Closer than Venom (Slimecicle Spiderman AU!)
Slimecicle x reader
Pairing: Charlie (Slimecicle) x Reader
Synopsis: You and Charlie have been inseparable since high school—best friends, study partners, and maybe something more… until he starts pulling away. By the time you both make it to MIT, he’s built walls you can’t climb: avoiding your touch, dodging hangouts, and showing up with bruises and excuses that don’t add up.
When a campus lockdown traps you in your dorm and Spider-Man himself crashes through your window, you’re faced with an impossible truth—your best friend has been hiding more than feelings. But when Charlie finally admits the reason he’s kept his distance, you realize the one thing he’s feared most… was never a danger to you at all.
Genre: Spiderman! AU, Friends to lovers, fluff, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, banter & awkward tenderness, humor
T/W: cursing?
Lenght: 4.7K
A/N: def wrote this instead of working on the next chapter of the current fic but I wanted to put something out for my charlie lovers in honor of his birthday! (even though I didn't finish it till 3:45am the next day...it still counts. I am a spiderman DWEEB and with the new movie in filming this was just heavy on my mind anyways. hope you enjoy, its not proof read lol oh well.
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The day you and Charlie found out you’d both been accepted to MIT is carved into your memory.
Nervousness gnawed at you as you stared at the thick envelope in your hands, your name printed across the front like it was mocking you.
Charlie stood shoulder-to-shoulder with you, his own envelope clutched in one hand, his grin equal parts excitement and terror.
“Okay,” he said, voice wavering just enough to make you smile. “Ready?”
You thought you might vomit, but you nodded anyway.
Charlie started the count. “One…”
You swallowed hard, knuckles white around the paper. “Two…”
“Three!” you both exclaimed, fumbling to tear them open.
To be fair, you’d already known Charlie was in-he was a genius (most of the time), the kind of smart you didn’t have to work for. You’d always admired that about him.
You, on the other hand, had been terrified. Math, science-it had never been easy for you. Charlie had carried you through AP classes, tutoring you late into the night, explaining things in ways that made sense to you and you alone.
And now you were frozen, staring at the bold letters:
We are pleased to offer-
“I got in!” Charlie’s voice overtook your senses, bright and unfiltered.
Before you could speak, he was pulling you into a hug, laughter and half-shouted words spilling from him-then he froze mid-celebration. “Wait, did you-”
You just smiled and nodded, and that was all it took for him to yell again, hugging you even tighter. You both laughed like idiots, clinging to each other in disbelief.
The rest of the day was a blur of slurped Icees, way too much greasy pizza, and playing whatever video game felt celebratory enough.
By the time the clock crept past 1 a.m., Charlie stretched and sighed. “I should probably head home.”
You smirked. “Finally. Thought you’d never leave.”
He scoffed, eyes glinting as he bumped your shoulder. “Oh, sorry. Forgot you need your beauty sleep.”
“Duh,” you said, nose scrunching with your grin. “How else am I supposed to look cute on our first day at MIT if I don’t start now?”
Charlie rolled his eyes and tugged on his jacket. “You’ll look cute either way…” he muttered.
“Huh? What was that?”
His face went red instantly. “Nothing! Just-uh-I’ll see you Monday?”
You walked him to the door. “Goodnight, Charlie. Be careful.”
____
You don’t see Charlie on Monday, to your dismay.
It worries you more than you’d like to admit. You spend the whole day firing off texts between classes, barely focusing enough to scribble down notes, just moving with the current of bodies in the hall.
Nothing. Not even a read receipt.
He’s not there Tuesday, either.
By the time Wednesday rolls around, you’re half-distractedly spinning the combination on your locker when you spot him, standing a few feet away at his own. Your chest floods with relief.
“Charlie!”
He jumps like you just shouted in his ear, alarm flashing in his eyes. It makes you slow down a little as you approach.
“You okay? You seem a little…” Your gaze sweeps over him. He’s pale, clammy, shoulders tense like a cornered animal. “Sweaty,” you finally decide.
Charlie gives a quick, awkward laugh, eyes darting to the passing students, never quite meeting yours. “I’m fine. Just came down with something.”
“You never text me back,” you say, frowning.
