Summary: Set Post No Way Home - Peter Parker has been forgotten by everyone he once held dear. Isolated and fraying at the edges, Peter fixates on a girl from his past- you when you show him the smallest kindness and unknowingly becomes the center of his unraveling.
Word Count: 4.4k
Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, NON CON Dark psychological themes, Dubious consent / Non-consensual sexual content, Power imbalance (physical strength), Emotional manipulation, slight Obsession / Stalking mentions, Mentions of grief, trauma, and emotional isolation, Unreliable perspective / Twisted logic from a traumatized Peter Parker.
A/N: Trying out a Peter Parker idea…. Poor broken puppy.. HE DOES MESSED UP THINGS!
Peter hadn’t expected much from life these days.
Not since the spell. Not since May. Not since he had handed over everything to keep the world safe and got nothing in return but silence.
His days weren’t truly quiet, not with his thoughts always moving, his body never really resting. He was still Spider-Man, after all. The world might have forgotten Peter Parker, but he hadn’t forgotten how to move through it. Silently. Restlessly. Like he was waiting for something to make the noise stop. A small, dim apartment in Queens, the constant hum of the city outside his cracked window. A phone that never rang. A fridge that hummed louder than his thoughts. Jobs that paid by the delivery, not the hour. No health insurance. No one to miss him if he crashed his bike during a run. No one even to know.
He kept his head down. Moved through life like smoke. Weightless. Invisible.
But he had started cutting through the park sometimes. It was faster. Trees made the ride cooler. And lately, there was music.
A flute.
At first, he had just noticed the melody drifting through the trees, soft, familiar. Something warm and bright in a life that had gone so dull. Like a hand reaching out from a dream.
The second time, he had found the source. You were perched on a low stone wall near the fountain. Your case was open for coins. Your eyes were closed, expression peaceful. Hair catching sunlight. Fingers dancing over the instrument like it was an extension of your soul. Something about you tugged at the edge of his memory. You looked familiar, but with everything that had happened, he wasn’t sure. Everyone was older now. Changed. Maybe he had saved you once as Spider-Man. Maybe you'd passed in the halls at school. The thought gnawed at him as he stopped nearby and unwrapped a sandwich. He ate slowly, watching you from the shade, trying to place the echo of your face in his fractured past.
It became routine. His rides were slower. He started adjusting his breaks to match your playing schedule. Sometimes you weren’t there, and he circled the park twice just to make sure. When you were, he lingered. Sitting on benches. Pretending to scroll his phone. Pretending he wasn’t waiting for your eyes to find his.
One afternoon, you played something different.
Something familiar.
Peter had frozen mid-ride, his bike wobbling to a stop. His heart had stuttered.
He knew that song. Knew it.
Marching band. Sophomore year. That fall when everything still made sense. Autumn games and stiff uniforms. Cracked lips from trumpet practice. Your flute somewhere nearby in the bleachers. Maybe you’d laughed at something he’d said once or maybe you’d just laughed, and he had told himself it was because of him. He wasn’t sure. The memory was soft around the edges, blurred with time and magic, but it clung to him all the same.
This was why he had recognized you. Not the park. Not a blurry face in the crowd. But this—this moment. That song. That memory.
It had hit him hard. Like he was sixteen again. Like the world hadn’t fallen apart.
Without thinking, he had dug into his pocket and tossed a few coins into your case.
You had glanced up, caught his eye.
You smiled.
"Hey you."
Just that. Casual. Offhand. Warm. Like it was nothing.
To Peter it was everything.
He had walked away before you could take it back, his heart thudding like he had just jumped off a rooftop.
~#~#~#~#~#~#~
He kept coming back. Every day now. Delivery or not, Peter Parker found a reason to pass through the park. Sometimes he told himself it was coincidence, that he was just taking the most efficient route. But he knew better. He wanted to see you. To hear that music. To catch a glimpse of something warm and alive in a world that had turned so cold.
Sometimes, when you packed up early, he followed you at a distance. One afternoon, he’d trailed you all the way back to your building after catching a glimpse of you while patrolling rooftops. He told himself it was for your safety. That it wasn’t weird. That it didn’t mean anything that he sometimes perched on a nearby rooftop and watched your window glow into the evening, his fingers clenched around the edge of the ledge like the bricks might give him something to hold onto. Something real.
Some days you said hi. Just a word, a glance, a smile that lingered too long in his memory. Sometimes you just nodded, focused on your playing, brow furrowed as your fingers danced with precision and grace. Once, a gust of wind had scattered your sheet music across the grass and he had dropped his bike without a second thought, sprinting to help catch it before it was ruined. You had laughed, cheeks pink, breathless from chasing pages. You’d thanked him, called him a lifesaver, your eyes lighting up like it was the most natural thing in the world.
His face had burned for hours after.
He memorized everything about you. How you sat. The curve of your fingers. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when it got in the way. The snacks you liked, trail mix and peach rings. The way you hummed softly between songs, completely unaware you were doing it. He knew which shoes you wore on long days, the chipped polish on your thumbnail, the gentle sway of your body when you played with your eyes closed.
You’d become his routine. His comfort. His obsession.
Eventually, he had asked you out. It had taken him three tries to get the words out. His voice had cracked the first time, failed him the second, but the third time, on a cooler Thursday afternoon you had looked up, surprised. Hesitated just long enough for panic to bloom in his chest. But then you had smiled. That smile. And said yes.
He hadn’t slept the night before. His mind had raced, imagining every possible conversation, every touch, every look. What you might wear. What he should say. How he could make you see him- really see him. Not just as some awkward stranger with delivery bags and a nervous laugh. But as someone who mattered.
You had noticed him before. The boy on the bike. Cute in a scruffy, slightly awkward way. He looked about your age, maybe a year older. He wasn’t the only person who passed by regularly., there were the lunchtime walkers, the young moms with strollers, the joggers who circled like clockwork. But something about him stood out. The way he lingered. How he always seemed to stop nearby when you played.
Busking was never just about the money. It was about watching people. Sharing your music. About trying to make life feel normal in times that never quite felt normal anymore. Not since the Blip. Not with aliens, mad Titans, Avengers, and heroes flying overhead like they belonged more than you did.
He stopped a lot. First it was just a few coins in your case, then a note or two. You’d noticed him, sure. The cute boy on the bike who looked to be about your age. He lingered more than most. One of the reasons you busked was to people-watch, to share something gentle in a world that never quite felt gentle anymore. Music helped life feel normal. Whatever that meant now. Not with aliens, Blips, mad Titans, Avengers and heroes turning the sky upside down.
You’d spotted him watching you more than once. Eating lunch nearby. Pretending not to glance up every time you played something new. You hadn’t thought it meant anything. Just someone you noticed. Like the regulars on their lunch walks or the young mothers who pushed strollers past you every day.
It wasn’t until your music flew away- pages lifted suddenly by a strong breeze and he darted out, catching them with sharp, impossibly fast movements that you thought for half a second the Matrix had glitched.
But when he talked to you afterward, all you saw was someone painfully shy. Awkward like a puppy that hadn’t gotten used to his own growing legs. So why wouldn’t you say yes to a coffee date? What harm could come from a single cup of coffee?
The date had been... okay. Not bad. Not great. Just... stilted. You talked, filling the silence because he didn’t. He watched you too intently. Laughed at odd moments. Gave you compliments that were strange, thoughtful, but almost unsettling in their precision.
At one point, somewhere between the coffee cooling in your cup and the awkward silence that had stretched a bit too long, he asked, "Do you still get a chance to draw?"
You blinked. "Draw? I-" Of course you did. You loved to draw. It was why you were hoping to get into art school next year. "How did you-"
"Oh," he interrupted quickly, shrugging a shoulder, not quite meeting your eye. "Your busking sign. It’s just really nice. Figured you made it yourself. Thought maybe you were into art or something."
It was a plausible excuse. Just enough truth to hold up. But it still left you with a weird feeling you couldn’t quite shake.
You’d chalked it up to nerves. Maybe he was just shy. You’d been kind. You always tried to be kind. He seemed like someone who didn’t quite know how to exist in his own skin, like every word took effort and every pause stretched too long. Something about him made you feel like he hadn’t talked to someone properly in a long time.
Still, by the time you reached your apartment, there was a heaviness in your chest. The air around you felt thick, almost reluctant. You had tried to brush it off, first dates were always weird, right? Not everyone was good at them.
You stood outside your apartment a moment too long. The door was right there, the keys in your hand, but you hesitated. Just long enough.
You smiled. A polite, practiced thing. "Thanks for the coffee. It was nice."
He had leaned in, tentative, eyes flicking to your mouth. You hadn’t expected it, but you didn’t move away.
You had let him kiss you. Just a quick brush of lips. Nothing deep. Nothing serious.
But you could feel the way he trembled like it meant more to him than it should have. Like the contact had cracked something open in him that he’d been keeping sealed too tight.
Then you had pulled back. Shifted your keys in your hand. You didn’t want to be rude, but something about the way he looked at you after the kiss - it had made your skin prickle. Not because it was bad, just... too much. Like he had been starving and you’d handed him a feast.
"Okay, well... goodnight, Peter."
You had turned, voice light but firm. A soft boundary. A cue to end the night.
You reached for the door handle. Just as it clicked, his foot slid into the frame.
"Wait."
Startled, you had looked up. "Peter?"
He wasn’t smiling. His voice didn’t match the quiet boy from earlier. His shoulders were stiff now, jaw tight, hands flexing at his sides like he was holding something back. There was a tension to him you hadn’t seen before, a coiled readiness, barely leashed.
"Don’t go. Not yet."
Your smile had faltered, the keys in your palm digging into your skin now. "It's late. I don’t really know you that well..."
His eyes had darkened. Something sharp flickered behind them, and your pulse stuttered.
"But you do know me."
You paused, unease spreading through your chest. "What?"
He had stepped closer. Not violent. Not yet. But the shift was unmistakable. The energy changed, like a string pulled taut.
"You said hey. You smiled. You looked at me like I was real. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"
There was something unraveling in his voice, something that made your stomach twist.
Your voice had tightened, instinct kicking in. "Peter, I think maybe you should go."
He had shaken his head slowly, like you’d spoken a foreign language. Like you hadn’t understood the part you were meant to play in his mind.
"I lost everyone," he had murmured. "May. MJ. Ned. No one remembers me. No one sees me. I’m no one. But you… you looked at me like I mattered."
Your heart skipped.
Wait- MJ? Ned?
Those names hit like ice water to the chest. They weren’t just names. They were names you knew. Names from your old high school. You didn’t even realize he’d said them all until they echoed inside your skull like a warning bell.
How the hell did he know them?
Your blood ran cold. Your breath caught in your throat.
"Peter-"
His hand brushed your cheek. Too soft. Too deliberate. Like he thought he had a right to touch you. Like this was some scene he'd played out in his head over and over until he believed it was real.
"You do know me. Somewhere in there, you remember. I know you do."
You took a shaky step back. The hallway suddenly felt too small, too quiet, like the world had narrowed into this moment and there was nowhere left to go.
Your voice cracked. "Peter, stop. Please."
But he didn’t. He wouldn’t.
When you tried to close the door, he had pushed it open like it weighed nothing—like you’d never stood a chance against him. The frame creaked violently under his hand, swinging wide with impossible strength. The door didn’t even resist him—it flew back, banging into the wall with a sound that made your breath seize.
You stumbled back, nearly tripping over your own feet, heart slamming in your chest as the reality of just how strong he was came crashing down on you. Not metaphorically. Not some passing thought. Physically. Overpoweringly.
You barely had time to scream. The panic surged like lightning through your veins, cold and disorienting. Your body screamed at you to run, to fight, to do something—but your limbs weren’t listening. Every part of you was frozen, every cell electrified with dread, your thoughts tripping over themselves in a whirlwind of fear. You had never felt so small. So powerless.
The door had slammed behind you. And you were trapped.
Peter grabbed you. His hands were too tight on your arms, fingers digging in just enough to remind you how much stronger he really was. His breath came fast and ragged, the air between you hot and suffocating. He kissed you again. Rougher this time. More insistent. Like he was chasing something just out of reach. Like he needed it to fix whatever was broken inside him.
You didn't kiss back. But you didn’t pull away either.
Because what if you did?
What if he got angrier? What if he hurt you? What if this- this trembling, desperate version of him was the only thing standing between fear and violence?
So you didn’t fight him.
You tried to speak, voice soft and shaking. “We can keep talking, Peter... okay? Just- just slow down.”
“No,” he whispered, his forehead pressing against yours. “No, you need to remember. God, please just remember.”
As Peter's lips crashed against yours again, his hands tightened around your arms, holding you in place. You tried to speak, to plead with him to stop, but your words were lost in the chaos of his kiss. His breath was hot and ragged, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth as he deepened the kiss.
"I'm sorry.. I'm sorry. I need this, need you to touch me. Please... if you can't remember then just touch me.."
You felt a surge of fear as he lifted you off the ground, his arms wrapping around you like a vice. You tried to struggle, to push him away, but he was too strong,. Peter carried you to the bed, tossing you down onto the pillows as he followed, his body pinning you beneath him his hands already push up the skirt you'd been wearing caging you in, her breathing hard in your chest.
"I just need, need you, need someone. Please..." His mouth was on yours again, swallowing any protests, smothering the edge of your voice with something desperate and raw. You could feel his tears now wet trails you hadn't seen fall spilling onto your cheeks, warm and aching. He pulled back just enough for you to catch your breath, but not enough to give you space.
Somewhere in your panic, your chest ached- not from fear alone, but something more twisted. The crushing sense that he wasn’t just dangerous- he was grieving. Drowning in it. And for a moment, that grief wrapped around you as tightly as his arms.
