feeling. He looks you in the eye waiting for your approval to move and you smile. He begins to thrust in and out. Heavy breaths and grunts escape from his mouth. You don’t hold back your moans of pleasure as he lifts up your waist fucking you deeper. You moan out searching for something to grab on. “ Fuck Baby, you feel so good, My sweet girl” he praises. He drops his hands from your waist. “ Turn around” he says . And you do so. His hands roam your body and he slaps your ass. He places a hand on your ass and rubs his dick on your entrance. “ My pretty girl” he says as he slips back inside.

The sound your skin slapping together fills the room.

You grip the bed sheets as he pushes your head down into the pillow. Moans escaping from your lips and praises from his. “My gorgeous girl, your doing so good for me, taking me so well”. Tears form in your eyes from how hard he’s thrusting, “ Harry never fucked you like this, he never loved you like this.” Peter yanked your head back and gripped your chin. “ Harry never made you feel good like this huh.” You shake your head and try to get the words out but you can’t .

Peter's hand makes it’s way back to your clit as he pounds into you. You smile in pleasure and moan as he circles around one more time, releasing your orgasm.

Peter smiled. He had finally won. He was the one. Making you cum, he was the one with his dick deep inside you making you moan like crazy. He was the one watching the way your ass bounced against his dick. He leaned his head back as he came inside and pulled out. Watching his seed drip out.

And he was the one who got to fill you up. He had won.

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stephgingrichs · 6 months

Text

#imagine you‘re literally dying and your bff walks in and asks you 'hey buddy how you feeling?'#ahsvsvsj #harry osborn #peter parker #mary jane watson #peter x harry #parksborn #peter x mj #petermj #marvel‘s spider man 2 #spider man 2 ps5 #insomniac spider man #marvel‘s spider-man 2 #spider-man 2 ps5 #***

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spider-stark · 8 months

Text

A DARK AGE pt.2

previous part -

series 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.

chapter summary - desperate to get Harry Osborn out of your head, you find yourself following a lead that sends you straight to Peter Parker.

series warnings - 18+, minors DNI, series will contain depictions of violence, sexual content, dark themes, and more. please read at your own risk.

word count - 12.8k

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

YOU HAD been worried that the ice-cold stare of Harry Osborn would remain stuck in your brain for the entire cab ride back to New York City.

Fortunately, by the time you’d made it to Yonkers, about thirty minutes out from Ravencroft’s facility, the distressing imagery in your head faded as your ears were suddenly blasted with a series of rushed ding-s from your cell phone.

You welcomed the noisy distraction, even if it only further agitated the throbbing headache you felt coming on.

All the messages were from Betty Brant and likely could’ve been summed up in one long message rather than a dozen short ones. And, for the most part, all the texts did were confirm your fears: her search for Peter’s whereabouts had been a fruitless effort.

Well, almost fruitless.

You couldn’t quite give Brant credit for the one lead she’d received given the fact that it had essentially just fallen in her lap, but you still typed back a simple—good job, nonetheless.

While you were off pointlessly torturing yourself behind Ravencroft’s iron gates, a woman had called the Bugle and had the misfortune of being answered by Jameson himself.

According to Brant, the lady asked for you by name, and when Jameson told her you were busy and she’d need to call back later, she turned frantic. He said she sounded as if she were on the verge of tears, begging him to get a message to you ASAP.

Please tell her to stop by my house! Tomorrow afternoon! She knows the address already, I promise! Tell her it’s May Parker, okay? M-A-Y P-A-R-K-E-R!

Of course Jameson knew who the crackpot (his words) was once she said her last name, having spoken to her once or twice during Peter’s limited time at the Bugle.

What he hadn’t told Brant was that it took everything in him to bite his tongue, to not tell the woman every horrible opinion he held in regard to her nephew. Jameson knew that it would do no good. He also knew that it wasn’t her fault that Peter hadn’t shown up to the hospital that night.

Still, he couldn’t help but find himself seething with rage, speaking through gritted teeth until he could finally hang up the phone. He had absolutely no interest in finding Peter Parker, even if he was the only one to ever get a clear shot of Spider-Man.

Good riddance had become his motto when it came to both Peter and Harry. You were one of the few things in this world that mattered more to Jameson than a good lead, which was exactly the reason why he had no interest in Peter’s whereabouts when he first went awol and left the Bugle without notice—he didn’t care. Even if Peter had come back to work, he would’ve just been fired anyway. Jameson had no interest in keeping him around, regardless of the quality of his work.

But despite his hatred for the boy, he knew you were looking for him. While Jameson was unaware of Peter’s secret identity, he knew for certain that Peter had connections to Spider-Man, given that it was the whole reason he had employed him in the first place. You figured there was likely no one in this world that Jameson wanted to keep you from more than Spider-Man. But in what was surely not an easy choice to make, he begrudgingly passed the message from May along to Brant, messily scrawled onto a Doughnuttery napkin that had been stained with chocolate frosting.

He refused to withhold a lead from you.

Of course, when first deciding to track Peter down, you had considered going to his aunt, but she was always meant to be a last-ditch choice. After all, rumor had it that Peter had abandoned her too, moving out shortly after Gwen’s death. You didn’t see a need to add to her grief unless it felt necessary, yet it seemed she wanted you to.

A part of you hoped that the mystery surrounding why May was so adamant about speaking to you would serve as a distraction for the night. You didn’t want to think any more about Ravencroft, and certainly not about the boy they kept locked behind those iron gates.

Deep down, though, you knew that wasn’t possible. Try as you might, there was nothing in this world capable of distracting you from the thoughts of Harry Osborn.

He was a plague, one that you had been fighting off ever since that night; and seeing him in person seemed to have only granted him the opportunity to further sink his claws into you.

You often found yourself reliving the moment you first saw him—the Green Goblin. A monster composed of distended veins and spindly bones, appearing so completely and utterly inhuman—so unlike the boy you knew that you didn’t even recognize him at first. At first, there had just been fear, a sense of pure unbridled terror.

But then, once he spoke, you knew. You knew what he had done, recognized him in spite of the monster the serum had transformed him into. Bile instantly stung at your throat, threatening to spill past your lips and onto the asphalt beneath your feet. You couldn’t stop thinking of how much it had burned, swallowing it down over and over again, as many times as it took before your body finally stopped trying.

You fought so hard against that visceral reaction, the sensible part of you that had seen this new form he’d taken on and screamed at you to run. You wouldn’t let yourself do that. You couldn’t bear the thought of turning your back on your friend, even after seeing what he’d turned himself into.

But then he grabbed Gwen and once she was in his arms you realized that he wasn’t the same anymore. Then once he’d finally let her go, once you’d watched her take her very last breath, you swore you’d always hate him. Harry Osborn was not your friend; it was a simple fact that you still stood behind.

But trauma was a peculiar thing.

Usually when Harry haunted your thoughts, the Green Goblin was always the focal point. Flashes of Gwen’s lifeless body dangling from Spider-Man's web, the sounds of squelching flesh and cracking bones. You would remember the metallic taste that filled your mouth as you looked over at him that last time, just before everything went black.

Tonight, though, you’d found yourself thinking not of the Goblin, but of your friend. The friend that had once been good as dead to you. Memories that had once been shoved aside in favor of sinking into the tragedy you’d experienced, only to be brought back to light after seeing his face today.

You tossed and turned in your bed, your head pounding as thoughts of posh charity events, late-night talks, and inside jokes fought to keep you awake. It wasn’t until the next day when you’d finally arrived at Aunt May’s house that you received a much-needed break from him.

The thick plastic covering on the couch crinkled loudly beneath your weight as you sat down. You used every ounce of effort in your body to try and appear calm as she moved past the coffee table, sitting across from you in a sage green armchair.

