#I might end up deleting this text post later because I cant handle being a person on the internet and sorry if that happens.

[capricorndevil15]

Hello this is a public service announcement for the Our Wonderland community. Drive It Through Your Heart by Billy Cobb is a Genzou/Orlam song.

[shadedrose01]

hi! can u pls do number 14 (in the angst section thing) on ur latest prompt post? maybe hurt/comfort or just whump if possible? thank u :D

If The World Was Ending (You'd Come Over, Right?)

A/N: you ask for whump and hurt/comfort, I give you whump and hurt/comfort hehe. Thanks for the prompt, anon, I hope you enjoy it!! :D ❤💖

Read it on ao3 here!

Based off of the prompt:

14. "Just get home as soon as possible, okay?!?"

~~

"Hey Pete." A sigh, low, quiet, sad. "I know I'm the- the last person you probably want to hear from right now and definitely the last one you want to talk to, but..." A pause, some shuffling in the background. "We're all worried about you, Peter. You left, and didn't tell anyone where you were going and-" Another sigh, similar to the first. "Just- call someone, please? It doesnt-" quiet, more subdued, "Doesn't have to be me, just- call Tony, or May, or somebody, let them know you're okay. That's all I ask." Another pause, longer and quieter than before, full of tension, empty words, broken promises. A puff of breath. "Come home as soon as possible, okay? I-... I love you."

A beep signaling the end of the message echoes in the larger, almost empty room, and Peter throws his arm over to press the end button before the robot lady can ask if he wants to listen to it again, or delete it, or whatever. He rubs away the stray, angry tears from his eyes, feeling his stomach clench with the swirl of intense emotions, feeling as it shrivels from the heat of his frustration, rocks from the waves of his sorrow, and bitterness and- and- god he doesnt even know.

Hes just... tired. Bone aching, soul crushingly tired. With everything. With his work load at school growing and growing everyday, spiraling out of his control. With Tony yelling at him in the lab, because he always messes something up. With Harley, who finds something to argue with him about every single day, the screaming matches getting louder and louder every night. With May, moving on with Happy and forgetting about him more and more, time and time again. With his friends, who always seem to be hanging out, but never with him, never inviting him anywhere anymore. With Spider-Man, and the way people seem to keep dying on his patrols, on his watch, because god, he cant even do that right. The one thing he thought he could do with his eyes closed, and he keeps fucking that up too.

And now, now he did the worst thing possible. Worse than fighting every night with someone he thought was the love of his life. Worse than getting scolded at his dream job everyday, by his mentor and father figure. Worse than being forgotten by the only mother he really remembers, by his friends that he grew up with.

He ran away. He broke down, freaked out, and ran. Stuffed as much clothes as he could find into a suitcase, called the first hotel away from the city he could think of, booked a suite for the night and took off without telling a soul. Not his boyfriend, not his mentor, not his aunt, not his friends. Nobody. Because he just couldnt take it anymore. He couldn't handle the constant fighting, the barrage of stress and anxiety a mountain high that he knew he couldn't climb, the loneliness, bitter and cold and empty that surrounded him, suffocated him even as he laid beside a warm body every night, and talked with people everyday. The piercing, heartwrenching thought that everyone he loved was going to leave, to break up with him, to get tired of him, to forget him, and he was going to be all alone.

So, instead of facing it and communicating about his fears like a normal, mature adult, he ran. Like a fucking coward. And, instead of relaxing him and giving him a chance to get away like he thought it would, it just made everything so much worse.

Now, he was stressing out even more, thinking about all the classwork he was missing, all the assignments piling up. Thinking about Tony, waiting for him to show up, trying not to panic when he doesn't, probably checking the monitor on his watch and his suit activity, to see where he had went. Thinking about his aunt, waiting for him to come bake with her like he had promised, and worrying when he doesnt show, because he always shows. Thinking about... Harley. Harley, coming home after a long day of schooling. Harley, noticing that Peter wasnt home, like he usually was. Harley, noticing that most of Peter's clothes were gone, his side of the room left in chaos. Harley, probably thinking the absolute worst.

