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No. 91452
>>91440 Found a fic.
“I must admit,” Mysterio purrs, stepping out of the fog. “Seeing you like this, Parker, it’s…nice.”
Mysterio, or rather, his avatar, looms over his hated enemy, a malicious grin twisting his features into something demonic. Peter, unmasked, arm broken, and panting, stares up at Mysterio. Outside, the world is falling apart. Typical hero/villain team battle. Good vs Evil. Fate of the world.
Y’know, Tuesday.
Not that the outside world matters right at this moment. Not to Mysterio, or to the Arachnid. All they care about is their little patch of Earth, and the gun Mysterio has aimed at Parker’s head.
“A gun?” he asks, “That’s how you’re going to do it, Fishbowl? Not a—” A coughing fit interrupts whatever insipid joke he was about to make. Inhaling all that smoke must be murder on his lungs.
Good.
Now to hurt him further, and in a way he’ll never forget.
Mysterio hums. “I dunno, I’m not done admiring the view. Like I said, seeing you like this, it’s nice.
“Very. Nice.”
He sweeps the muzzle over Peter’s swollen lip, smearing blood across his cheek.
Continuing, “Y’know, I used to scoff at those that let their baser urges rule them, but now I get it.”
“Get what?” Peter asks.
“Sex and fighting, Parker.” Mysterio lifts the gun away from Peter’s mouth. “They’re one in the same. Both get the adrenaline pumping and steal the breath from your lungs. Both bruise, and scar, and break a person down, reducing them to a quivering mess.”
He kneels. “Look at you right now. On your knees, exhausted and barely breathing. Lips red, eyes glazed, hair mussed.
“Quivering.
“‘Cause of me.
“Perhaps that’s why I never bothered with women…” He clutches Peter’s throat, smiles.
The smoke thickens around them, and he catches a flash of panic in Peter’s eyes. Then his jaw fixes and that look changes, becoming unreadable.
Go head, Web-Head, play brave. Doesn’t change the fact that what’s happening is happening.
“Why should I?” Mysterio stage whispers, cradling Peter’s bloodied cheek. “When I’ve got you?”
He leans forward. Lips made of light and smoke kiss battered flesh and blood, and then draw back.
Joke about that, brat.
Peter stares, eyes round and wide, and skin pale. He then blinks and cocks his head to the side, squinting at Mysterio as if he is some strange new discovery.
“What’s that look for?” he asks.
The answer he receives is laughter. A weak hiccuping giggle that makes the miserable Arachnid tremble from head to toe. Or, in this case, head to knees, since he’s kneeling. The sound only grows when Mysterio squeezes down on Peter’s throat.
“This the best you got, Cueball?” he wheezes.
“What?”
“You heard me.” Peter smiles, “Is that the best you got? A gun, some smoke, and lines from a cheap porno?”
The confusion disappears from Mysterio’s face, and he sneers, “Shut up.”
Peter doesn’t, he laughs harder. Each cry strained, rasping. “Didn’t they already do this in a Bond movie?”
“Shut. Up.”
“Quivering mess!” Tears roll down Peter’s cheeks, and he tosses his head back, crowing. “And you say I need to hire a writer!”
This here, this flippant display of courage, is why Mysterio hates Spider-Man. Beaten half to death, alone, and faced with a threat that would terrify most men, he cracks a joke. He laughs.
“Why?” The question comes out in a whisper. “Why won’t you stop?” Mysterio slams Peter down, straddles him, and shoves the gun under his chin. “Why. Won’t. You. Break?”
“’Cause.” It’s Peter’s turn to whisper. “I can’t. I’ve got a responsibility to…”
The barrel of the gun cracks against his jaw, cutting off his speech. Enough talking, he’s heard enough. Bastard dies tonight, and he dies screaming.
Mysterio tosses aside the gun and reaches into his pocket, taking out a little black vial. “Remember this little number?” Holding it up, he forces his fingers into Peter’s mouth, prying it open. “Gave you one helluva scare with this once, and all you did was inhale it. Swallowing it, though? Now that’s a real horror show.”
The comm link on his wrist blinks, and he freezes.
“Mr. Beck?”
Octavius. Of all the times that bloated squid could have picked, he chooses now to call. Rolling his eyes, Mysterio activates the link and sits back, resting on Peter’s lap.
“Yes?”
“The package has been secured, it is time for us to make our exit. Where are you?”
“Places.”
“Beck! Now is not the time for your—” Static and a high pitched yelp. “Dillon, you buffoon! Fire at them! Not Chameleon! I—look out!”
“Can this wait, I’m in the middle of—”
“No! Come, Mr. Beck! Now.”
Mysterio hits mute. “Wow, not gonna touch that.” He turns the mic back on. “I’ll be there in a minute, Doc.”
Turning off the comm, he palms the vial and looks down at his captive. Color is returning to his face, and his breathing is less labored. The gas must be wearing off. Damn.
“Looks like this is gonna have to wait.” Mysterio thinks, and then rocks his hips, eliciting a gasp from the man beneath him. “Hm. We should do this again. I’ll even show up for real next time.”
Peter gags.
Laughing, Mysterio rises to his feet and turns to walk away. “Later, baby.” He tosses the vial over his shoulder. “Kiss kiss.”
The screaming starts just as he walks out the door.
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