It was new.

“I’m so glad you came, y/n.” May offered you her sweetest smile, the gesture accentuating the thin lines around her eyes. She looked older somehow, even though it hadn’t even been a year since you last saw her. “I was worried that bitter man at the newspaper wouldn’t tell you I called.”

You barely stifled your laughter, then immediately wondered if she could tell that even that sliver of emotion was fake. It was second nature to put on an act, especially when it came to work matters. To appear excessively friendly, using it as a tool to quickly build some sort of rapport with someone, hoping it would get them to spill whatever information they might have.

It didn't seem necessary to put up an act around May, but you found it difficult to turn it off.

“Jameson can be a little… testy, at times.”

She immediately snorted at your words, believing them to be a drastic understatement.

“But I’ve gotta say,” you continued, trying to steer the conversation, “I was a bit surprised when he said you called.”

Guilt settled over her soft features, dusty pink lips settling into a thin line as she stared down at her lap, watching the steam rise from her cup. “I know. I meant to call sooner, more often, but I just...” she sucked in a breath, lifting the cup to the edge of her lips, “I didn’t want to make a big fuss of things.”

She was drinking chamomile tea. You knew this because you were offered some as soon as she opened the front door, cheerfully telling you that she’d just boiled a fresh pot of water. While you didn’t consider yourself an expert on May Parker, you couldn’t help but make note of the fact that you’d never seen her enjoy herbal drinks before.

You leaned forward a touch, your elbows resting just above your knees as you did so. “What would you make a fuss over?”

This meeting was different than Ravencroft.

At Ravencroft you were a sheep grazing among lions. Showing weakness would gain you nothing, save for failure and potential death. But in a place like Aunt May’s home, the roles immediately reversed.

Here, you were the lion. And, to gain the trust of sheep, you needed to come off as if you were entirely transparent. Wear your heart on your sleeve, bare every emotion you had, and express as much concern as possible, fooling them into believing that you were truly on their side.

But this time was different, you tried to remind yourself, working diligently to ensure your emotions didn’t come off as fake or exaggerated. You could be genuine. You really were on her side, right?

“Peter’s been...” She hesitated as her wedding ring clinked against the porcelain cup in her hands as she nervously tapped her fingers. She never took it off, even after Ben died. “different.”

Your chest tightened, elbows digging further into your thighs. “What do you mean?”

“He changed after what happened to Gwendolyne.” she began to explain, though she remained hesitant. “It started off small. Quitting the newspaper, refusing to finish his college applications. And maybe that’s when I should’ve stepped in, tried to snap him out of it or something. But after what he’d gone through... what he had lost...”

There was a knowing look in her eyes, a sense of understanding. It was then that it fully clicked for you, realizing that May had been through something similar to what Peter went through. She knew what it was like to have your entire world change in the blink of an eye. “I just hoped that with time it would pass.”

“And it didn’t, did it?” You guessed, painfully aware of the answer.

If it had changed, if he had gotten better, then you wouldn’t be sitting here right now.

May shook her head. “No.” She uttered, her hooded gaze still avoiding yours, remaining fixed on her cup. “It got worse.”

There was something in the way she spoke, the solemn tone you’d never heard her take before, that sent chills running down your spine.

“How so?”

"Little ways, at first.” Her voice broke, clearing her throat before taking another sip of tea. “He started acting out. Getting mean. Rageful.”

Your heart ached for the woman, fighting the urge to reach out and hug her as you watched her hazel eyes turn glossy.

“He was almost never home anymore, and then one day he just... didn’t come back.”

She wiped away the unshed tears, lightly shaking her head and muttering an apology.

“Where is he?” You asked her, instinctively looking towards the old staircase that led to his bedroom.

Years had been wasted in there, sitting cross-legged on his worn-out rug and exchanging complaints about Flash Thompson or Miss. Ritter. On good days, the two of you would build Lego sets and eat your fill of junk food. On bad days you’d both tuck yourselves away in his bed, hidden underneath a stack of blankets as old movies played from his laptop.

It had been a while since you’d let yourself think of those memories, and you hadn’t quite expected it to hurt as much as it did to acknowledge that those days were gone.

“Columbia.” She spoke.

Your eyes widened as your head cocked to the side. “University?”

Warmth spread across your cheeks as embarrassment settled in, feeling a bit silly for speaking the thought aloud. Of course she had meant Columbia University. Still, it shocked you a little when she nodded, confirming your thoughts. Given the way she spoke of Peter’s decline, you hadn’t expected him to be attending college.

“So, you still talk to him?” You quickly followed up with another question, this one less painstakingly dumb than the last.

May scoffed, the loose hair framing her face swaying about as she shook her head. “I don’t know if I’d call it talking. But he checks in on occasion, just often enough to keep me from having a heart attack.”

You glanced down at her cup of tea, willing to reason that maybe Peter had been the reason for her sudden interest in herbal drinks. After all, they were known to reduce stress, and Peter seemed to be causing a great deal of it.

There was another sound of disapproval, a click of her tongue as her voice went low again. “You raise a boy for over ten years,” she started, the smallest spark of anger burning within her, “only to end up getting a postcard in the mail every month.”

“A postcard?” You wondered aloud, likely looking as puzzled as you felt. “You don’t have his phone number?”

She snorted. “I don’t know if he even has a phone anymore.”

For a moment neither of you spoke, and you found yourself studying her features, looking for any sign that she might be lying. You knew that there was no point in it, that May had no reason to lie to you. There would be nothing for her to gain, plus she had reached out to you for help. Still, it was second nature for you to remain apprehensive.

It was hard to believe that Peter had all but completely cut ties with his aunt. May had raised him, practically given her entire life just to ensure that he had everything he could ever need, only to up and abandon her out of the blue—just as he had done to you.

Nothing about it made any sense to you, and the thought alone was enough to fill you with not only rage, but also fear. Was Peter that far gone?

You didn’t want to think about that right now, instead focusing on the sharp pain sneaking up your left side from sitting hunched over for so long. Forcibly relaxing your muscles, you leaned back against the couch cushions, listening to the way the plastic squelched as you shifted.

“Is that why you called?” You finally asked, pressing a hand to your ribs and rubbing over the sore area. “To see if I could help Peter?”

May took another long and thoughtful sip of her tea. Then, once she was finished, she leaned forwards and placed it on the coffee table that stood between you both. “No.” She stated firmly, only for her eyes to narrow and then go back on the declaration, “Not entirely, at least.”

You frowned at her, confused.

“I wanted to call because I realized that you needed someone, too.” You froze instantly, suddenly feeling as if the air had been knocked from your lungs. “I’ve been so caught up with Peter and trying to find a way to help him that I nearly forgot he wasn’t the only one who lost someone.”

May glanced up for perhaps the first time in this whole conversation. You couldn’t help but feel as if the roles had changed, sinking further into the cushion behind you. She took note of everything, your stiff posture, the subtle bouncing of your leg, the timid look in your eye. You had become the sheep, being carefully discerned by the lion.

“I never got a chance to tell you how sorry I was—still am, for your loss, y/n. You didn’t just lose Gwen that night, you lost all three of them.”

Her heedful words landed the final blow, feeling like a piercing knife against your throat.

Suck it up, you kept repeating to yourself, change the subject.

Scrambling to compose yourself, nearly choking on your own tongue, you tried to ignore the look of concern she gave you. You didn’t need sympathy. “I’m managing.” You told her roughly, only able to conjure a barely believable smile. “It could be worse.”

“Sure,” May tentatively agreed, “but it could also be better.”

You decided it was best to not acknowledge her words.

