Fight and Struggle
It seemed that fighting was the only thing Peter G. Parker had ever known—fighting for himself, for his honor, and most importantly, for his family. Aunt May was his only family now, and Peter would willingly sacrifice everything for her.
He'd been too young to remember much about his parents; they passed away when he was still a child. But fate hadn't left him entirely alone. Aunt May and Uncle Ben had taken him in, giving him a home and a sense of stability in an otherwise cruel world. However, even this semblance of normalcy was fleeting.
When Peter was just ten years old, tragedy struck again. Uncle Ben was killed. The loss devastated Aunt May, shattering her spirit and weakening her health. Her grief turned into chronic fatigue, and as her body grew frailer, life became an uphill battle. Money was scarce, bills piled up, and May often struggled to make ends meet. But through it all, she never complained, never asked for charity. She insisted they had something no hardship could take from them—each other.
Peter understood her pride, even admired it. But it didn't make their situation any easier. Every penny mattered, and Peter felt the weight of responsibility more acutely than any child should. Aunt May's resilience inspired him, but it also fueled his determination. If she wouldn't ask for help, then he would shoulder the burden for both of them.
Even as a kid, Peter had taken on jobs wherever he could find them. Delivering papers, cleaning yards, odd jobs for the neighbors—anything to bring in a little extra money. He never told Aunt May about the trouble he faced at school or the occasional scrape he got into on the streets. She didn't need more worries, and Peter was determined to shield her from any additional pain.
By the time Peter was a young man, his life had already been shaped by hardship. He had grown into someone strong, both in body and mind. Years of hustling, working difficult jobs, and facing adversity had honed his physique and given him an edge. He wasn't just tough; he was clever, too. A natural balance of intelligence and grit defined him.
Still, his circle of close friends was small. Harry Osborn, son of Norman Osborn—the wealthy co-founder of Oscorp—had been his best friend since they were kids. Their bond was more than just companionship; it was a rare outlet for Peter to share his dreams, his fears, and his hopes for the future. And then there was Ned. Just Ned (A/N: Ned, the CEO of SEX) .
The kind of friend who was always there, offering support when life felt overwhelmingly gray.
Yet the hardest battles Peter had fought weren't against physical challenges—they were battles of the heart. His most crushing wound came not from a fight but from betrayal. Mary Jane Watson, the girl he'd loved, the girl he thought would always be by his side, had left him for another man. Some guy named Paul.
That pain had lingered, gnawing at him in quiet moments when he was alone. But Peter wasn't one to wallow in despair. He'd learned to bury his heartbreak, to push forward no matter how much it hurt.
"Well, no time for bad thoughts," Peter muttered under his breath, standing with his arms crossed over his chest. The years of labor, the street fights, and the relentless grind had sculpted him into someone unrecognizable from the scrawny boy he'd once been. His body was strong and toned, a testament to his endurance and discipline. But those years had also left their mark—scars, fractures, and a litany of injuries that told the story of his struggles.
Of course, those old wounds mattered less now. Ever since the bite, his body had changed. He had new abilities— strength, agility, and a remarkable capacity for regeneration. While those powers couldn't erase the old scars on his skin, they made him resilient in ways he'd never imagined.
Peter looked around.
The neon lights of "Club Horizon" painted the darkened street in hues of electric blue and purple. The letters flickered occasionally, casting jittery reflections onto the damp pavement. The bass thump of the music inside reverberated through the air, a steady heartbeat for the crowd that gathered near the club's entrance. The line stretched along the block, a mix of eager fans in leather jackets, cocktail dresses, and casual streetwear. Some leaned on the metal railings, chatting animatedly, while others adjusted their outfits, casting furtive glances at the bouncer who would decide their fate.
Peter stood at the door, hands in the pockets of his heavy jacket, scanning the crowd with the sharp eye of someone used to trouble. He wasn't Spider-Man right now. He was just Peter Parker, night guard at one of the busiest nightclubs in Manhattan. But even without the mask, his sense of responsibility lingered.
The club's entrance was a threshold between chaos and control. Above him, the awning was strung with small lights, giving the scene a festive but slightly ominous glow. The scent of street food wafted from a nearby cart, blending with the distinct tang of cigarette smoke and the occasional waft of expensive cologne. Peter's muscles were tense, not from the cold but from the energy of the night. The city was alive tonight, and that meant trouble wasn't far behind.
