Entropy
You and Peter never got along consistently. You did once upon a time, until he started blowing you off. Now two years have passed and heâs back in your life in a very different way. Will you figure out how to make amends?
warning: MDNI, NSFW, violence, angst, anti-Christian ment., mentions of sexual assault, drinking, swearing, homophobic slurs, generally a crude story so read at your own risk
reader is a bitch, Peter is an angsty bastard, Gwen is alive because they never pursued the relationship, reads in second person rather than y/n, will they wonât they, superhero AU, you get bitten at some point, etc
i do not consent to the copying or infringement of my work.
enjoy!
Chapter 1: The Number You Have Dialed
âCan we turn the music down? I can't even hear myself think," Gwen shouts. The air is buzzing with excitement as your apartment is filled with the booming sound of your go-to getting ready playlist.
You and Gwen were crammed into one bathroom, which is now an amalgamated disaster of your discarded second-choice outfits and a sickening amount of make-up products. You were anxiously dolling yourselves up for the party at Harry Osborn's house, and with the pent-up stress from school, both of you were dying to let off a little steam. With some string pulling and a little bit of luck, your apartments were situated right next to each other so you could hang out whenever your schedules allowed. It made it a lot easier for times like this, when there was a special occasion to prepare for, or you had to cram for an exam.
"Thatâs the point! Glasses or contacts?" You scream back, looking in the mirror with your glasses on, head tilted. She takes them, putting them on.
"Jesus, how are you not legally blind? If someone accidentally knocks these off of your face you're screwed,â she laughs. You snatch them back, scoffing, and give your anxious reflection a look of doubt. You always looked up to her. She was everything you wanted to be: intelligent, beautiful, caring, socially competent, loyal... you try not to get too in your head about it.
Youâve been best friends since high school, after being partnered up in basically every class freshman year. For an introvert like yourself, it was basically striking gold. She became your safe person; your designated field trip buddy, the one you would stay with during all of the extracurriculars she would pressure you into, and then someone you would make plans with outside of school. You were practically glued at the hip. That was until the beginning of sophomore year, when her brain rapidly outgrew yours and she was enrolled in university-level classes more proportionate to her intellect at the ripe age of 13.
Then began the start of your demise. Not only were you now on your own, but then she introduced her new partner, one that took the form of a gangly smart-ass, a then-teenage Peter Parker.
You were open to him at first, albeit a little bit skeptical. Your first conversations were nothing short of terse. He was awkward, always laughing at the wrong moments, cracking sarcastic comments seemingly to himself. Then again, who were you to judge? You found his strangeness kind of endearing, and once Gwen broke the ice you decided he wasnât too bad. He wasnât your friend, but he was alright enough for her. You were grateful he could keep up with her intellect, bouncing off of each otherâs unintelligible science jargon for hours, rather than you having to feign interest. It was a day for the history books when he officially took your spot as her plus one in all of those science conventions she dragged you to.
Peter was the stereotypical dork. He was the runt of the group, awkward poofy hair and nervous tics exacerbated by social interactions. It was no surprise when he started being picked on by the weekly upperclassman bully, or when girls would ask him out as a dare. You took up for him even when youâd be hit in the crossfire. You couldnât stand back and watch, especially since he was too meek to stand up for himself. He was miles smarter than everyone that made fun of him, and much kinder. You were only acquaintances, but that didn't stop his offers to walk you home even though his house was a mile in the other direction, or help you study when you were falling behind in a subject. It was only when he took you to the nurse as you sobbed in embarrassment the first time you got your period that you decided youâd be friends.
Gwen became more tied up in the internship she landed at Oscorp, so you spent more time with Peter. It became a weekend tradition to hole up in his room: many late nights spent watching scary movies trying not to throw up at the gore (or from Aunt Mayâs cooking in general) or just occupying the same space while he tinkers with some old electronic something-or-other he found, or sit on the fire escape, city-watching and talking about everything and nothing, huddling for warmth as the chill of the night set in. It was an innocent staple to fall asleep a tangled pile of limbs in his twin bed.
