A/N: So this isn't really your typical Spiderman AU. First of all, Spiderman doesn't actually come in until later, like almost the very end (lol hey Whispers what are you doing here), but Peter's there the whole time. It's gonna be a decent length, full of Peter!whump (physical and emotional because I'm horrible like that), and it's got some warnings.

Warnings for physical and emotional abuse.

Warnings for suicidal ideations.

Warnings for language.

I'll add to it as I go if anything else pops up, but please be safe! If this will make you uncomfortable, I want you to take care of yourself first and foremost!

Also, the Avengers don't show up until around the fourth chapter, but they're there! I promise! They're like 90% of the story (besides Peter). Onward!

Enjoy :)

I'm walking. I walk a lot, nowadays.

I wander the filthy streets of Queens, the chilly January wind biting through my meager clothing. Torn jeans do nothing to protect my legs from the chill, and the frayed edges of my sweatshirt are balled up in my frozen fingers in a poor excuse for gloves. I should have grabbed a coat, but the one I have is shredded and thin. Melissa and Jacob won't buy me a new one.

I like walking. It's slow, and peaceful, and I'm alone. No one wants anything from me, and I can just…be. It's a nice change.

My phone rings and I shudder. Only two people ever call me, and it's never good.

"Hello?" I answer, my voice trembling. My subconscious mind blames it on the cold, desperate to keep just an ounce of shredded pride.

"Get your ass back here," Jacob growls, sounding distracted. "There's a fight in a half hour. We're leaving in ten minutes." He hangs up before I can respond, an answer frozen on my lips, just like the rest of me.

No. No, no.

I kick a trash can, watching the metal bend and break beneath my foot, the rare outburst of anger startling even me. I run a hand through my messy hair, fingers shaking. And then I start run back.

What else can I do?

I make it in nine minutes, the bitter air stinging my lungs. They're already waiting in the car. I swing into the backseat, eyes glued to the van's dirty floor, and click on my seatbelt. I almost welcome the warm car after so long in the snow. They don't even acknowledge me as they peel out of the driveway, my door barely closed as they do so.

"Got a call from Troy," Jacob says while Melissa frantically speaks on the phone, making the arrangements. "Our usual ring has a new champion tonight, demanding to fight you. You'll fight, and you'll win, you hear me? My dealer's coming around tomorrow and my payment's up, and we're almost out of vodka, so God help me, you will win this fight."

I swallow. "Okay," I say quietly, staring at my scuffed sneakers, willing my hands to stop shaking.

It's all I can do to keep from throwing myself out of the car and taking my chances, but I stay resolutely in my seat, my mouth firmly shut.

When I was fourteen, my Aunt May and Uncle Ben tried to stop a robber leaving a convenience store. I'd been there. I'd seen it. It wasn't my business, and I didn't want to help the manager who'd just been a jerk to me, so I let it happen.

I lost my family because of it.

I could've done something. Some damn Oscorp field trip had turned me into…whatever I was. Enhanced senses, speed, strength, agility, and some freaky sixth sense that alerted me to danger. I had some bad luck, and was placed with Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber up in the front seat. They were…okay, at first. Kept me fed, bought me clothes, things I needed. They were never family, but they'd kept me alive, at least.

Then Jacob lost his job. Melissa kept hers, but things were tight, and Jacob started drinking. When that wasn't enough, he started getting high, too, on anything he could find. Unsurprisingly, that didn't help the finances, but neither did my living there. I was another mouth to feed, another body to clothe. So, of course, it wasn't the hundreds they blew on drugs and alcohol, it was my fault.

They never really stop reminding me.

It wasn't too bad, at first. A slap here, a punch. Maybe a kick, if it was something really bad. And I healed fast, so no one ever saw the bruises; I hid them for school, and they usually avoided my face.

I never defended myself. It was soon after losing Aunt May and Uncle Ben, and the grief and guilt made me feel like I deserved it. I still think I deserve to be hit every once in a while.

I never meant to let it get so bad.

One night, when Jacob was really drunk, he told me to get on my knees, and I was so scared, because he looked so mad, that I did. When he told me to take off my shirt, I did that too. I didn't even register the fact that I could fight back. It was pure terror and fear and guilt thrumming in my body, and I did everything he said.

And then he started hitting me with his belt, and even when I cried and begged and pleaded, he didn't stop. Melissa watched, cigarette dangling loosely from her mouth.

I still have the scars.

The next time, I fought back. I couldn't let myself go through that again. I refused.

They saw my powers. They saw the strength and speed the spider bite gave me. Their eyes lit up like Christmas morning, and I knew I was screwed the second it happened.

That was the moment they solidified their power over me. It was the second I knew I was never getting out of there. No matter how strong I was, how fast, I couldn't outrun their greed.