“You said not entirely.” You reminded her, working hard to ensure that your voice didn’t shake. You weren’t sure why it was shaking in the first place, torn between naming anxiety or anger as the culprit. “When I asked if you wanted me to help Peter, that’s what you said. What makes you think I can help him?”

May’s face screwed up, staring at you as if it were obvious. “Because no one else can. The three of you—you, Harry, and Gwen—were the only ones that could ever get through to him.” She paused, considering her next words. “And you’re the only one left.”

There was a weight that settled on your shoulders, shoving you further into the couch. You didn’t like the way that it sounded, for more reasons than one. There was too much responsibility that came with it.

“Columbia’s campus is big.” You told her, void of any emotion. “Do you know where he’s staying? Anything that might help me find him?”

This time it was May’s turn to sink back into her seat, shoulders slouching forward as she turned apologetic. “I know he’s living on campus, but I don’t know which building. Whenever he writes he always keeps the details to a minimum.”

As much as you appreciated any information she offered, it wouldn’t help you much. You had been right in your earlier statement; Columbia was a big school with at least two dozen residence halls. Finding Peter amongst those students was comparable to finding a needle in a haystack.

You knew that you could enlist Betty Brant’s help, but even then, it could take days before one of you happened to find him.

Finally, a bit exasperated, you dared to ask. “Anything else?”

May smiled, weary and filled with regret. “Just be careful, y/n. I’m not sure what Peter had gotten himself into, but I’ve seen the news.” Her hands trembled as she spoke. “I know what they think he did. What Spider-Man might have done.”

She spoke the vigilante’s name like a forbidden word, as if it were one she had sworn she’d never speak aloud, and your eyes grew wide as you just barely breathed out, “You know?”

May’s smile remained despite the somber gleam in her eyes as she told you simply, “No one washes the flag.”

You found the students at Columbia University nauseating.

Most of them were pretentious assholes that stunk of cigarette smoke, not because they actually smoked them, but instead because letting them lazily hang from their fingers matched their desired aesthetic.

They were all desperate to give off the same vibe as a fifteen-year-olds dark academia Pinterest board, leaning against a wall with a copy of Allan Ginsberg’s Howl tucked beneath their arm. You wondered if any of them had ever read it, snorting to yourself when you thought of how they’d likely dogeared a few pages to make the book look worn.

“This place is huge.” Betty Brant marveled from beside you, spinning in a circle as she took in its vastness. When she was done making herself dizzy, she looked at you. “This is gonna be impossible.”

You smiled at her inept observation, challenging her. “Why?”

Her brows snapped together, a single hand incredulously waving around the two of you. “Have you looked around?” She quipped. “There are literally thousands of people here! If we find him today, then it’ll just be dumb luck.”

You didn’t judge her for her innate pessimism. After all, you felt just as overwhelmed as Betty Brant did currently when sitting on Aunt May’s couch, listening as she told you that she had essentially nothing to offer in terms of helping to find Peter. It was easy to assume the worst in a field where you’re so often dealt the shittiest of hands—but Jameson and the other seasoned reporters at the Bugle had taught you well. There was always a way to turn things around.

“Know your target, Brant.” You lightly chastised, a teasing smile that Brant felt looked out of place on you. While she still didn’t know you well, she’d seen you around the office a lot, and she struggled to remember a time when you didn’t have a permanent grimace etched on your face.

Your fingers delved into your bag and reached for a few papers that you’d printed off at the Bugle, just moments before you’d snagged Brant up by her arm without warning and forced her to come with you to Columbia University. You held one of the papers out to her, which she swiftly took and began reading.

"There are only two programs offered at Columbia that Peter would care about: photography or biochemistry.” You explained to her. “I went on their website and got an idea of a mock schedule for both and copied down the names of the buildings they’re in. It’s still not a sure shot-”

“But it gives us somewhere to start.” Brant finished your sentence, her big eyes flickering back up to yours as she lowered the page you’d given her.

You grinned. “Exactly.”

“So, we’re splitting up?”

She was nervous about that idea, clear by the way she started to tug at the edge of her royal blue cardigan. If it were someone other than Brant you might be concerned, but Brant always came off a little antsy, making it easy to brush it off; although it did leave you wondering why the girl stayed so high strung. One day you’d ask her about it, you thought, but not right now.

"It’s better that way. We'll cover more ground.” You told her, your pitiless statement doing little to quell her nerves as she gave another sharp tug to her garment, anxiously looking around at the swarm of students passing around you both.

You did your best to look sympathetic, “Just call me if you need me, alright?” Brant stared back at you, resembling a small child whose mother was dropping them off on their first day of school. It was pitiful, and you nearly groaned as you forced yourself to say, “If you call, I’ll answer. Promise.”

Brant hesitated for a second before nodding, still uneasy but far more willing now to leave your side. As you turned away from her you reminded yourself to never have children, desperately hoping and praying to any God who might listen that Brant would not call you.

As you started to meld into the crowd, falling into step with a group of girls around your age, the thoughts of Brant and her child-like anxiety were replaced with something far more juvenile. You had just barely glanced at the girls walking next to you, at first only giving them a quick glance. Soon, though, as you continued towards your destination, you found yourself fixating on them.

They smelled like cloves and bergamot, probably the scent of some over-priced perfume you’d never even dream of taking off the shelf and their clothes were nicer than anything hanging up in your closet. One had a Tiffany’s necklace dangling around her throat like a collar and another had pin straight platinum hair. In short, they looked expensive. But, at the same time, they looked incredibly beautiful.

It made you hyper aware of yourself, of how different you looked in comparison. You weren’t wearing any nice jewelry, and your hair was messily tied back, making you feel as if you were the opposite of both the girls that had caught your attention. Realizing this, you looked around at the other girls surrounding you, noticing that all of them looked that way. Posh, put-together, and completely and utterly gorgeous.

A strange feeling crept up your spine, one you hadn’t felt since you were in high school. Self-loathing.

There was a time when you prioritized your appearance, or at least more than you do now. You could still remember what it was like to stroll into an Oscorp charity event, dozens of eyes glued to you. Men would watch with bated breath as you passed them, silently dreaming of a day where you’d actually notice them.

That would never happen, of course.

You always went to those events with either Harry or Peter, and they often left you with little reason to acknowledge anyone else in attendance. Even so, you remembered the power you held. Remembered what it was like to feel desired by someone, even if it wasn’t by who you wanted.

After the accident, though, you’d stopped caring about how you looked. It felt so trivial to put any more effort than necessary into your looks, often throwing on the same outfit several days in a row to save time in the mornings. But in this moment, you found yourself feeling differently, insecurity slipping into your mind. Had you let yourself go? Surely not...

It didn’t matter! You suddenly shouted at yourself, fists balling up at your sides as you tried to silence the thoughts that were fueled by foolish insecurity. Despite believing every word of the statement, it didn’t help to make you feel any less self-conscious.

Passing by the mirrored windows of the mess hall, you found yourself slowing down, falling behind the group of girls as you hesitantly turned to catch a glimpse of yourself. You cursed yourself for looking, hating that you even cared about this sort of thing right now. But once you looked into the reflection you froze, realizing that it wasn’t yourself that you saw in the reflection. It was Gwen.

“It’s not that bad!” She would lie to you, her voice jumping several octaves as she did. A hand would reach out, sage green fingernails combing through the frizzy mess that framed your face, trying to flatten it. “It just needs a little...” her head cocked to the side, teeth exposed as she sucked in a breath, “work.”

Gwen was always a terrible liar. She wasn’t like you; she never had been. She was completely incapable of hiding her hand, always living with her cards exposed for the world to see—for them to take advantage of. It was what you’d always admired most about her, her willingness to trust in everyone, to see the good in anyone. It was also what you despised the most about her, and you tried not to dwell on the complexity of that.

