Title: Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing (Pt.1) Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader Warnings: brief mention of self harm, violence, mentions of blood, generally angsty Word Count: 1,656 Theme Song: The Wolf by Mumford and Sons
Summary: Reader is good friends with Peter but has a secret identity as well; a devilish alternate personality who happens to be a growing nemesis of Spider-Man in Queens. After a particularly nasty fight between them, Spider-Man uncovers the nemesis’ identity and things get more complicated than Peter could have imagined.
A/n: I know this is only my second Peter Parker fic and it’s been awhile since the first one, but I couldn’t shake this idea so I hope you guys like it! But I am sorry for any distress it causes, please read the warnings and stay safe. You want the second part?? Feedback is monumentally appreciated!! Tagging a few blogs that might want to read, but let me know if you don’t want to be tagged, no hard feelings! (anyone else who does want to be tagged can let me know as well) <3
She couldn’t get away this time. What had started out as a minor nuisance of breaking and entering, had turned into a full on menace. Holding up a local laboratory tonight was the last straw, if I had barely gotten there in time before she killed the scientists there, who knows what could happen next time.
Pushing my legs harder, willing my arms to pump faster, I struggle to keep up as she flits in and out of the shadows seeming to disappear. I look for my opportunity to cut her off, and it comes when I see a dumpster pushed askew in the middle of the alley some feet ahead.
I shoot a web and grip it tight as I swing down and land on the opposite side of the dumpster from her. I can hear her footsteps splash in a rogue puddle and my senses shoot off alarms.
Planting my feet, I put my hands against the cool metal of the dumpster then give it a hard shove in her direction. I can practically feel it connect right before I hear a resounding thud and what sounds like, a growl?
I don’t have time to puzzle over it, swinging myself over the dumpster and landing lightly with one foot beside the perp and the other on her chest. Not wasting a second, I shoot my webs to pin her hands down on either side of her, then I reach down and tear the mask from her face.
“Y/n!?” I gasp. She just scowls at me, fire in her eyes.
No. God, this could not be happening. This- this was a nightmare. It must be. I crash my eyes shut against the white hot hatred I thought I’d never see in the eyes of my closest friend. Big mistake. My eyes fly open as I’m being knocked off my feet and thrown against the unyielding alley wall, the breath knocked out of me. I can’t see what the impact came from, but Y/n, or what looks like Y/n, is still trying to break free of the webs impeding her hands.
My head is throbbing, but I try to regain my balance. I feel a warm trickling down the back of my neck and gently press my fingers to the back of my head; wincing I pull them away to see a deeper red staining my gloves. My attention is drawn back to Y/n, who is now on her feet stalking towards me, the shadows seem to be closing in all around me and the air is palpably thicker as she nears.
“Y/n, what are you doing? What’s going on with you?” I try to question her but she simply tilts her head slightly, unrecognizing. Of course, I hadn’t told her I was Spider-Man, how would she recognize me. I decide to shoot my webbing at her feet, just try to slow her down, but she quickly jumps up and avoids my shot. Instead of coming straight back down though, she seems to hover in the air for a split second before turning herself into a roundhouse kick, her right foot connecting fiercely with the side of my head. I’m sent crashing sideways and to my knees.
She finally lands in a crouch and then starts toward me once again, fists clenched at her sides.
I raise my hand to try and send another shot of webs but between all the crashing and kicking, my web-shooters must have gotten knocked out of alignment. She reaches me, smacks my hand aside, and reaches down to slam a hand to my throat. I try to kick at her legs but she has the better leverage, standing above me, and her hold on my throat tightens. With her other hand she grips my mask and yanks it off of my head.
“Oh my, if it isn’t Y/n’s little pet, Peter Parker,” Y/n declares smartly. I scrunch my eyebrows together, puzzling over why she referred to herself in third person. “Or is it the other way around, the way she follows you about? I think she’d follow you straight off a skyscraper! If It wasn’t for me that is,” she adds with a dark laugh, a devious glint in her eyes.
I’m barely able to breath, my vision spotting, but she continues rambling.