Over time you were struck by your feelings for him, a nagging sensation that would twist in the pit of your stomach whenever you saw his thick head of hair weaving through the halls, or heard his name, or just thought about him. It didnât help your case when he shot up in height and started growing into his features. He was always handsome, but now he was hot. You were starstruck by the six-foot skater/photographer/academic he grew into, and swore to yourself for months you were on the verge of this confessing to him, until the untimely death of his uncle Ben.
You and Gwen were at his door immediately, sharing your devastation and disbelief with Aunt May who cried into her hands at her dining room table. Peter was practically catatonic. His eyes were bloodshot and you know he had been crying that night, but he never spoke a word.
After that, your relationship with the boy vanished in front of your eyes. When you could track him down at school, he was standoffish and cynical, easily set off and even more combative. A lighthearted anecdote to ease the tension would be met with a patronizing comment. In the rapidly decreasing interactions you did have, you were convinced he would go out of his way to hurt you. Of course you forgave him, he was one of your best friends and grieving, after all, but as much as you tried to deny it, it was your Sisyphean task. You were ready to consume all of Peterâs pain along with yours, mix the sorrow and vitriol in a vial that coated the pit in your stomach. He never let you. You lost track of the countless voicemails you left, the texts that would remain unanswered, until the day you dialed his number like you always did to let him know he was being thought of, to be his tether to the world when he was only an apparition - never fully there, haunting his own life - just to be met with the automated voice saying his number was no longer in service. You had been officially cut off.
It was only you, apparently, since the fiasco with the Lizard a few weeks later only seemed to bring Peter and Gwen closer. You chalked it up to the shared loss of their father figures, since she suffered the wrath of survivor's guilt at Captain Stacyâs death. The student body was merciless as well, grilling her on what it was like to work with Spider-Man and what The Lizard looked like up close, so as much as you hated Peter now, you werenât going to impede on her limited support system when your main focus was her healing. You were just grateful she kept you by her side through it, considering Peter never gave you the chance.
âI believe it is time for us to take another shot" you exclaim, rubbing your hands together deviously once you blink your contacts in. You promptly exit the bathroom and beeline toward the kitchen to pour drinks.
"Let's maybe not go so heavy handed tonight, yeah?" She pats you on the back and you stick your tongue out.
"Are you ever gonna let me live that down? That was one time!"
âI canât believe the bartender let you could pour us our shots in the first place. But then he let you dump the bottle into people's mouths!â She snickers, continuing. âI should've stopped it when the guy next to me threw up on the counter but I'm not gonna refuse the birthday girl. That's like, a cardinal sin. But thatâs still the closest Iâve gotten to alcohol poisoning." She laughs goofily, and you swat her, sucking your teeth.
"That bartender was so sweet. Long live Ed,â you reminisce.
"Harry told me he got fired around then. It was definitely because of you," Gwen says.
You give her a knowing look. "Oh, did he? What else did Harry say, hm? Do you have him do any extra credit?" You giggle childishly, poking her. "Oh, you're so pretty and smart. And blonde. And pretty. Did I already mention that?"
Gwen's face reddens. "He also says the Uber he so generously got us is almost here. Do you have something to say about that too?"
âFair enough,â you concede, laughing. You hold your glass up. "To getting fucked up!" You welcome the burn of the shot in your chest, hoping this will ease some of your anxiety.
Harry and Gwen met through Peter, who volunteered Gwen to tutor Harry when he started falling behind in his classes. Gwenâs resulting crush was almost immediate, though she tries in vain not to make it seem so obvious. From straying conversations in their tutoring sessions he picked up on how sheltered Gwen is and decided it was his duty to take her under his wing. You can't tell if he's genuinely soft for her or if it's all part of his playboy repertoire; but even still, he teaches her about the real world. You always warn her to proceed with caution, but they were a cute balance of book smart and street smart.
To no avail, the ride over consisted of inconsolable jitters. You go over your mental checklist, making sure you didn't skip this morning's dose of meds. You didn't, but you were stuck in your nonverbal state regardless. You looked out the window, eyes tracing the traffic while Gwen continuously chattered. Sheâs animated, gesturing wildly about something you tuned out, even involving the driver in bits of the conversation.