A pair of young men approached the line, their swagger telegraphing overconfidence. One wore a leather jacket with studs, the other sported sunglasses-at night, no less. They exchanged looks and nodded to each other, clearly sizing up the bouncers. Peter's eyes narrowed. He'd seen this type before: loud, brash, and always one drink away from a fight. He stepped forward, subtly blocking their path.
"Tickets," Peter said flatly, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.
The one in the leather jacket gave him a smirk, his voice dripping with false charm. "Come on, man. You don't need to check us. We're VIP."
Peter raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "VIPs don't wear sunglasses at night. Move along, or I call the next person."
The man bristled, his posture shifting like he was about to argue, but then he saw Peter's unyielding expression. Grumbling under his breath, he dug into his pocket and produced a crumpled ticket. Peter took it, inspected it, and handed it back.
"Enjoy the show," Peter said, his voice neutral but firm. He could feel the man's glare as they passed him into the club, but he didn't care. His job was to keep the peace, and so far, peace was holding.
Behind him, Peter heard the familiar sound of heavy boots on the pavement. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was-Joe's footsteps were distinct, each step deliberate and measured. But Peter turned anyway, a small smile forming as he saw his colleague approaching. Joe was a mountain of a man, his dark t-shirt stretched taut over his broad chest and columnar biceps. Despite his intimidating frame, Joe's expression was calm, his eyes warm.
"Pete," Joe said, his deep voice cutting through the noise of the street, "let me handle this. You've been talking about that band all week.Especially that drummer girl...Don't tell me you're gonna miss them now."
Rolled his eyes at Joe's words about the drummer. He hadn't talked about her... He glanced back at the line, at the shifting crowd and the steady pulse of the music. "Joe, are you sure?" he asked. "It's packed tonight. The usual crowd's one thing, but this? I can stay if you-"
Joe held up a hand, his lips curling into a patient smile. "Pete. Go. I've got this." He glanced at the crowd, his expression shifting to one of mild amusement as a man in a sequined blazer stumbled up the steps. "Besides, you think I can't handle a couple of drunks and some overexcited fans? I've been doing this longer than you've been alive, kid."
Peter chuckled despite himself. Joe always had a way of cutting through his self-imposed guilt. He nodded, stepping aside as Joe moved to take his place by the door.
"You're a good man, Joe," Peter said, clapping him on the shoulder.
Joe grinned, his teeth flashing in the dim light. "Damn right I am. Now get outta here before you miss the opening act."
Peter smiled, a rare moment of lightness crossing his face as he stepped away from Joe and headed for the door. The electric pulse of music was louder now, thumping against the walls and vibrating through the air. As he pushed open the entrance, the muffled bass exploded into clarity, enveloping him in its rhythm.
The hallway leading to the main hall was dimly lit, a stark contrast to the explosion of color and sound waiting just beyond. Neon signs advertising drink specials and upcoming shows glowed faintly on the walls, casting eerie shadows across the black-painted floor. Peter passed a few early arrivals lingering near the bar, their laughter and chatter blending with the distant music.
The second set of doors stood before him, their frosted glass rattling faintly with each beat of the music. He pushed them open, and the scene hit him like a wave.
The main hall was alive. Crowds of people gathered near the stage, their energy infectious. Strobe lights danced overhead, splashing the room in shades of blue, purple, and gold. The air smelled of excitement, a mix of sweat, perfume, and the metallic tang of the fog machine. Peter's eyes scanned the room, drawn to the stage where the band was setting up.
They were a group of five women, each one a force of charisma and talent. They'd been gaining attention in the city's music scene, a buzzworthy act that had packed the house tonight. The lead singer adjusted her mic stand with a quiet confidence, her short black hair and leather jacket giving her a rock-and-roll edge. The bassist was already strumming a warm-up riff, the melody playful and sharp. The keyboardist and guitarist exchanged grins, clearly thrilled at the turnout.
But Peter's focus was on the drummer.
She sat at her kit like she was born there, her movements fluid and precise as she adjusted the height of her cymbals. Her blonde hair shimmered under the lights, falling in soft waves around her face. Her skin was luminous, and her eyes-bright and piercing-drew Peter in even from a distance. Gwen Stacy.
They'd crossed paths a handful of times before, brief encounters that never seemed to amount to much more than a polite nod or a passing hello. Peter wasn't sure if she remembered him, but he remembered her. How could he not? There was something magnetic about her, something that pulled at him whenever she was near.
Tonight, he told himself, that was going to change.
