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#dark peter x reader
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In the Name of Good | Prt 2 -[P.P.]
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Pairings: Dark!Yandere!Peter Parker x Female!Reader
Summary: The cat's out of the bag, so how do you proceed?
Word Count: 5.2k words
Content: MINORS DNI: 18+
Swearing, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of emesis, Smut, Oral (f and m receiving), P in V sex, choking, multiple orgasms, Daddy Kink
( Part 1 | Masterlist )
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A/N: The long-awaited sequel which is really just porn with a plot. I'm not sure if this will be a complete story but I may update it every now and then.
Peter's darkness is much more subtle in this piece so there are no major warnings this time around.
Happy Holloween you whores <3
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The early light creeps through your window, the golden rays kissing your skin. You stretch your fingers toward the carnelian beams and let your fingers dance in the sundust. You bask in the peace of the morning. As the sun rises it brings a new dawn, a new day. Who knew what you would do today? You could do anything. Today felt like a shopping day. It seems nice out and you could feel stress sitting in your bones, a deep ache pulling at your muscles. 
You stretch before opening your blinds. That’s odd, you don’t remember closing them. You look at the house across the street. Peter’s car sits in front of the house; if you squint your eyes, you can see him through the window. He sits perched in his desk chair, twirling a pencil as he examines a piece of paper. 
Something felt…off about this morning. It was something you couldn’t quite place but this morning brought a certain uneasiness. It was something you hoped a hot shower could fix. 
You let the steam ease your tired bones as you soaked in the eucalyptus sent. As you scrubbed your brain spiralled. What had happened? Why couldn’t you remember? Your brain felt fuzzy as flashes of intangible moments congested your mind.
You had been afraid. You remember the nausea that accompanied it. The knocked-over bottles on the sink were all too real to ignore. Peter was there. Had you been afraid of him? No! You shook your head trying to fling that thought to the farthest corner, somewhere it couldn’t hurt you again. Along with thoughts of dog tags, of headphones, of a twisted smile warped by shadows. 
Peter was here. Or rather you were there, with him, in his room. It was dark. Flashes of white cloud your mind. Harsh lines against the wall, you could feel them on your skin. As if somehow a part of you, intertwined with your being. 
You wiped the fog from the mirror and felt that familiar feeling of dread. It wasn’t a nightmare. Peter had…hurt people. He had killed them. And he- he hurt you. Purple stars on your shoulder, constellations woven into your skin to tell a tale of horror. You traced the bruises in abhorrence, the pads of his fingers left behind as a warning. 
You fell to the floor as everything washed over you once again. The chilled ceramic did nothing to soothe you. Like Eve, you had been brought to your knees by the tree of knowledge. Was it worth it? Every question you had ever had, answered by a cracked doorway that you carelessly ploughed through. You had tasted the flesh of the apple against your lips and now it was too late to go back. 
You paced your room as your mind reeled. Peter was a murderer. You should then turn him in. You knew, you had the evidence, you should turn him in. But would that be enough? Would it be enough to stop him? Would it be enough to absolve you?
As much as you hated to think about it, you already knew. You had recognised there was a darkness in Peter even when you were children. The way his reactions almost seemed rehearsed. The way he wouldn’t bat an eye at someone else’s misfortune. But you had labelled it as bravery. The way he would blindly charge into danger if you were in harm's way. The way he would run to May’s aid, big or small. The way he would clean your bumps and scrapes with nothing but a smile on his face. 
You looked at the pictures that adorned your bedroom wall. Peter had insisted on helping you hang them up. He had given you two stacks of photos one day in the warm July heat. You sat in your room between fans and your open window ushering in the humid breeze. Peter’s presence was a comfort then, as you looked through memories frozen in time. 
Now as you looked around all you saw was him. What was once a comforting remark now haunted you as you gazed into his empty eyes. “This way I can watch over you. I can always be here. I can always see you.” 
I can always see you. You felt suffocated under his dead gaze. There was nowhere you could go, nowhere you could hide. He was everywhere. 
You moved to open the window, hoping some fresh air would help. The light of the sun cradled you in a blanket of warmth. The chirping birds sing in melodies and harmonies alike as they skate through the sky. You close your eyes focusing instead on everything else. 
Peter watches in wonder as you absorb the world around you. He had been trying to give you space. He knew you would come around, he just had to give it some time. Let you wrestle with this for a bit before catching you in his arms. He knows that you would never leave him. He knew it was only a matter of time before you would call him or knock on his door. He just had to wait. He could do that. 
He sat camera faced at you, watching as your fingers pulled out the braid he had carefully crafted for you. He watched as you paced your room, hugging yourself close. He watched as you stared at the wall, tracing the shape of his face with a shaky hand. He watched as you went to the window, ripping it open and gasping for air. 
He joined you there, a street away. Your eyes were closed and your hair billowed in the wind as you drank in the sunlight. You were what ancient poets wrote of. You were his Ithica. His rock, his home, his love, his life. And you were so beautiful. 
You raised your head, opening your eyes, only to find Peter staring right at you. You felt a swirling of emotions in your gut. You were looking at pure evil, someone who killed to kill, someone who liked to kill. You were looking at someone who a few hours ago had no qualms about killing you. 
Your stare was expressionless, something that perplexed Peter. You usually wore your heart on your sleeve and every thought on your brow. But now, as he looked into your eyes, he couldn’t tell what you were thinking. He didn’t appreciate being out of the know. You had suddenly become an unknown variable in an equation he knew quite well. 
You tried to look at him objectively. You took in the way the sun seemed to melt into his skin, leaving stark shadows by the bulb of his nose and under the cut of his jaw. If someone told you that he had been carved from marble at the hands of Michelangelo, you would believe them. He was well-defined, every muscle and bone clear in the rays of the sun, but there was a softness to his edges that made him look feathered, almost holy. 
You had never stared Peter down before. He was seeing in you a boldness that he had yet to experience. He wasn’t sure if it was something he liked. You held a certain coldness that he was unfamiliar with. How odd. 
Peter tilted his head and you mindlessly mimicked it. You were attempting to break him down to a microscopic level, to judge his very molecules. Peter was dark but was he evil? This is what you were trying to solve. As you stared at him you thought back to every moment you had shared, tearing each memory to shreds, looking for anything that would tell you Peter was bad. 
You came up with a lot of ambitious greys. He had killed someone, several someones, but some of those murders were somewhat justifiable. He had killed pets. That was not good but better than killing people. He had been fascinated with the macabre but that made him fantastic to watch horror movies with. He had been cold to others but always showed you great kindness. He could display tremendous violence but you had only seen it in your defence. A vicious knight in shining armour coming to rescue you with bared teeth and bloody knuckles. 
You pulled away from the window leaving it open as you made your way down the stairs. Peter watched in curiosity as you marched your way across the street, not sparing him a single glance. He heard your determined steps and opened his door to you. 
You wrapped your arms around his waist, burying your head in his shirt. You couldn’t separate Peter from his actions. To lose any of him would be to lose him all. Your nails dug into his back as you blinked back tears. No. You were not going to lose him. Not today, not ever. Your Peter. 
“Aw, little lamb. What’s wrong?” He pulled you closer as you shook your head. How could you put it into words? How could you tell him that he was every boogeyman you feared but also the only solace from this waking nightmare? 
You pulled away with tears of anger. He looked at you confused and everything spilt over. You banged your hand against his chest. 
How could he? 
You brought your hand down again. 
He did this
And again.
You did this
And again
He did it for you
And again
And you let him
And again
For years
And again
You let him
You raised your fist another time, not nearly close to done, but Peter grabbed your wrist, stopping you. You struggled against him but his hold was strong, too strong to fight. Your wave of anger passed and left you with true exhaustion. You collapsed against him, small whimpers falling from your lips. 
He held you to his chest as you continued to cry. You focused on the beating of his heart, his hand tracing shapes on your back, his breath on your shoulder, the sweet cooing in your ear. This was Peter. This was the boy you loved. The one holding you and telling you everything was going to be okay. 
It wasn’t enough. You needed more. More of his gentle touches and reassuring words. You needed to feel him, to know he was real and here. You wrapped your arms around his neck and he caught your legs as you jumped. 
“It’s okay, little lamb, I gotcha.” And you believed him. He always had you. He always made it better. If you were with Peter everything would be okay. You buried your head into the crook of his neck, inhaling the woodsy smell of pine and cedar. It still wasn’t enough. You pulled yourself closer, your hands now in his hair and legs trapping him in a vice grip. You squeezed and squeezed, knowing he could take it. You just needed more. 
You felt a hand on your head and another wrapped around your back. It seemed like he was trying to reciprocate and the thought brought you a sliver of serenity. He moved to the bed, sitting you down on his lap and continued to pet your hair. All too soon he was breaking away and you couldn’t help the cry you let out. His hands found your face, lifting it to meet his gaze. 
“Little lamb, I can’t help you if you don't tell me what’s wrong.” The knot in his brows seemed real, as did the way he tensed his jaw. 
“I- I can’t-” You gulped helplessly for air but it felt as though someone had poked a hole in your lung. “I-You can’t- You can’t leave me!” 
You were gripping wildly at his shirt, trying to bring him closer, but his hold on your face kept you far away. He brought his lips to your forehead and everything stopped. For just a moment the clouds had parted and your mind cleared, but then he broke away and the fear swallowed you whole. 
In an act of delirium, you moved a hand from his shoulder to his neck. You felt the small goose bumps under the pads of your fingers, the drum of his steady pulse under your palm. It soothed you. You moved your hand lower, stretching his neckline as you reached for his pec, his heart. 
“Hey, hey, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” His hand on your wrist stopped you once again and you wanted to scream. His touch brought back that semblance of peace and in the quiet of your mind, you were able to piece together what you needed. 
Your eyes were filled with desperation, for what Peter couldn’t tell. He wanted to fix it. He could hear your heart thrumming, the small thing fluttering in your chest. 
“Please I…” Your mouth felt dry and your tongue heavy. “I need to feel you.” 
Peter froze. His mind was picking your words apart, dissecting each syllable. He thought he would explode. He looked over your frame, your heavy breathing and shaky hands. This is it. This is what he’s been waiting for. You would fall in love with him today. He was determined. 
He let go of your hands, placing his own on your waist. “Do whatever you need.”
You reached for his shirt and he helped you get it off. Your fingers traced the muscle and scars. He was so pretty. You needed more, more contact. You moved to take off your shirt and Peter watched in awe as you revealed yourself to him. 
You wrapped yourself around him, hands tracing the planes of his back, massaging the muscle under your palms. Peter’s hands were running up and down your back in comforting circles. 
His fingers began toying with the clasp of your bra listening for your reaction. He noticed the way your heart beat faster and your breath caught in your throat. He slipped the annoying fabric off your shoulders and gathered all the strength he had. You were on his lap, pressed against him. All of his late-night fantasies were coming to fruition and he had to stop himself from pinning you to the bed and fucking you like an animal. He had to be slow, and careful. 
You pulled yourself closer, head buried in his neck as your nose played with his pulse point. Peter trailed his shaking hands to your ass, squeezing it. You let out a soft moan and Peter could scream. He could feel you against him. He could pick up on the small pulse in your clit, the new warmth in your core against his waist. 
He trailed his hand down further, rubbing at your thigh, and you whined again. His fingers found your chin, lifting you to see him eye to eye. His palm flattened against your cheek and you nuzzled into it, lost in the warmth of his touch. Peter’s willpower was hanging by a thread and you were doing very little to keep him strong. 
“Little lamb, do you want me to make you feel better?” His other hand skated a path on the inside of your thigh. “Do you want me to fix it?” 
You nodded your head, the sheer force of it rattling your brain. He was gonna fix it. Peter knew you better than anyone and you knew he would give you what you needed, even if you weren’t sure what that was right now. But Peter would know. He always knew and he always fixed it. 
He brought his lips to yours and you felt the rapture in his touch. His grip on your thigh grounded you in the moment. His lips were dry and cracked, the dead skin threatening to cut you open but god if it didn’t make you feel things. His thumb pulled at your chin, opening your mouth to him. His tongue explored forth and you pushed yours forward trying to meet it. The kiss was awkward and lacking a certain grace but neither of you cared. 
He turned to the side, placing your back on the bed and slotting himself between your legs. You tried to pull him down and he let you guide him. With all of his weight on you, you began to feel a little better. Peter was becoming more and more tangible. 
His hands skated across your ribs then in towards your boobs. You moaned at the feeling of him holding you in his big hands. Peter’s kisses left your face to join his deft fingers. You had never felt like this before, like you were on fire but also like ice was running through your veins. Peter was both dousing the fire and adding petrol to the flames. It was intoxicating. 
He took a nipple in his mouth and worried it with his teeth. He was delighted when he felt you buck underneath him. He marked them as much as he could, while his hands worked on getting your jeans off. He wanted everyone to know they were his. Not Noah’s, not Micheal’s, not Morrissey’s, and certainly not Blake’s. 
No, no, this was all Peter’s. You belonged to him, well before this moment. You were always his. He knew he would make it so, that one day he saw you sitting on the curb. He knew then that you would be his. He spent years instilling this thought in your head. Years of meticulous planning and discreet word choice all leading to this moment. You would be his forever. 
He pulled down your jeans like he had many times before, but this time a new aroma surrounded him. It was all-consuming. Peter’s eyes darkened and you almost didn’t recognise the man in front of you. Without a single warning, he was gripping your thighs, pulling them apart to make space for his face. 
You felt his tongue against the crotch of your panties and it felt like he had shocked you with a twelve-volt battery. You gripped the sheets as he started making out with clothed pussy. His name tumbled from your lips and he had never heard a more sacrosanct sound. It brought him back to the moment. 
He had almost forgotten that you were awake. He didn’t have to be careful, he could indulge in everything you had to offer, and he planned to drown. He ripped your panties, the elastic snapping under his powerful grip. He placed his thumbs on your mound, pulling your lips apart to fully soak in the treasure before him. 
He ran his nose from your quivering hole to your clit, breathing in the aphrodisiac that is you. Your hips bucked again and Peter couldn’t help grinding into the mattress. He ate you out like a starved man at a Golden Coral. 
You couldn’t keep track of where he was. He was sucking on your clit, then thrusting his tongue inside you, then he was in both places at the same time. Your brain was melting in pleasure and Peter could tell you were close. He wasn’t exactly sure how but he just knew and the thought spurred him on more. He brought a finger to your cunt and watched as your toes curled. 
“Petey, I feel, I feel weird” Peter could have came just then. His imagination ran wild at the thought of you never coming before. And he would be the first person, the only person, to make you do so. 
“It’s okay little lamb, you’ll feel better I promise. Just let it go.” He put another finger in you and it hurt, but the way he was pumping them so fast had your mind spinning. He went back to attacking your clit and you felt an unfamiliar snap in your abdomen. It was like you were seeing colour for the first time. You let out a scream as you came and Peter slowly came to a stop. 
You saw him grinning between your legs before he dipped his head down once again. He pinned down your legs to keep you from squirming as his tongue entered you again. You could feel the muscle as it scrapped against your walls. He brought his thumb back to your clit and started running it in a circle. You couldn’t breathe. 
“Pete, Pete, it’s too much.” He just went harder and your back arched. Your hand flew to his hair, tugging on it, trying to pull him away. You felt him grunt into you as it reverberated through you. You felt that feeling in the pit of your gut again and you focused on Peter’s instructions. You felt your legs start to straighten and you were panting, music to Peter’s ears. You came again and Peter wasted no time licking it up. 
You lay there lifeless against his pillows, trying to catch your breath. You felt Peter stand and you turned to watch him slip off his pants. He stood before you, a Grecian god. His hard-on was reaching to his belly button, red and shiny. 
You sat up immediately. You had never seen a penis before, not in person at least. A few years ago Peter had introduced you to porn but it wasn’t really your thing. 
“Look what you did to me little lamb.” Your heart fell through the floor. He grabbed your hand placing it on the shaft. It felt heavy in your palm, and you started stroking it. 
“Does it…hurt?” You had heard guys at school talking about having erections. You had heard them talking about how sometimes it hurt and how cruel these girls were for making them hurt. You didn’t want Peter to hurt. 
“A little bit,” was all he said. You bit your lip, the guilt eating away at you. 
“I want to help. How can I help?” Peter put a hand on your face, his thumb tracing the hallow of your cheek. It then tracked its way to your lip, pulling it from your teeth before quickly replacing it. 
You swirled your tongue around his thumb, sucking it in further. Peter threw his head back in a moan and you stopped. 
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you!” You were doing this all wrong. You had caused Peter pain and you couldn’t fix it. Why couldn’t you fix him the way he fixed you? Peter only chuckled and you couldn’t understand what was so funny about you being a bad friend. 
“It’s okay little lamb, it didn’t hurt. It felt really nice.” You beamed at him and the pride in your eyes made him feral. 
“Really?” Of course, you were a pleaser. It would only make sense. This new revelation gave him so much more ammo. God, you were too good to be true. It was like he built you in a lab. In a way he kind of had. 
“Yes, you’ve been such a good girl.” You preened at his words. 
“Can you keep being a good girl for me?” You nodded your head and Peter used his thumb to pull your mouth open again. 
“Stick your tongue out for me, yeah just like that, now breath through your nose.” You followed his instructions as he grabbed your hair, bringing you closer and closer to his member. 
It felt heavy on your tongue, and a little tangy too. You wrapped your lips around him, tracing a prominent vein with your tongue. Peter threw his head back again and this time you continued. After a bit you felt his hand pull on your hair, pulling you away from his cock before slamming it back down. You choked around him and he kept you there, his other hand rubbing your cheek. 
“There you go, there you go. You gotta breathe through your nose. Just relax, yeah. You’re doing so good for me little lamb.” You focused on his words, trying to follow his instruction. He moved your head back and forward again falling into a steady rhythm. He was hitting the back of your throat with every thrust, you could feel a sore spot where his tip kept hitting. 
Above you, Peter was a panting mess. He was babbling and you felt proud of yourself for doing that to him. He was singing you praises about how good you felt, the great job that you were doing. He looked down at you and that was his reckoning. You were peering up at him, dick in your mouth and a slobbering mess. He saw the tears running down your cheeks and it took all of his strength to pull you away. 
One day he would fuck that pretty face of yours but he couldn’t now. His goal was to make you fall in love with him. He had to show you how good he was at pleasuring you. He had to show you that he knew what you needed, what you wanted. He had to show you that he was the only person that could do that for you. 
You pulled away with a soft pop and a smile. “Was that good?” 
Peter brought you into a bruising kiss and you could taste the both of you. The blend was intoxicating. “Oh baby, you did so well.” 
He was pushing you back into the bed as a hand moved back down to your core. His fingers moved around in the slick and you purred. 
“Look at you little lamb, I just cleaned you up. Did you like sucking on Daddy’s dick like that, hmm?” You nodded your head, biting your lip in an attempt to lessen your grin. 
His lips found the side of your neck, licking and biting on the supple skin. “Well you did such a good job, I think it’s only fair Daddy pay it forward.” 
You tangled your hands in his hair, running the smooth locks through your fingers. “No, it’s okay. I wanna make you feel good.” 
His fingers found your abused clit and you arched your back into him. “Oh little lamb, It’ll make me feel so much better.” 
He pulled away as you looked at him through heavy eyelids. “Do you promise, Daddy?” 
Peter growled before attacking you. His kiss was heavy making you lose any train of thought. 
“Promise.” You felt a blinding pain in your core. Your nails racked up his back as you grasp for the air he seemed to have pushed out of you. 
“Shh, shh, it’s okay. It’ll feel better in a moment.” He kissed away the tears running down your face, massaging your breast. He began pulling out slowly leaving only his tip, then slammed back into you. The pain was beginning to subside or maybe it was just him working your clit and hitting something in you that made your toes curl. 
He grabbed one of your legs, bringing your ankle to his shoulder, pushing himself deeper. A moan ripped from your throat, as you felt him hit your cervix, over and over. You reached for his face, needing to kiss him. Wanting all of him. You needed to drown in everything Peter Parker could give you. 
His hand found the back of your neck once again. You clung to him as his thumb traced its way down your jugular. He could feel it drumming against his skin, he pushed against it, fascinated by you. You suddenly felt airy, your mind was swimming and your senses were heightened. Peter felt the way you tightened around him and the way your heart picked up. 
He brought his hand to the front of your throat, adjusting his grip, before applying more pressure. You moaned as he continued to piston into you. The coil in your abdomen was moments from snapping, your legs were tensing on their own accord. You were no longer in control, not that you ever were. 
Peter had bewitched you. You weren't sure when but you looked into his eyes and knew that it must have happened. Your vision was getting blurry, with tears or lack of oxygen you weren’t sure. You heard Peter whisper something to you, something you couldn't quite make out past the sound of heavy breathing and skin slapping against skin. Then his fingers released you. The sudden rush of oxygen to your brain made you feel dizzy, your nerves alight. You came with a gasp and Peter didn’t slow down for a single second. 
He continued slamming into you as you lay there limp, unable to do much more. He flipped you over on your face and grabbed your hips, setting them upright. He kissed along your spine before entering you again. You cried out into the pillows, he was so big and so deep inside you. You wondered for a moment if the constant rocking had affected your brain. 
He was using your body and you didn’t hate it. He gave you all the praise you could hope for and you got to sit there and take it. It seemed like a great arrangement. Your fingers gripped the sheets, clawing at them desperately. There was a certain element of pain present but you couldn’t bring yourself to care when he felt this amazing. 
“God, you feel so good. Better than ever before.” You let yourself drown in the words he was saying, in the feeling he was bringing you. He was fixing it. Just like he promised. It wasn’t long until he let out a harsh grunt, pushing himself even farther into you. You felt his dick twitch and a warmth coat your walls. 
When Peter pulled out he noticed you wince. He turned you around to face him and began massaging your body. His firm hands ran past the muscle of your thighs to the fat on your stomach with soothing circles. You looked devastatingly gorgeous like this. Completely wrecked, totally relaxed, entirely pliant. 
You made grabby hands for him and he chuckled as he fell into your embrace. You brought him flush to your sweaty body, running your hands through his chestnut locks. He hummed against you and you couldn’t help the smile pulling at your face. 
“Hey, Peter?” He could sense your anxiety, which is never a good sign. He was so sure his plan had worked.
“Yes, little lamb?” Your fingers stuttered in their ministrations as you fought for the words. 
“I- I was just wondering…” The words died in your throat. Peter moved his head, so he could look into your eyes. 
“Wondering if what?” You closed your eyes, feeling too overwhelmed by his gaze. You thought about what had led you here in the first place. You thought of the revelation you had as you first wrapped your arms around him. To lose any of him would be to lose him all. You couldn’t ask him to stop. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t. You felt terrible. How could you even ask him to do that? How could you be so selfish?
