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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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siriuslydaz3d · 2 years

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Just thinking about how nice it would be to spend a day with -insert fictional male-

Like imagine reading or gaming with him. Baking cookies or cakes. Running your fingers through his hair. Drawing with him!!

I would love to just spend a day with -insert fictional male- he's the best boy ever.

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prismatica-the-strange · 1 year

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Fic idea for whoever wants to write it (just tag me please)

Tasm!Harry Osborn fluff piece in an au where he doesn't goblin himself, has this on again off again relationship with the reader. He keeps meeting them in a bar, drunk and still in love, being cute and asking to come home to them set to the song "Carry Me Home" by The Ready Set

#idk that song just screams Harry to me #harry osborn #tasm!harry osborn x reader #tasm!harry Osborn #the amazing Spider-man #fic idea

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spidernerdsblog · 1 year

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flexible

A/N : another blurb inspired by a prank video. Hope you like this. Let me know what you think.

Summary : you prank your boyfriend by putting him in the positions he puts you in during sex.

Pairing : Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings : mature content

You were hanging out at Peter’s dorm room, sitting on the couch and scrolling through your social media accounts.

“Hey whatcha doing?” Peter asks, walking into the living room. You look up from your phone.

“Nothing, just watching this tiktok on some special yoga poses. Apparently only women can do these very easily.” It was a lie in the video the girlfriend was pranking her boyfriend by putting him in the positions he puts her in during sex.

“That’s rubbish, it just depends on your body’s flexibility.” Peter says.

“You think you’re flexible enough to do these?” a mischievous smirk plays on your lips as you raise an eyebrow baiting him.

“Babe look who you’re talking to. I’m spiderman, I'm flexible AF.” He states placing his hands on his hips with an air of confidence

Oh this is gonna be fun you thought, putting away your phone and standing up from the couch. “Ok let’s see how flexible you are.”

“Yeah, let's do it!” He says excitedly pumping his fist in the air.

“For the first pose you need to lie down on your back.” You instruct as Peter goes to lie down on the floor.

“Now bring your legs up” you tell him and he follows by lifting his legs up. “Yeah, just like that. Now spread them wide all the way”

“Like this?” He spreads his legs wide.

“Yeah and then grab the back of your thighs and pull up.” Holding by the thighs Peter pulls his legs up to his chest and you bite your lip to hide a smile.

“Do you feel it?” You ask.

“Kinda.” He replies.

God he’s so innocent you thought laughing silently to yourself deciding to carry on with the next position.

“For the next pose, turn on your side and bend your knees.” Peter follows your directions and turns on his left side. “Now lift the top leg up.”

He lifts his right leg up as you hum in approval. “Yeah, as high as you can.”

“Ooh I can feel this!” He tells and you purse your lips to keep the giggle from slipping out of you.

“Good now stand up.”

“This one is a bit rough, it's called the bunny hop. So you gotta squat down to your feet.” You explain as he squats down.

“Yeah great, now jump up and down.” Peter starts to hop on his feet. “No, no your feet should be on the ground just move your hips” he does as told and you swear to god watching him do that sent you on the verge of losing all control and laughing out like a maniac.

You quickly schooled your features and said. “Ok so for the last one get on the couch on your knees. Grab on the backrest.”

Peter gets on the couch kneeling and holds onto the backrest as you lift his left leg.

“Now lift this leg up and stick your ass out.” Just then Harry decides to stroll into the living room.

“Looking great Parker.” He opens the refrigerator to grab a beer bottle. “You guys taking a trip to the wild side? Should have asked me would’ve been happy to help.” He says while opening the bottle. Understanding finally dawned upon Peter as he jumped out of the couch with a mortified expression and you burst out laughing.

“Oh my god Y/N! You’re such an evil.” He cried out as he thought of all the sex positions you made him do.

“You don’t have a problem when you put me in those positions.” You tease both of your faces red yours from laughing too hard, his from embarrassment as he stomped back to his room.

“Always wanted to peg that ass.” Harry says, eyes focused at the open door of Peter’s room.

“Shut up Harry!” Peter yells from his room. Chuckling Harry takes a sip of his beer and saunters off to stand beside you, handing you another bottle.

“Pussy.” He mumbles and turns to you with a sultry look. “The offer still stands, you know. Just like I said before you’re welcome to watch…” he eyes you up and down. “Or join.”

Your lips curl into a smirk as you regard him with narrowed eyes. There have been quite a few times where Harry had openly admitted he’s attracted to both of you suggesting you guys should try doing threesome. “I’ll give it a thought.” You say clinking your bottle to his and take a sip.

#peter parker #peter parker smut #peter parker x reader #peter parker fluff #peter parker blurb #peter parker fanfiction #tasm peter parker #tasm!peter parker #tasm!peter smut #tasm!peter x reader #andrew garfield #andrew garfield x reader #andrew garfield smut #spiderman fanfiction #peter parker x you #harry osborn #spiderman

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backtothefanfiction · 5 months

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Crushed | Peter x Reader x Harry imagine

Summary: Your boyfriend sometimes has anger problems, but this is the first time he’s ever taken it out on you. Thank the lord his best friend was there to step in.

Warnings: angst, jealousy, unintentionally angry abusive boyfriend (it’s Harry’s illness), protective friend, needle, strangling, a little bit of infidelity (it’s just one kiss)

Word Count: Maybe 1.5k-ish (wrote in app and can’t really check. Was supposed to be a quick on but…)

A/N: this is an apology story as my other longer stories still aren’t ready yet. I needed some angst and this idea just popped into my head, soooo, let’s go.

To say your boyfriend had a bit of a temper was an understatement. It was something he got from his father along with his rich kid entitlement. He wasn’t always like this. He was usually nice. He took great pride in having bagged you for a girlfriend and loved showing you off to people. However he wasn’t stupid. He knew how people looked at you when they thought he wasn’t looking.

