talja @atomspidyr - Tumblr Blog

atomspidyr

Apr 20, 2025

batsovergotham-deactivated20250

a stranger in her skin pt1

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

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: SMUTTT SUB/SWITCH MARK FINALLY, mentions of murder, mentions of cheating, reader/venom is her own warning

w/c: 8.1k

a/n: SUB WHIMPERING MARK FINALLY GOD! also thank you for all the amazing asks they're so encouraging!!

You’re half-asleep when it hits you. A wrongness.

Dense and thick, it coils around your bones, clings to your skin like dampness, and nests in the pit of your stomach, like the crackling of static just before a lightning strike. At first, you can't determine whether it's a dream. Everything seems far away and muted. Familiar are the soft blankets twisted around your body, Harry's guest bed, not his, but still ridiculously pricey, still drenched in the smell of money and sterile city air. You recall yesterday night in fragments, sobbing till your throat ached, attempting to wash the guilt off your skin in the shower, almost holding it together long enough to fall into bed.

You ought to feel lighter.

Rather, you feel... crowded.

Your fingertips dance on the sheets. You scowl. Something answers the action, not simply your muscles, but something more. Something wrong.

Your breath catches.

You open your eyes.

It’s still dark, that odd, syrupy blackness right before morning, where everything appears too soft around the edges. The metropolis beyond Harry’s big windows glows dimly, hazy reds and golds trailing like afterthoughts over the sky. The guest room is still, undisturbed. Silent.

Except for you.

Your heart pumps up violently as you gaze down at your hands.

Black.

Not simply black, alive. Glossy, throbbing veins of oil-slick blackness moving leisurely across your fingertips, up your wrists, sliding past the sleeves of Harry’s large hoodie falling carelessly off your body. It throbs once, like a heartbeat.

You spring upright with a strangled cry, the blankets tangling around your legs. The thing glides with you, smooth and flawless.

Panic flares up your chest, burning hot and cold at the same moment.

You claw at your sleeves, stagger out of the bed barefoot, your heels slamming against the chilly marble floors. Across the room, there’s a tall mirror set on the wall, and you practically trip over yourself hurrying reach it.

For a second, you scarcely recognize the girl looking back at you.

Your hair’s a mess, your eyes wild, ringed red from the night before. The borrowed sweatshirt dwarfs you, hanging low enough to brush the tops of your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands. But it’s your arms that attract your sight, broad, inky black veins spidering up from your palms, snaking under your skin like some kind of living tattoo.

Your stomach twists over violently.

You push your back against the wall, sliding down until you’re hunched on the floor, folding your arms tight about yourself.

‘This isn’t happening.’

This isn’t happening.

But it is.

You can feel it, not just the slippery, foreign thing coating your skin, but inside you, coiled tight around your bones, buzzing in the pit of your chest. It isn’t assaulting. It isn’t hurting you.

It’s waiting.

Your breathing catches sharply. Your hands clench into fists, or they attempt to. The dark substance changes with you, cushioning the movement like it’s trying to protect you from injuring yourself.

You choke on a sob.

From somewhere down the corridor, you hear movement. Footsteps. A door opening.

Harry.

He’s awake.

You stiffen, chest seizing. You hear him murmur something to himself, presumably walking for the kitchen or his office, still half-asleep, and for one dreadful second you consider of racing to him. Throwing yourself at him and pleading for assistance, for answers, for something.

But you don’t.

You can't.

Because some primitive, instinctual part of you knows, if he sees you like this…

If anyone sees you like this...

It’s over.

The symbiote stirs again, feeling your dread, and for a minute you swear it purrs, curling closer around your ribs like a protecting hug.

‘You are not alone.’

The thought isn’t yours. It flows through your consciousness like a ripple over a quiet pond, smooth and incorrect and too natural at the same time.

Tears hurt your eyes. You screw them shut, pressing the heels of your palms hard against them.

This wasn’t meant to happen.

You were meant to weep yourself clean last night.

You were meant to let the guilt drain out of you in the protection of these four immaculate walls and go on.

Not... this.

Not this.

Except...

You push your breathing to smooth out. You focus, shakily, on the sensation in your body, not the panic, not the terror, but the other thing boiling beneath it.

Strength.

Heat.

A violent, protecting sort of power.

You open your eyes.

The mirror catches you again, but this time, you don’t flinch. You meet your own gaze, and the symbiote hums, happy.

You’re still you.

Just... more.

You hear Harry moving around again, further distant this time. Maybe he’s brewing coffee. Maybe he’s not even thinking about you. You have a window, a precious, short window, to get yourself under control.

You force yourself to your feet. Your knees almost buckle. The symbiote steadies you before you can collapse, slippery tendrils constricting momentarily around your calves.

Your heart pounds so hard it aches.

You stagger inside the restroom, the cold tile searing into your bare feet. The mirror over the sink feels too big, too bright even in the half-light, yet you push yourself to face it.

Your reflection breathes heavily back at you.

The veins of black move under your skin, gently withdrawing like an ocean pushing back from the coast. Your hands start to appear normal again. Human.

You clutch the sink so hard your knuckles lighten, or they would, if the darkness wasn’t still coursing through them like ink bleeding onto paper.

You splash your face with water. Scrub the worst of the tear-streaks and perspiration and stress away.

You are not fine.

You are so far from fine.

But you’re awake.