Normally, when Charlie’s sick, he bombards you with pitiful updates, pictures of himself bundled in three blankets, captions like sickest boy alive, requests for soup delivery.
Not this time.
He clears his throat. “Right, sorry. I was just… really under the weather.”
Still, he won’t look at you, and your nerves tighten in your chest.
“Hey-” You reach for his arm.
Charlie flinches back like you burned him, knocking his head hard into the open locker door. The clang makes you freeze, hand still outstretched, eyes wide.
Your mouth opens, but no words come out.
He stares at you for a beat, panic written all over him, then mutters something about being late for class and bolts, leaving you standing there in the middle of the hallway, hurt and confused.
____
Charlie does an exponential job of avoiding you for the next few weeks-your final weeks of high school.
You still get the occasional “hey” in the hallway, you’re still partnered in AP Chem, and every now and then he throws you a half-hearted joke. But it’s not the same.
There are no more after-school hangouts. No sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by textbooks, laughing at stupid videos. No marathon gaming sessions where he insists he’s “letting you win” even though you both know he’s not.
Every time you ask to hang out, he has an excuse.
“Sorry, I’ve got chores.” “Sorry, I’ve got practice.” “Practice for what?” “Uh-chess club?” “Chess club denied you at the beginning of the year.” “Right… uh, I meant checkers.” “That’s not a real club.”
It would be funny if it didn’t sting so much.
Then, almost out of nowhere, right as the local news is buzzing about some spider-like hero swinging around town, Charlie’s back. Not completely, but enough to feel like a cruel tease.
He’s hanging out again, only flaking sometimes. He’s cracking jokes like before. You’re doing homework together again.
But for some reason, there’s more space between you than ever.
No more lingering glances when you make him laugh. No more casual nudges when he’s trying to tease you. And definitely no more late afternoons lying on his bed while you play with his hair, the two of you talking about nothing and everything.
It’s all gone.
And you don’t know what you did wrong.
It’s eating you alive.
____
Graduation comes and goes.
You’d been convinced this summer would be different. You and your best friend/longtime crush, getting into your dream college? That was a sign from the universe to finally confess, right?
But then Charlie started acting like this, and you just… don’t know anymore.
You see him on and off over the summer. He comes in spurts-like he can only handle being around you in small doses. Hell, sometimes he just leaves in the middle of hanging out, vanishing without warning and leaving you alone in a café or wherever you’d gone together.
It’s getting on your nerves.
_____
The only thing the news ever seems to talk about anymore is the green-suited Spider-Man, notorious now for saving the city on an almost weekly basis. You’re intrigued, and you’ve spent a lot of the time Charlie isn’t around watching videos, interviews, and any shaky bystander footage you can get your hands on.
What fascinates you most is his webs-how strong they are, how they seem to incapacitate even the most dangerous criminals.
A scientist named Dr. Miles Warren recently got hold of a strand, and that’s the video you’re glued to when Charlie walks into your room.
“Hey-”
“Shhhh!” You throw up a finger without looking at him.
On-screen, Dr. Warren explains that chemical tests revealed a paralytic compound coating the silk. In small doses, it numbs the skin and slows muscle response. In large enough amounts, absorbed through exposed skin, it causes complete temporary paralysis, leaving the target unconscious within minutes. The compound seems to break down harmlessly after a few hours; convenient for when police arrive to make the arrest.
“Whatcha watching?” There’s a lilt in Charlie’s voice-forced casual-that makes you glance at him.
“This scientist got hold of one of Spider-Man’s webs.”
Charlie’s eyes widen just enough to catch before he stutters, “O-oh. That’s… uh… cool.”
You hum in agreement, focused back on the screen, while Charlie drags a chair over. He sits-not beside you, but a deliberate foot or two back, like he’s making sure your elbows can’t possibly bump. You can feel the gap like a cold draft.
“What’s he saying about it?” Charlie asks, that same not-quite-natural lilt still in his voice.
You pop a handful of Cheez-Its in your mouth before replying. “Apparently the webs are venomous. That’s why the bad guys are always knocked out when the cops find them.”
Charlie hums, and you catch the quick glint of something in his eyes. “Is there a way to stop them from being venomous? Like… an antidote or something?”
You snort. “Why would you want that? It’s so cool.”
_______
It’s when you start at MIT that the real weird stuff begins.