“Uhhh, what are we? Like now? Are we still friends? Are we more?” Peter tilted his head as he pondered your question. 
“Well, what do you want?” You felt all the air leave your body, suddenly replaced entirely with fear. 
“I don’t want you to leave. I want you, forever.” Peter raised himself with his arms, now hovering over your body. The space between you palpable now as he searched your eyes. 
“Then you have me,” He kissed you, it was a promise. 
A Peter Parker promise was a binding contract. He chose his words with such precision, he never said something without resounding contemplation. He pressed his words into your soul, branding you for the rest of your days. 
“Forever.” 
Tag List: @andrews-lovr @brinaslittlefreak @ilovemoonknight @negasonic-teenage-asshole @preciousbabypeter @princesskittycatofmeowland @rudy-the-winged-wolf @whoreforklitz @liz-allyn and @blooming-violets this sequel is for you. Hope y'all enjoy :))
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pynkgothicka · 1 year
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Monstober Day 1 : Arachnid! Peter Parker
a/n: I suck at any October challenge...
Tags/Warnings: NONCON, breeding, creampies, Switchy Peter Parker, Aphrodisiac, kidnapping
A friendly reminder that all my works are dark fanfiction! Please if you do not like that do not read them! This is your final warning before hitting the keep reading button!!
The web you found yourself in was tight and sticky. You were wrapped in a cocoon like fixture the people surrounding you, rotting and decaying as time passed on. You saw as some of them twitched, mimicking as if they had been alive in a previous life. You knew better than to keep moving, but you could hear the constant movement below you and all you could do was keep moving. You had to get out.
The web you were stuck in bounced as you looked beneath you, only to see a man climbing up the web with ease. The cave you were in was dark and wet, something you didn't know you hated until now. It made you sweat more, dried tears staining your face. The entity made it to you and you were more afraid than before.
His face was contorted into a set of long fangs, mouth elongating splitting his face in half. He had a mandible set. 3 sets of eyes also made his face more scary, the only main set having pupils. He had a total of 3 sets of arms, 2 sets being sharp appendages, each holding onto a set of webs, his body hovering above you. He heaved above you, each breath causing his chest to rise and fall.
“Hi…” He mumbled one of his arms coming behind you to detach you from the web itself.
“Are you going to eat me…” You questioned as you felt your head begin to loosen. You head pounded as the recoil hit.
“No! I would never! Especially with someone as gorgeous as you.” You muttered out, finally removing you from the web. “I never thought I’d get such a goddess in my cave, but I do now! Not in a creepy way-” He enthused carrying your silk wrapped body down the web. He kept moving all the way until he reached a hole in the cave system. He pushed back the webbing he had as a door, revealing a set of pillows and sheets all in a huge pile. He had lanterns set up, brightening up the area. He also had a ‘table’ messy as ever. He laid you down and instantly cut the set of webbing that held you together. You were flabbergasted as he urged you to lay down.
“Thank you…” You said sitting down on the mass of sheets. He sat down next to you, smiling as wide as ever.
“What's your name?” He questioned scooting closer to you. You told him your name only for him to smile and move closer.
“I like your name. I’m Peter!”
“Nice… To meet you… Peter.” You said slowly, Peter enthusiastically nodding with each pause. “Why am I here?”
“You can prove that I’m not scary! I don't want to scare people anymore, I’m a good guy! Plus… I want company… the last company I had died…” He looked genuinely down but perked up once his eyes looked back up at you. “But you'll be great! Plus I’ve been in need of a new mate!” He purred out one of his sharp appendages coming out to gracefully stroke your face.
"Mate?!" You yelled louder than intended. "Peter, listen , you're a cool guy, I just… I'm not ready for anything like that." Peter looked genuinely upset. He got up and walked over to his dresser filled with a bunch of trinkets and toys. He pulled out a stray dead flower and yanked off a petal. "You'll see… you just need to see it my way." He crushed it in his hand, the petal crumbling into dust in his hand. He opened his hand, blowing it in your face. You started to cough as your lungs felt tight, everything burning. Your skin tingled at the slightest movement, everything becoming so hot so suddenly. "Your going to need relief soon. Don't worry. It's coming." He nervously let out getting back on the "bed".
His hand went to the back of your head pulling you in for a harsh kiss. His mandibles tickling your cheeks, long tongue pushing against your own. He pulled away tugging at the top of your dress. He grew aggravated and just tore at it with his sharper appendages, watching the scraps fall to the ground. He didn't even bother to take it slowly as he attached himself to your breasts, tongue swirling around your areolas.
You didn't know how to react, but it felt so good… He felt good.
He pulled away a string of saliva connecting the both of you. "What do you want, baby? Say it and it will be yours."
"I.. I want you inside me." You whimpered out grabbing at his torn up trousers. He allowed you, his length popping out in front of you. Pre cum leaked down the front, Peter beginning to pant out.
"Lick it… lick it please. I need you!" He begged out. Your body moved on his own as you licked a stripe up from his balls to his tip, sucking on the head.
He fell back pulling you off. "I can't cum yet… that would've taken me out…" He pushed you back climbing on top of you. His hands made quick work of pulling your skirt off. Peter lined himself up with your pussy, spitting on his cock. He pushed in, instantly cumming. He groaned out as you moaned. His length was the perfect fit. He started thrusting, putting your legs over his shoulders. He pounded into you, kissing at your legs.
"I love you, I love you.." he kept mumbling incoherently. You screamed as you came on his cock, as he fucked you through it. He smiled as he neared his end. He thrusted into you one final time as he filled your womb. Your aphrodisiac induced high wore off and you felt your vision blacken.
"I hope you like your new home.. mate.”
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mrsdarkandyandere7 · 1 year
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Hi umm this is not a request abt narcissist reader and psycho Peter (more of a question) but I’m wondering how would the avengers react if Spider-Man becomes the villain? Will they catch him or let him go (if he’s an avengers). Do you think the avengers will turn blind eyes on his behaviour? Do they think there’s something wrong of the beginning of peter’s relationship?
First off, I'm so sorry for not replying sooner. I really thought it was a request and then I read again and realized it's a question. My bad 😭
So, there are two options:
a) the Avengers are also yandere - it's much easier for Peter to get away with all the creepy things because he's got everyone's support and they even help him out and advice him on how to effectively get you. Tony and Steve would pretty much take the role of teaching and assisting Peter in how to get you, kidnap you, manipulate you, you get the idea.
If this is the case, then you'll never - ever - get away from Peter. Even if you somehow manage to slip away from him (very unlikely, but let's pretend) there's no way you can run away from ALL of the Avengers and trust me, they will come for you. And then they will deliver you back to Peter, like it's the most natural thing in the world.
b) they are not yandere - in this scenario, Peter would have to be incredibly careful with his plans and how he procceds. He needs to make sure that none of the heroes are alerted towards his stalker and erratic behavior. He'll need to hide away all the red flags, pretending he's the same Peter as always when he's not. And he better be extremely careful cause if the Avengers learn about his villain nature, then forget it. Peter won't be able to fight them all and they'll just lock him away from you.
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thesithdiaries · 1 year
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this was peak dark!peter parker for me. i used to read fics about it but never got into that mindset but after watching no way home, it finally clicked
like this whole entire vibe was what i needed
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Sweet Dreams Are Made of This pt. 15
Dark! Peter Maximoff x fem reader (Mob Au)
I hope you like it! we’re getting into the middle stretch of sweet dreams and as the chapters go on there will be even more angst but even more fluff. And not to mention some smut, not quite yet but soon. 
Summary:  Peter has felt like a piece of him has been missing ever since he was taken away from his mother to be raised by his father. But when you seem to fill that piece there’s no way he’s ever letting you go
Warnings: Angst
Word Count: 1.4K (on the shorter side but I’ll make it up to y’all in the next chapter )
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11| Part 12 | Part 13
Peter had been reluctant to let you go, every time you had tried to ease him off the floor he resisted. Head burying further into you, and hands attempting to drag you down to his level. So you had settled with sitting on the floor behind him, leaning against the frame of his bed while he sat with his face hidden in the crook of your neck, hiding his tear stained face from you as he breathed in your scent. When you were at the manor before you had never indulged him this way unless he had begged and pleaded for it. So while you were willingly giving it away Peter was going to milk it for all it was worth. 
When he first saw you he wanted to demand you to tell him why you left, he wanted to yell until his voice got hoarse and until you cried the way he had every night since you left. He wanted to make you feel as much pain as he had felt in your absence, but he couldn't help the way he sank to his knees upon seeing you. Like a faithful worshiper falling before their benevolent god. And it all melted away to be replaced with that boyish sadness that he had been trying to keep at bay. It manifested into waves as he felt your gentle touch welcome him in, a thing you had only done once before. And once again he was entirely yours. 
Truth be told his anger with you was nothing compared to the longing he had felt in your absence.He had tried finding you and he had, but he wasn't allowed to contact you at all. All his letters were returned and his calls blocked. It was as if a piece of him was ripped away and placed on a shelf he couldn’t reach no matter what he tried. For the longest time he believed that those were intentional, that you had moved on and cut him out as his father had told him in between strikes. Each stinging of the belt across his wrist or across his back cemented the idea that you didn't want anything to do with him. 
As a result he reverted back into what remained of his old self. He did things he regretted and some that he was numb to. He did as his father told him to do without so much as a complaint. A verbal one at least, he still found other forms of retaliation. Silent ones that Peter seemed to care about more than his father. Such as refusing to eat, his father didn't seem to care as long as he got his work for the day done. His lack of eating was something he regretted terribly now. When you had moved to sit on the floor with him he had caught a glance of himself in the reflection of the window and was mortified. His silver hair was dull and hung limply around his face, its shine long gone. His eyes were dull and bloodshot, dark purple bags marring the pale skin under his eyes. His face gaunt from a lack of food.
That's why when you asked him to look at you he couldn't. You looked even more beautiful than he remembered, and now more than ever he knew you were too good for him. “Peter.” You tired, shifting as you felt his head shake against your shoulder. You had left him alone for a while after that, but the ache in your spine from sitting on the floor for too long was taking its toll. So you tried again.  “Please look at me.” 
“I can’t.” His words muffled. 
“Yes you can.” You mused, hands petting the hair at the nape of his neck and the exposed skin below it. “I missed your pretty brown eyes, I want to see them.” 
After a moment Peter spoke, his voice cracking from its lack of use. “Pretty brown eyes?” His voice was hesitant. “You think I have pretty eyes?” 
You smiled to yourself at his unsureness. “Yes. You have very pretty eyes. May I see them?” 
Peter reluctantly removed himself from the comfort of your embrace, one he had been in for hours on end. You let him move at his own pace, waiting until he was face to face with you, his eyes cast downward. You gave him a moment before your hands came to lay on either side of his face. The action making his brows shoot up and eyes meet yours. You thumbed at the apple of his cheek in a soothing motion, your brow furrowing as you took him in. “How long has it been since you’ve slept?”
“I’ve slept.” He muttered, shaky hands coming up to mirror the way you held his face. You did your best not to flinch when his cold hands made contact with your skin. Peter let out a shaky breath, never touching you this way before. He laid his hands flat across your cheeks, far from the gentle cupping of his face that you were doing. Almost as if he was trying to memorize your face through feeling alone. His nimble fingers tracing the contours of your nose and the lines of your jaw. Stopping when they found their perch, your skin soft under his calloused hands. 
“You haven’t.” You chided, feeling the raised and puffy skin under his eyes. 
“I have.” He grumbled, upset that you weren't taking his word for it. You just hummed and took your hands away from his face. Automatically his hands quickly flew to yours, forcing them to stay pressed against his face, thumbs hooked under his jaw. His nails digging into your skin in an uncomfortable way. Like he had the first morning you spent with him before he had punished himself for the action. You gritted your teeth and waited for that moment to come, where he would let you go but he didn't, the pain increasing with every passing second. 
You tried to move your hands again only for his to slip lower, hands now slotted around your wrists, a grip that would be impossible to break without damaging your skin.  “Peter.” You tried, voice laced with fear. You were alarmed by the fact that he didn't seem to care about the pain he was causing you, it seemed that he only cared about whether you held him or not. “Peter please.” When he didn't let you go, you angled your fingers so that the nails of them dug into the skin of his cheeks, it wasn't very much pressure but the slight prick of pain caused Peter to drop your hands and move away.  
He fell back onto his hands and stared at you in horror. “You hurt me.” 
You didn't know how to respond to the broken tremble in his voice. “I didn’t mean to.” 
“You hurt me.” He repeated, eyes glossing over before the tears spilled over onto his cheeks. “Why did you hurt me?”
You tired to make your voice as understanding as possible, heart breaking when he flinched as you reached out for him. You retracted your hand. “You wouldn't let me go.” 
Peter frowned at your response, you felt yourself shrink into yourself, scared at how quickly his tears seemed to dry. But as if sensing this change in you his tears reappeared. “Because if I let you go, you’d leave me again.” The rawness of his words was like a sucker punch to your gut. 
“I’m not going to leave you.” You whispered; voice soft. “I made you a promise.”
“My dad makes me promises all the time.” Peter muttered, hands picking at the sleeves of his shirt.
“I keep my promises.”
“I don’t believe you.” Peter said, still not meeting your gaze.
You could feel yourself losing the momentum your had over him, and the feeling hurt you in more ways than one. In a way you didn’t want to admit you cared about. But it prodded you and seemed to rip the next words straight from your throat. “How can I prove it to you?”
Peter starred at you with calculating eyes, sensing an opportunity at hand. There was so many things he wanted to ask for, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. The shame of it making his face burn red. But after a while he managed to ask. “Spend the night with me?”
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p3sephone · 2 years
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Your place.
Summary: you want to leave Peter, but things don’t go as planned. 
Warnings: violence, misoginy. This is only +18 and contains dark themes, so please do not read if you don’t feel comfortable or if you’re a minor. 
Words: 400. 
Note: reblogs, comments and likes are always welcome and appreciated! This day I was able to post twice. Kinda happy, even though the whole day was complete shit.  
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"Peter, let it go." Your gaze was terrified despite you still trying to find the courage to keep your tone steady. You looked at his icy gaze, unable to see anything that reminded you of the sweet boy you have been with for months and months. He was like he was another person. "But you're trying to leave me, honey." he tilted his head slightly as he said this, with a little sharp, sarcastic smile on his face. He moved closer to you, looking at your wrist trapped in the web. Right now you felt like you were entirely trapped, like the wrist was just the beginning. Maybe you've been trapped all along and only recently realized this. Tears began to rise as you desperately searched for an escape route. Things had gotten complicated lately, too complicated, and you tried. You tried them all to solve but it was like hitting a wall. It was as if Peter didn't really try but at the same time he didn't want you to walk away, not even for a moment. "Sshh, sh." he silenced you briefly, wiping your tears with her own lips. "We'll solve it, you'll see." "There's nothing to solve, Peter." you stopped for a sob, trying to continue. You didn't want to lose your word and be stifled by your own emotions. "We won't solve anything, because I don't see anything of the boy I fell in love with anymore." you spoke with your eyes closed, feeling his hand that was previously resting on your cheek stop. You opened your eyes again, crying freely and what you saw was even worse: there was something new in her eyes, and it was anger. "Are you kidding? I am the hero and yet this prevents me from being with you, just because you think I am no longer the same? You have no idea of the things that happened to me, I gave my best and you offer me poison in return? " he hissed with rage and you could see the frown getting deeper and deeper. The squeeze on your cheek also became more painful, so you complained. "NO! I don't mean to hear any of this. No more complaints, no more bullshit, from now on you will listen to me and we will solve this together. I will make all the necessary decisions and you will simply have the task of standing by me, as you should. "
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liz-allyn · 1 year
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these violet delights - a dark! mob!peter tale [tasm peter vs kilgrave]
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summary: The Purple Man comes to visit Mob!Peter at home.
words: 10.5k
a/n: this began as a submission to Wicked's Trick or Treat, but then it turned into a dead dove, sorry 'bout that. my fancast of the purple man/kilgrave in this universe is Jesse Eisenberg, sporting Lex Luthor vibes. But I love David Tennant and you can picture anyone you want! i also did not use "you" or second-person narrative, instead opting for generic "she/her" pronouns and descriptions.
warnings: so many
I repeat. So. Many. Warnings. Including non-con touching/ sa/ forced sex acts (peter is a victim in this), kidnapping, mind-control, oral (m receiving), cheating, angst, mentions of bodily fluids, mentions of self-h4rm, explicit violence, gore, dead doves for you. and one for you. and one for you. everyone gets a dead dove. do not eat it.
This is a work of fiction intended for mature audiences above the age of 18. Sensitive topics are explicitly discussed. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
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The second Peter Parker touched the doorknob of the multimillion-dollar Colonial overlooking Forest Park, gooseflesh spread across the nape of his neck. His movements went still, jaw clenching. 
Behind him, the shrieking of young children in the distance exacerbated his nerves. He glanced at the residential street around him, peeking through the golden fall curtains of the trees, then down at the modest Jack-O-Lantern underneath the entryway. 
It was Halloween, a couple of hours before sunset. It was a weird time of year. One that always got his blood pumping. Everything usually felt a little off on a night like this. But this was different.
Cautiously, he pushed open the door to his lavish home, stepping inside.
The moment Peter stepped into the darkened foyer of his home, he knew immediately something was amiss. He glanced around cautiously. It was so quiet.
By this time, Eddie should’ve set up the goody table outside. It was his job to keep a friendly face on and keep a look-out while Miles and Penni took shifts handing out candy to the kids. 
Peter wasn’t really comfortable with hosting Trick-or-Treaters, or any other guests on his property. Too many strangers. Too much unwanted attention. Miles reasoned that if they weren’t trying to appear like a bunch of greedy mobsters, then maybe they shouldn’t have the biggest house on the block and not hand out candy on Halloween.
Despite seeing no one loitering nearby, Peter knew something was wrong. 
It was silent. Grave-level silent.
The hairs on his body stood on end. The back of his neck prickled, his senses stirring to alert him to danger. He crept from the foyer and peeked into the expansive sitting area. There, he discovered a brutal scene. 
A massacre. 
Bodies spread out. Draped across the floor and furniture. Arranged, like broken stems and torn petals of a bloody bouquet. 
It could’ve been mistaken for an elaborate, grotesque Halloween display. Hillbilly Chainsaw Massacre. Summer Camp Slaughterfest. Co-ed Killers From Outer Space. Except that Peter could smell real blood. And that these were members of his crew.
He felt queasy and faint, like being in a plummeting elevator. The rapid flutter of a single heart caught his attention, pulling it away from the carnage. 
His eyes darted over to see Felicia Hardy sitting on the bottom step of the grand staircase of his home. Her body slumped against the banister. In her lap, she rested the weight of a Chef’s knife almost as long as her forearm. Cold red droplets streaked across her face and neck. The steel blade was coated in crimson.
Felicia’s expression was hollow. Solemn. Tired. Her chest moved shallowly. “Heya, Spider,” she faintly murmured, not making eye contact. 
Peter observed his master-at-arms with concerned dread. Part of him wanted to rush to embrace his longtime friend. The other part kept a considerable distance, eyeing her bloody knife.
“Cat,” was all he could say. Alert. Cautious.
“Killer night, huh.” The sharp exhale she let out sounded like a laugh and a cry. She gazed distantly, making no attempt to move as he inched closer to her. Peter had never seen anyone sleepwalk, but he imagined that it would look like this. It was like she was hypnotized. Possessed.
He swallowed deeply, holding down bile, and crouched down to her eye level. “What happened here?”
A long moment passed. She shuddered, tears building just behind her eyes, “I killed ‘em.” It was a whisper that could barely be heard without his abilities. “He told me to kill them,” she explained, only confusing him further. “Told them all to be still and wait their turn. And they did. So I did.”
He shifted closer to her, heart pounding. “Who told you?”
“They were my friends,” she replied, eyes vacant. “My only friends. And I killed them.”
“Felicia,” Peter said firmly. He reached out his finger slowly, hooking it under her chin. Carefully, he pulled her focus to his gaze. He couldn’t recognize her. The formidable woman, with claws and balls of steel, looked up at him in hopeless shame.
“He told me to sit here and wait for you,” she explained, dread in her voice. “And to tell you he has your girl upstairs.”
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He approached the bedroom door with catlike footsteps. Inside the room, he could hear obscene noises—soft breaths, wet lips, eager tongue. His senses shrieked in his skull as his eyes found the wide crevice of the doorway. 
He recognized the color of her hair instantly. Her image burned red hot in his periphery the same way it burned into his thoughts. The back of her head. The delicate wings of her shoulders. The undulating ridges of her vertebrae. He followed the perilous ladder of her spine all the way down to her belted waist, where a soft, cloudlike chiffon skirt draped over her bottom. 
It was a vision he’d only seen in his dreams. But at the present, he was looking at a nightmare.
The petite woman whom he shared the bedroom with was bent over the lap of a stranger. Her hair obscured his view, but the sinful noises spilling out of the room left little to the imagination. The smell of sex, sweat, tears, and saliva hit him like a cannonball. He blinked several times, eyes questioning, as if he stumbled upon a horrific mirage that his eyelashes could sweep away.
The nightmarish image came into clear focus. 
His wife—a newlywed for only six weeks—was on her knees in front of an armchair, head bobbing in the lap of a strange man sitting in front of her. Head thrown back in passion, the man groaned lasciviously over the sound of the young woman’s gurgling throat.
It felt like eons passed with Peter standing in the doorway of his bedroom, just staring in bewildered silence. His mind turned over repeatedly, like he was staring at a puzzle and couldn’t fathom the image it created. 
His new bride. His innocent angel. His shrinking violet. Choking down another man’s cock like it was her last meal.
Buried deep, somewhere in the rational parts of his brain, he briefly noted the backless, chiffon halter babydoll she was wearing. It was almost a blush pink in the yellow light of the bedroom floor lamp. Lilac. It looked expensive. He’d never seen it before. It suited her well. 
He noticed how soft she looked as her hair brushed across her exposed back. That was something he secretly loved about her—her softness. She was a little lamb. He had yet to see this much of her skin. He’d never seen her like this, so exposed. So filthy. 
Incomprehesively, he was almost embarrassed at stumbling upon such an intimate, lewd scene. At the same time, he felt his own cock twitch at the sight.
The confusion in his mind quickly settled. His mind caught up to his vision. His stomach dropped and soured. His heart hammered in his chest. His jaw clenched, bit down so hard he could taste blood. It surged and boiled in his veins.
Another vulgar moan erupted from the man as he reached forward and snatched the back of her head. If there was any uncertainty about what was taking place, the blinders were removed. The stranger gathered her hair in his wide grasp and for the first time, Peter could see his wife’s face. 
