Happy Valentine's Day everyone! A chapter to celebrate the holiday. Hope you all are loving yourselves and treating yourselves like the fucking amazing people ya'll are.

This is another Peter chapter, we'll be getting back to Wade next time.

(Warnings for strangulation and possessive behavior)

Chameleon finally let him get out of bed, but only after a lot of moping and grumbling from Peter and not without drugging him first.

His request to stretch his legs was met with a needle getting pushed into his skin and the cuffs staying firmly planted on his wrists and ankles. When he was woozy and half-conscious from the drug, all Peter could remember after being helped from the bed was leaning against Chameleon to keep himself propped up and then everything became too fuzzy to piece together. He could hardly think straight, much less walk without wobbling like a newborn fawn.

It would've been an ample opportunity to escape if only Chameleon could stop being a douchebag and didn't keep preventing it. He sat Peter on the couch in the living room, a brand similar to, if not identical, to the one in his apartment, and propped him up with couch pillows so he wasn't slumped over the armrest and drooling over the fine material. Vaguely, Peter thought to himself that he didn't like this couch, not at all. It lacked all the gross food stains of the original.

The drug wore off slowly, and when Peter finally became aware of his surroundings, he realized the laugh-track in his head was coming from the TV and not his cruel, innermost thoughts. It was one of the older shows he and Wade watched together, Peter's favorite Sci-Fi, which was a shame because he couldn't enjoy it with Chameleon clattering around in the kitchen and humming along with the theme song.

Peter stayed still, not letting on how lucid he was and took the opportunity to observe. This apartment really was almost identical to the one he had. The same layout, the same wallpaper, the same furniture, the only difference being that this was newer...and cleaner. Most of the furniture looked recently bought, or at the very least well maintained, and the wallpaper was fresh and clean of water stains. It didn't smell the same either, nothing like the gun oil from Wades weapons and the chemicals Peter used to make his webbing, and too much like lemon-shine and Lysol. It was a good copycat, but different in the ways that mattered.

He flexed his hands and twisted his wrists, gauging how tight the handcuffs were. They were advanced alright, probably fresh out of the box. He's seen the specs a few times when rummaging through Avengers Tower to annoy Tony, and only ever saw them in person when they were being slapped on a villain with abilities that granted them Raft treatment. These were handcuffs specifically designed to immobilize people who are stronger or more "advanced" than your average human. Peter didn't know their full extent, or what they could do, but they were thick and sturdy. It would take a lot of strength to break them, maybe more than he had if they were strong enough to contain Rhino. The ones on his ankles were identical.

Careful to keep his breathing slow, Peter tilted his head just a fraction so he could give the room another once-over. If the layout really was like this apartment, then the door should be just outside the hall. He could probably walk now but wouldn't get far without Chameleon noticing. Maybe if he knocked Chameleon down hard enough, he could bunny hop to the door and then fall down the stairs and roll out onto the street yelling for help. Peter refrained a snort. Yeah, that would be his grand master plan.

He did like the idea of knocking out Chameleon though. How hard would he need to hit him without the use of his fists? Chameleon had to have the key on him somewhere, so maybe he could get the cuffs off too.

Peter took a controlled breath to cool his agitation. Throwing all caution to the wind and hoping for the best, wasn't going to get him out of this. Yes, it was his go-to strategy, but Chameleon already had the upper hand and he said as much that he didn't expect Peter to take this on the nose, so he's going to be expecting something sooner or later. Peter needed to be smart about this.

But fuck if whatever Chameleon was cooking didn't smell amazing. Peter glared at his grumbling stomach.

Food, it moaned in betrayal.

Eat shit, Peter snapped back.

He craved something big, greasy, and so full of calories it would give a normal person a heart-attack.

We are not eating his food, Peter scolded himself. We are not. We are not. We are NOT.

A plate of noodles, sauce, chicken, and garlic bread slid on the table in front of him and Peter startled.

"Good, you're awake," Chameleon smiled, "Food's ready."

Peter bit his tongue. The aroma was so good, fresh-baked it looked like. Who knew Chameleon knew how to cook?

"M'not hungry," Peter muttered, forcing himself to look away so Chameleon couldn't see the way he was salivating like a ravenous dog.

"You're lying," Chameleon said, sitting on the far end of the couch with his own plate, "But if that's what you want." He twirled the noodles in the sauce and ate happily, watching the TV. Peter stared on too, stomach punching him in anger.

Five minutes passed and Chameleon nonchalantly asked, "Are you hungry now? I know how big of an appetite you have. You haven't eaten since yesterday morning, you're probably starved."

"I'm fine," Peter growled,

I'm dying, his stomach cried.

