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sincerelybubbles · 3 months ago

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Caught in the Teeth

James Potter is sunlight—warm, golden, impossible to ignore. And you? You’ve spent your life convinced you’re anything but worthy of his orbit. But James has never been one to let something slip through his fingers without a fight, and he’ll prove it, even if he has to bare his teeth to do it. Warnings: Allusions to the body, blood, hunger, and longing in a way that may feel emotionally heavy. wc: 5.2k

James doesn’t seem deterred by your skepticism. If anything, he looks more determined, eyes bright with something unreadable, something that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. It would be easier if this were a joke. If he were just playing at it, letting his natural charm smooth over the edges of something that isn’t real.

But his gaze doesn’t waver.

"I’m serious," he says again, quieter this time, and there’s something about the way he says it that makes you grip your books just a little tighter. Like if you don’t hold onto something solid, you might lose your footing entirely.

"James." You exhale his name, like it might be enough to remind him what you are—what you aren’t. You don’t belong in the whirlwind of James Potter’s affections, in the grand, elaborate way he loves things. James falls fast, hard, and all at once, and you are steady. You do not dive headfirst. You do not know how to be the kind of person who gets caught.

But James only grins, tilting his head slightly, eyes still locked on yours. "I know what you’re thinking," he murmurs.

You shake your head. "You don’t."

"I do." He takes a half-step closer, and it’s nothing, really—nothing but space disappearing between you, nothing but the warmth of him seeping into the cold air around you. But it feels like everything. "You think I’m playing some game, that I just love a challenge. You think if I got you, I’d get bored."

You swallow, looking away, because it’s true. It’s exactly what you think.

James exhales, and for the first time, he almost sounds frustrated. Not in an angry way—just in that way he gets when he’s trying to explain something that matters and no one is listening. "You’re wrong, you know," he says. "I wouldn’t get bored of you."

It’s a simple sentence, but it lands heavy. You can feel the weight of it settling in your chest, in the space between your ribs.

"You fall in love too fast," you whisper.

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. "No. I just know when something’s real." His fingers brush against yours, barely there, a fleeting touch that could have been an accident—except it isn’t. "And this is real."

Your breath catches, and you hate that it does, hate that he sees it, that he hears it in the way your next inhale stutters slightly. You shake your head again, as if that might be enough to shake the feeling away.

"James."

"I’ll wait," he interrupts, voice steady. "If you need time, I’ll wait."

And that—that—is what truly unravels you. Because James Potter has never been the kind of person who waits. But here he is, standing in front of you, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them, telling you that for you, he would.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

||||

It continues over breakfast.

James slides into the seat beside you, close enough that his knee knocks against yours beneath the table. You go stiff, eyes flickering to the rest of the Marauders—Sirius lounging across from you with an infuriating smirk, Remus with his usual quiet amusement, Peter already half-distracted by his plate. None of them look surprised.

You force yourself to focus on your toast, even as James leans in, voice just loud enough for the people around you to hear. "You know, I’ve been thinking about it a lot," he muses, stealing a bit of bacon off your plate like he’s been doing it forever. "You and me, dove. I think we’d be good together."

The words send heat crawling up your neck, but you shake your head, exhaling sharply. "James." His name comes out tight, more exasperation than anything else, but it only makes him grin wider.

"I’m serious." The table falls silent, James winks. "I mean, I'm James, obviously, but I'm also serious."

"You're never serious," you counter, refusing to fall into his jokes, speaking barely above a whisper. You can't stand the eyes on you, sure the other boys are studying your every reaction to use for teasing material later.

"About you, I am."

There’s a clatter of silverware as Sirius dramatically drops his fork. "This again?" He sighs, loud and exaggerated. "Mate, just put her out of her misery and snog her already."

Your face burns, and you glare at him, but James only laughs, unfazed. "I would, but she insists I’m not actually interested," he says, as if the idea is absurd. As if he isn’t James Potter, the boy everyone watches when he walks into a room, the one people whisper about, the one who is certainly not looking at you.

You shake your head, barely resisting the urge to push your chair back and flee. "You’re making a scene."

"Good," James says, undeterred. "Maybe if I make a big enough one, you’ll actually believe me."

You swallow hard, trying not to let the words sink in. "Why me?" It slips out before you can stop it, quiet and unsure, but James hears it. Of course he does.

He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked onto yours like they hold all the answers. "Because you make me nervous," he admits, and that—that stops you cold.

James Potter doesn’t get nervous.

Certainly not now, not as he holds your gaze, eyes bright behind his glasses. He doesn't look nervous, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

You ignore, of course, the way his hands clench the corner of his table, a possible tell for something lingering behind his blasse exterior.

"I think about you when I shouldn’t," he continues, softer now, like it’s just the two of you, even with everyone listening. "I look for you first when I walk into a room. I make up excuses to talk to you, even if it’s just to hear your voice." He tilts his head, like he’s studying you, like he’s waiting for you to finally see what he’s been trying to tell you all along. "So, yeah, I’d say I’m pretty well gone on you."

Your fingers curl around the edge of your sweater, gripping the fabric like it might hold you together. The weight of his words presses against you, sinking into the places you’ve tried to keep protected.

Despite the late night conversations with Lily, insisting this is a bad idea, you feel yourself faltering.

But it’s not enough. Not yet.

You lower your gaze, shaking your head. "It’s not real," you murmur. "I'm far too intune with your jokes, Potter. I know a prank when I see one."

James exhales slowly, and you brace yourself for frustration, for exasperation, for him to finally get tired of proving himself.

But instead, his hand brushes against yours under the table—gentle, steady. "I’ll just have to keep proving it to you, then."

And Merlin help you, but you believe him.

||||

It’s late. The sky is painted with the last dregs of sunset, streaks of pink and orange fading into the deep blue of night. The Quidditch pitch is empty, save for the figure circling above you—James, of course, looping lazily through the air like he has all the time in the world.

You don’t know why you agreed to this.

Actually, you do. James had caught you in the common room, full of his usual bravado, promising that if you didn’t come to watch his practice, he’d just have to resort to desperate measures—like standing on the Gryffindor table at breakfast and declaring his undying love in front of everyone.

"I don’t think that’s an appropriate use of the word ‘desperate,’" you’d muttered, trying to focus on your book.

James had grinned, victorious, because you hadn’t said no.

So here you are, sitting on the grass at the edge of the pitch, hugging your knees to your chest, watching as he tilts into a steep dive, the wind roaring in his ears. You know he’s showing off, and you hate the way your stomach twists every time he pulls out of a particularly reckless maneuver, a little voice in the back of your head whispering what if he falls?

He doesn’t, of course. He’s James Potter.

And, as if sensing your gaze, he makes a final sharp turn and lands right in front of you, dismounting in one fluid motion.

"Enjoying the show?" he asks, pushing his hair out of his face, still grinning like he owns the world.

You roll your eyes, but the heat in your cheeks betrays you. "You’re ridiculous."

"Ridiculously charming?" He waggles his brows, twirling his broom between his fingers. "Devastatingly handsome? The love of your life?"

You scoff, looking away. "You’re incorrigible."

"Big words. Pretty ones, too. Just say the word, dove, and I’ll let you tutor me sometime. Preferably in a secluded corner of the library where I can stare at your lips while you try to explain whatever it is you’re always scribbling in that notebook of yours."

Your heart stutters, and he knows it. You can see it in the way his grin softens, in the way his eyes flicker to your mouth like he’s imagining it now.

You force yourself to keep your voice steady. "You should go back to practice."

James hums, tapping his broom against his shoulder. "Nah. Think I’ve done enough."

He drops onto the grass beside you, stretching his legs out like he plans to stay for a while. You shift, suddenly hyperaware of his presence, of the warmth radiating from his skin, of the way he turns to look at you like there’s no one else in the world.

"You ever been on a broom before?" he asks, and the casualness of his tone is almost convincing. Almost.

You frown, suspicious. "Once or twice."

"Good," he says, pushing himself back onto his feet before offering you a hand. "Because I think it’s time you take a ride with me."

Your stomach plummets. "James—"

"Come on," he urges, tilting his head. "One lap. You and me. Hold on tight and I’ll do the rest."

You hesitate, looking between him and the broom like it’s some kind of test. And maybe it is. Maybe this is just another one of his ploys, another attempt to break past the walls you’ve so carefully built.

But when you meet his eyes, there’s nothing mocking there, nothing insincere. Just that same infuriating patience, the same quiet certainty that he’s had all along.

And that’s what makes you reach for his hand.

James grins, pulling you to your feet, steadying you as he swings a leg over his broom before patting the space in front of him. "Come on, then," he murmurs, softer now. "I’ve got you."

You take a shaky breath and climb on.

James shifts closer, arms caging you in as his hands grip the broom handle just beside yours. You can feel his breath at the back of your neck, warm and steady. "See?" he murmurs, voice just below your ear. "Not so bad."

You barely have time to process it before he kicks off the ground, and suddenly, you’re soaring.

The wind bites at your skin, your stomach lurching as the world below shrinks. Your fingers clutch at the broom instinctively, knuckles white, but James—James is steady behind you, unshaken. His arms are firm on either side of you, his chest pressed close to your back, solid and warm.

"You’re alright," he murmurs, just beneath your ear. You can barely hear him over the rush of the wind, but you feel the words more than anything, sinking into your bones. "I’ve got you."

And you believe him. That’s the terrifying part.

James Potter is many things—brilliant, untouchable, unshakable—but he has never once let you fall.

You don’t let yourself think too hard about the weight of that.

Instead, you squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling against the cold air whipping against your cheeks. "I hate this," you mutter, but your voice is breathless, betraying you.

James laughs, his chin brushing your shoulder as he dips the broom lower. "No, you don’t."

And you don’t. Not really. It’s just him. His hands over yours, the way he’s tucked close behind you like you matter. Like you belong there. The way his warmth is the only thing keeping the cold from settling in too deep.

It’s the way it always is with him.

He is warmth. He is light. He is James Potter, and he is everything you are not.

It clenches at something deep inside your chest, that awful, aching reminder—James is James.

You have seen him in every possible light, have watched the way rooms shift when he enters, how people gravitate to him without hesitation. He belongs in the center of things, his presence too big for the edges of the world where you reside. He is brilliant. A force of nature, undeniable, blindingly golden.

And you?

You are not the kind of girl James Potter should want.

You’re not the one who turns heads when she walks into a room, not the kind who pulls people into her orbit without trying. You’re not outgoing, not effortlessly charming. You hesitate where James leaps. You second-guess where he is certain. He is so sure of himself, of what he wants, and you—

You are not.

You are not sure that you are worth this. Not sure that you are worth him.

The thought makes your stomach twist, guilt curdling beneath your ribs. James deserves someone who can match his light, who can meet him where he stands, arms wide open, unafraid. He deserves someone who loves as fully as he does, someone who doesn’t hesitate before diving into the deep end. Someone who doesn’t hold back.

And that isn’t you.

You hesitate. You hold back.

And James—James loves so wholly, so recklessly, that the idea of disappointing him makes your throat tighten.

What if you ruin this? What if you let yourself believe him, let yourself reach for him, and it’s a mistake? What if he changes his mind? What if you lose him entirely?

What if losing him this way—bit by bit, in small moments, in long glances and whispered confessions—is still easier than losing him all at once?

"Oi, stop thinking so hard."

James’s voice pulls you back, warm and teasing, his arms tightening just slightly around you.

You swallow past the lump in your throat. "I wasn’t—"

"You were," he says, and somehow, it isn’t an accusation. Just an observation, a knowing smile in his voice. He dips the broom slightly, letting it glide through the air with ease, smooth and effortless. "You always do, love."

Love.

It’s an accident, probably. A slip of the tongue. A nothing sort of thing.

And yet it lodges in your chest like something sharp, something dangerous.

James shifts slightly behind you, the movement sending a fresh wave of warmth down your spine. His chin nearly brushes against your temple, his voice softer now. "Tell me what you’re thinking."

I think you are everything good in the world, and I am afraid to break it.

You wet your lips, staring out at the empty sky in front of you. "I think," you say, forcing your voice to stay even, "that I’d like to get back on the ground now."

James is quiet for a beat. Not in disappointment, not in frustration. Just quiet.

Then, finally, he sighs. "Alright, dove."

He guides the broom downward, slow and steady, easing you both toward the ground. His grip never falters, never shifts from where it anchors you. And when your feet touch solid earth again, when he swings off the broom and turns to face you, you brace yourself for something.

A quip. A knowing look. A playful shove to break the tension you refuse to name.

But James just watches you.

And then, softer than anything, he murmurs, "You know I’m not going anywhere, yeah?"

Your fingers curl into your sleeves, nails pressing into your palms. You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze.

Because you don’t know that. You don’t know anything.

All you know is that James Potter is warm and bright and golden, and you are terrified of losing the only light keeping you awake.

So instead of answering, you muster a small, fleeting smile. "Goodnight, James."

And before he can say anything else, before you can let yourself falter any further, you turn and walk away.

||||

Weeks pass, and you're certain James has given up.