She was wearing makeup, more than he’d ever seen her wear. Or she had been, at one point this evening. The remnants of her mascara and kohl cat eyeliner ran down her cheeks in wet streams. Her plum wine lipstick was smeared across her lips and chin, the color staining the stranger’s cock as he harshly fucked her throat. She gripped onto the man’s knees for balance, her painted nails digging into his pants.
“Fuck yes...” he could hear the man breathlessly sigh, but the air escaped Peter’s lungs. His mind was racing. His brain was short-circuiting. It was skipping through a barbaric list of commands, his adrenaline screaming at him to take action.
Scream. Run. Cry. Punch. Bite. Claw. Fall. Hide. Yell. Pummel. Kill. Crush. Kill. Hurt. Rip. Kill.
His feet started moving.
In addition to the bellowing commands of his adrenaline, the shrill sirens of his senses got louder with every step. 
His heart hurt. There was a sharp ache that surprised him. A little less than two months ago, he hadn’t spoken more than five words to her. Regardless, there was a sickness-laced darkness that threatened to pull him under. The pain confused him. Infuriated him.
They hadn’t even bothered to look up yet. He felt like he was leaving the confines of his body. Watching himself move across the room, stalking silently toward the lovers. 
Peter kept his gaze fixed on his lamb—treacherous whore—and the blinding-white-hot rage rising up his throat, threatening to cut off the blood flow to his brain. 
After taking a particularly harsh thrust into her mouth, her eyes flew open. She coughed and gagged, her wet lashes fluttering as the man pulled her mouth back off of his cock.
Peter’s senses felt like an axe to the skull. He barely registered the shadow in her expression. His wife looked up at her husband, and that’s when he saw it: 
Pure terror screaming from her eyes.
Peter’s brain struggled to catch up to speed. He couldn’t even tell if he was breathing anymore. Already moving in their direction, his arm shot up quickly. His long fingers outstretched toward the couple as he began to pull his middle fingers back to his palm.
“Freeze.”
Peter froze. The soft word muttered aloud brought everything to a halt. Like he’d reached the end of a leash. He nearly stumbled over his own feet and whiplashed slightly with the momentum of his muscles seizing.
“Don’t move,” the man’s soft voice commanded again. 
Peter didn’t move. His gaze remained fixed on the last trajectory of his eyesight. He observed his wife, her body frozen and unmoving. She was locked in a straight-backed kneel at the man’s feet, her weight bearing down on her knees in an uncomfortable L shape.
He could observe her carefully in this position. Her chin trembled. She panted, drawing short breaths, as if she was on the verge of hyperventilating. He could hear her heart thrumming twice as fast as his own. That wasn’t the sound of lust. It was fear.
Peter remained as a statue: outstretched arm, muscles tense, chest heaving from an overwhelming mix of rage and panic. 
He couldn’t move. He wanted to. But he couldn’t.
His eyes fell back to the occupant in the chair, still lounging back as if it was his bedroom they were in.
The alabaster-faced man gazed up at Peter with a half-smile. Sharp lines accentuated his brow, cheekbones, and jaw. His dark brown hair hung long in unkempt, ragged curls, framing his hollow cheeks and stopping at his jaw. 
He looked young, with one of those faces that made him look forever in his twenties. Or thirties. Or teens. Maybe it was the smugness he wore on his face suggesting a foolish youth. 
Peter wanted to put his fist through it.
Pale blue eyes stared brightly beneath a jutted brow. The kid’s face widened into a smirk. 
“Hi,” he said, as they were having a pleasant meeting. He pointed his index finger at him, shooting a playful finger-gun. “Don’t tell me—you must be Peter.”
Peter was silent. Transfixed. Stunned by the casual tone and the bizarre situation. The stranger flipped a switch, as if he wasn’t just getting his dick sucked, and suddenly paid no attention to the woman genuflecting in front of him.
He grinned warmly, shameless in his partial nudity. “I heard so many things about you. Good things. Y’know. Mostly.” 
The kid glanced down at the woman on her knees, then turned back to him. “Congratulations… on the wedding by the way!” he apologetically added, as if had forgotten his pleasantries. “Arranged marriages seem so old-fashioned these days, but I get it. Respect for your culture and all that.”
Peter’s mouth felt cotton-dry. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as he struggled with all of his might to lower his arm. To flex his fingers. To say anything at all. It was to no avail.
The intruder gestured at the young woman on her knees. “I gotcha a present,” he grinned, reaching down and running a long finger beneath the chiffon strap across her shoulder. Peter could see that it was a halter dress of some kind. He watched intently as the man’s fingers slid down the fabric, resting at the top of her breast. “Call it a ‘something borrowed.’ No need for a thank-you card.”
Peter’s nostrils flared at the action, despite what he’d seen just moments ago. Despite the fact that he had no previous plan to win this woman’s heart, or let her win his own. Despite that he felt connected to this person in name and title only. And when he saw, with his own eyes, his new… partner engaging in a sex act only six weeks after their turbulent agreement had been finalized... it wasn’t jealousy. 
She didn’t owe him faithfulness, if he really thought about it. Even if he planned to be. He planned to be celibate, to be honest. If he could help it. If he focused his energy on business, and not pleasure. 
No, it would make sense that she would’ve taken a lover. Given how cold things were between them. 
It wasn’t jealousy.
This stranger’s touch infuriated him. The idea that this audacious asshat dressed his wife in lingerie, and was roving his hands on her like inspecting the trim on a car. Like... she was a possession. She was his possession. 
The stranger leaned back comfortably in the armchair as Peter tore himself apart. “I was just catching up with... uh...” He glanced at the girl he was facefucking moments before, then gave up. “I didn’t get her name.” He waved his hand with fanfare. “The lovely Mrs. Parker!” he proclaimed, with a shrug. That was good enough by his standards. “She’s been an above-average hostess this evening.”
Peter swallowed, trying to force his tongue to move. It felt like choking on glass. Seeing her mouth on another man felt like choking on glass.
The vile ‘guest’ reached down, cupping his junk idly. He hadn’t bothered to tuck himself away. Peter watched him disgustedly. 
“Oh, that? No, not like that,” the man replied sheepishly, pointing down at his exposed crotch. His eyes darted between Peter and his wife, before elaborating. “Oh! That was nothing. She was just showing me a trick her dad’s friends taught her.” 
Peter took that piece of information like a brick to the head. It jarred him. His eyes found her, eyeing the profile of her shamed face. He looked at her, really. For the first time since they had signed the marriage certificate. Her chin quivered gently. 
He thought about what little he knew about the woman he agreed to marry. Her father was a crook. And not a good one. He ran a sloppy organization, with sloppy amateurs, and sloppy results. He had never thought too hard about her family, regarding them as a nuisance more than anything. 
“They had a nickname for her,” the cruel man continued as if he was telling a hilarious story. “They called her the ‘Black Hole.’” He chuckled, barely able to contain his entertained grin behind thin lips. 
Peter glanced over to see quiet tears rolling down his wife’s cheeks. She kept her gaze fixed forward. Stealing her expression, she made a decent attempt to conceal her horror and shame. Peter’s jaw clenched empathetically. His chest burned. The glass found his heart.
The intruder seemed oblivious, finally tucking himself back into his pants with a good-humored headshake, amused with himself. It was after a few seconds that he finally noticed Peter’s grim expression. 
“Get it?” he asked, beneath a giggle, his smile dimming only slightly. 
Peter glared. 
Eventually, the man let his shoulders drop. He muttered bitterly, his fun spoiled. “Right over your head. Oh well.”
The ‘guest’ came to a stand in front of the chair, side-stepping around the abused woman in front of him, leaving her in his wake. He dug his hands in the pockets of his pants, eyes roving around the room. The intruder looked at home, strolling through Peter’s bedroom. He observed in silence, listless, like wandering through a library. Passing judgment on the pieces of Peter’s life.
Peter finally noticed the man’s attire. It was a bizarre mish-mash of items: a sharply-pressed, eggplant-hued button-up, untucked. The tails of the shirt draped over the stretchy waist of oversized joggers. A plum, silk-lined, single-button, velvet tuxedo jacket fit snugly over his shoulders. A lavender pocket square poked out from the breast pocket. 
Several blinks later, Peter recognized that all of the items were pulled out of his own closet. Some well worn. Some unused. Right down to the brand new, still-in-the-box, memory-foam slippers that May gifted him years ago.
Peter ground his teeth while glaring at the intruder. This was a message. His dark eyes roved over the callous figure, taking in the prevailing hue.
The Purple Man.
Peter’s blood went cold. He’d never met him, but he’d heard stories: nightmarish fairy tales about a devil who could control you with just a few words. A man dressed in purple, leaving grisly scenes drenched in buckets of crimson in his wake.
Peter didn’t believe in fairy tales. He believed in horror stories. 
He believed his friend at the D.A.’s office—the disgraced, former lawyer committed to an institution upstate. The blind madman of Hell’s Kitchen—who claimed that he savagely beat his friends to death with a gavel because The Purple Man told him to do it. 
Peter wasn’t sure if he really believed in the Devil. Until now.
“I wonder how much all this cost,” the man in purple stated curiously, observing the molding of the bedroom. He glanced over at Peter, still standing between the doorway and the bed. The next words left his mouth like a cold threat. “Answer me when I speak to you.”
“What did you do to Felicia?” Peter asked, thinking of the woman unable to move from her spot downstairs.
He snorted, “The anime chick with the silver hair?” Peter glowered at him, arm still outstretched. “I was actually really confused when I arrived,” he stated. “I thought that little... slutty minx... downstairs was your wife. I mean, she’s the one that answered the door. She’s way too hot to be a housekeeper. Too skinny to be a cook. She’s got great tits.” He paused and asked, “You think they’re real?” He pondered thoughtfully. “They feel real...”
Peter grimaced at the comment, his blood boiling. 
“But no,” the uninvited guest continued, “I was surprised to learn that she’s the ‘head of security.’ I mean, come on. Really?” He barked out a laugh. “I don’t wanna say ‘that’s why you never let a woman do a man’s job,’ but that’s what we’re all thinking, amirite?” 
He shrugged, questioning aloud, although the couple rendered silent was his only audience. 
The Purple Man glanced over to his timid captive, eyeing her backside lewdly. “And this little angel was up here all by herself.” 
Peter bristled.
“She told me you don’t let her out much,” he explained. “Bitched a little about freedom and shit, but...” The intruder lowered his voice to a whisper, a secret just between boys, “I see why you keep her under lock and key. A girl like this doesn’t have any business out and about by herself. Just asking for trouble.”
Peter glared in response, nostrils flaring. The pig headed comment made his skin crawl. On the other hand, he didn’t miss the feeling of guilt that sank in his stomach for locking her up like an object.
The intruder carried on, like he was conversing with a friend. “Yeah, if I was you,” he mused, “I’d have a whole fuckin’ slew of women. A harem. I’d keep one in every room.” He peered towards the doorway but made no move to escape. “I mean this house is ridiculous,” he continued. “You’ve got a lot of rooms. So maybe not every room. A man’s gotta have some peace.” 
He shrugged, throwing a sideways glance at Peter. “That’s what I’d do. If I were you.” His voice dropped an octave. “But I’m not you. I’m smarter.”
Peter glowered back, as the two men locked stares. A long moment passed.
“You do know who I am, right?” The Purple Man interrupted suddenly. 
Peter recalled a name that Brock discovered while digging through Murdock’s appointment calendar. A high school dropout with an brilliant IQ. An avid gamer. A nobody.
“I know who you are,” Peter replied, beneath a regretful glare. “Gotta be honest, though. Didn’t give two shits about you ‘til now.”
He responded giddily, “I’m pleased that we were able to change that. I mean, what’s a girl gotta do to get you to notice them?”
He whispered with a deadly calmness, like making a vow, “Believe me, Kevin. You have my attention.”
The Purple Man’s face twisted as he spat, “Ugh! God!” He spun on his heel, hissing and kicking indignantly. “I fuckin’ hate that name!” He bristled with anger, rendering a glower. “My mother gave me that name!” 
The sudden outburst of rage sent a trickle down his wife’s spine. She shivered, and he spotted it out of the corner of his eye. Their captor didn’t seem to notice. 
The intruder shouted with disdain, “How hard is it to show a little fuckin’ respect? I don’t identify with that name. My name is Kilgrave.”
Peter fought to hold in a humorless laugh. “Kilgrave? Isn’t that what your little video game buddies call you?”
“Actually, Kill_Grave_69 is my PSN handle,” he corrected matter-of-factly, his mood shifting dramatically. “I sent Kill_Grave a message, but he hasn’t replied yet.” 
“You like playin’ games with people, Kevin?” Peter taunted, his rage bubbling over. “Is’at what this is to you? A game?”
Kilgrave sighed, annoyed and bored. He gazed at Peter, declaring softly, “If you say ‘Kevin’ again, I’ll make your wife bite off her own tongue.” 
The woman in reference shuddered on her knees. Peter locked his jaw. 
“I’m serious, Peter,” Kilgrave warned. “She likes to swallow.”
Peter’s eyes flicked over to his wife, a pang of sympathy rising in his chest. He was ashamed of himself. Ashamed that the first thought that ran through his mind when he came upon the pornographic scene was betrayal. How daft. How arrogant. How did it not occur to him that she was being forced against her will?
He was a fool to think he could keep her safe. Perhaps it was his pride assuring him that no one would get past the gates of his fortress. It was hubris. His dogmatic belief that he’d prevent tragedy from reaching his loved ones.
At least, not again.
"Spoiler alert, I guess,” Kilgrave added, his lewd commentary interrupting Peter’s self-pity. “That’s another thing we talked about: You guys haven’t fucked.” Kilgrave crossed his arms, glancing back between the couple. “I mean, what’s with that? Talk about trouble in paradise.” 
Despite himself, Peter bristled with embarrassment. A tinge of pink on his cheeks added to the red flush of his rage creeping up his neck. “With the size of that rock on her finger,” Kilgrave added, “you’d think that’d be worth at least a couple of blowjobs.”
Her eyelids slammed shut, jaw clenched. Peter glanced down to see the tremble of her legs, her kneecaps digging into the merciless wooden floor. He couldn’t imagine how painful it was, and how long she’d been in that position.
Kilgrave chuckled, staring at Peter with amusement. “Between your wife’s Jaws of Life and your slutty housekeeper’s Triple D’s... What are you, queer?”
His lip twitched at the slur. He struggled to maintain his composure, aware that at any moment he could cause his wife—the frightened lamb—further harm. Simultaneously, he pictured gouging out the mouthy bastard’s eyes with his thumbs. 
Peter swallowed hard, speaking when spoken to. “What is it you want?”
“I’m here on business,” Kilgrave shrugged nonchalantly. “But first, I want to play a game.” He looked over at the woman. “We were already in the middle of one when you showed up, but we can start all over again. I guess.” He turned to Peter. “You ever play ‘20 Questions?’ It’s my favorite icebreaker.”
He tilted his head, childishly groaning, “Does this mean I have to listen to you talk about yourself through 20 Monologues?”
“Oh, no, this is all about you guys,” he declared, sitting on the edge of the king sized bed. He licked his thin lips hungrily. “I think what we have is an opportunity for you two to really open up to one another, y’know? Bare your hearts. Let’s see the real juicy stuff!” 
The double-entendre was not lost on Peter. He gulped anxiously. 
Kilgrave patted down the duvet on either side of him. “C’mon, you two,” he grinned, sparkling with childlike mischief. “Gather ‘round!”
Peter suddenly felt his legs lurch forward, his arm able to drop. The release of his tense muscles was relieving, but immediately he was horrified at being unable to control himself. He approached the bed slowly, sitting next to Kilgrave on the right. Kilgrave looked up to see his wife falter as she attempted to move off her knees. With a yelp, she toppled forward on her face.
Kilgrave snorted, shoulders shaking with humor. “What a klutz.” She half-crawled on wobbly legs, only sparking more laughter.
“Oh my god,” the weasel-like man howled. “She looks like a baby cow!” Peter’s eyes ran over her figure, taking inventory of as many injuries as he could see. One of the halter straps of her dress was askew off her shoulder. Finger shaped bruises peppered her jaw. Her knees were scraped and bloody. There were obviously injuries he could not see. Picturing them was like dunking his brain in acid.
“C’mon, I don’t have all day,” Kilgrave mocked her. He beat on the bedspread emphatically, like summoning a dog. Peter seethed in silence. “C’mon. Atta girl.”
Wincing in pain, she approached the edge of the bed, using her fingers to claw up the duvet. She thrust herself up next to Kilgrave on his opposite side, her legs dangling awkwardly off the edge of the bed.
“There she is,” he sang fondly, before lifting his gangly fingers and slapping them down on her thigh. She gasped at the pain, her legs still prickling as the flow of blood returned to her feet. His hand clamped above her knee, fingers digging into her flesh. “Such a pretty little cow.”
A soft whimper escaped her lips. Peter shut his eyes at the noise, squeezing them tight enough to trigger a migraine. He recognized that she was hanging on to what little power she had, trying to withhold her pain in front of her tormentor. If she could keep it together, then he’d better do the same.
Peter opened his eyes, glaring sideways at him. “You said you were here on business?”
“Easy, easy,” Kilgrave turned to him. “I’m asking the questions here.” He lifted his other hand and settled it on Peter’s thigh. “No need to get all worked up,” he slithered, ice in his eyes. Peter glanced down at the intruder’s hand touching his pant leg. It was a possessive hold, as if he owned Peter like the stolen clothes he was wearing. Like he owned the bed they were sitting on, the house he’d invaded, or the woman he’d assaulted. 
Peter met his gaze, stone-faced. But he had the overwhelming urge to cry. From rage or fear or heartbreak, he didn’t know.
“You’ll need to wait your turn,” Kilgrave cooed, like admonishing a child. The most feared mobster in New York, the Unlikely King from Queens—reduced to a child. 
“I’m supposed to say something clever, like ‘Mr. Fisk sends his regards,’ or some passive-aggressive bullshit like that. But all that seems so cliche. Dull.” He shot a quick glance, left and right, snuggling into his space between the couple. He knocked his knee into Peter’s playfully. “So. Tell me about you two. How did you meet?”
Peter’s jaw shook like an earthquake, fighting the command. The fight was getting exhausting. 
“The day before our wedding,” his wife squeaked out. Her throat sounded raw. “At our house. Or... it used to be my house.” As she spoke, she gazed achingly at the open doorway. She reminisced with a bitter tone. “He brought daisies. Couldn’t hand them to me. Left ‘em on the table. Wouldn’t even look at me.” 
Peter’s eyes rested heavily on the floor, brow furrowed. 
“He spoke with my father for a half-hour while I waited upstairs,” she recounted, trying to keep her voice from cracking. “Thirty minutes, to decide the rest of my life. Mama locked me in my room. They took away anything sharp. In case I tried to back out.” 
Peter looked up and over at her, beyond their tormentor, and watched the way her lip trembled at the admission. He followed the length of her arm down to her idle fingertips. The chiffon dress bunched up around her thighs, revealing her secrets. Etched scars lined her thighs and told a story of a lifetime of suffering. Eyes full of sorrow, Peter looked back up at her face. His heart broke to see that familiar faraway gaze.
“You’d rather kill yourself than marry him?” Kilgrave blurted, snorting repugnantly. “Wow. That’s a ‘swipe-left’ if I’ve ever heard one.”
Peter avoided the urge to comment, holding himself back from shooting a dirty look. He ignored him, keeping his wife in his sight. He hoped that somehow she could feel his gaze. He wanted it to feel like a kind gesture. A warm, friendly ray of light. A compassionate embrace. 
She swallowed hard, and for a moment Peter wondered if she could feel him. “I’ve spent my whole life in a cage,” she explained numbly. “Like a pet in a shop waiting to be sold. Waiting for Papa to put me to good use. Or get rid of me somehow.” She whispered sorrowfully, “A coffin’s not so different. At least it’s quiet.”
Peter’s jaw clenched as he felt his eyes sting. It was the hopelessness in her voice. The familiarity of it. He had no idea of the suffering that she endured. He hadn’t fully considered getting to know her. He didn’t truly plan on being alive much longer.
“Hmm,” Kilgrave hummed, considering the weight of her words. “I bet you’re a delight at parties. What did you think of him when you saw him?”
Her husband thought he could see the faintest ghost of a smile flit across her face. She pulled her gaze away from the doorway, and looked at Peter. He nearly flinched at the action. He was too ashamed to look at her.
“Pretty eyes,” she stated, a breath of fondness in her voice. It made his cheeks turn red. “He was prettier than I thought he’d be.” She stared at him. Through him. Like she could see his soul. “My sister told me once that the pretty ones are the meanest.”
He dropped his eyes to the floor.
Kilgrave turned to Peter. “What about you, Prince Charming? What went through your head that night?”
This time, he didn’t fight.
 “I just wanted it to be over,” Peter replied, flatly. 
Despite herself, she winced. The sting of his words was apparent.
“Oof,” Kilgrave commented. “Bad first impression?”
“That wasn’t the first time I met her,” Peter explained, betrayed by his own tongue. His eyes closed in defeat. 
Kilgrave nodded. “Tell me about that.”
He paused, but not for long. “It was at a wedding,” Peter explained. “She was twelve. I was fifteen.” Her eyes shot over to Peter, surprised by the revelation. “She wore a yellow dress with daisies on it. These kids... um. They were pickin’ on her. Callin’ her names.” 
His lips turned downwards at the memory, heart aching. “I felt sorry for her. She spent the whole reception cryin’ in the bathroom. We could all hear it.” She looked away, the memory returning to her. “I told those kids to lay off, but... only after...” He let the words fall away. Kilgrave didn’t ask for more this time. It was a meaningless excuse anyway. “She doesn’t remember me,” he affirmed, “but I was there.” 
The couple met each other’s eyes briefly, and for a moment they were alone with one another in their thoughts.
“Aww,” the wicked man blushed, his tone thick with saccharine. “That’s sweet. So you knew from the moment you saw her you were gonna marry her?”
“No,” he replied. “She’s not—” He choked on the words. His vocal cords constricting. Swallowed hard. He looked up at her helplessly, seeing the wounded look on her face. It was as if all he could do was hurt her.
“Finish that sentence,” Kilgrave callously commanded. 
He begged his mouth to stay closed, but it creaked open. “She’s not Gwen.” 
The sound of the name rang out. Tolling like a distant bell harkening some terrible fate. “Oh. Wait.” Kilgrave snapped his fingers near his head, as if he was struggling to fit the pieces of the story together. “Hang on. I’m remembering this.” He made some odd noise, a humming screech that sounded like a computer crashing. “Nope. Sorry. Nothing. Who’s Gwen?”
“She was the woman I loved,” Peter shuddered as he spoke. “We met in high school. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.”
“Okay...?”
“She died,” Peter swallowed dryly. Now they were both staring at him expectantly. It was obvious from his wife’s expression that she didn’t know about Gwen. That was Peter’s design. The seconds ticked by, his wife staring at him with something between curiosity and horror. “It was an accident,” Peter said, suddenly feeling like he needed to.
