Don't really know if this is more of a drabble or a oneshot, but whatevs.
"L'homme araignée"
Tensed, lanky limbs were sprawled out upon the twin bed. The boy's every muscle seemed to be tensed, trying to fight an inner beast,
An enemy was burrowing through Peter's insides, burning and changing as it went, leaving trails of heat and pain in its wake.
Fire.
Fire was raging inside Peter's body, licking and lapping at his bones like a starving dog.
Pain pain pain.
His hands grasped for aid, grabbing handfuls of the sheets, pulling.
A fever, a flush of heat, magma flowing in place of blood.
Sweat was everywhere, running down his face, and chest, soaking his boxers.
Ragged breaths escaped Peter's throat, his chest heaving up and down. Fists were clenched together so hard the nails drew blood.
Pain, pain, pain,
He was so far gone, so insane, mad with the power it had over him; the boy couldn't even scream. His mouth opened wide, expression weighed by suffering, but no sound arose.
Thumpthumpthump, his heart beat quick, pounding away with little rabbit beats. With each thump it squeezed in his chest, feeling like the fiery hand of the devil.
Pain, pain, pain.
It seemed to be hours, days, years ticking by, slowly. There were no thoughts, no ponderings, only the dolor, the emptiness of all else.
Nerves were at full capacity, his human body changing; the composition of his blood rearranging at no small cost to the boy.
Blazing lights danced in the darkness of his eyelids, his limbs continuing to flail. In desperation, Peter clawed at his chest, trying to rip out the heart that pumped the burning liquid. His nails slid along his chest, lines of blood left in their wake.
Pain, pain, pain.
Finally, Peter's back arched up high, bones and joints cracking at the unnatural position.
That's when his eyes opened, his pupils dilating as they adjusted to the room's light.
Relief.
Surely it was just a dream.
But then he sat up, feeling the open air against the scratches on his chest. Scrambling, Peter rushed over the mirror.
He was covered in sweat, his hair weighed down and salty droplets still running down his chest and sides.
His hazel eyes were dilated and wide, standing out, flickering this way and that in confusion.
Blood lines streaked over his chest, marking the spot of his heart; his diaphragm rising and falling with quick and small movements.
Peter was so exhausted. He shook his head fiercely, trying to shake the memories of the pain he'd endured. Was he sick? Did he have cancer or something? Surely there was a reason for what had just occurred.
Carefully, Peter pulled off his sweat-soaked boxers and tossed them in the laundry hamper. Noticing the bed, he stripped that down too, before throwing on jeans and a tee shirt.
He was so confused. Desperate to forget whatever happened, the fear at what it might mean--he went to wash up, reaching for the bathroom door--
"SNAP!" The door ripped off of its hinges, the teen just just barely catching it in his surprise. Slowly, Peter placed the door against the wall.
Tiptoeing, he entered the bathroom, reaching for his toothbrush as if he was in slow motion. Carefully, Peter pulled it from the holder, going to turn the faucet on and--
"CRUNCH!" He'd completely pulled the left handle from it place.
A flurry of expletives left his mouth, banging his fist upon the counter, only to have it leave an imprint of his hand.
Peter froze, snapping his head up to meet his own gaze in the mirror. His face had gone ghost pale, eyes wide and dilated.
What in the world was going on?