And you’re alive.

You wipe your drenched face with the hem of Harry’s sweater and straighten your shoulders. The symbiote whispers gently against your bones, fitting in like a second skin, warm and heavy.

You're not the same girl who staggered into this house last night, holding heartache and mistakes to your chest like a shield.

You’re something else now.

Something sharper.

Something stronger.

And for better or worse...

You’re not alone anymore.

Not ever again.

You don’t notice it at first.

You’re too busy trying to put yourself together with trembling hands, too concentrated on cleaning your face, scrubbing at your skin like you can wash away what’s seeping into you, what’s becoming you.

But the second you lift your head and meet your own sight in the mirror again, you feel it.

A flicker.

A whisper.

At first, you assume it's your own voice. Your own self-loathing, the lingering hurt from all you lost and everything you’ve done screaming horrible things in the back of your thoughts. That would make sense. You expect that.

But this isn’t your voice.

It’s deeper. Richer. Alien.

“Stop crying,” it says, with something disturbingly near to laughter. “You're embarrassing yourself.”

You jerk backward, your elbow banging against the sink. Water falls down your fingertips, collecting at your naked feet.

The voice is real.

Not a hallucination.

Not only in your head.

“We are strong now,” it continues, satisfied, twisting the sentences thick around your head like smoke. “No more weakness. No more pain.”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Your pulse is pounding in your ears, drowning out everything save that voice, that presence slithering beneath your ribs.

“What... what are you?” you manage to croak, your voice raw.

For a minute, there’s quiet.

The type of silence that watches you.

Smiles.

“We are what you needed.”

Your breath stutters in your chest.

The black veins wriggle slightly under your skin again, like they’re stretching, waking up. A shadow unfurls at the boundaries of your mirror, something not quite you but near enough to make your gut twist into knots.

“You’re in my head,” you say, frightened. “You’re-you’re not real.”

“We are very real, little one. We are inside you. Part of you now. And we will never leave.”

You clamp your eyes tight, shaking your head fiercely, as if that’ll be enough to dislodge it.

No.

No, no, no. This can’t be happening. You’re just a woman. You’re not meant to have anything living within you, slithering around your thoughts, promising you things you’re scared to want.

Strong. Protected. Untouchable.

You stagger back against the wall again, just managing to support yourself before you slip to the floor, grasping at your hair with shaky fingers.

“Get out,” you hiss. “Get out of me.”

The voice simply laughs.

Low.

Warm.

Almost loving.

“Poor thing,” it whispers. “You’re scared. We understand. But we are not your enemy.”

There’s a gentle, crawling feeling across your skin, and you realize the symbiote is moving again, slow, purposeful, encircling your arms, your legs, like armor.

Like it’s embracing you.

You choke on another sob.

"You’re using me," you whisper, desperate. "You're trying to control me."

“No. We are helping you. We felt your pain. Your anger. Your loneliness. We made it ours.”

You strain your eyes shut tightly, as if that might block it all out. The darkness. The warmth. The deep, gentle voice that snakes around every shattered part of you like it's trying to build a home there.

“You were falling apart. You were ready to die. We saved you.”

The worst thing, the part that makes your stomach churn and your throat boil, is that some sick, broken part of you believes it.

Last night, you had been ready to give up.

Ready to fall apart and let the anguish empty you out entirely.

And now?

Now you feel alive.

Different. Wrong. Terrifying. But alive.

You draw your knees to your chest, breathing ragged.

“What do you want from me?” you croak.

The response is immediate. Unhesitating.

“Everything.”

The room feels too tiny, too cold and too hot all at once. The marble floor steals the warmth from your skin, but the symbiote like a living inferno wrapped around your bones, holding you upright even when your body tries to fold in on itself.

And then, gentler, almost gentle, it adds.

“We only want to protect you.”

You’re shaking so violently your teeth chatter.

Protect you.

Just like you’d tried to defend yourself, last night, with quivering hands and an empty heart. Just as you had failed to defend anything, your pride, your friendships, your dignity, amid the wake of all you lost.

And here it is.

Offering you a second opportunity.

Or maybe not even offering, insisting.

You hide your face in your arms, the sweatshirt sleeves soaked with cold water and perspiration and tears.

You stay like that for what feels like forever.

At some point, you realize you can feel Harry moving around in the kitchen still. The quiet clink of a coffee cup. The gentle hiss of the espresso machine.

Life outside this chamber carries on, unaware.

Normal.

And you’re hunched here, in the darkness, with a monster purring comfort into your head.

You should tell him.

You should shout for help.

You should implore him to contact someone, anybody, to get this thing out of you before it’s too late.

But you don’t move.

Because deep down, you’re not sure you want it gone.

Not when the alternative is going back to the woman you were before.

Broken. Weak. Alone.

You elevate your head carefully. Your reflection is still there in the bathroom mirror, but there’s a shimmer about it now, a distortion at the margins of your body where the symbiote pulses just beneath your skin.

Waiting.

Patient.

Yours.

You wipe your nose on the sleeve of the sweatshirt, forcing yourself up to your feet.

You’re shaky. Raw.

But you’re standing.

You’re still here.

And the symbiote hums in appreciation.

“Good,” it murmurs, pleasure heavy in its voice. “Very good.”

You swallow hard.

This isn’t over.

Not even close.

This is only the beginning.

