Boys like Boys|| Peter Parker

.13.

Oliver's vision was fuzzy when he finally did open his eyes. All he could see were blurry blobs on a white background. He was upside down.. probably. He didn't even have enough sense yet to figure that out. 

He took two quick breaths and forced himself to focus. Life or death situations don't really care if you're in the best shape. 

He was being dragged. That's all he knew. And the only reason he knew was because his butt hurt like a bitch. ouch.

Stop thinking. 

Just do it. 

That's probably violating some trademark but okay-

What he tried to do was admittedly very stupid and he should've thought of something better. But he's an idiot, we've already established that. 

He gave himself a countdown till three and got to his feet. The two widows dragging him by his arms didn't know what hit them— He flipped completely over them, twisting his arms painfully, drawing them together and smashing the two women's head into each other, causing them to let go of his arms by reflex, too preoccupied with their pain.

While that was definitely not planned, he still patted himself on the back for how well it worked (metaphorically patted himself on the back, his arms still hurt). 

He turned around, facing the main fight. One against six, not exactly fair, but when did Madam Petrova ever care about that?

He did a mental calculation, two girls unconscious or dead near Bucky, two he knocked out now. Three of the six clearly acting in a group formation, specially trained to work with each other, the rest were individually trained, like him. He could tell. 

Three quick breaths and Oliver jumped in like a ballet dancer at the height of his career. He could almost imagine it, the crowd shaking with anticipation, watching him glide across the stage— their breaths held, waiting for his next move. They'd expect him to act like the other widows, after all he was once one of them... 

What they wouldn't expect however was the ease with which Oliver and Bucky moved now. They'd known each other nearly a year by now, but they acted like they'd trained for this moment their entire life. 

They moved in sync, Bucky moved to the left, Oliver attacked the woman on the right who was holding him in a chokehold. Bucky dropped the knife he was holding in his grip, the weapon falling perfectly into Oliver's hand before he drove it deep into the widow's jaw from below her. 

Not waiting to see if she recovered from it, Oliver moved on. 

He imagined the ballet performance again, the crowd in shock at the bloodshed, but secretly wanting more. Horrified at what Oliver had just done, yet left intrigued. 

As much as he hated to admit it, Oliver loved this. 

Not the bloodshed, but the fight. The adrenaline coursing through him, making him feel a bot lightheaded, but also temporarily immune to all the pain he was currently in. He loved the breathlessness, the satisfaction of still being as good as he claimed to be—

He flipped the knife over in his hands, smashing the hilt in a widow's face. He imagined it to be a fuck you to Madam Petrova. He couldn't help the feeling of guilt crawling across him, but this was a kill or be killed situation, no time to think twice. He wound his leg around hers and pulled, she fell to the ground like a ragdoll, and maybe Oliver loved the sickening crunch of her nose when he slammed his elbow into her face again. 

He was insane at this point, he'd regret it later. He'd sit in an empty room and cry, calling himself a monster, but for now he was satisfied seeing how far he could push himself.