You didn’t know what he’d been through. What he'd lost. But you knew the sound of someone who was breaking. You'd heard it in your own voice, in the city’s silence after the blip, in the news anchors whispering names with trembling lips.
He was so alone. You could almost taste it when his tongue slid into your mouth, trembling and uncoordinated. Not hungry. Not lustful. Just desperate.
You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your body still hadn’t decided what was safer: running or staying still.
But your mind whispered the same thing again and again.
Make it better.
That’s what you did. You helped. You soothed. You made people happy. You kept the world soft when it went too sharp.
And right now, he needed something soft. Needed something human.
So you didn’t say no.
You didn’t say anything at all.
You felt his body shift above yours, felt the tight restraint in his muscles even as he tried to be gentle—tried to seem gentle. His weight pressed into you, his body tense, like he expected you to disappear if he didn’t hold you still. Like he was afraid you’d vanish like everyone else.
You were scared- terrified- but your limbs stayed heavy. Your mind raced, but your voice was gone. Every instinct told you to stay calm, to stay quiet, to keep this moment from tipping any further. You didn’t know what he’d do if you resisted. You weren’t sure he did either.
He cupped your face with shaking hands. His cheeks were wet with tears that still hadn’t stopped. His voice cracked. “I don’t want to scare you. I just- I need this. I need you. Just this once. Please… just stay.”
You swallowed hard. Every word lodged in your throat. Your fingers trembled where they lay frozen against the bedspread.
“Peter” you whispered
His breath caught, like that was all he’d ever needed. You weren’t sure if you meant it to soothe him or yourself.
He leaned down, his forehead brushing yours again, slower this time. His lips pressed to your temple, your cheek, your jaw- clumsy and reverent and utterly wrecked.
You closed your eyes.
You didn’t fight.
And when he began to move, you let him. Let him pull off your underwear. You didn’t fight when he took off your dress, and you didn’t stop him when he tugged his own shirt over his head, revealing a lean chest that trembled with the weight of what he was doing. His hands shook slightly as he fumbled with his belt, shedding his jeans in a rush like the fabric was keeping him from getting closer to you. You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t speak. Just watched him undress, vulnerable and exposed in more ways than one, until he returned to you like he hadn’t taken a single breath without you under him.
It felt safer to give him this piece of yourself than to see what he might become if you didn’t.
Peter moved your legs, opening them with slow, trembling hands. His touch was careful but insistent, as if trying to commit the shape of you to memory. His palms skimmed over your thighs, petting softly, reverently, like he couldn’t believe you were real. Mumbled whispers slipped from his lips- fragments of apologies, gratitude, promises not to forget. Not to let go. His breath caught as he positioned himself, voice hoarse and thick with emotion.
He filled you like an invasion. Not rough, no, he was still trying to be soft, trying to be tender- but there was no mistaking the tremble in his limbs or the desperation in the way he pushed into you, like he could bury everything he’d lost inside you and find himself again. It wasn’t pain, not really. But it wasn’t comfort either. It was too much. Too sudden. His body was solid against yours, lean and muscular in ways his awkward posture had hidden.
You gasped when he moved, your breath catching on a sob with the first slow thrust, your body stretching around him in protest. But the ache was fleeting. It was quickly swallowed by heat.
Because it wasn’t just fear thrumming in your veins- it was instinct. It was the softness of his lips, the tremble in his hands, the way his kisses fell like apologies against your skin. It was the way your body reacted, even against your will, to every press of his hips and the quiet, broken noises he made as he whispered your name.
"You feel so good," he breathed into your neck, like it was a secret he couldn’t believe he was allowed to say. His voice cracked as he moved again, deeper this time. "God, thank you. Thank you."
And then, he thrust harder.
Not out of cruelty, but out of urgency. His body moved with more force, more need, like he couldn’t hold himself back anymore. Each push drove deeper, pressing you further into the mattress. Your breath hitched. Your back arched.
It still felt like too much, like your body hadn’t caught up to what was happening—but it also sent lightning through your nerves. That awful twist of panic and arousal tangled in your gut, impossible to separate. Your heart pounded against your ribs, fear and sensation blurring together until your skin felt too hot to hold in place.
"I missed this. I missed everyone," he murmured, though you’d never given him this before. He pressed kisses to your jaw, your throat, your shoulder, feverish and fragile. "Please don’t forget again. Please…"
You couldn’t believe it felt good. But it did. Your body betrayed you with each helpless pulse of pleasure. Every kiss he pressed to your skin made you feel smaller, softer, more lost in a sea of his need.
You wanted him to stop. You wanted him to keep going. You wanted him to be someone else. You wanted this to mean nothing. You wanted it to mean everything.
He clung tighter, hips moving faster, gasping your name into your throat like it was a lifeline.
“God,” he breathed, voice thick and desperate. “You feel so good. I didn’t know I needed this-I didn’t know how much-”
You could barely breathe beneath the weight of him, the rhythm of his thrusts speeding up, deeper now, more erratic. Each push drew a soft sound from your lips you didn’t mean to give. Your body burned with the storm of sensation and fear and heat. It was like standing in front of a fire, unsure if it would warm you or consume you whole.
He pressed kisses to your temple, murmuring between them. “Thank you… thank you… thank you.”
And then, like your body had betrayed you completely, your climax rushed toward you with no warning. Your muscles tensed, breath catching, pleasure crashing over you in a blur of heat and confusion. You weren’t sure if you cried out or just gasped- but he felt it.
Peter groaned, burying his face in your neck as he followed you over the edge. His body trembled with release, his breath hitching against your skin. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” he kept whispering, voice cracking under the weight of it.
You stayed still. You didn’t move. Your skin was hot and damp, your chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. A dull ache throbbed between your legs, not sharp but deep, your limbs tingling with a raw mix of overstimulation and disbelief. Your fingers twitched against the sheets, barely able to grasp the shape of what you'd just let happen.
He wrapped his arms around you like a blanket, holding you so tight you could hardly breathe. You stared up at the ceiling, dazed and sore, your mind numb and scattered. The sticky, wet mess he left inside you had already begun to slide down your thighs, pooling uncomfortably between them. You felt coated, used, like the heat and guilt clinging to your skin wouldn’t ever come off. It made your stomach turn, and still- you didn’t move.
His heartbeat thudded against your shoulder, uneven and too fast, like he hadn’t come down from whatever place he'd gone to. He sighed, nuzzling against your skin like he was trying to melt into you, like you were a lifeline he was terrified to lose.
You swallowed, throat dry. “Peter?”
“Shhh…” he cooed, brushing your hair back from your face with shaking fingers. The gesture was gentle, almost tender, but it sent a chill down your spine. It didn’t feel like comfort- it felt like control. Like you were being soothed the way someone might hush a child or calm a frightened pet. It made your skin crawl even as you stayed still, the weight of his hand too much and not enough all at once. His eyes were still damp, rimmed red with guilt. “It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re okay. Yeah?”
You hesitated, your lips parting before you could find anything solid to say.
So you nodded.
Because you didn’t know what else to do. Because saying no felt too big. Too late.
He pressed a kiss to your temple like a promise, curling around you tighter. His arms were heavy and warm. His breath still trembled.
“I’m here,” he murmured. “I’ve got you. I’m not going to disappear. You’re not going anywhere. Just… be here.”
The words were meant to soothe, but they didn’t.
They curled around you like a net, binding instead of calming. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, but your chest still felt tight, like your lungs didn’t trust the air. Your limbs remained heavy, pinned by more than just his embrace.
You didn’t feel safe. You didn’t feel comforted.
You felt hollow.
Like something inside you had gone missing, or maybe just caved in. His embrace was too tight, too warm, and your skin buzzed with a tension you couldn’t shake. You couldn’t tell if you were still holding your breath or if your body had simply forgotten how to breathe.
And you lay there in silence, the ceiling a blur above you, the room too quiet.
You weren’t sure what had just happened.
But you knew it had changed everything.
"Not going anywhere.."
⋆ ˚｡⋆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 a defensive tone. "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 by a dead beat dad, 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 type of guy like Harry. 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 quietly asked, 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, because I chose you. 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 endure 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 they died
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, Peggy Rogers now, actually. 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
His hands, gently calloused, cradled your face—admiring every feature sculpted in your peaceful slumber. Your room was cloaked in darkness, the somber night resting quietly—yet the moon peeked through your curtains, casting silver light upon you like brushstrokes on a canvas. You were the universe’s muse, his muse.
He knelt at the side of your bed, not out of mere admiration, but reverence. As if you were a Goddess—because to him, you were. From your words, your voice, your beauty, your soul—everything. You had this uncanny way of pulling him from the void and into something gentle. Something hopeful.
But who could have known—Bob Reynolds was a nobody. The world never gave him space to breathe. He was overlooked, shoved aside like a ghost wandering in daylight. His life whispered that he was no-good, a mistake, forgotten. All but you—you looked at him like he mattered. You spoke to him like he was seen. You made him believe that perhaps, for once, he wasn't broken. You were the light in the pitch. His clarity. His pulse.
His eyes roamed over you, not with hunger—but with awe, tracing the poetry in your stillness. Fingers brushed from your cheek to your hand. Your skin—soft, celestial. And in his mind bloomed the tender dream of you and him, where affection was mutual, and love was allowed. He longed to kiss you gently, to gift you with a thousand small devotions.
His eyes never sought anyone else. The first time you said his name, he memorized it like a hymn. It nestled in his memory like warm verses. Others said his name like it was a burden—but you, you spoke it like a song. Like it meant something. Your voice was heaven’s echo, even in sorrow. Especially in sorrow. Even when tears painted your cheeks and you trembled against him—he swore your voice could calm storms.
But truly, everything about you was like that—extraordinary.
And he wished—no, prayed—that maybe he could be special too.
But hell—who was he kidding? He was just a ghost in your orbit. The moon never shone for him. Even so close to you, light refused to grace him. And maybe that’s why his longing turned sharp, desperate. Because if he could not have the sun, he would become the night that holds it. If he could not bask in your light—maybe, just maybe—he could be the eclipse to your moon.
Creep, radiohead.
First time making a blurb, kinda nervous
I don't like the way I made this, not used to this kind of writing (which I believe is called blurb?? Educate me chat) and this was so rushed istg, I'm a really slow writer as u can see guys, so apologies in advance if this isn't good!!
After random disappearances and unmade promises, I'm back and will probably disappear again !! Feel free to critique me or give me ideas, I'll tryyyyyy my bestest to do it bbs.
Moodboard for my current ongoing fic "Against All Discouragement". Chapter 52/58 posted💙
Fandom: MCU
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: creator chose not to use archive warnings.
Relationship: James “Bucky” Barnes/Original Female Character(s). James “Bucky” Barnes & Steve Rogers.
Characters: James “Bucky” Barnes. Original Female Character(s). Steve Rogers. Natasha Romanoff. General Dreykov (MCU). Melina Vostakoff.
Additional tags: dead dove: do not eat, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt, graphic descriptions of consensual sex (p in v), oral (f &m receiving), Hydra, Red Room, Bucky Barnes trained black widows in the red room, mind control, psychological trauma, psychological torture, canonical child abuse, canon/typical violence, graphic depictions of violence, unreliable narrator, recorded media / tapes, erased history, institutional abuse, physical abuse under mind control, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, Dark Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes is not okay, alternate universe - canon divergence, not canon compliant, Bucky Barnes Winter Soldier programming, protective Winter Soldier, dark romance, slow burn, trauma bonding.
Summary:
In 1963, the Red Room acquires a child for the newly established Black Widow Program.
In 1979, the Red Room initiates an internal experiment at a facility in Belarus.
In 1980, she is paired with the Winter Soldier, forming one of Hydra's most effective teams.
In 1986, Agent Anastasia Shishkova is executed as a traitor and erased from history.
In 2010, James Buchanan Barnes receives a collection of tapes that were never meant to exist.
Read on AO3 [https://archiveofourown.org/works/78800276/chapters/206657271]
Trigger Warnings: Hydra employee SA's reader, murder, dehumanization, creepy staring from Winter Soldier, Winter Soldier being protective, Hydra generally being shitty, I continue to be terrible at endings - If I missed anything please tell me
I am not responsible for the media you consume, read the warnings, minors dni
Want to read more of my work? Check out my Masterlist
The Winter Soldier took a liking to you. He would ignore his handlers, staring at you whenever you're in his line of sight, never taking his eyes off you even while answering his handler's questions. It was unnerving, to say the least. No one knew why he liked you so much, but he didn't really do anything else apart from stare at you so they didn't bother worrying over it, just tried to keep you away from him as much as possible so the soldat wouldn't get distracted. That, however, was a mistake.
He started missing you. Missing your presence, your voice. Soon enough he started asking where you were, refusing to follow orders until he saw you. He had this weird fixation with you and Hydra couldn't do anything about it, he was their best Asset, and you were just a Hydra worker; replaceable. They humoured his desires, making sure to have you in the room with him at all times, which seemed to placate him, being able to watch you made him more... submissive, it seems. Calmer. He went back to following orders, not causing a fuss or refusing to speak. But eventually the Asset wanted more.
He stopped responding to his handlers again, just sitting there, staring at you, not moving or speaking. Up until this point you had never spoken to one another, the soldat just watching you while you squirmed under his harsh gaze, Hydra wondered what would happen if you.. called out to him. Said his name. Gave him orders.
One day the soldier was doing his usual stunt, not responding to his handler in favour of watching you breathe. A few of the officers started whispering among themselves, glancing over at your direction. A minute later the soldat's handler turned to you and spoke.
