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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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chiapetkinnie · 10 months

Text

Mine

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

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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

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#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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kestisvrse · 5 months

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making up for lost time

pairing ⋆ harry osborn (ps5) x gn!reader. angst, fluff. crushing.

synopsis ⋆ harry comes to visit you after being m.i.a for a year.

warnings ⋆ cringe rizz, anxious, first time writing. | wc: 0.6k

everyone has those days were they wake up and can just sense somethings going to happen that day, and living in new york city with a literal superhero swinging around, the feeling was often correct.

today… today was different. it was like a pit in your stomach you get as a kid the night before christmas, the excitement of santa coming in your house to put presents under the tree kind of feeling.

which was odd, because it was around six now, sun almost set as golden hues set along the buildings of new york. unlocking your apartment door you huffed slightly, the anxious feeling for nothing ruined your day, filled you with paranoia.

setting your things down you head for the kitchen to grab any leftovers and plop down on the couch to watch a show to relax, but that moment of peace was quickly interrupted. furrowing your brows as a knock appeared at your door, setting your food back on the table and rising from your seat you shuffled towards the door.

unlocking the door you are met with harry osborn, a face you hadn’t seen in over a year besides the photos tapped in your room and in your camera roll.

he stood there grinning, auburn hair a little messy, like he had been running against the wind, the lightest freckles covering his face that could be missed easily, but you remembered them vividly. he wore a grey henley with a army green jacket, and before you could observe the rest of his outfit you were interrupted.

“i didn’t think i was that good looking” harry teased, you snapped your eyes up to meet his, your cheeks turning slightly pink from embarrassment

“harry.. hi” you muttered out

“hi” his giant grin faded to a small smile “i have a lot to tel- explain to you.” he said looking to his shoes, slightly shifting his weight onto one foot

you nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at you to see it, stepping to the side for him to walk in. he looked around, admiring how well the apartment resembled you.

“mj told me” he turned around and furrowed his brows “that… that you weren’t in europe.”

“right” he cleared his throat, taking a seat on your couch

“i wish you had told me.. i know i wouldn’t have been able to be with you but it would have helped, rather than texting you every week.” he fiddled with his fingers as you sat next to him

“i’m sorry. i wish i had, but i j…just couldn’t” he replied, you nodded looking down at his nervous hands, reaching forward to grab onto one “i didn’t want you to see me like that.”

“it’s okay, i just… i missed you. you do look great though, by the way.” a lopsided smile appearing on your face

“i knew you were checking me out”

“you are ruining the moment” you giggled pushing him slightly with your shoulder, hands slowly weaving together

“i can’t say much, you are still as beautiful as ever” he flirted, a nervous smile appeared on your face as pink tinted your cheeks

“still such a flirt.” you hummed, he shrugged, “god i missed you so much” you chuckled, tears threatened to spill from your eyes just from the shock of it all

“oh please don’t cry” he brought a hand up to wipe away a fallen tear, “i’m here again. and i am healthy” you nod and smile at him, wiping away stray tears with your free hand.

“any plans tonight? want to have those silly movie nights we used to have?” you beamed

“i would be an idiot to deny such a request” harry joked, quickly admiring your features

you smiled at each other, just sitting in each others presence after a year had been taken away from you.

first time writing sorry its bad LOL

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

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imagine--if · 8 months

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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

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hi babe! yup i do actually! i just havent really thought of any ideas, so itd be a pleasure for me to work on your imagine request! but yes, if youd like, i can think of some soon! /// I'm glad you write dark stuff... could you write about harry being a stalker, obsessive, needy, possessive and jealous of the reader? (female reader)

hihi!! thank you for the request, the ending has mentions of bj and if you dont like it you can skip that! im not entirely sure if youll like this but here you go! i might do a redo to this, not entirely sure tho.

,, our own needs "

harryosborn x reader x peterparker

a.n : when i got the request, i was quite excited. its abit challenging but it was fun to work on nonetheless! this is my very very first time writing smut btw!

warnings : possession/obsession/stalker-like-behaviour/needy/jealous harry osborn (thats a mouthful, literally) , MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! , oral sex (m receiving) , masturbation , slight peter parker x reader , lmk if i missed some.

**lowercase intended**

harry seemed like a normal ceo, one that looks strict with a constant expression on which was hardly ever readable. you, being his assistant hardly ever got to know harry. you were just carrying out your job and wanted to get it over quick. harry has 'thrown' himself onto you multiple times, but you were quick to dismiss it thinking that he was probably joking around wanting to keep things professional with him.

what you didnt know was that harry liked you, a lot. probably too much that he knows every detail in your life, what you liked, what you hated, who dated you and so on. what didnt help was the his penthouse was opposite your apartment. he basically saw everything that happened as your apartment was a level lower from his.

" f-fuck, (y/n) " harrys hips buckled into his fist. he tried his hardest to contain his moans, but the images of you changing clouded his mind edged further into his climax. it wasnt his first time masturbating at the thought of you naked, on top of him and tearing him apart or pictures of you that he took without your acknowledgement. he knew hed be damned if you were to find out about his dirty little secrets. as much as he wants to destroy you, he cant help but find himself crumble under your touch.

he didnt know whether it was his hormones changing or the way you knew how to get him weak on his knees. what really did it for him was when you came to work in those filthy black dress that hugged your figure perfectly. the way he had to hold himself back and learn self control before he could even rip your dress apart to fuck you deep and slow, show you who you belong to. but again, it was only his imagination of you that kept him going. as much as he wanted to keep things professional between you both, he couldnt help but imagine the drama and mess that could happen if you found him moaning your name while touching his needy self or worse, someone walking into the whimpering mess you are while harrys in you.

while harry felt a knot deep in his stomach, he saw a cctv camera from his desk, you and someone walking towards the entrance of his office. cursing under his breathe, he had to quickly clean and zip himself up knowing how embarrassed he would be if you and someone foreign were to see him fucking his fist. he felt deeply uncomfortable not being able to release such pain and pleasure he was currently feeling. and there you walked in, with peter parker. right, he was deep in thought of you that he had forgotten his appointment with peter.

" sir, peter parker. " you had missed the way his gaze faltered when you addressed him so highly. the way your voice intoxicated him that he knew he was about to cum on the spot. swallowing harshly and walking towards you and peter not realizing how wobbly he was, knocked down a vase of his desk.

" m sorry, just abit clumsy right now " harry let out a breathy laugh when he saw you walking towards him with such concern in your eyes.

" you okay? " again, it wasnt like he didnt get enough attention from everyone, but the way you showed such sweet concern towards him made him want more. when he saw you kneeling down to help clean the shattered glass, he felt his heart beat faster and vision beginning to blur out. 'so this is how she looks like..' he thought.

but once you picked up a piece of glass, harry stopped you. insisting that he was able to call a cleaner up to clear the mess. nodding, you left the two boys alone.

" bye peter " you gave a little wave towards peter. peters gaze softened, seemingly pleased that you acknowledged him. harry didnt like the way peters gaze followed you out of the door. for a man who got everything in his life, he seemed very jealous of peter. you had never seen peter in your life, and now you are all over peter? waving goodbye to him?

turning around to face harry, peter was quick to notice harrys hard look.

" my assistant, shes very.. " as harry was about to compliment every part of you, wanting to make it clear that you are his and his only, peter cuts him off.

" very beautiful. " harry merely let out a nod, feeling abit too tense. harry and peter had a long conversation about harrys new military body armor that he was going to work on.

when peter walked out of the door after talking to harry, he bumped into you.

" hi. " peter breathed out. he didnt know your name, remembering that you were only referred to as harrys assistant. the only reason why harry didnt want to mention your name was because he felt the need to protect such an angelic name, and wanted to be the only one to moan it while thinking about you.

" hi peter. " you greeted back. it felt as if peter was in a trance when he didnt say anything. laughing quietly, you went around peter to get into harrys office. but before you could even get to it, peter stopped you. you felt your whole body tense up when you felt peters hand touch your stomach. you knew how attractive peter was upon meeting him, how slim and built he was. how gentle his hand touched you. looking up at him, you quirked an eyebrow.