“You know what? It doesn’t even matter!” Gwen’s shoulders lifted exponentially, a mess of blonde curls violently swaying as she shook her head about. “You still look hotter than half the girls here, alright?” She grinned at you, the same sweet smile that you missed more than anything. “I promise!”

And she meant it every word of it, but rather than offering you any comfort, the words just filled you with envy. You envied Gwen far more than you liked to admit. You wanted to be like her, even now, to be able to see the good in every situation, to be even half as lovely as she was.

You tried to swallow your guilt, though it only made your stomach hurt. You had promised yourself that you were done envying Gwen.

But you weren’t done missing her.

Still entranced by her doe eyed stare, you felt your phone begin to buzz in your pocket, distracting you enough that you turned your gaze to your bag, instinctively going to dig for the device. By the time you thought to look back up, the vision of her was gone and you were looking at only a reflection of yourself.

You wasted no time in looking away.

When you sobered up enough to read the caller ID, you groaned loud enough to turn a few heads of students passing by. Now, in an interesting turn of events, you wished that Brant was the one calling you, staring down at Director Samson’s name flashing across the screen. You silenced it.

Not today. You started walking again, effectively trading your thoughts of Gwen for ones of Ravencroft and Harry Osborn. Or ever again.

Dodge Hall was the first stop on your list.

You were willing to bet that of the two programs you listed to Brant that Peter likely picked photography, which was precisely why you had delegated the biochemistry labs to Brant.

There was a chance that you were wrong and that he’d decided to major in biochemistry, maybe in some desperate attempt to be like the father he swore he hated, but you held out hope anyway. You wanted to believe that even in whatever odd stage of life Peter was in he was working to forge his own path, rather than following the one he’d once considered his birthright.

Stopping in front of the building that housed most of the University’s photography classes, you grimaced. It significantly lacked character, offering nothing more than a bunch of lifeless bricks with boring cement pillars on either side. You had yet to see anything about this school that made it seem worth the astronomical tuition students paid to attend.

“I know that look-” a high-pitched voice filled the air, the grating sound intensifying your already sour expression, “Dodge might not have the most intricate architecture on campus, but for what it lacks in appearance it makes up for in its rich and extraordinary history!”

You didn't want to turn around, fully recognizing the chirpy she-devil by diction alone. Still, you forced yourself to do it anyway, realizing that there was no possible escape route. “Mary Jane!” The vile taste of her name in your mouth left you feeling queasy, “what’re you doing here?”

No, seriously, what the fuck was she doing here?

A perfectly manicured hand flew to her overly plump lips, packed full of filler and overlined with a red lip pencil. An exaggerated gasp somehow managed to slip past them. “Oh my gosh!” The copper-haired beauty squealed, sounding as if she had inhaled at least a few liters of helium. You forgot how much you hated her voice. “y/n! I didn’t even recognize you!”

“Yeah, it’s been a while.” You droned, likely appearing just as displeased as you sounded. It was difficult for you to sound pleasant around Mary Jane.

Mary Jane had always been a thorn in your side. For the most part she was entirely harmless, but her ever-so-perky attitude always left a bad taste in both your mouth and Gwen’s. On top of that, she lacked morals, made clear by the last time you’d seen her.

It was immediately after Gwen’s funeral, and you’d just happened to find Mary Jane and a few other reporters from the Daily Globe swarming the Stacy family, pining for an interview. It was disgusting, and if you’d been in better shape, you swore that you would’ve knocked her square in the face that day.

Mary Jane reached out and touched your forearm, giving it a firm squeeze. “You look so good!”

You didn’t even bother thanking her, instead deciding to brace yourself for what might be coming next. You had known her long enough to know that all her compliments were a double-edged sword, an insult waiting just around the corner.

“After Genna’s funeral you looked so thin and sickly,” her button nose scrunched up as she looked you up and down, “it’s so nice to see you look far more...” a slight tilt of her head, accompanied by a sickeningly sweet smile as she squeezed your arm again, “plump!”

The smile you gave in return was far less pleasurable than hers, bearing a closer resemblance to a snarl. “Gwen.” You pointedly corrected, choosing to ignore her weak attempt at insulting you. “Her name is Gwen.”

She only waved her hand, dismissing your correction. The simple act made your blood boil, teeth grinding together as you fought to stay silent. You didn’t have time to start a fight with her.

“Ugh, silly me! I’m so bad with names!” She pretended to laugh it off, playing it as an innocent slip of the tongue. You could see the malice behind it, though, her emerald eyes glistening with spite. Mary Jane was a journalist, which meant that remembering facts was quite literally her job. Pretending to forget Gwen’s name was just another idle attempt at getting under your skin.

It worked.

“Did you check out the Globe yesterday?” She started right back up, trapping you in another conversation and preventing you from finding an excuse to slip into Dodge Hall and start your search for Peter. “Who am I kidding! Of course you did!” Mary Jane twirled a strand of red hair around her finger, her egotism on full display as she beamed. “Dozens of newsstands sold out within the hour! Amazing, right? To sell out physical copies in this digital age!”

You only hummed in response, aware that she only wanted to hear herself talk. But God, you hated the way she spoke. Her constant need to enunciate every other word, her squeaky voice filled with false sincerity, always searching for validation in every conversation.

”Bushkin agreed that we only sold out because of my story on the front page! He said my talent for writing could be enough to revive print entirely!” Her chest swelled with pride; hands clasped over her heart as nonsense continued to spew from her.

Barney Bushkin was the publisher for the Globe, which made him Mary Jane’s boss. He also had a reputation for being a sick old pervert with an affinity for girls that were far too young for him. His opinion meant nothing to you since you knew that he would say absolutely anything if he thought it would increase his odds of getting a quick look up one of Mary Jane’s too-short skirts.

”I’m not surprised you sold so many copies,” you egged her on, taking immense pleasure in the way her smug smile grew at what she mistook for praise, “fear mongering has always been a useful tactic for sales.”

For a moment you could’ve sworn you saw her eyes turn as red as her hair, fiery rage coursing through her veins at your comment. But it was gone nearly as soon as it had appeared.

”Well,” she cleared her throat, smoothing the wrinkles out of her white blouse, “I’d hardly call my article fear mongering. I just presented the facts.”

You couldn’t deny that Mary Jane was a pro at composing herself, remaining collected even when you knew she wanted to explode. Image was important to her, meaning she couldn’t ever afford to let her nice girl act falter.

”You called Spider-Man a murderer.”

You didn’t always share her skillset, willing to let yourself come off as brash and plain-spoken.

”And last I checked there’s an active warrant for his arrest.” Mary Jane retorted sharply, the only sign she was willing to give that you were annoying her. “So, like I said, I presented the facts.”

You sucked in a breath, holding back your argument. You wanted to tell her that her facts were skewed, that she was reporting with only one source and effectively trying to demonize a man who had saved the city countless times. But you didn’t. Fighting with her would be a waste of time, and you had better things to do.

"Yeah, well, I should really get going.” You gave a curt smile, nodding in the direction of Dodge Hall. “Always good to see you, MJ.” You took care to place extra emphasis on the nickname, fully aware of just how much she hated it.

Still, she barely let it get to her, hiding her own scowl as you started to edge towards the building. You noticed the way her left eye twitched, though, showing that she was nearing a breaking point. If you had more time, you’d likely try and push her over the edge.

“Why are you here?” Mary Jane suddenly mimicked the question you had first asked her, the one she had never actually gave an answer to.

You paused, only having made it less than a few feet away from her. “Visiting a friend.”

