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spider-stark · 10 months

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A DARK AGE

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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.

series warnings - 18+, minors DNI, will contain depictions of violence, sexual content, dark themes, and more. i will do my best to place warnings at the beginning of each chapter, but please read at your own risk.

word count - 10.3k

// a dark tasm!fan fiction // masterlist // send me your thoughts //

THE BUGLE was buzzing to life in a way it hadn’t in ages. Landlines were ringing off the hook, accentuated by a chorus of email and text notifications crying out from every cell phone in the building. As you stepped out of the elevator you found yourself staring at a sea of amateur reporters, all of them gathering on the far side of the office around a television set.

You clutched the coffee in your hand tighter to keep it from spilling as a young man accidentally bumped into you, quickly moving to join the herd of his peers. You shot him a nasty look, ignoring the swift apology he muttered out as he continued to rush past you.

Despite your intrigue at the collective panic of your coworkers, you didn’t bother moving to join them around the TV. Instead, you walked the clear opposite direction, making a beeline for the office of the only man in New York City that you trusted to know exactly what all of this fuss was about.

“What the fuck is going on?”

Workplace etiquette had flown out the window for you a long time ago. Reporters didn’t have time for benevolence.

“They’re acting like rowdy animals out there. Foswell is running around the office like he’s in a goddamn marathon! Nearly gave me a third degree burn trying to get past me.”

A vehement grunt was the first thing to leave Jameson’s mouth, which constituted a typical greeting for him. Following it was the shrill squeak of his old office chair as he spun around to face you. “Haven’t seen the news, y/l/n?”

You furrowed your brows. “We are the news.”

Another noise of discontent, followed by a hand coming up to rub viciously at his eyes. If you had learned anything during your time at the Bugle, it was that Jameson was always upset, which meant that you rarely found his vexed appearance very concerning. Yet, despite that, you couldn’t help but get the feeling that something was off.

“The Daily Globe.” The name of the Bugle’s biggest competitor slipped past his lips like a slur, Jameson’s lip curling as if it had somehow left a bad taste in his mouth. “Some jackass at the station leaked info to them before they even got the crime scene taped off. Bushkin had everything plastered on their front page this morning before most of us even had time to pour a bowl of Special fucking K!”

“What crime scene?”

His hand dropped from his face down to his lap, shooting daggers straight at you. “You’re a reporter, y/l/n! Check the fucking headlines for once in your life!”

“Sorry,” you sneered at him, “some of us actually have a life outside of work.”

Of everyone at the Bugle, you were the only one with the authority (and the audacity) to backtalk Jameson and actually live to tell the tale. It was a perk of being his top investigative reporter, one that you never let go to waste.

If anyone else dared to get snarky with him, he’d likely send a paperweight flying at their head. But, since it was you, he only responded to your comment with a dry chuckle—primarily because he was aware that you were lying through your teeth.

The Bugle was all that was left of your life, the one remaining piece after you had lost everything nine months ago. Jameson knew how fresh the wound still was, how hard you fought to ignore what you’d gone through, and so he elected not to make an actual comment on your remark; a subtle indication that the crotchety man actually did have a heart.

“Remember Aleksei Sytsevich?”

You nodded, patience already growing thin as you waited for him to finally just tell you what happened. At this point you were beginning to think you would have been better off to gather around the TV with the rookies. “Of course I remember him,” you told him, “I’m the one that wrote the story on him hijacking that Oscorp truck last year. He goes by the Rhino now, right?”

Each of you formed your own twisted expressions at the name Sytsevich had picked for himself. The name was fitting given the military grade battlesuit he’d managed to snag from Oscorp, but it was a tad too on the nose for your taste. It lacked creativity, though neither of you really expected anything better to come from the former Russian mafia leader.

“Sometime last night he was found in an alley off 102nd.” Jameson declared, following you with his eyes as you moved towards his desk, taking a seat in one of the old chairs that sat in front of it. “Beaten to a goddamn bloody pulp.”

Your nose scrunched up slightly.

If it were anyone other than Sytsevich that had been left to bleed out in the dead of the night, you might have felt a bit of sympathy for them. But, instead, you only felt hopeful that Jameson would confirm the question that already fell past your lips, “He’s dead?”

It was cruel to wish death on anyone. You should have felt guilty for the way your chest swelled with hope as you waited for Jameson to reply, but you didn’t. New York was running short on heroes these days, which meant that more and more criminals had begun to use that to their advantage, making a hobby out of terrorizing the innocent.

Sytsevich had already escaped the Vault once, the so-called impenetrable prison, which meant that sending him back to jail was all but useless. But death? Not even Sytsevich would be able to crawl back from that.

“No.”

Your heart nearly sank, and you could tell that the sentiment was shared by Jameson, who looked equally as disappointed. After all of the innocent lives Sytsevich had claimed, he deserved to be put six feet under.

“Not yet, at least.” He clarified, “As soon as they noticed a pulse they had him life-flighted to North General. Good news is that they don’t think he’s gonna make it through the weekend.”

You snorted at Jameson’s execution of the comment, as well as the childlike joy that seemed to twinkle in his eyes as he thought about the possibility of Sytsevich finally being gone for good. Still, you could tell that there was more. That he hadn’t quite told you the full story.

While the impending death of a former mafia leader was quite a story, there was little chance that it had been enough to piss Jameson off so much that the Daily Globe got word of it first.

Criminals die every day, especially in a city like this. It was hardly front page material.

“So you mean to tell me that the world is in hysteria all because Sytsevich is about to kick the bucket?” You questioned him, nudging your head in the direction of his office door, encouraging him to acknowledge his frantic employees as they paced the office floor.

“It sucks that the Globe got to it first, but we should be celebrating!” As demented as it might seem, it was true. “But instead you’re in here wallowing as if we just missed out on the story of the year.”

The joy that he had felt just moments ago was now extinguished entirely, replaced with an expression that carried far more weight.

“You’re right. Sytsevich dying an excruciating death would be a fucking fit from a God I don’t believe in, y/l/n.” His forehead creased, thin lines appearing between his brows as he pressed a button on the laptop in front of him, tapping a few keys before turning the screen around to face you. “But the story isn’t just about his death—it’s about who killed him.”

A wave of shock slammed into you like a ton of bricks, hard enough that it made you lose your grip on the disposable cup in your hand, the contents of it staining the old carpet that lined Jameson’s office. Neither of you paid any mind to the mess and you became consumed by the headline on the homepage of the Daily Globes website.

SPIDER-MAN RETURNS - BRUTALLY ATTACKS ESCAPED CRIMINAL

Your eyes grew wide, air getting caught in your lungs as you worked to keep yourself from vomiting right on Jameson’s desk.

“No.” The word slipped out from under your breath without approval, a flash of pity washing over Jameson’s face as he took in your reaction. He had expected it, though, aware that of every reporter in New York, you would likely have the most intense response to the news.

But your shock quickly began to morph into something more closely resembling rage. “There’s no way, right? Spider-Man’s been awol for months, J! They really expect us to think that out of every enemy Sytsevich has made that Spider-Man would be to one to fucking kill him? It’s bullshit! They’re just trying to get eyes on their shitty paper!”

Jameson’s brows raised, clearly agreeing with the sentiment. He was never one to miss an opportunity to slam the Globe. “Normally I’d agree with you,” he mused, turning the laptop back around, “but the NYPD confirmed that Sytsevich was restrained with webs, y/l/n. It doesn’t look good.”

Your blood ran cold, turning to ice in your veins. Darkness started to take over your peripheral vision, threatening to consume the entire space around you. Images flashed through your head—asphalt painted with thick blood, bones snapping, his gruesome screams—it was a past that you had fought so hard to put behind you, only for it to now creep back up on you.

You instinctively clutched the bag at your side, half debating reaching inside for the little orange bottle you hadn’t touched in months. You restrained yourself though, terrified to feel as if you needed to rely on the pills again. Things were getting better.

“Spider-Man’s not a murderer.” Your voice was so hesitant, so uncertain, and it made it difficult to tell who the statement was meant to convince, Jameson or yourself.

Jameson’s shoulders lifted into a lazy shrug as he leaned back in the rickety chair, the plastic creaking at the shift of his weight. You were aware of his stance on Spider-Man, but even he had never considered the possibility of the vigilante committing something like this.

“No, he isn’t.” He agreed with you, evoking a bit of shock. “But he’s about to be. He’s the only one that can be linked to the crime scene. If Sytsevich dies—and it’s only a matter of time—then Spider-Man’s the one going down for it.”

Your mind was reeling, yet your body remained motionless, your gaze fixed onto the floor. Coffee still leaked from your cup, forming a sizable stain that only grew with every second that passed. You didn’t care.

It had been months since anyone had last seen Spider-Man, and during that time, New York had already begun to turn on him. Citizens hadn’t yet forgotten their debt to him, the countless times in which he’d nearly laid his life down for the city, but that didn’t mean that many hadn’t grown to resent him.

They had been abandoned by their hero, left to question if he was even still alive. And if this was how he returned? A killer?

“It’ll turn into a man-hunt.”

There was no other outcome for it, you both knew that much. Since his disappearance, an eerie sense of unrest had settled in the streets. Spider-Man’s absence had created a whole slew of problems, things that the NYPD weren’t equipped to handle. Hope had already become such a precarious thing, and if it were confirmed that their lost hero had abandoned his own code of ethics? It would destroy all that's left. It would unleash pure chaos.

It would be the dawn of a new age.

A dark age.

“Maybe.” He was being cautious with his approach, aware that this topic had the ability to turn you into little more than a ticking time bomb. “Still, there’s not any cold hard proof that he was the one to send Sytsevich to his death bed. All they know for certain is that he was at the crime scene.”

It was strange to hear those words from Jameson, crafted as a defense for the vigilante he swore to hate. If anything, that only increased your already heightened level of fear.

Of everyone in the world, you would have never imagined that Jonah J. Jameson would be willing to testify that Spider-Man was innocent in anything.

“I already told Urich to assemble a team, get out on the streets, and start finding some real proof. I’ve got a source at North General giving me hourly updates on Sytsevich, but we still don’t have much time to put together a story.”

Your eyes snapped up to meet his, your face contorting into a sour expression as you flung out of your chair, ignoring everything about his statement except for one detail.

“Fuck Urich!” You screamed loud enough that more than a few heads turned from outside Jameson’s office, a few of them now attempting to eavesdrop as the conversation became heated. “This is my story, J.”

He sucked in a deep breath, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He’d anticipated this reaction too.

“No, y/l/n, it’s not!” Jameson’s own voice boomed, easily rivaling yours in volume. You didn’t so much as flinch. “Last time you chased a story with that Spider-fuck you nearly died! You’re staying away, got it?”

You gritted your teeth, taking another step towards his desk, closing in on him. “You said it yourself J, we’re running out of time, right? You need someone that knows what they’re dealing with. Urich doesn’t have any connections to Spider-Man! I do!”

Somehow you believed that preaching these facts to Jameson would change his mind, as if he didn’t already know about your past encounters with the hero, like he wasn’t the one that published the stories you had done on him.

“I’m one of the last people to even see him alive, J!” You reminded him, finally letting your tone drop back to a normal volume as you continued, “Urich might be able to snoop around a crime scene, but I’m the only one with a chance of getting an actual statement from him.”

Both of you knew that your claim was a bit far-fetched. If this were last year, getting a statement from Spider-Man would have been a piece of cake for you. But now?

It was different.

Either way, Jameson didn’t seem willing to budge. “A statement isn’t worth losing my best reporter.”

If the circumstances were different you likely would’ve teased him for the comment, for making it so obvious that you were one of the only things to matter more to Jonah J. Jameson than a story.

“Fine.” You snapped, clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth as you challenged him. “Then I quit.”

His face blanched. “You what?”

“I’ll pursue the story on my own. Get a detailed fucking statement from Spider-Man—a few pictures, too.” You crossed your arms over your chest, entirely unwavering as you held his gaze. “Then I’ll sell it to the Globe.”

Jameson’s face turned beet red, his eyes narrowing at your threat. “Don’t be stupid. You’d need an entire team to go after a story this big.”

You mocked the lazy shrug he had offered just moments ago. “No, Urich needs a team. All I need is a few hours and some phone calls.”

Ben Urich would need access to several of the Bugle’s best reporters in order to conduct enough research to even know where to begin. Aside from that, you and Jameson both knew that one of the best potential sources for this story layed beyond the gates of Ravencroft—and Jameson would have a hell of a time trying to get authorization for an interview with any of their prisoners.

But you?

You could get in with a simple phone call.

“This isn’t a game, y/l/n.” Jameson cautioned. “The night Spider-Man disappeared—when I got that call from the hospital—I thought you were gonna be dead, y/ln.”

A pang of guilt shot through your chest and he reminded you of that night. When you arrived in the emergency room they had tried to call your emergency contacts—but you knew they wouldn’t answer, that they were the reason you were even there. Jameson was the only one that answered, the only one to show up.

You knew how much guilt he still faced for pushing you to chase another Spider-Man story, for encouraging you to get closer to the vigilante, only for it to land you in a hospital bed with several broken bones and a grade three concussion.

Sometimes you wished that you could tell him it wasn’t his fault. That you were already in too deep, long before you had started chasing another story, even if you didn’t realize it at the time. But you couldn’t.

“If you take this story then you’re putting yourself at risk. Again. You’ll be destroying everything you’ve worked for.”

Blood pooling, bones snapping, his screams echoing.

You bit your cheek until you tasted crimson, shoving the hellish thoughts from your mind. “Are you gonna take Urich off the story or not?”