He's been ever-steady, a lingering presence just at the corner of your life. He's in classes, he's in the hallways, he's in your dreams.

You tell yourself it’s better this way. That the space between you is necessary, that the ache in your chest will dull with time. That James Potter is a passing thing, a bright light that was never meant to stay.

And yet—

He is still there.

Not pressing, not pushing, just... there.

You catch him watching you in class, the tilt of his head, the crease between his brows when you don’t meet his gaze. You hear his voice before you see him, laughter warm in the space between conversations, lingering at the edges of every room. When you pass him in the corridors, he falls into step beside you like he belongs there, like he always has. He nudges your shoulder in greeting, tosses a casual alright, love? into the air like it doesn’t set something alight inside you.

And it should feel different now. It should feel like he's given up. Should feel like he’s moved on, like he’s let you slip back into the background where you belong.

But it doesn’t.

Because James hasn’t given up.

He’s just waiting.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

So you do what you always do—you pretend not to notice. You fold your arms tighter across your chest when he looks at you too long, you take careful steps backward when he leans in too close, you laugh at all the wrong times just to keep the air light. You keep your head down, keep your hands to yourself, keep the walls steady.

You keep pretending.

But James Potter is not someone you can ignore forever.

It happens on an evening when the corridors are quieter than usual, the last rush of students fading toward the common rooms. You’re gathering your things from the library, stacking your books in your arms when you feel him before you see him.

"Alright, love?"

You don’t startle. His voice is too familiar for that. You just exhale slowly and turn. "James."

And there he is, leaning against the doorframe like he belongs there, like he’s been waiting for you to notice him.

You glance behind him, expecting to see Sirius, Remus, maybe Peter lingering somewhere close, but the corridor is empty. Just you and him and the silence between you.

He smiles, and it’s softer than usual. Less cocky, less playful—just James.

"You’ve been avoiding me," he says, tilting his head, watching you carefully.

You shift the books in your arms. "I haven’t."

He lifts an eyebrow. "Liar."

You inhale sharply, grip tightening around the covers. "James—"

"Just tell me," he says, stepping closer, voice quiet but steady. "Tell me what I did wrong."

Your breath catches in your throat. "What?"

"You won’t look at me anymore." His voice is gentle, but there’s something beneath it, something aching. "You barely talk to me unless you have to. You keep running, and I—" He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "Tell me what I did wrong so I can fix it."

You stare at him, heart pounding. "You didn’t do anything, James."

"Then why are you pushing me away?"

Because you can’t have this. Because you don’t deserve him. Because you’re terrified that if you let yourself believe him, if you let yourself want him, it will end in ruin.

Because James Potter is everything good in the world, and you are afraid you’ll break him.

"I just…" You swallow hard, throat tight, and shake your head. "You don’t have to—"

"Yes, I do."

James steps forward, and you don’t move away this time.

"Don’t you get it?" His voice is quiet but certain, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like it’s already been decided. "I want to."

You can’t breathe.

His gaze searches yours, warm and steady, and for once, you don’t look away.

"You don’t have to want me back," he says, so gentle it makes your ribs ache. "But stop acting like I don’t mean it."

Your throat tightens.

You should push him away. You should tell him he’s wrong. That you aren’t worth this, that he should find someone who is.

But you can’t say any of it.

Because James Potter is looking at you like you matter. Like he’s already made his choice, like he’s just waiting for you to make yours.

And you don’t know how to do anything except want.

So you stand there, caught in the weight of it, in the warmth of him, in the unbearable truth of everything you’ve been trying so hard to ignore.

And for the first time, you don’t walk away.

"I mean, Merlin. I've been chasing you for weeks. I can't sleep, I can hardly eat. The teams been ragging on me for playing like shit. I know, I'm a lot. I'm loud, I'm impulsive, I really don't deserve you. But give me a chance. I can prove I'm worth you dove."

You stare at him, throat tight, words stuck somewhere between your ribs.

James Potter, golden boy, brightest thing in any room, James fucking Potter—is standing in front of you, unraveled.

His shoulders are tense, fingers restless where they hover at his sides, like he wants to reach for you but isn’t sure if he’s allowed. His usual confidence—the easy charm, the practiced bravado—is nowhere to be found. This is him, stripped raw, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen.

And it terrifies you.

Because James is supposed to be sure. James is supposed to be steady, unwavering, untouchable. Not… this. Not standing here with his heart in his hands, waiting for you to decide whether or not you’ll break it.

"I know I'm not easy," he exhales, running a hand through his hair, making a mess of it like he always does when he’s too wound up. "I know I talk too much, and I think with my heart first, and I don’t always know when to stop—" He pauses, swallowing hard, eyes flickering over your face like he’s searching for something, some sign that you’re listening, that you hear him.

"I just—I keep thinking, maybe if I was different, if I was quieter, if I wasn’t so much, then maybe you’d let me have you." His voice is barely above a whisper now, raw and uneven. "But I don’t know how to be anything but this."

Your breath catches.

James Potter, who walks into every room like he owns it, who never seems to doubt himself for a second—doubts this. Doubts you.

And you hate it.

You hate that he’s standing here, picking himself apart like you’re something better, something higher than him, like he hasn’t been the brightest part of your world for years. Like he isn’t exactly the kind of person you should want, if only you weren’t so afraid.

"James," you whisper, and your voice wavers.

He exhales, shaking his head. "You don’t have to say anything. I just needed you to know. I just—" His throat bobs as he swallows, eyes darting away. "I love you, you know?"

The words punch the air from your lungs.

He says it like it’s easy, like it’s inevitable, like it’s just fact.

And maybe, for him, it is.

Maybe he’s known longer than you. Maybe he’s been waiting for you to see it, to believe it.

But you don’t know how to hold something like that.

Because James Potter is love without hesitation. He is all in, always. And you—

You don’t know how to be loved like that.

"I can’t," you whisper, barely choking the words out.

His face falls, just slightly, but he nods. "Okay."

"James—"

"It’s okay," he says again, and somehow, he’s still gentle, still trying to make this easier for you when it should be the other way around. "I just—needed you to know."

He takes a step back, and something inside you lurches, something instinctive, something that wants to reach for him, to tell him to wait.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

So you let him go.

And it feels like ripping your own heart out.

James takes a step back. Then another.

And then he turns.

And walks away.

No hesitation, no lingering glance over his shoulder. Just leaving.

Something in your chest lurches, a sharp, ugly thing clawing its way up your throat, twisting through your ribs like vines tightening around fragile bone. You can feel your pulse thrumming at your temples, pressing against your skin like it’s trying to escape.

Your body knows before your mind does.

A breath—sharp, uneven—catches in your throat, and then you move.

Your legs stumble before they run, like your body is caught between hesitation and instinct, but once you start, you can’t stop.

Your feet hit the stone floor hard, the sound of them echoing too loud in the empty corridor. The air is thick, choking, like you’re running against a tide, pushing against something unseen but heavy. Your blood is thrumming, rushing beneath your skin, beating against the cage of your ribs like a desperate thing, like it knows—

You can’t let him leave.

"James."

His name rips from your throat, raw and desperate, but he doesn’t stop.

His pace quickens, and something inside you clenches, pulses. You chase after him, heart hammering against your ribs, breath coming too fast, too shallow. Your fingers twitch at your sides, reaching for him, but he’s always just out of reach.

"James, stop—"

He doesn’t.

It feels like drowning. Like something vital is slipping between your fingers, water rushing through a clenched fist, a slow-motion tragedy you can see but can’t stop.

The hall stretches before you, long and endless, and James is slipping further and further away.

Your throat is dry. Your chest burns. Your blood screams.

And then—

Then something breaks.

"James, please."

His steps falter.

It’s barely a moment, barely a hesitation, but it’s enough.

You push forward, lungs burning, body aching, and reach for him, finally catching his wrist. Your fingers curl around his pulse, warm and alive, and the contact sends a shock through your bones, something deep and primal, something that roots you.

He stills.

His back is to you, shoulders tense beneath his sweater, and you can feel the way he’s holding himself together, like one wrong move might shatter him entirely.

You don’t know what to say.

You don’t know.

Only that his skin is warm, and his pulse is steady beneath your fingers, and that if you let go now, you’ll never forgive yourself.

So you don’t.

You swallow hard, pressing your fingertips against the inside of his wrist, feeling the blood rushing beneath his skin, proof of him, of his existence, of this.

"James," you whisper, softer now.

His breath shudders. You feel it, more than you hear it.

"I—" Your voice wavers, words tangled between your ribs, a mess of longing and fear and want want want.

He turns.

Slowly, like he’s afraid to look at you, like he’s bracing for something he doesn’t want to hear.

And you—

You break.

Because he’s right there.

James Potter, with his flushed cheeks and furrowed brows and parted lips, looking at you like he doesn’t know whether to hope or to hurt.

Like he’s trying not to need.

Like you aren’t already his.

Your throat is too tight, your heart hammering against your ribs, your hands shaking. You feel it in every inch of your body, the pull of something inevitable, something larger than just want.

James swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and when he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"Don’t do this if you don’t mean it."

The words are careful, controlled, but his eyes—

His eyes burn.

And you think—blood is not the only thing that keeps a body alive.

It’s this.

This ache, this yearning, this thing between you that has always been reaching, always been growing, always been something you were too afraid to name.

And now, here you are, standing on the edge of it, the weight of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips, the shape of his name forming behind your teeth, and—

You take a breath.

And fall.

||||

It settles into your bones like warmth after winter.

Loving James.

It doesn’t strike like lightning, doesn’t drown like a flood. It seeps in slow, curling around your ribs, pouring into the hollow spaces of your chest like honey pooling in a jar—thick, golden, steady.

You feel it in the quiet moments, in the small things.

The way his fingers find yours beneath the breakfast table, tracing soft, lazy patterns against your palm. The way he grins into your neck when he wakes up, nuzzling into you like he’s still half-dreaming, like even unconscious, you’re the thing he wants most. The way he tugs at the hem of your sweater when you’re standing too far away, like he’s anchoring himself to you, like if he lets go, he’ll drift.

James loves the way the sun rises—slow and inevitable, golden in the way that means something—and you think, maybe, that’s how he loves you too.

He is warmth, always. Even in the dead of winter, even when the castle corridors are drafty and cold, even when you’re tucked beneath layers of blankets, your feet still frozen from the stone floors—James is warm.

And you drink him in like a starved thing, like a flower turning toward the sun, like a body that has been aching for heat its entire life.

"You’re staring," he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, arm slung heavy across your waist.

You hum, tucked beneath the covers, fingers drifting absently over the plane of his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath your palm, rhythmic, lulling. You press your fingers there, curling them just slightly, like you could dig past skin and muscle, past blood and bone, past everything solid and reach the grotesque, beating heart of him.

As if you don’t already have it.

James exhales, tilting his head slightly to meet your gaze, eyes still heavy-lidded, hazy with sleep. His lips curve, slow and lazy, a smile meant only for you.

"You’re mine," he murmurs, and it isn’t a question.

You feel it in your bones. In the honey-thick heat of his body, in the quiet of the early morning, in the way your heart swells and swells and swells.

"Yeah," you whisper. "I am."

James hums, pleased, and tucks you closer, pressing his lips against your hair.

And you let yourself sink into it.

The warmth. The ease.

The love.

Like honey. Like sunlight. Like something that has always, always been yours.

#bubbs.writes #x reader #fluff #mentions of blood #james potter x reader #james x reader #potter x reader #angst #slightly #pining #friends to lovers #marauders #marauders x reader #marauders fic #harry potter marauders

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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 month ago

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What’s wrong with tariffs

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in CHICAGO TONIGHT (Apr 2) with PETER SAGAL, and in BLOOMINGTON on FRIDAY (Apr 4). More tour dates here.

It's not that the Republicans and the Democrats are the same…obviously. But for decades – since Clinton – the Dems have sided with neoliberal economics, just like their Republican counterparts, so the major differences between the two related to overt discrimination, to the exclusion of the economic policies that immiserated working people, with the worst effects landing on racial minorities, women, and gender minorities.

So the Dems stood against discrimination in mortgage lending – but not for the minimum wage that would have lifted the lowest paid workers out of poverty so the could afford a mortgage. They stood for abortion rights, but against Medicare For All, which meant all women had the right to an abortion, but the poorest women couldn't afford one. And of course, in a country where racial and gender discrimination were still the order of the day, the poorest and most vulnerable Americans were racialized, women, disabled, and/or queer.

The Dems' embrace of Reaganomics meant that working people of all types experienced steady decline over 40 years: stagnating wages, economic precarity, increased indebtedness, and rising prices for health care, education, and housing. When Trump figured out that he could campaign on these issues, Dems had no response. Trump's "Make America Great Again" was meant to appeal to a time when working Americans were – on average, depending on their whiteness, maleness and straightness – better housed, better paid, and better cared for.

Of course, those benefits were unevenly felt: America was slow to extend the New Deal to racial minorities, women, disabled people, and other disfavored groups. Trump's genius was to marry white supremacy to economic grievance, tricking white workers into blaming their decline on women, brown and Black people, and queers – and not on the billionaires who had grown so much richer even as workers got poorer.