Kilgrave leveled his gaze at him, studying Peter intently. “Was it really?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. The glass had spread to his veins. “No.”
Her eyes widened at his response. Peter stared at her, his gaze heavy with guilt. Kilgrave made a pleased sound, like taking a bite out of a delicious cake. “Did you kill her?” he smirked ravenously.
“No,” Peter responded quickly. His eyes told a different story.
“Tell me the truth.” Kilgrave’s mouth was watering.
“I didn’t push her,” Peter elaborated grimly. “But I put her in harm's way.” His lip trembled, face crumpling. “She was killed because of me.”
“Siiick,” said Kilgrave, not truly impressed. Peter’s attention wasn’t on him.
Whatever expression he expected from his wife, he got the opposite. She stared at him with pity.
“Well,” Kilgrave sighed, “that was even more of a downer than I anticipated.” He rolled his eyes, kicking his legs idly in frustration. “Fine, sure. You lost one girl. You got another. This one’s still young, and... alive? She seems alright. I mean, I’m sure Gwynn was great, but... are you really gonna spend the rest of your life moping over some dead pussy? 
His eyes flashed with rage, “Don’t fucking talk like that about her—”
Kilgrave leaped to his feet, outmatching Peter’s fury, exploding like a bullet out of a gun. Suddenly, he was giant and imposing. A mushroom cloud leering over Peter’s face with fiery eyes and flaming breath. 
“YOU don’t get to tell ME what to do!” his voice bellowed, like a crash of thunder. His booming voice was enough to make both of his captives flinch. “Ever! UNDERSTAND?”
Peter looked up at his tormentor and tried to hold back a shudder. The monster’s eyes had gone black and soulless, filled with rage. Any good humor in his nature evaporated instantly, lips pulled tight. His curls vibrated with anger. 
As he stared up at him bitterly, Peter heard the sound of his wife’s heart thumping wildly. She kept her head forward and sniffled gently, trying to tighten her trembling jaw. It was as if she was pleading with Peter through her heartbeat. Begging him not to do anything stupid and get himself killed. Because then, she’d be left alone. With him. Again. 
A caged animal, indeed.
Several long moments passed before Kilgrave’s shoulders eased up. His features softened, his expression shifting to apathy. He shook the hair out of his face like a dog, exhaled slowly, and sat back down between the couple. 
“So,” The Purple Man continued, biting back indignation at being interrupted. “You didn’t want anything to do with the girl. She’s a means to an end. You could care less about her.”
Peter flinched, struggling. He subtly wished he could bite off his tongue to keep it from moving. Kilgrave noticed it immediately. 
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he commanded. 
Peter exhaled, feeling his heart sink in his chest. “That’s not true,” he muttered quietly, staring apologetically at his wife.
She batted her eyes at Peter, before breaking eye contact and staring ahead before Kilgrave could notice. 
“Elaborate,” he replied coldly.
Peter swallowed hard. “I didn’t want to hurt her,” he admitted with a huff. “I wasn’t trying... It wasn’t right, what her father did to her. None of it. He was planning on making a deal with Martello. The Hammerhead. Trading her for protection. I thought—I thought I could help her. Take Hammerhead off the board. Get her father’s loyalty. Help her, like I shoulda helped her when we were kids.” Peter glanced down at the floor, his forehead creased. “I shoulda stayed out of it.”
Kilgrave hummed, nodding as if he was filled with wisdom, “Tale as old as time. Women are our inevitable downfall.” 
Peter bit his tongue, closing his eyes to keep them from rolling, holding back an offending remark. 
Kilgrave moved on, looking over at the woman in question. “What about you, cowgirl?” he questioned, with a slight smirk. “Your daddy sent you off like a dowry. A sheep for the slaughter.” 
Her darkened eyes remained fixed on the floor. Peter admired her strength. 
“You didn’t wanna play house with the rich man with nice eyebrows?”
“How should I know,” she bit like a whipcrack, her words laced with venom. “He hasn’t spent more than five minutes with me since I got here.” 
It was a stunning display of boldness from her, surprising both men. Kilgrave pulled back his gaze, eyeing her with intrigue.
“There we go,” Kilgrave simpered. “Now we’re getting to the good stuff.” He turned to Peter who was trying to focus on remaining silent. His efforts were dashed the moment Kilgrave spoke. “Respond.”
“She hates me,” Peter immediately murmured, then bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. “She hasn’t said it. But I know. She... she can’t stand to be in the same room as me. I hate the way she makes me feel.” 
He would’ve willed himself to stop breathing if it meant no more words would spill out. But Kilgrave was hooked, engaged in his favorite television drama.
“How does she make you feel?” Kilgrave beckoned, hungry for more.
Peter’s brow furrowed. “Like a monster.”
She let out a slow exhale, her resolve crumbling as tears dripped down her face. 
Peter barely recognized his own voice, sounding as weak and broken as he felt. “She’s terrified of me. Cries in the room all the time. Won’t even look me in the eye. Like I’m... like I’m gonna hurt her or—” He swallowed hard, “I-I wouldn’t do that.”
“Or what? Finish what you were going to say,” he ordered coldly.
Peter squeezed his eyes tight, exhaling slowly. “Like I’m going to beat on her. Rape her.”
She went rigid; ice in her veins. Kilgrave shifted in his seat, adjusting his lap ever so slightly. “Is that what you like doing, Peter?”
“No,” Peter responded without hesitation, eyes defensive. “Never. I don’t...” He glowered at Kilgrave. “I’m not sick like that.”
If he could tell that it was a subtle insult, Kilgrave didn’t let on. “What are you like, Peter?” he grinned wickedly. “Be truthful. When was the last time you hurt someone?”
He stared. Mouth closed. Helpless. “This morning.”
Kilgrave smiled, holding his gaze. “Did you kill them?”
“Yes.”
“Did they suffer?”
Peter blinked at him, fighting a sting in his eyes. He spotted the way his wife shivered in his periphery. “Yes.”
“And did you like it?” he asked, like the cat that ate the cream. “How did it make you feel?”
Peter wished he could vanish into thin air. He let out a shaky breath, his eyes brimming with tears. “I felt powerful,” he admitted, shame and self-hatred evident in his tone. “It made me feel strong. Felt like justice. For Gwen. I liked it.”
The long-haired man chuckled darkly, “You really think it has anything to do with justice?”
A tear escaped his eye. Peter thought of the final expression on Gwen’s face, blood dripping from her mouth and nose. “I don’t know,” he answered. It was the truth.
Kilgrave’s expression shifted, unhappy with the answer. “Okay, Peter Parker. Pillar of pious penitence.” He spat each word mockingly, leaning closer to the taller man, invading his space menacingly. Peter knew he couldn’t stand anyone having the moral advantage over him. Or any advantage.
“Tell me this then,” Kilgrave glowered, hissing through gritted teeth. “Maybe you’re not a rapist, but you’re not a eunuch.” His piercing blue eyes dropped downwards. “At least that I can tell. You sleep under the same roof as this...” Kilgrave glanced over at his wife, his eyes roving down her chest and legs. “...Sacrificial calf, tell me—Have you ever thought of just fucking her and getting it over with?”
Peter felt his heart seize in his chest. The air caught in his throat.
“Answer the question!” Kilgrave barked.
His jaw clenched. “Yes,” he irked out, shamefully. “I have.”
“Ah ha!” Kilgrave rejoiced, clapping his hands together. “So the boy’s cock does work. Let’s hear about it.”
“I don’t...” Peter stuttered, his skin beginning to crawl. “I-I don’t wa—”
Kilgrave gripped Peter’s shoulder tight. It was like clutching a stone in his fist. He leered over him regardless, pouring poison into his ear. “Details, Peter. Details. You want to fuck her, right? How bad? You ever jerk off thinkin’ about itr?”
“Yes,” he choked out. He let his eyes fall closed, ashamed and unable to look at the woman whose life he had destroyed. 
“You watch her when you do it?” 
“N-no,” he stuttered. “Sh-shower.”
“What do you like about her? What’s your favorite part? Her ass, right? You strike me as an ass man.”
Peter hoped that soon Kilgrave would tell him to throw himself off of a building. “Her eyes.” 
Kilgrave groaned, deflating at the answer. 
“She’s innocent,” Peter added truthfully, with bleary eyes. “Not like—” He clipped the words, but one look from his tormentor reminded him of the futility of his resistance. “Not like me,” he whispered, heartbroken.
The Purple Man glared at him, stewing with disdain. 
“Poor Peter Parker,” he mocked with a singsong tone. He gazed down at him through narrow slits, regarding him as ant under a bright magnifying glass. “Pitiful, pathetic prince of pathos. Pauper of power.”
Disgraced, he stared back, hollow and exposed. The sensation of a tear rolling down his cheek stirred him.
“Do you want to know why I like to play video games?” Kilgrave stated coolly. 
He could think of a hundred vicious replies. A hundred ways to hurt, maim, and kill. But none of them were real options. He looked at him apathetically. Hopelessly. It didn’t matter how he responded.
“It’s an even balance of power,” Kilgrave elaborated. “A fair fight.” His eyes roved over Peter’s figure, sizing him up from head to toe. “All I need is two thumbs and I can win fair and square. Keeps things challenging.” 
The maniac fell silent, staring at Peter in a way that made his skin crawl. His smile faded. Again, the friendly persona evaporated. He spoke again with a voice weighed down with malice. 
“You have all this money,” he stated. “All these... pawns, like the dead ones downstairs.” He reached over, squeezing Peter’s bicep gently. “You work out.” He gently patted Peter’s cheek. “You’ve got a pretty face. All this... ‘power.’” His azure eyes leveled, and the look sent a chill down Peter’s spine. “And yet all I hear about is how sad your little lonely life is. Your shitty bad luck. Your dead parents and your dead blonde whore.” 
Peter’s chest heaved, filled with fear or fury. He bit the inside of his lip, watching the vitriol rising in the man. 
Cruel jealousy filled his words. “You got it so easy, you don’t even know it,” Kilgrave hissed. “Silver spoon up your ass. Guys like you, you think you can just buy everything you want? You think you can just bully everyone? Beat them into submission?”
The intruder’s heart beat even faster with self-righteous fervor. He was insane, Peter concluded, unhinged and oblivious to the hypocrisy of his words. 
“It doesn’t matter if you’re not scared of me,” Kilgrave sneered. “Doesn’t matter if you couldn’t give two shits. Doesn’t matter if you own the whole world. I control you. All I have to do is say the words. That is real power, my friend.”
Kilgrave jumped to his feet, standing tall in front of the couple. He puffed up like a god casting down judgment. He was drunk on his version of power. Basking in the glow of their helpless misery.
“And sure,” he added, his smile growing larger, his voice getting louder. “When I’m done here, there’ll be a limo waiting for me. And I’m gonna go to the nicest hotel in the city. I’m gonna order room service, and I’m going to eat it off the girl at the front desk’s naked body.” 
He proclaimed this triumphantly. Like he was standing in a pulpit. Like he could hear thunderous applause. He probably could. 
“And then I’m gonna play a few hours of Call of Duty,” he continued. “I’m gonna kill a few spoiled little shitheads like you online, and even if I lose the game...” He laughed with a careless shrug, “I’ll just tell them to go fuck their mothers and swallow bleach.” 
“Then I’m gonna leave with my giant suitcase full of Wilson Fisk’s money,” he spat each word at the couple, matching their disgusted horror with his own outrage. “But before you judge me, let me tell you that I don’t do it for the money, Mister and Missus Parker.” 
He popped the ‘P,’ like a bloody dot on the end of a sentence. 
“I do it because I like it,” he declared. “I like to help people. And when you help people, good things happen to you!”
Kilgrave took a deep breath, and exhaled loudly. He was regaining his composure, albeit for dramatic effect. “So, now for my next question, Peter, I ask you this:” he leaned forward, placing both hands on the bed as he glanced back and forth between the horrified duo. “Trick or Treat?”
Peter blinked silently, terrified to respond. 
“Choose!” Kilgrave roared.
“Treat!” Peter yelped, tears running down his face.
“Good choice,” Kilgrave declared. “Now. Are you finally ready to fuck your wife, or should I do it for you?”
Peter’s eyes were black as coal, overcome with rage. He whispered, agonized, “Touch her and I’ll rip your fucking throat out—”
From the tuxedo jacket pocket, Kilgrave suddenly brandished a straight-edge razor. It flashed in the low-light of the bedroom. He handed it to the woman he only regarded as ‘Missus’ Parker. 
“Use this to cut your own face off,” he commanded. The moment the razor went into her hand, she closed her fist on the blade. Her eyes were wide with fright, her arm trembling. 
“No! Stop!” Peter bellowed, voice shattering weakly, as he reached out and grabbed the end of the razor. He clutched the blade, feeling the sting of it in his palm.
Kilgrave leapt backward with alarm. “Nobody move!”
The couple didn’t move. Both hands on the blade of the razor. Blood spilling into blood. Kilgrave’s eyes went back and forth between the two of them, before settling on Peter suspiciously.
“You really do care about her,” Kilgrave stated, intrigued. His voice was thoughtful and unsure, as if he was observing the results of an experiment. He watched Peter’s tortured expression carefully. His lip trembled, his eyes wet.
“Please,” Peter begged him, shaking uncontrollably. Swallowing every ounce of pride, he pleaded for mercy. “Please. It’s me that Fisk wants. She’s got no part in this.”
Kilgrave stared quietly, as if he was considering it seriously. It was enough to give Peter hope. 
“Drop the razor,” he ordered. 
The weapon clanged as it hit the floor, narrowly missing their limbs. 
“I’m sorry, I just thought of another question,” Kilgrave declared, leaving Peter’s plea unanswered. He leaned in close between them, his thin lips positioned between both sets of ears. “Cards on the table. If you had to choose, right now,” he asked devilishly. “Who would you rather have rape your wife?” He locked eyes with Peter, smirking sadistically. “Me? Or you?”
Peter’s heart sank as it threatened to burst from his chest. He held Kilgrave’s stare, peering up powerlessly. His stomach lurched, bile rising in his throat. 
This was a message, he thought. A warning to all who dared to stand up to powerful men like Wilson Fisk. Those who were arrogant enough to try to beat the devil at his own game. 
It didn’t matter that Peter may have been the lesser of two evils. They were all evil. The city was overflowing with evil deeds and evil men. Like his father-in-law. Like Fisk. Like Kilgrave.
Like Peter.
Kilgrave simply smiled. Because he knew what Peter really was. 
He knew what his answer would be. 
And how poetically unjust was it—in his flimsy attempt at protecting this poor girl he pitied, the woman he wondered if he could one day love—that he would be the one to hurt her. He had imprisoned her to protect her. And he was going to cause her suffering. 
He really was a monster. 
But Kilgrave just wanted him to say it out loud.
Peter’s lip wobbled as he watched the intruder raise an eyebrow. He was waiting. 
“Answer the question,” Kilgrave grinned wickedly. “Who would you rather it be?”
He tried to keep his mouth closed, but it felt like trying to hold back an avalanche. He knew exactly what word was going to come out, and with it, the contents of his stomach would follow. The remnants of his broken soul soon after.
“Peter.”
Kilgrave blinked, turning towards ‘Missus’ Parker. He’d forgotten she was there. 
The woman sat calmly on the foot of the bed, her bloody hands placed in her lap. Blood droplets staining her scars. Her body was a mountain. Steady. Unfazed.
She locked eyes with Kilgrave. There was an audacious half-smirk on her face. 
“I would rather it be Peter,” she answered, knowing well-enough that the question wasn’t directed at her to begin with. She didn’t care. She was making her thoughts known.
“I would rather be probed by aliens,” she stated confidently, hatred woven into each word. “I would rather be railed by every dick in a leper colony. I’d rather be inbred by a family of cannibal hillbillies. I’d rather be fucked by a grizzly bear.”
Her voice taunted him, seething through gritted teeth, “Literally. Anyone. Else.” She glared at him viciously. “Anyone but you.” 
Kilgrave’s face fell slowly, his eyes growing cold at her harsh rejection.
She smiled, victorious, if only in this one fight. “And no matter what you say, that’ll never change.”
His eye twitched as he glared at her. She relished in the way his nostrils flared, basking in the glow of his rage. Savored the way a vein bulged from his forehead. 
Kilgrave studied her lividly, crossing his arms. “You heard the lady,” he replied. He commanded, “Pin her down.” 
Peter’s hands shot forward of their own accord, grabbing his wife’s wrists and throwing her back across a bed they had never shared until this moment. Despite her resolve, she shrieked as she attempted to push him off. She twisted like a snake beneath him. 
Tears sprang from his eyes and hers. He could hear his own disembodied voice, mumbling incoherently, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry so sorry...” 
In seconds she was subdued under him, his hips pinning hers down.
Peter watched her fall silent and still, tears rolling down the sides of her face. He squeezed his eyes closed, focusing his energy on releasing her wrists to no avail. Hot droplets from his eyes splattered as they fell on the skin of her heaving chest.
“Don’t do this,” he pleaded, to anyone who would listen. “I don’t... don’t wanna do this...” He squeezed his eyes tighter.
“Look at me,” he heard her whisper. He opened his eyes at the sound of her voice. 
She gazed up at him, her eyes gentle. Sympathetic. He wanted to drown himself in them. 
“It’s gonna be okay,” she timidly whispered. “We’re gonna be okay.” He wanted to collapse under the weight of his guilt. 
He trembled, “Please don’t hate me. Please, I’m... I can’t...”
“I know,” she nodded softly, barely above the sound of her heart. “I know. You’re nothing like him.”
Peter gritted his teeth, sobbing, growling as he tried to move his hands, only peeling one finger away from her wrist. 
“Give me her panties,” Kilgrave coldly ordered.
Peter’s hand reached under the skirt of the dress, gripping onto stretchy lace. With a snap, he tore the fabric from her waist. She yelped at the burn. He held his trembling hand outstretched, presenting Kilgrave with his trophy. 
He snatched the underwear, examining it in his hand. “Well, whaddya know,” he sneered. “Looks like she’s not that broken up about this after all. She’s dripping wet. Just like a whore.” 
Kilgrave tucked the underwear back in his jacket, turning listlessly toward the brutal scene. “Put your hand on her throat.”
She flinched as Peter followed the order. His large palm settled heavily the base of her throat. 
Kilgrave peered over at them, intently watching the way his hand circled her neck. Blood from the razor cut on his palm coated her throat, making a sticky red mess. Kilgrave licked his lips at the sight. 
“Such large hands,” his tormenter observed. “Bet you’re strong. Bet you could just... crush her throat with just your thumb and forefinger. Like snapping a toothpick” Peter’s bloody hand trembled, his whole body quaking with terror. “I wonder what that would sound like.” 
Peter shook his head, spiraling into panic, “P-Please don’t—”
“Relax,” Kilgrave admonished him, as if scolding a frightened child. Sickeningly, Peter felt his pulse slow down. His next breaths were even and steady. Kilgrave grinned, “I told you that you were gonna get a chance to fuck your wife, did I not?” 
She bit her trembling lip, glaring over at Kilgrave from the side of her vision. He stared back at her, skewering her with his look. “I never said she would be alive when you did it.” 
Peter felt like he was going to be sick. His skin went cold and clammy. Kilgrave broke into a fit of giggles.
“Fucking coward,” Peter ground out, shooting a glare at The Purple Man. “You wanna beat somebody? You wanna kill me? Just fucking do it. C’mon, just be a man and let’s do this—”
Kilgrave yawned, rolling his eyes. “Dirty talk, hmm,” he glowered mockingly. “Careful with that mouth. Unless you want my cock in there too.”
The muscles in Peter’s shoulders went rigid as he stared at him. His throat bobbing. His voice squeaked, “Is-Is that w-what you want?” 
Kilgrave tilted his head, curiously. Peter sounded... hopeful, almost. He gazed at him, feeling like prey begging a predator not to eat him. 
Peter blinked away tears, sensing a tug on the lure. He cleared his throat, softening his gaze. “C’mon,” Peter reaffirmed, steadying his voice placatingly. “Let’s go then. Just you and me. I’ll do whatever you want.”
It was a bold offer. Not surprising, but bold. Kilgrave studied him closely, the gears turning in his mind. He finally snickered, amused. 
“You will,” he sneered with a twisted grin. “I have no doubt about it.” 
Peter’s eyes followed him, unsure of his meaning. Kilgrave stalked up to the end of the bed, reaching forward and wrenching Peter’s hair back. He gasped at the sharp pain, his neck vulnerably exposed. 
“Tell you what,” The Purple Man replied, tauntingly. Kilgrave reached down for the hand resting on his wife’s throat. Slowly, he pulled it up to his mouth. 
Peter let it happen. He didn’t have to be told. 
“You be a good boy,” he said, turning his hand over. Kilgrave stuck out his tongue and ran it over Peter’s palm, licking the wound. He bit back bile as he watched Kilgrave lick his blood from his lips. “And maybe, I’ll let you share.” His blue eyes travelled over to his wife’s, shooting her a threatening glance.
She lifted up off of the comforter, wrists still firmly in place with Peter’s other hand. It didn’t matter. Kilgrave was close enough that she hit her target. He screeched and hissed as she shot a wad of spit in his eyes. 
“Ow, ow, gross!” he roared as if he’d suffered the most egregious of indignities. He rid himself of the velvet jacket, using it to wipe at his face furiously. When he turned back to her, he was livid.
“That’s it!” he screamed. Kilgrave stalked towards the bed, tossing the jacket aside. “Fucking whore!” he hissed. He reached down, snatching the razor off the floor. “Sorry, Pete. I’m tagging you out.” 
He gripped Peter’s hair once again, pulling his neck back. She shrieked as she saw the razor come up to her husband’s throat. The blade sliced into his flesh, leaving a red-hot mark.
In an instant, Peter’s hand moved to stop the blade.
Kilgrave was stunned. 
So was Peter, with his hand gripping the monster’s wrist. 
It was as if his Spider-sense reacted before his consciousness. A reflex of self-preservation. 
Kilgrave’s eyes widened with horror, his lips beginning to move. Seizing the opportunity, Peter flexed his hand, triggering his web-shooter. The intruder was thrust backward, a sticky mass pummeling his face and covering his mouth. 
He stumbled backwards, collapsing on his knees, pulling wildly at his gag. The web wouldn’t move. He was silenced.
Chest heaving, Peter turned over his palm, observing the wound already starting to heal. He looked over at Kilgrave, understanding the biology of how his powers worked.
Kilgrave was a disease. His existence was a plague. His words were a virus. 
One that Peter’s body could fight, given the right antibodies. From the moment Peter’s blood came in contact with Kilgrave’s saliva, his body did the rest.