Jameson’s shoulders immediately slouched, his disappointment evident as the corners of his mouth turned downwards. But he knew you—too well, which meant he knew that nothing would stop you from following this story.

So, against his better judgment, he straightened his posture and tried to mask his own emotions, but you could still tell how much it had hurt him to mutter out the word—“Fine.”

You didn’t plan on waiting around long enough to hear anything else he might have to say, already turning on your heel and aiming for the door, knowing that it was best to leave before he changed his mind altogether. Still, just before the door slammed closed behind you, you heard him speak.

“Your funeral.”

His snide comment left a bad taste in your mouth, pungent and unpalatable, but you did your best to ignore it. There wasn’t any time to comprehend the gravity of his statement, to consider just how close you had come to death last time.

If Jameson was right about anything, it was that time was of the essence. The sooner Spider-Man could be proven innocent the better.

So instead of dwelling on it and risking uprooting your past trauma, you shoved your way through the crammed newsroom, coming to a halt only when you could plant yourself at the edge of Urich’s desk. He looked up at you through his thickly-rimmed glasses, brows knitting together.

“This your team?” You asked him, an idle finger pointing to the crew of unfamiliar faces that surrounded the desk.

Urich gave a stiff nod.

“Great.” The smile you gave was sickening, filled with misplaced animosity. You scanned over the group, your gaze ultimately settling on the figure directly to his left, a somewhat tall woman with neatly bobbed hair. Out of everyone, she was the only one armed with a pencil and notepad, having taken note of his every word. “What’s your name?”

The women seemed stunned, her voice shaking the tiniest bit as she responded. “Betty. Betty Brant.”

“Nice to meet you Ms. Brant.” Your tone was much milder when speaking to Brant, though it quickly turned harsh again as you shifted your attention back to Urich. “I’m taking over the story. Jameson already gave me clearance, so please, if you plan on whining about it, keep it between the two of you, mkay?”

Urich’s usually squinty eyes suddenly widened behind his lenses, thin lines settling into his forehead. He didn’t even have time to open his mouth in protest before you had already cut him off.

“Anyone who isn’t Brant can get out of my face. I don’t have a use for you.” A dismissive hand was waved at the small crowd, although none of them bothered to move more than a few feet away, too interested in eavesdropping to venture any further.

“And, um, what is it that you’d like me to do?” Betty Brant was quite the apprehensive woman, her lack of confidence shining through in quite literally everything she did. She was new to this, that much was obvious, but you still found yourself with some sort of intuitive faith in the girl.

“I need you to track down some information for me.”

A pit suddenly grew in your stomach as it dawned on you that this would be the first time you had so much as uttered his name since that night. He had essentially become a ghost to you, capable of haunting every corner of your mind without ever reentering your life. It was easier that way, though. Avoiding him had been the best way to recover from him; even if that meant treating his name like a curse.

You took a deep breath, garnering every ounce of strength you had left to ensure your voice wouldn’t crack. “I need a way to get into contact with Peter Parker. He used to work here, but the number we have on file isn’t in service anymore.”

Once.

In the nine months since it happened, you had only tried to call him once. With the phone pressed to your face you had already prepared yourself to hear the dial tone go on for ages, fully aware that he’d just let it go to voicemail. He didn’t want to talk to you—he didn’t want to talk to anyone. But, instead, you were greeted by a prerecorded message saying the number had been disconnected.

And that was the closest you ever got to a goodbye from Peter.

“Parker?” Urich finally got a word out. “What’s he gotta do with this?”

You didn’t have any intention of offering him a detailed explanation, your back already turned to him as you spoke over your shoulder. “He’s the only one to ever get a clear shot of Spider-Man. If everything goes as planned, I’m gonna need his skillset.”

It wasn’t a complete lie, but it also wasn’t the full truth. Regardless, it was the best defense you had for needing a way to contact Peter; one that wouldn’t raise any suspicions. If anything, you would have preferred to start your hunt for information with Peter, because then you would’ve been able to avoid Ravencroft altogether. But, unfortunately, Peter was little more than a dead end right now.

“Jameson has my number–get it from him and text me as soon as you have a lead!”

It was the last order you barked before disappearing into the elevator, quick to rush off to the first destination on your list. You had to get moving, at least until you could find a way to talk to Peter, which meant you needed to start gathering the names of anyone who might’ve actually wanted Sytsevich dead.

Unfortunately, that meant hailing a taxi to Westchester County and digging up another ghost from your past.

You hastily pressed the button for the ground floor, your other hand already delving into your bag, grabbing your phone and dialing the number that had called you many times over the past months; a number you rarely answered.

“Hi, this is y/n y/l/n calling,” a weight settled deep within your stomach, accompanied by a shiver running down your spine as you forced yourself to speak, “could I speak with Leonard Samson? I would like to take him up on his visitation offer. Please tell him that I want to speak with Harry Osborn as soon as possible.”

The Ravencroft Institute for the Criminally Insane was not for the faint of heart.

At first glance, most would consider it a fine establishment. The ornate iron gates lining the property seek to paint a picture of elegance, while the impenetrable stone walls offer those on the outside a sense of security—serving as a silent oath that those on the other side can’t get out.

While technically labeled a prison, Ravencroft always insists that they place treatment above punishment for those incarcerated here. They pushed this motto, staff members regularly appearing on the local news to preach of mercy and remission; despite the fact that no one committed to the facility had ever made it out alive.

Ravencroft’s prisoners weren’t always as willing to keep up the facility's pristine public image though, well known for spitting in the face of that ‘guise of elegance they’d worked to build. It was because of their sharp tongues that Ravencroft rarely let reporters past the front gates, petrified of what they might learn from those on the inside, worried that someone might get the chance to uncover their true nature; or worse, expose their unlawful ways of curing the prisoners.

You were the only reporter to ever be invited onto the property, even if it was under special circumstances.

“Truth be told, I was shocked to hear you called!” Director Samson confessed. His tone always rubbed you the wrong way, always coming off as far too exuberant for a man in charge of a psychiatric facility for criminals. “What’s it been, five months? Six, perhaps, since we last spoke?”

“Seven.” You noted, sporting a rather sardonic smile. He didn’t seem to notice your ill-intent.

“Well, either way, it had been far too long!” He chortled to himself, a chorus of keys clanking against his hip as he led you down another winding hallway.

Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, illuminating the immaculate white linoleum beneath your feet. The smell of bleach was incredibly pungent, burning your nostrils with every breath you took. You did your best not to breathe at all.

“You’ve been checking your email, yes?” Director Samson was a few long strides ahead of you, moving at a pace you couldn’t manage to keep up with. “When you stopped answering your cell, I decided to have my secretary begin forwarding you all of our notes from his treatment sessions. It’s pivotal that you’ve stayed up-to-date on his progress, especially if you finally plan on becoming an active role in his recovery!”

You braced yourself for the tainted oxygen that would fill your lungs as you lied, “Of course. Even gave them a quick review on the ride over.”

In the seven months that you had been dodging Samson’s calls, you had never once opened any of the emails from his secretary. You always saw them come through though, and you always found yourself staring at the subject line for just a moment too long.

Patient #121394 - Progress Report

It made you sick sometimes, the way he had been reduced to a number. Other times, you were thankful for it. It helped to create a divide in your head, allowing you to create some sort of separation between who he was and who he is. Harry Osborn was your friend. Patient #121394 stabbed you in the back.

Regardless, you could never actually make yourself read them. But you also couldn’t bring yourself to delete them, stashing one-hundred and eighty-four daily progress reports from Ravencroft into a separate folder, out of sight but kept on hand, just in case you ever needed them.

You weren’t sure why you ever would.

“Good, good!” He chirped loudly, both of you now approaching a large armored door. It didn’t match the rest of the hallway, the rusted surface polluting the otherwise pure white space.

Your attention was pulled away from it as Director Samson spun on his toe, index finger suddenly wagging in your face, your eyes growing wide as you tried to lean back a few inches. His nails were a touch overgrown, caked with a substance you didn’t recognize. Describing him as eccentric would be kind, although disconcerting fit him better.

“You must promise me something before you speak with him!” He sputtered out. You did your best not to flinch as his saliva spewed onto your face. “I understand you may have felt a need to…” his head bobbed side to side, squinting as he considered his wording, “distance yourself from Mr Osborn. That is why I did my best to respect your need for space the past several months-”

Ah yes–you thought to yourself, fighting the urge to laugh in his face–calling bi-weekly and sending daily emails is clearly a sign of respecting someone’s wish to be uninvolved.

“But!” He shouted out, his rotten nails now close enough that you could smell whatever laid beneath them. “If you cross this threshold,” his hand moved to the large door behind him, offering you a chance to swallow back the bile building in your throat, “you cannot abandon him again, Ms. y/l/n. Progress is a volatile thing, especially for the damaged souls that call Ravencroft home. I need to know that you’re prepared to devote yourself to Mr. Osborn’s treatment.”

Abandon him—the claim was enough to make your blood boil. You wanted to scream at him, remind him of what had happened that night, remind him that you were the one who had been abandoned. You wanted to turn around, to leave and never step foot in this cursed building ever again.

If you did that, then maybe you could keep lying to yourself. Harry Osborn could remain your former friend, one of the few crumbs you had left of the life you so desperately wanted back. He could be innocent, and Patient #121394 could be the murderer.

“Well Director Samson, I can assure you that I have absolutely no intentions to abandon him!” The mask you put on was sickly sweet, more than palatable enough to hide the animosity behind it.

His bug-eyed stare remained locked onto you, unnerving and wild. “You must promise.”

“Okay,” A sigh managed to slip out, quickly covered by your response, “I promise.”

He instantly relaxed at the vow, easily returning to the childish ebullience he’d displayed previously. You wondered how he would react if he had noticed the hand behind your back, if he knew your fingers were crossed as you spoke.

Abandonment was a much kinder fate than Harry Osborn deserved, so you were certain that if a higher power existed, they would forgive you for breaking your promise to Director Samson.

Metal jingled about as he removed the keys from his belt loop, somehow knowing exactly which one to grab from the couple dozen crowded the thick ring they hung on.

“Now, please, do your best to remember the rules!” He began unlocking the various deadbolts on the door. “All patients in the visitation area will be secured to his or her station, for your safety as well as theirs. Under no circumstances should you touch any of the patients. Should you notice a patient is acting out of sorts, please remain calm and notify the warden-”

You already knew the do’s and don’ts of visiting prisoners, having interviewed several of the inhabitants at Ryker’s Island for the Bugle, and so you found yourself droning him out entirely, watching as he moved from one lock to another, until he finally reached the last one.

“Most importantly, do not forget that this time is meant to inspire and encourage your loved ones to continue on their new path towards righteousness!” He displayed a toothy grin, cavity filled and displeasing. In return you offered a much less prominent smile. “And please, when you’re done with your chitter-chatter, come by my office. I would love to discuss next steps with you!”

You gave a curt nod, aware that you would not be doing that. Interacting with Samson was enough to drain even the most extroverted people, which was one of the many reasons you’d stopped returning his calls only two months into Harry’s sentence.

He viewed you as a valuable tool for curing Harry—mentally, at least. His actual disease was of little interest to Samson, his physical health naught in comparison to his damaged mind. Harry had no next of kin, which meant all of Samson’s hopes had been placed onto you. He believed in order to cure Harry’s mind, he needed the assistance of someone who was dear to him, someone to act as a tether to his sanity.

Director Samson also believed that the venom Harry injected into his veins was the cause for his self-proclaimed insanity. This told you all you needed to know about the Director; he was clueless.

You knew the truth. After all, you were the one that had fed his lawyers the story and loaded them up with all the evidence they’d need in order to paint a picture for the jury, illustrating Harry Osborn’s mental descent. It was you that had convinced them to make him swallow his pride and take the insanity plea—your final act of kindness towards Harry.

The clunky metal door groaned profusely as Director Samson pushed it open, heavy enough that it required him to use both hands and the majority of his body weight. Once it was open, he bowed in a particularly odd manner, motioning you into the room with a dramatic flair that made you nauseous. More than anything in the world, you couldn’t wait to never see him again.

The small space you walked into had distracted you from Samon’s bizarre attitude, immediately taking note of them in case you ever felt like breaching Samson’s trust and writing a story on Ravencroft.

First–it didn’t share the same suffocating scent as the hallway, the smell of chemical cleaners having completely vanished. You took advantage of this, letting your chest expand with several deep breaths. Your nostrils no longer burned, however this came with a price, this room much grimier than the rest of the facility. It didn’t shock you.

Second–there was nothing white in here, a stark contrast from the unsoiled appearance of the never ending hallway you took to get here. This room truly felt like a prison, despite Ravencroft’s insistence that they were far from that. Muted shades of chipped paint coated the walls, the floors nothing more than poured cement.

And, finally, third–no one, and you truly meant absolutely no one, appeared as if they were on the road to recovery.

To your left there was a red-headed girl chained to a metal bar fastened to the wall. A bit of drool dribbled down her chin, her eyelids drooping as if she had been drugged. On your right was a boy no older than nineteen, handcuffed to his chair and left with nothing to do except stare at the floor beneath his feet.

They looked miserable, and you almost felt bad for sticking Harry in a place like this.

Almost.

Behind you the door shut with a crash, the symphony of locks clicking back into place. Your heart rate spiked as you realized you were now trapped in here with them, taking a glance at the warden. He was a burly man, yet the only weapon he had on him was a baton, lazily stuffed into his waistband. It only added to your growing apprehension.

Anxiety, you reminded yourself through gritted teeth, is another thing reporters don’t have time for.