Peter remembers the calls. The way his phone vibrating again and again as Harley called him over and over, leaving voicemails, telling him he was worried, telling him to call him back, that they could work it out, whatever it was, voice frantic, and then Tony, joining the mix an half an hour or so later, probably when Harley had fully begun to panic. But then, the silence. After about an hour of constant ringing (and Peter trying his hardest to ignore it), the calls suddenly stopped. Harley called one last time, ten minutes later, leaving one last voicemail, but after that... nothing. Pure, unfiltered, crushing silence.

After Peter had gotten to his hotel and broken down once more in the tiny, too clean room, he had listened to that voicemail on repeat, just to drown out his screaming thoughts that plagued his mind, just to listen to the ending again and again and again.

"I...I love you."

When was the last time they had said that to each other? Through text, maybe a few days or weeks ago, but in person? Peter couldn't remember. A while. Too long.

His escape was turning into a nightmare the longer he sat in this room, getting smaller and smaller, almost suffocating as the minutes turned to hours, as the day turned to night, and he couldn't take it anymore, he had to get out of here. Had to do something, go for a walk, clear his head, something, anything.

He basically jumps out of the hard, creaky bed, grabbing the card key had haphazardly thrown onto a table when he first walked in, and exiting the room, the building as soon as he physically could. He takes in a long, deep breath, feels the mid October air chill his lungs, giving a nice tingling sensation before he exhales, already feeling his muscles beginning to relax, his heart beginning to slow.

He looks left and right, before beginning his trek, feet crunching against frost with each step against the frozen concrete, the wind whistling against his red tipped ears, quiet, a whisper, definitely not enough to drown out his racing mind, his screaming thoughts, his growing anxiety creeping and wrapping around his neck like a noose, pulling tighter and tighter the more he thinks, the more he steps, the more he moves and breathes and functions. He takes another deep breath, trying to ward off another attack, another episode, but it doesnt work, the feeling getting worse and worse.

He feels a tingle at the back of his neck, sharp and harsh, but ignores it in favor of his breathing, trying to keep his lungs working as they should, trying to get oxygen to his overworking brain, to his stampedeing heart.

Rookie mistake.

He feels a prick on the side of his neck, and his instincts kick in before he does, his body flinching violently and whipping around, throwing a punch that sends the perpetrator flying back, hitting multiple bystanders before landing on his ass. Peter would've found it funny if there wasnt three others, surrounding him on all sides, grabbing at his arms, legs, torso, anywhere they could reach. And if he wasnt feeling so damn dizzy all of a sudden, the world spinning off its axis, vision doubling. He tries to fight back, tries to struggling, but his limbs feel like lead, his head feels fuzzy, and darkness envelops his vision before he can even blink.

--

Conciousness hits him like a ton of bricks, jerking him awake. As soon as his eyes are open, he's alert, on edge, wary, glancing around the unfamiliar room and trying to pinpoint where he is. It's a dark room, the walls, floor and ceiling all seemingly made of concrete, the only light shining through a sliver of a window near the roof on one of the walls. He must be underground, then, in what looks like some sort of basement, the room too small, and too familiar to be a warehouse or a base for an evil team somewhere. He notices a new more details, like a frayed rope on the ground, a table with some tools on it, and a few darker stains on the ground that Peter tries his best not to think too much about, and comes to some conclusions.

It's a one man job, definitely, not a group of people, and definitely not some well known group like Hydra. 'But there was more of them', he remembers, fuzzily, three men who had grabbed him once the sedative was given. What part do they have to play? Aside from that mystery, he also knows that they've done this before (from the stains that looks conspicuously like blood), and, the most terrifying fact of them all, that they know he's Spider-Man, the strong metallic cuffs that have to be vibranium holding him back, even as he tries with all his might to break through. He doesnt know how they found out, he's kept his identity pretty lock and key, but apparently they know somehow. So that's great, just perfect.

