dark fics by rae

When that empty, doll-like gaze replaced the light in your eyes, Peter knew you were going to black out. And you blacked out more often than not, especially when it hit day four of getting drunk. Thursday through Sunday, like a self-harming ritual.

Somehow, you always made it home. It was impressive, given how your body would sway on the long walk home. You were never dumb enough to go out on your own, at least. The days you couldn’t convince one of your friends to go out with you were the nights you rotted in bed. While your roommates made popcorn and watched a loud movie in the common room, you lay still in your bed, headphones in, and didn’t move for hours.  

They never worried about you. You must’ve always been like this. You were almost a Senior in college, and yet this is the only version of yourself that they’d known. 

Peter would wonder what you were like in high school. Your social media didn’t go back that far. Or maybe it was the summer after high school that changed you forever. Your parents could’ve fucked you up a long time ago, he guessed, but he did fantasize about making your life better. 

Whatever had happened to you, he could help erase it. Like his own past had been erased.

A fresh start. 

You initially caught Peter’s attention in class—a nine a.m. lecture on database management. You arrived five minutes late, though your leisurely walk to the single empty seat next to Peter made it clear the two of you had different concepts of time. Your oversized sweater and sweatpants didn’t really match, although, you were the kind of beautiful that meant you could wear a paper bag and still be stunning. 

Your eyelids were so heavy that he was sure you hadn’t taken a second glance at him. Pen in hand, head resting against your palm, and empty notebook in front of you, Peter watched as you practically slept through the class. He hadn’t quite figured out when you made time for studying, although you never seemed to struggle through any exams or projects. 

You smelled like vanilla and almonds, your signature scent. Peter had taken note of your collection of perfumes and lotions when he first looked through your room. Your sweater hung loosely against your frame, one shoulder exposed and bra strap on display. Peter wasn’t much of a writer, but he could write poems about the curve of your neck, and subsequently, novels about the architecture of your collarbones. 

He didn’t get the chance to sit next to you again, as your arrival at the lecture seemed to be unpredictable. What was more predictable was where you’d be from night to night. 

Peter hadn’t necessarily made many friends during his college career. He lived off campus, and he stayed in the shadows for the most part. He guarded Spider-Man’s identity more closely than ever, which meant he’d learned to become virtually undetectable. Even as Peter. Lingering in the corner of every party you attended and nursing a beer at every bar you hopped. 

His intentions were innocent at the start, really, and Peter kept a healthy distance. He only slipped in from the fire escape into your window when you weren’t home. He never approached you. Only followed you home to make sure you didn’t get into any trouble. 

Your friends were sloppier than you when it came to hookups. They made out with strangers at bars. Went home with a new guy every week. Peter liked that you never flirted back with the drunk fools that slobbered over you. 

It was like you knew, deep down, there was someone better out there for you. Peter wasn’t naive enough to assume you were a virgin, but at least you were intentional. 

Those carefully laid boundaries worked for a few months. Peter secretly lived his life alongside yours, and he was content with that. Until the first night you come home alone.

It was a perfect storm of events. The cops raided the house party you were at. You and three of your friends ran out the back door and down an alleyway. You all make it a block away before one of them takes a hard spill and sprains her ankle. Three of your friends sober up quickly and make a plan to take the injured one to the hospital. You, on the other hand, are too far gone, and everyone knows it. Your friends, thinking logically for you, sent you home in a ride share. 

Peter follows you, of course, swinging between dark alleyways and traffic-lined streets. 

That night, Peter is far from careful. He doesn’t even wear a mask when he lands on your fire escape. 

He slips into your unlocked window carefully. The room is eerily silent except for your soft breathing. He imagined that you passed out moments after you got through the door. You managed to slip out of your boots and leather jacket, but you’re still wearing your black, sleeveless dress. 

Peter’s never seen your tits from this close up. They’re practically spilling from the top of your dress. He barely recognizes that he’s already touching himself through his jeans. His heart pounds in his chest, knowing the risk he was taking, but it feels right being this close to you. 

Your soft lips are parted, your chest rises and falls slowly, and Peter realizes this is the most intimacy he’s felt in years. 