Each second brought you closer to Sytsevich’s impending death, which meant you didn’t have time to waste on fear. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier, still feeling as if you were frozen in place, wishing that they hadn’t made you leave your bag in the main office.

If Brant had managed to find a number for Peter then you could just skip this whole mess, go straight to the source and get hard proof that he was innocent… but it was too late to turn around now.

You were already here.

In the furthest corner of the room you saw a steel table, placed directly in front of the patient’s only source of natural light—an incredibly small window, armed with thick black bars. Your heart lurched as your gaze settled on the table's only occupant. Even with his back turned, you could still recognize him.

Lifting just one foot had been the hardest part, terror pricking your bones as the single step caused one of the patients to whip their head around towards you.

He was an enormous man, standing several inches over six feet with muscles that rivaled the Hulk. Fortunately, you didn’t hold his attention for long, hesitantly watching as he went back to staring at the old-style television set that had been stuffed in the corner. Static painted the screen, and every once in a while the large man would give a swift hit to its side, making the other patients flinch. The warden didn’t stop him.

Each step after that was rushed, an attempt to get out of his line of sight. He was restrained, as were all of them, but he still filled you with a sense of unease. When you finally reached the table and quickly slipped into one of the metal chairs, eyes still darting about prudently, you heard the patient sitting across from you laugh.

You had thought the terror seeping into your veins had been intolerable, but it was no match for the misplaced grief that fought to consume you at the sound of his voice. It simultaneously sent chills down your spine and relaxed every muscle in your body, a paradox of a reaction that only the living dead could possibly provide.

“Aw, what’s wrong?” He drawled, leaving you hanging onto every syllable. “My new friends scare you?”

A bit.

“Hardly.” You snapped back a bit faster than intended. Beneath the table you clenched your fists, fingernails prodding into the soft flesh of your palms.

Stay calm. Hide your weaknesses.

You were disappointed with yourself, your inability to mask your discomfort, especially here. A penitentiary wasn’t the best place to rollover, and you knew that the moment you fucked up and showed your underbelly you’d be as good as dead. You needed to be better. You needed to be incomprehensible.

“You look well.” You spoke again before he’d have the chance to beat you to it, determined to be the one holding the reins in this conversation. “I’m shocked.”

It truly wasn’t meant as a slight though the scoff you received in response made it clear that he’d taken it as one. It was God’s honest truth though; you hadn’t expected him to look as good as he did.

Last time you saw Harry Osborn was when the venom had already invaded his bloodstream, transforming him into something near unrecognizable. That was the Harry Osborn you had been expecting to see today. A nightmare, a killer, a monster.

Instead, you found yourself looking directly into the cerulean gaze of a boy you had mourned for nearly a year. There were subtle differences; the natural dark pigment of his hair still hadn’t returned, leaving it a dusty shade of brown, and the disease that fought relentlessly to claim his life had spread, a scaly patch of skin taking over his cheek bone.

But, for the most part, he looked like himself. He looked like Harry.

And that simple fact was almost enough to break you.

“Wow, less than a minute in and you’re already spitting out back-handed compliments.” Harry's mouth twitched into a smirk. “You sure know how to greet an old friend.”

Was he antagonizing you on purpose? Or was he simply delusional? Either way, you only offered him a tight smile, “We’re not friends.”

You had no way of knowing if your words actually had any effect on him. Having been raised in the limelight meant that Harry had years of practice in maintaining his composure, always working to maintain the Osborn image. You had never been good at reading Harry, and that’s how he liked it. Like most powerful men, he enjoyed keeping secrets.

“Aren’t we though?” He countered, a swift tug at the reins, an effort to regain some semblance of control.

Your jaw clenched. “Not anymore.”

Harry leaned forward a touch, those menacing eyes glistening as his palms remained flat against the cold steel, secured there by thick cuffs. “You think I don’t know what you did? That I don’t know who fed my lawyers all that bullshit about childhood abuse and disease warping my mind?”

That bullshit had saved his life. Forced the jury to see him as more than another twisted villain, coerced them into feeling some sort of sympathy for Harry. By no means was Ravencroft comparable the the fucking Four Seasons, but it was far better than the alternative. Without the insanity plea, Harry was on a quick path to Ryker’s Island—a place you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy.

“You’re right. I gave them everything they needed to build your case.” There was no use in denying it. The recounts of the trauma his father had inflicted on him were too detailed, too intimate, and Harry knew only three people in this world had access to that information. Himself, you, and Norman; and the latter was already dead. “But not because we’re friends.”

He cocked a brow at you, once again leaning back into the uncomfortable metal chair. “Then why bother?”

“Because I’m not like you.”

And you wholeheartedly believed that. Caring about him had nothing to do with your choice to try and spare his life, your decision to aid Gwen’s murderer.

“A rich boy like you wouldn’t last a single day in Ryker’s. Those guys would’ve eaten you alive.” You asserted, the only physical sign of the anger coursing through you being your flared pupils. You were in control. “I had an opportunity to save your life, so I took it. Not because of friendship,” the word tasted acidic, burning as it rolled off your tongue, “but because I’m a good person—better than you ever were.”

It wasn’t until you were done talking that you realized how desperate you had been for the declaration to cut him. You only recognized it afterwards, irritation flooding you as he remained perfectly still, seeming entirely unphased.

Then after a moment of nothing, he sighed. Not out of annoyance, not out of sadness. Instead, it seemed to be out of pure boredom, which only made your irritation towards him grow.

“Guess that means you’re not here to help with my treatment, huh?” He said it like a joke, as if he too thought he was incapable of redemption and found this whole thing to be a waste of time. “Samson’s gonna be so disappointed when he finds out.”

“You’re right, I’m not here to help you.” you confirmed, sucking in a deep breath and biting back at your pride, “But you’re gonna help me.”

His brows snapped up—a reaction, subtle, but there nonetheless. “And why would I do that? I mean, you already made it clear that we’re not friends. So why should I do anything for you?”

“I’ll keep coming here. Participating in whatever stupid shit Samson has planned, keep acting like I wanna help you get better.” You sneered, eyes rolling. People like Harry Osborn were incapable of better. “There’s gotta be something for you to gain in all of that, right? Some sort of reward for making progress. If you’re lucky then maybe they’ll give you more playtime with your little buddies or something.”

Your gaze flicked over his shoulder, once again landing on the enormous man that had noticed you earlier. He was still beating against the side of the television, the thumping of his palm against thick plastic echoing through the room. No one seemed to mind the noise.

“Besides,” you continued while shifting your focus back to Harry, “you owe me.”

He did owe you—him and Peter both—but pulling that card made you sound desperate, like you had truly run out of options and were now using everything left in your arsenal to sway him.

But that was the point.

It was a calculated move, entirely deliberate, right down to the doe-eyed glance you shamelessly flashed at him, feigning a moment of vulnerability. You hadn’t rolled over, hadn’t exposed your weak points, but you wanted him to believe you did.

There were certain benefits that came with knowing Harry—who he used to be. You knew about his insatiable desire to be needed by someone, to feel wanted. There had been a time in which you wouldn’t have dared to exploit the trauma that desire stemmed from, but things were different now.

Even when armed with his stoic mask, you could tell that you had hit your mark perfectly. He remained silent, considering your words. A rational part of him was likely screaming to tell you no, to send you out of Ravencroft without so much as a second glance. Odds were that he knew this was an attempt to manipulate him, to play at the side of his that ached to be essential to another.

But Harry Osborn wasn’t known for making rational decisions. He was rarely driven to act by his near-genius level IQ, instead always finding himself a victim to the gnawing pain in his chest; and you were banking on that.

Then, it happened.

For a moment—mere seconds, at most—the mask slipped. A single muscle twitched in his jaw, his nose wrinkling the slightest touch. The shift in his demeanor was so subtle, yet so apparent to you. Having once been so close to him, you’d all but trained yourself to detect the moments in which his arrogance would melt into something far more innocent. You used to crave those moments; live for them, even. It felt like an honor to witness the side of Harry in which he fought to keep locked away, a side he tried to ignore.

Now, though, you felt almost nothing.

Harry finally let out a gruff sound, his tongue darting along his chapped bottom lip. “You’re here about Peter, aren’t you?”

You were careful not to outwardly react. “You’ve seen the news?”

“Of course.” He rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner. “Not everyday the city hails Spider-Man a murderer.”

He said the vigilante’s name like a curse, as if it were the dirtiest word he’s ever spoken. It was laced with a bone-chilling sense of contempt, one that only deepened your resentment towards Harry. You didn’t like it—the way he spoke as if he had a right to hate Peter. After everything Harry had done, after everything he’d taken—your nails dug deeper into your palms as you fought to keep your eyes peeled. terrified that if you so much as blinked you’d catch a glimpse of Harry’s sins. That you’d catch a glimpse of her.

“Are you gonna help or not?” You struggled to stay composed, his brows raised in amusement at the snipped statement.

An unfortunate oversight in your plan had been in failing to acknowledge that Harry knew you just as well as you’d known him. It didn’t matter if you rolled over, because you were already exposed. He knew that Peter was a soft spot for you, that he had always been a soft spot, and all he had to do in order to push you over the edge was jab a little harder at that unhealed wound.

Surprisingly, he chose to leave it alone.

“You’ll come four times a week. Minimum.”

You fought the urge to grin at his demands, aware that it meant the rational side of him had lost.

“Twice a week.” You countered.

“Make it three.” He almost sounded pitiful, coming off more like he was begging than demanding. It caught you off guard to hear him sound so desperate, and for a moment you wondered if he had turned the tables; if he was now manipulating you, playing on your emotions and trying to make you feel bad for the loneliness Ravencroft had inflicted upon him.

But there was something about the look in his eyes, how transparent they suddenly seemed, that made you feel like this hadn’t been done with nefarious intent. His desperation was genuine, and you weren’t sure how to feel about that.

“Fine.” You agreed, aware that you didn’t have time to negotiate with him all day. You had a story to write, and in order to create a solid defense for Spider-Man—for Peter, you’d need help. You’d need a culprit, someone that had a motive to kill Sytsevich. “Deal?”

Harry grinned, that same arrogant and flashy sort of grin you’d seen him give heiresses and models. You always wanted to be on the receiving end of that smile, to be the one he was trying to win over, but now it only made your stomach sink. “How can I be of service?”

“Do you know anyone who might want Sytsevich dead?” You decided to be blunt with the question, keeping your voice low.

“Uh, yeah. Try the entire Soviet Union. From what I’ve heard, it sounds like he made a real fucking mess of things when he left Russia.” Harry noted.

“O-kay,” you drawled, “what about locally? People talk in prison, yeah? If somebody was planning something you would’ve heard about it.”

His nose scrunched up. “What do you think happens in prison? That we all just get together like it’s a slumber party and swap hit lists?”

You didn’t bother responding, not verbally, at least. Instead, you opted for shooting him a sharp glare. It didn’t phase him.

“Look,” he glanced towards the warden, scooting forwards a touch once he noticed the negligent guard had become distracted by his phone, “a guy like Sytsevich doesn’t go down without a good fight, alright? I saw the blueprints for that armor he wears, right before the board locked me out of Oscorp’s systems. I know what it’s capable of. Most people wouldn’t even have a chance to get a hit in, let alone send him to the hospital.”

“Perfect,” you snapped, his eyes widening slightly, “if you know what his armor is capable of then you should know who would be strong enough to take him on.”

Harry scoffed at the simplicity of your deduction, “Yeah, I’ve got a pretty good idea, actually.”

You gritted your teeth, aware of where he was heading. “It wasn’t Peter.”

“How’re you so sure?” He asked you, a thin crease settling between his brows as he glowered at you. “I know you like to fixate on my fuck-ups in favor of avoiding his but you were there that night, y/n!”

The banging sound of the prisoner’s palm colliding against the side of the thick television kept the guard from hearing Harry’s raised voice.

“He wouldn’t kill Sytsevich.” You held firm in your beliefs, even as your gaze faltered and fell away from Harry’s, settling on the surface of the table.

Bang.

“He almost killed me!” His voice was consumed with bitterness, with pain.

“And you killed her.”

Was that truly a good defense? Had Harry’s sins somehow absolved Peter’s? A life for a life—the logic behind the sentiment was skewed and you didn’t want to think about it. You didn’t want to venture into the memories you’d fought so hard to block out. Your stomach suddenly became taut, unwilling to face the question you didn’t want answered.

“You know what he’s capable of.” He pressed further, still leaned in close, as if trying to close the gap between you both, the shackles securing him to the table preventing him from doing just that. “Sytsevich was restrained with webs, y/n. Don’t be dense-”

Bang.

“Peter isn’t a murderer, Har!” You hissed through your teeth—too overstimulated to notice the pet name slip from your mouth and too livid to care.

He went to argue the statement when another bang sounded out against the side of the television, this one finally powerful enough to knock some life back into the formerly deceased device. Your eyes darted in it’s direction, Harry’s neck snapping around to do the same as you both listened to the hum of the static clear, a female voice breaking through.

“-just moments ago we received word from the NYPD that former Russian mafia member Aleksei “the Rhino” Sytsevich passed away less than an hour ago. Sources from North General hospital confirmed that Sytsevich’s condition began to rapidly worsen, until he eventually gave in to the fatal wounds sustained in last night's mysterious assault.”

The tautness in your stomach grew stronger, a wave of nausea settling over you as the organ began to tie itself in knots.

“Chief Davis with the NYPD will be holding a press conference this afternoon, however officials have already confirmed that there is now an active warrant out calling for Spider-Man’s arrest. Individuals with any information on New York’s fallen hero are being asked to call the number displayed on the bottom of the screen, and police advise citizens to avoid their Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man at all costs-”

Harry twisted back around to face you, cautious and uncertain as he met your stare. He almost appeared concerned—not about the news, not about Peter, but about you. The corner of his mouth twitched downward, forced to watch as your face blanched, mind reeling.