And whether you like it or not, whether you’re ready or not.

You are not alone anymore.

You will never be alone again.

The floor feels sticky under your bare feet, the chilly tile piercing through the delicate warmth of Harry’s borrowed sweater as you lean heavily against the counter. You gaze at your mirror, your pulse beating behind your eyes, your whole body alive with a horrible, buzzing energy that you can’t shake off no matter how hard you try.

The symbiote, the creature inside you, is quiet now. Watching. Listening.

Waiting for you to fall apart again, maybe.

Or waiting to build you back up.

You don’t know.

You’re not sure you want to know.

You pull in a breath that vibrates against your ribs. You open your mouth, wanting to utter something, anything, but what comes out instead is a broken little whisper.

"Why me?"

And the voice, that low, rich, alien voice, coils in the back of your mind like smoke, thrilled to be questioned.

“Because you were hungry.”

You flinch like it struck you.

“Hungry for love. Hungry for value. Hungry to be seen.”

Your fingers tighten into fists against the counter. The dark veins twitch in response, snaking pleasantly up your arms.

"Shut up," you whisper, but it’s feeble. Pathetic.

You don’t even sound like you believe yourself.

The symbiote merely chuckles, a faint, oily rumble, like it’s fond of your intransigence. Like it’s indulging you.

“We saw you. We knew you. You thought he saw you too. Didn’t you?”

You don’t have to ask who it’s talking about.

It’s him.

It’s always him.

Mark.

The name hurts inside you like an open sore.

You clench your eyes tight against the abrupt, harsh onslaught of memories. His laugh. His hands. The way he looked at you like you were his, like you were enough. The way he tore that all away with the way he looked at Eve.

You grit your teeth. Hard.

"You don't know anything," you snap hoarsely. "You weren't there."

The symbiote hums again, a deep, deliberate vibration that vibrates your bones.

“We know what you felt.”

And worse, you can feel it probing, not through your thoughts precisely, but through the ghosts of your feelings. Sifting through the remnants of last night like it’s flicking through a book you left open and bleeding on the floor.

It savors it.

Your rage.

Your heartbreak.

Your disgrace.

“You loved him. You trusted him. And he chose her.”

You recoil so forcefully that you smash back into the wall, the air blasted from your lungs.

"No," you rasp. "No, it—it wasn't like that-"

But soon as the words leave your tongue, they disintegrate into dust.

Because it was like that.

You just didn’t want to see it.

“You wanted him to stay. You offered him everything. And still he left.”

A nasty noise fights its way out of your throat.

You put your fists against your mouth, wanting to muffle it, desperate not to hear it.

But the symbiote doesn’t stop.

It leans in closer, delving into the gaps of you, voice gentle now, almost compassionate.

“Poor thing. You thought if you loved him hard enough, he would never leave.”

Tears sting hot and fierce in your eyes. You scrape them away with the sleeve of the sweatshirt, angry at yourself, angry at everything.

"Shut up," you gasp out. "Just shut the fuck up."

But you can’t drown it out.

You can’t drown it out.

“We will never leave you. We will never betray you. Let us in. Let us make you strong enough that no one will ever touch you again.”

You sag against the wall, shaking, your heart thumping so hard it seems like your whole body’s about to fall apart.

And the worst part is, you want to believe it.

You do believe it.

Because it hurts less.

Because it’s easier.

Because what’s left for you out there, anyway?

Mark was with Eve.

Mark deceived you.

Mark left you to languish in the ruins of what he broke.

But the creature inside you?

It choosing you.

It’s choosing you still.

You wipe your nose harshly on your sleeve and gaze back at the mirror.

The black veins glimmer just beneath your skin, alive with something hot and hungry and devoted.

You don't recognize yourself.

But maybe that's a good thing.

Maybe the woman who trusted too easily, who loved too blindly, who got left behind.

Maybe she deserves to disappear.

You tilt your head slightly, examining the way the shadows change over your face.

The symbiote purrs in your blood, satisfied.

“Good. Let us help you. Let us make you whole.”

You think of Mark’s hands on Eve’s body.

You think of the way he looked at you, full of remorse, of pity, and you want to burn the memories out of your mind.

You bare your teeth at your mirror, the first twisted flash of something black curling at the corners of your mouth.

Maybe you’re already halfway gone.

Maybe that’s okay.

You place your palms flat on the cool marble counter.

Your voice is steady as you whisper back.

"...okay."

The symbiote thrums through you, a wild, euphoric ripple of pleasure and pride, and before you can second-guess yourself, the darkness rises again, pouring across your skin like wildfire.

It’s not suffocating.

It’s freeing.

It stretches you out.

Lifts you up.

Fills up every hollowed-out, shattered space inside you with something crisp and sleek and hungry.

You arch your neck back, gasping, as the metamorphosis concludes.

You catch sight of yourself in the mirror again, and this time, you stare at yourself without dread.

You’re something new now.

Something constructed from the ashes of all you lost.

Something that doesn’t need Mark Grayson.

Or anyone else.

The symbiote’s voice coils in your head, low and satisfied.

“We will show them. We will make them all sorry.”

And this time, you don’t dispute.

You don’t run.

You don't cry.

You just smile, harsh and vicious and hungry, and let the darkness take you.

You pull yourself off the bathroom floor like a snake losing a skin that doesn’t fit anymore.