Jealous. Your boyfriend was easily jealous. He’d catch guys looking and would be quick to remind them who you belonged to. An angry stare here, smashed glass and punch in the face there, but he’d never taken it out on you.

That was until his father died. Suddenly Harry had even more feelings than he knew how to deal with. Often multiple feelings at the same time. That and the fact he was dying. You weren’t supposed to know, but you’d overheard him talking to Peter about it. He’d been coming around a lot more since Norman had died. He was an old friend from when Harry was a kid. You thought it was good for him, he seemed a little more at ease despite the doom and gloom. You got on well with him too. He was kind and easy to talk to. He seemed to be the only guy Harry didn’t seem threatened by around you. That was until tonight.

You had all gone out for dinner. Harry had seemed off for the whole meal but you thought it was just because of his illness. Heck, maybe his anger was just another part of his illness. He was quiet and logical, all the way through the meal. He often looked between Peter and you as you spoke so easily to one another. You seemed to laugh at every single one of his jokes and Harry could have sworn he saw a particular warmth and sparkle to your eyes.

He was silent the whole cab ride home and kept shrugging you off whenever you asked him what the matter was, his fingers flexing over his knees. When Peter asked the same question he just ignored you both and looked out the window.

You had both said goodnight to Peter when you had gotten out of the car.

“You gonna be okay?” Peter quietly asked you as Harry began to make his way to the front door of the building.

“Yeah, of course.” You nodded. “Good night Peter.” You smiled before quickly following after your boyfriend.

Being in the elevator with Harry felt like being in a pressure cooker, the higher the elevator got to the penthouse, the more tight and constricting the air felt; until you reached the top and he seemingly began to explode.

You watched on as he made a beeline to his Fathers alcohol, knocking back shot of whisky after shot of whisky and shouting about Peter.

“I saw the way he looked at you…. And when he touched you….” He ranted jealously as he paced back and forth across the floor as you sat frozen on the sofa.

You watched as the veins in his neck began to bulge slowly turning a darker shade of green. He was beginning to scare you.

“Harry, maybe I should go home.” You tentatively said standing, grabbing your coat off the arm of the sofa where you had placed it and folding it over your arm.

It was like he fully remembered you were in the room. And not in a good way. His eyes were completely black as they locked onto you. “And you,” he snarled, “you like him back don’t you sweetheart. The way you giggle at his jokes and fix his clothes and-“

“Harry. Harry stop. You’re scaring me.” You tried to say as you stumbled backwards towards the door. You were trying to not make sudden movements, trying to keep your energy calm and placate him long enough to get out the door but it was no good. Harry was gone.

Your back hit a large pillar and he was on you in seconds, his hand around your throat as he began to squeeze. “Harry!” You tried to say but it was difficult with how tightly he was squeezing. You couldn’t breath, you began to make choking noises as your finger nails reached to claw at the back of his hand. “Harry.” Your voice was high pitched and raspy. “I don’t… please.”

There was a loud thud as the front door burst open, Peter rushing in and tackling Harry to the ground. You gasped as oxygen flooded your lungs and your legs gave way, your body collapsing into a heap on the floor. Tears pricked your eyes as your chest heaved, panicked coughs wracking your body. Your vision was patchy as you tried to watch Peter and Harry, wrestling on the ground.

“Harry! Harry!” Peter said as he pinned his friend to the floor. “Harry, look at me! This isn’t you! Stop it,” Harry just kept fighting though, his body writhing underneath Peter’s, but Peter didn’t budge.

“Get off me! I hate you! You’re fucking my girlfriend!”

“Harry!”

“Get off me!”

“Harry this isn’t you. I wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t do that. Harry!”

Harry’s wails were animal like.

You knew you had to do something to help. You remembered the medicine Harry was secretly keeping in his desk drawer. Your legs felt wobbly as you tried to stand, hobbling into his office in the next room. Your fingers were frantic as you opened the desk drawer and took out a vile and fresh needle. You rested your weight against the desk as you readied the shot.

“Peter. Here use this,” you said almost defeated as you made your way back into the other room.

You had no idea how Peter was able to hold down the still thrashing Harry and take the needle from you with such steady hands. Peter wasted no time in pushing the needle into one of the bulging veins in Harry’s neck, quickly administering the medicine that began to take immediate effect. Harry’s body went limp as he calmed, his eyes closing as if he was relishing in the relief. The veins in his neck seemed to settle and the green track marks began to recede.

Peter’s body collapsed to one side on the floor, removing his weight from Harry’s body. When it was evident Harry was out for the count and sleeping off his episode, the brown haired boy finally turned to you.

“Are you okay?” He asked, scrambling across the floor to where you too had collapsed, adrenaline beginning to dissipate.

You groaned slightly as you blinked away your tears and rubbed at the ghostly feeling of Harry’s fingers at your neck. “Ow.” You said hoarsely as Peter’s hands reached out and tilted your chin up and turned you in the light to get a better look at your neck.

“Yeah, that’s gonna leave a mark.” He said.

“I thought you went home.” You croaked.

“Don’t try and talk.” He said. “Come on.” He reached out for your hands and pulled you up off the floor, walking you towards the kitchen where he sat you on one of the stools. He grabbed you a glass of water and told you to take small sips while he put Harry to bed.

“Is he gonna be okay?” You asked when he came back into the room.

“I thought I told you not to try and talk.”

You simply shot him a look in response.

“He’s gonna be fine. Well, he’ll make it through the night anyway.” Implying that although Harry was alive now, Peter might just kill him himself tomorrow for what he had just done to you.

You couldn’t help but look at Peter differently then. He’d saved your life. Harry was about to strangle you to death and he’d saved your life. “Peter?”

He raised his eyebrows at you in a way that said ‘what did I tell you about trying to talk?’ But you ignored him.

“Thank you.” You said, settling for a whisper.

He gave you a small smile. “Come on. Let’s get you to a doctor and get that throat looked at.”

You quickly shook your head no, but instantly regretted it, wincing as your throat protested against the movement. “No Doctor. They’ll report it. I don’t want him getting in trouble.” You tried to say, but your voice became more strained as you tried to get the words out.