He doesn't know what he's going to do. His first thought is that he'll wait for Harley in his Iron Lad suit, or for the Avengers, or both to come save him, get him out of this mess, but then he remembers they can't. They don't know where he is, he never told them, so they wouldn't know where to look, where to start. They wouldn't even know he was kidnapped, much less know how to save him.

He feels his heart start to race, his chest start to squeeze, this throat start to close, before he forces himself to take a long, deep breath, shutting his eyes and calming himself down. Having a panic attack wont solve anything. He's alone in this, he needs to think clearly.

Okay, where to start, where to start? He needs an escape plan. He opens his eyes, and glances to the slim window, leaning forward and looking closer, seeing faint bars blocking the outside. Okay, so that's a no go for an exit, but what about the door? He looks to the old wooden door, the brown turning gray in its age, with a metal handle and a simple key lock. He could probably pick the lock, or break down the door if he couldnt. Good, now, he just needs to figure out how to get out of these cuffs-

Way too soon for Peter's liking, a loud click echoes in the room, and the door creaks open, a shorter, bigger man walks in, dressed head to toe in black and wearing a white anonymous looking mask. Cause that's not cliche at all. He feels a spike of anxiety either way, and swallows, wishing he had his mask on so he could hide a bit of the fear he knows he's expressing on his face (Harley always said he wore his heart on his sleeve, said it was one of the things he loves about him. Used to love about him anyways.)

"Good evening, Mr. Parker." The man says, voice low and rumbly, sounding pretty much exactly as Peter expected him to sound, surprisingly enough. Stereotypical villain smokes-three-packs-a-day kinda voice.

It's the greeting that causes Peter to snicker, grinning. "Ooo, so formal! You're like a James Bond kinda villain, I dig it! Yo, how do you like your drinks, shaken or-"

He's in the middle of doing his godawful impression when the man shoots forward and punches him across the face, and ow that hurt waaaay more than a punch should. He feels the burns of cuts on his face, the tingling of liquid running down his cheek, sees the brass knuckles reflect off of the sunlight through the window, and thinks 'huh, that makes sense.'

"Shut it, Spidey." He sneers, and Peter winces, his face scrunching up instinctually before he forces it to go blank. Sure, he knew that the man knew he was Spider-Man, but actually hearing him say it, hearing him confirm it sends a chill down his spine, cooling him from the inside out. He must've seen the flinch on Peter's face, because the man continues menacingly, starting a slow walk around Peter's chair. "Yeah, I know who you really are, Peter Parker. I've been watching you for a while now. Know about your wall climbing, your webs..." The man yanks at his handcuffs, making Peter's body crash back against the chair. Peter struggles to keep his face neutral as pain seares up his back, his neck, the back of his head. "Your super strength." He breathes into Peter's ear, before letting go, Peter slumping back against the cool metal, trying to look smaller than he really is. "I know it all, Mr. Parker."

Peter glares at him when he comes back into view, hoping his eyes dont give away his true emotions, dont give away how scared he really is. "That's really creepy, dude. Don't you know anything about personal space?" He gets another punch to the face for that, his teeth throbbing as a warm, metallic taste fills his mouth. He spits out the blood, the bright red a stark contrasting against the older stains on the concrete, and mutters "guess not" under his breath.

"Personal space." The man grumbles, before laughing bitterly, no taste of humor in the tone. "As if you know anything about that."

Peter's face scrunches up, and he tilts his head, feeling bitterness rise up this throat. "Sorry, I'm not following, how do I not know about that? I'm not the kidnapping people after stalking them. I dont even know who you are, dude." He braces for another hit, but it doesnt come, the man just chuckling harshly again.