Everything inside you hums. Not the shaking, brittle sort of energy from yesterday, the kind that shook your bones and made your hands shake.

No.

This is something thicker.

Heavier.

Alive.

The symbiote beats gently inside you like a second heartbeat, breathing when you breathe, extending itself along the length of your spine like a contented cat.

"We are awake."

"We are better."

Your legs move on instinct, solid and confident, propelling you down the hall into the kitchen.

Each step feels intentional, heavier than it should.

You hear Harry humming off-key in the corner, a gentle, tuneless little song that floats out into the otherwise peaceful home.

The smell reaches you first.

Burnt toast.

Expensive coffee.

Harry's absurdly expensive fragrance hangs slightly in the air.

You go into the kitchen and there he is, standing at the stove, pajama trousers disheveled, a baggy t-shirt falling off his body, hair sticking up in three different ways like he lost a fight with a pillow.

You halt in the doorway.

You just… observe him for a second.

He looks normal.

Soft and distracted.

The type of man who would fall over his own feet trying to impress you, then blush like he intended to do it.

The type of boy you would’ve leaned on. Cried to.

Begged not to leave.

Yesterday, you flung yourself into his arms without thinking.

Today, you wonder what he'd sound like if you smashed his ribs one by one. (You’re not going to, of course. But the idea runs through your head so fast and crisp it nearly makes you grin.)

"He is adorable," the symbiote purrs, nearly cooing. "Keep him. Feed him. Protect him."

You chuckle beneath your breath.

The sound is harsher, darker than you're used to hearing come out of your own mouth. You don't bother to disguise it.

Harry turns at the sound, and his whole face lights up.

Like the goddamn sun rising up over the skyline.

"Hey!" he shouts, voice a bit too loud in the silent room. He struggles for a second, almost losing the mug he's carrying, but catches it at the last second and thrusts it toward you like a peace offering.

"Coffee. It’s dreadful. But... you’re definitely stronger than me, so you’ll survive it."

You slide across the floor and take the mug from him without hesitation.

Your fingertips touch his.

He flinches a bit, not because he's terrified, but because he senses the change in you now.

Even if he doesn’t grasp it yet.

You take a long sip.

The coffee is burned, bitter, and far too strong.

You sip it like it's OK. (It's not fine.) (It's perfect.)

"More. Stronger. We need bacon too."

Harry stares you over the lip of his own mug, attempting to seem nonchalant, but you can sense it. The slight tensing of his shoulders. The way his foot taps frantically against the floor.

You’re ringing off warning bells in his mind and he doesn’t know why yet. He just knows something's wrong.

"He smells nervous," the symbiote remarks, amused. "Not afraid. Yet. Should we fix that?"

"No," you thought firmly, putting the emotion down.

For now.

"You, uh…" Harry lays his cup down, runs a hand over his unruly hair. "You look better today."

You smile at him.

It’s a slow, broad smile that probably doesn’t do much to reassure him.

"I feel better," you remark sincerely. In fact, you’ve never felt more alive.

Harry scrapes the back of his neck, an old, anxious habit you recall from well before any of this, and offers you a crooked grin.

"That’s good," he says. "You had me kinda worried last night."

You tilt your head at him, evaluating the contour of him. Small. Soft. Breakable. (You wouldn't, though. You like him too much.)

"Tiny person. Soft hair. Big eyes. We will keep him safe."

You fight down a laugh and walk to the counter, nibbling at the plate of eggs and toast Harry uncomfortably laid out earlier.

"You don’t have to worry about me," you remark, spearing a slice of toast with your fork.

Harry sits across from you, observing you like you’re a puzzle missing half its pieces. "You’re just… acting a little different," he adds gently. Not bad different. Just… you know. Different."

You shrug and shovel a mouthful of rubbery eggs into your mouth.

They taste like plastic.

They taste like triumph.

"I guess dying inside changes a girl," you say softly.

Harry chuckles, a tense, uncomfortable little noise, and rubs his palms on his thighs. "Yeah, uh… guess so."

He’s trying so hard to be normal.

To not scare you.

It’s nearly sweet.

"He is stupid," the symbiote remarks warmly. "Stupid and soft. He believes you are still the same."

You drink your coffee again, loving the way it burns all the way down.

"You sure you’re okay?" Harry asks finally, leaning forward, elbows on the counter. His voice lowers, quiet and honest. "I’m your friend, you know? You can tell me if something’s wrong."

You set the mug down softly and glance at him.

Really look at him. The way his hair curls slightly around his temples when he forgets to comb it. The way his brown eyes are too open, too trusting. The slight, familiar concern line cut between his brows.

You feel the symbiote nudge at you, intrigued.

Affectionate.

"We like him. We will keep him."

You grin, slow, indulgent, almost nasty without wanting to be.

"I’m fine, Harry," you say. "Better than fine, actually."

Harry's lips twitches like he wants to believe you but can’t quite achieve it.

"Okay," he replies finally, beaming too broadly. "If you say so."

You turn toward the enormous windows, the city shimmering far below, and your pulse thrums with something electric and eager.

Not broken anymore.

Not terrified anymore.

Not begging to be loved.

No.

Now you’re taking.

You’re choosing.

And Harry, gentle, uncomfortable, faithful Harry.

You suppose you’ll chose to keep him, too.

Just for a little while longer.