“Fine. Fine.” Peter said, raising his arms in front of you in a calming manor, trying to ease the rising panic in your eyes. “Okay. But I am taking you home. And I’m never leaving you on your own with him again.”

“Peter, what he said about-“

Peter shook his head cutting you off. “Not now.”

He wrapped his arm around you as he guided you back through the apartment. He grabbed your coat off of the floor and placed it over your shoulders, before he placed a protective hand to your back once more and lead you out the door.

******

When you got back to your parents apartment, Peter took you all the way up to the door. Your hand froze on the door handle, key halfway to the lock when you turned back to him with tears in your eyes. The reality of the night was finally sinking in. You worried at your lip before you asked, “Will you stay?”

“I uh,” he stammered, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I mean, what would Harry say?”

“Peter please. I don’t care… I’m scared.” Your voice said vulnerably. “Please.”

His hand reached out to cup your cheek. His thumb smoothing away the tear that rolled down it. “I can’t. I wish I could but I can’t.”

“Because of Harry’s jealousy?”

“Because he’s right.”

His words stun you. They put a stop to your tears as curiosity forms inside you instead. You try to speak but he stops you.

“He’s right to be jealous.”

“Why?” Your voice is a barely audible whisper.

“Because I’m falling for you.”

You’re not sure why you do it. Maybe it’s the shock of everything. Maybe it’s because he saved your life and you feel like you owe him. Maybe it’s because you really did have feelings for him too. But you lean forward and kiss him. It’s short and sweet. Delicate.

His hand hovers at the side of your face. You know he wants more. And if it wasn’t for Harry, if it wasn’t for everything that had just happened he’d take more. But he fights it. And so do you.

You know you shouldn’t ask again, not after you just kissed him, but you are more scared to be alone right now than not say it. “Please stay. I promise I won’t do that again. Just, please don’t leave me on my own.”

He hasn’t got the heart to say no to you again. He simply gives a small nod, his hand indicating for you to open the door, a silent promise that he’d follow.

You both agreed he’d sleep on the cushioned bench under your window. You had gotten him a blanket and pillow before you crawled into bed. You both just stayed there in your positions across the room, staring at each other, you lying down, him just sat, his back leaning against the wall next to the window.

You didn’t know when you had eventually fallen asleep, but when you woke up, Peter was gone and the window had been left slightly open. Your neck felt stiff and all you wanted to do was roll over and forget everything had happened. Everything except for that kiss.

As your lips tingled and a fuzzy feeling settled into the pit of your stomach, you knew one thing for sure. Your boyfriend was a dick and you were definitely crushing on his best friend.

#peter parker x reader #Harry Osborn x reader #Harry x reader x Peter #best friends girl #angst #drama #tasm!peter parker imagine #tasm peter parker x reader #the amazing Spider-Man #andrew!peter imagine #Harry Osborn imagine #one shot #andrew!peter parker #peter parker #peter parker imagine #spider-man #tasm!peter parker #tasm

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spider-stark · 10 months

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A DARK AGE

next part

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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moon-fics · 6 months

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The Lime Light (prologue)

A/n: I had to reupload this bc I messed up some editing but now it's up for good!

Summary: After disappearing from the spotlight you finally return. However, a rough night and a scandalous paparazzi photo causes you to forge a new PR relationship with the beloved actor, Peter Parker.

Rating: PG 13

The light is too bright in the questionably damp room as your agent's, Elizabeth Allen, voice blurs into the background. Stress drones out all noise from the outside world, filling your ears and mind with tv static. You rub your forehead to ease the unsteady feeling inside, your heart beating louder than a drum.

"So, you'll do it right?" Liz asks, her voice full of hope. You know that you've been letting her down recently, avoiding roles that would boost your audience. "You can't keep turning down roles or they'll stop requesting you," She warns, wagging a finger at you.

If she was anyone else you'd snap at her, telling her you just aren't feeling the role. However, you both know you've been using that excuse for months and she's too sweet of a woman to yell at.

It's a good plot, one that would win awards if done right. A love story with tragedy that isn't expected until the last act. A girl in love with a man with a double life, but she's in love with his secret identity and hates the man behind the mask. It's cliche beyond belief, but almost everything has already been done in Hollywood.

"Have they gotten anyone relevant in the cast?" You ask with a heavy sigh, sitting up straight in the chair. You're now alert and invested in the conversation, at least as much as you can be. "I mean, I'd rather not work with a cast full of new faces," It's a harsh thing to say, especially since you started out in the same spot as them.

Liz nods, a burst of energy coming through her, “So you’re actually interested?” She squeaks as you nod in hopes it’ll satisfy her. It's the first time in a while you've shown interest in any gig she's gotten you, which to her, is a huge deal. She quickly shuffles through a file which you can see contains an out of order script.

"Here we go," She hums, placing a paper with a list of names on it. You hesitantly reach for it, sliding it off her wooden desk. It's covered in scratches from her pen pressing too hard on paper, a few coffee stains as well. You smooth out the paper, starting on the first name.

Felicia Hardy is the first name you recognize and you're surprised she isn't the lead. Instead she's stuck as the supporting actress who eventually dies off to progress the plot. From what you've heard about her, she'll throw a stink about it but eventually agree to her character's fate.

Your eyes scan over names of actors you've neither met nor heard of. You're relieved when you finally land on Harry Osborn but it's gone when you see a question mark drawn next to his name. That could mean many things but the two most likely is that he either hasn't decided or the casting director is still looking.

"Is Harry still dropping roles after what happened?" You ask, glancing up from the paper. You should know the answer, you should be asking Harry himself. But after witnessing something as gruesome as his incident, you couldn’t bring yourself to call him once he was discharged. Liz is no longer sitting in front of you, instead she's organizing her desk. She's nervous, why wouldn't she be?