But Trump couldn't have pulled this trick off without the Dem establishment's total unwillingness to confront the hollowness of their economic policies. From Pelosi's "We're capitalists and that's the way it is" to Hillary Clinton's catastrophic campaign slogan, "America is already great," the Dems' answer to workers' fear and anger was, "You are wrong, everything is fine." Imagine having had your house stolen in the foreclosure crisis after Obama decided to "foam the runways" for the banks by letting them steal their borrowers' homes and then hearing Hillary Clinton tell you "America is already great":

https://www.npr.org/2014/05/25/315276441/its-geithner-vs-warren-in-battle-of-the-bailout

Racial and gender justice matter, of course, but when they're pursued without considering economic justice, they're dead ends. The point of racial and gender justice can't merely be firing half of the 150 straight white men who control 99% of the country's capital and replacing them with 75 assorted women, queers and people of color. The worst-treated workers in America are also its most discriminated-against workers, so the best way to help women, racialized people, and other disfavored minorities is to help workers: protect unions, raise the minimum wage, defend tenants, cancel student debt, and give everyone healthcare. In the same way that a special tax on incomes over $1m will disproportionately affect straight white men, an increase in the minimum wage will disproportionately benefit women and people of color – as well as the majority of straight white men who are also getting fucked over by people with $1m salaries.

Since the Clinton years, Democrats have been trying to figure out how to defend economic policies that help rich people while still somehow being the party of social justice. This has produced a kind of grotesque, Sheryl Sandberg "Lean In" liberalism, which stood for the rights of women who were also corporate executives. It's not that these women aren't treated worse than their male counterparts – misogyny is alive and well in the boardroom. But the number of women who experience boardroom discrimination is tiny, because the number of women in the boardroom is also tiny.

The right saw and opportunity and seized it. As Naomi Klein writes in Doppelganger, they created "mirror world" versions of social justice issues, warped reflections of the leftist positions that had been abandoned by a progressive coalition led by liberals:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/05/not-that-naomi/#if-the-naomi-be-klein-youre-doing-just-fine

In right wing, conspiratorial hands, rage at wage stagnation and lack of parental leave turned into reactionary demands for an economy in which women would be full-time homemakers while their husbands recovered their roles as breadwinners. The 1999 Battle of Seattle saw mass protests over the WTO and a free trade agenda that would let capital chase low wages and weak environmental and worker safety policies around the world. But Clinton went ahead and signed more free trade agreements, which were also pursued by Obama. So the right filled the vacuum with a mirror-world version of the Battle of Seattle's rage at billionaires, transforming the anti-free trade agenda into racism, xenophobia, and Cold War 2.0 sinophobia.

It's a cheap trick, but Dems keep falling for it. When the right declares itself to be against something, Dems can be relied upon to be in favor it, no matter how reactionary, anti-worker and authoritarian "it" is. During Trump 1.0, Dems lit James Comey votive candles and passionately defended the "intelligence community," a community that gave us CIA dirty wars and FBI COINTELPRO. Anthropologists call this "schizmogenesis" – when a group defines itself by valuing whatever its rivals deplore, and vice versa:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/12/18/schizmogenesis/

You can see schizmogenesis playing out right now, as "progressives" make Signalgate scandal into a fight over poor operational security (planning a war crime using a commercial app) and not a fight over war crimes themselves.

Signalgate will be out of the headlines in a matter of days, though – unlike tariffs, which will continue to make global headlines throughout the Trump presidency, as Trump continues his "mad king" policy of recklessly and chaotically erecting trade barriers that are certain to make supply chains more brittle and raise prices.

For the most part, the progressive discussion of Trump's tariffs takes the position that tariffs are always a terrible idea – in other words, that Clinton and Obama had the right idea when they created free trade agreements with countries around the world, and Trump is vandalizing an engine of American and global prosperity out of economic ignorance.

Economists support this analysis. But in a new, well-argued editorial in The Sling, University of Utah economists Mark Glick and Gabriel Lozada present a more nuanced version of the tariff debate, one that dodges the trap of neoliberal economics and schizmogenesis:

https://www.thesling.org/the-failed-assumptions-of-free-trade/

Rejecting tariffs is practically an article of religious faith among economists. As the NYT put it in their reporting of the 2025 meeting of the American Economic Association, "free trade is perhaps the closest thing to a universally held value among economists":

https://www.nytimes.com/2025/01/10/business/economy/economists-politics-trump.html

Every Econ 101 class has a unit on David Ricardo's "theory of comparative advantage," which argues that different countries have different capacities and specialties, and that free trade allows these advantages to be shared to the benefit of everyone, making trade a "positive expectation" game. The corollary is that tariffs make everyone worse off.

As Glick and Lozada write, the logic of this argument is unassailable, provided you accept its bedrock assumptions as true – and that's where the problem lies.

Economics has an assumptions problem. The foundational method of economic practice is to create models grounded in assumptions that are either not known, not knowable, or – incredibly – known to be wrong. As Milton Friedman famously wrote:

Truly important and significant hypotheses will be found to have "assumptions" that are wildly inaccurate descriptive representations of reality, and, in general, the more significant the theory, the more unrealistic the assumptions (in this sense)

https://pluralistic.net/2025/02/17/caliper-ai/#racism-machine

It's actually worse than it seems, because economics, as a field, has been violently allergic to empirically testing its assumptions, so it doesn't even know when it is operating on the basis of one of Friedman's "wildly inaccurate descriptive representations of reality." This is what Ely Devons meant when he said, "If economists wished to study the horse, they wouldn’t go and look at horses. They’d sit in their studies and say to themselves, ‘What would I do if I were a horse?’"

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/27/economism/#what-would-i-do-if-i-were-a-horse

What are the assumptions that underpin the orthodox view of free trade, then? As Glick and Lozada write, the case against all tariffs depends on five assumptions, all of which fail empirical investigation.

I. Full employment

The standard model of free trade assumes full employment – "when workers are displaced by imports, they can easily become re-employed at the same wages." This is the crux of the "social surplus" that free trade theoretically produces. This assumption doesn't hold up to empirical scrutiny. After the US dropped its tariffs, it experienced a 74% decline in manufacturing jobs – the best-paid jobs for non-college-educated men. Those workers didn't find equivalent employment – indeed, in many cases, the found no employment at all. From 2001-18, the US lost 1.132m manufacturing jobs to China, and gained 0.176m jobs manufacturing goods for export to China.

II. No externalities

The employment losses from free trade are not evenly distributed – they are geographically concentrated, and the greatest concentrations are in regions that flipped from Democratic strongholds to Trumpish heartlands over the decades since the US dropped its tariffs. The losses to these regions aren't limited to the directly affected manufacturing jobs, but all the other economic activity those jobs supported. The people who sold groceries, cars, and furniture to factory workers also lost their jobs. When young people abandoned the cratering regional economy, that devastated education and other services catering to families.

III. Comparative advantage leads to long-term growth and development

The theory of comparative advantage says that the world is better off when each country gets to do the thing it's best at. What are poor countries best at? Being poor: having a cheap labor force and weak rule of law to protect workers' health and the environment.

Without exception, the poor countries that grew richer did so in the presence of tariffs: "free trade is not a development strategy, it is a static policy that can impede development":

https://2024.sci-hub.se/1864/6d3f610c51446f057a4054080c70ab0e/chang2003.pdf#navpanes=0&view=FitH

IV. Floating currencies keep trade balanced

In theory, adjustments in the currency markets will rebalance imports and exports – countries whose currency declines will have to switch to domestic production, because goods from abroad will become costly. That's not what happened. Instead, foreigners have invested the US dollars they got from selling things to Americans into US securities and real estate, "which does not increase US productivity because it generates no new capital formation (at least directly)."

V. The US provides compensation for trade-related job-losses

While other countries with robust social safety nets offered retraining, income support, and other programs to cushion the blow of trade-related job-losses, the US – with the worst social safety net in the rich world – offered "woefully inadequate" supports to dislocated workers:

https://www.piie.com/bookstore/job-loss-imports-measuring-costs

Now, just because some tariffs are beneficial, it doesn't follow that all tariffs are beneficial. When the "Asian Tiger" countries were undergoing rapid industrialization and lifting billions of people out of poverty, they did so with tariffs – but also with extensive industrial policy and direct investment in critical state industries (Biden was the first president in generations to pursue industrial policy, albeit a modest and small one, which Trump nevertheless dismantled).

Trump is doing mirror-world tariffs: tariffs without industrial policy, tariffs without social safety nets, tariffs without retraining, tariffs without any strategic underpinning. These tariffs will crash the US economy and will create calamitous effects around the world:

https://archive.is/JvRF9

But the fact that Trump's tariffs are terrible doesn't mean tariffs themselves are always and forever bad. Resist the schizmogenic urge to say, "Trump likes tariffs, so I hate them." Not all tariffs are created equal, and tariffs can be a useful tool that benefits working people.

And also: the fact that tariffs can be useful doesn't imply that only tariffs are useful. The digital age – in which US-based multinational firms rely on digital technology to loot the economies of America's trading partners – offers countries facing US tariffs a powerful retaliatory tactic that has never before been seen on this planet. America's (former) trading partners can retaliate against US tariffs by abolishing the legal measures they have instituted to protect the products of US companies from reverse-engineering and modification. Countries facing US tariffs can welcome US imports – of printers, Teslas, iPhones, games consoles, insulin pumps, ventilators and tractors – but then legalize jailbreaking these devices:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/03/08/turnabout/#is-fair-play

That would deprive the largest US companies of their recurring revenue streams – from service, consumables, software, payment processing, etc – creating huge savings for consumers all over the world, and huge profits for the non-US companies that make these jailbreaking tools, and the small businesses that supply them. For example, your country could become the world's leading exporter of iPhone jailbreaking tools, and the world's powerhouse for alternative iPhone stores that charge 1-2% commissions on payments, as opposed to the 30% Apple takes out of every dollar (euro, pound, peso) that iPhone owners spend within their apps. This would tempt in all the biggest app companies in the world – from Patreon to Tinder, Fornite to the New York Times – who could offer their products at a discount and still make more money than they make on Apple's App Store.

But that's just one market this enables: the actual business of iPhone jailbreaking would likely work much like the market for phone unlocking more broadly: thousands of small and medium-sized businesses like dry-cleaners and convenience stores where you can bring your phone and pay a few dollars to have it unlocked and set up with a new app store where all the apps are the same – but everything is 20% cheaper.

This is a development opportunity without parallel. US tech monopolists worked with the US trade representative to rig markets around the world, allowing tech giants to siphon away vast fortunes from America's trading partners. These rich deposits of wealth are just sitting there, begging for some country to sink a shaft into them and pump them dry, secure in the knowledge that Trump has ejected from the global system of free trade and they have nothing to lose.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/04/02/me-or-your-lying-eyes/#spherical-cows-on-frictionless-surfaces

#pluralistic #economism #doppelganger #economics #free trade #tariffs #trumpism #anticircumvention #move fast and break kings #socialism of fools

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damianwaynerocks · 1 year ago

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i know everybody's like "jason todd would've gone to college for english if he didn't die" which is awesome. like i love that headcanon don't get me wrong. but i feel like he would've went for social work.

jason peter todd, who grew up defending his SUDS mother from his abusive father, who lived on the streets when he should've been in elementary school, who was so poor and hungry that he was literally stealing tires off a fancy car to sell so he could eat?? that man would absolutely have worked in child welfare. whether as a foster care case manager or a community case worker helping at-risk youth, i genuinely think he would've gravitated towards helping kids in situations like his.

#he's def double majoring in english tho #jason todd #dick grayson #red hood #batman #dc comics #bruce wayne #damian wayne #tim drake #batfamily

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mugglebornmarvelite · 3 months ago

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Husband Material

Paring: TASM!Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

Summary: It was one of those days where nothing seemed to go right. A proper shit day and all you need is a hug from your boy.

Word Count: Roughly 1.1k words

Warnings: Domestic fluff, reader has a shitty day, one curse word, mild innuendo, slight angst if you squint

Author’s Note: A little drabble for those who need a Peter Parker hug. This was done at 3 in the morning and is barely edited.

Navigation

Divider by: @strangergraphics

It had been one of those days.

From the moment you woke up, everything seemed to go wrong. Work was a disaster. Your boss was unusually demanding and you got bad news from a co-worker. Plus, the heated argument with a family member during lunch had left a bitter taste in your mouth.

That sealed the deal.

It was a fucking horrible day.

By the time you got home, you felt like a storm cloud ready to burst.

It was a complete and utter shit day.

As you unlocked the door, Peter was on a call, gesturing to you with a warm smile and mouthing, “Hey, bug,” before leaning in to press a quick kiss to your temple. It was a small thing, but it helped

You offered him a faint smile, the best you could muster, before muttering something about needing a shower.

The hot water didn’t wash away the bad day like you hoped it would. Instead, it just made you feel even more exhausted.