He released the arms of the woman beside him, pulling his other hand back as if he touched fire.
Kilgrave scrambled like a cockroach in the light. Peter watched him attempt to scurry away. He released another web, yanking the man’s legs out from under him. Tangled and bucking frantically, Kilgrave rolled over on the floor. 
He met Peter’s gaze, his expression dark. Monstrous. And immune.
Fear turned the blue in his eyes to ice. In the blink of an eye, Peter reached down and snatched Kilgrave up by the throat, lifting him off the ground. The shorter man kicked wildly. Peter sucked in labored breaths, imagining the sound of a toothpick snapping. Tears continued to run down his cheeks, a storm of grief and hatred fueling the crackling lightning of his eyes.
He reached forward, grabbing Kilgrave by the chin. His fingers reached over the web and expanded across the man’s jaw. The part of Kilgrave that he used to hurt his wife. To torture his family.
Peter's mind was blitzed. Body on autopilot. Defaulting to factory settings. Returning to his innate nature. 
With a tear-soaked growl that turned into an agonized scream, Peter gripped Kilgrave’s jaw with enough pressure to crack the bone. The ridges of his fingertips buried themselves into his flesh. With a final howl, Peter snatched his hand back. And with it, he ripped the jawbone from Kilgrave’s skull.
The sound of the crack was grotesque. The spray of blood was everywhere. Stickying his skin. Filled their nostrils with the scent of copper. 
Peter blinked several times. So did Kilgrave. Both men stared in awe of the horrific act of violence. 
The only difference was that one of them was now missing half a face. His tongue dangled limply from his throat, and he became the walking dead. 
Kilgrave’s legs buckled beneath him as he dropped down to his knees. Peter’s arms twitched, his body trembling from adrenaline, terror, and rage. He stared down into the piercing blue eyes of the intruder who was currently grappling with the horror of having his power taken away. 
Peter watched the blood pour from The Purple Man’s mouth, his stomach twisting. Not at the gore, but at the feeling of relief. He stepped back, relishing in the savage violence as much as he feared it. 
He jolted at the rustling sound beside him. The weary woman approached him from the side, arms wrapped protectively across her chest. She stared at Peter’s deed with a wary expression. He shrunk back away from his wife, avoiding her eyes. Afraid of what she’d see.
A gargling noise spewed out as the blood began to fill Kilgrave’s exposed throat. He was fighting for consciousness. Fighting to survive. 
Peter glanced at the frightened woman beside him. He should turn her away. He should shield her eyes—
She stepped forward with the straight razor in her hand. He watched her reach down, methodically wrapping her fingers around Kilgrave’s tongue. With a swipe of the razor, she sliced it off. He grunted in pain, the action rolling his eyes up. He finally keeled over. 
Peter watched her in stunned silence, listening as Kilgrave’s pulse went quiet. She glowered down at her tormentor’s body, her chest and arms covered his blood. Her hands gripping the razor and the man’s tongue. Both of them hard-earned trophies. 
She turned around and looked up at Peter. They locked eyes, standing in the dim light of their bedroom. 
For the first time, they saw each other clearly. 
She wasn’t a lamb, or a pet. She wasn’t an animal. 
Neither was he. 
He regarded her with admiration. She regarded him with forgiveness. Compassion softened their eyes as they observed each other. And by rendering compassion towards one another, they showed mercy toward the reflection of themselves.
Exposed, for what each of them really was. 
Whatever they had to be, to survive.
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Did you enjoy this story? If you did, please REBLOG, COMMENT, or leave an anonymous ask and let me know how you thought I did. Thank you for supporting fandom, and supporting me!
A/N
in case there is any confusion, I am fully aware that my version of kilgrave is an unrepentant, evil sack of shit. he says and holds beliefs that are outrageously offensive, inappropriate, and ignorant. I do not vibe with anything this character says or does. It’s fiction ;-)
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roxineedstosleep · 1 year
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Keep going... Right?
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(Yandere Peter kidnapping his beloved darling during the halloween hiest!!)
It had been a mistake.
I mean, what were the chances?
None.
But, it happened. The mistake was made.
And now, with adrenaline pumping, nerves overcoming everything, and hands trembling…
When you least expect it, he's dragged you out of bed, pulled several blankets over you, blindfolded your eyes and mouth, and dragged you out of there.
There were several people, carrying others in terrible costumes. There were couples dressed as cavemen abducting their wives; robbers stealing brides… that he was carrying his beloved did not look strange.
At most he'd get empathetic looks of, "Oh, the drinks at that party were strong… what a good boyfriend you are mate."
Was he? He doesn't know, what matters to him is that you're with him now and you can't leave him.
No one suspects, no one sees it wrong…. So he will go on.
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190 notes · View notes
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Made for Him VII
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Warnings: this fic includes dark content including rape/noncon, blood and gore, violence, death, grief, and other potential triggering elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: Peter finds himself alone after the loss of those around him, so he decides to find a cure to his grief.
Characters: Peter Parker
Note: Sleepover today! I am tryna prioritise this because Halloween is already here and it is a themed sort of fic. Anyway, this chapter is kinda rough. Sorry.
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.
Love you all like Garfield loves lasagna. Take care. 💖
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The Creator
Peter was startled when he realised. When he looked over the top of his book and realised she was gone. He sat up, nearly dropping the book entirely as he twisted in the chair and looked around. The television played the credits as the wobbly orchestra played over the columned text. He dumped the book in his seat as he stood, heart thrumming behind his ears.
The creak from overhead drew his eyes up. He huffed as he calmed, just slightly. The heavy stomp of her feet assured him she was not far, though he didn’t remember why she left. Had she said something to him? He found it hard to concentrate the longer he waited and their talk hadn’t inspired her to let him do more than his usual kisses. It was as if it had only scared her further away.
He went to the stairs against the wall and listened to the clamour from above. Curious, he tilted his head as he heard her giggling. He climbed carefully, keeping his steps light as his superhuman abilities aided in his silent ascent. He gripped the railing at the top and looked down at his white knuckles. The wood groaned in his grasp.
Sometimes, he forgot what he was. Who he used to be. A hero. He was Spider-man and here he was tiptoeing around this creature… woman. What was he so afraid of? She belonged to him. He gave her life, he gave her everything. It only felt more offensive that she should act so distant.
He continued down the hall and saw the top of her shadow as he neared the bedroom. He slowed and peered around the frame. The bed was a mess, the blanket half off and draped down to the floor as the sheet was totally stripped away. She held it around her body, swathed like a dress as she looked at herself in the mirror and turned, admiring the way she’d wrapped it. She was smiling at her reflection.
He watched her calmly, quietly. She didn’t notice him as she pulled the top tighter and tried to fluff out the tails. Her clothing was littered on the floor and the sheet drooped down her back as she tried to fix it. She was growing frustrated as the length weighed down the rest and she couldn’t get the top to hold with just a tuck. Peter let out a wispy breath as he felt the twitch in his pants.
“Where’d you go?” He said at last, spooking her so that her eyes rounded and she barely caught the sheet before it dropped entirely. It opened down her back and revealed her round ass and the curved arch of her back. She faced him with a bashful trill.
“Peter!” She clustered the sheet around her front.
“What are you doing in here?” He asked as he entered, unashamed as he felt himself bulging in his pants.
“Nothing,” she lied.
He grinned, trying to ease her, “Let me help.”
“No, I… dumb!” She proclaimed in embarrassment.
“No, it’s okay,” he neared her and reached for the sheet. He barely got a hold of it as she tried to avoid him. “Here, turn around.”
He pulled the sheet away and she clung to it, just for a moment before she obeyed. He noticed more and more how she hesitated to listen to him. But in the end, she always did. He let the sheet fall straight as he held it over her shoulders to hang in front of her. She turned to face her reflection again as he lowered it and pulled it taut to her chest.
Her nipples poked against the cotton and for a moment, he didn’t move as he took in the silhouette of her figure through the fabric. He swallowed a hum and put the end of the sheet to the middle of her back. She held her arms up as he began to wind it around her figure. She watched him as he came around her front and overlapped it, wrapping her nearly three times before securing it under her arm.
He let his fingers trail down what would be the bodice and she wiggled her shoulders and leaned to the right as she tried to see around him. He sighed and stepped aside so she could see his work. She tugged at the lower half, trying to fluff it out. He turned to check out the view from the side and she looked at him again.
“You did it,” she exclaimed and clapped, “pretty!”
He kept his lips sealed as his dick ached. If she noticed the outline of his need, she didn’t let him now. She was too focused on her makeshift gown to care. He hated that. There was always something more interesting to him.
“You’re welcome,” he said as he framed his hip and watched her.
“Oh!” She furled her fingers and looked at him guiltily, “thank you. I forgot.”
“It’s fine,” he said, dully.
“I like. Thank you.” She repeated, “you nice, Peter. Always give.”
Once more, she was looking at herself. She stepped closer and her smile wavered as she reached to trace the scars around her neck. She shrugged as if to forget them and dropped her clumsy hands.
Peter’s heart swelled and his groin knotted. It wasn’t exactly the best moment for it but when was the moment? After their talk, she was too confused to let him touch her and in the days since, she’d flitted away from him several times. And when she let him kiss her, she stopped him for some other distraction.
“Will you do something for me now?” He asked quietly, so low he wasn’t sure he actually said it.
She bounced as she broke away from the mirror and turned to him. His hand ran without thinking across the front of his pants. Her smile wavered as her eyes followed the movement. She twiddled her fingers before her and raised her brows. The dark bob she chose that day neatly trimmed her face and brought out her beauty.
“What do?” She asked in a tremor as she watched him squeeze himself through his shorts. He gasped as he couldn’t control himself, the pulsing of his dick throbbing through every part of him.
“You remember before?”
“I…” she looked to the floor, “yes, remember.”
Anger surged in him, for just a moment. How could she not want him? She owed him. After all he’d done and she acted so afraid. She was his! She was made for him.
“It hurts, again,” he went to the foot of the bed and sat, “and you love me, don’t you? You want to make me feel good?”
“Yes, love. Feel good but… why feel bad?”
“Because,” he pinched the button of his fly, “because I want you, precious. Don’t you want me?”
Her lashes flicked and she nodded frantically. She grabbed the sheet around her hips and lifted it as she came towards him. She stopped in front of him and folded her hands.
“I do what want,” she tried to smile and her lip tugged from within as she bit it.
He was annoyed. She was making him feel rotten for asking. But he needed it and he’d asked now. A yes was a yes.
He picked open his fly and pushed down the zipper. He lifted himself and rolled his pants to his thighs, just enough to pull out his aching length. He twitched as he brushed the bulging vein along his shaft and sat back down. She stood, waiting, staring at her hands.
“Here,” he stroked himself, just to feel the tingle, “get down.” He pointed to the floor, “on your knees.”
“Knees?” She wondered aloud.
“Trust me,” he said, “don’t you?”
She nodded and kept her gaze down. She moved the bottom of the sheet as she lowered herself and he held his hand out to her. She took it and he guided her closer as she settled on the floor. She wouldn’t look at what he was doing, even as he placed her hand around his dick.
“You don’t have to–” he huffed as he held her fingers tight.
“No, love,” she brought her eyes to his, “I do.”
She pumped her hand suddenly, slipping from beneath his and he spasmed in surprise. He slapped his hands onto the bed as his stomach tightened and she did it again, to his tip then back down. She gripped him tight, so tight. Fuck.
He grunted as he watched her but the methodical rhythm of her strokes irritated him, making it hard to latch onto the ultimate end. He whimpered at the sensitivity of his head as her fingers passed over it and he grabbed her wrists, stilling her. He couldn’t cum like this, not with this dry friction.
“Precious,” he purred as he leaned forward, brushing her chin with his fingers as he made her look at him, “will you try something else?”
Her eyes nearly popped out but she nodded again. “What make happy?”
“I told you, sometimes, that… we– you can—” he ran his knuckles up and down her neck and rubbed her chin again, “use your mouth.”
“Mouth…” She reached to touch her lips.
“Yes, um, on me,” he looked down as she squeezed him so tight he exclaimed, “fuck.”
“Sor–” She took her hand away as he released her, “I hurt?”
“A little,” he said, “but if you…” his heart flickered and he tilted his head and pointed to his mouth, “I did it to you, remember?”
Her eyes drifted in thought. She swallowed and shifted closer on her knees. Her lashes batted and he circled his fingers around his base, angling his tip as she watched his dick. She looked scared but she didn’t stop him. 
“Just open your mouth, precious,” he coaxed, “alright?”
She parted her lips and he moved his hand behind her head, his other still firmly around his length. He urged her down and poked past her soft lips. She squeaked in surprise but let him keep going. He nudged her slowly onto him, her wet tongue sliding down as her warmth welcomed him. He touched the back of her throat and she tried to pull away.
He held her down, gripping her head harder. She pressed her hands to the rumple of his pants across his thigh and he pulled up and back down, coating his dick with her saliva, easing his intrusion. He bobbed her up and down, her wig slipping in his grasp. He ripped it off entirely and clamped her head between both hands, feeling the ridges of her scars.
“That’s it, precious,” he groaned as his eyes rolled back and he felt his peak rising, “fuck, that’s so good.”
He felt her squirming as he pushed her head down, past the resistance of her throat. The slick noise of her around him added to the pool of heat in his core. He squeeze his thigh, sinking her nails in as she gagged around him. He moved his hand down to her jaw and cradled her face as he fucked it. He felt warmth leak onto his hand. She was crying.
He didn’t care. He couldn’t. He was going to cum. He need to cum.
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fuel-joy · 1 year
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Chapter 1: First Glance
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Warnings: Future chapter reference, abuse (hitting and crude language). Non con (rape) and cheating. I’m sure more will appear. 
Summary: How does the perfect stranger became a living nightmare? Peter Parker is a nightmare you just can’t wish away.
Older Peter Parker x Reader. (Peter is at least 45 and reader is pushing 28) 
Loneliness crept in like a cold draft through a small gap in a door. The laughter was becoming a little too much as you sat alone. The wine was starting to make you feel warm, the scratchy material of your sweater was scratching your neck. The satin pants felt soft against your legs, there was a slight breeze that made you shudder. You wish your friends came.
But one was taking care of two sick kids. Another was down with a stomach bug that kept her in the bathroom. Then your best friend was in Aspen with her new fiancé. You were all alone at a party that was in full swing. Drinks were overflowing the way everyone’s laughter was. Christmas music played loudly throughout the entire bar.
You tried to make yourself smaller on the chair.  You were hidden by a huge plant. You weren’t having much fun and you wasted a cute outfit to just sit in a corner. You pulled your phone out to scroll on Instagram. You barely lasted a minute before you were closing out of the app. Too many people celebrating with loved ones. Others getting engaged to their partners whether they have been together a year or more.
You were jealous that they all had something you had been longing for. Failed relationship after the next left you with a broken heart that you aren’t sure would mend. You looked at the Tinder app and your finger tapped against it. You sighed as you scrolled through the countless men. You got a few matches but they never spoke, you were starting to think you only matched with bots.
But there was a promising match. His dark brown eyes and curly brown hair were his best features. But my gosh his dimpled smile almost made you smile. The chat came through, you skipped out of his picture to see the most degrading message yet.
Kurt: you got some big ass tits. How big are they?
You stared at the message until the words blurred together. You sighed as you unmatched with him. Another one bites the dust and you almost wanted to laugh. You were done for the night, your already sour mood soured some more. You tried not to cry but you could feel the pricking in your eye.
You stood to your feet with heavy thoughts of anguish. But most of all you thought about Dan and his gorgeous smile. The conversations you two had were still etched in your memory. They would never fade away even the text he sent three days before your first date. Here it was coming back to make you feel worse about yourself. You cried over Dan as if he was yours but he never was. Because he was too hung up on his ex and he wasted your time.
You walked slowly across the room and reached the doors leading out. You downed the last of the wine before heading out. The empty wine glass sat on his table with your red lipstick printed around the rim. He bore his eyes into the back of your head but you kept on walking. His eyes wandered down your back to your ass. And then you were gone just like that.
Ned came back with two shots in each hand. Peter kept staring outside the door as if maybe he could get you to come back. Get you to come back inside just to have a drink with him, maybe more.
🎄
You pulled the covers up as you looked at the tv. You rubbed your smooth legs together under the heavy duvet. You snuggled in more as the night flew by in some kind of hurry. You found yourself fast asleep in the warmth of your room. Christmas Eve was now turning into a blur that you would gladly like to forget.
The satin pillow was cool against your face. You could melt even more into the soft bed. The warmth of the blanket wrapped around your body. Sleep fell upon you so easily, you didn’t notice the loudness of the tv. Or the fact you left your lamp on. Your belly was full of rich wine and rich food.
🎄
The lights wrapped around the tree were twinkling. You forgot to turn them off last night. Under the tree were just two small gifts wrapped up neatly. With beautiful big bows adorned on them. You were rushing around your apartment, throwing things in your duffel bag. You should have left last night but you were beyond exhausted. And you couldn’t handle your mom asking about your imaginary boyfriend.
The alcohol would have given you loose lips and spilled the beans. That their very accomplished daughter was going to be single forever. Then of course your mother would try to set you up. They would take a look at you and want nothing more than a low key hookup.
You were out of breath when you grabbed the two presents under the tree. Your hand snatched the plug out of the socket before racing out the door. The streets were pretty quiet except for the few stragglers. Most of them were looking for a single place open. But much to their dismay everything was closed.
Your heels clacked against the sidewalk as you made long strides. Your hands swayed as best as they could. One shoulder feeling heavier than the other with the large duffle bag. You could see the white smoke leaving from your parted mouth. You could hear the shallow breaths you were talking as you walked from block to block in the frigid cold. Your hands are burning from the cold making you wish you brought gloves. Maybe the pair an old college buddy gave you.
You finally make your way to the train station at last. The duffel bag feels heavier as you stand on the platform. There is no one around except a man. He stands tall with his hands inside his coat pocket. His brown curly hair hangs down on his shoulders. He has a duffel bag as well hanging off his shoulder. You try not to stare but from what you can see he’s beautiful. You wonder if his eyes are blue or green? The sound of the train cuts through your thoughts.
You can feel a gust of wind as the train arrives. You turn from the man and make your way inside. Inside you are welcomed with warmth as well as the smell of cinnamon. You shrug off your heavy duffle bag and then the coat. You can feel the warmth against your skin.
You heaved the duffel bag up but it came crashing down again. Embarrassed, you looked around to make sure it was just you. Unfortunately he was staring right at you, his hands shoved into his jeans. “Do you need help with your bag?”
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myspideyboy · 15 days
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( darkness and the light )
Tw/warnings: mention of dark thoughts, hinted murder (puzzle it together yall, context clues), dark peter, these thoughts shouldn't be glorified! Or acted on yall, murders not fun. It's not nice. Most likely spelling errors it's 5am here I haven't slept
(Short one shot!)
[ au ]*peter and y/n are 22*
Dark Peter parker x g/n reader
Summary| Peter will never admit to obession. Obession made you sick, and he wasnt sick. He was simply in love, thats it. He had been in love with y/n since he was 16, and love always has justified actions. Because if you wouldn't do absolutely everything for who you love, do you really love them?
(Gif not mine!!)
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Y/n was truly just a work of art to Peter. How couldn't they be? Their hair color was the first to catch his eyes, (given the fact peter was taller) but it's how he was always able to spot them from afar. Their eyes darting around in awe or curiosity when Peter would show something he found cool (like a new lego set he just finished), or how they gave out the loudest laugh at some dumb joke he would make. It was only ever y/n, only ever been them since the two were 16. They were new to the school, brand new to the whole city. It was a strong scent of strawberry pomegranate perfume that greeted peter first, an over powering sweet smell but one that pulled peter straight in. It pulled him straight in to fall head over heels, which he deemed as puppy love at first, then simply a crush. Never an obsession, or unhealthy love. Never that, because that was simply too sick. And peter parker wasn't a sick person, he was a hero! He helped people, it was what he did best, that's what he did for y/n.
Despite how badly he loved them, he would admit they were absolutely clueless for what was good for them. Or who was good for them. He was stuck in the friendzone for years, and even warning the poor lovesick person he fell for having heart eyes for some bastrad that wasn't worth their time.
Peter's arms were always a place for y/n to fall into and cry. Peter's arms were the ones holding them close, whispering sweet nothings, promises of "karma will get them, I'm here" "don't worry about that asshole, okay? They can't do anything to you" and peter was always right.
Being quiet and quick on his feet, being able to sense danger, being so quick in a fight always came in handy to be the karma their exes so deeply deserved. Peter just wanted what was best for y/n, and he always made sure to give it them. It's why they've been dating for a year now, 3 years of chasing after them lead them to be dating for a full year. Of course they had their up and downs, every couple does but peter always made sure it was all okay at the end of the day. It's what he always done.
Peter laid with his head leaning against the couch armrest, with their beloved partner curled up in their chest. Peter paid attention to the movie y/n decided to watch, it was their turn to pick so it was only fair peter paid attention even if it was the fourth time watching Alice in wonderland in a row for their pick.
But peter being peter, he noted their favorite movies.
–horror movies meant y/n was in the mood for excitement, to be on edge for what type of surprise was waiting to be revealed.
–Rom coms were a rare thing in the house hold, but it was when they needed a good cry or they found it on tiktok and think it would be amazing to watch with peter.
–Children movies though...children movies, especially y/n favorite childhood classics meant they were trying to distract themselves from something.
Which peter assumed it was work, it was the busy seasons to be fair. Christmas being right around the corner only made retail shoot up in sales, and despite peter saying he had everything covered (they didn't need to know how he would keep them okay, they never did before, so there wasnt a point now.) He knew how independent their beloved was, so it never was truly a problem.... Well, there was one problem. Of course the problem had a name, a ugly name that sent Peter mind into a dark fog. A fog he hated but knew it was necessary to protect who he loved. But! He rarely did hear this name of that said problem, so it wasn't really ever a problem Peter had to take care of immediately.
"Fucking day off and I can't get rest" a upset mumble seem to follow after a buzz of a phone that was set on vibrate for this movie night.
Before Peter could react he felt the warmth leave his chest and a small light from the phone he was hoping they wouldn't pick up. It lit up their feautres Peter enjoyed seeing so dearly, but not in this way. Never like this.
Irritated, eyebrows furrowed, eyes squinting to read the text message and the one who had decided to send the message. "Is it work again?" Peter asked, his actual concern for this being some type of work emergency was perfect to cover his own upset feeling at who this could possible be. It was like he already knew, because the words to leave their lips sent Peter's mind back into the dark fog he never really got used to showing up so quickly.