" your name? "

" oh, (y/n). " peter voiced your name out repeatedly in his mind. when peter placed his hand down, you were about to walk past him when he stopped you again.

" heres my number, i want to get to know you more. " it sounded more like a question than an actual statement. when he placed the crumpled paper with his number in your palm, he smiled when you didnt reject it.

" will do. " you whispered, waving him goodbye.

walking into harrys office, you notice him drinking down a shot of alcohol. it was barely five and hes already drinking.

when harry felt a presence behind him, he turned.

" oh, its you " he didnt mean to come off as rude but the images of you and peter interacting outside his office infuriated him. he was always watching you.

" uhm, yea its me? anyways, i was about to inform you that you have nothing else planned for the day. " you looked up from your tablet, making sure you got it right. harry caught on to your first sentence, he heard how hurt you were but it was probably just his imagination.

nodding in acknowledgment he walked towards you. when he was close enough, he cant help but smell the cherry scent you had on. grabbing the tablet off your hand and placing it on the nearby desk, he let his hand fondle with your arms, rubbing it slowly. harrys love eyes for you had turned to something more than that and was jealousy-drunk despite drinking. harry needed a few shots to make the alcohol take effect, so he was moderately sober.

he let his mind wild free and began holding you close to him and began swaying from side to side to the nonexistent music. being confused, you pulled away, your action angering harry.

" sir, i don't think itd be- "

" shh. all i need is you, so please " harry had barely rasped out. he didnt care about anything as his only focus was on you.

" you can tell me to stop if you dont want it, okay? " harry began to hold you, resting his right arm on your head, playing with your hair, with his other hand on your waist, thumb gently rubbing circles.

and there you were, letting your guard down. you didn't realize how much you liked harry, to blinded in the duties of work. when he felt you lean into his touch, he couldnt help but smile, planting kisses on the crown of your head.

harrys lips then moved towards your cheek, planting a peck. you didnt know what you wanted at the moment, too unsure about the consequences if you let this continue, but you were also dazed to care as the man you wanted dearly was finally giving you what you wanted.

harry then held your face with his hands. your expression was unreadable. you could tell that harry was very hesitant to kiss you. i mean, harry did say that you could ask him to stop if you didn't want any of it, but he was still unsure. helping harry understand you better, your arms snacked around his neck making his arms move to your waist, smashing your lips onto his. the moment felt so unreal, it wasnt like his imagination, it was better. as much as he wanted to fight for dominance, he moaned into your mouth when you bit his bottom lip. allowing entrance quickly he leaned you against the desk, trying to stabilize you better. he let you take control quickly and it was so out of his character because one would think that he is very dominant, but with a single touch he was soon crumbling under your touch. he tried to deepen the kiss, as if you are the last thing on earth that can make him survive. as if you are the oxygen he needs. when he heard you moan when he placed his knee in between your legs, he swore he felt his whole body heat up.

pulling away to catch your breath, harry leaned towards your neck, hands gripping your hair to grant him more excess to your neck. it was as if he was a vampire and dearly needed blood. the way he sucked your neck, leaving tender kisses and bruises on it, marking you immediately. you have slept with a few people, but they didn't feel like this. you felt like you were in heaven with the way harry touched you. you have neglected your feelings way too well to not realize the way your heart yearned for harry. pushing harry of off you confused him. why did you want to stop now? noticing an office chair near you, you pushed harry down. climbing onto his lap, you began attacking his neck.

" f-fuck (y/n) " placing his hand onto your waist to try and pull your body closer to his. he cant help remind himself of his own whereabouts, his office. part of him is slightly eager to find out what were to happen if you both gets found out, but part of him wants this moment to be uninterrupted. but he couldnt contain himself when you knew how to push him over the edge. he felt you grind against his growing erection, you played with him like you knew how to please him. climbing off his lap and kneeling down in front of him, harry tried to keep eye contact. your expression questioning him for consent and without a doubt he whimpered a 'please'

without wasting time, you unzip his pants which showed you off a better outline of his dick. pulling his pants down enough, you take his erection in your hand.

" oh god, fuck " it felt even better than he imagined. his body shivered when your thumb glide over his tip, thats already sticky with precum.

" please (y/n), fucking please " harry begged to be destroyed.

" just one gentle touch and youre already a whimpering mess.. " you whispered to no one at all, but harry heard it and replied with another strangled moan. " i wonder howd you react if i put you in my mouth " you continued, he loved the way you teased him. pumping him slowly, you began placing soft kisses onto his tip.

" fuck, better than i have imagined " he saw how dark you gaze became.

" imagined? why imagine when you have the real thing in front of you? " harry felt his body go limp and the immense amount of pleasure was throwing him off the boat. with every hard and fast pump, he felt a familiar knot in his stomach that he felt earlier in the day. that was when you finally put his whole into your mouth. you couldnt lie to yourself, you were enjoying it. the guys that ever slept with you only wanted to dominate you and not vice versa. although you did enjoy it, this experience was new to you. hollowing your cheeks out and began sucking harshly, harry tried to contain himself and stop himself from cumming, which from his end was tough considering the way you toyed around with him. due to his loud moans, you stopped. pulling away, you saw needy harry was. harry felt lonely and empty without any contact with you.

" shh, if you want me to continue, you have to be a good boy and shut it "

" please i want you " untying his tie that he had on, you rolled it small enough to put into harry mouth.

going back to your previous actions, you began sucking hard and pumping what your mouth couldn't take. that was when you felt harry grip onto your hair. you enjoyed it, the hair pulling. it did turn you on, making you moan against his dick. harry, feeling the vibrations of your moan on his dick, moaned loudly into his tie. feeling his dick twitch multiple times, you released.

" cum for me sir. " was what did it for him. webs of cum began painting your mouth, and you didnt waste anytime tasting it. the sight of you on your knees, with his cum all over you made harry feel different. it was all real, he reminded himself. he finally had you, after seeing you go out on dates with multiple guys.

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

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i-love-harryosborn-dotcom · 6 months

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QUICKLY, WHILE MY WIFI IS BRIEFLY BACK- TAKE THIS FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH WEREWOLF PETER N HARRY

#I imagine when pete was first being a werewolf he had to bs extra careful #JJJ still hates his ass but i think people are way more cautious of an actual giant fuckin wolf then they are if a spider guy #anyway pete returns his cane after harry loses it during a big villain fight in town #harry doesn’t know its peter so like… infamous wolf man is just returning his cane n waggin his tail like a proud pooch #harry osborn #peter parker #parksborn

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unlimitedhearts · 5 months

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I’m dreading the third game of Spiderman might kill off Harry :/ either he’s goblin (solo or probably along with daddy-o) and dies a la Hero Sacrifice. Or kept comatose and in the end with grim results the decision is to pull the plug on him. idk I feel Harry’s fate is doom and gloom. But they could have killed Harry at the end of this sequel giving a strong motivation for Norman to be the Goblin and hatred for Spider-Man…yet they didn’t. idk rambling thoughts. What do you think?

Personally i can see both options. I saw someone in the tags of my last headcanon post say that it wouldnt make sense to save him from death in this game only to kill him in the next. On some level i get that, why wait when you could do it now?

I have two worst case scenarios in my head:

Harry wakes up from his coma w amnesia a la the third Tobey Maguire movie. Hes unaware of Pete being Spider-Man and Peter, thinking hes protecting Harry, wont tell him. This may cause a rift in their friendship when Harry finds out - or if Norman ends up going goblin and dies - Spider-Man is to blame in Harrys eyes and he'll go after him then. To me this is a tired trope of Harry getting an intense hatred for Spidey and wanting to kill him over his father. It always felt out of character for me and i truly TRULY hope they dont go this route.