You got dressed with a deep sigh, trying to summon the energy to face the rest of the evening.

But your sour mood came to pause when you saw Peter. Your Peter.

Peter was on the couch, a mug of tea resting on the coffee table in front of him, his glasses perched low on his nose. His eyebrows were furrowed in an adorable scrunch as his long fingers absently toyed with the corner of the page as he read.

You couldn't decide if you wanted to bury your face in his sweater or have him buried inside you until you couldn't think.

He was wearing his softest sweater, the light blue one you always steal, and a pair of loose sweatpants that hang just right on his hips.

He looks impossibly cozy, his hair slightly messy, and the sight alone makes your heart ache in the best way.

Peter glances up as he hears your footsteps. “Hey, bug,” he says with a smile on his face, his voice warm, making you want to melt into him. “Everything okay?”

You nod, but the corners of your mouth tremble as you step closer. “I just need a hug,” you whisper, your voice small.

Without hesitation, Peter sets the book down, his glasses slipping off his nose and he rests them on top of his book.

“Come here,” he says, his arms already opening for you.

You practically fall into him, burying your face in his chest as his arms wrap securely around you. He’s warm and his sweater is so soft. The faint scent of his cologne and the tea he was drinking enveloping you.

Peter holds you tightly, one hand gently rubbing circles on your back, the other cradling the back of your head.

“You’re okay,” Peter murmured, rubbing slow circles on your back. “I’ve got you.”

You sniffled, clinging to him tighter. “It was such a shit day.”

“I know, bug.” His lips brushed the top of your damp hair. “I could tell the second you walked in. Talk to me about it, or don’t. Whatever you need.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your eyes glassy but thankful. “I just really needed this. You.”

His thumb brushed over your cheek, and he smiled softly, his brown eyes warm. “You’ve got me. Always.”

Peter leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, then another to your nose, before finally capturing your lips in a sweet kiss. You melted into him, letting his love wrap around you.

When he pulled back, he studied you for a moment, brushing a strand of damp hair behind your ear. “How about I make us some hot chocolate? We’ll watch something mindless, eat whatever snacks we have, and just shut the world out for a while.”

You let out a breathy laugh, the first real smile of your day tugging at your lips. “That sounds perfect.”

Peter grinned, stealing one more kiss before standing up. “Stay right there. I’ll take care of everything.”

As you curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that still smelled faintly of him, you realized that even on the worst days, Peter Parker was the kind of husband material that made everything else bearable.

He's your home.

Peter disappeared into the kitchen and a few minutes later, Peter returned, balancing a tray with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate, a plate of cookies, and a bowl of popcorn. He set it down on the coffee table then plopped down beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

“Hot chocolate for my lady,” he said, handing you a mug.

You took it with a grateful smile, the warmth of the ceramic seeping into your palms. “You’re too good to me, you know.”

“Not possible,” Peter said, leaning back and stretching his legs out in front of him. “You deserve all of it. Even on your worst days. You take care of me on shitty days, I'd be stupid not to do the same for my girl.”

You nudged him with your elbow, but he just grinned, pulling you closer. “Now, what are we watching? Rom-com? Thriller? Or do we just marathon bad reality tv until we can’t feel feelings anymore?”

You laughed softly. “Watching reality tv sounds like the exact thing I can handle right now.”

“Perfect,” Peter said, grabbing the remote. “I’ve got the trashiest shows lined up just for this kind of emergency.”

As the first episode of some ridiculous dating show began to play, you leaned against Peter, resting your head on his shoulder. He held you close, his hand tracing patterns on your arm as you both sipped your warm drink.

Halfway through the episode, he pressed his lips against your temple again. “Feeling a little better?” he murmured.

You nodded, looking up at him with a small smile. “Yeah. A lot better, actually.”

Peter’s gaze softened, and he reached up to brush a thumb across your cheek. “Good. Because seeing you upset kills me, bug. You don’t have to handle it all on your own, okay? I’m here.”

“I know,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Lucky for you, you’ll never have to find out,” he teased, his lips turning into a playful smile before he kissed you again, this time slower and deeper.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his voice low and full of affection. “I love you.”

You smile softly. “I love you too, Pete. So much.”

He smiled, kissing the tip of your nose. “Good. Now, let's relax and eat way too many cookies.”

You laughed, snuggling closer to him. And as the ridiculous show unfolded, Peter’s sarcastic commentary made you laugh even harder than you thought you would tonight.

No matter how bad the day had started, being with him made everything feel okay in the end.

Always.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!

Tags: @princess-lil-spidey @laaundromat @mgchaser @sparklystarsandstrawberries @bethies-world @rnurse-kole @juliebluehufflepuff @chayceschultz @kdelarenta @alexxavicry @gryffindorsblog

If you'd like to be added to my taglist

Much love x

- Maeve

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gloomskulls · 3 months ago

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⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ WHAT LIES UNDERNEATH [cult member peter parker x reader]

pairings: dark! peter parker x reader

blurb/part 2

⇢ ˗ˏˋ SUMMARY ୨୧ after losing your family, your friends, and your boyfriend, Peter Parker casually crashes in your life out of nowhere. His presence was welcoming, as his so-called village is too. But his hospitality seems to have something darker underneath

⇢ ˗ˏˋ WARNING ୨୧ NON-CON/DUB-CON (RAPE), heavy manipulation, toxic relationship, cult beliefs, oral (fem receiving), drugging (use of an aphrodisiac), p in v, multiple orgasms, breeding kink, obsessive behavior, mild violence, mentions of death, depression, suicidal thoughts, implied murder. lemme know if I missed any. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!

If you don't wanna see my dark stories, please block the tag #madi: dark content

a/n: this is loosely based on Midsommar, it's a really good movie. I have changed some stuff that i didn't feel comfortable writing or I just didn't want to write. Also this maybe the worst smut you've ever read probably. don't steal any of my shit or I'll steal ur head.

"I'm sorry sissy, the darkness is consuming me, and I will take them with me"

Those were the last texts your sister sent you. You were worried sick about her cryptic message and wanted disclosure from her, but she hasn't written back.

Your sister has been known to be a rather mentally challenged person. She was just venting to you. Right?

It was unnaturally still in the air, sitting at your kitchen table with the phone pressed close to your ear. Your fingers drummed an erratic rhythm against the edge of the table, still collapsed trying to ground yourself. All night, your sister has not picked up her phone. The strange text messages she had sent earlier in the day replayed like a broken record in your mind.

How many times have you been thinking of something really wrong, more than you would admit, but still dismissing it?

Somehow tonight felt different.

You texted Harry to reassure you, but the typical unsympathetic reply only served to add more weight to that chest heaviness again. Now you are left alone with your thoughts, and each one seems darker than the other.

You were about to not pick the phone because it looked like a spam call to you. The number was unknown, but that gut feeling inside you made you press accept.

"Hello?" Your voice dared as you strove to steady it.

The unknown caller said your name as they spoke, "Is this her?" The voice on the other end was calm but carried a cold detachment that made your stomach drop.

"Yes," you replied.

"This is Officer Hill with the NYPD. I'm sorry to tell you we've had an incident regarding your family," she said.

Air disappeared from your lungs suddenly, and your grip tightened against the phone. "What kind of incident?"

"I understand this is tough," she said, her voice carefully measured. "But I need you to come to the station. It's better to speak in person."

The issue of reality has been stretched and heavy between you, and it was so unbearable. “No,” you spoke finally in a panic voiding interiorly. “Please, just tell me now. What happened?”

There was a moment's hesitation in Hill's case. In that moment, you could feel the world starting to crack around you.

"There is no easy way to say this," she finally managed to come up with. "Your parents and sister were involved in a fatal accident. I am so sorry."

You could not comprehend those words for a moment. They swayed in the air outside with an unreal and incomprehensible quality. "What do you mean? Are they okay? What—"

"They didn't survive," Hill said softly, and that cut through your spiraling questions.

The phone fell from your hand and banged tipsily on the table. To this resonating rattle in the small space, however, your ear was tuned out. Your chest tightened, and the phrase ran in your brain, echoing in shallow gasps.

They didn't survive.

The days that followed the funeral just passed in a haze of hollow condolences and noise deafening silence. Your world had been torn apart while everything moved forward—all relentless and lame. Harry, your boyfriend of 2 years stayed as he assured you, but his presence seemed more of a fulfillment of an obligation than any comfort.

He was not exactly a cruel person; at least not really overt, for distance was a high-dubious chasm with every awkward conversation and with every minute spent by him scrolling through his phone instead of talking to you. Not blind are you to those glances he exchanged with his buddies once they assumed you weren't watching. There is pity instead of love and comfort in his eyes whenever you cry.

The last straw fell on a quiet Friday evening. You had dragged yourself to the apartment of Harry, looking for refuge in his presence after yet another sleepless night. He was lounging in the couch with one hand gripping a phone while the other was a beer.

"I feel like I'm falling apart," you admitted softly and settled next to him. Your voice cracked, and at last, the tears that were kept in were poured out. "I don't know how to do this without them. I don't know how to… keep going."

Harry glanced towards your direction, the look on his face inscrutable. After that, he set his phone down and fell into this heavy sigh as he rubbed the back of his neck. "I understand, okay? But you can't keep unloading things like this on me. It's…it's too much."

Your heart sank. "Too much?"

"I'm not your therapist," he said in defensive. "I don't know what you want me to do. I can't fix this for you."

"I'm not asking you to fix it!" You snapped while accepting the anger that had replaced the hurt. "I just need you to be here. To actually care."

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he diverted his gaze from her, tightening his jaw. "This isn't fair," he muttered.

"What do you mean fair!?" you yelled, your volume rising. "Me grieving my whole family? It isn't as terrible as needing the person who's supposed to love me to act and comfort me?"

Harry stood up immediately and started pacing the tiny living room. "I didn't sign up for this," he said. The words cut like knives. "I feel like… like I'm drowning too. I'm trying to keep my head above water, but here you are, pulling me under."

Your breath literally caught in your throat at that last sentence, as if a blow on the physical plane had hit home. "Is that really how you see me? As one who drags you down?" You asked in disbelief.

However, he stopped pacing and turned toward you, shoulders sagging. "I don't know," he said more quietly. "I don't know what I feel anymore. My friends tell me I should end it. They say I can't do this to myself. But I thought, you know, that might help."

"Help?" you echoed, voice breaking. "You think pity keeping me would help? Do you know how humiliating that is?"

Harry looked away. "Well, I'm sorry! alright!? It's not like I want to be part of your fuckin tenth reason in your suicide note!". Guilt was scrawled across his face when those words left his mouth. "I didn't mean for it to be like this."

You stood waveringly. Nevertheless, your voice remained firm. "If this is too much for you, then spit it out. Be frank for once, Harry."

He hesitated, his silence answering the question you hadn't dared to ask outright.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. "Well, that's what I figured."

You took your bag and stepped out of the apartment, closing the door behind you just before the torrent of tears fell as you stumbled down the street. For the first time in weeks, you were truly alone. Sure, Harry wasn't the best boyfriend, but now you didn't have family, Harry, heck, you don't even have friends to pat you in the back and tell you it's alright.

You were truly alone, crying in the middle of the streets.

A week later, at the dinner party of an old classmate's friend, Peter Parker walks into your life.

Peter wasn't meant to be there—he admitted that soon after you started the talk. "I kind of crashed this," he confessed with a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. "I heard there was free food, and, uh… I have no self-control."

You laughed against your will. It was a real laugh that felt vaguely familiar after weeks of grief.

He was awkward but charming, with rapid tumbling out of words out of his mouth as he tried to start a small talk. "So, uh, how do you know Sam? Are you a friend from work? Oh wait, no, you don't look old enough to work with him—wait, not that you look like a kid or anything. I just meant—"

"It's okay," you interrupted, smile still there regardless. "I get it. I am also kinda crashing here, I never really got a proper invite, I just found out from one of my old classmates that there was a party, now here I am"

The more you could talk to him, the more you would discover how easy it was to be in his company. Unlike Harry, who had always been polished and withdrawn, Peter was frank and genuine, emotions laid out for all to see.

And by the end of the night, he had known your family. You had not intended to tell him, but somehow the way he listened— actually listened— made it spill out.

"I'm so sorry," Peter said softly, voice laced thickly with empathy. "That is… I can't even imagine what you're going through. But, if you ever need someone to talk to—or like, someone to distract you with dumb jokes—I'm here."

You've been taken aback by his earnestness. Finally, after what felt like years, someone might have noticed you.

It was indeed one of those nights which made time stretch out into eternity. You were there with Peter on a park bench where the faint light of the flickering city lights was shining through dense bushes and trees. The air was crisp, a cool kind that could very much seep into one's bones, yet Peter's company made it bearable.

He had this way of filling the silence without forcing it: sometimes talking, rambling on about whatever random thought invaded his head, sometimes just sitting with a person comfortable in the quiet, and today, he was acting especially thoughtful, staring at some faraway towers protruding above the skyline.

"Can I ask you something?" he suddenly blurted out, breaking the stillness.

"Sure."