If all went to plan, that wouldn’t technically be a lie.

“Peter?” She blurted his name out in a way that left you feeling strange. There was a hesitant look on her face, almost as if she were afraid that you’d say yes. You didn’t like it.

“Yeah, actually.” You frowned, watching her face drop at the confirmation. “Why?”

She refused to meet your stare, staring past your shoulder at the entrance of the Hall. “He’s not in there.”

In all the years you’d known Mary Jane, you’d never heard her sound so uncharacteristically dispirited. Her perky persona seemed to vanish in thin air, leaving behind someone that was entirely unfamiliar to you.

It was incredibly uncomfortable.

“Wait, do you know where he is?” You asked.

“Of course I do.” She quickly answered, cutting her eyes at you. “But if you’re the one meeting him then shouldn’t you know where he is?”

Jealousy settled in. Why did she know where Peter was? Mary Jane and Peter had never been particularly close, likely due to the lifelong rivalry that you and Gwen had held with her. The idea of him even interacting with Mary Jane left you feeling unsettled.

“Well, we were supposed to meet here.” You lied, turning a tad defensive as you shrugged a shoulder in the direction of the building. “But it’s been a busy morning. He might’ve forgot.”

You paused, debating whether you wanted to continue. There was a good chance that you didn’t want to hear the answer to the question resting on the tip of your tongue, and yet you made yourself ask it anyway. “Were you just with him?”

Please say no-

“Yes.” Her answer came quickly. “We had plans to get dinner but-um,” she suddenly became extremely focused on her own feet, awkwardly kicking at the sidewalk, “he had to... cancel. Said he was gonna be too busy developing photos all night.”

Her too-perfect face screwed up in an unsightly sort of way. You almost thought that you should feel guilty for accidentally making it seem as if Peter had ditched her for you. But you didn’t. Instead, you felt sickly satisfied, taking pleasure in her sorrow. You reveled in it, finding it easier to focus on that than the idea of why she and Peter were going to get dinner together in the first place.

”Mm, that sucks.” You let out a disinterested hum, taking a page from her book as you continued without waiting for a reply, “Is that what he’s doing now? Developing photos?”

Mary Jane gave a stiff nod.

”Great.”

Despite how painful it had been to sit through what felt like a never-ending conversation with her, Mary Jane had ended up being of vital importance. If Peter was developing images today, then that meant he had to be in the darkrooms. And, thanks to your Google research, you knew exactly where they were—Watson Hall, just a brief walk from where you were now.

You wasted no time with stepping around Mary Jane, having no intention of even wasting a goodbye on her as you started towards your destination. But, as you moved around her body, she reached for you, her thin fingers once again wrapping around your forearm. She squeezed harder than last time, your head snapping in her direction, eyes narrowing in a threatening stare as she held you there.

Surprisingly, she gave you a threatening look of her own.

“Before you go,” you found it eerie the way her voice remained syrupy sweet, a sharp contrast to the menacing expression she wore, “I just wanted to tell you how much I adored that little sympathy piece you wrote for your friend in the looney bin.”

You pulled your arm from her grip, your body going tense at the mention of the article you’d written to try and sway the public during Harry’s trial. Jameson hadn’t allowed it to go to print, reminding you that your judgment was still clouded by grief. He didn’t understand why you were so desperate to keep Harry out of Ryker’s Island, but he had hoped that by letting you at least post the article on the Bugle’s website that it would offer you some sort of closure.

It hadn’t. It was shortly after publishing the piece that you had went straight to Harry’s lawyers, giving them all the information they would need to plead insanity.

Mary Jane stepped closer, ignoring your effort to create distance from her. She was close enough that you could nearly feel the heat radiating off her body. You didn’t like it, but you refused to let yourself back away from her.

“I can’t say that Peter agreed.” Her lips curled into a cynical smirk. “I mean, honestly, after the reaction he had to it I’m shocked that he can even stand to be in the same room as you!” The sound of her laughter infuriated you. “I suppose it’s true what they say about time, yeah? That it heals all wounds—even a knife in the back.”

You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t blink, couldn’t think.

All you could do was stare at the devilish woman in front of you, seething with a type of hatred that you were certain could eat you alive. Your nails sunk into the heel of your palm, an effort to refrain yourself from using them to claw that nasty complacent look right off her face.

Mary Jane noticed this and decided to take your silence as a sign of her victory.

“It really was great seeing you, y/n.” She gushed, the false tender statement only fueling your anger. As she turned to walk away, she glanced over her shoulder, winking at you. “Don’t be a stranger.”

One day, you swore to yourself with a particularly loud huff, spinning on your heel and stomping in the direction of the darkrooms, you would kick Mary Jane’s ass.

When you posted the article—the one you hoped would sway the public’s opinion of Harry—you knew Peter would see it. More than that, you knew that he would be adamantly against it.

Unlike you, Harry hadn’t given Peter a reason to care whether he lived or died.

If anything, he had done nothing but give Peter motive to kill Harry himself. You hated that thought. While you didn’t believe that Peter had murdered Sytsevich, you worried that if given the chance he would have killed Harry that night. You wanted to believe that he wouldn’t have been capable of following through with it, though. Just as you weren’t capable of sitting idly by as Harry was sentenced to Ryker’s Island, knowing that he would be as good as dead in there.

Maybe you’d been stupid not to consider that the article was one of the reasons why Peter had never bothered to reach out to you, even once things had settled down. Maybe it was your own fault that he’d abandoned you, that the article had been the final nail in the coffin of your friendship.

Your stomach ached, your mind still reeling as you shoved open the large doors of Watson Hall. A rush of frigid air washed over you, goosebumps erupting against your skin.

Was it possible that Peter hated you as much as he hated Harry?

No. It couldn’t be. What Harry had done was beyond abominable, something that could never be forgiven. You hadn’t done anything nearly as bad as him.

Yet, on the other hand… is the one who comes to a monster's defense just as bad as the monster? You weren’t sure of the answer to that question, though you started to rationalize it to yourself anyway—you weren’t defending him, you just didn’t want to watch him die if there was something you could do to stop it!

But why not? Gwen wasn’t a monster, yet you still watched her die, standing on the sidelines and doing nothing to try and stop it.

There was nothing I could’ve done! Your mind screamed in defense of itself as you approached the staircase leading to the second floor, roughly gripping the rail as you started climbing up.

Why had Peter talked to Mary Jane about the article in the first place? That question was easier to think about than the others, infuriating but still less emotionally taxing, so you let yourself fixate on it. As far as you knew, Peter hadn’t liked Mary Jane any more than you and Gwen did, always keeping his distance from the she-devil.

When did that change?

At the top of the stairs, nestled in a corner of the left, there was a single door with a large black sign hanging off of it. The words DARKROOM IN USE were written in bold letters. You stared at it for a moment, your mind finally going blank as you did.

Peter was behind that door—your best friend, Peter.

Your palms started to sweat as memories started flooding back. Instantly, you bit your cheek, trying to ignore them. Now wasn’t the time for a trip down memory lane, especially not when you could still recall the bloody way that road ends.

A knock echoed through the somewhat barren Hall as your first collided with the door, your nerves growing with every passing millisecond. All you could do was focus on the different feelings fighting to consume you, the thudding of your heart, the slickness of your hands, the churning of your stomach.

“Peter?”

Saying his name felt wrong, but you said it anyway as you knocked again, a bit harder this time. “It’s y/n,” you told him, as if it were even possible for him to forget the sound of your voice, “can I come in?”

Once again you were met with silence.