"Oh no, you wouldn't." The man leans forward, mask almost pressing against Peter's face, and theres a line about 'again, personal space, man' on the tip of his tongue, but the words die and his head drops straight to hell as soon as the man finishes his sentence. "But your boyfriend would."

Harley... Harley's involved in this? How? Why? What did he do? His shock, his fear must show on his face because theres a hint of mirth, of amusement in the man's voice as he speaks. "Oh, the great and mighty Iron Lad, the hier to Iron Man, the savior of us all." His tone is bitter, mocking now, and Peter feels cold, colder than he's ever felt, icy cold horror freezing his heart, his lungs. "That's what everyone said. That's what everyone thought. That's what I thought." The man snorts, short and careless, bitter. "And then he killed my family."

"He would never." Peter spits out venomously before he can even think, his heart racing, aching. He wouldn't. Even if they were on bad terms, even if they were on a break, or whatever he could call what they were going through, he knew for a fact Harley would never hurt someone intentionally, especially not someone innocent.

"Oh, but he did." The man leans back, basically growling now, voice strained, crazy, beginning to pace back and forth. "He did, he killed her, he killed them, all of them. Crashed into our building, our house, our home, and he killed them all."

Peter just stares wordlessly, eyes wide, wracking his brain, trying to think of a time Harley crashed into a building. It was during a fight most likely, but Peter always remembers him in the air, on the ground, never getting hit, never-

Suddenly, a memory floods over him, and he swallows roughly, chest squeezing. "August 1st, 2024." He murmurs solemnly, quietly, and the man's head suddenly stops, head jerking to face Peter.

"You know." He wasnt a question, so Peter doesnt treat it as one, lost in the memory of Harley sobbing loudly against his shoulder, wailing that he had the window, that the wall had collapsed, that there was a woman, and a kid, and that he couldn't save them. It was the first time Harley had ever lost anyone, the first time Harley had watched someone die. It was one of the roughest nights they ever had.

"He tried to save them." He whispers instead, his heart aching at the reminder, at Harley's description ringing through his head. Of how he lifted the rubble off of the bodies. Of how he checked the mother first, finding no pulse. Of how the kid, the son, was still alive, but his legs, his body had been crushed. Of how Harley had tried to help, tried to save him. Of how the boy had coughed up blood, had wheezed, had looked Harley in the eye, his own full of fear and agony. Of how he had taken his last breath in Harley's arms, broken and beaten and bruised. It had taken Harley months, years to get over it, and he still couldnt look at the date without rushing to the bathroom to vomit. Peter shakes his head, shaking away the thoughts. "He tried. There wasn't anything he could do."

"He killed them." The man snarls, apparently not in the mood to listen to Peter's truth. "He murdered them, with his own two hands and-" he pauses, straightens, his voice going soft, quiet, eerily calm and collected when he says "And now, he's going to get what he deserves."

Peter can almost hear the maniacal grin on his face as he grabs Peter's chin and tilts it up, until Peter's eyes connect to the eye holes of the white, porcelain mask, covered only by a thin black mesh. "Because now, I'm gonna take away the thing he loves."

It's barely a whisper, what he says, but with his enhanced hearing, Peter hears it crystal clear, and he freezes, paralyzes, terrified. He yanks at the handcuffs again, and again, the cuffs getting tighter and tighter, cutting into him as he does, but not breaking, not freeing him, barely even moving-

The man walks over to the table, and grabs something Peter hadnt even seen earlier, his phone, and turns it on. "What's your password?"

It would be such an innocent question, if they werent in this situation. Someone someone, a friend usually, would ask carelessly, casually, something like "what's the wifi password?". Peter just narrows his eyes, and keeps his lips shut.

The man doesn't like that very much, as there's suddenly a very real pistol pointed at his forehead, coming out of seemingly nowhere, 'he hadnt even seen the gun, where the-' "Tell me, now."

