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Summary
The tip of her chin rests onto Cletus' palm as her mass presses firmly against his skin. No more but three layers of muscle, tissue and annoying bone marrow separate her from the constant hammer of his heart. The world thinks he doesn’t have one. Therapists say he’s puked it out when he was a kid and scattered its shrivelled pieces among the remnants of the orphanage he burned down.
She spits at them all. She bites, and scratches, and tears as much as she has to and more. She rearranges their worst traumata should they even contemplate grazing his flesh while he fillets theirs.
His heart sits well under her clawed touch. There it is. This she guards. Mine.
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Spider-Man
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