Harry becomes the Kobold. In the comics, Kobold is essentially Harrys way of making the Green Goblin a good guy. If he still wants to fight by Peters side, he'll find a way to do it. Kobold would make a lot of sense to me personally, as it kind of continues their dynamic from this game. Then at the end theres a heros sacrifice to be made and Harry goes for it despite Peters protests. This would be lazy to me too though because he essential already did the heros sacrifice in this game. Seems like theyd just want us to have more time with him to love him even more, just to make losing him hurt worse. I wouldn't put it past an intrepid writer to think they could make it work, but it just seems lazy to me.

Actual best case scenario for me though? Harry wakes up as the g-serum is being injected. Hes against being his dads experiment all over again so he runs and finds Peter. Hes not aware of his pseudo-retirement, he just goes straight to the place thats always been his safe haven; Peters home. He asks Peter to hide him from his dad. Tries to explain everything but hes exhausted and frantic. Peter agrees and they take him into hiding.

Norman, ever the expert deflector, doesnt see this as a failing on his part. Hes convinced spider-man had something to do with his son escaping so he puts out a hit on him. Hes ready, willing, and able to capture and kill at least one of the two spider-men it doesnt matter. We see him pardon Wilson Fisk for this job, and when Fisk cant do it, he has to. Normans going to go Goblin. I know it, i can feel it in my bones.

Miles asks Peter to get back in action and he does. Fisk, plus potentially Otto again, plus this brand new villain in town is too much for any one person to handle. Heres where i see Harry becoming a "Guy In The Chair" for Peter like Ganke is for Miles. Two Guys in the Chair helping the spider-men is definitely better than one. I could also see Harrys goblin powers start to emerge but he keeps pushing them down. Last time he gave into power it didnt end well for anyone.

In an effort to not write out the entire plot of the game as i see fit (because itd be long and there are so many moving pieces and characters and IDEK WHERE THEYRE GONNA PUT SILK IN-), i think if Harry does take on the cowl he'll be doing so against his father. I think i see Harry becoming Goblin/Kobold to fight against Norman and ultimately try to help Peter/Miles. This is where i see Harry either accidentally killing Norman or Norman killing his son (and of course, blaming Spider-Man)

There is also room, in my mind, to bring back Venom a la Lethal Protector/Agent Venom. But tbh if they do, i would much rather Venom go to Eddie Brock or Flash Thompson. But thats just the separate Venom Fangirl Entity within me.

Ultimately my hope of course is that Harry not die and they dont go down that all too tired and hackneyed trope of Harry growing to hate Peter dor whatever reason. I truly TRULY hope they dont go that route it is just SO tired and lazy. I want them to stay close and loving. Whatever route they go with will be SO MUCH MORE IMPACTFUL if Harry Osborn lives and doesnt make a full 180 on his best friend for no good reason.

#harry osborn #peter parker #parksborn #if you squint #spider-man #marvel's spider man 2 #spider-man 2 #insomniac spider man #insomniac spider-man #insomniac games #spider man imagine #spider-man headcanons #honestly insomniac pls hire me #i would be so good at writing this game i care about these characters SO DEEPLY.#what do i need to do for you to notice me insomniac senpai #venetiangoldroz

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maevesheart · 1 year

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let’s make a deal

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ she-devil (02)

PETER PARKER X FEM!READER

summary: slapping peter parker has its consequences. but mr stark and your father make sure that this “community service” will work out in both of their favors. but that means asking things neither you nor peter may be able to do.

WC: 2k

TW: swearing

“what?!” your loud voice cuts through the tension in the small office of your principal.

your father’s face is hard and stern, and he hasn’t spoken a word the whole time.

he is sat to your left, peter is to your right, and peter’s aunt may is on his other side.

“there is no way i’m doing that,” you laugh, shaking your head.

“excuse me, mr morita, could you repeat that?” you father asks, raising an eyebrow.

he is just as upset as you are. this is pointless. as far as he can see; you stood up for yourself.

“of course, mr griswold. here at midtown, we do not condone violence of any kinds. miss griswold’s harassment of mr parker today in the cafeteria violates our school rules. since i am the principal, and i am in charge of keeping our school safe, i must give miss griswold a punishment.”

he finishes, looking at the four of you.

peter and you are sat as far away from each other as possible. his aunt has an anxious look on her face, and you feel sort of bad.

maybe you shouldn’t have slapped him…

no! y/n shut up! he spread lies about you! you are in the right, not him.

“i understand, mr morita, but i’m sure a weeks suspension is a little dramatic,” your father put on his work voice, demanding and frightening.

you found yourself wincing at his words. he was the only person you were ever scared of.

“my father’s right, sir, i only stood up for myself,” you defended, putting on your puppy-dog eyes.

“i’m sorry, miss griswold, but if you wish to change your punishment, you must go to the board of education.”

you sigh, pretty much accepting the defeat.

wait! this is peter’s fault, so why shouldn’t he go down too?

“mr morita, if i may,” you start,

“of course,”

“like i said, i was only standing up for myself. i felt attacked by peter’s cruel words and he was spreading lies about me. lies that include activities which i did not partake in. he is practically sexualizing me, which if i’m not wrong, goes against rule 142 of school conduct. surely he should receive some sort of punishment as well.” you reasoned, planting a sweet tone and a charming smile.

you watched the corners of your fathers mouth twitch into a smirk.

“you are right, miss. i suppose mr parker has broken rules as well. two weeks of community service for the both of you. that’s all.” he dismissed the four of you with the wave of his hand, and you and your father exited with grins on the both of your faces.

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

COMMUNITY SERVICE; DAY ONE

when your matte black mclaren pulls up into the parking lot where you’re meeting peter, you immediately don’t want to be there.

after you left the school yesterday, peter had given you his number so you two could communicate on where to work. mr morita said the only way he would let you both back was if you did the work together.

you were dreading it.

the minutes felt like hours, so when peter finally walked up to you, you thought you had been sitting there for seven hours.

he eyed you, and raised an eyebrow at your outfit.

you were wearing black tights, a burberry skirt, a white turtleneck sweater, and knee-high black chanel boots. what was so wrong with your outfit?

you gave him a look and crossed your arms over your chest. normally you didn’t care what people thought of you…

“god this sucks!” you breathed out, throwing your head back.

peter rolled his eyes, and sat down next to you.

“listen, y/n, i’m sorry about what you think i did, but i suggest that we somehow find a way to work together to get this over with,” he spoke, watching you out of the corner of his eye.

“whatever, peter, i don’t really care!”

he shook his head and stood up, walking over to the woman with the clipboard.

you watched him walk away and huffed, he was getting on your nerves way more than you expected.

deep down, you knew that he didn’t say the things harry said he did. harry was like that though; he loved drama, and usually started it on his own.

once peter came back, he was carrying two black trash bags, and two metal sticks.

“what are those?” you asked, reluctantly taking them from him.

“our community service. now stand up,”

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

“peter! i’m tired. can we rest?” you pleaded, watching him pick up crushed soda cans.

“fine. but only five minutes,” he sighed, shaking his head at your laziness.

he had done all the work, the only thing you could really said you did was complain.

sighing as he slumped down next to you, his head shot up as you squealed next to him.

“gregor!” you jumped up, running to the black bentley that pulled up next to the gazebo the two of you were seated at.

he stood up and hesitantly followed you, unsure of this strange man.

gregor — the man you ran to — offered peter a smile as he got out of the backseat, and extended his hand once peter was within reach.

“doctor gregor mathers. you must be peter parker, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

peter examined the man before giving his hand.

they shook hands for a slight moment before you started practically climbing doctor mathers.

“pleaseee tell me you’ve come to save me! i need to get out of here!” you begged, inching closer and closer to the car door.

“yes, i have actually. the both of you. your father wishes to meet with you both.” gregor said sternly, motioning towards the car.

you climbed in immediately, gregor slid in next to you, and then when peter got in, he was across.

gregor told the driver to head for gris-rise, the building that held griswold tech, the company your father owned.

gregor had heard of peter’s internship at stark industries — the competition for your fathers company — so he was hesitant when your father announced he wanted both you and peter to come to his office.

one thing was for sure, gregor would be keeping an eye on peter.