I don't belong here. Sheâs stunning and interesting and fun. And I'm like The Duff. Fuck.
Your leg shakes more rapidly as you feel a light touch on your knee break you out of your trance.
"Hey," Gwen cuts her rant off, leaning in. "You okay?"
"Yeah," you assured, nodding your head too quickly.
She notes the faraway look in your eyes. "I don't know why you still bother lying to me. I know all of your tells, and that's one of 'em." She points, gesturing up and down at you.
You roll your eyes. "Okay. You know all. But I promise I'm fine. It's nothing a few shots can't fix."
"Good. Besides, Harry told me it should only be a few-" The driver pulls around the block and you're hit with the sudden boom of music, cars lined up with 20 something year old's stumbling up and down the street. "-people." Your heartbeat quickens, instinctively taking her hand. She looks over and gives your interlocked hand a consoling squeeze.
If the view of the street was nerve wracking, getting inside was tenfold that. You take in the grandeur of Harry's house, making you feel even more out of place. It was entirely above the tax bracket you were used to, beautiful and modern, a giant living room turned-DJ-studio and dance floor, floor to ceiling windows, two glass staircases leading up to what seemed like heaven itself... It was dizzying. The smell of sweat, alcohol and weed perfuming the room did nothing to ease that. You and Gwen shove yourself through the swaying crowd, dodging flailing limbs or men who lean in to try to talk or grab at you. You finally reach the kitchen which was by comparison surprisingly empty, give or take the odd couple making out or heavily petting within an uncomfortable vicinity. You welcome the sight of the copious amounts of alcohol that line the counters.
Gwen shakes her head. "He really outdid himself. Iâm gonna make my rounds. Shall we?"
"Well you arenât going anywhere by yourself. Stranger danger,â you retort, grabbing a shot glass. You don't like the idea of her alone, especially not with some frat boy with money to burn and his crossfaded cronies. You spot lines of what was definitely not sugar on every elevated surface and that seals it for you.
"Of course. We pace ourselves and stick together and everything will be fine.â She shifts her weight on her feet before looking around in an overly casual manner. âBy the way, I heard that Peterâs here and heâll probably be with Harry.â She looks at you, surveying for your reaction. âYou think you two can play nice tonight?â
You stifle your eye roll and nod, giving her a disingenuous smile. âSure.â You heave a sigh, your nails tinkling as you drum your fingers against the glass before downing the rest of your drink. A little more liquid courage will help you face the night.
Gwen leads the way, and you take a second to get your bearings before youâre reabsorbed by the thrums of the music. You immediately wish you were more appreciative of the solitude you had a mere few seconds ago. The preppy blonde is hard to contain, striking a conversation with everyone she stumbles over. You know the past few months of drowning in textbooks and leading internships have taken a major toll on her so you have no issue with being her babysitter. With your arm around her waist, you make it up the glass staircase you were so enamored by upon your arrival.
After what seems like a million steps and a million more people to push by, you reach a hall with Harry front and center. He looks like royalty, auburn hair highlighted like a halo under the lights. He adorns his usual aura of inescapable charisma and signature Cheshire grin, contagious enough to make you smile as well. He's about to take his turn in beer pong, being cheered on by someone who you could only assume is his partner by the way they're strategizing and uncomfortably breathing down each other's necks. His friend notices you two first, pointing.
Harry turns, face lighting up when he spots Gwen. "Hey babe, so glad you could make it. We've been holding down the table all night. Now I have my good luck charm to help me really kick your asses." He taunts his opponents at the other end of the table and is met by friendly shit-talking that becomes indiscernible when you notice Peter.
He is here after all.
Harryâs friend, a boy of thin stature and glassy eyes introduces himself as Jacob, you think he said. You try to remain pleasant as he showers you in twenty questions that he doesn't wait for you to answer. You watch Gwen and Peter in your peripheral, tongue in cheek.