"You. Talk to it." You stood there dumbfounded. What did he mean 'talk to it'? "Come here. Stand in front of it and talk to the Asset." Hesitantly you stepped forward, his handler moving out of your way so you can stand directly in front of him. The soldat looked up at you from where he was sat, his eyes holding some sort of reverence for you, lips parted in awe. What should you say? You can't ask him how his day was or talk about the weather so what should you say? You settled on his name. Well what Hydra called him at least.
"Soldat." His eyes softened slightly, responding immediately to your word. "Ready to comply."
You glanced back at his handler, not sure if you should continue. After getting a slight nod from the officer you asked him, "Mission report?" Your voice was shaky, not used to giving orders and still not used to the way the soldat stares at you, but he responded anyway. For the first time in who knows how long the Asset complied without any fuss, detailing his mission to you. A feat no other Hydra employee could achieve recently.
Hydra quickly realized that this was the only way to keep their most prized soldier submissive. He'd only take orders if they were from you, always seeming eager to please you, saying "ready to comply" with a bit too much enthusiasm. When he came back from missions he'd relay the details to you, seeming to search your face for some sort of approval, like he wanted to know he did you proud, did what he was told to do like the soldier he is. The Asset worked harder, strived to please you, carried out your requests with fervour. You quickly got promoted to his handler. Not much changed, all you had to do was give him orders, orders which you were told to by higher officers. It kept him happy for a while, you having control over him, talking to you daily. But once again, he wanted more.
Other Hydra employees usually tried not to bother you, you were obviously precious to the soldier and crucial to getting the soldat to comply, but recently there was a new employee, a man that had not realized your importance. You could never really get comfortable working for Hydra, still talking with a quiet voice and trying to avoid any attention and he thought he could take advantage of that, cornering you one day in the hallway, pushing you against the wall trying to feel you up. Unfortunately for him the soldat was just returning from a mission and everyone knows the soldat immediately goes to see you after his missions. The Asset was not happy to see someone else feeling up his handler, and he was even more upset that he was making you uncomfortable, forcing you to do something you didn't want to. The Asset handled it a lot more maliciously than he usually would on missions, first focusing on getting the employee off of you, then only focusing on hurting him, nothing else but the crunch of his bones breaking beneath the soldier's metal fist, making him regret even touching you. Only when he was unrecognisable did he stop, turning to you to grab you, holding you in his lap, arms slightly shaking, growling at anyone who got too close.
After that... encounter he became more physical in a way. He didn't like it when someone got too close to you, wrapping his arms around you protectively. He got closer in general, getting closer to your face while staring at you, eyes lingering on your lips, so close you could feel his breath on your face. Sometimes he got confident, brushing his lips over your temple or cheek, as if testing the waters. Gradually, he applied more and more pressure to those half-kisses, until he was kissing you fully and often, whenever you gave him an order or he came back from a mission he'd kiss you, sometimes on the cheek, on the forehead if he was feeling particularly protective, but mostly on the lips.
It was some sort of fucked up obsession the soldat had for you, the want for you to own him and for him to own you, you're his and he's yours, no one else matters.
Pairings: Undead Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes x Reader
Summary: Reader tries to move on from her dark past.
~ indicates time change
- indicates a POV change
A/N: I have absolutely no idea when I wrote this but I know it was for a challenge long closed out. I'm writing an Andy Barber, Winter Soldier/Bucky Barnes, and Ransom Drysdale series and then I think I'll start dabbling in Konig and Ghost from COD so stay tuned.
Killing someone isn’t that hard. It’s the build up that’s hard. Buying the gun, planning the murder perfectly, coming up with a story. That’s the hard part. But, pulling the trigger on the fuckers who have been torturing you for years? No, that’s the best part. Two shots and the stress and pain that plagued your life is now gone. Both of them, bleeding out on the carpet.
Your story was simple, you were acting in self defense. The call to the police 5 minutes prior secured you a good motive, along with the many bruises that decorated your body.
Their funeral was short. Not many in attendance, just you and the officer that responded to the call, officer Sam Wilson. He was your comfort. After everything he offered to drive you to work, help you move into a new place, and asked if you’d like to accompany him on a coffee date.
He was perfect. The complete contrast to the two men who you’d called your lovers in the past. Two years later and you and Sam had tied the knot. A year later and you had welcomed home a little girl named Valentina Anne Wilson. Two years after that another girl named Salem Margot Wilson, then one year after that a boy named Samuel Tennessee Wilson. Your life was perfect, and 10 years later you couldn’t even remember Steve or Bucky.
~
“Bye daddy!” You and your kids waved bye to your husband as he went off to work. He’d started working night shifts on the weekends to help out more at the station. That was your husband, the ever helping man. Those were one of the reasons you loved him
You kissed him goodbye as he promised to see you guys in the morning. You watched him drive away into the Saturday night as you shut the door before locking it.
“Alright, kiddos, what are we going to do tonight?” Saturdays were movie nights after having game nights on Fridays.
“Scary movie!” Valentina ran to the back then came back down the hallway, holding a DVD pack.
“Night of the Living Dead?” It was an old movie, probably in Sam’s old collection, but you were still nervous your kids were too young. “I don’t know, V, Sammy is still only 7.”
“In a half.”
“In a half,” you correct yourself.
“Pleaseee, we can all handle it!” Salem looked at you with puppy dog eyes that she got from her father. They always broke you.
“Oh alright, but only if you guys promise to close your eyes when I say and tell me when you get scared.”
“We promise!” You smiled at your kids. They definitely got their horror movie love from their father, you’d much rather curl up with a good romcom. Ice cream, tears, and girls walking away from hot guys because they were too good for their six packs was a cocktail for a good night if anyone asked you.
Your kids grabbed blankets, pillows, and snacks as they gathered around the TV. You popped some popcorn for yourself before curling up in a blanket burrito on the sofa before starting the movie.
~
You wake up to find yourself still on the living room couch. The screen was blank illuminated with the home screen of the movie begging you to hit “play.”
Your kids are huddled together asleep, and you decide to leave them. Waking them up to put them to bed rarely worked in your favor. Once they were up, they were up.
You stretch your limbs as you stand up, making your way to the bedroom you shared with your husband. You slip into bed before shutting your eyes, trying to return back to sleep.
Your relaxation didn’t last long, for you heard a sound outside. You opened your eyes and checked the clock near your bed. The numbers screamed 3:00am in red at you. The sound couldn’t be Sam, he didn’t get home until 7am.
You were about to lay back down, concluding the noise was your imagination, until you heard it again. It sounded like dragging on pavement. You got up and went to your window, looking out onto your driveway. You saw nothing, your street was empty save for the street lights that illuminated the surrounding areas. Damn raccoons.
You once again climbed back into bed and decided to ignore any more noise, the animals that surrounded your neighborhood got into the garbage all the time at night with no plans of stopping.
You continued to turn in bed several times, not able to get comfortable. You felt watched. You knew it was impossible, nobody was outside your window and nobody was in your room. You just could shake the paranoid feeling.
Then, you heard it. Breathing in the corner of your room. You keep your eyes closed, trying to slow down your breathing and heart so you still look asleep. You prayed the intruder would come closer to you rather than walk outside to your children.
You felt their movement as they inched closer and closer to you, you prepared to kick or punch as hard as you could before running to get the gun hidden in the closet. The gun you had used 10 years prior.
You felt a hand wrap around your ankle and your eyes flung open. You kicked with your other leg, hearing a loud grunt as your foot came into impact with something. You drew your ankle from the hand as you rolled from the bed to the floor, crawling up as you made your way to the closet.
When you got there however, you saw a figure standing there. You heard them cock the gun and you put your hands up in surrender. “Please, you can take whatever you want. Just please don’t hurt my kids.”
The figure didn’t move, and you couldn’t see them in the dark. You start backing up slowly, but stop when you hear more breathing behind you. There were two of them. Shit. You turn slowly and gasp at what you see.
“Steve?” The man who stood behind you was no doubt your ex lover, the one you killed a decade ago. Only now, his face was pale and looked to be decaying. He smelled awful and his eye sockets and cheekbones looked sullen and black. What the fuck was happening?
Just then the man in front of you stepped into the light coming from the window. There you saw Bucky, the other lover you killed. He smelled like Steve and looked similar to him. His clothes looked dirtier than Steve’s, but they both looked like they crawled in the dirt before coming here. You could even see bugs in their hair and clothes.
“B-Bucky? H-how?” You back away from both men, looking at the closed door of your bedroom. All you have to do is keep them from leaving the room. Hopefully Sam was sent home early. Hopefully.
“Hey, Doll,” Bucky said, never lowering the gun, “Miss us?”
“But, you’re both dead.”
“Cause you killed us?” Steve spoke up. You couldn’t say anything, just nodded. After murder, you’re not supposed to see their face again. This wasn’t high school, where you stole somebody’s boyfriend and you had to see them in the hallway later. Murder ends it all. It’s over after the gun is shot.
“Not anymore.” Bucky chuckled at your fearful eyes. Steve looked around your room. His eyes landed on the wedding photo on the wall, then he looked to your left hand where your rings lived.
“So, you’re married.”
“What’s going on?” This made no sense. The dead don’t just get to walk again.
“And you have kids.” Bucky finishes. Your heart drops.
“Don’t hurt them, please. They’re innocent in all this, I’m the one you want.”
“You’ve got that right!” Bucky raised his voice a bit, scaring you.
“Okay, okay. Calm down, just tell me what you want” If your kids woke up, no doubt they’d come in. You couldn’t trust the men who hurt you for years to not give the same treatment to your kids.
“We want what we had 10 years ago.” You blinked your eyes as you looked at the two men before you.
“I thought it was crazy, trying to track you down after all this time. But, Bucky kept saying the same thing over and over. What was it Buck?”
Steve turned to face Bucky, and his friend smiled at him. “No grave can hold my body down, I’ll crawl home to her.” Steve nodded in remembrance, and your blood ran as cold as their dead skin looked.
“Okay.” You swallow thickly. You didn’t know what they meant. “Are you going to kill me?”
“We should,” Steve said angrily, “After the pain you caused us.” Pain you caused them? They had to be joking.
“Why’d you do it, Doll? Why’d you ruin our perfect family?” You turned to Bucky as sadness grew on his dead face.
“You both hurt me. So much.” Your eyes started to get blurry as tears escaped your eyes. Suppressed memories flooded back to you, years of counseling down the drain as your nightmares came back to you in the worst way possible. You had to be dreaming.
“We had to,” Steve reasoned, “You know that, Doll. You had to learn to be a good girl. We had gotten so far, we were almost there. Then you ruined it.” He took a step closer to you. “You’ve been a bad girl.”
Your eyes widened with fear as you shook your head. “No, you hurt me. You tricked me into your house and you subject me to torture for years. It still haunts me to this day, what you put me through. Don’t you realize that?”
Bucky and Steve both scoffed before Bucky spoke. “You’re still a brat.”
Your eyes stung as you started to feel frustrated. You had to take deep breaths to keep from saying something that could get you or your family killed right now.
“Okay. So what now, are you going to try to make your perfect family again? It’s impossible, you’re both dead.”
“That’s what you think, Doll.”
Steve reached for you, his hand was icy and clammy. His touch made your skin crawl as he pulled you closer to him. Your skin erupted in goosebumps as your bodies touched. Steve dipped his head into your hair and breathed in deeply making you stiffen up.
“God, you smell so much better than the shit we were in,” Steve laughs to himself. His hands travel south until they reach your ass. He squeezed down on the soft flesh that rested below your soft PJ shorts. You closed your eyes, praying that this doesn’t last long.
Bucky came up behind you and ripped your light tank top off, leaving you in just your panties and shorts. You bit your tongue to keep from screaming out and disturbing your kids. Next he grabbed your waistband before pulling the fabrics down your legs. Steve placed his cold hands on the warm flesh of your hips, making you even more cold than before.
“Be good,” was all he said as you heard Bucky undress behind you. You kept your eyes closed as you felt a hard and cold object press into your lower back. Steve lifted your left leg and sat it on his right hip as he left a cold trail of kisses down your neck. You tried not to concentrate on the tiny movement of bugs crawling on his clothes that were pressed to your bare chest.
Bucky’s cold member, feeling just as big as you remember, pushed into you slowly. You heard him growling behind you, obviously satiated by the warmth your walls provided him.
You whimpered quietly as he moved within you, pulling at your walls the way Sam never could. You loved your husband, but even after 10 years your body held an ache that couldn’t be cured with Sam, no matter how many positions he put you in.
“You feel so good,” Bucky moaned, pulling your hair a bit, “10. Fucking. Years. Does your husband fuck you right like we did?” Your nails dug into the dirty clothes that covered Steve’s body. “God, how have you stayed so tight after kids?” Bucky started to pick up speed, your cunt leaking all around him after finally being sexually fulfilled.
Bucky started showing signs of his impending orgasm. “Bucky, not inside. Please.”
Bucky grunted at your begging, he always had a thing for that. “Why not? Not ready for another child?”
Sam had gotten fixed. You stopped taking birth control because of it, and even though you were older, you still had a high chance. I mean look at your mother, she gave birth 13 years ago.
Despite your pleas, Bucky stilled his thrusts inside you, filling you with his seed. You hoped to God that his swimmers died when you shot him, but you doubted you’d be so lucky.
Bucky pulled out of you as Steve started to release his cock from his pants. He wasted no time sinking into, using Bucky cum and your slick as lube. Steve thrusted in and out of you at a more gentle pace, but his thrusts were precise. The material of his clothes rubbed against your clit and sensitive nipples, and you were soon clenching around Steve.