The last month of summer, Charlie was a ghost. By then, you’d almost gotten used to it; though “used to it” didn’t mean you liked it.
On the first day of class, you’re nervously fiddling with your notebook when the door opens. Charlie walks in.
If you could even call it Charlie.
You do a double take as he heads your way. It hadn’t been that long since you’d last seen him, but maybe just long enough to notice the difference.
Charlie is… buff now.
He wasn’t out of shape before, but this? This was peak hot nerd territory-lean muscle under his t-shirt, shoulders broader, jaw sharper.
You’re in the middle of cussing yourself out for openly ogling him (along with half the other women in the room) when he smiles and sits next to you, leaving that same careful gap between you that had become second nature.
“Hey,” he says, easy and casual.
You sputter like a fish. “Hey? Who are you?”
Charlie laughs. “What do you mean?”
“I mean-” you hiss, glaring at the girls still sneaking glances his way as you lean in to whisper, “What the fuck kind of bimbo potion did you drink?”
Charlie smirks. “Bimbo? Really? I’ve just been… working out, that’s all.”
The hesitation makes your eyebrow twitch. Your mouth runs ahead of your brain. “Really? So the gym is what you’ve been ditching me for all this time?”
Charlie winces, the smile slipping. That invisible wall between you seems to inch higher, thicker.
“I-” he starts, searching your eyes for something.
But the professor claps his hands at the front of the room. “Okay! Everyone!”
You glance toward the board, but you can still feel Charlie’s eyes on you.
--
The next thing you notice about Charlie (aside from the new muscle) is his reflexes.
You and Charlie somehow ended up with the exact same schedule, which is both a blessing and a curse. More time with him… but also more opportunities for him to dodge you. And now, his disappearing acts are starting to bleed into his grades.
The two of you are holed up in the library, bleary-eyed and half-dead, trying to finish these stupid papers.
With a sigh, you push back from the table and grab the oversized reference book you’ve been using.
You wander a few aisles over, the tall bookcases swallowing you up. Balancing on your toes, you half-heartedly shove the book toward its high shelf slot.
It doesn’t go in.
Instead, it tilts forward, gravity taking over, and now it’s falling straight at your face.
You brace for impact.
But it never comes.
Blinking, you find Charlie standing closer than he’s been in months, one hand gripping the book an inch from your nose. You didn’t even hear him approach.
“Uh-you okay?” he asks, sliding the book neatly into place before immediately stepping back again, the space between you snapping back like a rubber band.
“Uh-” you glance from the shelf to him, mind snagging on the distance he would’ve had to cover to get here in time. “Y-yeah. Thanks, Char.”
Something in his expression brightens at the nickname, and for a second you see the old Charlie again. “Just… be careful next time, okay? You’re lucky I caught it.”
You give a nervous laugh. “Yeah… lucky.”
_____
The next incident is just as bewildering.
You and Charlie are cutting across the quad between classes, the late afternoon sun making everything look warmer than it feels. He’s rambling about the lab report due next week, but your mind is elsewhere; half on the smell of kettle corn drifting from somewhere nearby, half on how he’s been acting since the semester started.
Then there’s a sharp whhhffft behind you-fast, close.
Before you can even react, Charlie’s arm shoots out.
And suddenly there’s a frisbee in his hand.
Not a fumble, not a save at the last second-just clean, precise, like he knew exactly where it would be before it got there.
It takes a second for your brain to catch up. “What the-”
He tosses it back with a quick, “Heads up!” to the group across the lawn, then turns to you with an easy smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Anyway, like I was saying about the lab-”
“No, no, hold on. How did you see that coming? It was behind me.”
He shrugs, but it’s too quick, too practiced. “Guess I’ve got good reflexes.”
“Good reflexes are for things you see, Charlie. That thing was basically a heat-seeking missile aimed at my head.”
Something flickers in his expression-too fast to name-but his shoulders tense before he forces another smile. “You’re overthinking it. I just got lucky.”
You narrow your eyes at him, suspicion pricking the back of your neck.
He takes a small step ahead, putting just enough distance between you that you have to catch up.
____
The actual concern starts two days later,
he stumbles into one of your classes looking like hell.
