It's a Spider Family. {Sequel to 'It's a Spider Thing'.}

{1} you're not their plaything now

HE COULD HEAR THE CLANGING OF CELL DOORS echoing in his ears in tandem with the ominous set of heels click click clicking on the concrete, always one step behind him. Peter's heart pounded against his chest while the blood in his veins turned to ice. He could feel phantom springs digging uncomfortably into his back and the chill of the room slowly sinking into his bones, burying itself inside him.

A single breath fanned across the back of his neck, making his sense scream.

"No-"

The word dripped with fear and desperation as it caught on Peter's throat. His eyes shot open and he stared at the ceiling with a growing panic- all he could see were cracks and loose plaster.

Air stuttered into Peter's lungs as if he had been deprived of oxygen all his life.

On instinct, his whole body jolted forwards, throwing itself from the bed in a flurry of frantic and uncoordinated movements. He tumbled off the side in a tangle of limbs, sheets and pillows in his haste before he landed heavily on the floor- cold sweat clung to his skin as he forced himself to take even breaths instead of gulping down the air around him.

Peter heard sobbing, but it took a moment for his hazy brain to register that the tears that burned his skin were his own, running down his cheeks at a rapid pace. He let out a pained cry and scrambled back from the blankets, shrinking away into the corner of the room.

There was a sharp crack as his hands flew to his throat and helplessly circled the skin to scratch relentlessly at the scarring, as if trying to pry something away- the window's glass ebbed out.

Desperately, Peter willed for the silence to fade away while the urge to scream worked its way into his throat. He blinked back the tears that blurred his vision and the air that had previously filled his lungs came out in short, rough pants that made his throat and chest burn as his body lowered itself to the ground so that he was hunched over himself. Harsh, red lines that stung irritably were left behind when Peter's hands folded themselves again his chest; the tears that had been streaming down his cheeks finally ceased for a moment, giving him a beat of clarity to see the silhouette of his room.

There was the heap of blankets now on the floor, the desk in the corner of the room with his textbooks towering high and his chest of drawers where a set of experimental web shooters sat.

No cold bars. No cracked concrete. No grey walls.

Exhaustion swept through the teen, making his body slump back against the wall and his head loll backwards slightly. Peter could feel his eyelids grow heavier and he fought to keep them open. The only lighting in the room came from the string of lights that hung over his bed; they had dimmed considerably over the course of a few weeks of being left continuously on overnight, but it was enough that he caught the sight of his hearing aids, (they were placed neatly on his bedside table in a spiderman themed case that Clint had gotten him).

Peter's gaze shifted and settled back on the dull lights that he longed to be brighter.

He wanted them to chase away the lingering shadows and dark corners of his bedroom. To chase away the chill in the room and the steadily building feeling of suffocation- Peter frowned when he felt his fingertips tingle. He looked down to see a blue hue emanating from them.

Another round of gut-wrenching fear slammed itself into Peter's body when he thrusted his hands out in front of him, his heart beginning to thud dangerously fast against his chest.

There was a mist-like energy that danced and swirled between his fingertips.

Reasoning and explanations raced through Peter's head as he stared at the power that seemed to hum beneath his skin with wide, wary eyes. "No, no, no, no, no." He pleaded, voice cracking.