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

the elevator ride up to your father’s office was quiet and tense.

peter awkwardly stood opposite of you and gregor, and continuously shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

he watched you carefully as you applied lipstick using the long mirrors along the whole elevator. gregor stood closely next to you, keeping an eye on peter.

the doors chimed and opened wide, presenting your fathers completely glass office. 50 foot walls lined the entire room, completely dark grey glass windows.

his dark mahogany desk sat in the middle, with two grey plush chairs across from it.

your heeled boots clicked on the marble floor as you waltzed up to your father, who was faced away from you, standing up and staring out one of his many windows.

“hi, daddy,” you smiled, giving him a peck on the cheek as he turned around. “hello, darling,” he spoke back, turning around and facing peter and gregor with a glimmering smirk.

“welcome to gristech, peter parker.”

peter’s chest tightened as he lightly squinted, taking in your fathers smile. his teeth glinted white in the bright office, and he looked almost sinister.

peter lightly nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat, next to gregor.

“gregor you’re free to go, my biggest thank yous.” your dad smiled, giving gregor a squeeze on the shoulder.

“of course, ken. i’ll be back shortly,” gregor said, giving you a tight lipped smile and nodding to peter as he walked past him.

the sound of his expensive dress shoes echoed in the open room as you and peter were ushered to your fathers desk.

peter reluctantly sat down next to you, uneasily looking around and trying to find the quickest way to escape.

“i’m very happy you agreed to come here, mr parker. i’m kennedy griswold, ceo and president at gristech, but please just call me ken.” a bright smile once again exposed itself on your fathers face.

“of course, sir.” peter said, lightly bowing his head.

“now, i spoke to midtown, and principal morita agreed to let me bend the conditions of your community service just a bit. i figured you two would quickly tire of the slaving away they had you both doing. so instead, i’ve had both of you transferred here. to be my interns for these 2 weeks.”

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

AVENGERS TOWER

tony’s fingers pressed into his temples, listening to peter jabber about what ken griswold had told him.

gristech was stark industries biggest competitor. obviously, tony wasn’t happy, but he figured that this could be used to his advantage.

“listen kid,” tony started, placing a hand on peters shoulder, “ken griswold is no dummy. in fact he might almost be as smart as me. there’s definitely a reason he’s doing this, and it’s not for his daughter; lord knows he’s never cared about his family. especially after what he did to his wife… but that’s besides the point.”

peter gave tony a confused look, wondering where he could be going with this.

“i want you to keep a close eye on ken griswold. see his next moves, what he’s making now. then come tell me. we will always be a step ahead.”

“sir, i don’t know if i’m cut out for it. you know i’m clumsy and sometimes stupid and,” peter awkwardly laughed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“you’re smart, parker. you’ll do what’s right, you think with your heart. just don’t trust the girl, she’s beautiful, yes, but she’s a little devil. i’ve heard the things she’s done.”

tony was talking about you, of course.

“make her fall for you. make her trust you. make her feel like she can tell you anything. get her to tell you everything. we need this information to get ahead, parker.”

peter shook his head. he wasn’t cut out for that. how could tony expect him to fake feelings for you when he’s loved you for years? how would he live with himself?

“mr stark…”

“i’m counting on you, kid. don’t let me down.” tony gave him a rough pat on the back, and left the room, leaving peter alone with his thoughts.

his jumbled, twisted thoughts. thoughts that were going to eat him alive.

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

GRIS-RISE

“no! i absolutely will not be doing that!” you screeched, appalled that your father thought you would ever associated yourself with peter parker.

“y/n arabella griswold. this is not me asking. this is me demanding. you will get peter parker to trust you, and you will get peter parker to tell you everything he knows about stark industries. i do not care what it takes. want a new chanel? consider it done.”

“daddy! i don’t want to! i hate peter parker! how can you make me do this after those things he said about me?” you we’re shocked. your father was a bad man, you knew this, but he wasn’t evil.

this was out of character of him.

yet, as always, you complied. you would do anything for your fathers approval, something you had been seeking all your life.

you never had a problem getting approval from your mother. she was beautiful, and kind. like a ray of sunshine. your father was dark and gloomy like a thunderstorm. they balanced each other out.

ever since your mothers death when you were a mere child, things hadn’t been the same. your father turned dark and cold and shut you and georgie out.

so of course, if it meant you had to make peter parker fall in love with you to make your father proud, you’d do it.

it can’t be that hard, can it?

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

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backtothefanfiction · 7 months

Text

The Angel In The Garden of Evil

A Mob!Au Andrew!Peter Parker Story

Peter Parker’s wife left him 3 years ago. Suddenly she’s back and she’s brought some news that is about to change everything, unfortunately that news comes with it’s own set of complications and he’s out for blood.

PROLOGUE: YOU EITHER DIE A HERO, OR LIVE LONG ENOUGH TO SEE YOURSELF BECOME THE VILLAIN

ONE: THE CALL OF A NIGHTBIRD

TWO: MR & MRS PARKER

THREE: THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME

FOUR: SOME SHADOWS LOOM LARGE

FIVE: YOU DON'T OWN ME

SIX: HE'S GOT A SOUL AS SWEET AS BLOOD RED JAM

*SEVEN: IN THE LAND OF GOD'S AND MONSTERS I WAS AN ANGEL, LOOKING TO GET F*CKED HARD

EIGHT: THERE'S NO REMEDY FOR MEMORY

NINE: AN EXPLOSION IN CHINATOWN

TEN: MILLION DOLLAR MAN

ELEVEN: PUTTING THE PIECES TOGETHER AGAIN

TWELVE: THE GOOD NURSE

THIRTEEN: WHEN YOU’RE EIGHT LIVES DOWN

FOURTEEN: FAMILY FEUD AT THE FUNERAL

FIFTEEN: ME AND THE DEVIL

SIXTEEN: FROM FRIENDS TO ENEMIES

SEVENTEEN: A FRIEND IN THE SHADOWS

EIGHTEEN: ONE LAST GAME

*NINETEEN: WASH IT AWAY

EPILOGUE: NOT ANOTHER ENVELOPE

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spider-stark · 7 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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periprose · 8 months

Text

Florence - Chapter Seven

It's Harry and MJ's wedding day, and you feel a million different emotions at once. Happiness, fear, an urge to never part from Peter's side. Finally, you come to a resolution about you and Peter's burgeoning relationship, ecstatically so.

Wedding stuff, ceremonies and reception, lots of emotions, cheesy romantic things (kissing, overly dramatic proposal stuff), smut (riding + lots of tension coming to a head (pls skip over this segment if you're uncomfortable)), I can't believe this took so long to write

Masterlist | Previous Chapter

Peter feels elated. On top of the world, even.

Yeah, it was just a kiss– hardly the most invigorating, erotic thing he could’ve done– but, as cheesy as Peter feels when he thinks this, it was a kiss with you.

“Ugh.” He smacks himself in the face, cringing at how much he loves these intense feelings. He’s lying in his bed– the villa bedroom that was selected for him was perfect, down to the mattress that keeps Peter’s back pain at bay– but he can’t help but grin bashfully under his hands.

You had had the same sort of look yesterday. After Peter had finished kissing you, MJ had come and stolen you away for more bridesmaid duties– speeches, readings at the church, etc. – and despite your shy small smile, your hand clinging onto his as MJ dragged you away with a very questioning, sly look, he had to let you go. Unfortunately so.

Peter knows he loves you. He spent most of the night tossing and turning, thinking about how to properly ask you to be his girlfriend, his partner, his significant other. To be the one that he knew you were back when the two of you were just kids.

He was just too stupid to see it.

Hell, even Logan told him that it was obvious. After years and years, he apparently always wondered when one of you would make the first move and get it over with. This was coming from the guy who couldn’t bear to ask out Ms. Grey and ended up ending it over nothing, too.

