Spider-Man: Black and Blue (AU) Chapter 5: Spider-Bite

[Third Person's PoV] 


Damon exited the Oscorp building alongside the rest of his class, who clutched their notebooks filled with freshly scribbled notes from the tour. The cool midday sun reflected off the building’s sleek glass exterior as the group descended the front steps, chattering among themselves about what they had just witnessed inside.


Unnoticed beneath Damon’s dark hoodie, a spider stirred restlessly, having been jostled around during the walk. It crept slowly along the inner lining of his sweater, its tiny legs brushing against his shirt. The creature, foreign to this environment and growing increasingly agitated, moved toward the base of his neck. With a swift, almost mechanical motion, it sank its jagged fangs into the sensitive skin of his nape, injecting venom deep into his bloodstream.


“Ugh!” Damon grunted, flinching in response to the sudden sting. His hand immediately shot up, instinctively slapping the area where the pain radiated.


Startled, the spider leapt from his neck just before his palm could squash it. It tumbled from inside his hoodie, landing on the pavement before quickly darting away, nearly invisible to the naked eye.


“What’s wrong?” Richard asked, noticing Damon rubbing his neck with a wince.


“I think something bit me,” Damon muttered, scanning his hand. No blood. No mark. Just the dull throb of where the bite had occurred.


By now, the class had reached the sidewalk. A sleek black car pulled up next to the waiting school bus. From it emerged a tall man with a commanding presence. His short brown hair was neatly combed in smooth waves, and his tailored suit screamed wealth and status.


There was no mistaking who he was—Norman Osborn. The students straightened up as he approached, his expression pleasant but rehearsed.


“I trust you all had an enlightening experience,” Norman said with a charming smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.


As Norman began his speech, Damon’s attention drifted. Though the man’s voice echoed with authority, Damon could see right through it. There was a calculated tone to everything he said—a performance of politeness. His words felt distant, like background noise in a dream. Damon’s vision blurred for a moment, his eyes glazing over. He blinked rapidly, trying to steady himself.


By the time his senses returned, Norman was already shaking hands with Mr. Warren and giving his son, Harry Osborn, a friendly pat on the back. Harry stood nearby, offering a reserved smile. Damon barely knew him—they shared classes, that was about it.


Climbing aboard the school bus, Damon stumbled on the top step and nearly fell forward. He cursed under his breath, shaking his head to snap himself out of whatever fog had overtaken him. His eyes flew wide open as he made his way to the back of the bus and collapsed into the seat with a huff.


“Dude… are you okay?” Richard asked, sliding into the seat beside him. His eyes narrowed with concern. “You're sweating like crazy.”


“Huh? Am I?” Damon asked, lifting a hand to his forehead. “I guess it’s kinda hot. I should probably take this thing off.”


As he pulled his hoodie over his head, the fabric lifted his shirt, revealing a glimpse of his toned, glistening midsection. His snow-white hair, damp with sweat, stuck to his forehead before he slicked it back with one hand. His breathing was shallow, his posture slouched, like he had just run a marathon.


A row ahead, Lizzy and MJ peeked back simultaneously, their eyes wide with interest. They exchanged a knowing glance.


Lizzy leaned closer to MJ and silently mouthed, “Wow.”


MJ bit her nail with a seductive and interested smirk, her eyes gleaming with amusement. The two girls giggled, like schoolgirls with a shared secret.


“I seriously hate you,” Richard said flatly, staring at Damon as if he were a walking cheat code.


“What did I even do?” Damon asked, genuinely confused.


Richard scoffed. “You know exactly what you did. Sometimes I think you take your shirt halfway off on purpose. You know what you look like.”


Damon rolled his eyes, too drained to argue. “I’m putting on music. Wake me up when you're done being an idiot.”


He rummaged through his bag, pulled out his headphones, and plugged them in. As the music started playing, he leaned back in his seat and fanned himself with his shirt. The heat was unbearable—like he was baking from the inside out.


Richard kept a close eye on him, his worry deepening. Damon wasn’t acting like himself. Something was definitely off.


When the bus pulled up to the school, Damon was one of the first to get off. He moved unsteadily, holding his wrist and muttering to himself.


“I… I need to use the bathroom…” he mumbled, barely loud enough to hear.


Sally Avril, who was walking with Lizzy and MJ, squinted at Damon’s retreating figure. “Is he on something?”


“What?” Richard snapped, spinning around.