Peter told it to fuck off.

Chameleon smiled wryly, "Alright. I just figured if you plan on escaping you want to be at your full strength."

Peter's head snapped toward him and Chameleon snorted, "Come on, I know you're probably thinking of some way to escape right now, it would be uncharacteristic if you weren't. I'm just saying that if you want to attempt it, you might want to be at your best when you do. It only makes sense."

Peter curled himself tighter in his corner, staring at the other man suspiciously, "I thought you didn't want me to escape."

"I don't," he paused to take a sip from his wine glass. Wine. As if they were just two pals enjoying an evening together. "I'm not worried you'll escape, but you do need to eat. Can't attempt anything if you're shaking with hunger, right?"

Peter scowled, tearing his eyes away from Chameleon and they landed on the plate without his permission. His stomach rumbled again, more insistent.

"It's not drugged is it?" He muttered.

"Of course not, I'm eating the same thing."

"You could've spiked mine."

Chameleon shrugged, "Well, I guess you're just going to have to take my word for it. But I would hurry if I were you, it's getting cold."

Out of pride, Peter lasted another five minutes, and then slowly, bitterly, he picked up the plate and set it in his lap. It was awkward with the handcuffs keeping his wrists locked so close together and it was no better as he tried twirling noodles onto his fork, and then stabbing them when they kept slipping off. Getting them into his mouth was even harder and Chameleon laughed when a glop of noodles and sauce slid off the fork and down Peter's shirt.

"Here, let me help," he grabbed a napkin from the stack he put on the table, but Peter jerked away when he tried to wipe at his shirt. Chameleon put his hands up, "I'm just going to clean you up."

"I don't need your help," Peter growled.

Chameleon looked at the plate that was now lopsided on Peters knees, seconds from spilling onto his lap and the couch. "I think you do," he said, grabbing the plate before it made its descent and set it on the table, "Now hold still. You're making a mess of yourself."

He was close now. Too close. One knee on the couch and the other on the floor, leaning down and hovering over Peter. Peter didn't like how caged in it made him feel but there was a ray of sunshine in the otherwise gloom. Chameleon was unbalanced and Peter took the opening. He lunged forward, tackling him to the floor and pressed his weight onto Chameleon, pinning his forearm underneath the other man's throat and pushing until he choked.

"Where's the key," he demanded, "Give it to me or so help me I'll-" out of nowhere, something hot and sharp erupted from Peter's wrists and ankles and cut him off with a choked noise and then a scream. Chameleon threw him off and he convulsed on the floor, limbs spasming from the shock. Still breathing hard, Peter noticed the little remote in Chameleon's hand, he hadn't even noticed him reaching into his pocket.

"That," Chameleon rasped, rubbing his throat with his free hand, "Was really naughty." He clicked the button again and Peter's body jerked as he was shot with electricity once more. Chameleon cut it off just enough for him to suck in a breath and then pushed it again, and then did the same thing one more time.

When he finally cut it off, Peter's body was a mess of twitching and spasms as he rode out the aftershocks, gasping and choking into the floor. Chameleon bent over him, "I wouldn't do that again. These settings can go a lot higher. I really don't want to hurt you Peter, I really don't, but you just," he took a frustrating breath, "You keep making me do it. It's the only way you listen."

He exhaled deeply through his nose, expression relaxing. His hands were gentle again as they curled around Peter's twitching body and hauled him back up and onto the couch. He picked up another napkin and this time, before Peter could lean away, he lifted both it and the remote.

"I'm going to clean you now and if you give me any more trouble," his finger hovered over the button and Peter's spider-sense buzzed with promise. "I don't want to punish you, but you force my hand when you lash out like this. Your comfort here as well as your pain is all up to you, so think carefully before you try something like that again. Now hold still for me."

He carefully wiped the mess from Peter's shirt, taking care to pick off all the noodles and clean up the sauce as much as he could. When Peter didn't move or lean away, he whispered soft praises and Peter squeezed his eyes shut when Chameleon trailed a finger down the side of his face in an appraising caress.

"See, that wasn't so bad," Chameleon murmured. He got up then, taking the plate with him as he returned to the kitchen.

Peter let out the breath he was holding as soon as he was gone, slumping into the couch with a wheeze. Electrocution wasn't new to him, but it never stopped hurting.

Chameleon returned with a new plate, but instead of handing it to Peter, he sat on the cushion next to him, twisting noodles onto the fork. "Since you can't feed yourself, I'm going to have to do it."

Judging by his smug tone, Peter had a feeling that's what he was planning all along. He wondered if Chameleon let him try himself just so he'd make a mess and it gave him an excuse to clean him up. Or maybe he knew Peter would have never agreed to being fed if he didn't know he couldn't feed himself.

