#i hope this is ok

grenades-and-sniper-rifles:

@whomuses Gets a modified V verse for peter!

being a merc in New York was a slippery kind of job, She and her partner both made it past their eighteenth birthday, which is better than some of the kids that don’t, or quit before they make it like that. Jackie said that this job would take them to the big leagues, but it quickly went sour, Jackie had died in the taxi back to rendezvous, and once her employer saw the absolute scene they made, he felt the need to clear out the loose ends.

V was perched at the edge of a dock, fuzzy, bludgeoned brain only really registering the sea salt in the air. Not really anything her ex employer was saying, not even the gun pointed at her. It took her all the effort she could muster, flipping the guy off before the shot rang out.

then pain, then cold, then nothing.

—

Her hand twitches a little, the only sign of life for the past week of reparative surgeries, many machines hooked up to her to help with nearly any bodily function she was currently failing at. It all felt extremely fuzzy, almost like some sort of sleep paralysis, but without the visual. She couldn’t will her eyes open, or move her hand in any sense other than light but noticeable twitches.

She’s only eighteen…

Since he’d become spider-man, Peter had realised there was a lot going on under the surface of his city. Sure, everyone knew about superheroes and monster attacks - and of course there was gun crimes and weapons and more things than he could put his finger on. And one of those things was, apparently, some - truly awful things. He had been too slow here, trailing after the merc group, trying to do his best - but - he was just too slow.

He had thwipped a web and yanked - the gun moved enough to not kill her outright, but that wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He had moved as quickly as he could to get her help. And now here he was, in a private hospital room. He’d given up on pacing; being Spider-Man had afford him some lucky at the hospital, actually, but he still didn’t feel safe enough to take his mask off. If he’d been even a minute earlier, he would’ve been on time to save her. But he wasn’t.

ON LOVE/HATE AND PAIN/COMFORT 

poem transcript under the cut

[poem transcript] “i. He doesn’t know what it means to be gentle. It’s not his fault, he grew up watching his father’s hands tightening around his mother’s neck, every touch bruised and hurt. But the flowers look so pretty in their vase on the dining room table, don’t you think so, son?

ii. So the blood trickles from your nose but his touch on your cheek is soft and warm and safe. The blood will dry and the bruises will heal, so there’s really no use in crying over spilled milk, is there, darling?

iii. He’ll mumble an apology in your ear soon enough, low and ashamed, voice cracking from the tears threatening to flood the room. He’ll touch you again, slow and soft and kind.There’s an extra apology in that touch, one that says “I’m sorry I’m not this kind to you always. Please don’t leave me.” You’ll forgive him, won’t you, honey?

iv. One of these days, you’ll find the answer is no, no I don’t forgive you. And you’ll ice your own bruises and clean up your own blood and you’ll walk away while you still can, before your tattered body is thrown in a ditch in the middle of nowhere. You’ll find your strength tucked in the back of your closet and put it in your suitcase, you’ll find the value you hold and keep it in your bones as you walk out the door. Because you know you deserve better than that, don’t you, angel?” [/end transcript]