He gave a long moan of your name, also cumming deep inside you. He continued thrusting to work you both through your highs. “Damn, Baby. After all those years, I really needed that.” Steve smiled at you as he disconnected from your body
You fell to your floor as your thoughts started to make sense. The two men you killed are back to life like this was some kind of fucked up zombie movie, and they fucked you senseless in you and your husband’s shared room. And you actually enjoyed it. Your eyes were still closed, you refused to open them. Seeing it would all make this too real.
“Until next time, Darling.”
When you opened your eyes you were alone. Your shredded clothes still lay on your floor, and you picked them up to throw away on your way to the shower. You needed a bath.
The whole reason you killed them was because you wanted to escape. Now you're right back to square one with them, only now you had everything to lose. Dead men tell no tales, but they know how to act one out.
series summary - it's been nine months since you watched your best friend, Gwen Stacy, plummet to her death; an event that ultimately caused new york's hero to abandon the city entirely. now that he's finally returned you find yourself being forced to confront the ugly truth you've been running from.
chapter summary - desperate to get Harry Osborn out of your head, you find yourself following a lead that sends you straight to Peter Parker.
series warnings - 18+, minors DNI, series will contain depictions of violence, sexual content, dark themes, and more. please read at your own risk.
word count - 12.8k
// a dark tasm!fan fiction // masterlist // send me your thoughts // newspaper headline //
YOU HAD been worried that the ice-cold stare of Harry Osborn would remain stuck in your brain for the entire cab ride back to New York City.
Fortunately, by the time you’d made it to Yonkers, about thirty minutes out from Ravencroft’s facility, the distressing imagery in your head faded as your ears were suddenly blasted with a series of rushed ding-s from your cell phone.
You welcomed the noisy distraction, even if it only further agitated the throbbing headache you felt coming on.
All the messages were from Betty Brant and likely could’ve been summed up in one long message rather than a dozen short ones. And, for the most part, all the texts did were confirm your fears: her search for Peter’s whereabouts had been a fruitless effort.
Well, almost fruitless.
You couldn’t quite give Brant credit for the one lead she’d received given the fact that it had essentially just fallen in her lap, but you still typed back a simple—good job, nonetheless.
While you were off pointlessly torturing yourself behind Ravencroft’s iron gates, a woman had called the Bugle and had the misfortune of being answered by Jameson himself.
According to Brant, the lady asked for you by name, and when Jameson told her you were busy and she’d need to call back later, she turned frantic. He said she sounded as if she were on the verge of tears, begging him to get a message to you ASAP.
Please tell her to stop by my house! Tomorrow afternoon! She knows the address already, I promise! Tell her it’s May Parker, okay? M-A-Y P-A-R-K-E-R!
Of course Jameson knew who the crackpot (his words) was once she said her last name, having spoken to her once or twice during Peter’s limited time at the Bugle.
What he hadn’t told Brant was that it took everything in him to bite his tongue, to not tell the woman every horrible opinion he held in regard to her nephew. Jameson knew that it would do no good. He also knew that it wasn’t her fault that Peter hadn’t shown up to the hospital that night.
Still, he couldn’t help but find himself seething with rage, speaking through gritted teeth until he could finally hang up the phone. He had absolutely no interest in finding Peter Parker, even if he was the only one to ever get a clear shot of Spider-Man.
Good riddance had become his motto when it came to both Peter and Harry. You were one of the few things in this world that mattered more to Jameson than a good lead, which was exactly the reason why he had no interest in Peter’s whereabouts when he first went awol and left the Bugle without notice—he didn’t care. Even if Peter had come back to work, he would’ve just been fired anyway. Jameson had no interest in keeping him around, regardless of the quality of his work.
But despite his hatred for the boy, he knew you were looking for him. While Jameson was unaware of Peter’s secret identity, he knew for certain that Peter had connections to Spider-Man, given that it was the whole reason he had employed him in the first place. You figured there was likely no one in this world that Jameson wanted to keep you from more than Spider-Man. But in what was surely not an easy choice to make, he begrudgingly passed the message from May along to Brant, messily scrawled onto a Doughnuttery napkin that had been stained with chocolate frosting.
He refused to withhold a lead from you.
Of course, when first deciding to track Peter down, you had considered going to his aunt, but she was always meant to be a last-ditch choice. After all, rumor had it that Peter had abandoned her too, moving out shortly after Gwen’s death. You didn’t see a need to add to her grief unless it felt necessary, yet it seemed she wanted you to.
A part of you hoped that the mystery surrounding why May was so adamant about speaking to you would serve as a distraction for the night. You didn’t want to think any more about Ravencroft, and certainly not about the boy they kept locked behind those iron gates.
Deep down, though, you knew that wasn’t possible. Try as you might, there was nothing in this world capable of distracting you from the thoughts of Harry Osborn.
He was a plague, one that you had been fighting off ever since that night; and seeing him in person seemed to have only granted him the opportunity to further sink his claws into you.
You often found yourself reliving the moment you first saw him—the Green Goblin. A monster composed of distended veins and spindly bones, appearing so completely and utterly inhuman—so unlike the boy you knew that you didn’t even recognize him at first. At first, there had just been fear, a sense of pure unbridled terror.
But then, once he spoke, you knew. You knew what he had done, recognized him in spite of the monster the serum had transformed him into. Bile instantly stung at your throat, threatening to spill past your lips and onto the asphalt beneath your feet. You couldn’t stop thinking of how much it had burned, swallowing it down over and over again, as many times as it took before your body finally stopped trying.
You fought so hard against that visceral reaction, the sensible part of you that had seen this new form he’d taken on and screamed at you to run. You wouldn’t let yourself do that. You couldn’t bear the thought of turning your back on your friend, even after seeing what he’d turned himself into.
But then he grabbed Gwen and once she was in his arms you realized that he wasn’t the same anymore. Then once he’d finally let her go, once you’d watched her take her very last breath, you swore you’d always hate him. Harry Osborn was not your friend; it was a simple fact that you still stood behind.
But trauma was a peculiar thing.
Usually when Harry haunted your thoughts, the Green Goblin was always the focal point. Flashes of Gwen’s lifeless body dangling from Spider-Man's web, the sounds of squelching flesh and cracking bones. You would remember the metallic taste that filled your mouth as you looked over at him that last time, just before everything went black.
Tonight, though, you’d found yourself thinking not of the Goblin, but of your friend. The friend that had once been good as dead to you. Memories that had once been shoved aside in favor of sinking into the tragedy you’d experienced, only to be brought back to light after seeing his face today.
You tossed and turned in your bed, your head pounding as thoughts of posh charity events, late-night talks, and inside jokes fought to keep you awake. It wasn’t until the next day when you’d finally arrived at Aunt May’s house that you received a much-needed break from him.
The thick plastic covering on the couch crinkled loudly beneath your weight as you sat down. You used every ounce of effort in your body to try and appear calm as she moved past the coffee table, sitting across from you in a sage green armchair.
It was new.
“I’m so glad you came, y/n.” May offered you her sweetest smile, the gesture accentuating the thin lines around her eyes. She looked older somehow, even though it hadn’t even been a year since you last saw her. “I was worried that bitter man at the newspaper wouldn’t tell you I called.”
You barely stifled your laughter, then immediately wondered if she could tell that even that sliver of emotion was fake. It was second nature to put on an act, especially when it came to work matters. To appear excessively friendly, using it as a tool to quickly build some sort of rapport with someone, hoping it would get them to spill whatever information they might have.
It didn't seem necessary to put up an act around May, but you found it difficult to turn it off.
“Jameson can be a little… testy, at times.”
She immediately snorted at your words, believing them to be a drastic understatement.
“But I’ve gotta say,” you continued, trying to steer the conversation, “I was a bit surprised when he said you called.”
Guilt settled over her soft features, dusty pink lips settling into a thin line as she stared down at her lap, watching the steam rise from her cup. “I know. I meant to call sooner, more often, but I just...” she sucked in a breath, lifting the cup to the edge of her lips, “I didn’t want to make a big fuss of things.”
She was drinking chamomile tea. You knew this because you were offered some as soon as she opened the front door, cheerfully telling you that she’d just boiled a fresh pot of water. While you didn’t consider yourself an expert on May Parker, you couldn’t help but make note of the fact that you’d never seen her enjoy herbal drinks before.
You leaned forward a touch, your elbows resting just above your knees as you did so. “What would you make a fuss over?”
This meeting was different than Ravencroft.
At Ravencroft you were a sheep grazing among lions. Showing weakness would gain you nothing, save for failure and potential death. But in a place like Aunt May’s home, the roles immediately reversed.
Here, you were the lion. And, to gain the trust of sheep, you needed to come off as if you were entirely transparent. Wear your heart on your sleeve, bare every emotion you had, and express as much concern as possible, fooling them into believing that you were truly on their side.
But this time was different, you tried to remind yourself, working diligently to ensure your emotions didn’t come off as fake or exaggerated. You could be genuine. You really were on her side, right?
“Peter’s been...” She hesitated as her wedding ring clinked against the porcelain cup in her hands as she nervously tapped her fingers. She never took it off, even after Ben died. “different.”
Your chest tightened, elbows digging further into your thighs. “What do you mean?”
“He changed after what happened to Gwendolyne.” she began to explain, though she remained hesitant. “It started off small. Quitting the newspaper, refusing to finish his college applications. And maybe that’s when I should’ve stepped in, tried to snap him out of it or something. But after what he’d gone through... what he had lost...”
There was a knowing look in her eyes, a sense of understanding. It was then that it fully clicked for you, realizing that May had been through something similar to what Peter went through. She knew what it was like to have your entire world change in the blink of an eye. “I just hoped that with time it would pass.”
“And it didn’t, did it?” You guessed, painfully aware of the answer.
If it had changed, if he had gotten better, then you wouldn’t be sitting here right now.
May shook her head. “No.” She uttered, her hooded gaze still avoiding yours, remaining fixed on her cup. “It got worse.”
There was something in the way she spoke, the solemn tone you’d never heard her take before, that sent chills running down your spine.
“How so?”
"Little ways, at first.” Her voice broke, clearing her throat before taking another sip of tea. “He started acting out. Getting mean. Rageful.”
Your heart ached for the woman, fighting the urge to reach out and hug her as you watched her hazel eyes turn glossy.
“He was almost never home anymore, and then one day he just... didn’t come back.”
She wiped away the unshed tears, lightly shaking her head and muttering an apology.
“Where is he?” You asked her, instinctively looking towards the old staircase that led to his bedroom.
Years had been wasted in there, sitting cross-legged on his worn-out rug and exchanging complaints about Flash Thompson or Miss. Ritter. On good days, the two of you would build Lego sets and eat your fill of junk food. On bad days you’d both tuck yourselves away in his bed, hidden underneath a stack of blankets as old movies played from his laptop.
It had been a while since you’d let yourself think of those memories, and you hadn’t quite expected it to hurt as much as it did to acknowledge that those days were gone.
“Columbia.” She spoke.
Your eyes widened as your head cocked to the side. “University?”
Warmth spread across your cheeks as embarrassment settled in, feeling a bit silly for speaking the thought aloud. Of course she had meant Columbia University. Still, it shocked you a little when she nodded, confirming your thoughts. Given the way she spoke of Peter’s decline, you hadn’t expected him to be attending college.
“So, you still talk to him?” You quickly followed up with another question, this one less painstakingly dumb than the last.
May scoffed, the loose hair framing her face swaying about as she shook her head. “I don’t know if I’d call it talking. But he checks in on occasion, just often enough to keep me from having a heart attack.”
You glanced down at her cup of tea, willing to reason that maybe Peter had been the reason for her sudden interest in herbal drinks. After all, they were known to reduce stress, and Peter seemed to be causing a great deal of it.
There was another sound of disapproval, a click of her tongue as her voice went low again. “You raise a boy for over ten years,” she started, the smallest spark of anger burning within her, “only to end up getting a postcard in the mail every month.”
“A postcard?” You wondered aloud, likely looking as puzzled as you felt. “You don’t have his phone number?”
She snorted. “I don’t know if he even has a phone anymore.”
For a moment neither of you spoke, and you found yourself studying her features, looking for any sign that she might be lying. You knew that there was no point in it, that May had no reason to lie to you. There would be nothing for her to gain, plus she had reached out to you for help. Still, it was second nature for you to remain apprehensive.
It was hard to believe that Peter had all but completely cut ties with his aunt. May had raised him, practically given her entire life just to ensure that he had everything he could ever need, only to up and abandon her out of the blue—just as he had done to you.
Nothing about it made any sense to you, and the thought alone was enough to fill you with not only rage, but also fear. Was Peter that far gone?
You didn’t want to think about that right now, instead focusing on the sharp pain sneaking up your left side from sitting hunched over for so long. Forcibly relaxing your muscles, you leaned back against the couch cushions, listening to the way the plastic squelched as you shifted.
“Is that why you called?” You finally asked, pressing a hand to your ribs and rubbing over the sore area. “To see if I could help Peter?”
May took another long and thoughtful sip of her tea. Then, once she was finished, she leaned forwards and placed it on the coffee table that stood between you both. “No.” She stated firmly, only for her eyes to narrow and then go back on the declaration, “Not entirely, at least.”
You frowned at her, confused.
“I wanted to call because I realized that you needed someone, too.” You froze instantly, suddenly feeling as if the air had been knocked from your lungs. “I’ve been so caught up with Peter and trying to find a way to help him that I nearly forgot he wasn’t the only one who lost someone.”
