He drifts off without issue, without having to call in Mantis to carve a path into unconsciousness. The first few days in Peter's body, it had felt nice. Now, though, it feels normal – except for the days where he wakes up more exhausted than the night before.
For now, he slips away, falls deeply asleep, thanks mostly to the day's work, but in part to the strange fit that had struck him minutes for bedtime. And for a few hours, he stays that way.
And after those few hours, another of those strange bouts crashes over him, though he's not cognizant of it. Ego's consciousness is temporarily severed, set adrift in the black, pushed further and further away by the waves of weakness. An ugly silence is left in his wake, a space in need of filling.
Ego's hold loosens. Those tendrils restraining him weaken until they fall away completely, and Peter doesn't think, just moves. He rushes into that space – a desperate, panicked prisoner whose jailer foolishly left the door open.
He slams back into himself with a strangled noise, eyes flying open without seeing. His head throbs, chest constricting and aching as he struggles to breathe. He tastes iron on the back of his tongue, and god, he hurts, he fucking hurts. Every inch of him feels wrong, like he's trying to fit into old, childhood clothes, like he's been jammed into his skin the wrong way around, and—
Fuck, how much time does he have? Probably not enough. Not nearly enough. He struggles to shove himself up, desperate and confused and sluggish and terrified. He knows he needs to just move, but Peter has no idea where to go from there.
Fuck, fuck, if he can just— his arm buckles beneath him but he tries again. He needs to—
no subject
He drifts off without issue, without having to call in Mantis to carve a path into unconsciousness. The first few days in Peter's body, it had felt nice. Now, though, it feels normal – except for the days where he wakes up more exhausted than the night before.
For now, he slips away, falls deeply asleep, thanks mostly to the day's work, but in part to the strange fit that had struck him minutes for bedtime. And for a few hours, he stays that way.
And after those few hours, another of those strange bouts crashes over him, though he's not cognizant of it. Ego's consciousness is temporarily severed, set adrift in the black, pushed further and further away by the waves of weakness. An ugly silence is left in his wake, a space in need of filling.
Ego's hold loosens. Those tendrils restraining him weaken until they fall away completely, and Peter doesn't think, just moves. He rushes into that space – a desperate, panicked prisoner whose jailer foolishly left the door open.
He slams back into himself with a strangled noise, eyes flying open without seeing. His head throbs, chest constricting and aching as he struggles to breathe. He tastes iron on the back of his tongue, and god, he hurts, he fucking hurts. Every inch of him feels wrong, like he's trying to fit into old, childhood clothes, like he's been jammed into his skin the wrong way around, and—
Fuck, how much time does he have? Probably not enough. Not nearly enough. He struggles to shove himself up, desperate and confused and sluggish and terrified. He knows he needs to just move, but Peter has no idea where to go from there.
Fuck, fuck, if he can just— his arm buckles beneath him but he tries again. He needs to—
What fuck is he supposed to do? ]