It’s not too late. There’s still a chance. He can still be proven innocent. A warrant doesn’t mean jackshit.

The metal legs of your chair screeched against the ground as you pushed yourself back from the table, “I need to go.”

Harry’s wrists pulled against the shackles that held him in place, instinctively reaching towards you, as if he’d nearly forgotten they were even there. “Wait!”

Against your better judgment, you listened to him, though you weren’t entirely sure why. You needed to go. You need to contact the Bugle, needed to see if Brant had found a number for Peter. As much as you hated to admit it, Ravencroft had wound up being a deadend, and you needed to keep moving—but you just didn’t. You stayed, staring back at a boy you once knew, waiting for him.

You always waited for them—Harry and Peter both.

“You’re not-...” he hesitated, blinking and shaking his head as he debated whether or not he should even continue, if it would even make a difference. “You’re not going to see him, are you?”

“Of course I am!” You ignored the groan that escaped his parted lips. “You’ve been fucking useless, so Peter is all I’ve got left. He didn’t kill Sytsevich, alright? But he was at the scene. He’s gotta have some idea as to who did this.”

It was obvious that the offhand insult had stung, evident by the way he winced as you launched it at him. You nearly found yourself apologizing for it, but decided against it as you watched him quickly stiffen back up, always refusing to wear his pain so blatantly. Norman had trained him well, drilling into his head that weakness wasn’t a part of the Osborn way.

“Don’t get involved.”

Your stare narrowed. What he offered hadn’t been a recommendation, rather a demand. “They’ll hunt him down, Harry! If the police convince the entire city that Spider-Man’s a murderer? The city will turn into a fucking disaster. I’m not gonna let him go through that alone.”

“You could get yourself killed!” Harry barked back, clearly indifferent to whether or not Peter suffered alone. You found yourself laughing in response, finding humor in his attempt to show concern for your life.

“It’s Peter.” You stated plainly, devoid of any emotion as you rose to your feet. Harry’s head tilted upwards, following you with his eyes. “He wouldn’t let anything happen to me.”

“Remind me again who saved you that night.” His jaw clenched, his tone turning callous as he decided to prod at the old wounds. “Cause it sure as hell wasn’t Spider-Man.”

Your fists balled up tighter, blood beginning to seep from your palms and pooling beneath your nails. You zoned in on the stinging sensation, digging deeper into your flesh, using the pain as a tether to keep you from slipping too deep into your own subconscious. You didn’t have time to think about that night. You didn’t have fucking time.

So you bottled up the thousands of thoughts running rampant in your head, biting your tongue instead of allowing yourself to spit anymore insults at him. He’s not worth it–you tried to tell yourself, starting towards the warden–it won’t change anything.

“y/n!” He growled as you moved past him, electing to ignore him entirely. He thrust his arms against the shackles again, rattling the thick metal and grunting as they tightened around his wrists. You were just a little over a foot away when he spoke again, “Don’t fucking tell him you know!”

You paused, suddenly feeling as if your feet had been cemented to the floor. You cursed yourself as you responded, refusing to look back at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Have you talked to him since that night?” He asked.

“No.” You chewed on your bottom lip, ignoring the abrupt pang in your chest. “I haven’t.”

“Okay. Great. Then he doesn’t know for sure what you saw that night. That you saw him without the mask, that you know he’s Spider-Man.” He was talking uncharacteristically fast, as if he was worried you’d leave before he’d get the words out quick enough. “So don’t tell him.”

You frowned, shifting to the side, now looking at him through your peripheral. “Why?”

“Because.” Harry squeezed his eyes shut, fending off the growing headache that this situation had brought on. “As far as he knows, I’m his only loose end. The only one that knows who he really is.”

Your chest tightened as you realized what was happening. Since walking into Ravencroft, you’d concerned yourself so heavily with keeping your guard up, with guarding your weakest points—only for Harry to be the one to rollover. He was exposing his hand, and you found it unsettling, especially when you realized that there was no selfish intent behind his words.

Harry had nothing to lose in this situation.

Except for you—his friend.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s not a murderer. But if he did kill Sytsevich? Anyone who knows about Spider-Man’s secret identity is gonna have a huge fucking target on their back.” His eyes remained closed, drawing in a shaky breath before he continued, “So please,” his voice shook, desperation lacing each syllable, “just–don’t tell him, okay?”

Goosebumps arose on your forearms, unable to hide from the fear that radiated off of him. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t find an ulterior motive for the statement. There was no clear sign of manipulation, no indication that he wanted to do anything other than protect you; and that made you feel sick.

You had long since buried Harry Osborn, having told yourself countless times that two of your friends died that night. For two-hundred-and-seven days you had mourned both of them.

With every fiber of your being you had believed that the arrogant boy that had weaseled his way into your life was gone, having been replaced with a malevolent monster.

But now you could feel him.

It no longer felt as if you had just been staring at his corpse, but rather as if someone had actually breathed life back into him, offering you a glimpse of what still remained.

It caused the tiniest spark of hope to ignite within you, a spark that you would do your damndest to extinguish.

Harry Osborn was better off dead.

“Our deal’s off.” You asserted, cold and uncaring. His eyes shot open again, a desolate expression washing over him. He didn’t try to conceal it, didn’t bother to adjust the mask he always wore. “You gave me absolutely nothing, so I’m not obligated to hold up my end.”

Harry’s lips parted as if he were going to protest, as if he were going to do something—but nothing came out, and you hadn’t expected him to find the words, anyways. Try as you might, the three of you had never been capable of such candor; never willing to shine a light on the darkest corners of your minds, too scared of the risks that came with exposing what laid beneath the surface.

You couldn’t help but think there was something poetic about it; the melancholy cord that bound you to Harry and Peter. How you were all fated to don matching wounds, but always be too afraid to admit to one another that you were bleeding.

Sometimes you wanted to show them the stains on your hands, the red that you could never scrub off. You wondered if it would have made a difference, if maybe then the three of you could have bore the weight of it all together, rather than crumbling beneath the pressure.

But none of that mattered anymore.

None of you were the same anymore.

And so you gritted your teeth and held your head high, letting the blood continue to collect under your nails, hiding it from his view. You took a heavy breath, your chest heaving beneath all of the pain you chose to carry.

“Coming here was a mistake.”

It was the only thing left to say, the only other admission you’d let slip past your lips. It hung in the air between the two of you, resonating with each of you in an entirely different manner, knowing that you’d never share your own interpretation with the other.

Harry didn’t respond, choosing to drown in his silence, having grown used to watching people walk away from him. And you forced yourself to leave, choking on the remnants of your own grief; having grown used to abandoning what you once loved.

a/n - ah, so it's definitely not june BUT i did post it finally! i've put a lot of time and effort into this fic cause i do just genuinely love the idea of it and it brings me a lot of joy lol. with that being said, it takes a ton of effort for me to write it because i'm putting in a lot of little details, so updates on this won't be the quickest, especially while i'm taking summer classes!! but i'll be doing my best! please feel free to leave comments, opinions, etc. and look forward to getting loads of peter content in the next part! also feel free to check out THIS if you want to see an edit of the newspaper headline!

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chiapetkinnie · 10 months

Text

Mine

Warnings- unedited, unprotected sex, creampie, possessiveness and obsession. No use of Y/N, Peter kinda forces himself into reader.

---------------

Peter couldn’t take it anymore. How all these guys in your life treated you, and how you just let them. But he loved how you would run to him and cry in his arms. He loved how vulnerable you got around him.

He hated how much he loved you. The way you would get all flustered when someone would compliment you in the slightest bit. Or when his hands would brush against yours. He knew everything about you. He always watched you. No matter what you were doing. He made sure you were okay. How you would call him in the middle of the night to rant about something, and how you would sneak into his house to cuddle because you couldn’t fall asleep.

Peter loved everything about you. He had a whole shrine , a collection of you. Photos he took from his camera. You were beautiful. So beautiful you caught the attention of many guys. And he hated that. He wanted you all to himself. But it seemed that day would never come . His so called best friend got to you first. Peter tried to confess to you countless times, but he always chickened out. So Harry took it as an opportunity to steal you from him. Harry was handsome, rich, funny, no doubt you would say yes to when he asked you out. It also helped that you have been friends since forever.

He hated your relationship with Harry, at first it was sweet, he loved hearing you rant about little things in your relationship and how happy you were. But things started to take a turn. Harry started being an ass, you would run to Peter and cry to him about all the things Harry did, all the things he would say and do that mad you angry. Peter loved it , he loved how your relationship was terrible and he would add in how terrible Harry was and how you should break up with him. But you never would, you cared too much, you always do.

But this, this was Peter’s last straw. Harry was cheating on you with some hot blonde from Italy.

Of course Peter knew, but he didn’t wanna tell you himself, he wanted you to find out and come crawling to him.

“Peter”, you cried out knocking on his window.

Peter quickly let you in and you clung to his chest and cried. “Hey , hey what’s wrong?” He asked hoping his prayers have been answered. “Harry and I broke up.” Peter wipes your tears , “Why you guys were so Happy” He silently smiled. “Apparently not happy enough for him, he cheated on me” You smiled through the tears. “I walked into his room for our Friday night movie dates like we do every week, I brought snacks and everything, and there he was and some blonde chick on top of him,” You wipe your tears look up at Peter. “Did you know about this,” You ask him. Peter shakes his head, “Of course not, I had no idea about any of this, you guys seemed so happy.” He lifts up your chin. “I’ll tell you what, we can have your movie date here okay, just me and you.” Peter smiles.

You and Peter lay on the bed in each other’s arms watching a movie. Peters sits up and calls out your name. You turn towards him. “I just, there’s something I’ve needed to say to you for a while.” You tilt your head curiously , “Okay well, spit it out ”. Peter takes a deep breath, he was finally gonna do it, “ We’ve been friends for like ever, and I need to say that , Well I love you” You smile at him, “ I love you too Peter.” Peter shakes his head, “ No not like that, you don’t love me the way I love you,” he gets closer to you. “Oh” you whisper as he grips your thigh pulling you closer to him, if any closer your lips would touch. “ I just couldn’t stand all these years of all these guys not treating you right, you know I was gonna confess to you but Harry stole you from me. I’m sick and tired of not being able to have you , not being able to love you.” You blink in shock, he leans in to kiss you but you back away.

“ Peter, I just broke up with my boyfriend, who is your best friend, and you try to make a move on me.” You spoke in disbelief. “ I know but-“ Peter tried to say, “ No Peter, I can’t do this with you, not to Harry, not today.” You shook your head. Peter furrowed his brows, “ But he cheated on you, please, I just wanna make you feel good.” He pulls you back towards him and flips himself on top. He leans down and presses soft kisses to your neck. “ Just let me show you how good I can make you feel, how much I love you” He whispers in your ear. “Peter,” you whisper. He locks his lips onto yours. He caresses your face and deepens the kiss, “Please” he pleads. You look up at him and eventually nod your head yes.

Peter smiles and places his lips onto yours, his hands gently moving around your body. He makes his way down to the waist band of your shorts and slips his hand underneath and starts circling your clit. You gasp at his touch. Peter moved his hand down to your entrance and started pumping his fingers in. You let out a soft moan as Peter starts kissing and biting your neck. “ So pretty ,” He says , picking up some speed in his fingers. You try to hold on your moans. Peter pulls his fingers away and grabs your face. “ Don’t hold back your moans baby, I wanna hear you” you nod your head as a response.

You look up at him as he takes unbuckles his pants and takes out his length. Your mouth agape and he smirks. He brushes his thumb over your lips as he pushes himself into your core. Moans escaping both of your mouths from the feeling. He looks you in the eye waiting for your approval to move and you smile. He begins to thrust in and out. Heavy breaths and grunts escape from his mouth. You don’t hold back your moans of pleasure as he lifts up your waist fucking you deeper. You moan out searching for something to grab on. “ Fuck Baby, you feel so good, My sweet girl” he praises. He drops his hands from your waist. “ Turn around” he says . And you do so. His hands roam your body and he slaps your ass. He places a hand on your ass and rubs his dick on your entrance. “ My pretty girl” he says as he slips back inside.

The sound your skin slapping together fills the room.

You grip the bed sheets as he pushes your head down into the pillow. Moans escaping from your lips and praises from his. “My gorgeous girl, your doing so good for me, taking me so well”. Tears form in your eyes from how hard he’s thrusting, “ Harry never fucked you like this, he never loved you like this.” Peter yanked your head back and gripped your chin. “ Harry never made you feel good like this huh.” You shake your head and try to get the words out but you can’t .

Peter's hand makes it’s way back to your clit as he pounds into you. You smile in pleasure and moan as he circles around one more time, releasing your orgasm.

Peter smiled. He had finally won. He was the one. Making you cum, he was the one with his dick deep inside you making you moan like crazy. He was the one watching the way your ass bounced against his dick. He leaned his head back as he came inside and pulled out. Watching his seed drip out.

And he was the one who got to fill you up. He had won.

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yandereaffections · 11 months

Note

Ooo since you wanted to write for the spiderverse, can you make some headcanons of noir and peter b parker (separate) with a darling who always gets nervous around them? Like whenever they're around, they just get all quiet and bc they're intimidated over them?