He sounds serious, grave. Peter swallows a whimper threatening to escape, and gives it to him, making sure to keep his tone level, confident, firm, like he knows he'll be fine, like he knows hes going to get out of this, even though he feels the exact opposite. But he can't, won't let this man find that out, so he tries his best to act brave. To act like Spider-Man, even if he feels like cowardly Peter Parker. Man, he wishes he had his mask.

The man puts the code in, humming to himself as if this is normal, a regular routine act, before a loud ringing echoes in the room, and Peter's stomach drops. Of course he's going to call Harley. Of course he's going to make sure Harley knows what's happening to Peter.

Of course he's going to make Harley listen while he dies. Why wouldn't he? He wants revenge, revenge for something Harley didnt even do, and this how he's gonna get it.

Peter looks to the sky, swallowing roughly and blinking the tears out of his eyes, he's gotta be strong, gotta seem unaffected, gotta have hope. But that hope, that little light in his chest is dwindling more and more as the seconds pass, as the phone rings again and again, as horrible scenario after horrible scenario runs through his head, until-

"Hello?? Pete, are you there??" Peter cant help the silent sob that shutters his body, some of the tears in his eyes spilling down his cheeks as Harley's, his boyfriend, the love of his life, the one he thought he was going to get to marry one day's voice rings out in the cold, cold room, sounding almost breathless with relief and hope that it crushes Peter's already shattered heart even more. Theres so many things he wants to say,  so many words he wishes he could take back, so many he wishes he could say again and again, over and over until it was engraved into Harley's head, never moving, never wavering.

But before he can speak, the man speaks up for him, voice filled with a mock amusement. "Hmm, not quite. Mr. Parker's a little-" he chuckles, dark and ominous. "Tied up at the moment."

There's a pause, long and dwindling, full of palpable fear that causes a few more tears to slip from Peter's eyes, knowing, knowing how terrified Harley is, and when he speaks back up, voice low, shaky, angry, Peter knows he's right. "What have you done to him?"

"Oh, nothing." The man singsongs, grabbing underneath Peter's chin and forcing his head upwards, before brushing away his tears with a thumb. With anybody else, itd be a soothing gesture, an act of delicacy, of love, but all Peter can feel is disgust, bile rising in his throat, and he jerks his head of his his grip, glaring heatedly. The man drops his hand, and his body posture stiffens. "At least, not yet." He mutters harshly.

Another pause, and some shuffling, before Harley's voice cuts back in, sounding stronger this time, calmer, but it's an act, Peter can tell, Peter can always tell- "What do you want?"

"You can't give me what I want!" The man yells, suddenly slamming his fist into the table, Peter flinching from the loud bang that results from it. "I had everything I ever wanted, and you took it away from me! You took everything away from me!"

A puff of breath comes through the speaker, trembling. "I dont know what you're talking about-"

"You dont?" The man interrupts, breathing hard, harshly, before laughing manically as Peter starts to tug at the cuffs again, glancing around the room and trying, trying to think of a way out, of an escape route, of something, anything- "You don't remember? The night you killed my wife and son? Crushed them under the rubble of your mistakes?"

Harley makes a heartbroken, aching, painful noise, the sound reverberating as Peter shouts at the man, spits, "He didn't mean to! It was an accident!-"

The man whirls around and smacks Peter with his gun, hard, making his vision tunnel, the room spinning, his head suddenly pounding where it was only a light throb before. He grimaces, closes his eyes, grits his teeth with a wince, feels the hair on the side of his head grow wet and sticky with blood as he tries to settle this dizziness that's overwhelming him. "Shut up!!" The man roars, causing Peter to flinch again because its so loud, it's too much- "He killed my family! And now," Another laugh, the barrel of the gun now pressing against Peter's forehead, the cool of the metal seeping into his skin. Peter opens his eyes to stare at it, wide eyed and unfocused. "Now, he's going to listen as I take his."

