R A N D O M || OS

25. (MCU) Peter Parker/Andrew G. - Drag You Down I

https://spidervee.tumblr.com/

Summary: Spider-Man laughed, "If you ever get tired of normal—I know a guy."
"Oh yeah?" You couldn't help the smile that lit up your face.
"Yeah, he's a bit of a weirdo, but he's got a great sense of humour."
You licked your lips, once again letting your mouth run on autopilot. "And a killer ass?"
Spider-Man let out a loud bark of laughter, his hands slipping down to your hips, pushing under your sweater to rest on your bare skin. His gloves were rough and you longed to feel the smoothness of the skin you imagined underneath them. "You noticed, huh?"
Words: 4.1k

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You hated New York. It was too loud, too crowded, and too neon. And then there were the smells. Each block had its own uniquely stomach-churning scent that made you wish your powers included the ability to hold your breath for hours on end. As it was, you were stuck with slipping through the shadows you could create out of nothing. It was perfect for your line of work. Art thief for hire. Or secret formula stealer for hire. Jewellery, weapons, cars, money—the point was, if there was something worth stealing, you could get your hands on it.

So that was why you were here, in this city you hated, teeth gritted against the grating lights of billboards and skyscrapers.

You'd never intended to be a criminal and, aside from that particular part of your life, you considered yourself nice enough, if a little rough around the edges. That afternoon, for instance, you'd thanked the barista who made your cappuccino, tipped well, and held the door open for the frailest old lady you'd ever seen. Overall, nice. But you'd grown up dirt poor and different from the other kids, and the world had a way of chewing up and spitting out folks like you. Criminality paid, in money and respect. You weren't a freak anymore, not when you were so useful.

Useful. The word rolled around in your head in the voice of your latest employer, the terrifying baritone of one Mr. Wilson Fisk. There was something about the man, maybe his sheer size or maybe something deeper, that gave you the creeps, but you needed the money that he was more than willing to pay. All you had to do was break into the Biochem labs at Columbia and steal a little blue vial of priceless serum.

Easy, right?

xxx

Getting in was easy. It was everything after that went to hell faster and harder than a penny dropped from the Empire State Building.

After dark, you crept past the co-eds making out on benches in the quad and security guards whose flashlights didn't have a chance to catch you in their weak beams. Then it was a matter of picking a lock or two or ten, entering some key codes that Fisk had provided you with, and finding your way to Lab 0090 where your mark was hidden away. Creeping tendrils of shadow whirled around security cameras, obscuring the view of any eyes that might pry now or later, when tapes were inevitably being reviewed by police.

Down five flights of stairs into a cobweb riddled subterranean nightmare—the basement's basement—and into a cramped laboratory cluttered with flasks and tubes and microscopes that were probably more valuable than the entirety of your wardrobe.

And in the middle of it all, buried under a stack of loose papers at an untidy workbench, was someone who you'd not anticipated running into. A boy, around your age if you'd been asked to guess, with messy sand coloured hair. You could see his side profile, his head bent low over a mechanical device you didn't recognize—not that you'd ever really been particularly interested in Science. Not until it had mattered...

You swallowed the thought, along with the dollar signs of medical bills and the sound of beeping machines it brought to mind, focusing on the task at hand.