Of course if it's too much, you can just choose one, thank you! :3

this man is sloppily inhaling a cheeseburger yet here you are basically hiding besides Miles in the booth across from Peter

Peter B Parker is by all means the physical manifestation of the "lazy" stereotype, hunched over with a stubble growing in, obviously hasn't gotten the chance to wash his spider suit in awhile but he's the one you decide to fear. At first he laughed when you flinched at his attempt to give you a fist bump, when your frightened posture never ceases he finally catches on

Maybe he's been feared when he's out walking the streets of queens in the middle of the night, no suit, simply some random man who doesn't understand it freaks people out when he's pacing so fast, but otherwise he's friendly enough that the average person doesn't think twice about him. How does he get the one person he wants to adore him to see there's no reason to hide behind a kid like miles from him

This poor man doesn't know what to do. He'll nudge you with his elbow after making a joke, directs most of his safety concerns towards you, peter will even awkwardly leave you little presents around until you're ready to come up to him yourself and see your perception of this man isn't how he truly is

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mrsdarkandyandere7 · 10 months

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#@mrsdarkandyandere7 #yandere avengers #yandere marvel #yandere peter parker #dark marvel #dark peter parker #dark peter parker x reader #yandere peter parker x reader #dark!peter parker #dark!peter parker x reader #yandere!peter parker #yandere!peter parker x reader #tw: yandere #gif imagine

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priscillaxleorio · 9 months

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Yandere Spider-Man (Andrew Garfield)

*A little web swinging hero starts obsessing over you after Gwen’s death* (07-28-2023)

Tw: Stalking, Unhealthy obsession, manipulation.

You were sitting in you’re favorite coffee shop working on (________). You were peaceful working when you suddenly spilled your (favorite drink). “Ah, shit!” You quickly moved your laptop to avoid the hot liquid destroying it. After cleaning up after the little accident you went back into line for another drink. You hoped this time not to spill anything but you were known for your clumsiness. All you’re coworkers and friends would tease you about being a clutz, but you never let it get to you. The sound of screams came from behind you startling you. Your fight or flight went off when you realized what was happening “Great a fucking robbery? Out of all the days I chose to come here, fuck…”, you cursed in your head. “Everyone get down on the ground now!”, the masked man demanded. You and all the helpless bystanders did as told afraid of getting shot by the deranged man. But oh wait thank God there was a off duty police officer in the coffee shop. But you were shit out of luck. When the police officer threatened the robber he grabbed you, yanking you from off the ground, placing his gun on you’re temple. A lump came to your throat. “Is this it? I don’t wanna die!” You panicked to yourself. The door to the coffee shop swung open and your eyes shined with hope. IT WAS SPIDER-MAN. He quickly shot a web at your captors gun disarming him. You were “saved” or so you thought. You couldn’t see because of his mask but under it was a crazed look. When Peter saw you, all he could see was Gwen, you resembled her quite well. After the commotion calmed down the officer that was off duty took your attacker away in cuffs. You were shooked enough from the incident that just unfolded so you walked home. But on your way there you couldn’t help but feel you were being followed. Well….. your intuition was right, on top of the rooftops Spider-Man was taking note of your root back home. He was infatuated by you. You see….. him losing Gwen made him not so right in the head. He became depressed after Gwen’s death, never being able to healthily cope. He admired the way you walked, how you gave money to a homeless man, how you greeted your neighbors even after what you just been though. You were able to have a smile on your face even after that shit show, how? He was going to make sure he learned everything there is to know about you. He’d start by breaking into your apartment later that night when you would be sound asleep.

Part 2?

#spiderman #andrew garfield imagine #andrew garfield #the amazing spider man #peter parker #obsession #yandere #yandere spiderman #yandere peter parker #stalker #dark peter parker #into the spider verse #gwen stacy #grief/mourning #unhealthy obsession

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rancidpancakebatter · 2 years

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In the Name of Good | Prt 2 -[P.P.]

Pairings: Dark!Yandere!Peter Parker x Female!Reader

Summary: The cat's out of the bag, so how do you proceed?

Word Count: 5.2k words

Content: MINORS DNI: 18+

Swearing, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of emesis, Smut, Oral (f and m receiving), P in V sex, choking, multiple orgasms, Daddy Kink

( Part 1 | Masterlist )

A/N: The long-awaited sequel which is really just porn with a plot. I'm not sure if this will be a complete story but I may update it every now and then.

Peter's darkness is much more subtle in this piece so there are no major warnings this time around.

Happy Holloween you whores <3

The early light creeps through your window, the golden rays kissing your skin. You stretch your fingers toward the carnelian beams and let your fingers dance in the sundust. You bask in the peace of the morning. As the sun rises it brings a new dawn, a new day. Who knew what you would do today? You could do anything. Today felt like a shopping day. It seems nice out and you could feel stress sitting in your bones, a deep ache pulling at your muscles.

You stretch before opening your blinds. That’s odd, you don’t remember closing them. You look at the house across the street. Peter’s car sits in front of the house; if you squint your eyes, you can see him through the window. He sits perched in his desk chair, twirling a pencil as he examines a piece of paper.

Something felt…off about this morning. It was something you couldn’t quite place but this morning brought a certain uneasiness. It was something you hoped a hot shower could fix.

You let the steam ease your tired bones as you soaked in the eucalyptus sent. As you scrubbed your brain spiralled. What had happened? Why couldn’t you remember? Your brain felt fuzzy as flashes of intangible moments congested your mind.

You had been afraid. You remember the nausea that accompanied it. The knocked-over bottles on the sink were all too real to ignore. Peter was there. Had you been afraid of him? No! You shook your head trying to fling that thought to the farthest corner, somewhere it couldn’t hurt you again. Along with thoughts of dog tags, of headphones, of a twisted smile warped by shadows.

Peter was here. Or rather you were there, with him, in his room. It was dark. Flashes of white cloud your mind. Harsh lines against the wall, you could feel them on your skin. As if somehow a part of you, intertwined with your being.

You wiped the fog from the mirror and felt that familiar feeling of dread. It wasn’t a nightmare. Peter had…hurt people. He had killed them. And he- he hurt you. Purple stars on your shoulder, constellations woven into your skin to tell a tale of horror. You traced the bruises in abhorrence, the pads of his fingers left behind as a warning.

You fell to the floor as everything washed over you once again. The chilled ceramic did nothing to soothe you. Like Eve, you had been brought to your knees by the tree of knowledge. Was it worth it? Every question you had ever had, answered by a cracked doorway that you carelessly ploughed through. You had tasted the flesh of the apple against your lips and now it was too late to go back.

You paced your room as your mind reeled. Peter was a murderer. You should then turn him in. You knew, you had the evidence, you should turn him in. But would that be enough? Would it be enough to stop him? Would it be enough to absolve you?

As much as you hated to think about it, you already knew. You had recognised there was a darkness in Peter even when you were children. The way his reactions almost seemed rehearsed. The way he wouldn’t bat an eye at someone else’s misfortune. But you had labelled it as bravery. The way he would blindly charge into danger if you were in harm's way. The way he would run to May’s aid, big or small. The way he would clean your bumps and scrapes with nothing but a smile on his face.

You looked at the pictures that adorned your bedroom wall. Peter had insisted on helping you hang them up. He had given you two stacks of photos one day in the warm July heat. You sat in your room between fans and your open window ushering in the humid breeze. Peter’s presence was a comfort then, as you looked through memories frozen in time.

Now as you looked around all you saw was him. What was once a comforting remark now haunted you as you gazed into his empty eyes. “This way I can watch over you. I can always be here. I can always see you.”

I can always see you. You felt suffocated under his dead gaze. There was nowhere you could go, nowhere you could hide. He was everywhere.

You moved to open the window, hoping some fresh air would help. The light of the sun cradled you in a blanket of warmth. The chirping birds sing in melodies and harmonies alike as they skate through the sky. You close your eyes focusing instead on everything else.

Peter watches in wonder as you absorb the world around you. He had been trying to give you space. He knew you would come around, he just had to give it some time. Let you wrestle with this for a bit before catching you in his arms. He knows that you would never leave him. He knew it was only a matter of time before you would call him or knock on his door. He just had to wait. He could do that.

He sat camera faced at you, watching as your fingers pulled out the braid he had carefully crafted for you. He watched as you paced your room, hugging yourself close. He watched as you stared at the wall, tracing the shape of his face with a shaky hand. He watched as you went to the window, ripping it open and gasping for air.

He joined you there, a street away. Your eyes were closed and your hair billowed in the wind as you drank in the sunlight. You were what ancient poets wrote of. You were his Ithica. His rock, his home, his love, his life. And you were so beautiful.

You raised your head, opening your eyes, only to find Peter staring right at you. You felt a swirling of emotions in your gut. You were looking at pure evil, someone who killed to kill, someone who liked to kill. You were looking at someone who a few hours ago had no qualms about killing you.

Your stare was expressionless, something that perplexed Peter. You usually wore your heart on your sleeve and every thought on your brow. But now, as he looked into your eyes, he couldn’t tell what you were thinking. He didn’t appreciate being out of the know. You had suddenly become an unknown variable in an equation he knew quite well.

You tried to look at him objectively. You took in the way the sun seemed to melt into his skin, leaving stark shadows by the bulb of his nose and under the cut of his jaw. If someone told you that he had been carved from marble at the hands of Michelangelo, you would believe them. He was well-defined, every muscle and bone clear in the rays of the sun, but there was a softness to his edges that made him look feathered, almost holy.

You had never stared Peter down before. He was seeing in you a boldness that he had yet to experience. He wasn’t sure if it was something he liked. You held a certain coldness that he was unfamiliar with. How odd.

Peter tilted his head and you mindlessly mimicked it. You were attempting to break him down to a microscopic level, to judge his very molecules. Peter was dark but was he evil? This is what you were trying to solve. As you stared at him you thought back to every moment you had shared, tearing each memory to shreds, looking for anything that would tell you Peter was bad.

You came up with a lot of ambitious greys. He had killed someone, several someones, but some of those murders were somewhat justifiable. He had killed pets. That was not good but better than killing people. He had been fascinated with the macabre but that made him fantastic to watch horror movies with. He had been cold to others but always showed you great kindness. He could display tremendous violence but you had only seen it in your defence. A vicious knight in shining armour coming to rescue you with bared teeth and bloody knuckles.

You pulled away from the window leaving it open as you made your way down the stairs. Peter watched in curiosity as you marched your way across the street, not sparing him a single glance. He heard your determined steps and opened his door to you.

You wrapped your arms around his waist, burying your head in his shirt. You couldn’t separate Peter from his actions. To lose any of him would be to lose him all. Your nails dug into his back as you blinked back tears. No. You were not going to lose him. Not today, not ever. Your Peter.

“Aw, little lamb. What’s wrong?” He pulled you closer as you shook your head. How could you put it into words? How could you tell him that he was every boogeyman you feared but also the only solace from this waking nightmare?

You pulled away with tears of anger. He looked at you confused and everything spilt over. You banged your hand against his chest.

How could he?

You brought your hand down again.

He did this

And again.

You did this

And again

He did it for you

And again

And you let him

And again

For years

And again

You let him

You raised your fist another time, not nearly close to done, but Peter grabbed your wrist, stopping you. You struggled against him but his hold was strong, too strong to fight. Your wave of anger passed and left you with true exhaustion. You collapsed against him, small whimpers falling from your lips.

He held you to his chest as you continued to cry. You focused on the beating of his heart, his hand tracing shapes on your back, his breath on your shoulder, the sweet cooing in your ear. This was Peter. This was the boy you loved. The one holding you and telling you everything was going to be okay.

It wasn’t enough. You needed more. More of his gentle touches and reassuring words. You needed to feel him, to know he was real and here. You wrapped your arms around his neck and he caught your legs as you jumped.

“It’s okay, little lamb, I gotcha.” And you believed him. He always had you. He always made it better. If you were with Peter everything would be okay. You buried your head into the crook of his neck, inhaling the woodsy smell of pine and cedar. It still wasn’t enough. You pulled yourself closer, your hands now in his hair and legs trapping him in a vice grip. You squeezed and squeezed, knowing he could take it. You just needed more.

You felt a hand on your head and another wrapped around your back. It seemed like he was trying to reciprocate and the thought brought you a sliver of serenity. He moved to the bed, sitting you down on his lap and continued to pet your hair. All too soon he was breaking away and you couldn’t help the cry you let out. His hands found your face, lifting it to meet his gaze.

“Little lamb, I can’t help you if you don't tell me what’s wrong.” The knot in his brows seemed real, as did the way he tensed his jaw.

“I- I can’t-” You gulped helplessly for air but it felt as though someone had poked a hole in your lung. “I-You can’t- You can’t leave me!”

You were gripping wildly at his shirt, trying to bring him closer, but his hold on your face kept you far away. He brought his lips to your forehead and everything stopped. For just a moment the clouds had parted and your mind cleared, but then he broke away and the fear swallowed you whole.

In an act of delirium, you moved a hand from his shoulder to his neck. You felt the small goose bumps under the pads of your fingers, the drum of his steady pulse under your palm. It soothed you. You moved your hand lower, stretching his neckline as you reached for his pec, his heart.

“Hey, hey, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” His hand on your wrist stopped you once again and you wanted to scream. His touch brought back that semblance of peace and in the quiet of your mind, you were able to piece together what you needed.

Your eyes were filled with desperation, for what Peter couldn’t tell. He wanted to fix it. He could hear your heart thrumming, the small thing fluttering in your chest.

“Please I…” Your mouth felt dry and your tongue heavy. “I need to feel you.”

Peter froze. His mind was picking your words apart, dissecting each syllable. He thought he would explode. He looked over your frame, your heavy breathing and shaky hands. This is it. This is what he’s been waiting for. You would fall in love with him today. He was determined.

He let go of your hands, placing his own on your waist. “Do whatever you need.”