"From what I've heard from his agent," You forget that she has connections, that she's no longer a young woman struggling to keep actors. Just like how you're no longer a child sitting in a chair you can't fit in; your mother making sure you can't speak for yourself. Her words still echo in your mind telling you to cry on que and to never get close to your co-stars. "He's debating giving up acting entirely." She shrugs, tightening her bun.

The news doesn't surprise you in the slightest, what happened was traumatizing. Even though you had only watched what happened you still have flashes of broken bone and blood on an expensive set. Even now you cringe at the thought.

"I know you get along with Harry and I really think he might accept the role!" She cheers up, placing her hand on her desk. You wait for an explanation, already knowing she'll tell you without a prompt. "His best friend, Peter Parker, is the lead role." She squeals.

Liz is a huge fan of Peter Parker and often laments about how she regrets not signing him to her company,at the time she thought he was a one shot wonder. He's a brilliant actor who has a great streak in the industry and a huge following of fan girls. Somehow every movie he's been in has been a hit, something an actor can only dream of.

As much as you want to continue to pretend like you aren't known by millions, you have to suck it up. You can already feel the all nighters and coffee on your breath. As the buzzing in your mind slowly begins you hold out your hand.

"Hand me the script."

- - -

You stare at the boy in front of you, at least a year older maybe two if you’re generous. You’re examining him from afar, imagining how he looks at every angle just so you can get a feel for him. You’ve never worked with a boy around your age, not in such a serious role like this.

His hair is well kept and he never leaves his father’s side. A part of you knows he only got this role because his father is directing the movie, I mean, Norman Osborn always gets what he wants. So why wouldn’t he want his son to become just as famous as him?

You’re so transfixed on taking note of his every feature you hardly notice your mother approaching you. Your first big role and she’s not letting you out of her sight, she calls it a precaution, but you know she just wants to keep her strings attached to you. Even at the ripe age of thirteen you understand her love is purely based on your achievements.

Eventually, you’re thrusted onto set to practice your lines with the boy… and holy shit you’re nervous. You’re too new to acting to have any fame get into your head but you have no clue how this boy will act and honestly, you’re terrified he’ll get you recasted.

As you approach the set decorated to be a middle class kitchen your hands are sweating. You’re lucky Mr. Osborn has allowed you to hold onto your script or you might forget every line even after the hours of late night practices. Before you know it you’re standing a few feet away from the red, no brown, wait maybe both haired boy.

“I’m Harry,” The boy speaks first, holding out a hand. He isn’t even holding a script, he’s confident he knows his lines which only makes you feel worse. You hesitate to shake his hand, worried he might crush your hand or secretly tell you how out of place you are. “I heard this is your first time in a position like this!” He continues, a genuine and bright smile spreads across his lips.

Finally, you use your voice and take his hand, “I’m Y/n, it’s nice to meet you,” You’re taken aback by how soft his skin is and how he doesn’t insult you for being nervous. Something about him is warm, he’s like a fall candle that you light at night when you can’t focus.

“You shouldn’t be nervous just because my dad is the director. He can’t replace you,” He assures you, placing a hand on your shoulder. You don’t understand what he means, actors get replaced all the time for the simplest reasons. “I specifically chose you to work with and my father won’t risk my career over something as small as forgetting lines!” He gestures to your script, his head tilting to the side. A strand of hair falls out of place and suddenly you’re reminded that he’s not some big shot, he’s a kid same as you.

With a new determination in your chest you give him a solid nod. You feel special, you feel wanted for the first time in a while. Harry chose you to work with out of who knows how many other girls. He must see something in you, something he wants to work with. With a yell of ‘action’ and a snapping sound, the flame between friends is ignited.

#peter parker x reader #spiderman x reader #spiderman x y/n #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #tasm!spiderman x reader #peter parker x fem #andrew garfield x female reader #andrew garfield x you #andrew garfield x reader #andrew garfield #actor!au #Pilot #harry osborn #harry osborn x reader #felicia hardy x reader #felicia hardy #mj x reader

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imagine--if · 9 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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literaila · 11 months

Text

shoes (part one)

tasm!peter x fem!reader

summary:

“apparently dating your boss is a 'conflict of interest.'"

"i can't imagine why."

warnings: haha, just lots of nothing, harry is there, peter is there, reader is there, rich people stuff, mentions of alcohol, secrets that only i know

a/n: two in one night???? yes. i’ve been sitting on this for like seven years. (cowboy like me).

peter doesn't often pay attention to people's shoes.

he's never been inclined to stare at the ground, or, at least, to stare at the ground and not watch the strange way it seems to rumble beneath him. to watch people walk like he might look up and find them smiling back at him.

no, he doesn't have time to look down and appreciate the scuff marks on someone's nikes. he doesn't want to stare at someone's wingtips and wonder where he can get a pair for himself.

his old tennis shoes are enough comfort for him to ignore the tears in the soles, and the laces are only slightly frayed at the edges. a bit black from years of neglect and errant ideas of buying the exact same pair.

but tonight, standing in this crowded room and listening to people politely chuckle, he's staring at the shoes beneath him.

there are high heels, wingtips, and fancy leather slippers that probably cost more than his rent, and amongst them all, his converse are certainly a conversation starter.

that is, if peter was actually attempting to talk to anyone.

he can hear all of these people speaking about investments, the stock market, and the kids these days that just don't want to work, and all of the rich-people-talk that he doesn't get to hear often. even staring at the floor like he's doing, looking strangely obsessed with feet, he knows whose granddaughter is valedictorian and who plans to become the next state senator.

but he doesn't hear anything necessarily useful.

nothing about strange men growing claws, or people dying in alleyways with no one around. no one's grandson has become a living wart, and no one here cares if another building gets destroyed by some strange--and necessary--experiment.

the shoes are nice, though. he can follow a person around the room just by following their footsteps. he can watch people walk and act like he's not supposed to be here.

because he's really not.

the fact that jameson happened to give him this job--begrudgingly, with a frown on his face and a hang of his head--is a miracle. and a disaster because lucy, whom peter is replacing, is going to pass her stomach bug to the rest of the office, and then peter will receive the grunt work.