It was similar to that of a petulant child, your feelings about their interactions. From what you can see theyâre talking shoulder to shoulder and Peter is slightly leaned down to hear as she's gesturing vaguely. He has two open vodka bottles in his hands and he polishes the remaining quarter off of the first before setting it down on the wet bar behind them and starting on the second, head tilted back. Gwen swats him in disapproval and you try to read her lips as she scolds him.
Whatever she says hold no weight, because he's still chugging when he pulls her into him by the hem of her shirt seconds before an unidentified partygoer bulldozes through their path, blowing chunks into a vase that was definitely more valuable than you as they watch - her with concern, Peter with disgust. You donât know how he possibly couldâve seen the guy coming when he was preoccupied filling his nasty mouth with alcohol. You force yourself to tune back in to Jacobâs droning. He seems nice, except for the fact that he could barely slur a sentence together, and you could have probably swapped out with four other girls without him noticing.
"I'm calling celebrity shot! Gwen, get in here." Harry curtsies with the ball in his hand, head bowed.
"Madame."
She rolls her eyes but her blush is almost immediate. "You are so ridiculous," she giggles.
"And you are so beautiful," he stage whispers.
You feel a stab of envy that gets locked away before it even registers. You use the break in conversation to excuse yourself, politely waving when you bump into some of your classmates. Once you secure an empty spot on the couch a safe distance away, you start to feel the effects of the alcohol working its way into you. Supervising Gwen becomes a gradually overexerting task once you feel your body start to buzz. At least you werenât anxious now, your body relaxing, swaying naturally to the rhythm of the music. You continue watching the game, cheering as Gwen makes her shot, when you feel a weight on the seat next to you. You're hit by what smelled like campfire smoke and mint.
Is there a fire pit here? What wouldn't be here? This place is emongous. Gimongous...
You turn your head a fraction of an inch to locate the source, slouching dramatically when he comes into view.
"Parker."
"In the flesh," he grins, solo cup in hand.
"Unfortunately,â you grumble to yourself.
You turn to face him with a huff of annoyance, caught off-guard now that heâs up close. Your run-ins have become increasingly scarce and even less cherished over the years, so you're still acclimated to his baby face, big brown eyes and gangly limbs that somehow never failed to get in his own way. Sometime over the course of your separation the last of his youthful roundness you once adored had seemingly given way to the more angular features that sit in front of you now. His t-shirt and jeans are snug on his muscular, filled out figure. You trace the upward curve of his nose.
Such a waste of a face on the contents of such an underwhelming guy.
You hate that he's still exactly your type, maybe even shaped it; because of your history and the grievances you still have. You shake your head to yourself. You've come to terms with your taste leading you astray and tuck that part of you way down, somewhere inaccessible.
"You canât still be jealous I'm taking time away from you and your girlfriend,â he teases. His knee brushes against the bare skin of your skirt-clad thigh, and youâre not sure if youâre imagining things, if heâs testing the waters or if it was just a coincidence the way his eyes drink you in, a flicker of mischief in them. You try to read him, even though it was an ability you lost a long time ago. He's more poised, a hint of cockiness that exudes from him, sitting legs slightly open with his arm slung over the back of the couch.
"No, just sad that my best friend is still the only girl alive that feels sorry enough to talk to you. Sheâs really too kind.â You pout with fake sympathy.
He grins. "Youâre telling me. Sheâs gotta be some kinda miracle worker to put up with you for longer than five minutes. I know I canât."
His comment stings only dully, the alcohol acting as an armor over you. You purse your lips. "Color me shocked, you canât last longer than five minutes with a girl," you retaliate childishly, your mouth faster than your brain.
"Canât last-" he cuts himself off with a laugh, the same dopey smile you used to daydream about lighting up his face. "Is that where your mind goes? If I didn't know any better I'd think you were interested." His cheeks dimple as he elbows you.
"Wishful thinking." You grab his cup, trying to hide the heat of annoyance flushing your face, and regret your boldness as soon as you swallow. He laughs, eyes crinkling as you splutter through coughs. "What the fuck is that?"
"Everything clear and a splash of coke. High tolerance,â he brags. âItâs not for amateurs."