He hesitated, bit his bottom lip as if he couldn't decide how to start, and began speaking. "Do you ever feel like…I don't know, like you're stuck?"

You blinked. It caught you off guard. "What do you mean?"

"Like everybody around you is moving ahead, but you're just there standing still," he explained, his words pretty crumbling out in that earnest, awkward way of his. "Like no matter what you do, you can't catch up."

The question was a little more awkward for you than you'd expected. "Yeah," you quietly admitted. "too many times than how I want it to be"

"It's tiring" he said, his eyes still far. "I get that. After my uncle… well died, after all that, I felt like I was trapped in this… I don't know, this loop. So, I couldn't allow myself to be happy because it would feel wrong, you know? Like I didn't deserve it."

You were gaping at him, flabbergasted by his openness. Peter was not the kind to talk much about himself—not like this, anyway.

"How did you get out of it?" you asked in a soft voice.

He smiled faintly. "I didn't. Not really. But I found something that helped."

"What was it?"

Peter gazed upward at the stars. "My hometown. It's a little dot in the middle of nowhere on the map. Quiet, kind of old-fashioned place. But there's something… something grounding."

He stopped for a brief while, casting a doubtful glance at you. "I go back every summer. It's like hitting a reset button or something. And, uh… would you want to join me this year?"

Totally unexpected. "You want me to go with you?"

"Yeah," Peter said quickly, blushing in the face of it. "If you want to. No pressure, or anything. Just you have been through a lot, and I thought maybe time away might help or something. It's not fancy or anything—definitely not the kind of place with five-star hotels—but it's peaceful. And I'd be there, so… you wouldn't be alone."

At his words, your throat became somewhat tight. He was not offering a vacation. He was inviting you to an escape.

"I don't know," You finally ventured with a little quiver of voice. "What if I just feel worse?"

"You won't," Peter said firmly, his brown eyes locking onto yours. "I won't let you."

There was something so genuine about the way he said it, like he truly believed he could protect you from the weight of your grief.

"What is it like?" you asked, helpless curiosity walking over your hesitation.

Peter's eyes set aglow at that moment, brimming over with a lot of excitement. "Oh gosh! Now where do I even begin? Okay, so there's this diner right in the middle of town. It's run by Mr. and Mrs. Beck. They've been married for like fifty years or something, and they make the fluffiest pancakes you've ever tasted in your life. And then there's this old library. Small, yes, but it has this weird charm, you know? Everything is crooked, and half the books are falling apart, but I love it. Oh, and there's this great big field just outside of town—it's perfect to stargaze because you can see the Milky Way out there. It's insane."

Now he was practically bouncing out of his seat, his enthusiasm almost contagious.

"It sounds… amazing," you found yourself admitting. A small smile tugged your lips.

"It's amazing," Peter said earnestly. "And I think you would love it. Everyone is so welcoming there. It's like… a little bubble of goodness in this horrible world sometimes."

For just a moment, you let yourself imagine it, far from the city and the reminders of everything that had been lost, somewhere I might again breathe.

"Okay," you said finally, barely above a whisper.

Peter's eyes lit up. "Really? You're going to come?"

"Yeah," you said, surprising even yourself. "I think I need this."

"Trust me; you won't regret it," Peter continued, his grin stretching from ear to ear.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a flicker of hope. Maybe this trip wouldn't fix everything. Maybe it wouldn't fix anything. But for now, it was enough to know you wouldn't be facing it alone.

It was a surreal feeling about the trip toward Peter's hometown. It was almost a relief because you sensed that you were really leaving everything behind, even thought it was just a few weeks. Driving in a comfortable pattern with Peter talking animatedly about all of the town's strange things, while you listened and occasionally chimed in with a question or a laugh at one of his goofy replies.

As you drove farther from the city and the scenery opened to rolling hills and dense forests before you, Peter shifted in his seat to adjust the radio. The soft tune filled the car and merged with the sounds of the tires over the road.

"You are going to love it," Peter said, glancing at you with an innocent smile. "Air's so fresh it nearly smells fake, and the stars. They're nothing like anything you've ever seen before. I promise."

"I'll hold you to that," you said, smiling despite the nervous knot still twisting about in your chest.

The town came into view just about the time the sun started sinking, dipping the horizon in gold and pinks. It was a little bit smaller than you had in mind, the kind of place that probably knew everyone by name.

Peter slowed the car as you entered the main street, which was lined with quaint buildings that appeared to have been plucked from another era. A few of the local's whereabouts were either on their porches talking, in their gardens working, or taking their dogs out for a walk. They would almost wave at Peter as they drove past.

"See? Told you. Nicest people on the planet," said Peter returning the waves enthusiastically.

"No shit," you said, watching a woman coming across with a basket of flowers smile toward you warmly.

Peter stopped in a graveled driveway leading to a homely two-storied fairy tale house. Crooked white picket fence and wildflower-laden garden, there was little that screamed charm.

The moment the car stopped, from the front door, she came, a petite woman in her 30's with brown hair, beaming with kindness in her eyes and warmth in her smile.

"There's my darling nephew!" she called out.

Peter jumped out of the car, practically bounding onto her, hugging her. "Aunt May!"

"And you must be the girl Peter keeps talking about," she said, her bright eyes finding their way to you. "Peter has told me so much about you."

"Oh, um, hi," you said, stepping out of the car and giving a small wave.

"Then that's it," she said, surprising with her strong hug for her small figure. "It's so lovely to finally meet you. Come in! It's rather hot out here during the summers"

Once you stepped into the house, you were met with interior that was as cozy as anyone could expect, the design suggests mixes between vintage and modern furniture, with colorful throw blankets and knickknacks making it feel lived in. There was also a faint waft of freshly baked cookies, which you soon spotted on the kitchen counter.

"Make yourself at home," May said, "Your room's already set up upstairs. Peter can show you around."

"Thanks May," Peter replied, already grabbing your bag before you could protest.

Up came Peter, leading you to a small but cozy guest room overlooking the backyard.

"Hope that's cool," said Peter, dropping your bag next to the bed. "Not fancy, but it's quiet."

"It's perfect," you said, placing your backside on the edge of the bed and taking a moment to breathe.

In the following days, Peter became your own personal tour guide, leading you through the town every nook and cranny, and introduced you to everyone as if you were already a part of the community, and to your surprise, they all welcomed you with open arms

Mr. and Mrs. Beck would insist on serving you their best pancakes while there at the diner even after breakfast time.

"We have heard so much about you," Mrs. Beck said it with a twinkle in her eyes. "Peter's nearly counting the days until you came."

Peter turned red and scratched the back of his neck. "Thanks, Mrs. Beck. Subtle as always."

Library, this was to be; the charmingly ramshackle structure seemed to sag under the weight of its many books. Peter's eyes lit up as he walked through those rows of crooked shelves with his fingers trailing over the spines.

"This here was my escape growing up," he said, pulling a worn copy of The Hobbit from the shelf. "Any time things got… overwhelming, I'd come here. Just me, a book, and a whole lot of silence."

This was the kind of moment when one caught a glimpse into Peter's world of quiet, reflective, introspective thinking where the depths beneath the sunshine state, as always, reside.

The very field that Peter had described so vividly turned out to be even more breathtaking than you ever imagined. The grass stretched out in every direction, swaying gently in the breeze, and the sky above was that of a canvas painted with stars, brighter and bolder than he had ever seen.

With a dramatic sigh, Peter flopped onto the ground, patting a spot next to him. "Come on, you're not getting the full experience unless you lie down."

You hesitated to lie down beside him, letting the cool grass tickle your arms as you stared up at the infinite expanse of sky.

"Wow," you breathed.

"Yeah?" he said, turning his head towards you. "It's like the universe decided to show off or something."

They lay there silently for a good while with the sound of the rustling grass and an occasional chirp of crickets. That was the most peaceful you had felt in a long, long time.

Maybe it was a little initial self-talk that told you it was just small town hospitality. People in cities don’t wave at strangers, though maybe that’s simply what people do out here. Maybe they were just genuinely curious about a stranger in a little place where everyone knows everyone.

But as the day went on, those small gestures, those innocent jests began to feel… different.

It started out slow.

At the diner, Mrs. Beck lingered longer than she ought to while refilling your coffee, her smile warm but sharp, penetrating eyes boring onto you.

"You're feeling like one of us already, aren't you?" she would have said, almost as if it were a statement rather than a question.

You gave a polite smile with no idea of how to answer. "Uh, yeah, everybody's really welcomed here."

"Oh, good," she said, with a firm nod. "That's what we want."

There's something in the way she said it, words weighing a lot more than they were supposed to.

And so it went; the Becks household was not the only one. The pattern held true for nearly every encounter.

"How are you settling in?"

Not "welcome" or "hi and how long are you staying?" The last kind of question you would expect from someone meeting a newcomer. The question, however, assumed permanence. It assumed that you were settling in, that you live here now.

Initially, you passed it off as just another one of those quirks that could be attributed to small-town hospitality. Maybe that's just their way of being polite. But after a few more days, it became pretty hard to ignore the repetition.

You brought it up to Peter one morning as the two of you sat on May's porch, sipping coffee and watching the sunrise.

"Is it just me," you began, keeping your tone light, "or does everyone here ask the same question?"

Peter looked up from his mug, a confused smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "What question?"

"How I'm 'settling in.' Like, literally everyone has said it."

"Oh, that?" Peter chuckled, brushing it off with a wave of his hand. "That's just how people are around here. Small towns, you know? Everyone's in everyone else's business, and they just want to make sure you're happy. It's aggressively wholesome."

You nodded while struggling to let his explanation take root in you, but that feeling of unease lingered.

Then came the presents.

The librarian insisted that you check out a copy of Little Women, even if you just went there to browse.

"You'll love it," she said, sliding it over the counter to you with a knowing smile.

"How do you know?" you asked, only half-joking.

Her smile didn't waver. "I just do."

At the hardware store, the owner gave you a tiny potted shrub. "Every home needs a little bit of green," he said cheerfully, but his eyes had a dark intensity that made him more intimidating.

"Thanks," you mumbled awkwardly, holding the plant as you walked out.

It was the kind of gift given to a father like you, not at all because you wanted it, but so they could wave it in your face.

The real breaking point occurred one night at the diner.

Peter was treating you to dinner there after spending the afternoon wandering around town. It was quieter than usual, the counter occupied only by a few regulars. The place smelled of coffee and fries, and while Peter was busy demolishing a plate of the latter, you excused yourself to go to the washroom.

The hallway at the back of the diner is dark and narrow, the overhead fluorescent lights humming in slightly grating tones. At the door marked "Women," you caught snatches of voices from the kitchen-garbled, urgent.

"…And she's settling in?"

"She seems fine so far. Peter's doing a good job keeping her comfortable."

You were frozen with your hand on the doorknob. Your pulse raced. "Good, she has to feel like she belongs, it's important."

Then there was a crashing sound of many dishes, followed by a long heavy pause.

"So," says the first voice, "you think she suspects anything?"

"No. Not yet."

There, silence fell between the voices after that, then just the faintest clink—the sound of silverware-and the quick pounding of your heartbeat resounded in your ears.

When you stepped back to the table, Peter's easy smile greeted you. "Everything cool?" he asked as he dipped a fry into ketchup. "Yeah," you said quickly as you slid into your seat. "Fine."

The mind remained racing.

They must be talking about someone else—a new hire at the diner. Maybe a new family into town. There was no way they were talking about you.

Right?

You tried to shake it off, sinking into Peter's chatter about the upcoming festival, but the unease clung to you like a second skin.

May's small guest room became so beautiful in the rays of the morning sun that they filtered through lace curtains and softly flecked the walls. You stared ridiculously at the ceiling, a heavy weight on your chest, making sleep unusually elusive. Thoughts had been just too loud and tangled.

Those whispers from the diner, the rehearsed kindness from townspeople, and the way he seemed to brush it all off so easily were elusive things you couldn't shake off. The most you told yourself was that it was probably nothing.

This is what you told yourself as you forced yourself out of bed and down the stairs. Peter wouldn't lie to you; he was the most genuine person you knew. Right?

The smell of pancakes and coffee greeted you in the kitchen.

By the stove stood Peter, his hair at odd angles and humming a tune under his breath. For a moment, you let yourself relax. This is Peter, your Peter.

"Good morning, sleepyhead!" he greeted, grinning at you with that boyish grin. He slid over a plate of pancakes drenched in syrup and topped with fresh strawberries.

"Morning," you replied, low enough to be heard.

"You okay?" he asked, tilting his head.

"Yeah, just didn't sleep much," you tugged and picked little at your food.

"Frowning," Peter said and kept down his fork. "Anything troubling you?"

"No," you lied quickly. "Just one of those nights."

He studied you for a moment, and you forced a small smile. Whatever the unease was, there was no reason for dragging Peter into it. He'd just dismiss it as he always did.