Jacob's old job was a research assistant at Oscorp. He had an old friend there who he said would love to get his hands on me, for a good, high price.

He and Melissa said that as long as I brought in more money than he offered them, they'd keep me clothed, fed, with a roof over my head. As soon as I stopped winning the fights they set me up with, they'd hand me over to him gift-wrapped.

While the two of them were scheming up a story for Child Services, saying I'd attacked them and run away and that I was incredibly dangerous, I'd be in a dim torture room on a metal table getting cut open and experimented on and everything else I was so terrified of.

I saw the news articles before Charles Xavier really became a big presence, and I read about what the Sokovia Accords wanted to do before the addendums and revisions. I knew that people like me didn't stand a chance, and at fifteen, I'd be in an even worse position.

I haven't stopped fighting since.

The fight club is located in a slummy part of Queens. It's an unsaid rule that no one making more than minimum wage would ever be caught dead walking the streets there. The club itself is in a rundown warehouse, with boxes stacked at various heights against the walls to form crude stadium seats.

The stage is just a spray-painted square in the middle of the floor, with a chair on either side for the fighters. There's a table set up near the back where money is exchanged and bets are placed, near the warehouse's office. The owner of the club—Troy Hancock—keeps to himself in there, counting his money. I've seen him a handful of times. He only comes out for the really good fights or when there's an issue that requires the intervention of the owner.

He would no doubt be watching my fight. I'm the club's biggest money-maker.

I had gotten good at fighting by watching. My powers helped, but even if I could dodge everything they threw, it wouldn't matter if I couldn't throw punches of my own. I'd gotten good at fighting, and now I could win in ways that wouldn't hurt my opponents too badly. A well-aimed punch would knock them out for a minute or so, but it wouldn't cause any lasting damage, and it would get me the win. I'd learned some martial arts holds in my free time from Youtube, and with my super strength, my opponents had no choice but to yield.

I've been so lost in thought that I barely notice when we stop. I get out of the van and follow Jacob down the narrow hallway while Melissa goes to enter my name and pay my participation fee.

"Jacob, thanks for coming!" Troy says, emerging from his office. They share a firm handshake, and then Troy turns to me. "Nice to see you, Peter. Your opponent is a formidable fellow, but I have no doubt in your abilities!"

"Thank you, Mr. Hancock," I say numbly, my arms wrapped around my torso in the chilly air. A bitter breeze reminds me of the solace of solitude I'd had just moments before, dampening my already bleak mood.

Jacob grabs my arm and drags me to the ring, where I go to my usual corner and take off my sweatshirt, draping it across the chair back. I slip off my sneakers and put them under the chair out of the way, rolling up my jean legs so I won't step on them. My t-shirt has short sleeves, so that's fine. This is a routine, now.

The stadium seats are filled with people. I suppose this will be a big fight. There's some cheering when I come in from my regular supporters, and some boos from those who really hate the fact that a kid is costing them all their bets. I let myself smile the faintest bit. It's ironic, I guess.

I look up when the crowd starts cheering in earnest, thunderous applause that shakes the building. How this place hasn't been discovered yet, I'll never know.

I turn to the other side of the ring, where a huge guy has just come in through the side door. He's 6'6", made of pure muscle. His muscles have muscles. My wiry little 5'6" self has to crane my neck just to look him in the eye. I'm distantly jealous.

Well, I think positively, this'll be great.

The introductions are made to the crowd, and then they're given five minutes to place their bets. My opponent's name is Devin Grigovski. He is twenty-six years old, and he works part time as a constriction worker. My guess, he does this on the side to cover the rest of the bills. He weighs 246 pounds, and I am actually a little afraid for my life when he bares his teeth in what might have been a grin. Hey, at least he smiled. Maybe.

The warning bell rings for us to get ready. I step barefoot into the ring, bouncing on my toes. The rush of adrenaline is the only thing I like about doing this: for once, I feel in control. For once, I can decide how this fight goes, because it's physical, and I'm strong, and capable. The other fights in my life have been with jaded adults who tell me that living with strangers is going to make everything better, that they'll be kind, and they'll be my family. They said changing schools, starting over, would be a good thing.

The fight club is the only place I can let out the tons of pent up rage. So I take advantage of the cruel circumstances, and I let it all out.

The buzzer sounds.

Neither of us moves.

If Devin is surprised, he doesn't show it. Rookies always made their first move at the very second the buzzer sounds. I am no rookie. I am a veteran.

After ten seconds of sizing each other up, Devin comes at me with a quick punch to the ribs. My spidey-sense tingles, and I jerk out of the way, striking back with a hit on his shoulder. He grimaces, but doesn't let it slow him down. His eyes narrow as he dances back, and we circle each other for a few seconds.