You considered turning around. Maybe Jameson had been right in thinking that you shouldn’t chase this story. After all, it wasn’t your job to prove Spider-Man's innocence, and if Peter wanted your help, then he knew how to find you. You could call Brant right now and tell her that today was a bust, or even lie and say that Peter didn’t want to help with the story. You could walk away.

But you didn’t let yourself do that, once again feeling that weight of responsibility that May had unintentionally placed on your shoulders. There was no one left in Peter’s corner, no one that would be willing to dig him out of whatever dark hole he’d landed himself in.

You had fought to save Harry’s life, and so it only felt right that you tried to do the same for Peter.

Without bothering to knock again, you reached for the knob and twisted, hastily slipping inside the room, trying to limit the amount of light the leaked in behind you. You didn’t know a lot about developing photos, but you’d never forgotten the way Peter would groan whenever you’d come in unannounced, accidentally letting the light ruin his work.

The door clicked shut behind you as you looked around. It wasn’t a big room, just large enough for two or three people to comfortably fit inside. Any more than that, though, and they’d likely be bumping elbows the entire time. There was a table in the center of it, lined with tubs holding various chemicals that you’d never learned the names of. A clothesline hung around the perimeter of the room, a few newly developed photos lazily dangling from it. On the far wall there were two desks, various images and tools scattered across them.

Everything in the room looked sinister, courtesy of the red tinted light that hung overhead.

”Fucking creepy.” You muttered to yourself, crossing your arms over your chest as a chill inched down your back. This room felt significantly colder than the rest of Watson Hall, only adding to its unsettling vibe.

The darkroom was empty, despite the sign on the door saying it was in use. The realization nearly made you breathe a sigh of relief, a part of you finding comfort in the thought that you wouldn’t actually have to confront Peter right now. But as you stepped further into the room and towards the twin desks, all your newfound relief dissipated.

Resting against the leg of the desk was a fluorescent yellow bookbag, decorated with a variety of cheap pins ranging from local bands to images of outdated memes. You remembered the first time you ever saw that bag, lying on the floor of Peter’s bedroom just a week or so before the start of Junior year. He threw a fit when Aunt May had come in, tossing the ugly bag on his bed and raving about how she had gotten it on sale just in time for back-to-school.

You made fun of him for months, always making note of the way its vibrancy clashed with his darker style. Secretly you had loved that bag, silently appreciative for how easy it made it to find Peter in the crowded halls of Midtown High. He would always beg Aunt May to get a different bag, but she refused, saying that they shouldn’t buy another until he had worn the yellow one out.

Looking at it now, it seemed that he had finally achieved that goal. The yellow fabric was a touch duller now, though not by much, and there was a noticeable tear in the seam of the front pocket. Kneeling beside it, you traced your finger over a trail of blue thread, having been carefully used to stitch the fabric back together.

You wondered why he had decided to fix it instead of just replacing it like he had always wanted.

Straightening back up, you scanned over the rest of the desk. There was a black reusable water bottle perched on the edge, a set of keys attached to a Deftones lanyard lying beside it. A bit of sweat trickled down the edge of the bottle, collecting on the surface of the desk. You reached for it, shifting it just enough to hear ice knocking against the metal walls. It had barely melted, meaning that it hadn’t been long since Peter had gotten here. Still, you had no clue where he was now.

Closer to the center of the desk was a neat stack of already developed photos. A girl graced the top of the stack—pale skin with bleach blonde hair, neatly pushed back by a black headband. You reached for it without hesitation, a single digit tracing along her grinning face.

Peter took pictures of a lot of people, you included, but it was undeniable that Gwen had always been his favorite subject. Looking at this photo, you couldn’t help but understand why. She was effortlessly beautiful, capable of taking your breath away without even trying.

You could never blame Peter for always trying to capture that beauty, fully aware that if you were him, she would’ve been your favorite too.

Without much thought you decided to slip the image into your bag. Peter had dozens of pictures of Gwen, while you only had a measly few. He could spare one.

The other images were far more recent than the first, with only one or two others featuring Gwen. There were snapshots of random Columbia students, a few cityscapes, and even one of the devil herself—Mary Jane, posed in front of the same mess hall that had ensnared you earlier. In the reflection you could see Peter, smiling from behind his camera.

You gritted your teeth and rolled your eyes at the image. Were they really friends? The picture seemed to serve as enough of an answer, but you still couldn’t help but hope that you were wrong. Had Peter truly traded you in for Mary-fucking-Jane?

You roughly shoved that photo to the back of the stack, doing your best not to think about it as you continued to snoop through the rest of them. None were particularly interesting, save for the last two. Their dark composition offered a stark difference from the rest, while simultaneously making it difficult to tell what Peter was even photographing.

Taking one in each hand, your eyes darted back and forth between them, squinting as you tried to make out the subject, a task that was made all the more difficult by the rooms dim red lighting. You brought one closer to your face, making out a few trivial details. At the far edge, there seemed to be a street sign's corner, and in the middle a few streaks of dim light reflecting off a rain puddle.

Moving it away from yourself, you shifted your focus to the other one, thinking it appeared to be just a close-up of the first image. Then, slowly, you realized your mistake. It hadn’t been just a zoomed-in shot, as the reflection in the puddle made it something else entirely—a self-portrait.

But it wasn’t the warmth of Peter’s familiar brown eyes being reflected in the hazy liquid. Rather there was an outline of the two lifeless white lenses that belonged to his other self, the version of him you sometimes wished to forget.

The sight made you feel sick, sweat starting to form along your neck as you hastily flipped the photo over, desperate to avoid his sickening stare. However, what you saw on the back of the image was almost as bad as being forced to stare at Spider-Man's reflection. Scrawled in Peter’s barely legible handwriting was the date APRIL 2ND.

A new panic quickly trickled into your veins, fully replacing the one that had been born from the lifeless gaze of his mask. You read yesterday’s date over and over again, as if it would suddenly change. It never did, and a sizable knot formed in your throat as you slowly began to look up, shifting your focus to the forgotten photos pinned to the clothesline.

Your jaw fell slack, the photos in your hands following suit and landing on the desk below them. When you first entered the darkroom, you hadn’t paid much mind to the photographs hanging up, assuming they weren’t of much importance. Now, though, you recognized them for what they truly were—the sister images of the ones you’d been holding. Flashes of 102nd Avenue, Aleksei Sytsevich lying lifeless on the ground, milky white shards of bone peeking through his flesh. And there were photos of his mask, and those goddamn white lenses, spattered with Aleksei’s blood.

Peter hadn’t just been at the crime scene; he had documented it.

Your palm pressed roughly to your mouth, fingers digging into your cheek as you made yourself swallow the vomit fighting its way up your throat. Your own trauma fought desperately to rear its head as you analyzed the gory images, but you refused to let it take hold, scrambling to keep control as you forced yourself to snap into action.

After grabbing your phone, you wasted no time snapping pictures of the photographs hanging from the line, of the ones sprawled on the desk, of everything you could find. You didn’t know yet what you would do with them, but you refused to leave this room without collecting every bit of evidence you could find.

Once you were certain you had gotten it all, you worked to straighten the stack of pictures you’d gone through, adjusting them so they appeared as if they’d never been touched in the first place. Then, with your heart hammering inside your chest, you darted for the door without a second thought, paying absolutely no mind to the strange looks given to you by passing students as you rushed for the stairs.

You couldn’t stop moving, only slowing your frantic pace once you’d nearly made it to the exit doors. You rounded the corner as you tried to pull up Brant’s contact with shaky hands, wanting nothing more than to call her and get the fuck away from this campus. But, as soon as you went to press her name, your phone went flying from your hand and slid across the linoleum, your body pressing smack against another.