Peter clambers out of bed, rubbing his face, getting ready to brush his teeth, knowing that because he’s known you for so long– his method of asking you to make things official would come naturally.

You’re watching the sun rise over the gorgeous trees and groves of the villa, leaking through the windows of the house. Your room has a teeny balcony– you never noticed it before since a table obscured the door, and it’s a lovely space to spend time thinking before the wedding.

Outside, a cool breeze makes your hair loose, blowing away strands lightly, and you feel at peace. You feel glad to be here.

Siena is quite beautiful… but you’re very excited to actually go back to Florence today. It’s the best part of Italy to you, and you share too many memories with Peter to not want to be there with him today.

Especially after he kissed you. You find yourself blushing, but that’s okay. It’s too special for you to know how to deal with– you’re finding that you’re easily flustered, going over countless memories of sunny beaches and ice cream and studying algebra and Italian architecture, cobblestone streets and sun dresses and tanned skin that always stayed with you long after you would come home to the cold autumn airs of New York.

But the best part was that Peter would always be with you throughout it all. Not just in Florence, but in high school, at home, being neighbours and bothering each other all time. You never had to have a break from him– he was like your own personal summer vacation.

You know you have had your moments, pulling away, feeling stupid and neglected– the sorrow you feel is fairly terrible– but the gratitude, the satisfaction you have from having Peter next to you now is unlike anything else you’ve ever felt.

You wonder if Peter feels the same, that he’s feeling an overwhelming amount of emotions all at once– love, affection, but also fondness, familiarity, relief– you hope so. You want to talk to him again.

You didn’t sleep very well last night, and you know that’s bad for the wedding– but you’re not tired at all. No, no.

For the first time in your life, you feel really awake.

“Howlett?” Peter’s voice calls, and you turn– you stumble for a moment.

“Hey, watch it!” Peter comes through your grabs your forearm, steadying you. You weren’t in any risk of falling over the railing of the balcony, but Peter’s got that strange sense, and his brown eyes peer into yours, checking to see if you’re okay.

Once he feels that you are, his gaze softens and he settles into a smile. His brows furrow as he grins at you.

He’s still wearing PJs, as are you– clearly you weren’t the only one struggling to stay away.

“I– I’m okay.” You hold his hand, trying not to beam. “You didn’t have to do that, but thanks.”

“Couldn’t exactly let my girlfriend fall off the balcony, could I?” Peter ruffles your hair, and you feel an alarming amount of excitement and earnestness at his words. “Not after I finally got one.”

“Hey.” You point your finger at Peter’s chest, and he raises his hands in an oh-ho, let’s see what you have to say sort of way, and you can’t help but smirk a little even if you’re mock glaring at him. “You’re admitting that it could’ve been any girl? And you would’ve been happy?”

“Oh, Howlett.” Peter reaches over and tries his best not to snicker– he fails– as he starts this overly romantic, purposefully terrible soliloquy to you. “It could only be you. I’d walk across a thousand burning coals for you. I’d reach up into the sky and take the moon and give it to you. I’d rake my balls through shredded glass just for the chance to kiss your sweet, chapped lips.”

You cackle at that, and Peter giggles while holding you close, holding your face.

“Okay, okay. I get it.” You laugh, and you shake your head at him. “What’s with the use of girlfriend, anyways? When did you ask me to be your girlfriend?”

“Was it not obvious yesterday?” Peter purses his lips. “Should I kiss you again, and make it more clear?”

Peter leans in but you stop him with your hand, and he kisses your hand anyways.

Licks it, too.

“Yuck.” You shake your hand away. “You can’t just claim me like a primitive man-ape, Peter. You gotta make it official, properly. I’ve waited too long for this moment for you to go and just make it so.”

“Oh, really?” Peter looks bemused. “You spent a great many algebra study sessions fantasizing about me, huh?”

“Obviously.” You roll your eyes, and Peter pushes down the urge to kiss your endearingly annoyed expression.

“Okay. Deal.” Peter takes you by the hand, and leads you inside. “Do you think we have time for a morning coffee?”

It’s a very hectic time to go and sneak away like this.

MJ is currently doing an intense skincare regimen– she enjoys it a lot typically, but in this case it’s to give her a wedding glow– numerous products are slathered on as she lays on her bed. Face, arms, legs covered.

She gives you the okay to go, as long as you’re back in five minutes to help her get dressed, and Peter promises it will take two.

Peter makes his coffee– it’s easy, it’s just black with no sugar or cream– but for you he adds in a lot of sweetness and sugar and cream and even if you don’t usually take your coffee that sweet, you appreciate it anyways.

“You used to drink it like this in high school.” Peter admits sheepishly, and you know he’s right– it’s cute how he remembers that.

MJ is so glad you’re back, shooing Peter away to the groom’s side of the house. As two makeup artists work on her hair, her face, her skin, working in even more products and massaging her muscles (MJ is so particular about reducing her frown wrinkles) she feels relaxed, luxurious, amazing… if not for the fact that she’s having wedding panic.

“Seriously, what if Harry gets cold feet again?” MJ blinks her deep green-blue eyes, tears hanging onto her pale, mascara-less eyelashes. “I knew we should’ve waited a few years. He’s been so worried about his father, about everything with Oscorp… God, I’m so fucking stupid!”

“MJ– No.” You shake your head. “You’re just freaking out. Deep breaths, Mary Jane.”

She inhales somewhat dramatically, but shuts her eyes, and you watch as MJ’s flushed, red skin calms into her fair, even skintone.

“Harry wouldn’t have proposed if he didn’t want to do this now.” You remind her carefully.

“And he wouldn’t have invited his dad if things were that terrible, right?” MJ nods, and she watches as you nod, too. “Okay. Hold my hand, Lettie. It’s scarier than I realized.”

“Getting married?” You sit next to her, squeezing her palm in a warm grasp, and try to avoid the makeup artist currently applying a peachy blush to MJ’s cheeks.

“Yeah. Not to be crazy, but… it’s literally marriage. It’s Mary Jane Osborn from here on out. Mrs. MJ, wife to Harry Osborn.” MJ inhales. “I know I want to do it, but I just… I have so many nerves!”

“Pretend it’s one of your modelling shoots?” The hair stylist arranging MJ’s red hair into a loose bun chimes in, as she works in lilies through the strands.

“No… that won’t do. Thanks though, Clara.” MJ sighs. “It’s not like that. It’s just… it’s been so long since I’ve had to really… shed the image.”

“Bare your soul?” You respond, and MJ nods. “I get it. You need to be candid about your feelings.”

“Yeah, it can’t be all image work. And I just worry that I’m going to come across as a influencer woman being shallow and vain rather than, well, the real me, little MJ Watson from Queens.” MJ’s voice turns small. “I almost wish I wasn’t famous at all.”

“Too late for that, cupcake.” The hairstylist comments again, and MJ snorts despite herself. “Listen. If Osborn knows you’re being real, then that’s good enough. Outsiders are always going to judge.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” You agree, and MJ swallows, before sighing with relief.

“Okay. Okay. I’m okay.” MJ fixes her glance on you. “Don’t leave me though.”

MJ looks perfect– even more so, in your personal taste, than she ever has during her glammed up, avant garde beauty shoots– she looks just like herself. Enhanced, a little, with her freckles still shining through dewy, glowy makeup, topped off with shimmery, sheer gold-glitter eyeshadow, and poppy red lipstick, blotted so not to be too much. She looks like your best friend, but also like… the best possible version of herself. You tell her as much.

She beams. “Thanks, Lettie. Do I look like a bride?”

“Of course!” You shake your head at her. “We just need to get you into your dress…”

MJ isn’t one to care about being nude anymore, after being desensitised to designers stripping and dressing her, and she undoes her robe with a simple pull of the strap, exposing her bare breasts and panties– you’re reminded just how much taller she is than you when she stands up straight, all legs and taut stomach, sharp collarbones and angular shoulders, muscles and bone contorting into a physique that just screams model. It’s like she was made to wear anything in an editorial context.