You reached for his shirt and he helped you get it off. Your fingers traced the muscle and scars. He was so pretty. You needed more, more contact. You moved to take off your shirt and Peter watched in awe as you revealed yourself to him.

You wrapped yourself around him, hands tracing the planes of his back, massaging the muscle under your palms. Peter’s hands were running up and down your back in comforting circles.

His fingers began toying with the clasp of your bra listening for your reaction. He noticed the way your heart beat faster and your breath caught in your throat. He slipped the annoying fabric off your shoulders and gathered all the strength he had. You were on his lap, pressed against him. All of his late-night fantasies were coming to fruition and he had to stop himself from pinning you to the bed and fucking you like an animal. He had to be slow, and careful.

You pulled yourself closer, head buried in his neck as your nose played with his pulse point. Peter trailed his shaking hands to your ass, squeezing it. You let out a soft moan and Peter could scream. He could feel you against him. He could pick up on the small pulse in your clit, the new warmth in your core against his waist.

He trailed his hand down further, rubbing at your thigh, and you whined again. His fingers found your chin, lifting you to see him eye to eye. His palm flattened against your cheek and you nuzzled into it, lost in the warmth of his touch. Peter’s willpower was hanging by a thread and you were doing very little to keep him strong.

“Little lamb, do you want me to make you feel better?” His other hand skated a path on the inside of your thigh. “Do you want me to fix it?”

You nodded your head, the sheer force of it rattling your brain. He was gonna fix it. Peter knew you better than anyone and you knew he would give you what you needed, even if you weren’t sure what that was right now. But Peter would know. He always knew and he always fixed it.

He brought his lips to yours and you felt the rapture in his touch. His grip on your thigh grounded you in the moment. His lips were dry and cracked, the dead skin threatening to cut you open but god if it didn’t make you feel things. His thumb pulled at your chin, opening your mouth to him. His tongue explored forth and you pushed yours forward trying to meet it. The kiss was awkward and lacking a certain grace but neither of you cared.

He turned to the side, placing your back on the bed and slotting himself between your legs. You tried to pull him down and he let you guide him. With all of his weight on you, you began to feel a little better. Peter was becoming more and more tangible.

His hands skated across your ribs then in towards your boobs. You moaned at the feeling of him holding you in his big hands. Peter’s kisses left your face to join his deft fingers. You had never felt like this before, like you were on fire but also like ice was running through your veins. Peter was both dousing the fire and adding petrol to the flames. It was intoxicating.

He took a nipple in his mouth and worried it with his teeth. He was delighted when he felt you buck underneath him. He marked them as much as he could, while his hands worked on getting your jeans off. He wanted everyone to know they were his. Not Noah’s, not Micheal’s, not Morrissey’s, and certainly not Blake’s.

No, no, this was all Peter’s. You belonged to him, well before this moment. You were always his. He knew he would make it so, that one day he saw you sitting on the curb. He knew then that you would be his. He spent years instilling this thought in your head. Years of meticulous planning and discreet word choice all leading to this moment. You would be his forever.

He pulled down your jeans like he had many times before, but this time a new aroma surrounded him. It was all-consuming. Peter’s eyes darkened and you almost didn’t recognise the man in front of you. Without a single warning, he was gripping your thighs, pulling them apart to make space for his face.

You felt his tongue against the crotch of your panties and it felt like he had shocked you with a twelve-volt battery. You gripped the sheets as he started making out with clothed pussy. His name tumbled from your lips and he had never heard a more sacrosanct sound. It brought him back to the moment.

He had almost forgotten that you were awake. He didn’t have to be careful, he could indulge in everything you had to offer, and he planned to drown. He ripped your panties, the elastic snapping under his powerful grip. He placed his thumbs on your mound, pulling your lips apart to fully soak in the treasure before him.

He ran his nose from your quivering hole to your clit, breathing in the aphrodisiac that is you. Your hips bucked again and Peter couldn’t help grinding into the mattress. He ate you out like a starved man at a Golden Coral.

You couldn’t keep track of where he was. He was sucking on your clit, then thrusting his tongue inside you, then he was in both places at the same time. Your brain was melting in pleasure and Peter could tell you were close. He wasn’t exactly sure how but he just knew and the thought spurred him on more. He brought a finger to your cunt and watched as your toes curled.

“Petey, I feel, I feel weird” Peter could have came just then. His imagination ran wild at the thought of you never coming before. And he would be the first person, the only person, to make you do so.

“It’s okay little lamb, you’ll feel better I promise. Just let it go.” He put another finger in you and it hurt, but the way he was pumping them so fast had your mind spinning. He went back to attacking your clit and you felt an unfamiliar snap in your abdomen. It was like you were seeing colour for the first time. You let out a scream as you came and Peter slowly came to a stop.

You saw him grinning between your legs before he dipped his head down once again. He pinned down your legs to keep you from squirming as his tongue entered you again. You could feel the muscle as it scrapped against your walls. He brought his thumb back to your clit and started running it in a circle. You couldn’t breathe.

“Pete, Pete, it’s too much.” He just went harder and your back arched. Your hand flew to his hair, tugging on it, trying to pull him away. You felt him grunt into you as it reverberated through you. You felt that feeling in the pit of your gut again and you focused on Peter’s instructions. You felt your legs start to straighten and you were panting, music to Peter’s ears. You came again and Peter wasted no time licking it up.

You lay there lifeless against his pillows, trying to catch your breath. You felt Peter stand and you turned to watch him slip off his pants. He stood before you, a Grecian god. His hard-on was reaching to his belly button, red and shiny.

You sat up immediately. You had never seen a penis before, not in person at least. A few years ago Peter had introduced you to porn but it wasn’t really your thing.

“Look what you did to me little lamb.” Your heart fell through the floor. He grabbed your hand placing it on the shaft. It felt heavy in your palm, and you started stroking it.

“Does it…hurt?” You had heard guys at school talking about having erections. You had heard them talking about how sometimes it hurt and how cruel these girls were for making them hurt. You didn’t want Peter to hurt.

“A little bit,” was all he said. You bit your lip, the guilt eating away at you.

“I want to help. How can I help?” Peter put a hand on your face, his thumb tracing the hallow of your cheek. It then tracked its way to your lip, pulling it from your teeth before quickly replacing it.

You swirled your tongue around his thumb, sucking it in further. Peter threw his head back in a moan and you stopped.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you!” You were doing this all wrong. You had caused Peter pain and you couldn’t fix it. Why couldn’t you fix him the way he fixed you? Peter only chuckled and you couldn’t understand what was so funny about you being a bad friend.

“It’s okay little lamb, it didn’t hurt. It felt really nice.” You beamed at him and the pride in your eyes made him feral.

“Really?” Of course, you were a pleaser. It would only make sense. This new revelation gave him so much more ammo. God, you were too good to be true. It was like he built you in a lab. In a way he kind of had.

“Yes, you’ve been such a good girl.” You preened at his words.

“Can you keep being a good girl for me?” You nodded your head and Peter used his thumb to pull your mouth open again.

“Stick your tongue out for me, yeah just like that, now breath through your nose.” You followed his instructions as he grabbed your hair, bringing you closer and closer to his member.

It felt heavy on your tongue, and a little tangy too. You wrapped your lips around him, tracing a prominent vein with your tongue. Peter threw his head back again and this time you continued. After a bit you felt his hand pull on your hair, pulling you away from his cock before slamming it back down. You choked around him and he kept you there, his other hand rubbing your cheek.

“There you go, there you go. You gotta breathe through your nose. Just relax, yeah. You’re doing so good for me little lamb.” You focused on his words, trying to follow his instruction. He moved your head back and forward again falling into a steady rhythm. He was hitting the back of your throat with every thrust, you could feel a sore spot where his tip kept hitting.

Above you, Peter was a panting mess. He was babbling and you felt proud of yourself for doing that to him. He was singing you praises about how good you felt, the great job that you were doing. He looked down at you and that was his reckoning. You were peering up at him, dick in your mouth and a slobbering mess. He saw the tears running down your cheeks and it took all of his strength to pull you away.

One day he would fuck that pretty face of yours but he couldn’t now. His goal was to make you fall in love with him. He had to show you how good he was at pleasuring you. He had to show you that he knew what you needed, what you wanted. He had to show you that he was the only person that could do that for you.

You pulled away with a soft pop and a smile. “Was that good?”

Peter brought you into a bruising kiss and you could taste the both of you. The blend was intoxicating. “Oh baby, you did so well.”

He was pushing you back into the bed as a hand moved back down to your core. His fingers moved around in the slick and you purred.

“Look at you little lamb, I just cleaned you up. Did you like sucking on Daddy’s dick like that, hmm?” You nodded your head, biting your lip in an attempt to lessen your grin.

His lips found the side of your neck, licking and biting on the supple skin. “Well you did such a good job, I think it’s only fair Daddy pay it forward.”

You tangled your hands in his hair, running the smooth locks through your fingers. “No, it’s okay. I wanna make you feel good.”

His fingers found your abused clit and you arched your back into him. “Oh little lamb, It’ll make me feel so much better.”

He pulled away as you looked at him through heavy eyelids. “Do you promise, Daddy?”

Peter growled before attacking you. His kiss was heavy making you lose any train of thought.

“Promise.” You felt a blinding pain in your core. Your nails racked up his back as you grasp for the air he seemed to have pushed out of you.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay. It’ll feel better in a moment.” He kissed away the tears running down your face, massaging your breast. He began pulling out slowly leaving only his tip, then slammed back into you. The pain was beginning to subside or maybe it was just him working your clit and hitting something in you that made your toes curl.

He grabbed one of your legs, bringing your ankle to his shoulder, pushing himself deeper. A moan ripped from your throat, as you felt him hit your cervix, over and over. You reached for his face, needing to kiss him. Wanting all of him. You needed to drown in everything Peter Parker could give you.

His hand found the back of your neck once again. You clung to him as his thumb traced its way down your jugular. He could feel it drumming against his skin, he pushed against it, fascinated by you. You suddenly felt airy, your mind was swimming and your senses were heightened. Peter felt the way you tightened around him and the way your heart picked up.

He brought his hand to the front of your throat, adjusting his grip, before applying more pressure. You moaned as he continued to piston into you. The coil in your abdomen was moments from snapping, your legs were tensing on their own accord. You were no longer in control, not that you ever were.

Peter had bewitched you. You weren't sure when but you looked into his eyes and knew that it must have happened. Your vision was getting blurry, with tears or lack of oxygen you weren’t sure. You heard Peter whisper something to you, something you couldn't quite make out past the sound of heavy breathing and skin slapping against skin. Then his fingers released you. The sudden rush of oxygen to your brain made you feel dizzy, your nerves alight. You came with a gasp and Peter didn’t slow down for a single second.

He continued slamming into you as you lay there limp, unable to do much more. He flipped you over on your face and grabbed your hips, setting them upright. He kissed along your spine before entering you again. You cried out into the pillows, he was so big and so deep inside you. You wondered for a moment if the constant rocking had affected your brain.

He was using your body and you didn’t hate it. He gave you all the praise you could hope for and you got to sit there and take it. It seemed like a great arrangement. Your fingers gripped the sheets, clawing at them desperately. There was a certain element of pain present but you couldn’t bring yourself to care when he felt this amazing.

“God, you feel so good. Better than ever before.” You let yourself drown in the words he was saying, in the feeling he was bringing you. He was fixing it. Just like he promised. It wasn’t long until he let out a harsh grunt, pushing himself even farther into you. You felt his dick twitch and a warmth coat your walls.

When Peter pulled out he noticed you wince. He turned you around to face him and began massaging your body. His firm hands ran past the muscle of your thighs to the fat on your stomach with soothing circles. You looked devastatingly gorgeous like this. Completely wrecked, totally relaxed, entirely pliant.

You made grabby hands for him and he chuckled as he fell into your embrace. You brought him flush to your sweaty body, running your hands through his chestnut locks. He hummed against you and you couldn’t help the smile pulling at your face.

“Hey, Peter?” He could sense your anxiety, which is never a good sign. He was so sure his plan had worked.

“Yes, little lamb?” Your fingers stuttered in their ministrations as you fought for the words.

“I- I was just wondering…” The words died in your throat. Peter moved his head, so he could look into your eyes.

“Wondering if what?” You closed your eyes, feeling too overwhelmed by his gaze. You thought about what had led you here in the first place. You thought of the revelation you had as you first wrapped your arms around him. To lose any of him would be to lose him all. You couldn’t ask him to stop. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t. You felt terrible. How could you even ask him to do that? How could you be so selfish?

“Uhhh, what are we? Like now? Are we still friends? Are we more?” Peter tilted his head as he pondered your question.

“Well, what do you want?” You felt all the air leave your body, suddenly replaced entirely with fear.

“I don’t want you to leave. I want you, forever.” Peter raised himself with his arms, now hovering over your body. The space between you palpable now as he searched your eyes.

“Then you have me,” He kissed you, it was a promise.

A Peter Parker promise was a binding contract. He chose his words with such precision, he never said something without resounding contemplation. He pressed his words into your soul, branding you for the rest of your days.

“Forever.”

Tag List: @andrews-lovr @brinaslittlefreak @ilovemoonknight @negasonic-teenage-asshole @preciousbabypeter @princesskittycatofmeowland @rudy-the-winged-wolf @whoreforklitz @liz-allyn and @blooming-violets this sequel is for you. Hope y'all enjoy :))

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andvenuscried · 1 month

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SPIDERVERSE UNIVERSE.

WARNING,

a lot down here is NSFW!

NAVIGATION.

✮ — nsfw

☾ — sfw

for more, click here: guidelines + more info.