May glanced up for perhaps the first time in this whole conversation. You couldn’t help but feel as if the roles had changed, sinking further into the cushion behind you. She took note of everything, your stiff posture, the subtle bouncing of your leg, the timid look in your eye. You had become the sheep, being carefully discerned by the lion.
“I never got a chance to tell you how sorry I was—still am, for your loss, y/n. You didn’t just lose Gwen that night, you lost all three of them.”
Her heedful words landed the final blow, feeling like a piercing knife against your throat.
Suck it up, you kept repeating to yourself, change the subject.
Scrambling to compose yourself, nearly choking on your own tongue, you tried to ignore the look of concern she gave you. You didn’t need sympathy. “I’m managing.” You told her roughly, only able to conjure a barely believable smile. “It could be worse.”
“Sure,” May tentatively agreed, “but it could also be better.”
You decided it was best to not acknowledge her words.
“You said not entirely.” You reminded her, working hard to ensure that your voice didn’t shake. You weren’t sure why it was shaking in the first place, torn between naming anxiety or anger as the culprit. “When I asked if you wanted me to help Peter, that’s what you said. What makes you think I can help him?”
May’s face screwed up, staring at you as if it were obvious. “Because no one else can. The three of you—you, Harry, and Gwen—were the only ones that could ever get through to him.” She paused, considering her next words. “And you’re the only one left.”
There was a weight that settled on your shoulders, shoving you further into the couch. You didn’t like the way that it sounded, for more reasons than one. There was too much responsibility that came with it.
“Columbia’s campus is big.” You told her, void of any emotion. “Do you know where he’s staying? Anything that might help me find him?”
This time it was May’s turn to sink back into her seat, shoulders slouching forward as she turned apologetic. “I know he’s living on campus, but I don’t know which building. Whenever he writes he always keeps the details to a minimum.”
As much as you appreciated any information she offered, it wouldn’t help you much. You had been right in your earlier statement; Columbia was a big school with at least two dozen residence halls. Finding Peter amongst those students was comparable to finding a needle in a haystack.
You knew that you could enlist Betty Brant’s help, but even then, it could take days before one of you happened to find him.
Finally, a bit exasperated, you dared to ask. “Anything else?”
May smiled, weary and filled with regret. “Just be careful, y/n. I’m not sure what Peter had gotten himself into, but I’ve seen the news.” Her hands trembled as she spoke. “I know what they think he did. What Spider-Man might have done.”
She spoke the vigilante’s name like a forbidden word, as if it were one she had sworn she’d never speak aloud, and your eyes grew wide as you just barely breathed out, “You know?”
May’s smile remained despite the somber gleam in her eyes as she told you simply, “No one washes the flag.”
You found the students at Columbia University nauseating.
Most of them were pretentious assholes that stunk of cigarette smoke, not because they actually smoked them, but instead because letting them lazily hang from their fingers matched their desired aesthetic.
They were all desperate to give off the same vibe as a fifteen-year-olds dark academia Pinterest board, leaning against a wall with a copy of Allan Ginsberg’s Howl tucked beneath their arm. You wondered if any of them had ever read it, snorting to yourself when you thought of how they’d likely dogeared a few pages to make the book look worn.
“This place is huge.” Betty Brant marveled from beside you, spinning in a circle as she took in its vastness. When she was done making herself dizzy, she looked at you. “This is gonna be impossible.”
You smiled at her inept observation, challenging her. “Why?”
Her brows snapped together, a single hand incredulously waving around the two of you. “Have you looked around?” She quipped. “There are literally thousands of people here! If we find him today, then it’ll just be dumb luck.”
You didn’t judge her for her innate pessimism. After all, you felt just as overwhelmed as Betty Brant did currently when sitting on Aunt May’s couch, listening as she told you that she had essentially nothing to offer in terms of helping to find Peter. It was easy to assume the worst in a field where you’re so often dealt the shittiest of hands—but Jameson and the other seasoned reporters at the Bugle had taught you well. There was always a way to turn things around.
“Know your target, Brant.” You lightly chastised, a teasing smile that Brant felt looked out of place on you. While she still didn’t know you well, she’d seen you around the office a lot, and she struggled to remember a time when you didn’t have a permanent grimace etched on your face.
Your fingers delved into your bag and reached for a few papers that you’d printed off at the Bugle, just moments before you’d snagged Brant up by her arm without warning and forced her to come with you to Columbia University. You held one of the papers out to her, which she swiftly took and began reading.
"There are only two programs offered at Columbia that Peter would care about: photography or biochemistry.” You explained to her. “I went on their website and got an idea of a mock schedule for both and copied down the names of the buildings they’re in. It’s still not a sure shot-”
“But it gives us somewhere to start.” Brant finished your sentence, her big eyes flickering back up to yours as she lowered the page you’d given her.
You grinned. “Exactly.”
“So, we’re splitting up?”
She was nervous about that idea, clear by the way she started to tug at the edge of her royal blue cardigan. If it were someone other than Brant you might be concerned, but Brant always came off a little antsy, making it easy to brush it off; although it did leave you wondering why the girl stayed so high strung. One day you’d ask her about it, you thought, but not right now.
"It’s better that way. We'll cover more ground.” You told her, your pitiless statement doing little to quell her nerves as she gave another sharp tug to her garment, anxiously looking around at the swarm of students passing around you both.
You did your best to look sympathetic, “Just call me if you need me, alright?” Brant stared back at you, resembling a small child whose mother was dropping them off on their first day of school. It was pitiful, and you nearly groaned as you forced yourself to say, “If you call, I’ll answer. Promise.”
Brant hesitated for a second before nodding, still uneasy but far more willing now to leave your side. As you turned away from her you reminded yourself to never have children, desperately hoping and praying to any God who might listen that Brant would not call you.
As you started to meld into the crowd, falling into step with a group of girls around your age, the thoughts of Brant and her child-like anxiety were replaced with something far more juvenile. You had just barely glanced at the girls walking next to you, at first only giving them a quick glance. Soon, though, as you continued towards your destination, you found yourself fixating on them.
They smelled like cloves and bergamot, probably the scent of some over-priced perfume you’d never even dream of taking off the shelf and their clothes were nicer than anything hanging up in your closet. One had a Tiffany’s necklace dangling around her throat like a collar and another had pin straight platinum hair. In short, they looked expensive. But, at the same time, they looked incredibly beautiful.
It made you hyper aware of yourself, of how different you looked in comparison. You weren’t wearing any nice jewelry, and your hair was messily tied back, making you feel as if you were the opposite of both the girls that had caught your attention. Realizing this, you looked around at the other girls surrounding you, noticing that all of them looked that way. Posh, put-together, and completely and utterly gorgeous.
A strange feeling crept up your spine, one you hadn’t felt since you were in high school. Self-loathing.
There was a time when you prioritized your appearance, or at least more than you do now. You could still remember what it was like to stroll into an Oscorp charity event, dozens of eyes glued to you. Men would watch with bated breath as you passed them, silently dreaming of a day where you’d actually notice them.
That would never happen, of course.
You always went to those events with either Harry or Peter, and they often left you with little reason to acknowledge anyone else in attendance. Even so, you remembered the power you held. Remembered what it was like to feel desired by someone, even if it wasn’t by who you wanted.
After the accident, though, you’d stopped caring about how you looked. It felt so trivial to put any more effort than necessary into your looks, often throwing on the same outfit several days in a row to save time in the mornings. But in this moment, you found yourself feeling differently, insecurity slipping into your mind. Had you let yourself go? Surely not...
It didn’t matter! You suddenly shouted at yourself, fists balling up at your sides as you tried to silence the thoughts that were fueled by foolish insecurity. Despite believing every word of the statement, it didn’t help to make you feel any less self-conscious.
Passing by the mirrored windows of the mess hall, you found yourself slowing down, falling behind the group of girls as you hesitantly turned to catch a glimpse of yourself. You cursed yourself for looking, hating that you even cared about this sort of thing right now. But once you looked into the reflection you froze, realizing that it wasn’t yourself that you saw in the reflection. It was Gwen.
“It’s not that bad!” She would lie to you, her voice jumping several octaves as she did. A hand would reach out, sage green fingernails combing through the frizzy mess that framed your face, trying to flatten it. “It just needs a little...” her head cocked to the side, teeth exposed as she sucked in a breath, “work.”
Gwen was always a terrible liar. She wasn’t like you; she never had been. She was completely incapable of hiding her hand, always living with her cards exposed for the world to see—for them to take advantage of. It was what you’d always admired most about her, her willingness to trust in everyone, to see the good in anyone. It was also what you despised the most about her, and you tried not to dwell on the complexity of that.
“You know what? It doesn’t even matter!” Gwen’s shoulders lifted exponentially, a mess of blonde curls violently swaying as she shook her head about. “You still look hotter than half the girls here, alright?” She grinned at you, the same sweet smile that you missed more than anything. “I promise!”
And she meant it every word of it, but rather than offering you any comfort, the words just filled you with envy. You envied Gwen far more than you liked to admit. You wanted to be like her, even now, to be able to see the good in every situation, to be even half as lovely as she was.
You tried to swallow your guilt, though it only made your stomach hurt. You had promised yourself that you were done envying Gwen.
But you weren’t done missing her.
Still entranced by her doe eyed stare, you felt your phone begin to buzz in your pocket, distracting you enough that you turned your gaze to your bag, instinctively going to dig for the device. By the time you thought to look back up, the vision of her was gone and you were looking at only a reflection of yourself.
You wasted no time in looking away.
When you sobered up enough to read the caller ID, you groaned loud enough to turn a few heads of students passing by. Now, in an interesting turn of events, you wished that Brant was the one calling you, staring down at Director Samson’s name flashing across the screen. You silenced it.
Not today. You started walking again, effectively trading your thoughts of Gwen for ones of Ravencroft and Harry Osborn. Or ever again.
Dodge Hall was the first stop on your list.
You were willing to bet that of the two programs you listed to Brant that Peter likely picked photography, which was precisely why you had delegated the biochemistry labs to Brant.
There was a chance that you were wrong and that he’d decided to major in biochemistry, maybe in some desperate attempt to be like the father he swore he hated, but you held out hope anyway. You wanted to believe that even in whatever odd stage of life Peter was in he was working to forge his own path, rather than following the one he’d once considered his birthright.
Stopping in front of the building that housed most of the University’s photography classes, you grimaced. It significantly lacked character, offering nothing more than a bunch of lifeless bricks with boring cement pillars on either side. You had yet to see anything about this school that made it seem worth the astronomical tuition students paid to attend.
“I know that look-” a high-pitched voice filled the air, the grating sound intensifying your already sour expression, “Dodge might not have the most intricate architecture on campus, but for what it lacks in appearance it makes up for in its rich and extraordinary history!”
You didn't want to turn around, fully recognizing the chirpy she-devil by diction alone. Still, you forced yourself to do it anyway, realizing that there was no possible escape route. “Mary Jane!” The vile taste of her name in your mouth left you feeling queasy, “what’re you doing here?”
No, seriously, what the fuck was she doing here?
A perfectly manicured hand flew to her overly plump lips, packed full of filler and overlined with a red lip pencil. An exaggerated gasp somehow managed to slip past them. “Oh my gosh!” The copper-haired beauty squealed, sounding as if she had inhaled at least a few liters of helium. You forgot how much you hated her voice. “y/n! I didn’t even recognize you!”
“Yeah, it’s been a while.” You droned, likely appearing just as displeased as you sounded. It was difficult for you to sound pleasant around Mary Jane.
Mary Jane had always been a thorn in your side. For the most part she was entirely harmless, but her ever-so-perky attitude always left a bad taste in both your mouth and Gwen’s. On top of that, she lacked morals, made clear by the last time you’d seen her.
It was immediately after Gwen’s funeral, and you’d just happened to find Mary Jane and a few other reporters from the Daily Globe swarming the Stacy family, pining for an interview. It was disgusting, and if you’d been in better shape, you swore that you would’ve knocked her square in the face that day.
Mary Jane reached out and touched your forearm, giving it a firm squeeze. “You look so good!”
You didn’t even bother thanking her, instead deciding to brace yourself for what might be coming next. You had known her long enough to know that all her compliments were a double-edged sword, an insult waiting just around the corner.
“After Genna’s funeral you looked so thin and sickly,” her button nose scrunched up as she looked you up and down, “it’s so nice to see you look far more...” a slight tilt of her head, accompanied by a sickeningly sweet smile as she squeezed your arm again, “plump!”
The smile you gave in return was far less pleasurable than hers, bearing a closer resemblance to a snarl. “Gwen.” You pointedly corrected, choosing to ignore her weak attempt at insulting you. “Her name is Gwen.”
She only waved her hand, dismissing your correction. The simple act made your blood boil, teeth grinding together as you fought to stay silent. You didn’t have time to start a fight with her.
“Ugh, silly me! I’m so bad with names!” She pretended to laugh it off, playing it as an innocent slip of the tongue. You could see the malice behind it, though, her emerald eyes glistening with spite. Mary Jane was a journalist, which meant that remembering facts was quite literally her job. Pretending to forget Gwen’s name was just another idle attempt at getting under your skin.
It worked.
“Did you check out the Globe yesterday?” She started right back up, trapping you in another conversation and preventing you from finding an excuse to slip into Dodge Hall and start your search for Peter. “Who am I kidding! Of course you did!” Mary Jane twirled a strand of red hair around her finger, her egotism on full display as she beamed. “Dozens of newsstands sold out within the hour! Amazing, right? To sell out physical copies in this digital age!”
You only hummed in response, aware that she only wanted to hear herself talk. But God, you hated the way she spoke. Her constant need to enunciate every other word, her squeaky voice filled with false sincerity, always searching for validation in every conversation.