“This is how I feel. Standing in that church, telling everyone I love Harry…” MJ crosses her arms, causing her tits to jut out more, and you snort, totally indifferent to her naked body. You’ve seen it a million times. “I’m going to be emotionally and spiritually naked.”

“And that’s harder than having your tits out?” You joke, but MJ points at you, seriously agreeing. “Alright, arms up.”

The dress is quite beautiful. An off-white, almost blue in tone mermaid dress, custom made by Dior, it fits MJ like a glove, snatching in at her bust, waist, and her hips, but then flaring out in an elegant a-line skirt, all silk and lace detailing. There’s quite a bit of rhinestone work from her sweetheart neckline, down to her hips, and the effect– as you pull it up on her, tightening the corset straps as she reaches around to make sure it’s all fitting– it’s like a halo glow.

Yes, as you carefully adorn MJ’s veil over her head, you feel in your heart– she’s an angel. No doubt about it.

“You look beautiful.” You grin at her, and to your surprise, MJ’s eyes water a little, and she hugs you tightly.

“I’m so glad you came here.” MJ murmurs. “I never would’ve wanted to get married without you by my side.”

“Same. I mean, if I get married–”

“Stop that. You’re going to get married.” MJ laughs, cackles, really. “You and Peter– you guys are so meant to be. I’ve never been more glad that you two hit it off this week.”

“Even though we could be stealing the spotlight?” You joke.

“Especially if it means you’re stealing the spotlight.” MJ squeezes your arms. “You really deserve it, Lettie.”

There’s a sudden lump in your throat. Never have you ever assumed that you deserve any of the good things life throws your way– you always assume that it’s just due to luck. A cushy coding job? Luck. Being friends with Harry, who’s willing to give you a much higher salary, and MJ, who gives you the best fashion advice? Luck. Peter somehow being interested in you? Luck. What’s really special about you?

“I know that look.” MJ shakes her head. “You’re a catch, babe. Now go get dressed and blow that man’s socks off.”

“I… thought you were going to finish that sentence differently.” You admit, glad that MJ stopped your spiral into depressive thoughts. “Isn’t it ‘knock your socks off?’”

MJ shoos you out, laughing.

After very quickly putting on your makeup, It’s not hard to dress yourself. The dress, pretty as it is, all forest-green, flowing lace and silky details that you loved from the moment you saw it, just has one simple zipper.

Unfortunately, your hands scramble for purchase– it is just out of your reach, and it’s exceedingly annoying to try and zip it from the back when you can’t see it.

The dress is flowing loosely around you as you sigh loudly, and decide to turn towards your bathroom, where you can estimate better with a mirror.

“Howlett?”

Peter comes up behind you, and you feel your skin warm. He’s too close– you’re not even fully dressed– and you hold your hands against the top of your dress, trying to stay modest.

“You’ve caught me in a fairly compromising position, I admit.” You joke quietly, and Peter chuckles.

“Maybe that was my intention.” He whispers half-jokingly, and you close your eyes, trying not to laugh or be turned on by the insinuation. “Kidding. Do you need privacy? I can go.”

“No, no, I need your help.” You mutter. “Could you just– zip up the back of the dress? I can’t reach it.”

“Of course.” Peter gently grasps the zipper, and you feel his hand press against your lower back, the heat emanating through the silk fabric, and with one fluid motion, he zips you up, the dress fitting perfectly, no longer free flowing but now clearly draped and styled in a way that accentuates the way you look.

Peter twists your shoulders so you’re facing him, and with an uncustomary amount of emotion, feels his breath hold. You look so gorgeous– so stunning, in a way he almost feels reverent when he looks at you– and he cannot help but voice it.

“Wait, you look– amazing–” You had no idea Peter was wearing his suit already. He looks dapper, sweet, calming.

“Me? Oh man, Howlett. You look so pretty. I don’t even–” Peter harshly swallows. “It almost makes me regret never taking you out to prom.”

“It’s alright, Peter. This can be our do-over.” You kid with him, but he’s still solemn.

“Why was I so stupid?” Peter scowls at himself, and you get the feeling he’s actually going to be upset about this for a long time. “I couldn’t even see what I had, Howlett. You should’ve smacked me upside the head.”

“No, that’s too harsh.” You snicker at his antics. “It’s okay. I don’t think it’s a bad thing. If anything, it kind of… brought us closer together? Right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Shared trauma.” Peter laughs to himself, but he leans in a little closer. “Sorry, I gotta make up for lost time.”

Before you can admonish Peter for trying to ruin your lipstick, he’s already pulling your face forward in a strong, firm kiss, his lips pressing against yours without preamble or hesitation, and he holds you there– while you feel your insides turn warm, all jelly like, as Peter strokes your hair and face and jaw. He lets go for just a moment– but still presses cute, short kisses against your mouth, little pecks, really, and then he actually stops.

Peter’s lips are that soft red colour you picked out for yourself– he’s basically eaten your lipstick off.

“How many kisses do you need until you feel it’s enough for all the years you missed?” You tease him, gently wiping away at his lips.

“Honestly, Howlett, it’s never gonna be enough. Seriously, you’re going to want to invest in a real good lip balm treatment because I am going to kiss your lips off.” Peter proves his point by kissing your fingers as you’re wiping his lips, and you snort.

“Real smooth.” You pull out your lipstick and re-apply. “You’ll get tired of it eventually.”

“No.” Peter’s serious. “I’m not gonna get tired of getting to kiss you. It’s a privilege and I can’t take it for granted, so…”

He presses a kiss to the top of your hairline, not wanting to mess up your makeup again, and together you leave to downstairs in the foyer where everyone is waiting for the limo, and you can witness the wedding event of the year.

Peter obviously sits next to you in the limo. The bridal and groom’s party are all grouped together in one giant limo, while MJ is being escorted in a very fancy, ivory white Volkswagen beetle with her parents, which will then be the newlywed’s car to drive off in, and Harry– being Harry– is driving in on a fast motorcycle, leading everyone to the Florence Cathedral.

There’s plenty of space in the limo. Gwen and Miles are taking pictures of each other using an instant camera, while Gayle and Betty gossip about some of the guests posting stories on instagram– supposedly someone is wearing white, and Gayle launches a plan to help her sister out and “accidentally” throw some red wine on the dress.

The other groomsmen mostly keep among themselves. You blink and realize that you’ve never really conversed with them– they’re mostly Harry’s friends and they have their own stuff to talk about.

Betty offers to take a picture of Gwen and Miles– somehow turning out stunning under her adept fingers, with just a smartphone camera– and you know that’s why MJ loves her. The one time Betty shot MJ for the highschool newspaper, it was all over from there– it basically launched her career after it went viral.

Then Betty turns the camera towards you and Peter. “Smile for the camera, Howlett. You too, Parker.”

She’s as deadpan as ever, but you and Peter lean into each other over the seats, smiling with not a hint of irony. You’re happy.

The film prints out, and Betty holds it away from the light, shaking it a little, and as the image appears, she hands it to you two.

“Wow.” Peter traces the edge of the photo. “This is… maybe better than my photography skills, somehow.”

“I know that’s a real compliment if it’s coming from your egotistical ass, Parker.” Betty sniffs, and shuffles away to gossip with Gayle again.

“Howlett, you’re so…” Peter inhales and sighs, as if he really can’t believe he’s around you, and you feel yourself blush. “I’m putting this in my jacket pocket. Just as a sweet memory.”

“Aw, you sap.” You giggle, and Peter laughs.

There are loads of people in the Florence Cathedral, all admiring the architecture, the religious art pieces, the tile work. Far more people than you would’ve accounted for– but then you remember that many of these guests are not staying at the Villa. You see more models, more tech billionaires, but also…neighbours, friends, family. Sweet memories connected with all of these people.

To your surprise, your father is already at the church, having left with Norman an hour ago. He’s conversing with a mature, pretty redhead that you recognize instantly.