… there is nothing here yet. work is in progress.

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thefiery-phoenix · 9 months

Text

MY SLEEPING BEAUTY (YANDERE PETER PARKER X READER)

You were such a pretty delicate cute fragile little thing in Peter's eyes. The way you chewed your lip when you were anxious or nervous was so cute to him..... you reminded him of a little cute adorable baby bunny and yes, baby boi here developed something more deeper than an innocent crush.... he had a crazed obsession for you but he'd stutter and become a blushing flustered mess while talking to you. However he won't hesitate to make a person back the HECK away from you if he thinks they're getting too close to you

Peter likes watching you drinking and admiring your beauty from far normally as well as Spiderman. He'll stalk you home under the pretense of patrol and will make sure your safe and secure at your home, sleeping cozily on your bed like a curled up kitten

Ever wondered what that sudden rush of wind was or you clearly remember shutting your window last night? Well, that's Peter for ya, or the friendly Spiderman checking if you were doing all right. He liked to watch you sleep, focusing on your soft breathing as your chest rises and falls slightly. Sometimes, he'll even come in bed and snuggle with you only to leave a few hours before you got up and yes, he'll gently kiss the top of your forehead when you nuzzle into him or cuddle back into the unknown force that's holding you

You were lovely to him and even more lovely in the night which was PRECISELY why he'd watch you sleep and visit you in the night. Oh he HAD to, your plump rosy soft lips were too addicting for him to resist you for too long

"Oh darling Y/N'' he sighed as he lay in your bed with you. "If only you knew how much I love you, what I'm going to do to you when we're together'' he chuckled slightly and caressed your cheek lovingly. "Don't worry, Spiderman will save you from your life, I know how hard it is for you sweetheart, exams and tests and studies and on top of that you're even working at that god damn coffee shop where people have the guts to ask you for your number! Don't worry darling, I'll keep you safe from all this no matter what. Leave it all to me~"

Unable to control himself, he reaches down to your neck and as you squirm slightly and sigh, he just shushes you gently and mumbles, "I'll kiss you and take such good care of you. Isn't that what you want my love?"

He peppered your face with light kisses, worshipping you. He lay in bed for some more time with you and then as he glanced at the alarm clock on your bedside table, he curses that it was time for him to get going and places a gentle kiss to your lips and says, "Don't worry my sleeping beauty, we'll be together soon. The thought of kissing you and having you is too addicting~" and strokes your cheek lovingly with his thumb

"Sweet dreams my cute little sleeping beauty, I'll be back for you and then we can live a happy life together~"

#yandere peter parker #yandere peter parker x reader #yandere peter parker imagines #yandere peter parker oneshots #yandere peter parker scenarios #yandere peter parker headcanons #dark peter parker x reader #dark peter parker #yandere avengers scenarios #yandere avengers x reader #yandere avengers #yandere mcu #yandere mcu x reader #yandere marvel characters x reader #yandere marvel characters #yandere marvel x reader #yandere marvel

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yandere-toons · 2 years

Note

Have you ever thought about releasing your drabbles or flash fictions ? This might be a silly question but I just absolutely adore your writing style and am so inspired by it so I always love getting new content from you 💓💓

WARNING: implied stalking + kidnapping, psychological manipulation, toxic mindsets.

* * *

You stepped into the corridor to spot Miles Morales rounding the corner in the opposite direction of your dorm room, his eyes downcast as he hurriedly rubbed some webs off his palms. “Miles!” You lifted an arm to wave at him once he turned.

Miles whirled around and stood as tall as he possibly could have, bouncing on his heels a bit. “Yeah?” He tightened his grip on his backpack straps when you walked toward him with a curious frown.

After glancing at your surroundings for any prying eyes, you looked at Miles and whispered, “My roommate didn't come back again last night.”

Another glance proved useful when it yielded the sight of a group of students looking over their shoulders at you, but a few moments of silence, as well as a brief glare, convinced them to return to talking among themselves.

You turned back to Miles, who had not moved at all. “I was wondering if you saw them by any chance?”

This drew a lengthy “uh” from him as he opened his mouth as if to say something else, only to keep making the same sound. It was not until you tilted your head at him that Miles peeked at the adjacent wall and spoke with a stilted tone as if he were a first-time actor rehearsing his lines.

“I don't know anything about that.”

You slumped in disappointment and scanned the area for another person to ask, so Miles raised his hand and pointed a finger at you with his best imitation of a surprised smile. “But you know who might know? The security guard!”

Just as you were considering the distance between Salas's office and the art classroom, your cell phone rang. A Japanese hip-hop song that you did not remember setting as the ringtone started to echo in the corridor and earned dozens of annoyed glances.

Miles gaped and squeezed the straps on his backpack so hard that his hands began to tremble. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek, which he wiped with the back of his hand while muttering the words, “Not yet.”

A quick look at the phone screen revealed the caller to be Peter B. Parker.

As soon as you answered the call, your ears were bombarded with the hubbub of a busy restaurant. You could nearly smell the French fries steaming in vats, the patties flipping on grills and other fast food being peddled and devoured over the phone.

Indistinct chatter filled the background, and a rapid series of oinks and slams interrupted a nearby conversation.

Closest to the speaker was the sloppy noise of someone chewing a hamburger and slurping on a straw. “Hey, kid!” came a deeper voice from the other end of the phone, this one slightly distorted and muffled by a mouthful of bread and meat. “Heard you're down a roommate.”

At this, you cocked your head and lowered the phone from your ear. You watched as the screen flashed the name “Peter B. Parker” again, but instead of resuming the call, your narrowed eyes rose to meet the sweat running down Miles's forehead.

“Miles, how does he know about my roommate?”

The sweat was like raindrops on his face now as if there was a thunderstorm crashing and booming just above his head. With his eyes darting from the ceiling to the floor to the walls, Miles was caught on each word and let one too many long pauses fall between his quickening breaths.

“I may have let it slip at our last get-together.”

The volume of his voice kept dropping until he was almost whispering by the end. He had raised his shoulders and tensed them to the point of crinkling his eyes and clenching his jaw at the discomfort.

His fists balled when you continued to inspect him, which drew a perturbed silence from you that you broke moments later. “It only happened last night.”

Miles attempted to relax his fists and looked away, managing a chuckle and a faint smile. “Yeah, we got together early this morning.” His eyes lacked the dark rings that appeared when he spent the night slinging webs and throwing punches.

“Kid? You still there?” questioned Peter B. Parker before you could further interrogate Miles.

A brisk look at the clock hanging on the wall threw a cold chill over you. Its tick-tocks seemed to happen sooner and move the arms faster with each second that you counted them. Turning away, you faced the floor and shouted into the phone, “My art class starts in five minutes!”

The crunch of a French fry being gobbled was audible. “Ah-huh. Wanna grab a burger and tell us about it?”

Just as you were preparing to refuse his offer, one word stuck in your mind. “Us?”

A crash followed the clatter of porcelain plates slamming into each other. The noise shifted from left to right as if someone was sliding across the table, and the thumps of multiple hands clutching the phone were joined by a decisive pig's oink.

The voice of Peter B. Parker, now distant, grumbled, “Yeah, yeah. Like they really want to hear about the golden ratio over lunch.”

This battle for the phone resulted in the comical voice of Peter Porker crossing over into your ear. “I can teach you everything you need to know about art!” His mouth was way too close to the speaker and prompted you to wince, but it was soon wrestled out of his hands.

What came next were the sproings and boings of Porker jumping up and down in a fight to be heard. “I'm a cartoon!” he shouted, running out of breath midway through the declaration. “No schoolteacher can do better than a living art piece!”

Finally, Porker collapsed on the table with a thud and a rattle.

Static, the movement of air and breathing of inconsistent volumes filled your ear as the phone was turned upside down and carried at various distances from someone's face. “How does this gizmo work?” asked a low, almost gravelly voice.

Peter B. Parker hummed in the background. “Just hold it to your mouth and talk,” he replied in the middle of a large bite into his hamburger.

The static interference vanished at once, and the monotone of Peter Parker became clear. “Play hooky with us, kid. I used to ditch college every week in my day.”

Hiding between the shouts and struggle of the others was the calmer voice of Gwen Stacy. “We saved a seat for you.” The smile on her face was evident in her tone, with the clear amusement exposing the way she relished watching her comrades squabble.

“It's next to me!” came an excited shout from Peni Parker, who was sitting farther away from the phone.

Gwen chuckled, “She wouldn't let it go until we agreed.”

A wave of cool water sprayed you from above, and the chink-chink of the sprinkler system rained down on the corridor. Screams filled the school as students ducked for cover and hid inside the nearest classrooms.

You looked up to squint through the water, your gaze dropping when the phone line went dead.

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spider-stark · 1 year

Text

Shutter

PETER PARKER X READER

Summary - You barely even remember Peter's name, but that hasn't stopped him from forming a dangerous obsession with you.

Warnings - 18+, mature themes, stalking, some non-con acts (taking pictures), -peter being a creep

a/n - this is literally just peter being a total stalker. i didn't proof-read this and i wrote it in like thirty minutes, but i just wanted it to stop living in my brain. get a restraining order against this man please

// masterlist // send me your thoughts //

THE LOWER half of his body laid flat against the icy rooftop, the upper half having been propped up by his elbows. Shaky hands lifted the camera a few inches, carefully bringing it to his eye so he could peer through the viewfinder.

He forced himself to take a deep breath, the sudden influx of frosty winter air stinging his lungs. With each moment that passed, his anxiety grew larger, gaze constantly flicking between his camera and his watch.

It was already a quarter past nine, which meant that tonight you were approximately twenty minutes late getting home from your shift at the coffee shop. Nights like these were rare considering you were a creature of habit, but when they did occur, Peter often cursed you for having an apartment opposite of the entrance.

He could never see when you were approaching the building, when you were entering the lobby; which meant his only signal that you made it in safe was when he’d finally see you through your bedroom window.

Another glance to his watch, the thinnest hand ticking relentlessly with each passing second. He was becoming worried, beginning to consider abandoning his spot on the roof to come looking for you. This is why you need me, he thought to himself, teeth digging into his bottom lip, someone needs to look out for you.

Yet, before his muscles could even shift the slightest bit, the sight of a light flicking on across the street caught his eye, the camera immediately rising back into his line of sight. “Welcome home,” he muttered to himself, a wave of relief washing over him as the corners of his lips twitched into a smile, watching you throw your bag onto your bed.

A thin finger hovered above the shutter button, another deep breath as he worked to steady himself, ensuring the shot wouldn’t come out blurry. You were moving quick—too quick for him to get a good picture—kicking your dirty converse to the side of your nightstand.

Poor thing– Peter cooed over you, snapping another few subpar shots as you pulled your top over your head–they must’ve made you work late tonight. You’re probably exhausted.

Your boss was always overworking you, taking advantage of your good nature. A few times now Peter had considered paying him a visit, tired of sitting idly by as he ran you into the ground. Perhaps tonight would be what pushed him over the edge, having to wait impatiently for you to get home.

New York’s a dangerous place for a woman—he would reason with himself—your boss should know that, too. He shouldn’t make you stay late, not when walking home at night is already unsafe for you.

Peter hated that you walked home alone every night. Oftentimes, he considered asking you if he could walk you back, but always found himself stumbling over his words and deciding against it. Still, he often let himself imagine what it would be like to walk alongside you at night.

He wanted a chance to get to know you better, a chance to hear you talk more. Peter loved talking to you, even if your conversations had been limited to nothing more than polite coffeehouse banter as he waited for his drink.

Eventually, he figured, the two of you would get to know each other better.

Eventually he wouldn’t have to go and threaten your boss for putting you in danger, perhaps he’d even begin to thank him for it, using it as another opportunity to be close to you.

Eventually, he told himself, he wouldn’t need his camera and an abandoned rooftop to ensure that you were safe.

And that’s all this was, wasn’t it? He was a hero, and that’s what heroes do. They protect the vulnerable, defend the innocent—and god, you were as innocent as it could get. You were too pure for this world, too kind to be subjected to the horrors that he witnessed on these streets everyday.

But that’s why I’m here—he’d speak to you, as if you could actually hear him from where he hid—I’m gonna keep you safe.

His intentions were pure, or at least that’s what he would tell himself. He didn’t often think about the more nefarious images that were stored in his memory card, not letting himself question the morality of his actions. After all, it wasn’t his fault that you never drew the curtains before getting undressed, as if beckoning him to admire your bare body.

If anything, it served as another example of how innocent you were! You were so unsuspecting, so oblivious to the wicked nature of man. You were lucky that he watched over you, you were lucky that it was him snapping scandalous photos of you. Someone with ill-will might try to use them against you, maybe even blackmail you with them, but Peter? He would never. If anything, he would try to rationalize to himself, the pictures were your way of repaying him for protecting you.

Nimble hands moved from the shutter to the zoom, adjusting the focal length to move closer in. “What’re you doing, silly girl?” he questioned, brown knitting together as he noticed the hasty way you shimmied out of your jeans.

Most nights you took your time undressing, too tired from your long day to be bothered with moving quickly. Tonight, though, you seemed to be in an unusual hurry to shed the fabric covering your body. No need to rush, he mused, I’m not going anywhere.

He snapped another picture, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of red lingerie. He had never seen this particular set before, nor had he ever known you to wear such tempting negligee under your work clothes.

“Putting on a show tonight, are we?”

Peter had a nasty habit of forgetting that you weren’t aware of his presence, that your actions weren’t for him. You had become such a big part of his life, such an integral component, that he often forgot that to you he was just another customer in a coffee shop. To him, his feelings were mutual, a shared sense of adoration that grew with each day. You just didn’t know it, yet—he’d try to remind himself—you just hadn’t realized much you needed him.