but he was going to sneak in anyway. he was going to watch from the ceiling--far enough away for shoes to be a mere blur and people to be anaomlys, rather than annoying. he was going to hide in the dark and maybe steal a couple of appetizers.

instead, he's standing in the middle of the room in his converse, holding his camera like he might actually want to capture some of this.

the egos and complete ignorance of everything important happening in the world. the smell of money and arrogance.

peter is thinking about ditching the party--telling jameson that he puked all over some lady's jimmy choo's--when two pairs of footsteps head toward him, rattling like a drum roll.

high heels and tennis shoes, not unlike his own.

he's staring down at a wonderful pair of jordan's when the approaching subject clears his throat, and a flash of teeth causes peter to finally look up.

and meet wide eyes, staring right back at him.

you're wearing lipstick, bright glitter flashing across cheekbones that didn't need to be defined. you're wearing lipstick and a smirk, like you know that peter's going to get lost staring at you.

which, currently, he is.

but your eyes are grinning at him; they are warning him to run.

and he almost can't look away.

wouldn't, if not for the arm attached to yours, and a familiar voice saying his name.

"peter," the man says, clapping him on the back and pulling his eyes away from a girl that he probably should've noticed an hour ago. "didn't think i'd be seeing you here."

why would he?

harry osborn is giving peter a wide smile, his eyes are reflecting secrets from a childhood peter can't seem to remember currently.

but may pounded enough etiquette into his head for it to remain, even when everything else doesn't.

"good to see you," peter says, hugging harry back and finally paying attention, noting a new haircut that is definitely not helping his childhood friend with anything. "if i'd known you were going to be here, i would've found you hours ago."

harry steps back, straightening his back and looking around. "i'm here in my father's place. he wasn't feeling up to it."

peter swallows. "he alright?"

"just a cold, i'm sure," harry shakes his head, sharing an inside joke with peter that neither of them understands. "what're you doing here? finally hooking up with one of the girls from high school?"

peter bites the inside of his cheek, sharing a short laugh.

did you finally marry a rich girl?

"no," he answers, voice still light, eyes still leaning to his right, where you're still standing. "i'm here for work. taking pictures of the banquet for the daily bugle."

harry nods. "did you get a good one of me?"

"of course not."

when harry laughs, peter laughs with him. he looks down again, feeling weirdly comforted that he's not the only one wearing tennis shoes in a place like this. glad that he can tell jameson he spoke to someone.

he looks up again, shaking his head. and then he turns, clearing his throat. "and you are?"

when he meets your eyes again, there's a new glint. a flash of lightning beneath the clouds. your mouth opens, but harry speaks before you get the chance.

"this is y/n davis. my date."

there's a breath, a flash, and someone pops open a bottle of champagne, but peter manages to keep his full attention on you.

"nice to meet you," you say, a tight smile on your face.

your voice is soft and stern, like peter shouldn't disagree.

he's smiling back, but he's not sure that he can hide the surprise on his face. he's sure that he's seen you somewhere before. sure that he recognizes that look on your face...

"this is her first banquet too," harry adds, pulling you closer. peter can hear your shoes click as you adjust.

"there's a lot of people. not enough alcohol."

peter's lip twitches, and yours does the same.

but harry laughs. "there's an open bar," he whispers to you. "i told you i'd get you a drink whenever you'd like."

you look away from peter and to the other man. "i'm just kidding."

harry scoffs, and peter leans back, looking towards the bar that he'd mentioned. "no, i agree," he says, "i thought you guys were supposed to have waiters walking around with cocktails. i have to walk all the way over there for a beer?"

harry shakes his head. "should've brought a date to do it for you."

peter shifts on his feet. there's a beat of silence, where he remembers what he's supposed to be doing here, and then swallows. "how long do these typically last?"

"it's not polite to leave until ten."

"and if i conveniently left my manners at home tonight?"

you smile at him, leaning forward--enough so that peter gets a whiff of perfume. "i saw a backdoor around the corner that you could escape through."

harry rolls his eyes.

peter pretends to look for the door, already having known where it was. the door he came through--the one he was going to break in through.

"good to know."

"have you taken enough pictures?" harry asks, "i haven't been blinded by any flash yet."

"no one's taking pictures of you," peter says, dryly. "i'm not even sure what jameson wants. i've got a couple of shots of the chandelier, just in case."

"get a picture of senator jenkins laughing with captain stacey and you're golden," you tell him, looking over to the pair.

harry laughs. "or you could get a picture of us, and make it the cover."

peter nods, moving a step back. "good idea." he gestures for the two of you to get closer together, holding his camera up.

he watches as harry wraps his arm around your waist, and as your natural smile turns into something of a performance.

still beautiful, though.

"so, how do you know each other?" peter asks, just as he snaps a shot. he takes another step back, adjusting his settings.

"she worked for me," harry says, putting on his perfect rich-boy smile.

peter raises a brow.

"i was his assistant."

your words are overly enunciated and you sneak a look over to harry, like you're checking to see if he noticed something.

peter snorts. "i'd expect nothing less from you, harry."

"what?" he defends, rolling his eyes. "was i supposed to ignore her?"

he says it like it shouldn't be possible.

peter smiles. takes another shot, not caring how it turns out. he tries to get harry's sneakers and your high heels together.

"and now?" peter continues, letting go of his camera and taking a step toward the two of you, sure that it's time to leave.

"i work for a legal office now. apparently dating your boss is a 'conflict of interest.'"

"i can't imagine why," peter responds, eyes flashing.

you laugh.

and then someone calls harry's name, and peter blinks, looking away from you and over to his friend.

"good to see you, peter. call me sometime, we'll get together." harry offers his hand again like they're making a business deal.

but peter shakes it anyway, nodding.