“Oh my god– Ms. Grey?” You shove Logan out of the way, and he grumbles but smiles to keep up appearances. Jean fixes him a glance that totally tells you she knows about his grumpy history, and she likes it. “You’re here?”

“Of course I am.” She’s wear a teal blue dress, light gold heels, and somehow, despite a few wrinkles and spots– she still looks like your second grade teacher. “You’ve grown up into a lovely young woman, Howlett.”

“She has.” Logan pats your shoulder, looking the part of a proud father. Actually, if you really look into his eyes– you can see that they’re wet.

“Oh… thank you.” You swallow sincerely, hoping you won’t make your father cry. “You look very nice, too, Ms. Grey.”

“Yeah. I agree.” Peter chimes in from behind you, sounding very… wistful. You giggle.

“Oh wow. I never would’ve expected you to be so tall now, Peter!” Jean pinches his cheek. “Thanks.”

Peter is definitely fulfilling some childhood fantasy right now, with how deeply he’s blushing, you think. But you still ask Jean why she’s here.

“Oh, my dear, you don’t know?” She laughs. “I’m MJ’s aunt. Well, more like a family-friend aunt. Not really related. But still.”

“Wow, really?” You want to ask more questions, but the church bells have started ringing.

“Well, I must go take my seat now. Thanks for being such darling students, my dears.” Jean Grey leaves you two– not before giving Logan a rather loaded, heated look. Maybe slightly inappropriate for church.

“You’re probably not going to wash that cheek, are you?” Logan teases Peter, scratching his own jaw. “Don’t blame you.”

“Why don’t you go after her, Dad?” You cross your arms. “Why not just… try?”

“It’s not that simple, kid.”

“Sure it is.” Peter holds Logan’s shoulder– and to your surprise, Logan doesn’t shove him off. “You told me not to give up on Howlett–”

“I told you not to break her fucking heart again, Parker.”

“Okay, same thing applies here. Why end things with Ms. Grey? Because you think you’re not good enough? You’re a washed up veteran?” Peter scoffs.

“Watch it…” Logan warns him.

“Right, right. Sorry. Have you ever thought that maybe Ms. Grey’s waiting for you to make a move? Maybe you’re giving up because you’re sabotaging yourself.” Peter shakes his head. “You don’t deserve to be alone after… after…”

“My namesake.” You flatly comment.

“Yeah, her.” Peter’s eyes soften, and Logan actually seems to be listening. “Give yourself a chance, Logan.”

“Wow. Normally I’d have to beat your ass for talking so disrespectfully to me, Parker.” Logan exhales. “But even I can admit you’re not… wrong. I’ll think about it.”

And Peter flashes that smile at you, that overly confident, I-just-fixed-it smile that you absolutely adore.

Peter lends you his arm as you walk down the aisle again, slow, smooth, everything moving as it should. It feels strangely perfect, in a way that you’ve never felt that your life was, and you can’t help but grin at people– they smile back at you, too.

You catch little details in the church pews– floral details, lace and chiffon draping over seats, and a candlelit glow make everything seem particularly magical. The Cathedral’s artfully designed dome and tilework lends itself well to the feeling that something spiritual, something momentous is about to occur.

The gold chain bracelet MJ gifted you a few days ago glints against your wrist– as Peter’s does, too. You wonder if MJ and Harry planned that together. Some sort of pre-engagement ring type of deal.

Peter smiles at you once you part at the altar. Really, he kind of– chokes out a smile, a huge grin that he can’t help but convey towards you. And you know that you love him.

The rest of the wedding party walks in, MJ being the very last. You watch as a silence falls over the people of the church, a hush of emotion and awe, to finally see the bride on her big day. MJ looks sweet, reverent and graceful, and she grasps her parents’ arms tightly, while Harry catches her eyes, and you can see his adam’s apple bob up and down. Maybe Harry’s getting soft.

The priest begins the wedding service for real. MJ looks pleased, nervous, obviously running on nerves, while Harry is bashful, shy, like a little boy again.

Before you know it… it’s over. You and Peter are called over to be witnesses to the wedding document, and you sign it, feeling an air of relief, some sort of satisfying completion to this wild journey.

Harry dips MJ– tall as she is– at the front of the church, in a sweeping kiss that has people clapping and cheering.

The Villa is full of thumping music when you arrive back. People are already dancing, swaying, eating, drinking, either in the outdoor garden space, or inside the house itself.

But you only want to be with Peter. You’re not even spending time with the other bridesmaids– but Gwen, Betty and Gayle seem to understand deeply about your affection for Peter, and they let you go with smiles that seem to know something.

Peter and Harry are already taking tequila shots at the bar, wasting no time, and Harry’s mouth stretches into a large smile when he sees you. “Hey, speak of the devil!”

He motions for you to come over.

“You guys were talking about me?” You snort, and Peter turns a little pinker.

“Duh, as if this guy can talk about anything else.” Harry playfully punches Peter. “Howlett, you might have to marry him, or he’s never gonna shut up.”

“Uh… yeah, that’s just my drunk brain talking. I don’t mean any pressure.” Peter tries to excuse himself by drinking another random shot.

“He doesn’t know I want to marry him too.” You whisper to Harry. “Since ninth grade, I think.”

“He’s a dude, Howlett. Coming from another dude– we are blind sometimes.” Harry passes you a shot. “Have you made things official yet? Settled the deal?”

“That’s the business talk coming out.” You joke, and Harry laughs.

“True. But trust me, Peter can be dumb. Until you really… make it official, he’s not gonna believe that you’re into him of all people. He’s really insecure.” Harry sounds distant, sad, as Peter continues talking to the bartender, totally oblivious.

“Oh. I told him that he has to ask me to be his girlfriend before I really agree to it.” You respond, and Harry shakes his head with a wry smile.

“Who’s the one with the business talk now?” He laughs, and you shrug as if you really are that shrewd.

“I think I’ve suffered long enough.”

“That, you have.” Harry cheers to that and hands you a shot, which you drink gratefully.

After a bit of erratic, half-drunk dancing– whatever DJ was hired for this is amazing at picking songs that force you to, at the very least, bop your head– Peter pulls you aside.

“What’s up?” You ask him, still a little sweaty and frazzled from the music.

“I want to get some water. Like the icy water from the fridge? Just to sober up a little.” Peter shrugs, and you glance upwards at him.

“You really need me to be there for that?” You raise your eyebrows, and Peter scrambles for a response.

“Well… I… uh, I just want you there. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.” Peter admits, and you snicker.

“I will. I needed a break from dancing, too.”

Together you stroll through the garden, up to the backyard doors of the house, laughing about how fun everything is, and you really meander– taking a lot of time to stare at Peter, and him at you– and you don’t notice something is off until Peter pulls you to the side, just behind the bar counter of the kitchen.

“Wh–” You cut yourself off, watching a deep-red ponytail bob up and down at rapid speed, with gusto. Tan shoulders and just a hint of bare breasts coming up past the counter, where you can see her.

It’s definitely Ms. Grey. Uh… Jean. You can just make out the edge of her side profile from beyond the counter, as she convulses on the floor, riding someone unseen, and she moans, “Logan, oh my god, Logan–!”

Peter pulls you away by the hand, down the hallway and into a random closet, before you can let yourself fully grasp the idea of potentially seeing your father deep in the throes of passion. You are so glad you didn’t see or hear anymore than that.

“Damn. When I told Logan to go for it… I didn’t think he’d do that.” Peter comments after shutting the door, and you, despite your very childish horror at the whole thing, start giggling. Peter smiles, and you can tell he’s trying to cheer you up.

“I mean… at least he’ll be getting over my namesake.” You raise your eyebrows. “You think Ms. Grey wants to be my mom?”

“Howlett, I’m pretty sure Logan is about to make her one. Without your involvement.” Peter replies drily, and from how clearly you can hear the rasp in his throat, you can tell this closet must not be very big.