Sugary notes of vanilla flooded your senses, making your thoughts turn hazy. Your palms were flush against the soft cotton of someone’s shirt, and you could feel their fingers wrapping firmly around your shoulders, trying to steady you enough that you wouldn’t stumble back from the impact.

”Oh-shit!, sorry! I didn’t even see you-”

Their voice wasn’t the first thing you recognized, instead you found yourself caught up in the material beneath your hands. They were wearing a black Ramones t-shirt, a barely noticeable tear on the edge of the collar. But you noticed the tear instantly because you were the one who had bought the shirt. You got it at the record store on 6th Avenue—Rough Trade, was the name of it—and the man behind the counter gave it to you for half off all because of that tear.

You only ever got to wear it once before Peter nabbed it off your bedroom floor, never to return it.

”y/n?”

Your body betrayed you, immediately melting as the familiar sound of your name falling from his lips rang through your ears. Your heart had still been pounding in your chest this entire time, yet as your eyes met his for the first time in months, it fell still.

Peter didn’t fully share in your reaction. Instead of appearing as if he were lost in the same nostalgic haze you were caught in, he looked as if he had seen a ghost. His skin blanched, eyes growing unnaturally wide. For a moment you thought he was going to say something else, his lips parting, yet nothing came out.

In your lifetime, you had only known of a few things that could render Peter Parker speechless. You had now become one of them.

”Hi.” You squeaked out, a single hand lifting from his chest and offering an awkward wave that filled you with humility.

This wasn’t easy.

You weren’t sure how to act around him, how to behave. For nine months you had envisioned this moment, conjuring up countless things to say to him, all the insults you wanted to hurl his way. But now that it was happening, you found yourself torn between wanting to hug and choke him.

It seemed best to do neither.

”Um, hi?” Peter’s grip on your shoulders tightened, just for a second, as if he were trying to prove to himself that you were really standing in front of him. Once he seemed satisfied with your physicality, he stepped back and released his grip on you entirely, subsequently making your other hand fall from his chest.

”You’re not-I mean-you don’t go here.” He rasped, laughing awkwardly as he ran a hand through his hair, trying to ground himself.

”You’re right, I don’t go here!” You pointlessly confirmed, voice raising several octaves as anxiety took over. “Very observant.”

You cringed at the statement. Very observant?-you thought to yourself, biting down on the edge of your tongue as you watched Peter’s brows knit together-could've said anything, and that’s what you picked?

He didn’t even acknowledge the useless comment, only letting it hang in the air between you as he continued to wait for a true answer.

“I came to see you.” You choked out an honest answer, starting to shrink beneath his heavy gaze. You tried to step back, instinctively wanting to create distance between the two of you, but all you achieved was pressing yourself against the wall.

There was no escaping him.

He was quick to respond, making it clear just how high-strung he was. ”How did you find me?”

”I’m a reporter.” You reminded him, offering it up as a vague answer to his question. He’d likely expected the response, given the way his eyes narrowed in frustration. “Finding people is part of my job description.”

Peter always said that getting an answer out of you was like playing a game of charades, one that others very rarely won. You were a pro at dancing around the facts, only ever revealing them when they served to benefit you.

It was one of the many reasons you were so good at your job.

“Is that why you’re here?” His question carried a sharp edge, his irritation growing stronger now as his jaw tightened. “For the Bugle?”

Your body became tense, your shoulders squaring off as anxiety once again tried to shove to the surface. As you thought of the images you’d seen, the ones that were hanging just upstairs, your blood ran cold. You did your best not to let it show, instead trying to hide your fear behind a look of confusion. “Why would I be here for the Bugle?”

At first, he only stared at you, his brows raising in an incredulous manner. You forced yourself to stare back despite the discomfort it brought you. Then, finally, he answered. “You wanna talk about Spider-Man, right?”

Your heart sank into your stomach, lips turning dry as they parted. There was nothing good about the way the vigilante’s name rolled off his tongue, and you didn’t like it one bit. The semi-hushed tone he’d spoken in, laced with an essence of bitterness that one wouldn’t expect from the person that donned the mask.

Hesitantly running your tongue along your now chapped lips, you responded in a shaky voice. “Why would I wanna talk about Spider-Man?”

Harry’s advice rang through your mind—the same advice that had been mirrored by Aunt May, to remain wary of Peter—and you suddenly felt lightheaded. There was no way he could know that you found out about his identity that night, right?

No, of course not. It was impossible.

Peter appeared far more relaxed than you, his shoulders lazily lifting into a shrug. He didn’t seem to notice the sweat forming along your brow, making you think that you were doing an alright job at hiding your emotions. “Jameson wants new pictures of him, doesn’t he?” He threw out a guess.

Your shoulders instantly sagged with relief, your lungs aching as you lightly blew out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Given what you’d seen upstairs, you decided it would be best to stick to Harry and May’s advice. Peter didn’t need to know that you were aware of who wore Spider-Man's mask. Not right now, at least.

“I'm right, aren’t I?” Peter insisted impatiently, interrupting your racing thoughts and snapping you back into reality.

“Do you have new pictures of him?” You hastily snapped back.

“No. I don’t.” He lied straight through his teeth, once again running a hand through his already messy hair as he squeezed his eyes shut. It was obvious that he wasn’t planning to share any details of Spidey’s newly developed photoshoot hanging in the darkroom, and it would be against your best interest to press further, so you stayed quiet. When he opened his eyes again, he stared directly into yours. “And I don’t plan on taking any, so if that’s why you’re here then you’re wasting your time.”

You couldn’t recall ever hearing Peter sound so exhausted before. His recent lack of sleep was made painfully evident by the varying shades of purple painting the skin around his eyes. How long had he looked this way? Has it been since Gwen? In some sick way you hoped that you were right, knowing that grief being the cause was better than the alternative—the idea that his lack of sleep related to his involvement with Aleksei.

A part of you still refused to consider the images you’d seen as damning evidence that Peter had been the one to kill Aleksei Sytsevich. You couldn’t let yourself think that, refusing to believe that Peter Parker was anything even close to a murderer. It wasn’t possible.

But, as much as you hated to admit it, they proved that he was in some way involved. An accessory, at least. For some reason, hopefully a good one, he hadn’t stopped Aleksei’s murder from happening.

That came with its own dangerous implications.

You clicked your tongue against the roof of your mouth, trying to decide what direction you wanted to steer the conversation in, which angle would serve you best. With a deep breath, you made your choice. “Well, it’s good that that’s not why I’m here then.”

He looked surprised. “Wait,” he laughed awkwardly, “you’re not writing a piece on him?”

There was a thin line creasing the space between his brows, a strange expression on his face. His reaction wasn’t entirely unexpected, especially because you were known for your articles on Spider-Man. But this wasn’t a look that showed he was shocked to hear you were passing up on a story, it was a look of pure offense.

You fought the urge to ask him why he cared so much, curious to find out if he had been expecting you to rush to Spider-Man's defense in the media. The only reason you held yourself back was the fear that maybe you were wrong, that maybe he hadn’t wanted you to defend him at all; perhaps he just wanted more press for his potential crimes.

”Seems like the Globe has it covered.” You told him, trying to sound disinterested. You hoped that he would buy your act. “No need to waste anymore ink on a story that’s already been told, right?”

Peter knew you well enough to know that there was more to it than that. Fortunately, he was willing to reason that your potential avoidance of Spider-Man related to that night, the last night all of you were together, and the events that neither of you wanted to talk about. Besides, even if he did want to mention it, he couldn’t do so without exposing his identity to you, an identity he wasn’t aware you already knew about.

So, as much as he didn’t want to let it go, he had no other choice.

”O-kay.” He stretched the word out, shaking his head lightly as he worked to regain his bearings in the conversation. As he did so, a few strands of hair fell against his forehead. He was quick to push them back. “Well, if that’s not it, then why are you here?”