”Bushkin agreed that we only sold out because of my story on the front page! He said my talent for writing could be enough to revive print entirely!” Her chest swelled with pride; hands clasped over her heart as nonsense continued to spew from her.
Barney Bushkin was the publisher for the Globe, which made him Mary Jane’s boss. He also had a reputation for being a sick old pervert with an affinity for girls that were far too young for him. His opinion meant nothing to you since you knew that he would say absolutely anything if he thought it would increase his odds of getting a quick look up one of Mary Jane’s too-short skirts.
”I’m not surprised you sold so many copies,” you egged her on, taking immense pleasure in the way her smug smile grew at what she mistook for praise, “fear mongering has always been a useful tactic for sales.”
For a moment you could’ve sworn you saw her eyes turn as red as her hair, fiery rage coursing through her veins at your comment. But it was gone nearly as soon as it had appeared.
”Well,” she cleared her throat, smoothing the wrinkles out of her white blouse, “I’d hardly call my article fear mongering. I just presented the facts.”
You couldn’t deny that Mary Jane was a pro at composing herself, remaining collected even when you knew she wanted to explode. Image was important to her, meaning she couldn’t ever afford to let her nice girl act falter.
”You called Spider-Man a murderer.”
You didn’t always share her skillset, willing to let yourself come off as brash and plain-spoken.
”And last I checked there’s an active warrant for his arrest.” Mary Jane retorted sharply, the only sign she was willing to give that you were annoying her. “So, like I said, I presented the facts.”
You sucked in a breath, holding back your argument. You wanted to tell her that her facts were skewed, that she was reporting with only one source and effectively trying to demonize a man who had saved the city countless times. But you didn’t. Fighting with her would be a waste of time, and you had better things to do.
"Yeah, well, I should really get going.” You gave a curt smile, nodding in the direction of Dodge Hall. “Always good to see you, MJ.” You took care to place extra emphasis on the nickname, fully aware of just how much she hated it.
Still, she barely let it get to her, hiding her own scowl as you started to edge towards the building. You noticed the way her left eye twitched, though, showing that she was nearing a breaking point. If you had more time, you’d likely try and push her over the edge.
“Why are you here?” Mary Jane suddenly mimicked the question you had first asked her, the one she had never actually gave an answer to.
You paused, only having made it less than a few feet away from her. “Visiting a friend.”
If all went to plan, that wouldn’t technically be a lie.
“Peter?” She blurted his name out in a way that left you feeling strange. There was a hesitant look on her face, almost as if she were afraid that you’d say yes. You didn’t like it.
“Yeah, actually.” You frowned, watching her face drop at the confirmation. “Why?”
She refused to meet your stare, staring past your shoulder at the entrance of the Hall. “He’s not in there.”
In all the years you’d known Mary Jane, you’d never heard her sound so uncharacteristically dispirited. Her perky persona seemed to vanish in thin air, leaving behind someone that was entirely unfamiliar to you.
It was incredibly uncomfortable.
“Wait, do you know where he is?” You asked.
“Of course I do.” She quickly answered, cutting her eyes at you. “But if you’re the one meeting him then shouldn’t you know where he is?”
Jealousy settled in. Why did she know where Peter was? Mary Jane and Peter had never been particularly close, likely due to the lifelong rivalry that you and Gwen had held with her. The idea of him even interacting with Mary Jane left you feeling unsettled.
“Well, we were supposed to meet here.” You lied, turning a tad defensive as you shrugged a shoulder in the direction of the building. “But it’s been a busy morning. He might’ve forgot.”
You paused, debating whether you wanted to continue. There was a good chance that you didn’t want to hear the answer to the question resting on the tip of your tongue, and yet you made yourself ask it anyway. “Were you just with him?”
Please say no-
“Yes.” Her answer came quickly. “We had plans to get dinner but-um,” she suddenly became extremely focused on her own feet, awkwardly kicking at the sidewalk, “he had to... cancel. Said he was gonna be too busy developing photos all night.”
Her too-perfect face screwed up in an unsightly sort of way. You almost thought that you should feel guilty for accidentally making it seem as if Peter had ditched her for you. But you didn’t. Instead, you felt sickly satisfied, taking pleasure in her sorrow. You reveled in it, finding it easier to focus on that than the idea of why she and Peter were going to get dinner together in the first place.
”Mm, that sucks.” You let out a disinterested hum, taking a page from her book as you continued without waiting for a reply, “Is that what he’s doing now? Developing photos?”
Mary Jane gave a stiff nod.
”Great.”
Despite how painful it had been to sit through what felt like a never-ending conversation with her, Mary Jane had ended up being of vital importance. If Peter was developing images today, then that meant he had to be in the darkrooms. And, thanks to your Google research, you knew exactly where they were—Watson Hall, just a brief walk from where you were now.
You wasted no time with stepping around Mary Jane, having no intention of even wasting a goodbye on her as you started towards your destination. But, as you moved around her body, she reached for you, her thin fingers once again wrapping around your forearm. She squeezed harder than last time, your head snapping in her direction, eyes narrowing in a threatening stare as she held you there.
Surprisingly, she gave you a threatening look of her own.
“Before you go,” you found it eerie the way her voice remained syrupy sweet, a sharp contrast to the menacing expression she wore, “I just wanted to tell you how much I adored that little sympathy piece you wrote for your friend in the looney bin.”
You pulled your arm from her grip, your body going tense at the mention of the article you’d written to try and sway the public during Harry’s trial. Jameson hadn’t allowed it to go to print, reminding you that your judgment was still clouded by grief. He didn’t understand why you were so desperate to keep Harry out of Ryker’s Island, but he had hoped that by letting you at least post the article on the Bugle’s website that it would offer you some sort of closure.
It hadn’t. It was shortly after publishing the piece that you had went straight to Harry’s lawyers, giving them all the information they would need to plead insanity.
Mary Jane stepped closer, ignoring your effort to create distance from her. She was close enough that you could nearly feel the heat radiating off her body. You didn’t like it, but you refused to let yourself back away from her.
“I can’t say that Peter agreed.” Her lips curled into a cynical smirk. “I mean, honestly, after the reaction he had to it I’m shocked that he can even stand to be in the same room as you!” The sound of her laughter infuriated you. “I suppose it’s true what they say about time, yeah? That it heals all wounds—even a knife in the back.”
You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t blink, couldn’t think.
All you could do was stare at the devilish woman in front of you, seething with a type of hatred that you were certain could eat you alive. Your nails sunk into the heel of your palm, an effort to refrain yourself from using them to claw that nasty complacent look right off her face.
Mary Jane noticed this and decided to take your silence as a sign of her victory.
“It really was great seeing you, y/n.” She gushed, the false tender statement only fueling your anger. As she turned to walk away, she glanced over her shoulder, winking at you. “Don’t be a stranger.”
One day, you swore to yourself with a particularly loud huff, spinning on your heel and stomping in the direction of the darkrooms, you would kick Mary Jane’s ass.
When you posted the article—the one you hoped would sway the public’s opinion of Harry—you knew Peter would see it. More than that, you knew that he would be adamantly against it.
Unlike you, Harry hadn’t given Peter a reason to care whether he lived or died.
If anything, he had done nothing but give Peter motive to kill Harry himself. You hated that thought. While you didn’t believe that Peter had murdered Sytsevich, you worried that if given the chance he would have killed Harry that night. You wanted to believe that he wouldn’t have been capable of following through with it, though. Just as you weren’t capable of sitting idly by as Harry was sentenced to Ryker’s Island, knowing that he would be as good as dead in there.
Maybe you’d been stupid not to consider that the article was one of the reasons why Peter had never bothered to reach out to you, even once things had settled down. Maybe it was your own fault that he’d abandoned you, that the article had been the final nail in the coffin of your friendship.
Your stomach ached, your mind still reeling as you shoved open the large doors of Watson Hall. A rush of frigid air washed over you, goosebumps erupting against your skin.
Was it possible that Peter hated you as much as he hated Harry?
No. It couldn’t be. What Harry had done was beyond abominable, something that could never be forgiven. You hadn’t done anything nearly as bad as him.
Yet, on the other hand… is the one who comes to a monster's defense just as bad as the monster? You weren’t sure of the answer to that question, though you started to rationalize it to yourself anyway—you weren’t defending him, you just didn’t want to watch him die if there was something you could do to stop it!
But why not? Gwen wasn’t a monster, yet you still watched her die, standing on the sidelines and doing nothing to try and stop it.
There was nothing I could’ve done! Your mind screamed in defense of itself as you approached the staircase leading to the second floor, roughly gripping the rail as you started climbing up.
Why had Peter talked to Mary Jane about the article in the first place? That question was easier to think about than the others, infuriating but still less emotionally taxing, so you let yourself fixate on it. As far as you knew, Peter hadn’t liked Mary Jane any more than you and Gwen did, always keeping his distance from the she-devil.
When did that change?
At the top of the stairs, nestled in a corner of the left, there was a single door with a large black sign hanging off of it. The words DARKROOM IN USE were written in bold letters. You stared at it for a moment, your mind finally going blank as you did.
Peter was behind that door—your best friend, Peter.
Your palms started to sweat as memories started flooding back. Instantly, you bit your cheek, trying to ignore them. Now wasn’t the time for a trip down memory lane, especially not when you could still recall the bloody way that road ends.
A knock echoed through the somewhat barren Hall as your first collided with the door, your nerves growing with every passing millisecond. All you could do was focus on the different feelings fighting to consume you, the thudding of your heart, the slickness of your hands, the churning of your stomach.
“Peter?”
Saying his name felt wrong, but you said it anyway as you knocked again, a bit harder this time. “It’s y/n,” you told him, as if it were even possible for him to forget the sound of your voice, “can I come in?”
Once again you were met with silence.
You considered turning around. Maybe Jameson had been right in thinking that you shouldn’t chase this story. After all, it wasn’t your job to prove Spider-Man's innocence, and if Peter wanted your help, then he knew how to find you. You could call Brant right now and tell her that today was a bust, or even lie and say that Peter didn’t want to help with the story. You could walk away.
But you didn’t let yourself do that, once again feeling that weight of responsibility that May had unintentionally placed on your shoulders. There was no one left in Peter’s corner, no one that would be willing to dig him out of whatever dark hole he’d landed himself in.
You had fought to save Harry’s life, and so it only felt right that you tried to do the same for Peter.
Without bothering to knock again, you reached for the knob and twisted, hastily slipping inside the room, trying to limit the amount of light the leaked in behind you. You didn’t know a lot about developing photos, but you’d never forgotten the way Peter would groan whenever you’d come in unannounced, accidentally letting the light ruin his work.
The door clicked shut behind you as you looked around. It wasn’t a big room, just large enough for two or three people to comfortably fit inside. Any more than that, though, and they’d likely be bumping elbows the entire time. There was a table in the center of it, lined with tubs holding various chemicals that you’d never learned the names of. A clothesline hung around the perimeter of the room, a few newly developed photos lazily dangling from it. On the far wall there were two desks, various images and tools scattered across them.
Everything in the room looked sinister, courtesy of the red tinted light that hung overhead.
”Fucking creepy.” You muttered to yourself, crossing your arms over your chest as a chill inched down your back. This room felt significantly colder than the rest of Watson Hall, only adding to its unsettling vibe.
The darkroom was empty, despite the sign on the door saying it was in use. The realization nearly made you breathe a sigh of relief, a part of you finding comfort in the thought that you wouldn’t actually have to confront Peter right now. But as you stepped further into the room and towards the twin desks, all your newfound relief dissipated.
Resting against the leg of the desk was a fluorescent yellow bookbag, decorated with a variety of cheap pins ranging from local bands to images of outdated memes. You remembered the first time you ever saw that bag, lying on the floor of Peter’s bedroom just a week or so before the start of Junior year. He threw a fit when Aunt May had come in, tossing the ugly bag on his bed and raving about how she had gotten it on sale just in time for back-to-school.
You made fun of him for months, always making note of the way its vibrancy clashed with his darker style. Secretly you had loved that bag, silently appreciative for how easy it made it to find Peter in the crowded halls of Midtown High. He would always beg Aunt May to get a different bag, but she refused, saying that they shouldn’t buy another until he had worn the yellow one out.
Looking at it now, it seemed that he had finally achieved that goal. The yellow fabric was a touch duller now, though not by much, and there was a noticeable tear in the seam of the front pocket. Kneeling beside it, you traced your finger over a trail of blue thread, having been carefully used to stitch the fabric back together.
You wondered why he had decided to fix it instead of just replacing it like he had always wanted.
Straightening back up, you scanned over the rest of the desk. There was a black reusable water bottle perched on the edge, a set of keys attached to a Deftones lanyard lying beside it. A bit of sweat trickled down the edge of the bottle, collecting on the surface of the desk. You reached for it, shifting it just enough to hear ice knocking against the metal walls. It had barely melted, meaning that it hadn’t been long since Peter had gotten here. Still, you had no clue where he was now.
Closer to the center of the desk was a neat stack of already developed photos. A girl graced the top of the stack—pale skin with bleach blonde hair, neatly pushed back by a black headband. You reached for it without hesitation, a single digit tracing along her grinning face.
Peter took pictures of a lot of people, you included, but it was undeniable that Gwen had always been his favorite subject. Looking at this photo, you couldn’t help but understand why. She was effortlessly beautiful, capable of taking your breath away without even trying.
You could never blame Peter for always trying to capture that beauty, fully aware that if you were him, she would’ve been your favorite too.
Without much thought you decided to slip the image into your bag. Peter had dozens of pictures of Gwen, while you only had a measly few. He could spare one.