"No–..well, kinda? It's Ron, and I think it's some type of emergency since he's the one that closes but it's always asking me for drinks or some stupid shit like that an–" before this annoyed rant could continue, Peter took the screen that killed the perfect mood of the happy couple and set it down back where it laid on the coffee table just moments before. "Don't worry about him, hon..alright?" Peter spoke, his tone always so sweet, so calm and soft when speaking to the person who sat with him. The look in Peter's eyes was always so welcoming as well when looking just innto their eyes. The eyes of who held his heart in their hands, just like how Peter held their face so delicately in his.
It was always so welcoming, that it never alarmed any bells in y/n that should have been screaming "alert!alert!" years ago. It what kept Peter's dark thoughts and acts in the darkness where it belonged. Because y/n was the light, and no light like them deserved the knowledge of how close the darkness was. The heavy sigh that left their lips, they way they leaned their forehead against Peter's while their shoulders gave into the relaxed feeling showed peter, that they were truly his.
Wrapped around his finger just like he was wrapped around theirs.
"You know...I can scare him a little? Who wouldn't be scared of me?" Peter laughed made it seem like a joke, the way he gave a fake angry look just added onto the joke. It was enough to make y/n laugh, their head moving back to see Peter's face fully. "Oh, yeah, for sure. Everyone's scared of you petey, even the boogeyman shivers at your name" y/n teased, giving into this playful act. It was all a joke to them, because of course it was.
Peter was nothing but a sweet heart, a boy who built Lego sets back in high-school and now was currently enrolled in college. A guy who picked up their partner at anytime of day from their job so they can be safe, a guy who kept his spider identity a secret from everyone but the ones closes to him. Because he wasnt the best at keeping secrets he found exciting. An absolute sweetheart.
And that's all peter needed them to believe. As long as they believed this was a joke, the scariest parts of his mind laid in the open as some joke, because Peter was a sweetheart. Not a sick person. Not a bad person like the people he fought to keep others safe.
there wouldn't be questions of peter staying out later in his nightly patrol. No questions on how Ron ended up hurt, maybe even missing. Depends how much time the boy would have, how his mood changed when seeing Ron.
Peter kept everything okay, and if y/n needed to believe peter was a sweetheart who couldn't hurt a fly, to be okay. To be okay in their small studio apartment and in this littlw world peter made for the two of them. Then he'll keep it that way. Because that what peter always did, feed the lies to their fantasy so he can keep his. A win win at the end of it. The darkness kept his light happy, and the light kept blinded at the idea of the scary darkness was the one they woke up to every morning.
——
A/n| heyyy! I haven't posted in like🧍‍♂️ two years, so Jesus christ. And dark peter being my comeback??? Who expected that! This was in my drafts before no way home came out SOOO this was LOOONG ago, and I just fixed it up🙏 my writing was so horrible and I feel like none of yall told me to be nice, but I still love yall <3
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rancidpancakebatter · 2 years
Text
In the Name of Good | Prt 1 -[P.P.]
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Pairings: Dark!Yandere!Peter Parker x Female!Reader
Prompt: "what are we going to do about this?" you're caught, red-handed, and peter's next move could destroy your life forever. unless… you can convince him otherwise
Summary: Peter is acting strange and curiosity kills the cat
word Count: 6k words
Content: MINORS DNI: 18+
Swearing, Somnophillia, Murder, Mentions of blood, Mentions of emesis, Animal Abuse/harm (Murder Triad stuff)
( Part 2 | Masterlist )
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A/N: AHHHHHH! I'm so sorry I'm late I saw this like 30 minutes ago and whipped this up. Anyway, congrats to @liz-allyn and I'm honoured that you would wanna read anything I write. This is for you :))
Also, there is a literal murder scene in here so read at your own discretion. Perhaps I should cut back on the true crime after this. It's separated from the rest of the text and in italics so you can avoid it if you wish not to read
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Peter Parker was the kindest man you knew. You grew up down the street from each other. Your parents moved into his neighbourhood when you were 7 years old. You sat in the front yard with a popsicle as the adults passed you by, carrying many heavy boxes. Across the street, you saw the curtains move. A mop of brown curls ducking as soon as you looked. 
Peter had never really had friends before. Always been more of a loner. Aunt May had been preparing cookies all day and promised to take him over when “the new neighbours look more settled.” But he was impatient. He watched as you sat across the street, red popsicle dripping down your chin and fingers. He was fascinated by it. He liked the colour and the way it danced down your arm, enchanting.  
You quickly became best friends, walking to school every day and playing at recess together. Peter didn’t treat you differently because you were a girl, he didn’t treat you like you were dainty. He would encourage you to jump off the swings with him. He would do nerf battles with you. He would rough house too. 
Peter was your best friend and you loved him unconditionally. In middle school, you had your first crush: Noah Myers. Peter didn’t like him very much but you were head over heels for this boy. He called you pretty and drew you flowers that you would keep in your locker. He asked you to the spring dance and you were so excited to go. Peter and Aunt May took you dress shopping and it was so much fun, until he ditched you to dance with some other girl, an eighth grader no less. You could never compete with her. 
That night you cried into Peter’s shoulder and he told you he would make him pay. You weren’t sure what he meant by that, and you never did. Noah showed up to school for a week and then disappeared. People said he moved others said he transferred schools but no one knew for sure. 
By high school, many people thought that You and Peter were dating. Your relationship could be seen as co-dependent but you didn’t really care. He made you feel safe. There was hardly a secret between you two. He regularly spent the night at your place and his bed was always open to you. He was there for every milestone; you couldn’t imagine anyone else you would want to share those moments with. 
That was until senior year. He started getting distant, he wouldn’t answer his phone for hours at a time and would never explain why. You thought maybe he had a girlfriend, but who? The thought alone made you feel like you were putting your heart through a vegetable spiralizer. It’s true that you weren't dating but you liked his attention. You had never thought of sharing it. Maybe that was selfish of you. 
This went on for weeks and you were starting to get restless. What was he doing? What was he hiding? You stayed by your bedroom window on a Tuesday afternoon, watching his house. What you didn’t realise was that Peter was watching you too. He always did. He would watch you through his camera lens from the comfort of his bed. You knew he took pictures of you, you had seen them tacked up on his wall. He explained they were candids and you thought nothing more of it. His sweet, gullible, little lamb.
You didn’t see the stash he had in a book under his bed. He had cut out the pages to make room for your beauty. You had never thought to be reserved around Peter, sometimes changing in front of him. It was a cruel tease that you thought so little of him. He would watch you after school, as you studied, cleaned your room, and did your little workout that drove him crazy. 
But today was different. Today you were looking right at him. You didn’t realise this of course, but you were. Why were you watching him, or trying to at least? Had he raised your suspicion? Had you been following the news? He knows Aunt May has warned him about going out at night. He wonders if someone had given you the same talk. 
Hello, little lamb, he thought, What is it you want to know? He had to play his cards right. He could make himself visible, see what you might do. He could stay hidden and enjoy knowing you were looking for him. He could call you, pretend to be busy, see if you falter. So many options, so many choices. 
Peter liked having choices. He likes making choices for others. That’s something he relished in you. You were so obedient, so willing to act on his will. It might be the only reason he hadn’t been caught. Knowing that it might come back to you made him careful. He had to protect you, keep you safe from the dangers of this world. 
Like the dog on Kalamasis Street that tried to bite you. That stupid mutt scared you, snarling and barking at you. It had threatened you and he couldn’t stand for that. He felt joy in the missing fliers hung around the block. He pointed one out to you, just to see what you would say. He swelled with pride when you declared “Serves it right. I just hope it doesn’t come back to finish what it started.” 
Peter couldn’t tell you that he knew it wouldn’t. Not yet. He had to make sure you were ready. He had to know that you would accept him and all his flaws. He had to know you would stand by him. He couldn’t lose you, neither of you would survive it. 
You were patient, he’ll give you that. Three hours passed with you sitting at your window sill before you called him. He watched as you fumbled with the device in your hands, mulling it over. A choice. You chose to call him. 
“Hey Petey, you home?” You sounded chipper but you didn’t know he could see the worry on your face. The way you picked at your nailbed nervous about his answer. 
“My car’s out front right?” he chuckled, delighting in your desire to see him. 
“Can I come over?” he had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. You were so cute. 
“Of course, little lamb, you’re always welcome over.” You smiled and he took a picture. You were so perfect, the way you were leaning over the window sill, your breasts pushed out in that thin tank top you had on. 
He watched as you made your way across the street, backpack in hand. You had made another choice: to spend the night. Peter was conflicted with himself. He wanted to go out tonight, but having you in his bed would make it difficult. Not because you would catch him, you never did, but it might distract him. 
You loved spending the night at Peter’s. It was the best rest you ever had. Maybe it was because his home was homier than yours. His came with an Aunt May, homemade dinners, and a bigger bed. It didn’t matter how much you complained, your parents refused to get you anything bigger than a twin. You think it’s because they’re not as on board with Pete spending the night but you don’t care. You just share your twin and your parents will either have to get you a bigger bed or sleep knowing you and Peter have to snuggle to fit. 
Pete meets you at the door and basks in the smile that spreads across your face. You make your way to the dining room table where you begin to work on your homework. Peter joins you and you enjoy the quiet, it feels nice just to be with him. You suddenly feel stupid for getting so jealous over a girl who probably didn’t exist. 
You didn’t notice Peter watching your every move as if trying to memorise the choreography of your mundane mannerisms. The way you twirled everything that entered your hand, a pen, a pencil, a straw. The way you would let out three quick puffs of air when you got stumped on something. The way you crossed and uncrossed your legs in thought. 
Being “normal” around you was hard, even though his normal around you was already odd. He decided to take advantage of his time with you, hoping perhaps he can satiate himself with you and not need to go out tonight. He let out a dramatic puff of air, catching your attention. 
“I can’t focus.” You leaned on your hand pouting.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” You were always so willing to serve. 
“Can you sit on my lap? You’re too far and it’s distracting.” You got up without a second thought. Physical closeness with Peter was something you were so used to. Whether it be holding hands, cuddling, or sitting on his lap, that was just expected. 
You sat on his thigh and it took everything in him not to grab your hips and slowly start grinding you against him. He wondered what you would sound like, what sweet noises and pleas you would make for him. He wondered if you had ever done something like that. He imagines you grinding against a stuffed animal he had given you. What would Mr Whiskers say if he could talk? 
You were so oblivious to him and it both excited and angered him. It excited him because he knew he could get away with quite a bit. But it angered him because he wanted you to be his, all his and no one else's. He remembered the guy from your econ class then. 
You had worn a skirt Peter had bought you to school today. You loved anything Peter picked out for you and wore it with pride. It was definitely too short for dress code but you were such a sweetheart no one dared scold you. That guy didn’t care how sweet you were. 
Peter watched as he trailed behind you in the halls, just staring at your ass, making obscene gestures that his lackeys would laugh at. He had to pay. He couldn’t get away with that. Ogling at what wasn’t his. You none the wiser, too sweet and kind to know what he meant. Peter had to protect you, his little lamb. 
It was nine o’clock, time for bed. Peter preferred to stay up but he could never say no to you. You dressed in your pyjamas and Peter watched, he watched as you pulled your shirt off exposing your perfect back to him. He wanted to kiss and lick up your spine, have you mewling, begging for more. You unhooked your bra and for a moment he was jealous of the Smith’s poster on the wall that got to see them. It’s not that Peter hasn’t seen them, it’s just always been through a viewfinder, two planes of glass and a street away. 
He always slept in his boxers and you never thought anything of it. It never occurred to you that maybe that was too intimate between friends. He was in his home and could sleep as he wished. You got in bed as Peter went to get you some water. He always did this. Made sure you had plenty to eat and drink. Every time you spent the night he gave you a glass of water and made you drink it all, he was just so kind. 
While fixing your drink he tried to focus on you. He tried to convince himself that a night with you was better than a night out, but all he could think about was that fucking guy. He had gone through the yearbook and found him. Blake Walsh was the son of Debera and John Walsh. John owned a landscaping company and after a little digging, he found their address. He couldn’t not go out tonight. Not after what he did to you. 
He stirred your glass, making sure the sleep aid fully dissolved. After inspecting it closely he was pleased with his work. You smiled at him as you accepted the water, downing it in seconds before rolling over and patting the place next to you. Peter wasted no time climbing in after you. It wasn’t long before sleep overtook you. Peter waited patiently for your light snores before moving. He had a busy night ahead of him. 
First, he petted your face, moving the hair out of the way. You didn’t even flinch. He had been worried he hadn’t used enough melatonin, you were starting to build a tolerance over the years so he had to give you more, always careful to not use too much. He didn’t want you to be suspicious. He ripped the blankets off of you and rolled you onto your back. 
He took in your sleeping form, nipples peaked through your thin shirt due to the sudden coldness, your exposed hip from where it rode up, your shorts bunched. He wanted to ravish you. He checked the clock, 10:30. He had to finish his night by three. It would take him at least two hours to take care of Blake, but he always underestimated. 
He had thirty minutes to enjoy you. He began by slowly pulling down your shorts, listening carefully for any disturbance from you. Once your shorts were off he buried his head between your thighs. He thanked whatever deity was out there for giving him this gift of heightened sent. God, you smelled so good he could almost taste you. He couldn’t help himself, he laid his tongue flat against your core through your cotton panties. He relished in the little squirm you made. 
He allowed himself a few more licks before he couldn’t stand it any longer. He was rutting against the bed, his hard-on leaking precum onto the sheets. He pulled his boxers off and sat back at the head of the bed. He slowly lifted your hand, kissing your knuckles before spitting into your palm. He listened carefully, monitoring your heart rate and breathing pattern as he went. He slowly wrapped your fingers around his member, it twitched in your hand. 
He started stroking himself with it, your skin was so soft. He bit his lip as he sped up your movements. He stared at your innocent face, he wondered what you would look like falling apart from his hands. Maybe one day he’d know. It wasn’t long before he was cumming, heightened senses making him sensitive. He carefully licked your hand clean before going to the bathroom to clean himself up. 
He got dressed and went to his closet. He had made a lock for it, much similar to his bedroom door, but this one was a combination lock. Aunt May was never in his room much and if she asked he had a collection of porno mags he would pull out and pretend to be ashamed of. He was sure she would let it go after that. 
He grabbed his go bag and headed out the window. He had gotten into a routine of sorts for his adventures. First, he put his car in neutral and pushed it down the street to the stop sign. Anyone who saw him would just think he was a teenager sneaking out, nothing more. With his newfound strength, it was quite easy to do. Secondly, he would arrive a mile from the location. His endurance was much better now and running was easy, as was scaling houses. This brings us to three, find a point of entry/distraction. 
When he first started he was more of the blitz attacker. Finding someone on a night run and ending it there, no planning, no flair, just a rush. But now he was getting good at this. He surveyed the house for a bit, it was quiet, and there didn’t seem to be any security measures. He could work with that. He saw a light on in one of the rooms, upon closer inspection he realised it was Blake’s. He was up on his phone, not seemingly doing much. 
He found a doggie door in the backdoor and hopped around in silent glee. If he could pull this off he could get two kills tonight. 
__________
He shimmied through and began listening for bodies. He heard something on the ground floor with him. He crept around the kitchen and opened a small door. It was a laundry room and there in the corner was his prize. 
A beautiful golden retriever, none the wiser to his presence. He knelt beside it and it started to stir. He quickly clamped his hand around its mouth squeezing enough for it to yelp. He snapped his neck, taking its collar in his pocket. He lifted the dog over his shoulder and made his way under Blake’s window. He threw a couple of stones at the window and it wasn’t long until Blake opened it. 
He was surprised to see Peter, even more, surprised to see him holding PopTart over his shoulder. 
“Parker, what the hell are you doing here?” He whispered loudly.
“Hey, is this your dog? I don’t think she’s doing too well.” Peter bit back a smile. It was almost too easy. He watched as Blake began to panic before rushing away from the window. 
Peter heard him open the front door and dropped the dog before scaling the side of the house to get a better view. Blake looked around briefly for Peter before falling to his knees in front of his dog. Peter watched as Blake began to shake her more and more before crying out. 
“You know,” Blake’s head shot up at hearing Peter’s voice looking around before finally seeing him clinging to the side of his house. “You should really lock your doggy door.” 
Blake said nothing as his brain continued to process. Peter lept off as he balled his fists together, knocking blake on the head. He picked them both up, one on each shoulder, “Really, any old creep could get in.” 
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Peter returned to you at two am exhausted but very happy. When you woke up the next morning in his arms you were none the wiser about his escapades. Aunt May made you breakfast before you carpooled to school. You teased Peter for being such a morning person when you still felt groggy. Peter only chuckled, offering you some of his coffee and you took an appreciative sip. 
You had a great day and Peter did too. He seemed extra affectionate, hugging you from behind, kissing you on the cheek. You appreciated it after feeling neglected for a month. You couldn’t remember the last time Peter seemed so happy. 
That didn’t last when you walked in together on school Thursday. Peter immediately took notice of the extra cops in the school. He walked you to your locker and stared them down over your shoulder. They didn’t seem to suspect him. Why would they, they couldn’t know, right? 
In English, he noticed a mob around Gwen Stacy. He took his seat listening in, “Yeah, my dad said Blake is missing. They think he might have run away or something. His window was open and his dog is missing too.” 
He heard someone ask if she thought he was murdered, “My dad won’t tell me anything else but I’m sure he’s fine.” 
Peter knew he wasn’t, Peter knew where he was. He was gone, unable to hurt you again.
That night at dinner May seemed on edge. “(Y/n), I know your parents are out of town but I would prefer it if you spent the night here.” 
You looked at her confused and Peter shared your expression. “Mrs Parker, you know I’m never one to turn down an invitation. Are you worried about me being alone?” 
May took a sip of water, and Peter recognised this look. She was worried but didn’t want to worry anyone else. Always the protector, never the protected. “I know it’s probably nothing but with those murders in the park and that kid missing…it has me worried. I don’t want you in that house alone. If anything happened to you-”
“Nothing would ever happen to her.” Peter hadn’t meant to say it. He hadn’t meant to snap like that. He felt anger rise in his gut at the insinuation, that May thought he would ever hurt you. Of course, she didn’t know that she had implied that, but he did and it angered him. 
He melted a little when you rested your hand on his. He looked into your sad eyes and let himself be swaddled in your tone. “I know you would never let anything happen to me, okay Pete? I’m not going anywhere.”
You were so sweet and kind. To you, his outburst was out of fear. The fear of losing anyone else. You had held him as he cried over Uncle Ben, listening to his last voicemail on repeat. You had consoled him as a child when someone told him his parents hadn’t died they just didn’t love him enough to stay. You had been there for him, and he was determined to do the same. 
That week you stayed at the Parker’s. You opted to just change at home as it was just across the street, instead of trying to pack all those clothes. Peter always accompanied you. He took the time to pick out your outfits and raid your panty drawer. He was a sick fuck and he knew it, but he couldn’t help himself. 
By the following Friday, Peter was getting restless. Spending every night with you was nice but he needed to get out again. His brain was foggy and he couldn’t focus on anything, even you weren’t helping. 
That night when braiding your hair Peter grew curious. He wanted to tell you but he couldn’t, not yet. “So what do you think happened to that Blake kid?” 
You were quiet for a minute and Peter worried you might not have heard him. “I think I chase boys away.” 
That definitely wasn’t the response he was expecting, “What?” 
He tied off the end of your braid and turned you around in his lap so you were facing him. You rested your hands on the back of his neck, head turned unable to look at him. 
“It’s like, any guy that might like me just…disappears.” Peter raised his eyebrows, shocked you could even piece that together. You hadn’t said anything before. 
“What do you mean?” Peter knew exactly what you meant but needed to know how much you knew. 
“Well first it was Noah, he left me at the dance and then left forever. There was Micheal who flirted with me for a bit and then three days before our date just vanished. And now Blake, he just complimented my skirt. I’m not even sure he was into me but it was enough and now he…he ran away.” Peter could hear your voice breaking and moved to grab your chin. You didn’t fight as he raised it, levelling your gaze. 
“Hey, it’s their fucking loss, okay? You are the most amazing person I know, anyone would be lucky to have you.” You sniffled and he continued. “Besides, none of those guys are worth a shit. No one is compared to you, little lamb.”
He placed a gentle kiss on your cheek before tucking you in and curling into your side. It wasn’t long before you were asleep and Peter snuck out to go to the park.
You woke up in the middle of the night. You felt cold. You realised then that Peter wasn’t in bed with you. You went downstairs to get a glass of water. Maybe Peter was right to give you water before bed, he didn’t tonight and now you couldn’t sleep. 
You called out softly for him, but he didn’t answer. Was he not home? You checked the clock on the stove: 1:45. He shouldn’t be out. You made your way to the living room window and were surprised to see his car wasn’t there. 
You were worried making your back upstairs. You climbed back into bed, tossing and turning unable to sleep. That’s when you noticed his closet was open. It was never opened. You stared at the small crack in the door, it called your name like a siren’s song. You told yourself you were only going to grab a hoodie, you were cold. You weren’t going to snoop. 
You wish you never had. You wish you could go back to before you knew. When you first opened it you saw chalk on the wall. A bunch of tally marks. You thought it was odd. Then you noticed there were no clothes in here. The shelves were lined with odd trinkets, rings, a shoelace. You noticed a ziplock baggie with hair, a date hastily scribbled on, and you began to get nauseous. You noticed a dog collar, the tag glinting in the moonlight. You flipped it over and your heart fell to the floor. 
It was from the dog down the street. You remembered seeing the same name and collar on the missing sign. The address lined up too. You began digging and you found more collars, more jewellery, even keys. 
You found a bloody baseball card in the same bag as a dog collar. You turned it over, PopTart Walsh. Your hands shook as you realised what you were looking at. His trophies. There were so many, this had to be going on for years. You turned to the chalkboard and began counting the tallies. 
“900” You gasped dropping the collar with a loud clatter. You hadn’t heard him come in.
“Well, it is now. Technically, there are 899 tallies there, but after tonight,” he held up a pair of headphones already bagged and dated, “It’s 900.” 
You took slow steps back and he matched each one, hands turned out. Your back met the wall and you squeaked as you realised you had backed yourself into the closet. 
“Woah there, little lamb, be careful. You don’t want to hurt yourself.” His smile looked sickening in the moonlight. You had never felt fear like this before. You had started crying, cheeks feeling itchy as each tear dried. 
“Aw, you poor thing. Why don’t you come on out of there and we can go to bed.” His tone was the same as always, gentle and soothing. You didn’t like it anymore, it seemed false now. Now that you knew he was anything but gentle. But what could you do?
You took slow steps forward feeling your heart drop with every pace towards his open arms. He held you tightly, pinning your arms to your sides, as he nuzzled your neck with his nose. You felt sick, you hated that his touch still made feel special. After everything you’d seen, after everything you know, you still find yourself melting into his embrace. 
Peter feels your heartbeat start to steady and pulls away slightly. He cradles your face, your hair stuck between his palms and your cheeks. He tuts as he wipes your tears with his thumbs, “Why aren’t you in bed, little one?” 