âOoh, it's not for amateurs,â you mock nasally under your breath. Not your best jab, but youâre still holding back coughs and your throat burns too much to think right now anyway.
âI forgot how witty you are.â He takes the cup back and chugs the rest, wiping a drop off of his lip. Your eyes follow and he notices, dark eyebrows raised, making you look away quickly. Next to you he pours more from the unmarked flask he had nestled in his pocket.
"What he meant to say was that he can't be around anyone for that long or he wouldn't meet his monthly quota for the people he abandons." You forgot that it wasn't Gwen sitting on the other side of you, expecting to be met with her annoyance at your bickering rather than the stranger you accidentally involve.
"I don't even fuckin' know you guys," the partygoer responds before getting up to leave. Peter laughs and you cross your ams, slinking into the couch. Your back and forth stops upon getting an actual look at Gwen, who is currently stumbling over to where you two were seated. Her complexion is sickly washed out, and you imagine a scenario involving projectile vomit, your own stomach turning at the thought.
âMan, I told her not to take the jell-o shots,â he mutters.
You stand as fast as your drunk body allows, stumbling in the process, and Peter gets up as well, reflexively putting his hand on the small of your back to stabilize you. His fingers nimbly fix the strap of your top that started to come off of your shoulder. The contact sends a rush through your body and you shoo him away, hearing his hushed apology.
"I think I took those shots too fast," Gwen groans, watery eyes wandering.
"Yeah, you probably did. C'mon, let's get you to a bathroom.â
"I got her,â Peter says, his head leaned down for you to hear. Heâs so close and you ignore the goosebumps that raise, shooting him a disapproving look. âWhat? Iâm not completely incompetent,â he jokes, crossing his arms. âBesides, you always had the weaker stomach.â
âSo you can do your little Houdini vanishing bullshit? Just stay here. Iâd rather feel sick than have you leave her on her own again.â You glare up at him, a flash of hurt registering across his face, leaving as quickly as it came.
"C'mon, please," Gwen tugs at you.
"Then you better go now, I give her 30 seconds. Bathroom is down the hall to the left. You can call me - you know, if - if you need help." He ruffles his hair nervously.
You squint, critical. "Just keep an eye on Harry.â Youâd rather die than let him know youâre taking his advice but mentally youâre counting down from 30, Gwen in tow as if sheâs a ticking time bomb.
"Shhh, I got you, it's okay," you coo, sitting on the edge of a porcelain tub with your chin in your hand. Your other hand plays with the locks of her golden hair as she hunches over the toilet.
You're lost in thought, tuning out her retching. You havenât heard Peter stutter since sophomore year. It was strange to see the same traits from the first half of high school make their appearance. He almost behaved like your friend again, the one you knew before the omnipotent presence of Benâs death clouded him, carved itself into hollowness in his eyes, the sag in his shoulders.
He never picked up your calls when you still cared enough to try to reach out, so his offer, although Gwen would surely misconstrue as a kind gesture, is nothing more to you than a slap in the face. Especially since he went out of his way to change his number and bar you from his life. Unless he was offering to give you his number? You were riddled with confusion in this hundred thousand dollar bathroom, your thoughts continuing to overlap a mile a minute. He always messes with your head.
You continue to replay your interactions: whatever that was on the couch, him whispering in your ear. Perhaps you were just touch starved, or worse, a seedling of your teenaged affection still lived on inside of you. It was hard to deny yourself the satisfaction youâd get from finally getting even, degrading him, stripping him of any trace of haughtiness or arrogance and for him to finally be knocked off of his pedestal. Your drunkenness emboldens you, your daydream evolving salaciously. You imagine what a whirlwind he would be, how it would feel to sink your teeth inâŠ
Gwen groans, untangling you from your dissociation. "Okay, I feel a lot better now. Like, I could do another round better."
Your eyebrows furrow together, laughing. "Hm. Why donât we wait a little bit?" Scanning the bathroom, you lock in on the giant bottle of mouthwash. "I think this is our first step, I'll do it with you out of solidarity, and then we can get back out and dance. Does that sound good?"
Her eyes light up and she nods vigorously. "Deal." Gwen swishes her mouth as she hands you the cap of the bottle to do the same.
