Peter Parker & Tom Holland Imagines

premonitions {p.p}

Everyone always says, 'if you're good at something, pursue it,' and 'utilize your talents.' But when your skills are in grey areas that would often be deemed illegal, suddenly you're not supposed to do what you're good at. Not that I actually care though.

Because I can't help that I have a surprisingly unique talent for getting out of and avoiding sticky situations. Evan always tells me it made me a nightmare to babysit me when we were younger. Now, all he can do is utilize my little trick to keep the 'family' business running. Especially with the 'friendly neighborhood' hero that runs around stopping everyone.

In our crew, they call me 'Delphi' in some silly comparison to the legendary Oracle of old. It originally started as a joke, something Evan started to keep my real name out of the system and mock the Institution's codename for me. Now, it's a trademark. People clamor and vie for Delphi to watch over their exploits, to give them the slightest bit of advice on how not to get caught.

Sometimes I wish I wasn't gifted.

I wish that I could be an average girl. You know, the kind that doesn't help run the mafia or is the baby sister to its kingpin. The one who can go shopping on the weekends, or be invited to a party without watching the door and analyzing escape routes because someone's running a job.

I wish that I could be me. No Delphi, just Y/N.

Evan gives me a smile from across the pulsing club, happy to see another job running smoothly, and it's like a punch in the gut. Because even if I could leave this life, I can't betray my 'brother'—my family and all that I have left to in this world. We made a promise when Pop's left—we go together, no matter where it may be.

There's a tug in the back of my head, a familiar hum beneath the pounding of the club's pulsing beat. Someone's coming. Probably just a rival, looking to bust another one of our ops to boost their own profits, yet they always forget about me.

I hop over the railing and slip against the wall to Evan's direct line of sight. His green eyes shift to me ever so slightly and watch my rushed movements over the shoulder of whatever stranger he's dealing with tonight. My gloved fingers tap my wrist and continue through a flurry of coded movements to relay the message. Exit 3 now. Close call.

He offers me a barely perceptible nod, and I allow a ghost of a smile to dance across my features. Poor guys have no idea what they're getting left behind to face. It sends a small pang of guilt through my chest, but the feeling is quickly left behind me in the twisting crowd. They chose this life; it's bound to catch up to them eventually.

Although, as I slip out the back into the alley, I can't help but wonder if one day it will catch up to us too. It's not as if we aren't just as guilty. Evan helps broker the biggest deals—everything from guns to drugs to art and everything in between. Of course, he always keeps the details hidden; I'm just not stupid enough to believe he's dealing in rainbows and happiness.

The New York chill bites down through my jacket as I weave through streets, false turns, and narrow alleyways to the safe house. My thoughts sour like the dumpster's trash the longer I walk. With each step another reason for me to hate myself pops up.

Step. I aide criminals every day.

Step. I help more weapons and illegal items to hit the streets.

Step. People die because of it.

Step. Not once have I had the courage to say 'no.'

Step. I keep doing it despite knowing its wrong.

Step. I've never tried to stop Evan.

Step. Evan's never asked me stop.

Step. And I've never said anything.