At last, the day was spent in a well-practiced blur of activities. It seemed Peter had made up his mind to keep you as busy as possible, even dragging you around the town park and to that creek he used to catch tadpoles as a kid. And if that weren't enough, he picked you up from the bakery where the sweet aroma of pastries was very strong. Offering you so many pastries till your stomach ached

Evening had cloaked the house in darkness, and so much for bottled up emotions. After dinner, the two of you sat alone in the living room: May well and truly off to bed. And that left you here with Peter sprawled across the couch flipping through some book, while you closed yourself into a tight little knot in the armchair.

"Peter," you broke the silence.

He blinked up at you with alarmed eyes. "Yeah?"

"I need to ask you something."

His brows knitted slightly, but he set aside the book. "Sure. What is it?"

You pause, heart racing. "Last night at the diner I heard something. Two people in the kitchen were talking about me."

Peter's face remained impassive. Still in his eyes, there was a flicker of something that disappeared as quickly as the light.

"What did they say?"

"They said you were doing a good job keeping me comfortable. That I need to feel like I belong." You paused, faltering with your voice. "Peter, what does that mean?"

Peter leaned forward, dangling his elbows on his knees. "It's nothing, they were probably just being nosy. People here care about each other, and when someone new comes in, they get… curious."

"That is not how it sounded," you said shaking your head. "It sounded like, intentional. It sounded much like plotting."

"You're overthinking this" Peter sighed rubbing back on his neck "Seriously, this town—it's different—close-knit. They just want to ensure you feel welcome, happy here, nothing but that".

“Then why does it feel so fake?” you pressed, raising your voice. “Everyone acts like they already know me. Like they’re expecting something to come from me.”

Peter tensed his jaw, and then he did not speak anything for a moment. He then stood up suddenly. "I brought you here for your help," he said in a hard tone. "I brought you here so you might begin a fresh mental state, a place where you could heal. And instead of appreciating it, you are looking for ways to tear it apart."

"I didn't ask for this!" you shot back, standing as well. "I didn't ask to be dragged into some town where everyone acts like I'm part of some… some secret club!"

Peter turned to you, eyes flashing. "You didn't have to ask! You were falling apart. You needed this. And I've been trying my best to make things easier for you, but you can't even see that, can you?"

The words hit you like a slap. Staring at him, breathless, tears filling your eyes. "Peter… why are you doing this?"

He softened immediately, shoulders slumping. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to—look, I just… I care about you. I hate seeing you so lost. I thought bringing you here would help, but maybe I was wrong."

You wiped your eyes, and the mind is busy with thoughts. Maybe he is right. Maybe you are over-reacting. Peter was not that manipulative. He was just worried.

"Okay," you said finally, your voice shaky. "But if this town is so great, then why does it feel like there is something you are not telling me?"

Peter's eyes drifted towards the window momentarily—as if to check whether there were eavesdroppers outside—"It is not like that," he said, whispering faintly barely audible.

"Then tell me what it is," you said. "If you want me to trust you, then stop keeping secrets."

Peter sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging. "Alright," he said. "But you're not going to like it."

"And that's supposed to mean what?"

He moved closer, looking you straight in the eye. "Some things are better demonstrated rather than told," he said, his tone even more pleading. "I'll tell you everything tomorrow. Just…give me another day."

You gawked at him, feeling your belly tie up in knots. Every instinct in you screamed to demand answers right now, but for some reason, the look in his eyes stopped you. He looked… desperate.

"Fine," you said with reluctance. "One more day."

Peter nodded, a relief washing over his face. "Thank you," he said almost inaudibly. "I assure you, it will all come into perspective soon."

But climbing into bed that night only made more pronounced the doubts gnawing at you louder than they had done before.

The cold, crisp evening air wrapped tight around you like a noose, as they led Peter into the woods. Try as you might to ignore the uncomfortable hollow in your gut, the longer you sat in this strange, unsettling village, the more you felt that something dark ran underneath it all. Every villager's smile, how they seemed to know just a little too much about you—everything just felt orchestrated, perfect.

You had held the doubts to yourself, buried deep down because Peter had always been the perfect anchor. But tonight, something flickered in his eyes—his tense shoulders and that almost undetectable flash of something darker crossing his face—told you that you were no longer in control.

You entered the clearing, gasping for air by the time you stepped into the structure resembling a stone chapel. The door agonizingly creaked open, bringing in the cold air from outside in juxtaposition with the stifling heat within. There, illuminated softly, were the others. A few you recognized from the eerily quiet familiar faces that watched you through predatory eyes.

It felt thick and heavy in the air, almost stultifying. The walls were closing in, and the silence was becoming almost oppressive. Peter gently but firmly drew you forward, his comforting presence still providing warmth, though everything else seemed wrong.

He was more weathered and older than you imagined, the drawn skin of his face tight over sharp features, pale and unblinking eyes matching his face. The robe hung dark and almost blended into shadows as he approached you. A murmur swept through the people gathered, and you paid little attention. Everything spun in your head and your heart drummed against your ears.

"Peter," said the man with a voice which grated like a rusty hinge, as if he had been whispering for years. "She has come."

Peter's eyes had been fixed on you for some time, and now he nodded slowly. The heat of his gaze made your skin crawl. The man checked you out from head to toe, and his intense eyes seemed to promise a lot of something. "Perfect," he said under his breath but not for too long so that others could hear him as he shouted, "She is the one. It's time."

Time, just like that word, seemed hollow, reverberating in the air around you like a bad omen. Instead, you opened your mouth to argue or question what part of this was really happening, but then, Peter squeezed your shoulder so tightly that it felt like it might crush your bones.

"It's okay," he whispered against your ear with his very warm breath. "I'll explain everything. You'll understand soon enough."

But understanding was the last thing you wanted to happen. All you had in mind was running. The man stepped forward, never breaking the eye contact. "Our village has managed to survive for many centuries and still thrive at its odds. But there is one rule that we have to abide by—there is one rule that can't be broken. After every eighteen years, one of our own must depart from this world and find someone in the outside world—from beyond these walls to someone pure."

Your mouth went dry. "What… what do you mean by that?"

"Every time a child turns eighteen, he must leave for a period of time to spend in the world outside, learn its ways; but after this period, he must return, and he must bring someone from the outside to add to the village."

Your body suddenly turned ice cold. "What do you mean, bring someone from the outside?" You spluttered. Your voice barely made an impression on the silence.

The smile of the man became broad. "A new family member. A mate. Someone to whom they will get married, with whom they will create children. This is the law."

You turned to Peter with wide eyes filled with horror as your heart stuttered deep in your chest. "What do you mean… a mate? You want me to…?"

Peter tightened his grip on your shoulder and breathed shallowly. "That's how it is done. This is how we survive. The village needs strong new blood. The children produced from these unions keep the bloodline pure, preventing inbreeding."

Inbreeding. That one word roared through your mind like no other thought. You couldn't breathe. You felt suffocated under the weight of all that.

"What… what are you saying?" you gasped, stunned and unable to take in everything being revealed to you.

Peter stepped even closer; eyes dark with something almost predatory. "That's how this works. You're part of the plan now. You have no choice. You are here because you were chosen. You are going to help us keep the village alive. Our survival depends on… "

"No," you whispered, stumbling backward as you tried to retreat. "No, this isn't right. You can't—this isn't—"

And suddenly, an old man stepped beside you, his shadowy tallness overshadowing you. "You will understand soon. You are not the first, nor will you be the last. Every child who leaves returns with someone. And they will mate, they will bear children. This is how we preserve our people, how we protect our bloodline." He said as if it was your duty, as if this was your destiny.

"No!" You screamed tearing the air with your voice now choked in emotions. "This is insane! You're insane!"

The gentleness from Peter that used to soothe you all vanished, replaced by the steely resolve. He took another step forward, and instinctively you recoiled. "I did not want you to have this," he said, his voice low and strained, "but it is how it is. You will come to understand, and you will see that it is for the best."

The other villagers watched you with silent intensity as the space surrounding you felt as if it were closing in on you, with walls pressing from all sides. You could feel their hungry and expectant eyes on you.

You wanted to run. You wanted to yell.

But as soon as the old man reached out his hand to grab you, Peter's hold on your arm tightened, his fingers digging into your skin, keeping you anchored. "You don't understand yet," he said quietly, his voice tinged with something darker, something that, as it sent chills down your spine, made you think he was going to take you off somewhere to be tortured. "But you will. Soon, it will make sense. The only way to survive is this. This is something we can't let you ruin."

You were trapped. The weight of their expectations crushed you, their smiles now twisted masks of something monstrous beneath.

"Your child will also do the same duty," the old man said softly. "When they come back to the village with their mate, they will fulfill their destiny. They will carry our future."

Your chest constricted. Every part of you screamed to escape, to run, to fight against the suffocating nightmare into which you had been dragged. All the while, in the depths of your consciousness, you knew that there was no escaping this; they had planned for this. They had chosen you.

Back against the stone wall of the chapel now, your breath came in rapid, gasping suction since the reality began to drown in you. It beat loudly in your chest, a frantic mind racing for exit routes, for freedom from the path that had been laid out for me like a spider's web in all its horrible detail.

Peter's gaze was cold and cruel; it was no longer the warm presence one had hoped for. The heady words of the old man echoed in your ears, chilling and impossible to escape, like a curse. "You will return. You will bear our future."

As impossible as it was to believe, you finally realized it, this fucked up cycle wanted you to be part of it—and not by choice.

But you weren't going to let that happen.

You pushed past Peter and felt the sharp sting as he grabbed at your arm. You broke free, legs now trembling beneath you, as you headed for the door. You had to get out. You didn't know where you were running, but the woods were the only option. The only chance at freedom. You burst through the chapel door and into the cold night air, stumbling over uneven ground.

You heard footsteps behind you, but you didn't dare look back. The wind howled around you, swallowing up any sounds from the village. Your lungs burned as you pushed yourself faster, harder, your breath ragged from panic clawing at your chest.

You didn't look up when you heard a car approaching, but you didn't stop either, as your mind told you to keep running, to escape, but your legs were beginning to fail you.

The car stopped short before you, the headlights blinding. You turned with a wild heart as the door to that vehicle swung open. A man in a police uniform stepped out, his expression unreadable.

"Hey, are you alright?" he asked, with a soft voice but underneath carrying an authority.

He wouldn't let you trust him, and you could be in danger. "I-I need help," you stuttered, barely able to catch your breath. "They're chasing me. They—they won't let me leave."

The officer stepped closer, his eyes darting toward the woods behind you. "Who's chasing you? What happened?" His voice was smooth, coaxing, calm.

You stumbled toward him, the last shreds of your resistance slipping away. His presence was comforting, the uniform a familiar sign of safety in this strange world that had turned upside down. "Please," you gasped. "I need to get out of here. Please help me."

The officer smiled, that warm, almost paternal smile that gave you a moment's feeling of cocooned safety. "You are well within safety here. Get into the car and I'll take you to the station. They won't find you."

You didn't even think twice about it. Worn out and shivering, you climbed into the passenger seat of the car. The door slammed behind you, then the engine revved into life. You sank into the seat, closed your eyes, letting the sound of the engine create an illusion of safety. Finally, you escaped. Finally, you could breathe again.

The engine growled before heading out with the officer looking at you and softening his expression to almost a grin. "A strange night out here, huh?" Are you really sure you are, okay?"

You shook your head, catching your breath. "I need to get away from those people… I don't know who they are but they're dangerous."

"People can be dangerous, can't they?" he mused.

You glanced at him. "Yeah, I guess. I just don't know who to trust anymore."

Soft chuckle from him, as if to sense that it sounds contrived, that it has to be learned. "What's trust? You just have to know whom to get along with and whom to avoid. It requires experience."

You just turned to the window and trees and darkness rushed by. The mind was reeling from the attempt at grasping everything that has happened as it was really too much: the town; the event; Peter's cold stare; and now this—this officer who has apparently materialized at just the right moment. He must be the one sent to rescue you.

"Where are we off to?" You asked

"Oh, just a little way out of town," he replied, his voice smooth, almost too smooth. "Nothing to worry about."

You nod, fatigue dragging heavily on your eyelids. For a moment, it felt good, like all was well. But then the cop's voice became a personal one.

''I'm Steve by the way, Steve Rogers. Was just coming here for a quick stroll," he began, "I never thought I was going to be out here, helping someone like you. It is really funny, how life turns out."

Brow furrowed, and incomprehension written all over the face. "What do you mean?"

The very slight narrowing of the officer's eyes at you, just for an instant, was followed by his returning gaze to the road ahead. "I spent a lot of time in these parts, and the people can be somewhat…. they are peculiar. But then, I guess you already know that."

Heck, what was he talking about? "What do you mean by a little hard to understand? Who do you mean by that?"

Just above a smile, something confidential, something dark, flickered across the officer's lips. "Well, my wife, Peggy… she was from around here. She got them, you know? Understood what was going on. It took me a long time to realize it, but eventually, I figured it out. I did too."

Your heart stops, hammering against the confinement of your ribs. "Peggy… Carter?" That name rang in your mind like a bell, sharp and dissonant. You had heard that name before, only in whispers, a long time ago.

