Aw, Sugar, You Make My Teeth Rot

The doorbell rings. A man pops up, he's about 5'4" and he looks like the type just ready to beat your insides in with a glance. He rushes to answer the door, Sandy blonde and hopelessly clichéd hair falling over his face as he fumbles to answer the door.

"Hey, Rich," he begins, only to be cut off by something shoving him back into the house.

"Hey, Kris!" Comes a cheery response, which is definately not Rich's voice. "How are you doing?"

"Wh-who?" Begins Kris, and he looks up to see a mask staring back at him. His whole face seems to pale.

"Oooooh, you recognize me!" The owner of the cheery voice giggles, clapping his hands in glee. "Your fear smells delicious! You do know who I am, right? Say my name! Say it! Say it!" The cheery voice chants. Kris shakes.

"S-Spin-Spind-d-dler," he stammer out, backing into a wall. "Why? How? Who? What did I do?" He questions, eyes wetting. Peter grins back.

"Your ex had a very definitive trouble with you dumping her after impregnating her. You didn't even say goodbye! A shame, really. She's rather confused why you ditched town and hopped three states, and she sent me to remind you of your responsibilities!" Peter states, and his smile is so unnerving cheery. He leans into Kris's face, and Kris let's out an undignified squeak.

"I-I," is all Kris manages. Peter wrinkles his nose at a suddenly akrid smell, and his eyes glance down.

"Couldn't hold your bladder?" He says sympathetically, "No, worries, can't blame you!"

Peter hopped backwards, grin still on his features before it hardens into a glare. "You better go back to a certain Ms. Christine Willows, Kris. Or else I might have to pay you a visit again, and that won't be pleasant at all, will it?" His grin returns with a colder pressence, and the spiders crawling all over him move to the front and stare at Kris, a few hissing. Some making small clicking noises.

Peter turns around as Kris stammers out a response, walking out the door and pulling himself up on the massive four spider legs protruding from his back. He aims his wrist, and with a small signal within his mental web, swings away.

Kris goes back to Christine the next day, sobbing in apology. Peter goes home to a safe house somewhere in Delaware and passes out.

~

Peter woke up with a groan, sitting up from the Web and untangling his long spidery legs. Swinging his human ones off the side, he plops off the hammock and lands on a floor of web, causing the whole thing to swing briefly. He rubs at his human set of eyes, the second pair remaining unblinking and unbothered by the gunky remains of sleep and exhaustion.

He looks around for some underwear, finding the usual pair of boxer briefs and pulling them on before climbing out of the Web and down to the first floor of his home, which was relatively web-free. He migrates to the kitchen, putting on a pot of coffee and chittering to some of the already awake spiders a morning greeting. The chittering back, and Peter pours himself a bowl of flies. Most are dead, but a few try to escape, despite their wings being torn or clipped off. Peter finds some milk to pout into the bowl and a spoon, before he pours himself some coffee and sits himself down at his breakfast bar.

It's relatively quiet as he shoves spoonfuls of fly and milk into his mouth like some for of fly-cereal, save for the clink of metal on plastic bowl or metal on mismatched teeth. The teeth being his own, as they are mismatched and jagged. Sharp, to. They cut his lip frequently, unable to properly fit in his mouth the way they're supposed to. Occasionally venom leaks from his mouth and drips into the bowl, as Peter can't control the amount of venom his glands create and the surplus often finds itself leaking out of his mouth in small little drops of varying colored liquids.

Peter swings his legs, humming to himself. It feels like a normal day, but it has a good vibe to it. He feels happy, though he's not entirely sure why. His mind keeps humming and hazing in happy little clouds that easily distract him from whatever he's supposed to be doing. Which isn't much at the moment, so he isn't to bothered by it.

There's a dull ringing sound, which quickly intensifies once he snaps back into reality. It's rather grating against his ears, and he looks around for its source. A couple of spiders skidded towards him with the phone. He chitters a thank you before answering it. Why was he answering it? Who was calling? Oh, right. It's his phone. A client, probably. Peter snaps his fingers a few times.

"Spindler here," he states somewhat dryly as he gets up from his spot at the bar, throwing the empty bowl in a sink and making his way to the basement.

"Hello, Spindler," comes a voice, "I have a job for you."