"it was nice to meet you," he says to you and watches as you and harry walk away, arm in arm.

he listens to two synchronized footsteps, but swears he can hear a stutter in there somewhere. just one moment where something has fallen apart.

and then it's gone, and you look over your shoulder locking eyes with him.

a storm flashing beneath the smile you send his way, gone as soon as it appeared.

when you're out of his sight peter is back to standing in the middle of his room, watching the shoes of people he doesn't care to pay attention to.

my masterlist here.

tags:@moonlarking-blog @v1ci0us @preciousbabypeter @alexxavicry @directioner5life @inthegetawaycarwithtaylah @localrockstargf @thestudiouswanderer @take-my-hand-time-boy @thoughtsofagodlovingsunflower @nyomjoon @moo-b1tch @raindropstearsandtea @rqmanoff @hollandweather @wetcoldnoodle @urlocalavenderhazestan @valvlry @imthatcoolmom @spideysimpossiblegirl invisibletrolleyson-jeremy @sharkswaters @rowniebow @anaislfbv @take-my-hand-time-boy @mileyc111 @starsval @ratsys

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magewritesstories · 9 months

Note

I enjoyed your Harry Osborn headcanons! You should do more for that character!!!

[ ʜᴀʀʀʏ ᴏꜱʙᴏʀɴ ] ᴄᴏᴜᴘʟᴇ ᴛʀᴏᴘᴇꜱ

summary: a few headcanons of what I think Harry Osborn would be like in different couple tropes TW: none note: which romance trope do you think suits him best?

ɴᴜᴍʙᴇʀ ɪ — ᴄʜɪʟᴅʜᴏᴏᴅ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ

okay so obviously I had to start with this one

it's not my favourite trope, but it fits well with some characters and i think harry is definitly one of them

imagine growing up with peter and harry and being besties

if you have a childhood friends trope y'all definitly have tons of inside jokes that he brings up constantly ( before and after you start dating)

both of you are definitly pining idiots lol— peter doesn't notice ofc (oblivious bby), but the minute gwen meets y'all she understands and does everything in her power to get you on a date

if harry realizes/falls first it would definitly take a while for him to understand that he has romantic feelings towards you and not just platonic ones

if you realise/fall first there's probably a lot of confusion of whether he's flirting or just being friendly

ɴᴜᴍʙᴇʀ ɪɪ — ᴀᴄᴀᴅᴇᴍɪᴄ ʀɪᴠᴀʟꜱ

so harry doesn't really strike me as a person who tries hard in school

but i do think he's one of those people who's just effortlessly smart, y'know?

personally it would annoy me, so i think that's how you're rovalry starts

it would be completely one-sided though— but he definitly noticed your annoyance and though it was hilarious

you would ask him what he got on a test and he'd say he got a super high score depite not studying just to see you get all annoyed and try to hide it

when you get a few point less than him he'd ask if you needed his help studying

definitly got hit by a book because of that once

But one time the teacher pairs you up, because they always see the two of you interacting and comparing answers after a test and in their blissfull ignorance (that only a teacher could have) assume you're friends

after the project you two do become friends and asfter a while he asks you out because— have you seen how cute you are? how could he not?

ɴᴜᴍʙᴇʀ ɪɪɪ — ꜰᴀᴋᴇ ᴅᴀᴛɪɴɢ

one of my favourite tropes when done right (and even when it's not, simply because it's always funny.)

i think you would either start fake dating 'cause of image (harry's playboy ways do not go over well with the board directors at oscorp)

or because you're both career driven and need people to get off your back about dating

but between the answering questions of curious journalists at press confrences and going to fancy restaurants just to give the paparazzi some pictures the two of you get to know eachother better

harry asks you all kinds of things, "because he needs to be able to answer questions about you"

and in return you ask him things too

and slowly but surely the fake handholding and glances from the other side of the room turn into real ones

the press definitly finds it suspcious though

because one you two start actually dating harry's a lot more private about it

other harry osborn fic

#harry osborn x reader #spiderman #the amazing spiderman #marvel x reader #harry osborn headcanons #harry osborn #the amazing spiderman x reader #tasm!harry osborn headcanons #tasm!harry osborn x reader #tasm!harry osborn #tasm!harry osborn x reader headcanons

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fcknstar · 1 year

Note

Heyy how are you? I hope you're good!🤍

Can you write something about major valerian? It can be a headconnon

Thank youu love

hihi! im good, not entirely excited for sch LMAO and thank you for asking!! i hope you're doing well too!

,, with you "

valerian x reader ( headcanons )

a.n : i might actually go and write more about valerian because of the amount of gifs unused. and thank you vv much for requesting darling!!

warnings : nsfw has a few mentions of sex , MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

**lowercase intended**

sfw :

hes a vv charming guy

you did like valerian, well after he risked his life for you.

valerian knows you like him, he was just able to sense it.

valerian would definitely act oblivious and continuously tease you until you blush.

when you do blush, he would most definitely hold your face and laugh, " aww youre blushinggg " which he will meet with a smack on the head.

valerian secretly likes you calling him " val, major "

ngl i feel like he would serve you food in bed if you both get together

he is 100% down for cuddles, him being the big spoon ofcourse. but for a change, hes willing to be the small spoon.

if he goes on a mission and pass by the plaza, he would get something for you and makes sure it is perfect.

acts of service, affection and words of affirmation 24/7

i know for a fact that he'll hug you from behind!!

hes not into pda but will definitely worship you when its just you both

nsfw :

hes a love maker.

he will check in on you every now and then

wears protection

vv gentlemen-y like

hes big into aftercare, he will prepare you a bathe, will clean you definitely.

he likes it when you take control

LMAO HES A DEFINITE SWITCH

likes it when you call him " major "

he will constantly press kisses onto you while fucking you deep

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

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siriuslydaz3d · 2 years

Text

Requests Open !

I am reopening my requests! I've been battling with both my physical and mental health for a few months now, and I need a distraction!

----

Request rules:

I dont write explicit smut (I will however write things that insinuate sexual situations)

I will do headcanons

Only one request at a time

Please give me a short description of what you want

I dont write for real people !