Your breathing was still quick but you tried your best to answer. “I- I was cold. You were gone. I got- I got scared.” 
You felt your eyes start to water again and Peter fixed you with a soft smile. One that would usually make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. “Little lamb, you have nothing to be afraid of.” 
He observed you for a while, trying to decide his next move. You knew now. The cat’s out of the bag and one of this size certainly can’t be swept under the rug. This was going to change everything. 
“You have a choice,” His tone was low and silky. You shuddered as his breath ran over the bridge of your nose. “You can try and run, but I assure you, you won’t get very far.” 
Your stomach dropped at his words as if the gravity of the situation finally hit you. You were in danger. You were in danger because your best friend was a serial killer and would kill you to not get caught. Peter had never threatened you before. Not even jokingly. 
“Or, you can be a good little girl and wait for me.” Your blood ran cold at the nickname. It wasn’t one he used often. You could count on one hand the amount of times he had used it in the 10 years you’ve known him. 
You nodded your head and he tutted again, “Words, darling.”
You swallowed, your mouth suddenly feeling dry, “I’ll be good.”
Peter seemed satisfied by your answer and rewarded you with a kiss on the forehead. You sat on his bed as you heard the water start to run. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the closet door. The more you looked into the inky blackness the more it seemed to pull you in. Your head hurt. Suddenly you couldn’t breathe. Wild thoughts began to race through your mind. 
How long had this been going on?
Were you dying right now?
Had he poisoned you?
Was he going to kill you anyway?
Had he really killed 900 people?
Before you realised what you were doing you felt the morning dew on your bare feet. The sensation shocked you back into your body. You left. You weren’t a good girl, you had left. And now Peter was going to punish you, probably in a deadly capacity. You considered turning back, but the thought of looking in that closet again almost made you hurl on the Parker’s front lawn. 
You made your way across the street and went up to your room. You didn’t bother locking the door. If Peter wanted to get to you, you doubted a locked door would stop him. You raced up the stairs and into your ensuite bathroom. 
You felt like a wreck, Your head pounding as your stomach expelled everything it could. You rinsed your mouth out and began brushing your teeth, wanting to rid your mouth of the bitter taste of bile. After rinsing your face you turned back to your room. You climbed into bed facing the window, you didn’t see any movement yet. Everything seemed still at the Parker house. For a moment you thought you might have dreamed it. Just a moment though. 
“You ran away.” His voice was stone, sending shivers down your spine. 
You curled into yourself as if that would somehow save you, “No, I didn’t”
You heard his footfall on the carpet, he was right behind you now, “Arguing isn’t going to help you, little lamb.”
You felt his hand grip your shoulder. It hurt as he ripped at it, pulling you to face him. The shadows of the room painted him in an eerie light. His hood was pulled over his face, only his mouth illuminated by the velvety glow of the street lights. 
“I couldn’t-” You took a deep breath, suddenly feeling breathless again. “I couldn’t stay in there. I felt like the darkness was going to swallow me up.” 
Peter’s demeanour changed, it was like your words flicked a switch. His countenance changed to one of pity. You weren’t sure you liked it. He sat by your legs before bending over and picking you up. It felt unnatural, the strength he had, the way he lifted you like it was nothing. 
He tucked you into his chest, stroking your hair. “Poor thing, I’m so sorry you had to see that. I know you weren’t ready.” You stayed silent, unsure of what to say. 
“I’m sure you have questions,” he left a quick peck on your scalp, “ask away.” 
You thought for a moment before opening your mouth, “Have you really killed 900 people?”
He chuckled, the rumbling shaking your body, “No, that’s just how many things I’ve killed. I started the tally not long before you came along. It’s mostly bugs and animals. I’ve only killed 9 people.” 
You almost laughed at the absurdity, only 9. As if ending a human life wasn’t such a big deal. It wasn’t much only 9. You asked the only question you could think of next. The one you were burning to know since you first realised. The one you feared the most. “Why?”
Peter was silent for a moment, seemingly thinking through his answer. “Many reasons. I like it, for starters. It feels good. Most of them deserved it, well that’s not true I suppose. Those Joggers didn’t do anything wrong but Noah and Michael and Blake,” he said the last name with so much venom you winced. 
“They deserved it.” He was quiet for a minute and you thought maybe he was done. You shifted to look at his face. You had begun to hate yourself in this exchange. You shouldn’t enjoy sitting in his lap like this. You shouldn’t think he’s pretty. You shouldn’t fantasize about his pulling you close into an earth-shattering kiss. But you were and you hated yourself for that. 
He moved a fallen strand of hair from your face before resting his hand there, “I didn’t mean to kill Noah. I really didn’t. But I can’t say that I’m sorry for it either.” 
“You seem pretty sure of your actions. I wouldn’t expect you to be.” He chuckled again at your words. You hated yourself for the pride blooming in your chest at making him laugh. 
His face fell again as he sighed, “When Uncle Ben died I was devastated. He was killed…all because he couldn’t mind his own business. As I watched my uncle bleed out I was horrified but also…excited? That’s not the right word. I watched as the blood left his body and I felt, I dunno, alive. It was like his life was being poured into mine, and it was beautiful.” 
Your brows knitted together as he spoke, it was terrifying to hear him talk like that. “I was given powers and I knew what I had to do. I had to avenge him. That’s why his life force was given to me, so I could kill the fucker that got him.”
You nodded your head slowly, that was really the only thing Peter had said that made sense. His righteous anger was justified. “Did you? Did you kill him I mean?” 
Peter’s smile stretched, pulling out the dimples in his face, “Yes, I did.” 
You mulled his words over, growing confused again, “You said you got powers? What kind of powers? Why- Why do this?” 
Peter threw his head back as a laugh ripped through his chest. You braced your hands on his biceps in fear. “Oh, little lamb, I have been chosen by the universe, given the strength of a god, given the power of a god. This is what I was meant to do.”  
You shook your head, not wanting to accept that Peter was made for such horrors. “Why not use your powers for good?” 
He tilted his head like a puppy, brows furrowed and mouth pulled into a pout. You thought for a moment that you had gotten to him, that maybe you had turned him to the light. “I’m using them to protect you. What better good is there?” 
You shook your head burying it in his chest. He was doing this for you. It was your fault Blake was dead. It was your fault those joggers in the park would never go home to their families. It was all your fault. You began sobbing gripping his jacket in your shaky palms. Peter shooshed you, rubbing soothing circles on your back. 
“I think that’s enough for tonight.” He pulled back the blankets and let you sink into the mattress. He stripped down to his boxers and climbed in behind you, holding you close to his chest. “Sleep now, it’ll all be fine in the morning.”
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yandere peter parker x reader where reader finds out hes been stalking them
DISCLAIMER: YANDERES AND STALKERS ARE BAD AND I DO NOT SUPPORT THEM.
TW: KIDNAPPING, STALKING, YANDERE STUFF, CHOLOFORM, NON-CON PICTURE TAKING
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You went over to Peter's place for a study session. He led you into his house and up the stairs to his bedroom. He let you in by holding the door open and letting you in.
“Okay, so uh, here is my room! Feel free to explore it. Just a sec, I need to use the bathroom," he said before closing the door. "All right," you said. You looked around his room and noticed his desk. You sat in his chair and felt something beneath it. It was a small box, so you leaned down beneath the desk, grabbed the box, and stood up. You took the box and opened it.
Images of you were included in the box. Not photographs from a yearbook, but shots of you at home, studying, eating, or doing almost anything. Your heart has just sunk in horror. Your hands were trembling so violently that the polaroids moved, your pulse and breathing were picking up with every second you continued to stare at them, and everything was drowned out. The only sounds you can hear are your heartbeat, breathing, and the quivering images in the box. That is, until the door swung open.
You peered at him, terrified. You wanted to flee, but your body was trapped in a panic, looking at him. He had you confused and terrified. He said, shutting the door and heading towards you, "y/n, it's not really what you think." "O-oh really?" you replied, stuttering. He rushed up to you, his fists clenched. You spotted him approaching you and decided to attempt to leave, but oops, sorry, he's Spider-Man. He got a cloth from the desk and held you in one arm while shutting your lips. He then let go of your mouth and placed the rag over it. 
It had the scent of a nail paint remover that you have on hand. Your eyesight gradually faded.
(im so sorry if theres any errors! english isnt my first language!)
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mrsdarkandyandere7 · 1 year
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Fake Texts #3 (Dark!Peter Parker)
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cherienymphe · 4 months
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Basic Training XVII (Peter Parker x Reader)
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Warnings: NON-CON, DUB-CON, mentions of MURDER, violence, kidnapping, captivity, public sex, degradation, forced pregnancy, forced marriage, stockholm syndrome, ptsd, housewife kink, cop!Peter
➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies​ | divider by @whimsicalrogers
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➥ series masterlist
summary: A pit stop during a road trip ends tragically when a small town cop sets his sights on you. You’re the newest addition in a long standing fucked up family tradition.
~
You stared into the darkness of the basement for what felt like too long.
It was quiet down there, but not the kind of quiet that felt comforting. It was the kind of silence that felt suffocating—taunting. It was so loud in its taunting, snickering at you and your idiocy and naivety. Even as you laid on the floor, feeling like the lowest of jokes, you couldn’t bring yourself to regret the decisions that brought you here.
Nat was your friend. Or at least, you liked to consider her one, and even faced with the threat of the worst punishment Steve could muster, you just couldn’t imagine yourself doing anything differently. You couldn’t imagine yourself waking Peter up that night and telling him you saw the redhead escaping, effectively alerting the other husbands to her presence, leading to her subsequent capture. It just wasn’t in you, and clearly none of these men—not even Peter—knew you at all if they thought it was.
The first time you tried to move, you couldn’t, and for a brief moment, you thought that Steve had injured you in his delight to toss you down the stairs like a sack of flour instead of a person. However, you quickly came to realize that wasn’t the case. You could move your fingers and toes fine, even twitch your leg, but you just couldn’t find the strength to move. You felt beyond defeated, and when you blinked, you weren’t shocked to feel a sting behind your eyes.
There was the most awful aching feeling in your chest, both heavy and hollow even though you didn’t know how that was possible. You wanted to cry and scream, but you also never wanted to utter another word ever again. You wanted to let out everything you felt since the moment you came here, but in the same breath, you desperately wanted to feel numb. If you didn’t feel a thing, then you couldn’t get hurt, and you hurt so much, right now.
Peter killed Michelle.
He didn’t help kill her, but he did kill her, and in the grand scheme of things, maybe that shouldn’t make a difference. After all, you’d still been under the impression that he did nothing while his brothers did. You’d still been under the belief that he allowed it to happen at best and helped it happen and cover it up at worst. So, why did Peter pulling the trigger make all the difference in the world to you?
Was it because you thought you were falling in love with him?
That thought had you squeezing your eyes shut, so tight that it hurt, and it was hard to hold back your sob. Your nails scraped against the hard floor as you shook, struggling to breathe as your stomach turned. Once you started it was so hard to stop, and it wasn’t long before the sound of your choked cries were filling the basement. It was a thought you’d considered before, but that was when he wasn’t a murderer.
That was when he hadn’t murdered your best friend.
How could you possibly rationalize it now? Deep down, you knew that this wasn’t your fault. Deep down you knew that there were names and studies dedicated to people in your position and the psychology behind it, but that didn’t make you feel any better. Peter had murdered your friend in cold blood…
…and you thought you loved him.
The thought made you want to be sick, and with horror, you could actually feel your stomach turning. You hurried to sit up, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth as you struggled to keep it down. The bathroom only some feet away was locked—wouldn’t be unlocked until someone came down to open it and let you in—and you didn’t think you could handle sitting in a room with your vomit just stewing in the corner.
Struggling to get to your feet, you pressed your other hand to your stomach, trying to settle it. Keeping your mouth closed, you breathed through your nose, lashes fluttering, and after some time, you slowly stumbled towards where you knew the bed to be. You didn’t care about turning on the light, finding no need, and when you sat down, your head drooped in defeat.
There was really no telling how long they’d keep you in here until they figured out what to do with you, and while you knew that Peter would try his damndest to get them to go easy on you, you also knew that they wouldn’t consider a word that left his mouth. You—and also Peter by extension—had proven Steve and the others right, and you found it unlikely they’d ever listen to another suggestion from Peter about you ever again. Or at the very least, not for a long time.
Besides, Peter wasn’t the aggrieved party.
Bucky was, and such a thought made you shudder. You’d done well to avoid attracting Bucky’s ire even though he reminded you of Steve in some ways. Although, unlike Steve, Bucky didn’t seem the type to look for any and every excuse to punish you as he’d prefer in a contrast to Peter’s methods. Bucky seemed—if nothing else—fair to you, and that’s what scared you the most.
Bucky now felt wronged by you.
So, there was really no telling what was in store for you.
You recalled the way he’d reached for you, desperately trying to get past Peter in his efforts to get his hands on you. You didn’t want to imagine what he would’ve done had he succeeded, and you swallowed as your mind went rampant with the possibilities. Your hand came up to graze the tear in your sleeve, wincing at the slight sting you felt when your finger came in contact with the skin. Some part of you knew that had Bucky succeeded, he just might have killed you in his rage, and where you once would’ve welcomed such a thought…
It only made your heart ache, now.
You didn’t want to die, and when you thought about why, your stomach only twisted into knots once again. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you keeled over, throat tight as you tried to swallow down another sob. Your chest hurt so much, feeling like someone had an iron grip on your heart and was just squeezing and twisting it to their content. When you gasped, a cry escaped with it, and the only other time you could recall feeling like this was the day you realized your friends were dead and you were all alone.
You cried until your throat felt raw, and you didn’t fight your body as it started to collapse to the floor, sliding off of the bed in a heap. Covering your face with your hands, your lightly dragged your nails down your skin, frame shaking as you rocked back and forth. Your stomach wouldn’t stop hurting, and you couldn’t stop shaking. In fear or anger or despair—you didn’t know.
You did know that this was all Peter’s fault. He was the one who decided he had to have you, as if you were some thing to be acquired instead of a human being with a life and feelings and autonomy. If it weren’t for him, your friends would still be alive, and you wouldn’t even be here. If it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t be feeling ripped apart by how you felt about the man who kidnapped and raped you. All of this was Peter’s fault…and even still…more than anything…
All you wanted was for him to hold you.
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It was hard to say how long you stayed in the basement. The darkness and silence was endless, and it felt like months, but in reality, it was probably mere days. You did know that it was long enough for your stomach to ache from more than just fear and for your nightgown to stink from more than just sweat. You didn’t think you were capable of feeling embarrassed about that anymore. After all, Peter never made you feel like it was something to be embarrassed about, but that was before you heard the sound of the locks on the basement door.
Despite your shame, you couldn’t bring yourself to move.
Until the light from the top of the stairs outlined a familiar silhouette.
You merely stared at him as he stood on the first step, yours on him and his eyes on you. You couldn’t hear any noise coming from the main part of the house, and you said nothing when he closed the door behind him. Peter wasn’t good. You knew that since the beginning when he told you that everything he did was so that he could have you, making it all okay. Peter had never been good.
So, why did looking at him now hurt so much more than it ever had?
As soon as Peter was close enough, the first thing he did was take your face into his hands. You couldn’t really feel them, realizing that you got your wish to feel numb, and that just made your chest ache more. Just days ago you were desperate to feel the comfort of Peter’s touch, and now you couldn’t feel it, at all.
“Hey, pretty girl,” he murmured, face a mere inch away from yours.
When you didn’t say anything back, you noticed the way his face fell, lips pressed together as he eyed you. His gaze lingered on yours for the longest, thumbs just grazing your skin, and you watched the way his tongue darted out to swipe between his lips.
“We need to get you cleaned up.”
His words had you blinking, and it was only then did you notice the fresh dress resting on the crook of his arm. You didn’t ask him what day it was because it didn’t matter. You only knew what would be happening today, and it’s why the dress on Peter’s arm was so pretty. It was why you’d been locked in the basement for days. It was why Peter looked at you the way he did as he helped you stand.
“I’m so sorry,” were the words he murmured into your hair as soon as he leaned you against him.
What was he apologizing for exactly? For killing Michelle or lying to you about it? For taking you and ruining your life in the first place? Or for failing to protect you from the wrath of the other husbands? Maybe he was apologizing for what was to come, and that made you shut your eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again as he brought your head to rest in the crook of his neck.
You didn’t respond—didn’t know how to—only allowing him to guide you into the bathroom after unlocking it. You couldn’t really say how you got naked, only feeling as if you blinked before finding yourself sitting in a tub of hot water with Peter raining water down over your head. He was talking to you, saying something that went in one ear and out of the other. All you could focus on was that dress on the toilet, wondering what they planned to make you do while wearing it.
When you felt the weight of Peter’s gaze, it was only then did you take note of the silence. You didn’t know if he’d asked you a question or if he simply opted to stare at you, but when his hand came up to graze the side of your face, you assumed it was the latter. Perusing you, you watched as his gaze became distracted by the shallow scrape on your arm from Bucky’s nails, and when Peter’s jaw tightened, you knew that he realized where it came from too.
“Peter,” you softly forced out, throat tight.
He gave you his undivided attention, and you licked your lips.
“What are they going to do to me?”
Your question came out almost inaudible, just barely above a whisper as you found yourself almost too afraid to ask—too fearful to want to know. When Peter’s face fell some, your own frown deepened, and when he sighed, your heart sank.
“I don’t… I don’t know,” he slowly told you, and you could see that he was telling the truth.
You knew that Peter would have no say in this, you’d known that, but faced with the knowledge that was completely in the dark only served to make your stomach twist more. Only this time, you weren’t able to stop it, and it was Peter who kept you from falling as you hurried to get out of the tub. You only just made it to the toilet in time, and with nothing in your stomach to throw up, all you expelled was bile.
One of Peter’s hands were on your waist, the other soothingly rubbing your back as you vomited again. With every heave of your stomach, you shook more and more, and when you were done, you could only stare at the wall behind the toilet.
“You’re sick,” he said, tone strained with worry.
You shook your head.
“No, I’m just… I’m scared,” you honestly told him, lifting your gaze to meet his. “…and heartbroken.”
Peter sadly tilted his head, and your lips quivered.
“Why did you lie to me?” you breathed. “Why did you…? Why did you minimize your part in it?”
You continued before Peter could lie some more.
“Why did you hold me and comfort me and tell me you weren’t as bad as them when you’re much worse?”
“I’m not,” he argued, grabbing your shoulder.
“…but you are,” you said with a frown. “At least with Steve and Tony and Bucky I know who they are. I fear them because they’ve shown me why I should.”
Peter pulled you closer, resting your head on his chest as he rocked you.
“You made me love you.”
The words came out small and choked, your face crumbling as Peter stilled, and you’d stupidly thought you had no more tears left. Your body proved you wrong, frame shaking as your chest tightened, a cry escaping you in the otherwise quiet bathroom. Peter didn’t respond right away, just holding you as you cried.
“I’m still the same person I was before you found out,” he whispered, rocking you. “…the same person you begged to run away with.”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
“I’m not proud of what I did,” he confessed. “…but it’s why I can hold you every night for as long as I want.”
He leaned down to gently kiss your forehead, and your vacant and tearful gaze was on the bathtub, now.
“You don’t have to agree with it, even I don’t agree with it, but it had to be done if I wanted you all to myself.”
You knew that justified it all in Peter’s mind, and the part of your brain that was conditioned to normalize your new reality wanted to pull him closer, but the part that desperately missed your friends and family and old life only wanted to be sick.
When Peter rinsed you off and dried you, his fingers grazed your skin as he helped you get dressed. Soothing words left his lips that didn’t really mean much because how could he calm you against something that was unknown to him too? He didn’t even know what he was comforting you from. Once dressed, he stood before you, looking you over with his fingers grazing over yours.
When your eyes met his, his gaze softened, and you didn’t stop him when he leaned in to press his lips to the corner of your mouth. Like every touch and kiss of his, now, you didn’t really feel it, and when Peter pulled away, you felt that the numbness that consumed you reflected in your own gaze. He heaved a sigh, fingering the ring on your finger.
“I still love you,” he assured you, looking at you from beneath his lashes. “That’ll never change…and even… Even when I have to do whatever it is I have to do today, I’ll be doing it with love.”
Those words didn’t exactly comfort you, and your eyes briefly closed when he walked you out of the bathroom. The stairs were hard to take, courtesy of your lack of food and what little sleep you’d managed to get. You shook beside Peter, and you knew that it was from more than just not eating. In fact, you were sure you were going to throw up again.
The house was unusually quiet—as well as empty—and that did nothing to alleviate your uneasiness. Peter’s hold on your hand was gentle, and as much you loved to hate him in this moment, you appreciated that he walked outside with you instead of walking you outside like a prisoner. You were surprised by how early it was in the day, bringing your hand up to shield your eyes from the rising sun. Days in the darkness had them hurting from the harsh natural light.
Just as you got used to it, a familiar and intimidating voice spoke.
“Leave her right there.”
Only, it wasn’t the voice you were used to being on the receiving end of. Your eyes met familiar blue ones as Peter was forced to step away from you, Bucky’s gaze very much transparent as he looked at you. His anger and disgust were palpable, and you found that you couldn’t hold his gaze.
That was a mistake.
“You will look at me,” he sneered, hurrying over to you and harshly gripping your chin.
Behind him, you could see Peter take a step forward only to be stopped by Sam. Bucky’s fingers were painfully pressing into your skin, and as difficult as you found it, you held the brunette’s gaze. It was in that moment that you realized why the house had seemed so quiet on your way out. You noted that the only person missing was Jane, and you guessed with her pregnancy and a need for someone to watch Margaret and Sharon’s children, they decided to kill two birds with one stone.
They clearly didn’t want to stress her, and that only made you more fearful of what was in store for you.
“We’re not stupid, you know,” Bucky said to you, and you swallowed. “We expect the odd escape attempt here and there.”
You weren’t used to being on the receiving end of Bucky’s venomous gaze, blue eyes icy.
“We look forward to it even,” he confessed. “None of you will ever succeed, so it helps you realize that, and you get it out of your systems.”
You blinked back tears, and Bucky took note of them, lip curling over his teeth.
“In fact…we had been anticipating yours from the moment we let you out of that basement, but I guess you really were too docile to fight back properly,” he continued, voice growing bitter. “Too docile even to tell one of us when our wife was trying to escape.”
When you blinked again, a tear finally escaped, and you didn’t know if you were supposed to respond. Evidently you were.
“What?” Bucky wondered, roughly letting your chin go. “Nothing to say for yourself?”
Your chest heaved with a deep breath, and you started to glance around.
“No, don’t look at them. Look at me,” Bucky ordered. “After all, it was my wife who anything could’ve happened to.”