From what you remembered Peggy Carter was one of the most vicious woman in the police force, even in her short time in doing her job. One day she got married to a man named Steve and nothing was heard from her again. As if she disappeared, she completely left her job and duty, and so did Steve who was a fellow police like her who also vanished from the face of the earth. That was all you knew, and all of that happened 10 years ago. Many believed they moved. Some believed

The officer's smile brightened, but now it had no warmth. His voice went down low, as if telling you a secret you weren't supposed to know, "That's right. Peggy Carter. She was special. A part of something much bigger than either of us ever realized. I didn't understand it at first. Thought she was just a regular woman… but then I saw it. I saw everything for what it was."

It had caught in your throat because your mind was connecting all the dots. Peter, in actual fact, couldn't stop saying that you were here for a bigger thing, that you actually belonged. And now there is the officer, Peggy Carter, the strange village thing, the quite twisted ceremony—now everything starts to get clearer while terrifying you.

Your pulse raced, and once more, you cast a glance at him, eyes wide with realization. "You… you’re one of them, aren’t you? You’re one of their… their plan.”

For just a second, something shadowy, something colder, flicked through his eyes; and with that flicker, somehow you knew you'd made a terrible mistake trusting him.

Steve Rogers, the cop smiled "I was hoping you'd come around sooner or later. You're a bit smarter than I thought," his voice was light, like he was discussing the weather. "However," a dangerous tremor lurked below his words. "Peggy always said you'd be the perfect addition - just like I was, just like she was."

You sprung back, your first instinct was to reach for the door handle, but before your brain could register what was happening, the vehicle shifted violently. Body flung against the door; your head crashed against the metal side with a sickening thud. Stars exploded behind your eyes, and suddenly, everything muffled.

When you woke up from what felt like the worst sleep in your life, but you weren't sleeping, or did you just doze off and you couldn't remember any of it? Everything felt like a blur, memories were juggled up, and everything seemed out of place. How did I get here again? You thought to yourself.

It was strangely silent all around. The engine's rhythmic humming gave way to a stifling, heavy silence. You couldn't move. The air around you was thick and stifling; you had a throbbing headache that was likely to make you nauseous.

You couldn't even comprehend what was happening before you saw the door of the car opened, your whole-body weight made you fall off the vehicle. You audibly groaned as your body hit the rough dirty cement

Lo and behold, standing right in front of was Steve Rogers, towering above you, his face expressionless. His cold stare that piercing through your soul at you while your arms continued to adjust the sleeves of his uniform with a calm expertise.

He circled you as if he was predator cornering its prey. He stopped just at your head. He looked at you with an expressionless face, he slowly smiled, the creepy type of smile you would see psychopaths do on movies.

You wanted to run, punch him in the face and fucking run. But you couldn't, it felt as if your feet have already given up on you, plus the blooming pain in your head made it hard to think.

"It just never gets the job done" He frowned momentarily, your eyes widened in fear as you saw him take a beer bottle from behind his back, you shook your head, no please, please, please. You tried your best to crawl away from him, but you couldn't even feel your legs.

You sobbed in defeat, but he just caressed your cheek and wiped your tears away, as if to lure you into a false sense of security. With all the softness of a feather, he said, "You'll be fine," really more to reassure himself than you. "The ceremony's just waiting for you."

Before you can act, a hard bang on your head seems to lurch your stomach. The officer had swung a beer bottle at your skull; it hit with a sickening crack and within the instant the pain exploded into darkness pressing behind your eyes, and the world went black.

It was the scent of incense—sickeningly sweet and heavy enough to churn in the stomach. Candlelight flickered. shadows danced on stone walls, making the small space feel smaller by the second.

You woke up all lethargic with a blooming headache. You felt relaxed underneath the soft bed that you laid, but once you took in the stone walls, it felt like a train has hit you. All of the events from a few hours ago running you over.

Your mind raced, scrambling for an escape route, but all you saw was Peter standing between you and the door.

He never looked more like a stranger.

The once boyish charm which drew me to him was now a hollow mask as he hid himself behind his dark eyes. The face had no malignance—worse, it was soft, almost tender, like he really believed in what he was about to do. And that thought haunted me most terrifyingly.

"You are trembling," Peter said, his calm and soothing voice only making the fear spike higher. "I know it's a lot, really overwhelming, taking it all at once… but… it will be okay, I promise you."

"Peter, please," you whispered, your voice breaking into pieces at the seams. You could hardly utter a word without your throat choking it. "You don't have to do this. Let me out. I promise I won't tell the police—"

But that was where he cut you off by shaking his head sadly. "You don't understand. This is my home. It is where I belong. And now, it is where you belong too. We are part of something bigger here. Something meaningful."

"Meaningful?" you spat. "You kidnapped me, lied to me, and brought me here to…" The words cracked at the tightness in your throat. You couldn't even say them. I dawned onto you that you have been too trusting with Peer, but who wouldn't? Who knew that clumsy little sweet Peter was capable of doing something this fucked.

Peter stepped closer, casting a shadow over the too small room where it suddenly felt claustrophobic and anchoring. “I didn’t kidnap you. I saved you.”

His voice is insistent, though not harsh. “You were lost out there. Alone. No family, no one who cared about you. Don’t you see? This is your chance to start over, to have a purpose. To be loved.”

“Loved?” The word struck your lips like venom. “This isn’t love, Peter. This is… this is sick.”

It darkened slightly his countenance, as a spark of frustration crossed his face before it was replaced by forced patience. "You're scared," he softly pronounced. "That's normal. But fear does not last. Once you embrace your role, once you understand what we're building here, you'll see that it's not sick. It's beautiful."

“No,” you whispered, the soft sound swallowed by the thrumming of your heart. “No, this isn’t survival. This is—”

“But” Peter cut you off firmer now like a knife slicing through your protests. “It’s already decided. The village chose you. I chose you. And now… it’s time to fulfill your purpose.”

Peter looked at you, with a voice deceptively soft. “It’s not about what you want. It’s about what the village needs. What I need. We can’t let our bloodline die. Every generation, we bring someone in—someone like you. It’s how we survive. How we thrive.”

“Not,” that voice barely came out through the rapid pounding of your heart. "No, this isn't survival. This is—"

The words sent the waves of nausea throbbing through you. Your knees buckled, landing you onto the edge of the bed, your body shaking violently. Peter knelt before you, hands gentle as they gripped your knees. The touch made your skin crawl, but you were frozen, paralyzed by fear.

"You are afraid," he repeated, the tone almost tender. "it needs to be this way. After the ceremony, you'll see there is clearly a need for it."

"Peter," you choked out, barely in a whisper. "Don't do this, please."

He tilted his head, softening in expression as if he really thought given how pitiful you look. "This is for them. For us. For the village. You'll thank me one day."

The door creaked open, and two women stepped in to the door. They moved with quiet, almost unnerving precision their white, long, and flowing robes covering the ground as they entered. Both had faces that seemed devoid of emotion—serene but cold as if they had performed this ritual hundreds of times before.

You instinctively tried to press yourself into the corner of the bed pulling down from Peter. “Who are they?” you asked unsure though your voice came out shaky and weak.

Peter turned toward the women; his posture casual almost welcoming. “They’re here to help,” he said softly as though the explanation should comfort you.

Help. The word in your stomach was like poison. You didn’t need help. You needed to escape.

One of the women carried a bowl filled with a dark unknown substance that shimmered strangely in the candle's light. She laid the bowl down on a small wooden table near the bed, her movements carefully controlled. The other carried a smaller cup with her fingers clutching tightly as she looked at you.

“Don’t,” you said, your voice trembling as you shook your head. “I’m not drinking that.”

It’s just to help,” he said calmly. "You’ve been through so much. You lived so much. You’re shaking. You’re exhausted. This will relax you.”

“I don’t want to relax!” you cracked your voice rising in desperation. “I want to leave! Please, Peter, don’t do this!”

He sighed, as though disappointed but his patience did not waver. “I know you’re scared,” he said reaching out to hold his hand on your knee. “But this isn’t about fear. It’s about trust. You trust me, don’t you?”

Your stomach tilted and a cold wave of nausea was rolling over you. Why would he even ask that question? "Peter, you are not the person I thought you were. I don’t trust you. I don’t even know you anymore.”

Peter’s jaw tightened somewhat ever so slightly, as if flickering with guilt. Peter was the funny and clumsy guy you met at a party, but this Peter. You don't know which dimension he came from. But his guilt was immediately gone in an instant replaced by the same calm, unnervingly patient expression, accompanied with a reassuring smile that could've been comforting in different circumstances.

“It’s my fear. I think that can be said,” he said, his tone softening again. "Once you let go of this, you will see. You’ll feel better.”

He gestured toward the woman with the cup to reach closer to you. Her movements were graceful, fast rehearsed as she held the drinking. The cup itself was simple, wooden. But compared to what's inside looked nothing compared to ordinary. It was a dark murky brown with faint swirls of crimson that seemed to ripple on its own.

Your stomach churned at the sight of it, you wanted to gag at the thought of even coming in contact with that liquid, you said again "I won't drink that." Your voice barely above a whisper.

The woman didn’t respond. She held the cup in her hand, as if waiting for you drink it still.

Peter reached for your hand and firmly gripped on it, but not a forceful one. "It’s okay,” he said softly, his eyes locking with yours. “This will help you. I promise.”

You tried to pull your hand away, but his grip tightened, and the woman moved the cup closer to your lips. Panic rolled. Your heart began to beat, and tears were falling from your eyes. “No!” you shouted thrashing against Peter’s hold. “Let me go!”

But he didn’t let go. His strength was shocking and unyielding as he held your and instructed the woman to force the drink in your mouth. The dark liquid sloshed down the rim, spilling onto your trembling chin as you refused to open your mouth, moving your head back and forth so that you could just avoid the unknown and disgusting liquid.

“Please don’t fight this!” Peter shouted; his tone now laced with urgency and desperation. "It’s better if you just let it happen."

The woman tilted the cup and poured the thick liquid into your lips. You clenched your teeth, refusing to let it in. Peter’s hand moved to your jaw, his fingers pressing firmly until your mouth opened involuntarily. Liquid graced on your tongue, its taste vile and metallic like rotting herbs and rust.

You gagged and coughed violently as they forced you to swallow. The bitterness burned all the way down, leaving an acrid aftertaste that made you want to rip out your tongue, you fell on the bed as you gripped your throat—massaging your throat, a pathetic attempt to soothe the taste that felt like it travelled all the way down to your throat, it didn't have any burning sensation, it just felt like your throat had taste buds.

You convulsed on the bed, “What the- What was that?” you asked; out of breath as you tried to gasp for air.

Peter stood “You’re going to feel it soon,” he said, pushing a damp lock of hair off your brow.

It was a gentle warmth blooming in your chest, then outward like the bright afterglow from the strongest of drinks. Then it grew. It scorched through your veins, making your skin feel alive with a burst of tingling sensations. Your breaths came quicker as you kept trying to dismiss the feelings, but they just wouldn't listen.

“W-What is happening to me?” came the stammers from you in a trembling voice.

Peter knelt beside you again, touching your knee ever so lightly with his hand. “The elixir is working its magic on you,” he said kindly. “It allows you to let go. To free yourself to connect with what is meant to be.”

This warmth soon transformed into a more diabolical sensation, a slow burn that throbbed low in your stomach that stretched to your clothed womanhood. Suddenly every nerve ending on your skin was hypersensitive, sending a shiver down your spine against that crawl of fabric over your body. Heart racing, but it was hardly with fear.

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “No, this isn’t right.”

Peter merely smiled all the wider and relaxed his squeeze on your shoulder. “It’s okay to feel this way,” he said. “Your body is just responding. It’s natural.”

While your mind was telling you every reason to fight it off, your body would have none of it. That heat, the damn heat; it clouded everything snuffing off every thought but that strange feeling growing in you.

Peter leaned in closer as he whispered “This is how it’s supposed to be. Don’t fight it. Just let it happen.”

Your brain screamed against this intrusion, invoking all the force it could muster to reject it, to reject him. But your limbs felt heavy, thick, sluggish, as though they had been clapped into a steel frame. The drug took effect, you loathed it and wished to deny the dull calling of unwanted pleasure.

"Please," you managed to whisper, letting your tears flow down your cheeks. "Don't do this."

In every way this was wrong. You didn't want to partake in this, you wanted out. Peter was not the person you thought he would. Maybe he was before all of this, but not now.

Peter held your face with both his hands—gentle yet firm. "It's been done," he said, pinning his gaze on yours with steady resolve.

The heat had become unbearable; it drummed against your thoughts and created ceilings that pressed down on you. You could hardly breathe, each breath barely manageable since all control was lost over thoughts revolving around him. The very touch of him inflamed every nerve in your body.

Peter continued to lean forward until the distance separating your two faces became almost nonexistent. The darkness of his brown eyes was rendered soft, for all that, it was chillingly out of place now. "You're trembling," he said softly, his voice dipping with mock concern as he brushed his palm over your damp forehead, lingering perhaps a moment too long.

You turned your head away, yet your body was heavy and unwilling to cooperate. "P-please," you whispered, not even sure what it was you were begging for at this point—mercy, some distance, anything but this.