His tongue darted across his lips, the sensitive skin becoming chapped by the frigid temperatures. “Where are you going?” He muttered aloud, carefully observing as you inched out of view, drifting towards your bedroom door again.

A moment passed, then another, before you began traipsing backwards towards your bed. Your ass came into view first, just barely covered by the thin red fabric you adorned yourself with today (another click, another shot he’d put to use later), and then came the rest of you; hands reaching out in front of you, Peter’s heart lurching in his chest as he took in the sight unfolding before him.

You weren’t alone tonight, it seemed.

Peter bit his tongue, choking back the expletives threatening to spill out and letting the sickening taste of copper overwhelm his senses. He averted his eyes, letting them fall a couple hundred feet to the street below him. The sight of you with another man was already bound to leave a mark on him, but the sight of you with him was worse.

Harry’s a good guy—he thought to himself, roughly swallowing as he forced himself to look through the viewfinder once again. You were laid out against the mattress, gripping the duvet as his best friend's lips brushed against the crease of your thigh—but he’s not good enough for you.

It was a problem, a simple kink in his plans to grow closer to you, but for every problem exists a solution; his mind already drifting off to the ways in which he’d deal with Harry. “It’s not your fault,” he breathed out, accepting an apology you hadn’t given, “you don’t know any better—but that’s okay. I’ll fix it for you, okay? I’ll get rid of him.”

Not tonight, of course. He’d let you have tonight, let Harry borrow what he was so sure was rightfully his. For now, though, he’d stick around.

Just in case—he snapped another picture, zooming a bit further as Harry’s fingers hooked around the red lace, pulling the fabric down and revealing you to not only himself, but also Peter— just to make sure you’re safe.

a/n - GOD this was just living in my head today and i needed to get it out so i could stop thinking about it. and in case anyone was wondering, i am still 100% in my harry osborn/dane dehaan kick, and the fact that the tags are so dead will be the reason i fall into a depressive episode. so pls, for the love of all things holy, you guys need to go fall in love with dane ok cause i dont wanna be alone in this

#peter parker imagine #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker x reader #peter parker fic #peter parker headcanons #peter parker angst #peter parker smut #tasm peter x reader #tasm peter parker imagine #tasm smut #tasm fanfiction #tasm peter x you #tasm peter smut #yandere peter parker #yandere spiderman #spiderman imagine #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman smut #andrew!peter imagine

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wildestdreamsblog · 2 years

Text

I’m dying for another taste

Part 1

Pairing: Soft!dark Peter Parker (mid twenties) x Reader

Summary: Just before your wedding, Peter’s deceits and manipulations are revealed, making you leave.

Warnings: Swearing, Dubcon if u squint, Alcohol consumption, Sexual themes. If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

A/N: If you like it, reblog it 😉also tagging you because you requested for a second part @obsidian-fury 💖

You were playing with the engagement ring he gave you, the huge oval stone twinkling at you. He made sure no one could missed out the fact that you were already spoken for. Your thoughts went to that night you went home with him. You had woken up to him being so sweet, bringing your breakfast in bed with roses in his hands, his smile so wide that you could not helped but give him a chance. Peter always treated you like you were a God-given gift to him, like he had wanted you for so long that he would cherished you for as long as he lived now that you were with him. The look of admiration and barely constrained happiness when you agreed to be his girlfriend could not be compared to the reaction you got from him when he asked for your hand in marriage. And not only that, but he was so respectful to your parents, asking them first for you hand in marriage, treating them like his own family, showering them with gifts and vacations that you could not helped but fall for him a little harder each time.

And you loved him, you really did.

So why were you sitting there, in the house that the of you lived in, with a doubt on your mind? You could not helped but think of what happened last week. You were browsing through the shops, mindlessly going over your list for your upcoming nuptials when you bumped into a familiar face- one that you loved before you started loving Peter.

“Y/N?” His brows furrowed before flashing you his smile, “It’s been so long!”

His arms enveloped yours for a moment, before he asked you to join him for coffee.

Your eyes went over to him over the cup of coffee you were sipping, observing the way the past year had changed him. He offered you a friendly smile before his eyes went to your ring finger encased with Peter’s ring.

“Damn, he moved fast.” He mumbled over his breath, his head shaking a little before returning his eyes on you.

“What?”

“Nothing. Hey, how’s work?” Your ex-boyfriend asked, clearly changing the subject.

“It’s great, actually. I’m still working for Tony Stark. How about you? How’s London?”

“I got fired, actually.”

“I’m so sorry-“

“Don’t be, it’s not your fault. Its’-“ he cut himself off with a sigh, looking down his drink with a sad look on his face.

You reached for his hand, squeezing it as your way of comforting him. “You can tell me. You know I’m a pretty damn good listener,” you suggested softly. No matter how the two of you ended, he was once your best friend.

He looked torn for a moment, as if he was pondering whether he should tell you or not. Your phone rang, Peter’s name flashing on the screen with the photo of the two of you showing your ring. It might have been the deciding factor because what he said next shook you to the core.

“Peter fired me,” he confessed strongly, grabbing your hand in his, as if urging you to believe him. “I was going to come back to you, I really was-“

“Then why didn’t you?” You cut him off before he could even continue, not wanting to believe another attack from him to your fiancé. “If you wanted to come back so bad for me, why didn’t you? You know I waited for you,” you put forth the weight you carried when he up and left you for his fancy job. “And now that your job didn’t work out for you, you wanted to slander Peter’s name?”

“How can I come back for you when he did everything in his power to stop me? He wanted me gone out of your life so he could have you, and he did. He succeeded. I just wanted you to know who he really was before you signed yourself to him. He’s not who you really think he is. He manipulated the situation, who knows what he’s capable of doing just to get you?”

What he said stuck in your mind for days, that even Peter couldn’t help but notice your coldness to him. You were lucky you got sick that week that he excused your behavior. But now that he had gone to his office, and you had time to think. Peter was always by your side, and you never thought of it as suffocating, but to be honest you were getting scared.

Did you really know the man you were going to marry?

When you thought back to the events leading to now, Peter was always… conveniently and strategically there, as if he was in the middle of all that was happening. The thought of your nuptials, one that was set at the end of the month was making you anxious. No, you needed time to think this through without him interfering. And so, without a second thought, you slipped off the heavy ring, and with it, the weight that you had been carrying, wrote him a letter that you needed time to think, and left.

But your thinking lasted for more than a month. A month where you never responded to any of his messages, pleading for you to just tell him where you were, of never picking up his calls, of turning your phone off after assuring your family that you were okay and that you were just needed time to think this all through.

You missed your wedding day.

Life without Peter was…sad but enlightening. You were starting to see all his manipulations, everything was starting to make sense, the hurried engagement, the one night stand that turned into a relationship, even your colleagues who were your age were getting promotions overseas-but not you. You thought maybe you weren’t doing a better job than them, but no. You could see now that Peter didn’t want you to go anywhere. He wanted you close.

“Are you even sleeping, son?” Tony asked as he entered Peter’s office, taking in the disheveled form of his sole heir, his adopted son. He looked around, papers were stacked everywhere. Clearly, Peter had been burying himself on work and finding you. “You look like shit.”

Peter scoffed, “If Pepper left you, you would understand.”

“There no where in this world where I can’t find her,” Tony replied arrogantly before plopping himself down on the seat in front of Peter. “There’s no one that Stark technology can’t reasonably find,” he added, picking up the photo of you and you ex that fateful day when he revealed how Peter broke them up.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I found her. Now go get her,” before you lose your ever-so loving mind. He wanted to add, but Peter was already moving.

A sharp knock resounded over the rest house that you rented in the small town you passed through. It was quaint relaxing, the house perched on the high ground, just like the other houses you passed through. This was far from where you lived, and no one would think to look here. That was why you felt at peace, the scenery calming your mind. The rain was lightly hitting the roof, echoing throughout the small cabin. You softly walked to the door, thinking that it was just one of your neighbors bringing you their freshly harvested tomatoes that you almost unlocked the door, almost. Your eyes met Peter’s dark ones over the door window, his hair wet from the rain, his jaw clenching as he looked at your form. To say you were surprised was an understatement, but you knew you would see him sooner rather than later. He was not one to let you go.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, your voice quivering. You were not yet ready to see him.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?”

“I told you I needed time to think,” you replied, still not opening the door to him.

“I know the truth. I need time to think. Don’t look for me,” Peter recited your note to him without any emotions, his face carefully blanked as he looked at you. “You had your time, more than a month of it actually. Come home.”

You shook your head slowly, “And where is that exactly, Peter?”

“Our home. The one we shared together before your ex ruined everything for us!” He roared the end so loudly that you involuntarily stepped back, your heart beating faster. This, this was the Peter that you had not known. He had always been soft, and patient, and caring to you, never raising his voice despite your arguments.

Who knew that it would take you leaving him to make him lose his composure?

“He didn’t ruin anything for us. You did with your deceit-“

“If he really loved you, he wouldn’t think of leaving you. Because I could never entertain the thought of leaving you because that was how much I love you,” he watched you as your face soften, “I love you, you know that right? You are the love of my life. And you love me, too, right? This is just a setback for us. So please? Open the door, pretty girl,” he softened his voice, imploring you to listen to him.

You shook your head slowly, needing to know the truth. You knew if you let him in, one touch from him would distract you from what really mattered. It was easier to think without him near you, without him touching you.

“Did you or did you not break us up?”

Peter froze like a stone, his jaw clenched even as his face remained impassive. His fist rested on the door, “I did,” he said nonchalantly as if he didn’t alter your life, as if what he did what fair, “He didn’t deserve you, pretty girl. He left you the first chance he got. Is that the man you want to be with? I would never leave you,” he declared the last part as if it was a promise…or a threat. “He left you crying, the years you spent with him meant nothing to him. He broke your heart. I didn’t,” He walked nearer the window, “Because I love you.”

Your hand slowly unlocked the door, and not a second longer he was reaching for you, his muscular arms surrounding you as he buried his head on your neck. He was hugging you so tight, his shoulder almost quivering from the intensity he was feeling from having lost you and found you, and before you knew it, his lips were on you, kissing you like a man starved. And in a way, he was when you left him.

You found yourself responding to his kisses, the weeks spent apart turning into a stranger as he hiked your thigh up his waist, making you tremble as you felt his hardened cock rubbing on you. He groaned, and before long he was pushing you against the wall, your dress hiked up to your thighs as he tore your flimsy underwear, his fingers rubbing your delicate folds. He wasted no time, falling to his knees as he kept his eyes on yours. “I need to find a way to get you so addicted to me like I am to you, pretty girl,” he murmured, his lips trailing kisses to your thighs.

You breathed out a shaky moan, your eyes still defiant even as your hand brushed over his wet curls. He softly grabbed your left hand, intertwined his to you. Your back arched when you felt his sinful lips on you, his tongue warm as he delved right in you, his thumb rubbing your clit sensually. It had only beeb a few weeks, but you almost forgot how good Peter was at this. He could do this for a long, your senses in overdrive as he ate with gusto that by the time he was done, your legs were shaking- your wetness dripping down your thighs. And even that, he wouldn’t let go to waste.

He looked up at you, his lips glistening, “You taste wonderful, pretty girl,” he murmured as he slowly stood up, towering over your disheveled form, “How can I let you go if your taste is so addicting?”

He didn’t make it to the bedroom, his need for you driving him insane, he needed to reclaim you that you found yourself bent over the counter, Peter behind you as he was making you come for the third time tonight. His fingers were thrusting in and out of you from behind, his chest plastered on your back as he whispered dark and dirty promises to you, telling you that he would never again be apart from you, that you would marry him first thing in the morning, that he would fuck you so hard you forget about ever leaving him.

Peter had a thing for…overstimulating you. He loved watching you fall apart only for him, toys only allowed when he was the one using it on you- all your pleasures should and would only come from him.

You found yourself being fucked by Peter on the table, your tits bouncing as he thrusted in and out of you with so much intensity that his muscular arms were the only one preventing your from moving too much. You were naked, and he was still wearing his pants with his hard cock out. Watching you with hooded eyes, he grunted and moaned. He did not give any care despite his loudness as he fucked you, his thumb circling your hooded clit just the way you liked it that you came so hard, for the fourth time that night. You were so sensitive that you started involuntarily kicking him away, sensation so intense that it made you mindless.

“I’m not yet done with you, pretty girl,” he growled lowly before pulling both of your legs to his shoulder, spearing once again his hard cock inside you.

And within minutes, you watched him fall apart inside you.

Peter watched you sleep peacefully, just like he did when he first made love to you. The television illuminating the darkened bedroom as he drank his beer, his eyes watched the screen with satisfaction.

“Mark Lee, an investment specialist in Stark’s industry was charged with theft and stealing classified information. The playboy genius has not yet given a statement, but according to Peter Parker, the sole heir of the Stark’s industry, he will personally investigate this debacle and promised that the person involved would pay for his crimes. Now, for the weather news-“

Peter turned off the television, smirking as your ex boyfriend’s face was plastered all over the news. Now, there was no way he could poison your mind again once he was in jail, right? He’d make sure of it. He watched your belly as you slept, your shirt had ridden up, exposing to him your skin. He hoped the seed he planted would bear him a child. And he would be the happiest man on earth, with a pretty girl like you and his future child. You would be wholly his.

Banner from the talented and wonderful @maysdigitalarts

#soft!dark peter parker x you #soft!dark peter parker #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #peter parker imagine #peter parker x reader #yandere peter parker

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