“Holy shit, Charlie-” you hiss as he drops into the seat beside you. The ever-present smile is still there, but his glasses are gone and there’s a split in his lip, the skin pink and swollen. “What the fuck happened to you?”
Charlie chuckles nervously. “Just, uh… got into a rumble with the bunk bed this morning. Broke my glasses, too.”
You blink, staring at him. “You what?”
“Yeah, I-uh-it’s a long story.”
It’s clearly a short story, and one he’s not telling, but you’re too tired to dig today. “Well, be more careful,” you mutter, turning toward the front.
You don’t mean to, but your eyes keep drifting back to him. He’s running his tongue over the cut-again and again, a slow drag along the inside of his lip.
Finally you snap. “Quit that-”
Charlie jumps, startled. “What-quit what?” he asks under his breath.
“That.” You narrow your eyes as he does it again. “You’re gonna reopen it.”
For a moment, he just blinks at you, caught, flustered. “O-oh. Right. Sorry.”
He keeps his eyes on the board after that, shoulders tight, but you can’t shake the feeling that you’re watching him come apart at the seams… and he’s trying like hell to keep you from seeing it.
____
The concern finally spills over on a day that’s supposed to be normal. You and Charlie are grabbing lunch before class, sitting on a bench just off the campus green.
You’re halfway through an impassioned rant about how unfairly your professor graded your research paper when Charlie freezes mid-bite of his chicken club.
At first you don’t notice, too busy poking at your own salad. But then, from the corner of your eye, you see him reach for you, hesitate, and pull his hand back like he’s thought better of it.
The shift in your attention is instant.
And the look on his face makes your pulse spike.
You’ve never seen Charlie look like this. Serious. Afraid.
His gaze darts over your shoulder, scanning the park. It’s mostly empty.
When he leans in, he’s closer than he’s been in months, voice so low you almost miss it. “Listen to me very carefully. I need you to go, run back to your dorm and don’t come out until you hear from me. Okay?”
Your mouth goes dry. “Charlie, wha-”
“Just please.” His eyes change-panic burning there now, wild and urgent. “Please listen to me. The campus will be on lockdown soon, you need to-”
BOOM.
The sound rips through the quiet air, deep and distant, like something heavy collapsing.
You and Charlie both freeze.
BOOM.
Your stomach twists. “Charlie… what is that?” you whisper, goosebumps prickling your skin.
BOOM.
“You have to go. Now.” He stands abruptly, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.
“But-”
BOOM. Closer this time.
“GO. NOW!”
You flinch at the sharpness in his tone, but your body is already moving-feet pounding in the opposite direction as Charlie.
And even as the space between you grows, it feels like your heart stays planted right where he’s standing.
___
And that’s how you got here.
The power in your dorm has been out for what feels like hours, and the darkness presses in like a thick blanket. You’re curled on the bed, knees pulled up, your phone gripped so tightly your knuckles ache. It’s the only light in the room-the only connection to the outside world.
Charlie was right. The lockdown hit just minutes after you’d bolted through your door.
You refresh the campus website again, your eyes burning from the constant cycle-site, messages, site, messages. Waiting. Hoping.
Questions tumble through your head too fast to catch. Some have answers. Most don’t.
Why lockdown? The website says “unknown threat on school grounds.”
Who’s the threat? You’d flipped the TV to the news just before the blackout. A man-Electro, he’d called himself-stood on-screen, draining the campus power grid like it was nothing.
What did Electro want? Spider-Man.
Why would Spider-Man be at MIT? No clue.
Is Charlie okay? God, you hope so.
How did he know something was coming? Some insane instinct-
Unless-
Your pulse spikes. No. No, there’s no way.
No way Charlie is-
CRASH.
You jolt, heart slamming against your ribs.
Then-a low, pained groan.
You creep toward the toward the edge of the bed, peering over it like a frightened child.
He’s there.
Spider-Man. Charlie.
The black-and-green of his suit catches the faint, storm-grey light pouring through the shattered window. Shards of glass glint around him, sticking to the fabric as he shifts.
He groans again, trying to push himself up, but his knees give, dropping him back to the floor.
“Hey-” his voice is shaky, distorted under the mask. “Sorry ’bout the-uhg-mess.”
You stand frozen, staring at the wide grey eyes of the mask.
“Are you a fucking psychopath?” It bursts out of you, sharp and too loud, voice cracking under the mix of fear and anger.