"Be brave, not the first time! " Peter murmured under his breath, a nervous chuckle escaping as he made his way toward the edge of the crowd. His steps quickened slightly, fueled by a mix of determination and anticipation.
He paused near the side of the stage. Gwen tightened the bolts on her snare drum, her focus absolute, her hands moving with a practiced efficiency that spoke of years of dedication. She wore a sleeveless top that showed off the lean strength in her arms, and the way she moved-graceful yet powerful-was mesmerizing.
Peter swallowed hard, his heart pounding. For all the battles he'd fought, for all the courage he'd summoned as Spider-Man, this felt like a whole new kind of challenge.
He straightened up, brushing his hands against his jeans to steady himself. "It's just a conversation," he muttered. "Nothing to it."
And then he took a step.
Just one. A single, bloody step.
"Peter! Peter, get on the line!" Ned's voice boomed in his ear, shattering the moment like glass hitting concrete. Peter froze mid-step, his eyes locked on Gwen as a wave of frustration surged through him. If Ned was reaching out, it had to be important. It always was. And it was always at the worst possible time.
"Ugh..." Peter muttered under his breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He backed away from the thrumming crowd, seeking a quieter corner where he could speak without the noise interfering. His jaw tightened, his tone clipped as he asked, "Where?"
"A few miles east," Ned replied, urgency seeping into his voice. "Some guy in a rhinoceros suit. You're the closest. Sorry to tear you away from your 'date.'"
Peter exhaled sharply. Ned's tone was teasing, but his words hit home. Yeah, Ned knew about Peter's secret identity-it was a long, complicated story-but his knack for finding the right info at the right time made him invaluable. They worked well together, even when Peter wanted to throttle him for his timing.
Peter's lips parted, hesitation in the breath he didn't let out. "Hmmm, uh..." He glanced toward Gwen again. She was laughing with her bandmates now, adjusting her drumsticks with that confident, easy grace he couldn't stop noticing. His heart tugged in one direction, his responsibility in another.
If he waited too long, someone might get hurt.
With a reluctant sigh, Peter took a step toward the back door, his gaze lingering on Gwen for one final moment. "Alright, I'm on my way out. Send me the coordinates." His voice was steady, but inside, frustration churned.
Gwen caught the stage light perfectly, her blonde hair glowing like it had captured a piece of the neon. Peter's chest tightened, and he muttered softly, "I'll make it up to you. Somehow."
He turned away, forcing his legs to move faster, his resolve kicking in. Ned's voice crackled through his earpiece again.
"Goliath is out of town, so everyone thinks they are free. Goliath's partner, Iron Man, is also not in the city, I can't find him. That's why he is my favorite... Btw, do you ever thought Goliath would have a partner? Funny right? "
"Yeah, hilarious," Peter replied, his feet pounding the pavement as he slipped through the side exit. He scanned the alley for a secluded spot to change, keeping an eye on the dim corners for potential prying eyes.
"And SHIELD's too far out," Ned continued, his voice laced with faux cheer. "So, you're up. After this, though, we're heading to Harry's for Smash Bros. Great plan, right?"
"That's a damn good plan," Peter replied, his breath quickening as adrenaline pumped through him. He reached his hidden stash-a bundle of regular clothes folded neatly against the wall. His Spider-Man suit, worn under his street clothes, made the change seamless.
Slipping his mask over his face, Peter double-checked his surroundings. No cameras, no onlookers. Just the quiet buzz of the city and the hum of distant traffic. He tapped the side of his earpiece to cut off the connection and gave himself a moment of quiet before the storm.
"I'm sorry, Gwen," he whispered to no one, his words filled with regret. "Maybe next time, we'll actually talk."
With a flick of his wrist, a web shot upward, catching the edge of a nearby building. Peter launched into the air, his body slicing through the wind as the city spread out beneath him. The weight of his decision hung heavy, but there wasn't time to dwell on it now.
The villain Ned had mentioned was waiting, causing who-knows-what kind of destruction. Peter's focus sharpened, his thoughts narrowing to the task at hand. Responsibility first, everything else second.
***
*Somewhere in the middle of nowhere*
"When I said I wanted to disappear for a week, it didn't mean to put me in a portal. Where the fuck Am I?"
And the voice belonged to Goliath.
For real, Where the fuck is he?
***
(A/N) Ok guys, I want it. Week adventure of Goliath in different place. Suggest where a 4-meter muscle head would be good and where it got to. And check the comments, there's a Spider-Man costume version of Goliath.