Please specify if you want it to be male, female, or gender neutral

I will write triggering subjects if I feel comfortable with the request

Below is a list of people I will write for/have experience writing for:

Andrew!Peter Parker

Tobey!Peter Parker

Tom! Peter Parker

TASM!Harry Osborn

Doctor Strange

Remus Lupin

Sirius Black

James Potter

Dean Winchester

Sam Winchester

Castiel

Gabriel

Jack Kline

Greg House

James Wilson

Neil Perry

Charlie Dalton

Todd Anderson

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poetsofmyheart · 10 months

Text

my tears ricochet

chapter one. masterlist.

PAIRING: tasm!peter parker x fem!reader

WARNINGS: death, vomiting

WORD COUNT: 2,458

NOTES: i have so many ideas for this series i’m so excited. buuut idk how i feel about this chapter. hope u still enjoy tho lol

“all these people think love’s for show, but i would die for you in secret.” - peace, taylor swift

now

it’s still cold in new york this time of year. when i cross the street, i listen to the sounds the bustling city makes. the sound of horns honking and bell chimes reach my ears. during my walk to the cemetery, my fingers begin to feel numb. my mouth creating little clouds of white with every breath i take.

i’m carrying a bouquet of flowers i purchased from the sweet woman who owns the flower shop across from my apartment complex. i hold onto the bouquet tightly. my hands shake from the cold as i readjust the scarf on my neck.

as i walk, i see a flash of red and blue fly by in my peripheral. it’s been a long time since i’ve learned to ignore those flashes.

when i finally reach the cemetery, i look for gwen’s grave and sit on the grass across from her tombstone. i place the flowers by her neatly.

her full name is etched on the tombstone beautifully, along with the words “loving daughter” and her birth and death year underneath it.

the sight make my stomach clench.

“hey, gwen.” i shiver. “i hope you’re doing okay wherever you are.” no matter how many times i visit, i’m always unsure how to start talking.

i’ve been visiting gwen every saturday since her funeral. luckily, i’m alone today. it’s not uncommon for someone to already be here visiting.

“i’m doing okay. i’ve been better.” i reach for a flower petal on the bouquet i picked out for her. it’s a bouquet of daisies. the colors ranging from white, pink, and yellow.

i play with the petal until it’s rips in between my fingers. the shreds falling on to the grass in front of me.

“i’ve been learning the piano piece you begged me to learn for you. i was thinking about playing it for my audition next month.” i continue.

piano is one of my favorite things in the world. it’s my only source of escape. it’s an escape i’ve been busying myself with especially after gwen’s passing.

after graduation last year, i had planned on going to nyu to study music and piano. when gwen died, i had put everything on halt. i decided not to go to nyu after all. i had even passed up on an audition for my dream school, julliard.

before gwen passed, she had begged me to learn a song for her. a song she had been specifically obsessed with. the song was fantasie by chopin. she used to say the song was eccentric, yet calming.

i doubted my piano abilities at the time and had pushed the piece aside until i knew i was really ready. if only i had listened to gwen, maybe she would’ve gotten to hear it herself.

after a few weeks of grieving and being in a terrible slump, having no motivation to play at all, i decided it was time.

i picked up the notes i had discarded in my closet and put them up on my sheet stand and i let my fingers move delicately on their own.

it was hard at first, having not played for weeks. but i eventually got going. my fingers moved deliciously over and against the keys. i got lost in the music. the soft sound of the piano muting the world around me.

it was the best distraction.

this past summer, i was sent a letter from julliard. i had managed to get an audition when i graduated high school. they heard about what happened and decided to give me another audition thats set to take place next month.

“i wish you were here to hear it. i know how much you wanted to hear me play it.” my eyes begin to water. i hug my coat and scarf tighter to myself.

“julliard is giving me another chance and i’m going to play in honor of you.” a few tears fall down my cheeks.

i’m ripping another petal from the bouquet when i hear a voice come from behind me.

“y/n?”

i could recognize that voice anywhere. the voice of a stranger who had once been a friend.

i feel embarrassment arise in my chest. my cheeks blossoming into a shade of crimson, having been caught talking to a slab of stone.

i wipe the tears from my eyes and slowly turn around. my eyes meet the pair of soft, brown ones that belong to peter parker.

“peter?” my voice comes out almost like a whisper. if it weren’t for his heightened senses, he might’ve just barely missed it.

i haven’t seen peter since the night he came to my apartment to tell me the news about gwen.

that was over two years ago.

there never really was a reason as to why we never spoke again. maybe it’s because we really only ever hung out because of gwen, or when he needed to be patched up after a patrol.

not saying he wasn’t my friend. of course he was. but he’d only stick around because of gwen.

it stung.

after gwen’s death, the news about spider-man disappearing had come out. nobody had seen their neighborhood friendly spider-man for weeks. the crime rate in new york had gone up significantly and still, there was no sign of spider-man.

until once he did come back, he had become more violent. the spider-man we once knew had changed.

before the incident at the tower, spider-man wasn’t very known for having killed many people. not until after.

instead of leaving thieves webbed up to the wall like he used to, he would kill them. beat them to death with his bare hands. police no longer found webbed up bad guys. instead, they found dead bodies. no more leaving cute little notes or webbing up mouths shut. that was over.

eventually, spider-man had become the city’s number one enemy. the people of new york no longer felt safe around the masked vigilante. they now felt terror.

i couldn’t blame peter for using spider-man as an outlet. but it also hurt me to see him hurting. not just himself, but also others.

even after everything, i still didn’t have the courage to reach out to him.

because once upon a time, i was in love with peter parker.

i met peter in my sophomore year of high school. i’d see him skateboard from class to class. he’d photograph students for the school yearbook and he was a science nerd. a smart one at that.

so naturally, i had a crush on him. an innocent one at the time. it’s was a normal school girl crush.

i’d see him around but we never really spoke or even exchanged a glance towards each other.

not until gwen.

that same year, gwen met peter.