Peter struggles even more, even though his limbs now feel like concrete, as the gun clicks, the safety coming off, the bullet lining up with the barrel, ready to shoot, ready to kill him-

"Wait!" Harley cries, his calm exterior deteriorating, leaving his true emotions on full show, the panic, the distress. "Please, your wife and son wouldn't want this-"

"You dont know that! You dont know anything!" The gun presses further into his forehead, finger laying on the trigger and suddenly, Peter is calm.

It's a strange, out of body calmness that washes over him like a wave, gentle, soothing. He stares up at the anonymous like mask, at the man wearing all black, and the faint sight of deranged eyes he can see through the black mesh of the eye holes, at the reflective gray of the pistol, and he feels calm. He's going to die, staring at this mask, this person, knowing that the love of his life, his soulmate is listening, and all he feels is an eerie calm, everything slowing down to a stop. He gives a faint smile, barely a twitch of his lips, before saying, loud enough so the phone can pick it up, "I love you."

He closes his eyes, and waits for the inevitable. He doesn't hear hear the sob like scream that Harley let's out, calling his name. He doesn't hear the door burst open, and three bodies rushing into the room. He doesnt hear the repulors and guns going off, killing the man almost instantly. He doesnt hear anything but his heart beat, pulsating in his ears, and a loud constant ringing, until the gun shifts against his head, until hands grab at his shoulders and shake him violently, until he opens his eyes and sees Harley's face two inches away from his, blue, ocean eyes wide with terror, mouth moving frantically, the one curl of hair always in front of his face flowing as his body jerks with his movements.

Then, suddenly, everything rushes back. The tsunami of emotions, of fear, of grief, of pain and hurt and 'god I'm so sorry' floods back over him. Sounds, Harley blabbering "Come on, Pete, answer me, please," in his ear, while others (he cant even tell who they are, can't even-) talking beside them, over the dead body of his captor, 'they got him, he's dead, I'm not dead, he's dead-'. His vision, blurry with tears he didnt even know he was shedding, spinning with the concussion he knows he has, going back and forth as Harley's actions get more frantic, more worried, his voice getting higher the longer Peter doesn't answer.

"Peter, baby, please say something, please be okay, please be-" Peter just leans forward and presses his lips to Harleys sloppily, almost missing from the dizziness still plaguing his mind, his thoughts, successfully shutting him up. Harley makes a strangled sound, before kissing back passionately, hands on either side of his face, salty tears pooling out of his eyes and into their mouths.

They pull away after a few moments, only for Harley to pull Peter to his chest, breathing out, chanting, "Oh thank God, thank you, thank you-" and Peter presses his face into his neck, feeling himself start to shake, to tremble as he slowly falls apart, wrapping his arms around his back and grasping onto the metal of his suit tightly, sobbing loudly. "I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"Shhhhh," Harley soothes shakily, rubbing a strong hand up and down his back. "It's okay, you're okay. Everything's okay."

Peter pushes through anyways, needing to say this, needing to- "I-I didnt- didnt mean to run away, I-I just- I need-needed to get away, and-"

"I know," Harley murmurs, cutting him off gently, "I know, baby, I know, it's okay." He sighs quietly, sounding sullen, guilty. "I'm sorry too. But it's okay. We're okay."

Peter nods shakily, hoping, believing him, squeezing his eyes shut and shuttering, curling more into Harley's chest. "I love you." He whimpers, "I love you, I love you so much."

"I love you too." Harley whispers back, pressing a light kiss to Peter's cheeks, carefully missing the bruises and cuts, pulling the trembling boy even closer. "So so much. Forever and always."

"Forever and always." Peter echoes, sniffling.

Things aren't perfect, Peter knows. He knows that they still have a long, long talk about everything that's happened, and that things arent going to click into place immediately. They may not for a while, but as long as they're here, safe, warm, alive and loved... Peter knows that they'll figure it out, together.