"Good pet," the symbiote purrs contentedly. "We will feed him bacon. And punch everybody who looks at him badly."

You bite on another slice of burned toast, smiling around it. Harry watches you with the same lost, anxious gaze.

Still your friend.

Still faithful.

Still foolish enough to assume you're the same girl you were yesterday.

And you…you’re just a bit more horrible.

A little more lively.

And you’re starving.

For everything.

And you’re not planning on starving yourself ever again.

You scrub a hand down your face, pausing at the door like you need a second to center yourself. The cool metal of the handle feels grounding, cold against the heat roaring under your skin. Your heartbeat drums steady in your ears but it’s not fear.

Not anymore.

It’s anticipation.

The symbiote shifts lazily inside you, a heavy pulse you’ve stopped trying to fight.

It’s not controlling you.

Not really.

It’s just... there.

A second skin. A second mind.

Yours when you need it.

"We will make him pay," it murmurs, not cruelly, not urgently, just matter-of-fact, like it’s discussing the weather. "He will cry. Maybe bleed. Then cry more."

You exhale through your nose.

A laugh, maybe.

Or something like it.

Because honestly?

That doesn’t sound half bad.

You twist the handle and step out into the hallway, your boots striking the marble floor with sharp, clean sounds.

Each step feels like a choice.

A promise.

You hear Harry behind you, still puttering around the kitchen, still trying to pretend he’s not worried about you.

God, you love him.

He doesn’t get it.

He doesn’t have to.

You pause at the elevator, jabbing the button harder than necessary.

The doors glide open with a mechanical ding, and you step inside, the cold, sterile air closing around you.

You catch your reflection in the mirrored walls.

Messy hair. Dark shirt. Wild eyes.

Something coiled and watchful inside you, peeking out through your own pupils.

You don’t look broken.

You don’t look small.

You look dangerous.

And you like it.

"We look beautiful," the symbiote says approvingly. "Sharp. Strong. Full of murder."

You smile lightly, tapping your fingers against the railing as the elevator hums downward.

Campus isn’t far.

Just a few blocks.

You could walk it easily. Hell, you could run it without breaking a sweat. (You kind of want to.)

The elevator shudders to a halt and the doors slide open.

You step out onto the busy morning sidewalk, the city already in full swing.

People everywhere.

Cars honking, pigeons flapping, the hot-dog vendor on the corner shouting at someone for not paying. Life, noisy and chaotic and oblivious.

You weave through it, light on your feet, ignoring the occasional stares you get, maybe for the way you move, or the look in your eye. Maybe because you’re radiating the kind of energy that says, Touch me and die.

"They should bow," the symbiote grumbles. "Pathetic worms. None worthy."

You roll your eyes internally. You’re not exactly in the mood to start eating people before 10 a.m (Probably.)

The air is cool and crisp, and your lungs ache a little with how alive it feels. The world vibrates around you, buzzing like a live wire.

It’s intoxicating.

The campus gates loom ahead, ivy-draped stone and wrought iron, and you slip inside with the crowd, letting the tide of students pull you along.

You pass a group of freshmen loitering near the fountain, giggling about something stupid. You don’t even glance at them.

You pass a girl on her phone, walking too slow, practically begging to be shoved into the bushes. You twitch, just a little, fingers curling at your side.

"Trip her," the symbiote urges gleefully. "No one will know. Tiny shove. Funny noise."

You choke on a laugh and keep walking, biting your lip hard enough to taste blood.

No.

Not yet.

Focus.

Your building comes into view, modern glass and concrete sandwiched between old brick.

You pick up your pace automatically, feeling your pulse ratchet up, not with fear, but something else.

You can feel him.

You don’t know how, but you can.

Somewhere inside that building, Mark Grayson is breathing the same air you are.

And you're about to walk right into him.

You push the door open hard enough that it bangs against the wall and strut inside, your boots echoing off the linoleum.

The hallway is crowded with students, buzzing with that pre-class energy, last-minute cramming, coffee chugging, half-asleep conversations.

You thread through them easily, feeling like a shark gliding through a school of fish.

Your backpack thumps against your spine with each step. The symbiote purrs under your skin, vibrating with excitement.

"Soon," it promises. "Soon we will see him. Crush him. Maybe eat his spleen."

You snort under your breath, drawing a few weird looks from students passing by.

You don’t care.

You spot Dr. Connors' lecture hall ahead, Room 205, the heavy doors already propped open. The scent of old paper, stale coffee, and blackboard chalk hits you as you step inside. You make a beeline for your usual seat, third row, aisle seat, easy access for quick exits or dramatic storm-outs.

You sling your backpack onto the floor and drop into the chair with a muted grunt, crossing your arms over your chest.

Your knee bounces with restless energy. You tap your fingers against your thigh. You roll your shoulders like you’re warming up for a fight.

Every part of you buzzes.

And then, you feel it. The shift in the air. The prickle at the back of your neck.

You don’t have to look. You know.

Mark’s here.

Mark's close.

You let yourself glance toward the door casually, like it costs you nothing, and there he is.

Mark Grayson.

Golden boy.

Traitor.

He’s standing just inside the lecture hall, backpack slung over one shoulder, tugging awkwardly at the strap with one hand.

He looks the same and somehow worse.

Hair a little messy.

Eyes tired.

Mouth pressed into a thin, worried line.

You wonder, distantly, if he lost sleep last night.