He stills. One hand clamps over his ribs, the other hanging at an odd angle, shoulder clearly injured. “Uh-I said sorry?”
You start toward him, ready to spit every question in your head-then stop. The blood seeping between his fingers is dark against the green, and the air smells faintly of singed fabric.
The fear creeps in alongside your frustration.
You turn away. “Come on. I’ll clean you up.”
“What-no! I… I didn’t mean to-”
“Charlie.” Your tone is firm.
He freezes, surprised but he doesn’t argue. Just follows you into the bathroom, his movements slow, dragging.
The only light is your phone’s flashlight, propped on the counter, cutting pale stripes across the tile. You guide him onto the toilet while you perch on the edge of the tub, first aid kit open beside you.
“Will you take off the mask?” you ask quietly.
A pause. Then he peels it away.
His hair is plastered to his forehead, face mottled with bruises, dried blood at his nose and mouth. And it’s so painfully, undeniably Charlie that your chest aches.
You open an alcohol wipe, reach for him-and he flinches, eyes flashing with something close to panic.
“You can’t!” The words are loud in the small room. Then, softer, “You can’t touch me.”
The sting of rejection twists in your chest. You let your hand fall. “Fine. Do it yourself.”
You leave him in the dim bathroom, rummage for the flashlight in your closet, and start sweeping up the glass in the bedroom. The sound of each shard clinking into a pile keeps you from thinking too hard.
The lights flick back on without warning.
You look up-and freeze.
Charlie stands in the middle of your room in nothing but boxers, his skin a patchwork of bruises and scars. His ears are red as he avoids your gaze.
“I, uh… I can’t-” he gestures over his shoulder and turns.
You suck in a breath. A deep gash runs from between his shoulder blades down to the small of his back, raw and ugly. Smaller scars scatter across his skin like constellations.
He starts to mumble, “N-neverm-”
“No!” you squeak, then quickly steady your voice. “No. I’ll help.”
He glances at you, accidentally making eye contact. His ears turn an even darker red. “Do… do you have gloves?”
The question knocks something loose in your chest, but you nod.
A few minutes later, you’re in the bathroom, latex gloves pulled snug over your hands. Charlie sits backwards on the toilet, the curve of his spine catching the faint light, muscles tense.
Alcohol pads won’t touch damage like this, so you layer gauze thick and pour isopropyl alcohol over it. The sharp smell fills the air, prickling your nose.
You hold your breath as you press the first swab to his back.
Charlie hisses at the sting, back arching away from you, his fingers curling tight in his lap.
“Sorry,” you murmur, guilt tugging at your chest.
“No-” his voice cracks. “I’m the one who should be apologizing.”
You open your mouth to argue, but he keeps going.
“I should have told you.”
You frown. “Charlie…”
He turns suddenly, the gash forgotten, and his eyes… God, they look wrung out. Tired in the way only someone who’s been hiding a secret for too long can be.
“I hated keeping it from you,” he says, voice shaking. “Hated putting this wall between us. But I didn’t know what else to do.” His eyes glass over and his head falls into his hands.
Your own vision blurs.
“You have no idea how many times I wanted to tell you everything,” he says, breath hitching. “How many times I just wanted to hold you and not have to think about it anymore…”
He drags in a shaky breath, meets your eyes, and the ache there nearly undoes you.
“But I can’t.”
The words tear at something inside you. “Why not?” It comes out too desperate, so you soften. “Why not, Charlie?”
He stares down at his open hands like they’re foreign to him. “Since the bite… I think I’m dangerous. My hands-they make this substance-”
The pieces slam together in your mind. “The venom. In your webs?”
His gaze snaps up, startled. “You-how do you…?”
The words of that scientist run through your head.
You lean closer. “Charlie… you think it’s in your skin too, don’t you? That if you touched me-”
“That I could hurt you,” he admits, voice breaking. “Kill you, maybe. I-”
You peel off the gloves, the latex snapping faintly in the silence, and slide your bare hand into his before he can move away.
“Wait-no!” he starts, trying to pull back.
You hold on tighter, reaching for his forearm with your other hand, anchoring him there. “Charlie. Listen to me.”
His eyes search yours-worried, scared, and beneath it all, something else. Something that’s been there all along.