You laugh, a little awkwardly now, because you’re still not used to being so close to Peter, not in this context anyways. A dark, shady closet, where it’s just the two of you, feeling body warmth emanate from each other. Peter’s breaths are hitting somewhere around your hairline, and if you came any closer– you’re sure you would be enveloped by his chest.

“Peter, did you bring me here just to get some alone time?” You tease.

“Well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want that water.” Peter leans in a little, and you get the sense that he’s actually holding himself back. “But to be honest, Howlett? You’re a pretty good alternative.”

“Right. Because I’m curing your thirst.” You roll your eyes, and Peter laughs.

“See, this is what I love about you. You always know what I’m about to say.” Peter says, and he watches you, in the near darkness of the closet, tense a little.

Peter searches around for a light switch, and finds it. A tiny, yellow bulb lights up in the centre of the room, and you realize the closet is bigger than you thought.

A chaise lounge, grey in color, is off to the side.

“I just wanted to see you.” Peter answers the question he knows you were about to ask.

“Oh.” You smile up at him, but there’s still uncertainty in your posture.

“Howlett, what’s wrong? Am I being too much?” He looks into your eyes, and you just don’t know how to answer.

“No. I just… I’m bad at this.” You grow shy under Peter’s watchful eye.

“So am I.” He takes your hand. “But you know what? It’s time to be adults about this. I’m gonna reiterate it, I love you.”

Something about his emphasis on the word love has you spluttering and laughing, and Peter repeats it anyways, in different stresses and tones, “I love you. I LOVE YOU. I love you. I love you, Howlett.”

“I know, I know. I love you too.” It spills out of your mouth before you can stop yourself, but Peter grins eagerly and nods. “You’ve already told me that before.”

“You mean when I was drunk a couple days ago, right? Well I meant it then, and I mean it now.” Peter nods firmly.

“Do you remember that you’ve kissed me before, too?” You ask just out of curiosity, and Peter turns a little pink before admitting that he does.

“Who could forget the beach sunscreen kiss? I still think of that as my first one.” Peter laughs quietly. “But yesterday was more… um…”

“Real.” You whisper, and Peter nods again, this time with a little more agitation in his eyes, and you watch him mull over something, obviously thinking about kissing you after speaking about it, and you know you want to after the heated memories of yesterday, and his eyes glance towards your mouth, before he decides on it.

Peter sweeps you up in a kiss that’s far more lustful and tense, grasping around your waist and hips as he pulls you in, and you feel his lips soften against yours, melting as you feel a rhythm occur naturally. You kiss him back and you know that knowing Peter for so long has enabled you– it’s like the two of you were made to be together.

He kisses down your neck, and pulls down the silky front of your dress– as much as it will allow, at least– and kisses soft, open mouthed kisses against your cleavage, which causes you to writhe against him a little. Eventually Peter finds the zipper of your dress and pulls it down halfway, allowing him to really dip his mouth against your bare breasts, and you groan as Peter lightly sucks on your nipple.

“...Jesus Christ, Howlett…” Peter murmurs in between kissing your chest and upwards on your neck and jaw. “I don’t even… know how long I wanted to do this.”

There’s not many words to be shared from you as you feel yourself turn lightheaded, and you kiss Peter again, taking control of his mouth, relishing the feeling of his tongue swiping against yours, leading him back towards the very convenient chaise lounge chair. There, Peter discards his blazer and unbuttons his shirt, and lies back against the chair, his dick clearly straining against his pants.

You kiss him again, sitting right on his bulge, lifting your skirt a little higher so Peter can feel the shift of your bare skin against him, through the fabric pants, and his eyes roll back into his head as you kiss him, grind a little. Maybe it’s too much– Peter grabs your ass and pulls up the skirt even higher, pushing you down on his clothed bulge with too much intensity– and you feel pleasant tingles spread across your skin as his bulge presses into you, almost inside you, against the thin underwear that you’re wearing. You’re very slick– you shudder as Peter pulls down the zipper of your dress fully, and you feel his hands roam across your bare back, and then into the inside of your dress, feeling your waist and breasts.

“I didn’t bring a–” Peter starts, as you let your hands trace up his chest, and he clearly has trouble saying no.

“Oh, it’s fine. I’m on the pill.” You say, matter-of-factly, mostly interested in staying on top of Peter until he begs for more. “Just for hormonal reasons.”

“Oh… okay…” Peter inhales as you press more kisses against his neck. “Howlett… it’s a lot for me to handle.”

“Huh?”

Before Peter can really answer, he whispers an apology before tightly gripping your waist, and he sits upright, pulling you flush against his chest. Then, as he zips off his pants– he somehow takes them off completely, leaving him in just his boxers. There’s a wet spot– and Peter is pulling his boxers off, too.

His dick is hard, almost painfully so based on his expression, and you understand you riled him up a little too much. With one hand– Peter reaches under your skirt, and you help him pull off your underwear with shaky, sweaty hands.

You’re aroused enough that it doesn’t hurt. When Peter slowly enters you, as you lower yourself down on him, you feel electric on the inside, some sort of satisfyingly sick combination of love and lust overtaking you, and you feel full from the pressure, feeling Peter throb inside you, and you’ve never felt so close to him as you do now, and he starts a rapid pace of thrusting into you, holding you tightly against him as he does, his thighs smacking against your ass.

You do feel pleasure, a sharp ache starting to build in your lower regions, as Peter continues to press overly hot kisses against your jaw, but you also feel loved. It doesn’t feel like a hookup, and you know it isn’t. You know as Peter wraps his arms around your waist, he’s not just using you, he really loves you.

He watches as you fall over his shoulder, having reached the peak of your climax, and Peter pulls out, letting himself finish on his own leg.

“You didn’t… have to…” You sleepily tell him.

“I know. I was just taking a precaution.” Peter whispers, and he holds you close as you fall asleep on top of him. “Love you, Howlett.”

He’s really glad this closet has a locked door.

The morning after the wedding, you wake up to find yourself mysteriously dressed in a oversized tee shirt, and your panties. You’re lying in your own bed, but you don’t know how you got here.

Peter is sleeping next to you. His brown hair is dishevelled, and he’s wearing a random tee shirt too. Actually, you think you recognize that from Harry’s wardrobe.

“Peter. Hey, Peter.” You shake his shoulder. “Peter Parker!”

“Huh? What’s that?” He sleepily rubs his eyes. “Oh, morning, Howlett.”

“How did we get here? After we… I mean, you know.” You blush. “What did you do?”

“Oh.” Peter lets himself get up for real, sitting up on the bed. “I waited it out until no one was near the stairs, and then I took you upstairs to your room. I changed your dress for you. There were randoms in my room, so I hope you don’t mind that I stayed in here with you.”

“Of course I don’t mind.” You wrinkle your brows, frowning. “I just wonder why you did all that even though I’m not your girlfriend.”

Peter pauses. Actually, he genuinely stills, no movement at all.

“Oh, Howlett. You scared me.” He shakes his head, before grabbing your hands. “I just kinda assumed after yesterday, you would believe that’s enough evidence.”

“Humor me.” You slightly smile as Peter agrees with a little shake of his head.

“I’ll be serious. I am serious.” Peter grows solemn. “Howlett. I’ve known you my entire life, practically. I can’t picture it being without you. The year or so that it was, was maybe the worst year of my life.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I just appreciate you all the more now.” Peter traces your knuckles. “I’ve grown– we’ve grown up a lot. I needed that, so I could be here to ask you now. Would you be my girlfriend? My partner, if that sounds more equal and appropriate to you?”

“Yes.” You pull Peter into a hug, surely one of many from now on, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “I’m so glad we went on this trip.”

Peter smiles fondly. He’s never been more glad, either.

“I never want to let you down again, Peter.” You admit shyly. “I hope it’s not cheesy to say I want to be around you all the time.”

“It isn’t.” Peter presses a very chaste, soft kiss against your lips, and he feels, finally, that his life is really coming together.

So do you.

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