When your gaze met his again, more tears spilled over, and you sniffed.
“I’m sorry-.”
“We expect you to fight back…try and make a run for it… What we don’t expect is more loyalty to a traitorous wife than the men of the house,” he interrupted you, spitting the words out and making you flinch. “…because anything could come of that. You could kill one of us.”
“I… I’m sorry,” you said again, knowing it wouldn’t change anything but also knowing it was what he wanted to hear.
Bucky stared at you for a long time—too long—just looking down his nose at you as if he could barely stand to look at you. You were all too aware of the eyes on you, all too aware of the example being made out of you. You were in the dark about what was going to happen, now, and it made you want to be sick. However, of all the things you expected…
You didn’t expect Bucky to quickly grab your arm, twisting it—and you with his other arm—before violently shoving you to the ground. It happened so fast that when you finally cried out in pain, clutching your wrist, you were already looking up at him from the grass. He wasn’t looking at you though, hands behind his back as he stepped away from you.
“There are two outcomes for you today,” he started, making his way towards Peter who looked like he was moments away from committing murder—again. “Personally, I’m partial to either outcome…”
When you started to push yourself to your feet, the dark-haired man heard it, pausing to look at you with a wag of his finger.
“No, no. You don’t get up yet…”
Heart sinking, you sat back down, clutching your arm to you as you looked between him and Peter.
“The first,” he dragged out, resting a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “We finally get to see what Peter has in him…”
You froze, skin growing cold and heart dropping to your gut.
“…see if he has what it takes to make you…” Bucky turned his gaze to you, eyes glinting wickedly “…beg him to stop.”
You couldn’t stop more tears from spilling over, the realization of what this day could possibly bring crashing down on you like a wave. When you glanced over, your eyes met a familiar green pair, and Nat’s disgust and regret was plain as day on her face. She looked at you like she wanted to take your place in a heartbeat, but you both knew that wasn’t going to happen.
You couldn’t hold in your sob, pressing your hand to your mouth.
“You can’t cry, now,” Bucky’s voice reached you as he neared you. “We haven’t even started yet.”
He forced you to your feet, and his hands were the only thing keeping you from collapsing.
When you first got here, Peter promised that that would never be you. He told you that he would never, but considering the circumstances of your offense, that choice was no longer up to him. You couldn’t stop sobbing, choking noises climbing out of your throat as Bucky continued.
“The other option is two months in the basement.”
When your eyes met Bucky’s again, there was a gleam in his eye and a curve to his lips that told you it wouldn’t be so easy as choosing which you’d prefer. You didn’t even want to say that the choice would be easy if given one because while your worst fear was recreating what Margaret had to go through during your first days here…you also knew that two months down in that darkness would break you beyond belief.
Two months down there, and you were sure you wouldn’t even be yourself when you emerged.
“It all depends on who gets to you first,” Bucky softly said, making you frown at him.
When he stepped away, you swayed on your feet, but his hand met your arm again when he turned you towards the small pond, free arm gesturing towards the dense trees behind it.
“Those legs that are near and dear to Peter’s heart are going to take you as far as you can go…”
His whispered words made you frown.
“Now, don’t think that you’re getting away…” he looked at you and you slowly looked at him. “…because you’re not. Someone will catch you, it’s only a matter of who, and that determines if this pretty little dress is coming off or not.”
His reminder of one of the possibilities made you lightheaded, and you pressed your hand to your chest when he walked away.
“If Peter catches you, then Peter will do what he has been instructed to do…”
The man in question spoke up, quietly pleading with Bucky, but the older man ignored him.
“…and I was going to participate in this little game,” Bucky said, jaw ticking as he looked at you. “…but you deserve to be terrified after what you did.”
You pressed your lips together, blinking away tears as you wrapped your arms around yourself.
“So…” he backed up, a small smile on his pink lips. “If Steve catches you…”
You couldn’t stop your knees from buckling, world spinning as you caught yourself on your hands and knees. Your skin pricked, and you felt almost on the verge of a heart attack.
“He gets to put you in the basement…” a pause. “Again.”
The sounds of the world were going in and out, and once again, you felt like you were going to throw up. Both options were the last thing you ever wanted, and once you ran into those trees, you didn’t know what would relieve you less—the sight of Peter or the sight of Steve. It was sick, really, because obviously you would rather be caught by Peter, but not if it meant…that.
…and if Steve caught you, you just knew it wasn’t going to be that simple
“Whenever you’re ready.”
Bucky’s words were mocking, filled with a mixture of disdain and satisfaction, and as you looked up at him, you didn’t know who you hated more—him or Steve. The blond in question was someone you had avoided looking at since you stepped outside, bitter to see the sick satisfaction that no doubt covered his features at your humiliation.
Your comeuppance.
Pushing yourself to your feet was a struggle, and you didn’t look at Peter, too afraid to realize that he might be who you wanted to catch you, after all, even if it did mean public humiliation beyond comprehension. You felt beyond alone as you walked down the small decline, the dewy grass so nice against the soles of your feet despite the circumstances.
It was only when you got to the tree line, staring inside, did it hit you.
You were going to be hunted and chased down like some animal, and depending on who caught you first, that was what your punishment would be. Both options were enough to make your stomach flip, and for the life of you, you just couldn’t decide which was better. With a panicked sob, you forced your feet to move.
Every tree looked just like the other to you, and there was nothing in these woods to signal some kind of progress as you ran. It was crazy to think that there had once been days when you dreamed about being in these woods, closer to freedom and away from the craziness you’d been forced into. Now, however, you were in said trees and all you could think about was who would get to you first.
Bucky’s words echoed in your mind.
It wasn’t a matter of whether either of them would catch you. Both of you knew that you weren’t getting away from here, let alone from Peter or Steve in these woods. One of them was going to find you first, and even as you brushed past harmful branches and stumbling vines, you still didn’t know which choice presented to you was better. More than anything, you wanted it to be Peter to find you, but could you be okay with being raped for the whole household to see? This wasn’t like that day with Margaret…
Both Steve and Bucky wanted to make the biggest example out of you, and so the entire household would be there to witness your humiliation. However…it was one day. One hour even at the most of Peter doing what he normally did whenever you were alone…just in front of everyone else. If Steve caught you on the other hand…
Two months in the basement was a thought that actually made your knees shake, causing you to stumble against a tree. You knew—you knew—that you couldn’t handle that, and you knew that Peter knew it too. One option was just one bad day, that was all, but the other option would turn you into even more of a mess than you already were. You’d spent less than a week down there at the most, and both times were hell for you.
The second more so than the worst, and you didn’t want to unpack why that was.
When you heard a tree branch snap, you felt yourself freezing. The tree you were next to was larger, much larger than you, and you remained perfectly still as your hand rested against it. You had only stopped for a few moments, and the whole time you’d been lost in your thoughts, you hadn’t even heard any footsteps. In fact, something in you told you that you were supposed to hear the snap of that branch.
When you dared to peek around the trunk, all of your breath left you.
The sight of Steve’s blond hair and back was a stomach turning one, and just as quietly as you peeked around, you hid yourself behind the tree once more. With one movement, you could end this torture and not have to be fucked for the whole household to see, but no matter how much you didn’t want that…you couldn’t bring yourself to move.
…because you didn’t want the alternative either.
Steve terrified you beyond belief—something Bucky had acknowledged—and something in you just knew that he wasn’t going to find you and take you back to the house as easy as that. Outside of raping Margaret, you had never heard of Steve doling out any kind of physical abuse, but you had a sneaking suspicion that Steve would strike you square across the face if he could get away with it.
Peeking around the tree again, you watched him walk away, scanning the area before him for any sign of you. Your nails pressed into the trunk, and with a sinking heart, you both accepted and hoped that Peter would find you, making peace with what that meant for you. With Steve completely out of your sight, you didn’t know which way to go, and so you went forward, adjacent to the direction Steve went.
You felt like you were getting so turned around the further you walked, and you wondered what would happen if you just decided to go back to the house. You wondered how the punishment would be decided then—provided you actually made it back without being caught. The thought of being caught by Steve prevented you from remaining calm and thinking clearly.
Or maybe it was everything else that did that.
You could feel a familiar burn behind your eyes, and you struggled to swallow, throat feeling incredibly tight. You’d thought that you cried enough in the basement, but that kept proving to be untrue. A few tears skipped down your face before many more followed behind, and you took in a shaky breath.
How was it that you hated Peter so so much for what he did…while also wanting nothing more than to just return to your bedroom with him when this was over? You didn’t want to go back down there, alone and bathed in darkness. You wanted to sleep in your bed with Peter and you wanted him to hold you while you cried about the very thing he’d done that caused the tears.
You hated him, but you wanted to be near him.
You didn’t want to hate him from afar. You wanted to hate him while staring at his face every night and listening to the sound of his breathing and feeling his hands on your shoulder as he sat behind you in the bathtub. You hated Peter so much for what he did—and lying about it—but it just wasn’t the kind of hate where you couldn’t stand the sight of him, and you hated him all the more for that.
You were pulled from your thoughts by the sound of footsteps, and considering you’d gone in the opposite direction of Steve, you were prepared to meet your fate when your gaze would meet that of a familiar brown one. Only, the eyes that met yours weren’t brown…they were blue…and you felt your lips part.
You didn’t hesitate to run the other way, a scream climbing out of your throat when you were tackled to the ground. Steve’s hand was pressed to the back of your head as he slammed your face against the leaves and sticks, making you gasp, and when his arm snaked around your neck, a choked sound left you.
You weren’t surprised when he threw you to the dirt again.
“I knew…” he started, slowly following you as you attempted to crawl away. “From the moment Peter gave us that crock of shit about a gentler method, I fucking knew.”
You clawed at the dirt when Steve reached down to pull on one of your legs.
“I knew then that he was being too soft with you,” he spat, flipping you over. “I knew that it would come back to bite us.”
Steve squatted over you, one hand tightly curling around your throat, and you struggled to breathe as he slowly forced you to your feet. Your scraped at his hand, gaze tearful and pleading as Steve stared you down, nostrils flaring. His blond hair was a mess, an unusual sight for you, but those blue eyes were as cold as ever.
Steve really hated you.
“Bucky is better than me,” Steve hissed at you. “…because if Margaret had gotten as far as Nat did because of you, I wouldn’t make Peter stop until you were begging for him to put you out of your misery.”
You pushed at his hands, panicked, and he only shook you in response.
“You think he’s your best fucking friend,” Steve breathed through clenched teeth, sizing you up. “Instead of the man who owns you.”
When he threw you down, your head spun, and you struggled to right your vision. You pressed your hands to your temples as you cried, fighting the urge to curl in on yourself.
“That ends today…”
Steve’s words were spoken with finality, and you didn’t quite understand the meaning of them as you heard approaching footsteps. You heard Steve exhale, and when you dared to look up, your heart skipped a beat at the sight of Peter.
“Peter,” he acknowledged. “Love that timing of yours.”
Peter didn’t hesitate to hurry towards you, placing a hand on your head as you sobbed. As you’d suspected, you knew it wasn’t going to be that simple if Steve caught you instead, and you realized just how complicated it was going to be at the sound of his next words.
“We need to make sure nothing like this happens again, Peter,” Steve told him, and they shared a look, something unspoken between them that had Peter’s jaw clenching.
“So, is that why you forgot who she belongs to? Is that why you treated her like you used to treat Peggy on her really bad days? She’s already terrified of you. What more do you want?” he sneered at him, briefly looking at you and brushing his thumb over your cheek.
“I need her to be terrified of you,” Steve answered, hands on his hips. “I told you from the beginning that you were too soft with her. I told you what needed to be done for her to get it.”
“Yeah, Steve, alright, I get it-!”
“…but you don’t,” Steve yelled at Peter, staring at the younger man just like a brother would. “You don’t get it because if you did, this would’ve never happened.”
Steve gestured around, cutting you a scathing look that made you wither.
“She would’ve never felt more loyal to Nat than the men who run this household. She would’ve understood that she exists to serve you and the house as a whole by extension.”
You hated the way Peter’s hands slowed on your face, and when you looked at his own face, he looked to be deep in thought.
“Not just the wives and whatever they think is best, but what’s best for the family,” Steve paced. “You are going to make her understand that she’s not your friend and certainly not your fucking equal.”
You watched Peter defeatedly exhale, eyes falling closed.
“You are going to make her understand that, right now,” Steve snarled.
“Steve…”
Peter’s tone was pleading, and that was when you finally sat up, looking between them with a racing heart. You scooted back, but Peter’s hand on your arm prevented you from going far. When your gaze met his, his eyes had softened, something in them pleading with you.
“I will make you, Peter.”
Steve’s tone was scarily calm, and you glanced at him, lips shaking at the malice in his eyes.
“Do you understand me? I will not rest until I catch her slipping up again, and depending on my mood that day, I just might make you fuck her right there in the garden for all to see,” he quietly told him. “So, it’s either now or it’s later…but it is happening. You decide.”
In truth, you didn’t know why you were crying. You had already accepted that you’d rather get the bad thing over with than drag it out for two months. However, that was the thing, wasn’t it? Steve was going to make Peter do this and still turn around and throw you right down in that basement. Even though there was less humiliation involved, it still seemed unfair.
“Do this and…maybe I can convince Bucky to only leave her down there for a month,” Steve proposed, and by the tone of his voice, he knew that he’d won.
You barely had time send Steve a scathing look of your own before your back roughly met the ground.
Peter’s mannerisms were rough, and while you knew it was because Steve wanted them to be, it didn’t mean you had to like it. You didn’t think Peter had ever been rough with you, and you cried out at the harsh pull on your hair, his other hand painfully digging into your waist.
“See, you need to understand, sweetheart,” Steve’s voice reached your ears as he circled you. “That you belong to Peter. You exist as an extension of him, now. You exist to exalt him, and the only way that you will get it in your head that you’re his property…”
Peter had flipped you onto your stomach, now.
“Is if he treats you like it.”
You yelped when your chest was forced to the ground, Peter manhandling you in the way he knew Steve wanted.
“…and what better way to do that than to show you that he can and will take you wherever and whenever regardless of who is around to see it,” he slowly said, making sure he was heard loud and clear.
The humiliation of feeling Peter push his cock into you before Steve’s very eyes had you squeezing yours shut, a harsh sob escaping as Peter’s skin slapped against yours. His hand was on your throat, and you clawed at it, gasping when his teeth pressed into your shoulder.
“You don’t have autonomy over your body anymore. You don’t exist independently of Peter, and that extends to this family…”
Peter’s harsh thrusts made your toes curl, and what was once a rough entry had become much smoother. With no warning and feeling wholly unprepared for this turn of events, tears escaped your eyes, and your fingers dug into the grass and dirt. The feel of Peter’s cock pushing into your walls was a familiar one you’d grown to love, but the sound of Steve’s pacing steps and voice made you want to crawl in a hole.
You felt torn apart.
“Had you previously understood that, all of this could’ve been prevented.”
Steve sounded pleased with himself—and Peter—and the thought made you sick. When Peter pulled your head back, you winced, and you started to move away from him, wanting this earlier and regretting it now—especially since you were going back into the basement anyway.
When Peter’s lips grazed your ear, you shuddered.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to you, hand painfully pulling at your hair, making you cry out again.
You recalled Peter’s words from earlier, and you knew why this was happening. You understood the hierarchy in the household, understood that what Steve said went, and you knew without a shadow of a doubt that Steve would’ve absolutely made this happen for the whole house to say. You understood that this was the better alternative, but that understanding is what made you cry more.
This wasn’t something to be understood. The man thrusting into you had killed your friends and kidnapped you, and the man before you had helped. Peter wasn’t your husband or your lover but instead your captor and rapist. Nothing about any of this was right, and in this moment, you shouldn’t be rationalizing or understanding anything.
…but you did.
You understood why Peter grabbed you with no hesitation and proceeded to fuck you under Steve’s watchful eye. You understood why being raped for all to see had briefly been the better choice to you than being sent back into the basement. You understood why Peter was murmuring sweet nothings and apologies into your ear as he roughly held you down and plunged his cock into you.
You understood it all, and you hated it.
You didn’t want to simultaneously hold Peter closer and push him away as he roughly fucked you against the grass, face to face with you, now. You didn’t want him to obey when Steve told him to fuck you harder. You didn’t want to understand that Peter didn’t actually want this because if that were true he simply wouldn’t do it, right? You didn’t want to accept that this house didn’t follow the rules of the outside world and that so long as you were here—and you would be here forever—neither would you.
“Are you sorry, now?” Steve wondered, somehow able to hear his voice over the sound of your cries. “Hmm?”
You didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer, but you knew you gave him that anyway the moment you started crying. When Peter’s eyes met yours, he shushed you, a poor attempt to make this better somehow, and his next words made you blink.
“Do you see how much worse I could be?” he whispered, too low for Steve to hear. “How much worse they want me to be?”
You stared at him, nails digging into the skin of his arm, and with another harsh sob, you nodded.
“Do you understand what I’ve been trying to protect you from?”
Again, you nodded.
Peter’s nose grazed your own.
“Do you get it now?” he sadly asked you.
When you nodded again, unable to find your voice between cries, Peter shushed you. His fingers pressed into your skin, and his hips painfully came down against yours. When his lips pressed against yours, they swallowed the noises that escaped your throat.
“I never wanted this for you.”
…and you knew Peter was telling the truth.
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Sweet Dreams Are Made of This Pt. 13
Dark Peter Maximoff X fem reader (Mob au)
Hey Y’all!! So, this part is going to be a little short because it’s been a busy week, plus it’s a building chapter to set up the next few chapters! 9Also sorry if it’s a little boring Its a lot of talking) I hope you like it and prepare yourselves because next week’s chapter is gonna be a long one. 
Summary:  Peter has felt like a piece of him has been missing ever since he was taken away from his mother to be raised by his father. But when you seem to fill that piece there’s no way he’s ever letting you go
Warnings: angst, Erik being really cruel 
Word Count: 1.2K
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11
“Home?” You repeated, swerving to the side before Erik could cage you between his arms.  You moved to the other side of the classroom, your position and his switching places. “I am home.” 
Erik rolled his eyes at you. “I am inviting you back to your rightful home, with me and with the boy.” 
You crossed your arms over your chest. “You kicked me out of there, don’t you remember. You were the one who said I could leave.” 
Erik looked uninterested in the little argument you were trying to have with him. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. I forgive you, so now with my blessing you will come back home and fix the mess you made.” 
You wanted to scream, this man was absolutely insufferable. He believed that the whole world revolved around him and you supposed it did. You mustered up your courage and said that one word that you had been dying to tell him since you first met him. “No.” 
It was Erik’s turn to repeat, to return the ball to your side of the court for retaliation. “No? I’m sorry but do you really think you have a say in this?”
“You said I could leave and I left.” You sounded like a broken record but it seemed the first two iterations hadn't an impact on him. Maybe the third would. “You can’t just come back here after a month of nothing and expect to want to just go back to that hell of a manor. I won’t deny that I care for Peter but it is not enough to give up my life and live the rest of it as some glorified babysitter-”
Erik threw his head back in a laugh, it echoed off the walls and had you shrinking back into the corner you had trapped yourself in. “Glorified babysitter? Honey, open your eyes! That’s what you are right now.” His smile was wide and unnatural as he stared you down. “The way you care for these children is no different than the way you handle my Peter. The only difference is that this institution pays you a couple pennies a week to do it.” He laughed again, moving away from the door and back towards you.
 “You sure think highly of yourself, I bet you're the best little teacher at this school aren’t you? And why wouldn’t you be? It’s not like you have anything else to spend your life on. And while we’re on the topic, what life?” You stumbled back as if you had been struck, it was as if Erik had pulled your own thoughts from your mind to use them against you.
“You forget that I know everything about you and I have to say what you are trying so hard to preserve isn't much of a life sweetheart. You were missing and no one even batted an eye, the only one who missed you was your dog. At least when you were with us you had something that could be considered a life.”
You could feel tears pricking at your eyes, everything Erik had said was true. Sure the way he had said it was an oversimplification of your job and free time but he was right. You didn't do much, you went to work and you went home. You cared so much about your work that you never really explored other parts of your life. The most excitement in your life, as bad as it was, had been while you were there. 
Erik glared down at you, his expression softing for a fraction of a second before he returned to his usually neutral one. But this time there was a hint of something else in eyes, some may even call it compassion. “Look, just come with me. I won’t put you through any theatrics like last time. I even had your dog picked up and sent to the house, I’ll let you have it this time. And it would be unwise to disobey me with your dog in my custody.” Your eyes widened at his laced threat, he sighed and held his hand out, hoping to move past his threat. “I have a car waiting outside, just let me take you home.”
You stared at his outstretched hand. “What about my job?” You asked meekly, trying to put up a fight for as long as you could. 
“I took care of it like I did last time.” He answered simply. 
You wondered how long he had said you would be gone this time, you wondered if anyone other than your class would notice you had just disappeared. You figured they wouldn't. You let your hand fall into his, shivering at the cold touch that enveloped you as his fingers closed around yours. He maneuvered your arms so that you were holding his arm as he led you out the door and down the hall. 
You tried not to cry as you were exited from your beloved school, ignoring the calls from your students as they asked where you were going in the middle of the day. It has started to rain, coming down in thick sheets and battering the black suv that was parked in front of the school. Erik waved for the driver and he came around the semi circle, getting out in the rain to open the door for you both. 
You slid into the familiar black leather seats, Erik sliding in next. You both rode in silence as you had before, a sickening deja vu plaguing your mind. You dreaded going back, you knew the tension in the mansion would be deadly upon your return. But you would get to see Peter again, as much as you hated to admit it you had missed him. You had missed those soft smiles that only he let you see and the way he looked at you each time you graced him with the lightest of kisses. 
You let your memories come back to you, after a month of repression you welcomed them back like an old friend. You wondered how he was, Erik had said he was a mess and you couldn't even begin to imagine the state he would be in. He was falling apart after you had escaped for only five minutes, you hated to think what a month had done to him. You wondered if he would hate you for leaving, a part of you hated yourself for leaving like that. You had played that night over in your mind almost every day as you imagined a time where you got to say goodbye and explain why you coulndt stay. 
A part of you was scared of what he would be like. He was already so obsessed with you, they said that time made the heart grow fonder, did it make a boy like Peter more attached as well. And was what Erik had said true, was Peter going to be violent towards you as well.
Erik had explained that they had tried to introduce new residents into the house to serve as your replacements. But if they even dared to touch him he would lash out, he nearly broke the bones in one girl's arm and bloodied the nose of another man. Erik had to have them sent to another one of his outposts because Peter couldn't even stand to work with them after what they did. Ater how they tried to take your place. 
The car pulled to a stop and Erik opened up his umbrella as he helped you out after him. You took his hand sealing your fate, something told you you wouldn't be leaving the manor for a long time. 
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