"I'd garnered that," Spindler replies, looking for his suit. He knows where all his other suits are, but the one he wants to wear is.... Spindler makes a delighted little giggle as he finds it.

"Yes, well, it shouldn't be to hard for someone of your... expertise. It's simple, I would just like you to take an item of mine and deliver it."

"That sounds simple enough," Peter giggles, "Oooh, but there's a catch, isn't there? There's always a catch!"

"Yes," the man replies. Peter frowns at the suit in his hands. Why does he have a suit? Who was he talking to? Oh, right! Merc! Client! "... for this item,"

"Sorry, couldn't catch that!" Peter responds, "Could you repeat that?"

"What? Ah, yes," the man responds, somewhat irate. "The catch is that my enemies are willing to kill for that item, which is rightfully mine."

"I don't care whose it is," Peter responds, and he frowns at the suit in his hands. Why does he have a suit? Oh, right, merc! "Give me a name and a meeting place so we can get a contract! I'll be there in a day or two. Oh, and-" Peter's voice lowers. "Don't give me a fake name."

"Yes, yes," the man responds, voice a little shaky. "Of course, of course." He leaves a name and an adress, both of which Peter almost immediately forget. But he'll remember eventually. For now, he decides he needs a shower.

The shower feels nice, sort of. Water always feels to smooth and slimy going down his skin now, and it remains him of being waterboarded far to often than his liking. But it's still nice, warm water against his skin. And fur. And spider legs.

His entire appearence was altered, large spider legs now protrude from his back, black and spindly. They're not thick, either. They're incredibly thin and don't actually look like the could do the things they do. Small furs stuck out of them, but they were bony and thin. Thinner then his arms, or perhaps around the same width.

His arms were black from his fingetris to his elbows, and his nails were long and slightly curved. He'd sharpened and painted his nails black a while ago. The black part of his arms are slightly harder, and the hair on them is thicker and a pitch black that might darker than shadows. The same on his legs, the area between his toes and knees black with thicker and darker hair, nails longer, curled, sharpened, and painted black. His fingerprints had been altered by the bite, which seemed rather long ago.

His teeth were mismatched and jagged, which meant they didn't fit right. They were sharp, to, and they cut his lips and tongue on a very frequent basis.

Peter picks up a bottle of shampoo, and it's smell fills his nose. He gets a little light headed, the smell feeling twenty times stronger with his increased senses. He swallows back the rise of dizziness and puts some in his hair, spreading it around.

The water rinses through his hair seconds later, and the shampoo washes out. His hair smells like it, and it's thankfully less strong enough to the point where he can bear it. He grabs the soap, next.

He's got a mental Web now, which is really the best way to describe it. He has the ability to sort of map out everyone by reading their minds, in the loosestop way possible. He doesn't read their thoughts, just their concepts. Like auras, almost. He's able to send communication through it like telepathic messages, but it's typically one way unless spiders here it. He can also send signals, which can be received by electronic devices if honed right.

His webs didn't work the same anymore. He could control very little of its properties, it retained the same amount of stickiness and size. But he could alter how much came out and how strong it was, though he could no longer shoot it out. He could make it come out, but shooting it was a different sorry. He'd had to redesign his Web shooters when he'd escaped. Now, they could alter his webs by adjusting the size of the thing that shoots them, and also injecting them with various substances to make them do different things. It was all controlled by his mental web, which was neat.

Peter turns off the water, shivering at the way the metal feels against his skin. To smooth. It sends goosebumps racing down his arms. He comes out, pulling a very special towel out to dry himself. His senses were beyond heightened, and anything that wasn't specifically made for them tended to send him crazy, simply because they were to much.

He dries off his hair and slips on some underwear and finds his suit. He pulls that on, enjoying the way it feels. He loved the suits. They were probably where he felt most comfortable. They felt safe, and almost homelike. He felt off without them on. Like an off white color when he ordered white.

Peter bites his lip, feeling blood and venom already drip down his chin as he checks his Web shooters. He makes his way to the armory to find the proper weapons he needs, and packs a few extras in a duffle bag. Why was he even packing weapons? Peter stops, trying to remember.

Right, right, he had a job. He needed to bring some object to another place. He was supposed to meet his client at an address. What adress? Oh, right. He remembered now. Peter pulls out the gps on his phone. The adress is nearby. He needs to bring the object to New York.

Peter heads out. This'll be fun.