The other images were far more recent than the first, with only one or two others featuring Gwen. There were snapshots of random Columbia students, a few cityscapes, and even one of the devil herself—Mary Jane, posed in front of the same mess hall that had ensnared you earlier. In the reflection you could see Peter, smiling from behind his camera.
You gritted your teeth and rolled your eyes at the image. Were they really friends? The picture seemed to serve as enough of an answer, but you still couldn’t help but hope that you were wrong. Had Peter truly traded you in for Mary-fucking-Jane?
You roughly shoved that photo to the back of the stack, doing your best not to think about it as you continued to snoop through the rest of them. None were particularly interesting, save for the last two. Their dark composition offered a stark difference from the rest, while simultaneously making it difficult to tell what Peter was even photographing.
Taking one in each hand, your eyes darted back and forth between them, squinting as you tried to make out the subject, a task that was made all the more difficult by the rooms dim red lighting. You brought one closer to your face, making out a few trivial details. At the far edge, there seemed to be a street sign's corner, and in the middle a few streaks of dim light reflecting off a rain puddle.
Moving it away from yourself, you shifted your focus to the other one, thinking it appeared to be just a close-up of the first image. Then, slowly, you realized your mistake. It hadn’t been just a zoomed-in shot, as the reflection in the puddle made it something else entirely—a self-portrait.
But it wasn’t the warmth of Peter’s familiar brown eyes being reflected in the hazy liquid. Rather there was an outline of the two lifeless white lenses that belonged to his other self, the version of him you sometimes wished to forget.
The sight made you feel sick, sweat starting to form along your neck as you hastily flipped the photo over, desperate to avoid his sickening stare. However, what you saw on the back of the image was almost as bad as being forced to stare at Spider-Man's reflection. Scrawled in Peter’s barely legible handwriting was the date APRIL 2ND.
A new panic quickly trickled into your veins, fully replacing the one that had been born from the lifeless gaze of his mask. You read yesterday’s date over and over again, as if it would suddenly change. It never did, and a sizable knot formed in your throat as you slowly began to look up, shifting your focus to the forgotten photos pinned to the clothesline.
Your jaw fell slack, the photos in your hands following suit and landing on the desk below them. When you first entered the darkroom, you hadn’t paid much mind to the photographs hanging up, assuming they weren’t of much importance. Now, though, you recognized them for what they truly were—the sister images of the ones you’d been holding. Flashes of 102nd Avenue, Aleksei Sytsevich lying lifeless on the ground, milky white shards of bone peeking through his flesh. And there were photos of his mask, and those goddamn white lenses, spattered with Aleksei’s blood.
Peter hadn’t just been at the crime scene; he had documented it.
Your palm pressed roughly to your mouth, fingers digging into your cheek as you made yourself swallow the vomit fighting its way up your throat. Your own trauma fought desperately to rear its head as you analyzed the gory images, but you refused to let it take hold, scrambling to keep control as you forced yourself to snap into action.
After grabbing your phone, you wasted no time snapping pictures of the photographs hanging from the line, of the ones sprawled on the desk, of everything you could find. You didn’t know yet what you would do with them, but you refused to leave this room without collecting every bit of evidence you could find.
Once you were certain you had gotten it all, you worked to straighten the stack of pictures you’d gone through, adjusting them so they appeared as if they’d never been touched in the first place. Then, with your heart hammering inside your chest, you darted for the door without a second thought, paying absolutely no mind to the strange looks given to you by passing students as you rushed for the stairs.
You couldn’t stop moving, only slowing your frantic pace once you’d nearly made it to the exit doors. You rounded the corner as you tried to pull up Brant’s contact with shaky hands, wanting nothing more than to call her and get the fuck away from this campus. But, as soon as you went to press her name, your phone went flying from your hand and slid across the linoleum, your body pressing smack against another.
Sugary notes of vanilla flooded your senses, making your thoughts turn hazy. Your palms were flush against the soft cotton of someone’s shirt, and you could feel their fingers wrapping firmly around your shoulders, trying to steady you enough that you wouldn’t stumble back from the impact.
”Oh-shit!, sorry! I didn’t even see you-”
Their voice wasn’t the first thing you recognized, instead you found yourself caught up in the material beneath your hands. They were wearing a black Ramones t-shirt, a barely noticeable tear on the edge of the collar. But you noticed the tear instantly because you were the one who had bought the shirt. You got it at the record store on 6th Avenue—Rough Trade, was the name of it—and the man behind the counter gave it to you for half off all because of that tear.
You only ever got to wear it once before Peter nabbed it off your bedroom floor, never to return it.
”y/n?”
Your body betrayed you, immediately melting as the familiar sound of your name falling from his lips rang through your ears. Your heart had still been pounding in your chest this entire time, yet as your eyes met his for the first time in months, it fell still.
Peter didn’t fully share in your reaction. Instead of appearing as if he were lost in the same nostalgic haze you were caught in, he looked as if he had seen a ghost. His skin blanched, eyes growing unnaturally wide. For a moment you thought he was going to say something else, his lips parting, yet nothing came out.
In your lifetime, you had only known of a few things that could render Peter Parker speechless. You had now become one of them.
”Hi.” You squeaked out, a single hand lifting from his chest and offering an awkward wave that filled you with humility.
This wasn’t easy.
You weren’t sure how to act around him, how to behave. For nine months you had envisioned this moment, conjuring up countless things to say to him, all the insults you wanted to hurl his way. But now that it was happening, you found yourself torn between wanting to hug and choke him.
It seemed best to do neither.
”Um, hi?” Peter’s grip on your shoulders tightened, just for a second, as if he were trying to prove to himself that you were really standing in front of him. Once he seemed satisfied with your physicality, he stepped back and released his grip on you entirely, subsequently making your other hand fall from his chest.
”You’re not-I mean-you don’t go here.” He rasped, laughing awkwardly as he ran a hand through his hair, trying to ground himself.
”You’re right, I don’t go here!” You pointlessly confirmed, voice raising several octaves as anxiety took over. “Very observant.”
You cringed at the statement. Very observant?-you thought to yourself, biting down on the edge of your tongue as you watched Peter’s brows knit together-could've said anything, and that’s what you picked?
He didn’t even acknowledge the useless comment, only letting it hang in the air between you as he continued to wait for a true answer.
“I came to see you.” You choked out an honest answer, starting to shrink beneath his heavy gaze. You tried to step back, instinctively wanting to create distance between the two of you, but all you achieved was pressing yourself against the wall.
There was no escaping him.
He was quick to respond, making it clear just how high-strung he was. ”How did you find me?”
”I’m a reporter.” You reminded him, offering it up as a vague answer to his question. He’d likely expected the response, given the way his eyes narrowed in frustration. “Finding people is part of my job description.”
Peter always said that getting an answer out of you was like playing a game of charades, one that others very rarely won. You were a pro at dancing around the facts, only ever revealing them when they served to benefit you.
It was one of the many reasons you were so good at your job.
“Is that why you’re here?” His question carried a sharp edge, his irritation growing stronger now as his jaw tightened. “For the Bugle?”
Your body became tense, your shoulders squaring off as anxiety once again tried to shove to the surface. As you thought of the images you’d seen, the ones that were hanging just upstairs, your blood ran cold. You did your best not to let it show, instead trying to hide your fear behind a look of confusion. “Why would I be here for the Bugle?”
At first, he only stared at you, his brows raising in an incredulous manner. You forced yourself to stare back despite the discomfort it brought you. Then, finally, he answered. “You wanna talk about Spider-Man, right?”
Your heart sank into your stomach, lips turning dry as they parted. There was nothing good about the way the vigilante’s name rolled off his tongue, and you didn’t like it one bit. The semi-hushed tone he’d spoken in, laced with an essence of bitterness that one wouldn’t expect from the person that donned the mask.
Hesitantly running your tongue along your now chapped lips, you responded in a shaky voice. “Why would I wanna talk about Spider-Man?”
Harry’s advice rang through your mind—the same advice that had been mirrored by Aunt May, to remain wary of Peter—and you suddenly felt lightheaded. There was no way he could know that you found out about his identity that night, right?
No, of course not. It was impossible.
Peter appeared far more relaxed than you, his shoulders lazily lifting into a shrug. He didn’t seem to notice the sweat forming along your brow, making you think that you were doing an alright job at hiding your emotions. “Jameson wants new pictures of him, doesn’t he?” He threw out a guess.
Your shoulders instantly sagged with relief, your lungs aching as you lightly blew out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Given what you’d seen upstairs, you decided it would be best to stick to Harry and May’s advice. Peter didn’t need to know that you were aware of who wore Spider-Man's mask. Not right now, at least.
“I'm right, aren’t I?” Peter insisted impatiently, interrupting your racing thoughts and snapping you back into reality.
“Do you have new pictures of him?” You hastily snapped back.
“No. I don’t.” He lied straight through his teeth, once again running a hand through his already messy hair as he squeezed his eyes shut. It was obvious that he wasn’t planning to share any details of Spidey’s newly developed photoshoot hanging in the darkroom, and it would be against your best interest to press further, so you stayed quiet. When he opened his eyes again, he stared directly into yours. “And I don’t plan on taking any, so if that’s why you’re here then you’re wasting your time.”
You couldn’t recall ever hearing Peter sound so exhausted before. His recent lack of sleep was made painfully evident by the varying shades of purple painting the skin around his eyes. How long had he looked this way? Has it been since Gwen? In some sick way you hoped that you were right, knowing that grief being the cause was better than the alternative—the idea that his lack of sleep related to his involvement with Aleksei.
A part of you still refused to consider the images you’d seen as damning evidence that Peter had been the one to kill Aleksei Sytsevich. You couldn’t let yourself think that, refusing to believe that Peter Parker was anything even close to a murderer. It wasn’t possible.
But, as much as you hated to admit it, they proved that he was in some way involved. An accessory, at least. For some reason, hopefully a good one, he hadn’t stopped Aleksei’s murder from happening.
That came with its own dangerous implications.
You clicked your tongue against the roof of your mouth, trying to decide what direction you wanted to steer the conversation in, which angle would serve you best. With a deep breath, you made your choice. “Well, it’s good that that’s not why I’m here then.”
He looked surprised. “Wait,” he laughed awkwardly, “you’re not writing a piece on him?”
There was a thin line creasing the space between his brows, a strange expression on his face. His reaction wasn’t entirely unexpected, especially because you were known for your articles on Spider-Man. But this wasn’t a look that showed he was shocked to hear you were passing up on a story, it was a look of pure offense.
You fought the urge to ask him why he cared so much, curious to find out if he had been expecting you to rush to Spider-Man's defense in the media. The only reason you held yourself back was the fear that maybe you were wrong, that maybe he hadn’t wanted you to defend him at all; perhaps he just wanted more press for his potential crimes.
”Seems like the Globe has it covered.” You told him, trying to sound disinterested. You hoped that he would buy your act. “No need to waste anymore ink on a story that’s already been told, right?”
Peter knew you well enough to know that there was more to it than that. Fortunately, he was willing to reason that your potential avoidance of Spider-Man related to that night, the last night all of you were together, and the events that neither of you wanted to talk about. Besides, even if he did want to mention it, he couldn’t do so without exposing his identity to you, an identity he wasn’t aware you already knew about.
So, as much as he didn’t want to let it go, he had no other choice.
”O-kay.” He stretched the word out, shaking his head lightly as he worked to regain his bearings in the conversation. As he did so, a few strands of hair fell against his forehead. He was quick to push them back. “Well, if that’s not it, then why are you here?”
There was only a second of hesitation, air hissing between your teeth as you sucked in a breath, crossing your fingers behind your back. You hoped Gwen would forgive you for the lie you were about to tell.
”Helen Stacy.”
The first emotion to wash over Peter was pain. It was obvious, showing in the way his shoulders slumped forwards and his bottom lip trembled, wincing as the surname of his dead lover echoed through his ears. It was the second emotion that was harder to detect, having been more cleverly concealed than the first. Anger.
You could see it in his eyes, his pupils dilating as he started to see red. Your own gaze flickered to his sides, stopping on his clenched fists, knuckles turning a pale shade of white. It made you feel uncomfortable, especially since you were the one on the receiving end of that look. You nervously cleared your throat, starting to fiddle with the strap of your bag.
“She called the other day and asked about running a memorial piece for Gwen’s anniversary. Obviously, she thought it would be best if Gwen’s friends put it together—you know, do it how we used to for the school paper. I’ll do the writing; you take care of the pictures.”
It was hard to sound confident as you elaborated upon the fabricated situation, too busy trying to focus on anything other than his heavy gaze. You focused on the floor, mostly, staring over at where your phone still laid on the ground. Still, even without looking at him, you could feel the weight of his attention. The air around you began to grow thin, every breath turning into a battle. You felt like you were being slowly suffocated by his fury, your lungs burning within your chest.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea-”
“You can’t say no, Pete.” You cut him off, forcibly lowering the walls surrounding your own trauma, using it to manipulate him. You didn’t feel bad about it, either. “We both lost our best friend that night, and that sucked. But Helen lost her kid. This is the least we can do for her.”
As the last word fell from your mouth, you forcefully pried your gaze off the ground and begrudgingly met his once again. Terror slid into your veins as you did, your body already preparing itself for that seething look of his—but it vanished. There was no trace of anger on his face. All that remained was the slightest glimmer of remorse.
His fists unclenched, mindlessly cracking his knuckles. Then he sighed, followed by a reluctant nod. “You’re right. She’s been through a lot, and if this will help bring her some sort of... I don’t know-” he waved his hands slightly, looking troubled by his own choice of words, “closure, then I’ll do what I can to help.”