"Oh fuck," you cough. She turns to look at you, cheeks still full and swishing, looking at you questioningly. "I just swallowed it." Gwen spits everywhere and you grip onto each other, swaying as you laugh.
After haphazardly cleaning the mess, you head back out, trudging downstairs to the dance floor hand in hand. You make your way to a further corner so youâre still able to hear each other without screaming and start to dance. Her hands are on your hips, and you hear someone whistle but brush it off. In a crowd of more than fifty it canât be for you two.
"Hey girls, name's Paul." You look at the perpetrator, who approaches with too much enthusiasm. You thought wrong.
"Hey Paul! Not interested,â you reply, scrunching your nose at Gwen, and she laughs, still dancing. It's not that he was unattractive, but he wasn't your type. He was too scruffy, rough. His presence was commanding as he loomed over the both of you, dark shaggy hair brushing the collar of his practically unbuttoned shirt, exposing the hair on his chest. His energy was frightening rather than something that lured you in. The subconscious part of your mind flashes to soft honey eyes.
"Whatever. Fuckin' dykes."
You bristle at this. "The fuck did you just say?" The indignance in your voice causes Gwen to look over.
âDonât bother,â she responds with a dismissive wave.
"Oh that caught your attention, did it? I just call it like I see it." Paul steps closer to you, reeking of cigarettes and alcohol. You seethe, not breaking eye contact.
âShe is beautiful, isnât she?â You purr, playing up the theatrics. You grab her by her belt loop. âBut yeah, weâre absolutely carpet munchers. What do you think gave it away, babe?â You grab her and firmly plant a kiss, âPaulâ still watching. Gwenâs eyes are wide in shock before she closes them, becoming pliant against you. Heâs grabbed by someone you donât recognize and stumbles away. âJesus, hope he fucks off now. Sorry.â
âDonât mention it. If my options were between frenching you or him, that would be an easy choice.â She laughs, reapplying her lip gloss before holding out her hand to dance again. You lose yourself back into the music, the opening beats to Hypnotize starting to play.
You hear an amused voice behind you. "That was almost convincing.â You turn to see Harry, happy-go-lucky as always, poking fun at Gwen before he looks at you. âVery impressive strategy. Looks like you had it handled before I could even get over here.â
You smile, coyly shrugging off his praise. âDonât worry, she's all yours.â
Peterâs a wallflower that Harry tries and fails to pry to the dancefloor, settling on choreographically puppeteering his arms instead. His presence is usually a thorn in your side, but you pay no mind. It was nice to be recognized for taking care of your friend for once. Maybe Peter will back off and youâll finally get the recognition you deserve. You feel happiness bloom in your chest at the thought.
You bite back a laugh as Harry begins to serenade her.
I can fill you with real millionaire shit, escargot, my car go one-sixty swiftly, wreck it buy a new one-
After a few more songs and more drinks than necessary, youâre losing your balance and covered in sweat. Your dance circle has completely devolved into chaos. Gwen is piggyback riding Harry, whoâs desperately hanging onto her wriggling body for dear life as she spins you. The floor underneath you is slick from cheers-ing and spilling drinks so many times and you accidentally slip, your reflexes too slow to catch yourself. Your hand is still in hers when you fall, accidentally dragging them down with you. The three of you giggle like children, too weak to move until you feel Gwen's hands under your arms, hoisting you up to stand. You feel like a scruffed kitten and that makes you laugh more. You make sure everyone is okay, fanning yourself.
âIâm gâna get some air,â you tell them breathlessly. You hear Gwenâs voice telling you not to go far before youâre off on your venture back upstairs. It made more sense in your intoxicated mind to go up rather than outside, since youâre probably more vulnerable on the street. With how directionally challenged you are, going alone was a bad idea regardless. You got more than an eyeful of naked couples you accidentally walked in on in your hunt for oxygen that wasnât tainted with smoke or sweat, and the further you wandered from your starting point the more your journey through the maze of hallways felt ominous. You stray deeper into the darkness, unsure of what else youâll come across.