If he’s been thinking about you.

If he even knows what he did.

The symbiote recoils violently, rage snapping through you like a whip.

"We hate him," it snarls, voice vibrating your bones."Hurt him. Break him. Bury him."

You clench your hands into fists against your thighs, breathing slow and deep, willing yourself to stay still.

Not yet.

Mark’s eyes scan the lecture hall, looking for you, you realize, and the second he spots you, something flickers across his face.

Regret.

Relief.

Fear.

Good.

He should be afraid.

You tip your chin up, meeting his gaze head-on.

You let him see it.

The new thing living behind your eyes.

You let him feel it.

He swallows visibly.

Takes a hesitant step toward you.

You lean back in your chair, crossing one leg casually over the other, your mouth curling into a slow, dangerous smile.

You’re not going to run.

You’re not going to cry.

You’re not going to beg.

Not this time.

This time, you’re going to make him wish he never met you.

And the symbiote hums in your blood, delighted. "Good. He will learn. Pain is a wonderful teacher."

You settle deeper into your chair as Dr. Connors begins setting up the projector at the front of the room.

The first slide flashes up, "Introduction to Vertebrate Anatomy,” and the chatter slowly dies down.

Mark hesitates a beat longer, then trudges toward his seat.

Two rows behind you.

Close enough that you can hear him breathe.

Close enough that you could crush his heart in your hand if you wanted to.

You smile to yourself.

Sharp.

Slow.

Terrible.

You don’t storm out of class like everyone else.

You stay sitting until the last stragglers trickle out, notebooks shoved half-open into backpacks, shoes creaking against the tile.

You feel Mark twitching behind you, anxious energy nearly sizzling off him.

You could’ve gotten up.

You could’ve left him behind.

You could’ve made things easy.

You don’t.

You wait.

You make him come to you.

You don’t wait for him to catch up as you exit the building.

You don’t even peek over your shoulder.

You just go, steady, purposeful, like the full weight of the sun pushing down on you isn’t enough to slow you down.

The courtyard yawns out wide and vacant.

A few people cross it in leisurely loops, heads bent to their phones, bags dangling, lost in their own lives.

You glide toward the old tree without thinking.

The location you used to wait for him.

The spot you used to think meant anything.

You stop.

Drop your bag at your feet.

Cross your arms and lie back against the trunk, the bark scratching harsh through your jacket.

You wait.

You feel him draw to a halt a few feet away, hear the scratch of his shoes on the sidewalk, the way he holds his breath like he's ready to run a marathon he knows he's too fatigued to complete.

He hesitates long enough that the stillness grows.

Long enough that you know he’s second-guessing saying anything at all.

You tilt your head slightly.

You don't say anything.

You don't make things easy.

Finally… finally, he shoves his hands further into the pockets of his jacket and scrapes the words out of his throat.

"I slept with someone else."

The words hit like a punch thrown underwater.

Slow. Heavy. Delayed.

You don’t move.

You don’t blink.

You feel it, someplace deep, something little and fragile shredding, but you crush it before it can emerge.

Instead, you let a slow, languid smile tug at your mouth. The type of smile that says you don’t matter anymore. The sort that tastes like blood and burns on the way out.

"Good for you," you remark, voice sweet enough to rot your teeth. "Must've been dying without someone to hold your hand through your midlife crisis."

Mark flinches. You watch the way his jaw twitches, the way his shoulders hunch like he’s trying to make himself smaller.

"It wasn’t like that," he replies hurriedly, tripping over it. "You weren’t-"

He shakes his head, digging the heel of his hand into his forehead. "I was just—It reminded me of you. It just—it felt like you."

You murmur beneath your breath. Low. Careless. Sharp enough to cut.

"Guess I’m pretty easy to replace," you muse. "Good to know."

Mark's fists clench inside his pockets, his jaw clenching till the muscle there jumps. He breathes through his nose, quick and rapid, like he’s trying not to shout. You push off the tree with an effortless little tilt of your hips. Saunter a step closer, slow and predatory.

You stop near enough that you could reach out and touch him if you wanted to, but you don’t.

You smile broadly, teeth gleaming.

Predatory.

Fake.

"You weren’t the only one, you know," you say. Light. Airy. Like it’s gossip over coffee. Like it doesn’t taste like ash in your tongue.

Mark blinks.

Hard.

Like he didn’t hear you correctly.

"You what?" It croaks out of him before he can stop it.

You shrug, loose and lazy, like your skin’s too large for you now.

"Yeah," you say breezily. "I slept with someone too."

Mark simply stares. Frozen. Like you kicked his legs out from under him and he’s still standing out of pure tenacity. You see it all ripple over his face, uncertainty, disbelief, something twisting nasty in his lips like he’s tasting something horrible.

"You...?" he says, voice trembling on the word. "You—slept with someone?"

You can see him attempting to compute it. Trying to cram the version of you he knew into this new shape you’re wearing like a second skin. It doesn’t fit. It doesn’t make sense. Because he knows you. Knew you.

Careful. Slow. Terrified of surrendering your heart to someone who wouldn’t catch it. Terrified of being touched like you were something anybody could just have.

He was your first. Your only.

And now you’re standing here throwing your body away like spare change. At least, that’s what he believes. That’s what you want him to think.

You grin at him, relaxed and confident, like the agony rattling through your ribs isn’t sharp enough to rip you from the inside out.