Sally pointed. “Look at him! He’s sweating buckets, he can’t walk straight, and he keeps holding his wrist like he needs a fix. I mean… it looks like he’s going through withdrawal or something.”


Richard didn’t respond immediately. His eyes had zeroed in on the back of Damon’s neck—two red puncture wounds had started to swell, the skin around them irritated and inflamed.


“Your commentary isn’t helpful,” he growled, and then broke into a jog to catch up to his friend.


Damon clutched his wrist, his teeth grinding against each other as he shouldered open the bathroom door. The hallway lights buzzed behind him, but they barely registered through the haze of pain flooding his senses. He stumbled in, gasping. Glancing down, he saw a slit tearing itself open across his wrist, slowly and unnaturally, like a zipper made of flesh.


“What the hell is happening to me…” he muttered hoarsely, his legs giving out slightly as he tripped forward into the tiled room. Thankfully, it was empty—no one to witness what was happening to him.


Behind him, the door slammed open again.


“Bro, your neck—” Richard burst in but froze at the sight before him.


Damon leaned over the sink, fumbling with the faucet handle, but as soon as his fingers touched the porcelain, it shattered like glass under pressure. The whole front of the sink snapped loose in his grip. Damon stumbled backward, horrified, the broken fixture crashing to the floor beside him.


Sparks danced off his skin. His snow-white hair rose slowly into the air, swaying and as if charged with pure static. His muscles twitched beneath his skin.


“ARGHHHHH!!” Damon screamed, his hands flying to his face as a white-hot pain tore through him from the inside out. His knees hit the floor with a dull thud. “My eyes! My eyes!! It feels like something’s clawing them out from the inside!”


Richard stood paralyzed for a second before instinct drove him forward. He slid to his knees beside Damon, grabbing his trembling arm.


“Damon! Hey—hey! I’m right here! What do you need? Tell me what to do—”


His voice caught in his throat.


The moment his hand touched Damon’s, a sickening sensation crawled across his skin. Their flesh stuck together—literally fused for a moment—before Richard yanked his arm back with a startled shout. Threads of skin stretched between them and snapped like gum, leaving both of them panting.


“Jesus Christ…”


From the space between Damon’s shaking fingers, a faint blue glow flickered like an arc reactor sparking to life. His breathing grew ragged. He felt something shifting in his jaw, pushing against his gums. He cried out as two sharp fangs extended from the top and bottom rows of his teeth, fitting together with unnatural precision.


Damon’s eyes snapped open.


He saw everything.


He stared through the veil of his own fingers as if they were made of glass. Turning slowly toward Richard, his pupils dilated—then contracted into something inhuman. He saw Richard’s skin, his blood pumping, the twitch of muscles under bone. His vision pulsed—first in perfect x-ray, then in infrared, then magnified in horrifying clarity. He could see heat, light, dust all at once. 


His body convulsed as the transformation reached its peak.


The veins beneath his skin protrude outwards, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat, pushing blood into his system. His snow-white hair now glowed faintly, floating as if in zero gravity, strands of it fanning around his face like a halo.


His fingers dug into the tiled floor, cracking it with ease. His shirt clung to him, drenched in sweat and sticking to his now impossibly toned frame. His skin had taken on a strange sheen, almost too perfect, too unreal—like polished porcelain lit from within.


Then, silence.


Damon lowered his hands. Slowly.


His eyes—once stormy blue—now blazed with a celestial glow. Pale, almost white irises surrounded by an opalescent ring of light. They sparkled with impossible depth, like galaxies folded into each eye.


And then he screamed again.


“Agh—!!!”


The lights above flickered violently.


He shielded his eyes.


It was too much. The world was too bright—too loud, too sharp. Every photon felt like a needle stabbing into his skull.


“Turn it off! Turn off the lights!” he shouted, recoiling. He clawed at his face like a wounded animal, trembling and heaving.


Richard knelt beside him, gripping Damon’s shoulders even as they sparked with heat.


“Hey, hey! It’s okay! I’ve got you, Damon, I’ve got you! You’re okay!” he repeated, over and over, his voice breaking. His fear was obvious, but his loyalty and worry for his friend was strikingly obvious.


Damon panted like a hunted beast, knuckles white, his new senses assaulting him from every direction. He closed his eyes, breathing hard, trying to shut it all out. But even with his eyes shut, he could still see—the walls, the stalls, the thrum of the building’s electricity.


“I can’t… I can’t turn it off…” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I see… everything…”