Either way, when he held the fork out, Peter kept his lips pinched shut.

Chameleon quirked an eyebrow, "Don't tell me you're not hungry."

Peter's glower turned cold, "Electrocution does that to me."

Chameleon held up the remote again, "Hmm, then maybe it will bring it back too."

Peter's glower became a glare, but slowly, fighting his pride every step of the way, he opened his mouth and accepted the bite.

"Yeah," Chameleon grinned, "That's what I thought."

[LINE BREAK]

Peter endured dinner for as long as he could, eating every bite Chameleon offered with a bruised ego and an angry scowl until his plate was empty. Chameleon "allowed" him to finish watching TV as he washed dishes and cleaned the kitchen, and then, like clockwork, he was back in the living room as the credits started rolling.

"Time for bed," he announced, holding up a syringe and Peter scrambled back on the couch, scooting as far away as his bound limbs would allow.

"Don't!"

"I won't use the syringe, buuut," Chameleon gave him a pointed look, "that's only if you can do as you're told and not fight me on it. Can you do that?"

Peter eyed the syringe wearily, but nodded. Chameleon nodded back and gestured for him to get up. Peter did so and shuffled forward. The cuffs on his ankles were barely long enough for him to take quick, shuffling steps that reminded him of old metal balls and chains prisoners wore in old movies, so they couldn't run away. It was slow progress to the bedroom, but Chameleon showed an amazing amount of patience and never rushed him once. They made it to the bedroom but when Chameleon grabbed Peter's shirt as if to lift it over his head, Peter recoiled so quickly he stumbled and hit the floor.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, shoving his shirt back down.

"You need to get into your clothes."

"I am in my clothes, thank you very much," he snapped, holding his hands close to his chest so there was no way Chameleon could lift it.

"I mean pajamas. You don't want to sleep in that," he gestured to Peter's shirt, splotchy with leftover stains from the debacle during dinner.

"You don't know that" Peter said, tucking his legs in as well, "I'm fine sleeping like this."

With the way Chameleon was staring at him, Peter wondered if he was going to electrocute him into getting undressed, and was prepared to fight him on it, punishment or no. Some of it must've registered on his face because Chameleon held up his hands and backed down.

"If that's what you want," he said breezily.

Since when does that matter to you, Peter thought bitterly, but didn't say. He didn't want to provoke Chameleon into stripping him down and forcing him into whatever pajamas' bottoms he'd stolen from his drawer. He used the bedpost to pull himself back up, and when Chameleon gestured for him to get in, Peter debated jumping out the window. His eyes must've lingered because Chameleon warned, "I wouldn't. That's made with reinforced glass, bullet proof and nearly impossible to shatter."

Peter's shoulders fell, "Where do you get all this stuff," he said, thick with exasperation.

Chameleon smirked, and there was a touch of smugness in his voice, "Just like you, I've been in the business a long time. I have contacts and more than enough favors I can cash in. It does help to be able to impersonate anyone I want and sneak off with a few things."

Peter's lips pursed, mulling over his words. Something tugged at his brain and his eyes widened, "You've been the one robbing all those places, haven't you? That's why I never came across them while they were being robbed. You just impersonated the people working there and walked out with whatever you wanted, and left someone else to take the blame," another thought came to mind and he went rigid, "That man the police were arresting? He didn't rob the pharmacy, did he? You set him up."

Chameleon's smirk was all the answer he needed.

"You bastard," Peter snarled, "Do you even care that you ruined that man's life?"

"Oh please, he deserved it," Chameleon said, turning his back to Peter and shrugging off his shirt to slip into a button up pajama one, "He was a narcissist, skimped on the money he paid his employee's, and beat his wife and kids. I figured you wouldn't like it if I set up an innocent man, so I let him take the fall for it. He does deserve to be in prison, don't you think? For all the things he did?"

"I - you-" Peter sputtered, face going blotchy to match his shirt, "Of course, he does if that's what he was doing. But you -...you can't just -"

Chameleon finished getting in his pajamas and walked over to him, "Who cares if he didn't actually rob the place. He's in a cell where he belongs. That's what matters right?"

Instead of answering, Peter leveled with, "You should be in a cell too, you know. The hypocrisy is astounding."

Chameleon hummed, not exactly disagreeing, "Same could be said for you, Mr. Vigilante. We'll have to agree to disagree. Now down you go," he curled his hands around Peter's arms and nudged him to the bed, "And don't try anything, you know what will happen if you do."