"No strings attached," you add, voice dripping mock-sweet. "Door’s always open, Grayson. You get lonely, you know where to find me."

Mark looks like he’s about to be sick.

His hands tremble at his sides, powerless and useless, like he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or hit something.

"You’re not-" He cuts himself off, tossing his head hard enough that his hair flops into his eyes. "You’re not like that," he replies finally, voice rough. "You never—you’re not that type of person."

You laugh low in your voice, moving back, pushing the air between you taut. "Maybe I am now," you remark, shrugging one shoulder. " Or maybe you just never knew me at all."

Mark flinches again, his whole body recoiling if the words impacted harder than a fist.

You hoist your backpack up over your shoulder, slow and deliberate, letting the strap groan loud in the solitude.

"You wanted freedom with Eve," you say over your shoulder as you start to go. "Guess you got it."

Mark’s breath catches, you hear it, harsh and tortured, but he doesn't move. He doesn’t chase you. He just stands there, stranded, disoriented, like someone took the earth out from under him.

You keep walking.

Fast.

Hard.

You don’t look back.

You don’t slow down.

You don’t let him notice the way your throat tightens.

The city cacophony rushes up around you - traffic horns, a bus screaming to a stop, laughing spilling out of a coffee shop door. You let it consume you completely.

"Good," the symbiote says, purring inside you like a delighted beast. "No strings. No pain. Just power."

You breathe through your teeth, your hands squeezing so hard within your sleeves your knuckles ache.

You keep moving.

Step after step.

Until you’re not sure if you’re walking away from him or from the bits of yourself you can’t stand to carry anymore.

The city breathes below you, quick, shallow, shattered.

The lights paint the horizon, oozing neon across the muddy pavement, reflecting in the potholes you swing over without a second thought.

You’re not wearing your suit anymore.

You’re wearing it.

You.

The symbiote clings close to your body, humming low and steady under your skin, a second heartbeat you didn’t ask for but don't want to give up.

It moves with you, anticipates you, filling up the crevices you didn’t realize were breaking wide open.

You don’t feel tired.

You don’t feel frightened.

You don’t feel anything you can name.

The city yells below.

And you howl with it.

Your webs lash out without hesitation, burrowing into the brick, the concrete, the steel, carrying you faster and faster between the buildings.

You don't move like you used to.

You don't swing for efficiency, for rhythm, for elegance.

You swing like you’re trying to rip the air open.

Like you’re trying to rip through the whole damn universe and see if there’s anything left within.

You fall hard on a rooftop and the surface splits under your feet.

You don’t care.

You roll through it, your body absorbing the shock with horrifying ease.

Another howl cuts the night apart, piercing, urgent, coming from someplace below.

You move before you think.

Instinct.

Blood.

Hunger.

You descend into the alley like a blade, hitting the ground so fast the air breaks out around you in a stinging shockwave.

There’s a mugging underway, three men around a guy half their size, his backpack already taken off and spread over the ground.

The first one notices you.

He doesn’t have time to yell.

You grab him by the front of his jacket and push him into the wall hard enough that the masonry crumbles around his head. He sinks in a boneless heap.

The second grabs a pistol, you shoot a web out, pulling it from his fingers with enough power that it spins into the garbage heap down the lane. Before he can even react, you’re on him, fist crashing into his stomach, then his jaw, the shatter of bone deafening in the small space.

The third one runs. You let him run three steps before your web hooks his ankle, pulling him off his feet and sending him falling face-first into the pavement. He doesn’t get back up.

You stand there, breathing gently, feeling the suit pulse with you, feeling the symbiote hum low and content inside your bones.

The person they were mugging looked at you with wide, fearful eyes. He says something. You don't catch it. Maybe thank you, maybe please don't murder me, maybe something else completely.

You don’t wait around to find out.

You shoot another web and throw yourself back into the blackness.

The city sprawls out below you, loud, fractured, shining, a live creature breathing heavy and hot beneath the thick night sky.

The roofing under your feet is damaged and collapsing.

The wind blades sharp over the ledges, bearing the bitter stink of smoke and oil and too many unfulfilled promises.

You squat near the edge, the black symbiote suit smooth and alive on your skin, breathing with you, pulsating with every violent heartbeat.

You should go home.

You should stop.

But stopping would imply thinking and you can’t.

You won’t.

The air changes. You feel it. A tremor over the surface of your skin.

You glance up, languid, lethargic, like you don’t care.

Pretending you don’t feel the way your chest tightens.

And there he is.

Invincible.

Blue, black, and yellow floating across the scarred sky, too clean, too brilliant, cutting through the dark like he still believes he can cure any of this.

He stops when he sees you, hovering stiff and uncomfortable over the rooftop, his silhouette rigid, muscles clenched like he’s preparing for a fight he doesn't understand.

You straighten from your squat, rolling your shoulders back, feeling the symbiote ripple silky across your arms.

Tendrils curling lazily against the air.

You smile behind your mask, slow and broad, and yell up to him, your voice ripping the night open clean.

"Didn’t think you’d run off so fast after last night, handsome."

You see it hit him like a slap.

Like a bullet he wasn’t ready to take.

Invincible stutters midair, jolting violently, fists squeezing hard at his sides, boots kicking slightly like he forgot how to hover correctly for a second.