“It’s venom,” you say softly, like you’re coaxing him toward a truth.
His brows pinch. “What?”
“It’s venom, Charlie. Not poison.”
He blinks, lost.
You can see him thinking, his gaze flicking between your eyes and your mouth like he’s afraid to believe you. “Spiders are venomous…” he murmurs.
You hum in encouragement. “That’s right. You know what that means?”
He shakes his head.
“It means venom is injected-like into your webs. Poison is secreted. If your skin were poisonous, you’d hurt people just by being near them. Just by breathing next to them. You’d have poisoned me a hundred times over by now.”
Charlie freezes. You watch the truth click into place, his mind turning it over, testing it against all the fear he’s been holding.
“You mean…?”
“I mean you’re not a danger to me.” You smile, letting him see how sure you are. “You never were.”
And that’s when his whole face shifts-relief flooding in so bright it feels like the air changes-and before you can take another breath, his mouth is on yours.
It’s clumsy, by Spider-Man standards-uncoordinated and almost hesitant, like he’s still not sure he’s allowed-but it’s warm and desperate and Charlie, and that’s all that matters.
You melt into it, fingers finding the edge of his jaw, chasing his lips when he starts to pull away.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmurs, still so close you can feel the words against your mouth.
You laugh, the sound unsteady but real, teasing glint in your eyes. “Oh yeah? You weren’t exactly subtle.”
Charlie groans, the tips of his ears going pink as he pulls you closer. “What? I was the best at hiding it.”
“Sure,” you say, grinning, “the best.”
You finish dressing his wounds, wrapping the last strip of gauze around his ribs with careful hands. When you’re done, you rummage through your dresser until you find them-an old pair of his sweatpants you’d “borrowed” months ago. They’re a little snug on him now, stretching over muscle that didn’t used to be there, but they work better than anything of yours.
Then you’re both crawling into your bed, the world outside momentarily forgotten. He sinks into the pillow beside you, arm sliding around your waist, pulling you in until there’s no space left. You kiss lazily, like neither of you is in any hurry for it to end.
Eventually, you settle with him half on top of you, his head pillowed against your chest. Your fingers comb idly through his hair, the rhythm soothing, grounding.
He talks in a low voice, almost like he’s afraid to break the quiet-about Electro, about the Green Goblin, about a half-dozen other villains whose names sound like bad comic book jokes until you remember the bruises and the burn marks.
And for the first time in months, there’s no distance. No walls. Just you, Charlie, and the steady beat of his heart against your ribs.
____
The morning light creeps across the bed, catching on the jagged edges of your broken window and spilling pale gold across Charlie’s bare shoulder. The breeze drifting in is cool, but the heat of him pressed against you keeps it from biting.
He’s still half-asleep, hair sticking up like he fought another villain in his dreams. You run your fingers through it and watch his nose scrunch before he blinks blearily up at you.
“Morning,” you whisper.
“Mhm,” he hums, eyes closing again. “Still alive?”
You smirk. “Barely. The draft’s killing me.”
He cracks one eye. “What draft?”
You tilt your head toward the glass pile by the wall. “You know-you’re fixing that window. With your own money. I’m charging you for emotional damages, too.”
Charlie groans into the pillow. “You’re impossible.”
“You broke it, Spider-B&E,” you say, grinning.
He laughs softly and rolls onto his back, stretching before tucking his arm behind his head. “Fine. But I’m warning you, last time I tried home repairs, I fell off a roof.”
You raise a brow. “Spider-Man fell off a roof?”
“It was early days!” He’s grinning now. “First time I tried to web-swing, I didn’t tie it off right. Let go to wave at a guy on the street and-bam-straight into a dumpster.”
You snort, covering your face. “Please tell me someone saw.”
“Two tourists and a hot dog vendor. Got a round of applause.”
He keeps going, voice warm and easy: about crawling up the wrong side of a building and ending up stuck in a stairwell, about overshooting a swing and crashing into someone’s balcony during dinner, about getting his foot stuck to the ceiling once and having to take his shoe off to get down.
You laugh until your cheeks hurt, curled into him while his hand traces lazy shapes on your hip. The broken window’s still there, the campus may be a wreck, but the space between you is gone.
And you’re not in a hurry to fix that.