it was obvious peter was into her. and gwen was into him.

eventually, the three of us started hanging out together. gwen and peter got together and i had officially introduced myself to peter. he was sweet and caring and everything you’d ever want in a guy.

gwen was lucky.

but the more i got to know peter, the more i fell for him.

the first time i patched peter up and he had come to my place instead of gwen’s, i fully believed something happened between the two. maybe she was mad at him, or they’d broken up.

i hated that i had felt some sort of relief at the time.

the guilt gutted me from the inside out. i felt like i was betraying my best friend, stabbing her in the back.

i wanted gwen to be happy, and if peter made her happy, i had to accept he would never be mine. that he’d always be hers. and she’d always be his.

for for the rest of high school, i had to pretend to be happy around them. push my feelings aside so the feelings of others wouldn’t get hurt. i got hurt to make sure gwen was happy.

and in the end, she still ended up getting hurt.

after the night of gwen’s death. the night peter came to me over anyone else, the feelings i tried so hard to push aside came fluttering back. almost like they had never went away.

because they didn’t.

right now, as i look at peter, i can’t help but remember gwen.

see gwen.

he’s all i have left of her.

i can’t ruin it.

i stand up and dust off the dirt on my jeans. i look up at peter, who’s looking at me intently. while he stands there, i scan his outfit for a brief second. he looks the same. the same brown eyes and messy hair. his hair has grown a lot since graduation. he’s wearing a navy blue jacket and a pair of converse. typical peter parker stuff.

“wow.” he says, huffing out a soft laugh. “it’s been a while.”

“yeah.”

peter kicks a few small rocks on the ground, debris flying up. the rocks fall back on to the ground with a thud.

i’ve been trying to avoid this interaction for as long as i can remember. since the second he left my apartment that night.

i don’t know what to say, and neither does he.

“i was swinging by when i saw you walk in here. i thought i’d be nice to talk to you.”

nice?

yeah, right.

“look, peter.” i sigh. “i think it’s better if we don’t… y’know. do this.”

peter frowns. “do what?“

i gesture between us. “this. whatever this is. you don’t have to pretend to want to be my friend. gwen is gone. she won’t torment you if you don’t.” i begin to walk away, but a strong arm keeps me still.

“i’m not pretending.”

it’s quiet for a few moments before a look of realization washes over his face.

“you blame me, don’t you?”

i look down at my shoes.

of course i don’t blame peter.

i’ve never blamed peter for gwen’s death. although, if i’m being completely honest, i was angry at him for a while.

i know it wasn’t his fault. he wanted to save her. he tried to save her.

but that was back then. i was grieving. grief messes you up in ways nobody can describe.

but the only way to keep the feelings i have for him at bay, i have to act like i do.

pretend, pretend, pretend.

i’ve been doing it for long enough. i can handle a little while longer.

he shakes his head, a sign that i’ve hurt him.

“you could’ve told me.” i say, keeping up the facade. this act where i blame peter for the death of my best friend.

peter looks at me again. the sadness in his expression turning confused, but sour. “told you what?”

“that you were taking her out there. to the tower. i could’ve stopped her.”

his expression now becomes angry. “seriously? you think i took her out there on purpose?”

“then why didn’t you at least tell me she was out there? we both knew gwen. she was the most stubborn person on this fucking earth.”

the past tense seems to hit peter hard. “and what? let you die out there as well? there was no way out. if harry was after her, he would’ve been after you too.”

“harry?”

it’s been two whole years since my best friend died and i have yet to find out who murdered her. it was never revealed to the public. not even me. not even her family.

but it was revealed that the person who murdered gwen had apparently been caught.

apparently.

“harry osborn.”

i shake my head. “who the hell is harry osborn?”

“he was my best friend.”

a terrible realization dawns on me. not only did peter lose his girlfriend, but he also lost his best friend that night.

“your best friend killed gwen?”

i hadn’t expected to find this out today. i hadn’t expected to ever find out who killed gwen.

when peter doesn’t answer, my stomach twists and i begin to feel sick. faster than i can process, i run over to a tree and throw up behind it. my breakfast from this morning spilling all over the ground.

a hand coming from behind me pulls my hair away from my face, holding it in a messy ponytail. once i’m finished, i slump against the tree and hold my stomach. breathing in and out.

“are you okay?” peter asks softly. no matter how angry or upset peter might be at someone, he will always make sure they’re okay. no matter on their darkest days or his, he will always be there. it’s one of the things on my ever growing list of things i love about peter parker.

“i just wanna go home.” i avoid his gaze. “please.” tears well in my eyes, but i shake them away before he could see.

“i’ll walk you.”

the walk home is quiet. crickets chirp in the distance and the honking of car horns has gone down for the night. when we finally get close to my apartment, peter simply says, “he was never caught.”

“what?” i stop dead in my tracks and slowly turn to him. the sickness from earlier returns to my body and i use everything in me to hold it in.

“it was never true. they never caught harry. it was only said he was because they didn’t want the city to panic.”

anger floods my body. “why didn’t you tell me?” i huff out a bitter laugh before continuing. “actually, why didn’t you tell me anything? i’m one of the only two people on this planet who knows about your secret identity. well, technically now i’m the only person who knows about your identity.”

my voice is loud in the quiet night, but by the end, it slips into a whisper. “i was her best friend.” i get in his face as i say this. by now, tears are spilling down my cheeks so quickly i hadn’t even rendered i was crying. “don’t you think i have a right to know?”

peter turns away. “i didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“oh great plan, dumbass. i totally don’t seem hurt right now!” i say sarcastically. when my crying slows down, i turn to him and look him straight in the eyes. it almost scares me how close we are.

“were you ever going to tell me?”

peter is silent again.

“great.” i mumble. “goodnight, peter.” i turn on my heel and start walking up to my apartment. not glancing back even for a second.

as i’m walking up to the entrance of my apartment, i hear peter say, “i promise i’ll tell you everything.”

i don’t respond.

instead, i let the door slam shut.

next chapter

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