There was only a second of hesitation, air hissing between your teeth as you sucked in a breath, crossing your fingers behind your back. You hoped Gwen would forgive you for the lie you were about to tell.

”Helen Stacy.”

The first emotion to wash over Peter was pain. It was obvious, showing in the way his shoulders slumped forwards and his bottom lip trembled, wincing as the surname of his dead lover echoed through his ears. It was the second emotion that was harder to detect, having been more cleverly concealed than the first. Anger.

You could see it in his eyes, his pupils dilating as he started to see red. Your own gaze flickered to his sides, stopping on his clenched fists, knuckles turning a pale shade of white. It made you feel uncomfortable, especially since you were the one on the receiving end of that look. You nervously cleared your throat, starting to fiddle with the strap of your bag.

“She called the other day and asked about running a memorial piece for Gwen’s anniversary. Obviously, she thought it would be best if Gwen’s friends put it together—you know, do it how we used to for the school paper. I’ll do the writing; you take care of the pictures.”

It was hard to sound confident as you elaborated upon the fabricated situation, too busy trying to focus on anything other than his heavy gaze. You focused on the floor, mostly, staring over at where your phone still laid on the ground. Still, even without looking at him, you could feel the weight of his attention. The air around you began to grow thin, every breath turning into a battle. You felt like you were being slowly suffocated by his fury, your lungs burning within your chest.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea-”

“You can’t say no, Pete.” You cut him off, forcibly lowering the walls surrounding your own trauma, using it to manipulate him. You didn’t feel bad about it, either. “We both lost our best friend that night, and that sucked. But Helen lost her kid. This is the least we can do for her.”

As the last word fell from your mouth, you forcefully pried your gaze off the ground and begrudgingly met his once again. Terror slid into your veins as you did, your body already preparing itself for that seething look of his—but it vanished. There was no trace of anger on his face. All that remained was the slightest glimmer of remorse.

His fists unclenched, mindlessly cracking his knuckles. Then he sighed, followed by a reluctant nod. “You’re right. She’s been through a lot, and if this will help bring her some sort of... I don’t know-” he waved his hands slightly, looking troubled by his own choice of words, “closure, then I’ll do what I can to help.”

Your mouth curved into a smile.

It seemed like a good sign, you figured, that he was willing to help. It reignited whatever hope you had left that despite whatever mess he had gotten into as Spider-Man, that he was still the same selfless Peter Parker you’d always known. He could still be saved. And, fortunately, you had now crafted the excuse you needed to get closer to him and figure out how to save him.

”Great!” You spoke a little too loud, your excitement coming off a touch too strong. You tried to lessen it, though the uncharacteristic reaction certainly hadn’t gone unnoticed by Peter. “Meet me at Sylvia’s tomorrow at six, okay? We can start going over everything and make a rough outline for the memorial!”

Peter immediately went still when he heard the name of the restaurant the four of you used to frequent. He hadn’t set foot in Sylvia’s since Gwen’s death, too afraid to face the memories hiding within its walls. He tried to speak, tried to tell you no, but he didn’t have the chance as you interrupted him again.

“Here,” You pulled a business card from your bag, thrusting it towards him with a pointed look, “in case you forgot my number.”

You didn’t hide the animosity behind the statement, using it as another tool to play on whatever guilt he might harbor for what he’d done to you. It seemed to work, given the fact that he promptly shut his mouth and chose not to argue. Instead, he cautiously reached out, plucking the cards from your fingers.

“Try not to ghost me for another nine months.” You playfully added on, the words joined by a smile that resembled something of a threat as you reminded him, “After all, I know where to find you now.”

Peter just returned the smile, tight lipped and far less ferocious than the one you’d given him. He knew that eventually you’d want an answer as to why he’d been avoiding you, but not right now. Now wasn’t the time for it.

So, he stuffed the card in his pocket as you skillfully skirted around him, going to grab your phone off the floor. Once you had it in your hand, you started towards the exit, already starting to dial Brant’s number. “I’ll see you tomorrow, y/n.” Peter called after you, watching as you pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold.

There was an eerie sense of familiarity accompanying his goodbye, one that left your heart swelling as the words sought to soothe any of the still-bleeding wounds that remained from that night. The comforting feeling was almost enough to make you forget about the images you’d seen in the darkroom, the ones that now also lived within the camera roll on your phone.

Almost—but not quite.

Brant answered on the first ring, seemingly overjoyed as another lie easily fell from your lips, confirming with her that Peter agreed to help take photos of Spider-Man so you could try and plead his case to the public—the reason she thought the two of you were searching for Peter. She was just as eager as you were to leave Columbia’s posh campus, swiftly agreeing when you asked her to meet you outside of the mess hall so the two of you could head back to the Bugle.

Now, waiting alone in front of the mirrored windows, you stared silently at the reflection in front of you. A girl with platinum hair, neatly tucked back by a black headband, stared back at you with her familiar bright green eyes. They were filled with enough dismay to make your chest ache, ridding you of any comfort that Peter’s familiarity had given you.

”You’re gonna have to see him again.” The somber tone she used was unbefitting of someone that you could only think to describe as sunshine personified; everything you ever wished you could be. “You’ll need his help.” Gwen told you. “You know that don’t you?”

You knew she wasn’t talking about Peter.

When you didn’t reply, she decided she needed to convince you further, tailoring her approach so it had the best chance of swaying you. She reached a handout, and you knew that if you had closed your eyes, you would be able to feel her fingertips brush against your palm as she squeezed your hand.

God, you missed that feeling. You missed her.

And it was because you missed her that you refused to close your eyes. Refused to let your brain mimic something that was no longer real.

Gwen’s doe eyes turned glossy, her rosy lips puckering into a pout that could make even the most unyielding man fold. ”He’s gonna need your help, too, y/n.”

You bit your cheek, thinking of the bottle of pills laying in the bottom of your bag, the ones you hadn’t had to take in so long now. You were getting better.

"You can’t save one without saving the other.” Gwen tried to tell you, although it only served to make you angry at her, unable to figure out why she would feel that way. She shouldn’t want you to save Harry, not when he was the reason she wasn’t here right now!

If she were here, really here, then maybe you would tell her that. Remind her of how well her altruistic lifestyle had ended.

But she wasn’t. So, you didn’t.

Instead, you turned on your heel, forcing yourself to turn away from the reflection. You immediately saw a flash of royal blue in the sea of students as Brant forced her way through the crowd. Fine—you thought to yourself, offering Gwen a silent answer as you started to make your way towards Brant.

”This place is a goddamn maze!” You heard Brant huff noisily once you were in earshot of each other, her bobbed hair swaying manically. She clearly hadn’t had a good time, but you weren’t really interested in hearing about it, either. Instead, you found yourself distracted by her appearance. Her neatly styled hairstyle, sharp winged liner, and stylish outfit. It made you think of the girls from earlier, the ones who had made you so self-conscious, and it gave you an idea.

If you were going to do this—follow Gwen’s advice and save both of your boys—then you needed to try and save yourself, too. And, luckily, you and Brant seemed to be about the same size.

“Do you wanna go shopping?” You asked bluntly, watching as Brant doubled-back, clearly not expecting your question.

She blinked, thinking it over before hesitantly replying, “Um, sure?”

Ravencroft could wait until tomorrow morning.

tag list - @pompeygirl89 @pockyandme

a/n - hi anyone who's bothering to read this! i'm super excited about this chapter for a variety of reasons and i hope that you enjoyed it! feel free to leave any comments or tips, i always appreciate them and can't wait to write more harry & dark!peter content in the next part <3

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