Peter wondered if it was possible to strangle someone with a look. Maybe one day he'd learn the trick, but for now he allowed Chameleon to coerce him back onto the bed, clenching his jaw and glaring at the ceiling as his arms were lifted above his head. He was cuffed back to the headboard and the bedpost, immobilized once more.

He sank into the blankets, trying to find a fragment of comfort in the familiarity of the bed, but was startled when Chameleon rounded the other side and lifted the covers to puff the pillows, as if preparing it.

"What are you doing?" he asked, skepticism creeping into his voice.

"Getting ready for bed, of course," Chameleon smiled, rummaging around in the nightstand on his side.

Peter's eyes bugged out so wide he probably looked like one of those toys whose eyes popped out of their heads when you squished them. "You can't sleep here," he sputtered, "Go get your own bed. What the hell, man?"

"I don't trust you in here by yourself," Chameleon shrugged, "Besides, it's not like you're not used to sleeping with someone else. You look so lonely when you're by yourself."

Peter's face flushed, a red mixture of anger and embarrassment that made his cheeks hot. "That is none of your business, And - and that's completely different. I'm not sleeping in the same bed as you, I have a boyfriend. You might know him, Wade Wilson, Deadpool. The merc with-" the next moment happened very fast. He registered the sudden buzz of his spider-sense and in the next second Chameleon had him pinned down, one hand curled around his neck and the other pressing on his chest so he couldn't move.

"Don't talk about that piece of shit," he snarled, eyes narrowed in blazing anger. Peter's face went tight as the hands on his throat got tighter, completely cutting off his air, "Don't even speak his name. That bastard doesn't exist to you anymore, you hear me. He's gone and he's not coming back. You're with me now. I don't ever want you to mention him again. Do you understand?" Peter's face was going purple and he bucked and pulled on the handcuffs, trying to get him off, but Chameleon had his legs tucked tightly on either side of his torso and was sitting on his chest, he wasn't going anywhere. His mouth fell open as he gasped for air. "I said, do you understand me?"

Peter gurgled a response and nodded, desperate for him to let go. Chameleon hands released him and he got off to fiercely pace the room while Peter sagged into the bed, coughing and choking as he sucked in wheezy gasps of air. Chameleon had never been so aggressive with him before, not when he snarked at him, not when he refused to eat, not even when he'd tackled him to the floor.

He sounded jealous.

Chameleon walked a rigid line across the room, running his hands over the top of head and sucking in deep inhales to calm himself. When he finally turned back to Peter, his face was relaxed again. Almost apologetic. He gingerly sat on the edge of the bed, watching Peter heave for breath with a sheepish look, "Sorry about that," he said, "I lost my temper. You didn't know, so I shouldn't have been so rough with you. Just...," he took a deep breath through the nose, "don't mention his name again, okay."

Peter didn't respond, and was still wheezing too hard even if he wanted to, but Chameleon wasn't looking for an answer this time. He finished preparing his side of the bed and slid under the blankets next to Peter. It took a lot to bruise Peter, but he could almost feel the ring of green and purple slowly inking his skin. It was uncomfortable laying in the same bed with someone he's fought with. Someone he's feared. Like turning over and seeing a monster staring at you, not from under the bed, but beneath the covers. Peter didn't look at him, but Chameleon's presence was like a too hot, too bright fire built right next to him. He yearned to move away from the burning heat, loathing the sting on his skin, but he was stuck in the flames to slowly burn alive.

Before Chameleon settled down for the night, he picked up the object he'd been rummaging for in the dresser earlier.

Peter rasped a protest when Chameleon pressed the syringe into his skin.

Chameleon shushed him gently, "I know it stings, but it'll be quick."

"Why did you-" Peter croaked, but his throat ached from the abuse and he couldn't finish the sentence.

"You can't possibly expect me to trust you while I'm sleeping in the same bed as you. Besides, don't want you to try anything when you're supposed to be sleeping," he winked.

Peter was going to be sick. His stomach lurched so violently he was sure he was going to throw up all over his already gross clothes, but he didn't. The drug was already in effect and his limbs were going slack with each passing second. He wondered what kind Chameleon used if it was powerful enough to knock him out so quickly. Most sedatives didn't work on him, not even high doses used on regular people.

The last thing he remembered was Chameleon humming again, a soft tune as he gently stroked the spot he inserted the needle, as if to wipe the sting away. He pressed his lips to Peter's forehead in a goodnight kiss, the same way Wade did whenever they settled down for the night.

Peter could feel his eyes on him, even in unconsciousness.

Thanks for reading and for all the amazing comments you guys have been giving me! Every comment gives me life and inspires me to put extra love in each chapter, so thank you all so much!

Happy Valentines Day!