Peter's hand slid down again to cradle your face, thumb grazing your cheek. The warmth of his touch felt like additional treachery against your body, which leaned into his hand, once again, even though the screams of your mind were saying otherwise. "Shh," he said, his voice dropping to a soothing pitch. "It's okay. You're safe here. With me."

His words twisted a knife that lodged in your heart, and you were still trying to find a protest when his other hand clamped on your waist—gentle yet firm. Just enough pressure was applied to make acutely aware of every detail of your closeness: the scent of wood smoke and something faintly sweet, flooding your senses and drowning all your composure.

"You've had to fight for so long," he said; there was almost a tenderness in his voice. "Let it go—let me take care of you."

You shook your head weakly, your lips parting to say no words that would come. Everything in you resisted, heavily dulled by the drug that now crumbled your defenses and left you helpless to bask in warmth blossoming in your chest and the sickening affinity of Peter's presence.

He angled his face, gazing down at you as the thumb of his right hand traced the curve of your jaw. "So beautiful," he murmured, almost a whisper. "Yet you don't even see it? You are something else—so special."

The tears that had built up in your eyes crashed down, scalding lines down your cheeks. "Please," you said again, but it came almost like a feeble whisper, your power to protest fractured.

Peter leaned forward, and his breath ghosted over your lips. "I've waited for this," he murmured, as though revealing a secret. "Waited for you. I thought I would never even have a chance with you since you were so fucking smitten with your dick of a boyfriend. But you're mine now,"

And before you could think, hit him back or convince him otherwise, his lips crushed against yours.

The kiss was languid, purposeful, and claiming. His mouth flowed with an unsettling confidence, an almost eerie manifestation of such rehearsed movement, if it existed at all. You wanted to break apart from him and scream and fight him, but your body let you down one last time; it was folded under the drug and against the full force of his presence.

His hands moved, one remained cradling your face, while the other tightened at your waist as a gentle reminder that you belonged nowhere else. It was a kiss more claiming than forceful, a silent proclamation of his ownership over you.

He finally pulled away but only to press his forehead to yours, feeling warm against your skin. "It's time" he whispered, it was loud enough for the women to hear. They immediately scurried out of the room and closed the door on their way out.

Before even asking what was going on, Peter attacked your neck. You shrieked at his sudden actions. He kissed, licked, and bite every single portion of your neck.

Peter's hot tongue licked your skin as he leaned closer, lips barely grazing the curve of your neck. A shiver made its way down your spine as he softly sucked on the sensitive flesh, forming this sweet vacuum that made your heart stand still.

Peter kept on kissing and nibbling at your neck, fueling his excitement that grew hotter like a fire, determined to engulf you both. His hands tightened around your waist, drawing you closer as he deepened the kiss, lips and tongue moving together in a dance that spoke both pleasure and pain.

You winced; you want nothing more but for this to end. You tried to imagine yourself in another scenario, a happy one. That one time where Harry bought you this wonderful necklace for your one-year anniversary. Things were still calm, peaceful.

You were so deep in thought that the ripping sound of fabric made you flinch. You have realized that Peter has ripped off your thin graphic t-shirt, leaving nothing but your bra on full display for him. But of course, the bra didn't stay on for long.

He ripped your bra off you with such force. He threw the bra elsewhere, that was the least of his worries as your he saw your mounds with all its glory. Blood rushed up to his cock at the sight of you half naked and slightly damp from sweat. You on the other hand just wanted nothing more but all of this to end.

Peter leaned in, his lips grazing your skin down to the soft curve of your delicate breast. His mouth latched onto your nipple, and he started to suckle; the soft gentle tug sent a jolt of sensation radiating through your body. Your hands fisted the sheets as you let out a shriek.

"You have no idea how long I have waited for this moment" His words came in muffled since he was still stuffing his face with your breasts, but you heard it loud and clear. How blind were you? Peter has been lusting over you, longer than you even met him, how come you never realized it? All the warning signs were there, but they were subtle, now they're just coming to light now that it was too late.

He had grown more daring now, sucking, kissing, and licking every inch of your breasts. He nibbled and sucked at the curves, gently biting the flesh around them. Meanwhile, his hands traveled all over her torso, cupping and squeezing dear breasts as if to remember every contour.

"So beautiful," he whispered in between kisses. "Perfect. Mine." Those words sent a shuddering chill up your spine.

Peter stared into your eyes while he was sucking and nibbling on your breasts. They would have been a sweet sight if the present state of affairs were any different.

He released your nipple from his mouth, as drool connected from his lips to your erect nipples.

With urgent impatience, Peter fumbled with the buttons of his shirt and then tore it off, revealing a sculpted torso that demanded attention. The muscles of his torso flexed while he moved, and for a second, you could not help but look at the sheer grace and control that radiated off his body.

Now, Peter had long ceased to be interested in himself; he was now concentrating all his energy and attention on you. The moment he grabbed hold of your pants, and his fingers had clasped tightly around the waistband, panic ran through you at the sight of him pulling down on them. You didn't want to give in, not now, not ever.

Your hands went straight up to push against him; you punched at his chest with all the remaining strength that you have that wasn't stripped off by the drug. Your fruitless attempt on trying to gain some space between your bodies.

"Peter, no," you said, your voice wavering but earnest. "I don't want to. Please!"

His eyes never left the prize, and nothing was going to stop him. He yanked your pants down, regardless of how you kicked and thrashed against the force with which he was pulling. Your underwear met the cool air.

A wave of embarrassment washed over you as you realized that Peter was staring down at the small scrap of fabric that barely covered you in your most intimate area.

He wrapped his fingers around your underwear's waistband. You tried to squirm away from him, but he held you tight, his grip like a vice. In one swift motion, he ripped the fabric from your body, leaving you completely bare.

Peter's eyes had wandered across every inch of your naked body, you tried to look away from him, but your face was met with a wet pillow, you didn't even notice that you have let out a few tears.

Peter dove on to your crotch and his warm breath rolled over your sensitive skin like a wave of fire. His tongue flicked out as he suckled at your clit, and involuntarily, jolts of electricity pulsed up your spine. You attempted to push him off you once more, but Peter was far too strong

Peter continued his assault on your pussy, you felt a familiar sensation happening. You shook your head as your body betrayed you. Peter seemed to notice this, "There she is"

Before you knew it, he inserted a finger in your hole as he continuously licked your clit with such vigor.

You let out a strangled moan as your hand flew to his hair. Peter smirked at this as he slowly fucked you with his finger, which was a stark contrast to his tongue who ravished you like you were his last meal

"God, such a tasty pussy" He murmured, which just sent vibrations to your pussy. He continued, his tongue circles your clit, licking and sucking on it like he can't get enough. "Good lil fuckin pussy" He moaned as if he's the one getting head.

He continues to lap on your juices, slurping any arousal seeping through as if he hadn't drunk water in many years.

His voice low and soft, whispering how good it is, how perfect your sweet pussy was for him. "Fuck, baby, you're so fucking sweet—so good for me. God, I'm so glad your mine now." He kisses it so passionately, muttering praises to it while his tongue laps you up.

And as he continued to lick and suck at your clit, you felt a building pressure inside yourself. It felt like every nerve ending had been ignited by Peter’s ministrations.

Your legs stiffened, your hips jerked upwards, and your entire body began to tremble with anticipation.

With such joy and pain, you felt like you were seeing stars right in front of you. The intensity was too much to bear as your grip on Peter's hair tightened

That instant when the knot finally snapped and a deluge of pure, harmless ecstasy engulfed you, your body contorted, muscles oscillating and contracting rhythmically; an intense orgasm swooping upon you like a tempest.

Your legs stiffened and your toes curled in pleasure. You clutched at anything and everything. Peter's hair, bed linen, anything to hold on to the threads of reality, as everything before your eyes dissolved into an ocean of forced bliss.

River of tears were falling from your eyes. You couldn't help but reminiscence your time with Harry. For the first years you were together with Harry, he was sweet and loving, even if your relationship has turned sour after Harry found another hobby, he would never force himself inside you. When you had sex, it was always consensual.

With the final ripples of the orgasm fading away, Peter finally pulled his head from between your legs. His gaze brushed over you with a kind of possessive pride, and he took the disarray of your body in the messy fondle of your hair, the daze that lingered from where he brought you so close to the edge that you fell over it, and the slick of sweat glistening over your skin.

“You look tired,” Peter said with a soft almost guilty tone, "But I'm afraid that that was just to prepare you, were just beginning"

When those words came out his mouth you shook your head as you begged him, "Please Pete, please" You sobbed, your words barely even intelligible.

"Shhhhhhhh" He shushed you, "The more your accepting, the sooner this will end" No, you didn't want to accept this, there must be another way, there must be.

As he stood up and took off his pants, exposing his erect cock. His cock slightly bounced once the boxers were fully off of him. He climbed on top you as both of you were now fully naked as the day you were born.

"The bedding ceremony is about to begin” Peter said, low in his throat, his voice husky with desire. “It's going to hurt, but I think I prepped you enough”

He then aligned his cock to your slit. You gasped as his bulbous tip entered you, he wasn't big, but he was thick. He slowly pushed his cock inch by inch inside you, your sensitive flesh was still sore from the previous orgasm.

Peter suddenly thrusted deep inside you, fully losing patience, with a forcefulness that took your breath away. His cock touching your cervix when he bottomed inside you, it felt almost painful how intense it was.

“Please, Peter,” you pleaded, attempting to push him away. "You're hurting me."

But Peter just smiled at you, it gave you tingling shudders through your spine. “That's the first step of the ceremony” he said, pulling out then plunging back in. “You just have to learn to accept what I’m giving you, if you learn maybe Goddess will reward you"

His relentless cock was battering your insides, and you were starting to tear up. It was nearly unbearable agony; the pleasure was subtle that you could barely even get the gist of it, the searing warmth that burned itself into your very essence.

“Stop,” you said again, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. "Please just stop."

Through the pain and the fear, you never lost hope. So you fought back with a passion you never had before.

Your hands raked Peter’s chest, ripping at his skin to the point he grunted in surprise. Your fingers sank into his skin, but he only chuckled—a sound that was hollow and empty.

Unfazed, you fought on. Your teeth dug into his shoulder, biting down hard enough to make him hiss. But even as he grimaced, he wouldn’t stop — his hips pumping a relentless rhythm, one that threatened to swallow you whole.

You swung your fists, punching into Peter's face and chest with a frenzied abandon. Forced down in front of him as he sunk his cock deep within your needy hole, you tried to twist away, to squirm free as he held you in place, the weight of his body pinning your hands above your head, forcing you to take this.

And you tried, even though it was entirely pointless. You kicked your legs to try and buck him off you. But he was too heavy — too powerful — and he laughed again as he kept your legs pinned down beneath him.

With each thrust Peter grew more aggressive; almost brutal the heat inside you was burning you up; threatening to consume all reason and make you numb.

You were lost in the agonizing bliss, as Peter's cock continued its merciless assault on your insides. The fire in your belly grew more intense, it felt like it was spreading through your insides like wildfire.

"God, you're squeezing me so hard" Peter breathed as his thrusts slowed down just a little bit.

Yet whilst you sensed you were in pieces on the inside, that you were toppling apart, something in you relished it. It felt like your body had turned against you, reacting to the vicious attack with a disgusting cocktail of agony and pleasure.

Peter thrusts forward and you felt your hips bucking in time with his, your mind spinning in horror. It was like your body had created its own consciousness that responded immediately to the arousal with animal instinct that couldn't be suppressed.

You were losing yourself in the sensations, being sucked into a world both dark and depraved, where no line could be drawn between pain and pleasure. It was the most terrifying feeling in the world, when you wondered if you would ever find a way out of the grip of this monster who was responsible for everything.

With every thrust, Peter became more aggressive, more brutal - You could feel yourself losing control; teetering on edge, ready to plunge headfirst into unknown; uncertainty ignited both fear and anticipation.

Your breaths were coming in small gasps now as Peter gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like a vice. You attempted to move; attempted to wriggle against him—but it was futile: he was too strong

This friction just poured gasoline into the flames that had been raging within you—turning those pleasurable sensations into unbearable ones. The edge of your sight blurs out; stars dance along the border of your vision as the world narrows down on a single point of focus: Peter

In pure ecstasy moment you found yourself surrendering, submitting to the wave pleasure that is tearing up your body. Its fear inducing and freeing sensation — like leaping off a precipice without a net — not knowing what awaits at the base.

The world went white and quiet. You hear Peters voice in your ear whispering "Come for me" and with that your body explodes into thousand pieces

You weren't sure what happened, your mind all fogged and your pussy sore. The only thing you have noticed was that Peter was still thrusting inside you.

He leaned as he whispered the most haunting words into your ear, "I almost feel bad for you. I guess you should always follow what your parents says, don't trust strangers"

@gloomskulls 2024. DON'T COPY, TRANSLATE OR USE ANY OF MY WORKS HERE OR ANY OTHER WEBSITES. Photos don't belong to me

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