I prefer defensive fighting. Offensive is useful sometimes, but I find it a lot easier to dodge with my sixth sense and strike back than to think about striking first. So, when he comes at me again, I'm ready.

His next move is somewhat sloppy, a reaction to the impatient yelling of the crowd. I see his eyes flick to the stands in apprehension, and he approaches again. I don't care if the crowd supports me or not. All I have to think about it what will happen if I don't win.

Staggered images of bloody glass and yelling and shouting is all I need to want to win.

I dodge the halting punch thrown at my head, swinging to the side and using his wide position to strike low, hearing the breath whoosh from his lungs at the jab to his stomach. He stumbles, but his bulk is nothing to scoff at. He recovers quickly, eyes narrowing in frustration.

He clips me on his next punch, and I wince, my shoulder throbbing in protest. Damn. That'll hurt for a little while.

Still, the sacrifice is more than enough. His satisfaction to finally landing a hit lowers his guard, and he's on the ground in the next ten seconds, knocked silly by a solid thump on the head.

I stand, breathing heavily as the crowd chants the numbers, feeling the adrenaline rush from my head to my toes as some of the tension in my shoulders it relieved.

"Ten!" the crowd finally cries with the referee, stamping their feet in approval or cursing in dismay as the referee lifts my arm, my shoulder throbbing at the motion. "Peter wins!"

The majority of the crowd is roaring in thunderous applause or surprised approval, and I see money quickly exchange hands. To my right, I see Melissa and Jacob counting out bills with stars in their eyes. I know I will never see a dime of that money, but I'm too tired to be angry. The referee, a middle-aged man I've come to know from my time here, pats me on the shoulder in approval before slinking away.

Tired, hurting, not at all happy with my situation or my win, I kneel beside Devin, who's shaking his head as he returns to consciousness.

"Are you okay?" I ask quietly.

Devin is nice, unlike some of the other people I've fought. A couple of them have even tried to attack me after that fact, men and women letting their injured pride dictate their actions, but I get the feeling Devin's a good man, because he takes my offered hand.

"I lose," he says, blinking quickly as he gets his bearings, giving me half a smile. "You can pack a punch, kid."

A ghost of a smile is on my lips. "I guess. I didn't hit you too hard, did I?"

He shakes his head, his eyes laughing. In another life, I would've liked to be friends with him. He seems cool. "No, I'm not that fragile. I'll admit, I thought I had it in the bag when I saw you, but…" he shrugs. "I guess even I have some things to learn."

I open my mouth to respond, half-way enjoying the conversation, but Jacob's barked order startles me from my thoughts.

Maybe Devin sees the way the blood drains from my face. Maybe he doesn't. Either way, his eyes are darker when I turn to wish him farewell.

"Ice, then heat," I recommend with a wave, grabbing my shoes and sweatshirt as I make my way over to Melissa and Jacob. Troy is there, beaming.

"I knew you had it in you!" He says, clapping me on my injured shoulder, ignoring my wince at the commendation. "Good man, Peter. Rest up tomorrow, okay? We'll set you up with another fight in a couple days."

"A pleasure as always, Troy," Melissa says with all the grace of a ruthless businesswoman, pale lips drawn in a shark's smile. "Any time you have any more impromptu fights, let us know. Peter's happy to help whenever he can."

Yeah. Peter's always here to help, I think bitterly, but I stay quiet.

A few more pleasantries signal an end to the conversation, and we leave.

I feel just a little bit more of my remaining existence etched into the floor of the ring, leaving me much colder than the snow at my feet.

A/N: Me: You can't publish another fic.

My obsessed self: But why not? The first chapter is done!

Me: BECAUSE YOU ALREADY HAVE FOUR WORKS IN PROGRESS AND YOU'RE WORKING ON THE WHISPERS SEQUEL!

My obsessed self: …but…BUT…I could.

Me: Just because you CAN, doesn't mean you SHOULD. Boundaries. Those are good things. We respect those.

My obsessed self: *fidgets, kicking the ground and sulking* but…maybe they'd like it…?

Me: They like your other stuff. Be patient.

My obsessed self: *cusses me out under their breath* fiiiiiiiine. Killjoy.

Me: *sighs in relief* Thank you.

Me: *turns around for .02 seconds*

My obsessed self: HAHAHA SUCKER *publishes*

Me: …I need a drink.

And that's the tea, sis.

Despite my inner turmoil, I hope you liked it! It's a little different and darker than my normal stuff, so I'll have some warnings for some later chapters, but if you're comfortable with it and it's your speed, I'd love to hear what you thought :)

PS sorry if the style is kind of choppy, I wrote a lot of it a year ish ago and then my writing really improved and I edited it to sound more like me, so the next chapters will be a little easier to read.

Thanks so much for all the support on my other stories, and I hope you enjoyed reading!