Your mouth curved into a smile.
It seemed like a good sign, you figured, that he was willing to help. It reignited whatever hope you had left that despite whatever mess he had gotten into as Spider-Man, that he was still the same selfless Peter Parker you’d always known. He could still be saved. And, fortunately, you had now crafted the excuse you needed to get closer to him and figure out how to save him.
”Great!” You spoke a little too loud, your excitement coming off a touch too strong. You tried to lessen it, though the uncharacteristic reaction certainly hadn’t gone unnoticed by Peter. “Meet me at Sylvia’s tomorrow at six, okay? We can start going over everything and make a rough outline for the memorial!”
Peter immediately went still when he heard the name of the restaurant the four of you used to frequent. He hadn’t set foot in Sylvia’s since Gwen’s death, too afraid to face the memories hiding within its walls. He tried to speak, tried to tell you no, but he didn’t have the chance as you interrupted him again.
“Here,” You pulled a business card from your bag, thrusting it towards him with a pointed look, “in case you forgot my number.”
You didn’t hide the animosity behind the statement, using it as another tool to play on whatever guilt he might harbor for what he’d done to you. It seemed to work, given the fact that he promptly shut his mouth and chose not to argue. Instead, he cautiously reached out, plucking the cards from your fingers.
“Try not to ghost me for another nine months.” You playfully added on, the words joined by a smile that resembled something of a threat as you reminded him, “After all, I know where to find you now.”
Peter just returned the smile, tight lipped and far less ferocious than the one you’d given him. He knew that eventually you’d want an answer as to why he’d been avoiding you, but not right now. Now wasn’t the time for it.
So, he stuffed the card in his pocket as you skillfully skirted around him, going to grab your phone off the floor. Once you had it in your hand, you started towards the exit, already starting to dial Brant’s number. “I’ll see you tomorrow, y/n.” Peter called after you, watching as you pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold.
There was an eerie sense of familiarity accompanying his goodbye, one that left your heart swelling as the words sought to soothe any of the still-bleeding wounds that remained from that night. The comforting feeling was almost enough to make you forget about the images you’d seen in the darkroom, the ones that now also lived within the camera roll on your phone.
Almost—but not quite.
Brant answered on the first ring, seemingly overjoyed as another lie easily fell from your lips, confirming with her that Peter agreed to help take photos of Spider-Man so you could try and plead his case to the public—the reason she thought the two of you were searching for Peter. She was just as eager as you were to leave Columbia’s posh campus, swiftly agreeing when you asked her to meet you outside of the mess hall so the two of you could head back to the Bugle.
Now, waiting alone in front of the mirrored windows, you stared silently at the reflection in front of you. A girl with platinum hair, neatly tucked back by a black headband, stared back at you with her familiar bright green eyes. They were filled with enough dismay to make your chest ache, ridding you of any comfort that Peter’s familiarity had given you.
”You’re gonna have to see him again.” The somber tone she used was unbefitting of someone that you could only think to describe as sunshine personified; everything you ever wished you could be. “You’ll need his help.” Gwen told you. “You know that don’t you?”
You knew she wasn’t talking about Peter.
When you didn’t reply, she decided she needed to convince you further, tailoring her approach so it had the best chance of swaying you. She reached a handout, and you knew that if you had closed your eyes, you would be able to feel her fingertips brush against your palm as she squeezed your hand.
God, you missed that feeling. You missed her.
And it was because you missed her that you refused to close your eyes. Refused to let your brain mimic something that was no longer real.
Gwen’s doe eyes turned glossy, her rosy lips puckering into a pout that could make even the most unyielding man fold. ”He’s gonna need your help, too, y/n.”
You bit your cheek, thinking of the bottle of pills laying in the bottom of your bag, the ones you hadn’t had to take in so long now. You were getting better.
"You can’t save one without saving the other.” Gwen tried to tell you, although it only served to make you angry at her, unable to figure out why she would feel that way. She shouldn’t want you to save Harry, not when he was the reason she wasn’t here right now!
If she were here, really here, then maybe you would tell her that. Remind her of how well her altruistic lifestyle had ended.
But she wasn’t. So, you didn’t.
Instead, you turned on your heel, forcing yourself to turn away from the reflection. You immediately saw a flash of royal blue in the sea of students as Brant forced her way through the crowd. Fine—you thought to yourself, offering Gwen a silent answer as you started to make your way towards Brant.
”This place is a goddamn maze!” You heard Brant huff noisily once you were in earshot of each other, her bobbed hair swaying manically. She clearly hadn’t had a good time, but you weren’t really interested in hearing about it, either. Instead, you found yourself distracted by her appearance. Her neatly styled hairstyle, sharp winged liner, and stylish outfit. It made you think of the girls from earlier, the ones who had made you so self-conscious, and it gave you an idea.
If you were going to do this—follow Gwen’s advice and save both of your boys—then you needed to try and save yourself, too. And, luckily, you and Brant seemed to be about the same size.
“Do you wanna go shopping?” You asked bluntly, watching as Brant doubled-back, clearly not expecting your question.
She blinked, thinking it over before hesitantly replying, “Um, sure?”
Ravencroft could wait until tomorrow morning.
tag list - @pompeygirl89 @pockyandme
a/n - hi anyone who's bothering to read this! i'm super excited about this chapter for a variety of reasons and i hope that you enjoyed it! feel free to leave any comments or tips, i always appreciate them and can't wait to write more harry & dark!peter content in the next part <3
Description: What happens when a spoiled and disgraced Princess is handed off to an ex-Winter Soldier as a strategy for the royal family to be rid of her and ensure the Soldier's loyalty to them at the same time?
Pairing: Dark Ex-Winter Soldier!Bucky Barnes | Brat Princess!Reader.
Disclaimer: I (unfortunately) do not own Bucky Barnes or the Winter Soldier arc. This story contains dark and mature content so browse at your own discretion, please. Minors do not interact.
Note: Thank you all so so much for the love on this story! You have no idea how dear I hold it and each and every one of you to my heart! Muah!! <333 The chapter is unedited, I am sorry </3 Also, I did my best to tag everyone and if anyone got left out I am very sorry this story is my first time doing these lists and I am not very good at them 🩷
STORY MASTERLIST
IV
"Did you put on that show at breakfast for the Queen to see, sweets?" James raised an eyebrow at his wife after he joined her at the backseat of the SUV that would drive them to their part of the Kingdom.
She had refused to bid farewell to anyone after behaving quite well at breakfast upon his order, or rather, threat that he had given her when they had had their bath in the morning.
James would not tolerate being husband to an out of control wife. He knew exactly how to put a leash on little deviants such as Her Highness.
Then Y/n had acted like nothing was out of the ordinary, nodding obediently when he informed her that the cars were ready for them and his men before exiting the Palace whilst her family had watched her back expectantly.
"What are you talking about, James?" The bride from last night was barely there anymore as she lied through her teeth. His jaw ticked. "I have no idea whatever you mean."
The man sighed, sitting back as he shook his head and hooked an arm around her back. "Now, what did I tell you about lying to me last night?" She was staring out the window but he could tell she was pouting.
"I am not."
Oh, he was going to have so much fun crushing this pathetic little brat of his.
James clicked his tongue. "So you are lying to your husband after you used him like a disposable pawn in your little game with your mother-"
"Step-mother" the Princess corrected him, turning around to look him in the eyes with her agitated ones.
He raised an eyebrow. "So you are admitting it, then?"
"I didn't do it to disrespect you" her eyes turned soft and eyebrows furrowed worriedly. "I just-"
The Chief clicked his tongue. "Come on up" his vibranium hand patted his lap. "Little girls like you cannot just make and execute their own decisions. You need to learn your place."
Her bottom lip jutted out. "But–"
"Butts get spanked and fucked, come on" his words made a blush and giggle burst out and into her shy hands unexpectedly. For both. He hadn't meant to say it. It was out of his mouth before he could stop himself.
James wasn't a boy that said things like these.
But he still did.
And her response made it worth it.
He could get used to this.
"James!"
Was he trying to compensate for the centuries long generational gap?
For her?
"I haven't even done anything and you're already this worked up" the embarrassment on her shy face worked him up in the best way. Her real self was so different from the facade she put up. So easy. So soft. So fragile to crush and plunder. "Tsk, Mrs. Barnes. What am I going to do with you, hm?" His hand pushed at her ass.
"Not too painful, please?" Y/n batted her lashes at him prettily.
The driver was so uncomfortable James could sense it. But he dared not glance at them through the rearview mirror. He wouldn't. If he cared to keep his eyes and head.
"Stalling will only add to your punishment, sweets." A small whine left her as she pouted and crawled his lap begrudgingly with her head lowered.
"No fair" she whispered so softly under her breath that it made her gasp when he responded.
There would be a lot of getting used to to an enhanced man.
"I'll tell you what isn't fair." Pushing her dress up to her waist, James placed his non-human arm over her back to press her in place. "What isn't fair is lying to me when I have been nothing but a good husband to you" spanking both her clothed cheeks at the same time, he peeled her underwear off. "What isn't fair is you using me as a pawn to deny your step-mother her satisfaction" a loud whine filled the air when he rained down spanks on her already hurt and bruised bottom.
"James, please! Husband, please! It hurts so much!" Y/n's legs kicked in defense, ass trying to dodge his hits.
"It hurts, does it?" He feigned surprise, removing his arm from her back to hold her by the hair at the back of her head, pulling it closer so he could whisper in her ear. "Then why are you so wet, baby?" James' eyes were trained on the rearview mirror, watching the nervous driver carefully to make sure he wouldn't steal a glance.
No one except him could see his wife in this state.
"You've made such a mess on my hand, look" moving her head by her hair to allow her an easier view of his hand that he had been spanking her with, the Chief showed her his wet fingers. "Tsk, what a dirty little girl I have here."
Y/n blushed and bit her lip, embarrassed yet aroused. "Please…"
"Please what, hm?" Letting go of her hair, his hand now reached for her throat for a better grip, still holding her face close to his lips. "Need husband to take care of you?" A smirk made it's way on his face when she whimpered in response to his other hand caressing her sensitive ass.
"... Y- Yes, please…" Biting her lip, the Princess pushed her ass up and into the Chief's fingers when they travelled down the crack of her ass, resting at her wet entrance.
"Here?"
"Yes!" It was pulsating with need. "Yes, please, James! Right there!"
The man's digits circled and rounded her entrance like a beast does its prey, coating themselves in her slick before spreading it over her touch-starved folds. Lewd hums and moans started to flow out of the girl's mouth in response, hips swaying and fingers gripping the man's thigh.
"You love being dominated and put in your place, don't you?" The super soldier snickered, feeling a shiver run down his spine at the erotic gasp that ripped it's way out of his wife when he finally allowed her the aid of a finger inside her wet ring of muscles. "I knew it, it's always naughty little brats like you who rile people up desperately just so someone can come along and beat some manners into their pathetic holes." His dirty talk was making her insides flutter, droplets of cold sweat decorating her temples as one ran down the side of her face.
The girl was too far gone to care or notice whe her husband moved her out of the way, momentarily letting go of her neck which made her collapse against his thighs, fucking herself on his fingers softly as her eyes fluttered shut.
"Come here" grabbing a hold of her head by her hair again, the man guided it to his hard cock. "Look at what you do to me, sweets." Her confused and surprised face was inches from his thick and tall cock as James peered down at her. "Now you must be a good wife and take care of it."
"What-"
"Tsk, aren't you the most precious and dumb little wife?" Y/n was starting to like how he crooned at her. "Needs her husband to teach her everything." Clicking his tongue, he added a second finger to her tight pussy. "Open up, baby. Let me see that pretty sucker" holding her cheeks between his hands hurriedly, the man pushed them open, causing a tiny O to form between her lips through which he pushed the tip of his cock inside but moving his hips.
"Princess…" James called out warningly when she jumped up in response, trying to move away only to freeze at his tone, peeking up at him through her lashes with questioning eyes as he explored her oral cavity bit by bit till he was properly inside. "That's it, baby" the man praised, biting back a moan when she gagged in response to his tip tickling the back of her throat. "Fuck. This is perfect. You're such a fine set of wet little holes."
Speeding up the movements of his fingers inside her pussy, he guided her face up and down his cock by his other hand, hips aiding the process as he tried not to but still made her gag and choke with each thrust.
The car filled with sounds of slapping, choking, squelching, gagging, cursing and moaning as it ran smoothly on the highway roads, the driver using all his willpower to not look back or act bothered, ignoring the headache hurting his eyes.
"Hnnnmmmm~" The Princess moaned against James' cock, hips bucking up as she finally climaxed, her shudders and grunts sending vibrations down the man's cock and adding to the heat that was settling in his own abdomen.
He was close but it wasn't until Y/n unintentionally placed her hand on his ballsack to try and brace herself against the face fucking that had turned quite brutal that her husband collapsed, cursing loudly as he came down her throat, causing her to choke which made her nose ooze out some of his seed.
"You better… fucking… swallow every drop." The man warned, his chest burning at how perfect she looked with mouth full of his cock, mascara smudging her face and nose decorated with his cum. Keeping his fingers buried in her cunt, James put her worked up face down against his lap, a hand gently placed behind her head to keep her in place with her mouth still stuffed full of him.
"Keep it there and don't move" he panted, feeling her widened nostrils exhale out overwhelmed breaths as she had no choice but to cockwarm him with her mouth. "This will teach you your true place." Pressing a kiss to the exhausted girl's head, he whispered in her ear. "Between my legs with your cute sucker full of my cock."