You tilt your head at him, casual, mocking, and take a leisurely step closer to the edge of the roof.

"No morning after text?" you add, mimicking a pout under your mask. "No ‘you were amazing, let’s do it again sometime’?"

The symbiote changes around you, responding to your pulse, your coiled amusement. You let it.

Invincible’s mouth opens, closes, opens again. Nothing comes out.

You see the perplexity flashing over his face, the way his brows knit together, the way his lips twists like he can’t quite find the words.

Like something about this doesn’t match the way he thought it would.

You let the moment stretch taut between you.

Then you come closer again, the black suit glinting under the broken city light.

You tap a clawed finger against your masked chin, pretending to think.

"You were good, y'know," you add, lighter now, joking. "Real good."

Invincible blinks sharply behind his googles, as if you physically hit him. You can practically feel the blood racing to his cheeks, the rigid pull of his shoulders, the way his breathing goes all wrong, harsh and shallow.

You smile widely under the mask. It’s too simple. Too brutal. Too much.

Because the fact is, you don’t know. You have nothing to compare him to. You’ve only ever had Mark. He's the only one who's ever touched you like that. He's the only one you've ever devoted yourself to.

And speaking it now, acting like you’re some worldly, flippant, unbothered woman, makes something little and frail twist and shatter inside your chest.

But you don’t let it show.

You bury it deep.

Invincible shakes his head again, hard and frantic. You notice the way his fists clench and unclench uselessly at his sides, the way his lips pushes into a narrow, wretched line.

"I—I’m not—" he mutters, voice strained, raw. "I’m not doing that again."

You cross your arms casually, letting the black suit stretch with you, relaxed and teasing. You let your voice curl soft and syrupy around the following words.

"That’s a shame," you purr. "You were...memorable."

Mark's face twists, anguish and guilt oozing through the gaps in his mask like you just plunged a knife into his ribs and twisted it slowly.

He glances away fast, brushing a palm over his mouth like he’s trying to erase your sound off his skin.

"I made a mistake," he whispers, low and furious, like the words taste like poison. "I’m not that type of person. I’m not doing that again."

You murmur softly beneath your breath, lazy, thoughtless, feeling the way the wind rushes past you, cold and nasty against your mask.

You bounce back on your heels, letting your weight settle comfortably onto one hip. The black suit gleams in the neon flood from the streetlights.

"You keep telling yourself that, hero," you say, half-laughing. "You’ll believe it eventually."

Mark’s whole body stiffens. You're ready to swing away, leave him there bleeding in the air, when the darkness rips open with a screech.

A scream. Gunfire.

Sharp and real, slashing the rooftop tension neatly in half.

You jerk your head toward the sound, instincts snapping taut. The symbiote surges hot and hungry under your skin, black tendrils slithering down your arms. Without thinking, you fire a web and fling yourself from the rooftop, diving into the city’s shattered belly below.

You hit the alley hard, the pavement breaking under your boots, and snap into action without losing a beat.

Three men.

Ski masks.

Guns.

A lady pressed against a wall, screaming, hands raised uselessly in defense.

You don’t hesitate.

You move.

You crash into the first man shoulder-first, sending him falling into the garbage with a terrible crunch. He doesn’t get up.

The second lifts a pistol, you whip a web around his wrist and jerk, hard enough that the bone comes out of the socket with a snap. He drops screaming, holding his worthless arm.

The third turns to run just like all the others, but you seize him by the ankle, tear him from his feet, drag him hard over the asphalt till he’s whimpering.

You descend on him.

You don’t think.

You don't plan.

You grasp the front of his jacket, haul him off the ground like he weighs nothing, and force your fist into his face.

Once. Twice. Three times. “Good riddance.”

You feel his nose split under your knuckles, blood spilling hot and slick over your fist. You hear him choke on it. You feel the way his body sags, weak, sad, in your hold. And you don't stop. You cock your hand back again, ready to cave in the rest of him.

"STOP!"

The voice smacks into you, harsh and urgent, but you recognize it.

It’s Invincible.

Just another fool who thinks he can tell you what to be.

You pause, the symbiote snarling low against your bones, enraged, but your fist hangs there, shaking.

The man in your hands groans weakly, blood spilling from his mouth onto the black of your suit.

"FINISH IT," the symbiote hisses, enraged and delicious. "KILL HIM. MAKE THEM FEAR US."

Your hand shakes.

Your breath rasps hot within your mask.

For one dreadful, scorching second, you want to.

God, you want to.

But you don’t.

You open your palm, the man crumples to the ground in a gory, quivering heap, and you push back a step, your chest heaving.

Above you, Invincible floats, and hands lifted like he’s frightened you’ll turn on him next, his face broken wide open with something too painful to define.

You look up at him, quick, sharp, nothing more than a flash of disdain.

You don't know him.

You don't owe him anything.

You fire a web without a word.

The web flies out, catches the side of a building, and you swing off into the darkness, the wind tearing at you in ravenous, shattered fingers.

Behind you, left standing in the blood-slick alley, Invincible just stares.

His fists trembling.

His mouth slightly open.

His chest heaving.

He watches you leave into the dark, feeling like he just lost something he doesn’t even realize he’s already lost.

You didn’t think you hit him that hard.

You didn’t care, either.

He deserved it.

They all did.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

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atomspidyr

lost my mind btw havent gotten his whiny face out of my head

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