“Oh, woe is me, I can’t kill you now. Not with this added monument of leverage!” She finally relinquishes her hold on my neck and I double over, sputtering and trying to gulp in air.
After I manage several deep breathes, I crane my neck to glance back up at who I used to see as my best friend; now, I didn’t know what I was seeing, but I knew it was far passed saving.
Peter cries out in pain as you look down at him on his knees, one hand gripping his hair and the other pulled back, ready to strike. A smile dripping in poison spreads across your unmasked face. “Should have just left the wolf to howl, Spider-boy,” you hear your voice spit without your permission, before your fist starts towards his bloodied face. Everything is in slow motion until…
You’re jarred awake, gasping for breathe in between your sobs, your blankets seem to be suffocating you. Once you free your legs you swing them over the edge of the bed, barely finding purchase on the carpeted floor before you’re falling to your knees. Your hands are shaking as you try and push yourself back up.
You manage to get on your feet and stumble to your bathroom, clutching your stomach where it feels like the sobs want to ram their way through.
Reaching the bathroom you flick the light on and move to grip the sides of the sink for support, then you glare tiredly at your reflection in the mirror before you.
A flash of the poisonous smile from your nightmare makes you flinch and squeeze your eyes shut. You hoped against hope that it was only a nightmare, and not another dreaded memory from your alternate reality in the night. You never knew, unless she wanted to tell you.
“Please,” you barely whisper out, like a forbidden prayer. You swear you can hear a low, dark laughter, taunting at the edge of your subconscious. Suddenly you remember peter and you dart from the bathroom. Grabbing your phone, your finger hovers over Peter’s contact and you debate whether you should call him or not. The image of his face riddled with blood and bruises, eyes drenched with fear, practically screams at you behind your hollow eyes.
You had to make sure he was okay. You had to be sure you hadn’t, or she hadn’t-the line felt blurry sometimes-done the damage you feared. You inhale a shaky breath and let your finger take the plunge.
Your stomach is plunging as well a moment later when it doesn’t even ring, but goes straight to his voicemail.
His usual chipper voice, making some vague nerd reference, that would usually have you grinning from ear to ear, is just a sickeningly cruel blow to your worried mind. When the time comes to leave a message, you open your mouth to say something, but find that the deafening silence is only able to draw out another broken sob.
You quickly end the call and sink to the floor. After calling Peter again, and again, you finally fall into sleep, with no answer. And definitely no peace.
The next weeks pass in a dark haze. The first couple days you don’t see Peter at all, then you’ll think you catch a glimpse of him, but he’s gone before you can get to him. Ned has no idea what’s going on with Peter and says he has hardly seen him either. You even try aunt May, and though you’re fairly certain by the pause in her voice that Peter simply refuses to take the phone, she always informs you that he isn’t there; at least you know he isn’t dead in an alley.
You fight sleep as long you’re able, but as the shadows lengthen each day, you know it’s never up to you. You don’t have any nightmares, or even dreams, which scares you more than not.
Dark circles now have a permanent appearance under your eyes, you numbly notice you’re losing more than the usual few stray hairs, you haven’t spoken more than a yes or no, or eaten anything in days, and your family worries to the point of talking about calling a doctor.
You wish you had the strength to go and try to confront Peter at his apartment, but you can’t bring yourself to; part of you believes it’s best to keep your distance in fear of letting your other half anywhere near him. The fear, of both the known and unknown, cripples you to the point of confining you to your room, and the only thing you seem to be able to control is the rows of haphazardly cut incisions along your forearm.
Then, almost three weeks since you last spoke with Peter, you’re sitting motionless on your bed staring down at the picture of you and him together, slightly crumpled in your hands. The frame was at your feet, broken pieces of glass littering the floor around it, you didn’t even know how it got there. Suddenly there’s a knock on your door.
Thinking it was only one of your siblings, you just lay down and close your eyes, tucking your hand still holding the picture under your pillow and hoping if you ignored them long enough they would leave you be. No such luck, the incessant knocker would not take the hint.
You finally pull yourself from your bed and shuffle over to your door, sighing you slowly open it a small way. The voice that greets you is one you had all but lost hope on hearing again.