He doesn’t touch you, not at first, but just the sight of you is enough. With you sleeping and his hands moving purposefully beneath his briefs, not much had changed. You were still a fantasy to him. A line he wouldn’t cross. 

This was just a taste, he told himself, to hold himself over. He imagined those lips around him, his hands tangled in your hair, how you’d take all of him. How your eyes would widen as he came down your throat. 

The idea was so intense, so overwhelming, that it sent Peter over the edge. He held his breath as he came, hard, his eyes squeezing shut tightly due to the force of it. When he opened his eyes, he expected to have an immediate sense of regret. 

He was a good person. Good people didn’t do things like this. He had no plan for the very possible chance that you’d open your eyes. But you continued to sleep. White, sticky, liquid coated your chest, and you didn’t even stir. 

Peter wished it felt wrong, but you looked perfect. He tucked his manhood back into his briefs and realized that the only thing he would regret about that night would be not taking a picture. So he did. 

Anxiously, you paced in your bathroom. You stared down at your phone as you tried to steady your breathing. It wasn’t the first time you’d sent the message, but it wasn’t any less panic-inducing. 

Y/N: Hey so what happened last night?

You left out the part about waking up covered in … the idea made your stomach churn. 

Priya: Rach twisted her ankle. U don’t remember? 

You did. Vaguely. 

Y/N: Yeah that part I remember. Who did I go home with?

Priya: No one. We got you an Uber. I peeked in your room this morning and saw you sleeping. Assumed everything was fine. What’s wrong?

Y/N: Nothing. I was just so drunk and I think maybe I had weird dream. 

Priya: Did you dream about hooking up with Smoothie shop guy again? 

Y/N: Lol maybe 

Priya: Sleep it off baby 

Priya: We’ll bring you a smoothie after class :) 

You were being paranoid. You took a shower and tried to forget. You didn’t have the best habits, you knew that, but you took precautions to be safe. Last night was a fluke, but you could protect yourself if worse came to worst, couldn’t you?  If something bad had happened, you would remember it. You just needed more sleep. And maybe another night where everything didn’t go completely wrong. 

When you stepped back into your room, you realized your window was cracked. In your robe, you walked over, shut it tightly, and locked it. 

An entire two uneventful weeks go by before that eerie feeling returns. 

Usually, getting drunk made you feel better. You felt lighter and could smile a little more easily. Every once in a while, getting drunk made every single bad feeling you’d been pushing down bubble to the surface. You’d sat around the coffee table in the living room with your friends, taking shots, and trauma dumping. Suddenly, you missed the person you’d never see again, and it weighed on your heart so bad that you could feel it aching in your chest. Tears had fallen, and of course, your friends had comforted you.

“You wanna sleep in my room?”

You smiled through your tears. 

No. Never.

“I’m okay. I’m so tired. I just wanna put my headphones in and fall asleep.”

Goodbyes were said, and each roommate retreated to their respective room. 

You had a 9 a.m. lecture that you hadn’t made it to all week. It would be the smart and responsible thing to cry yourself to sleep rather than stay awake and overthink. 

Your shoe box of a room was actually the biggest in the four-bedroom apartment. You were also blessed with a real window. You’d hung tall sheer curtains from your ceiling to block some of the light. Your walls were filled with artwork you’d found online and posters you’d thrifted over time. You opted for darker greens and muted maroon colors in the places you could make your own. You were renting, after all, but the building itself had oodles of charm. Your landlord likes to remind you that the building was once a factory in the early 1900s. That’s why the ceilings were so high, and the old pipes in the wall screamed every time a toilet flushed or a dishwasher was run. The wall your metal-framed bed rested against was exposed brick. Normally, you’d turn on one of the many lamps, but tonight, moonlight streamed in from your window. Silver light danced across the floor, across the sheets, across you. 

Heavy eyelids blinking slowly, mind drifting to the sound of a sad indie ballad, you let sleep take you and prayed that you didn’t dream. 

Sometime in the middle of the night and in the deepest part of your REM cycle, a heavy hand pressed down onto your mouth. A scream never left your lips, no matter how hard you tried to force it out. Your eyes snap open, and you make out dark, brown eyes staring down at you. That’s about the only thing you make out because the stranger’s face is covered in a black mask. 

Honestly, the initial fear that you felt was for your roommates. You hoped they were okay even as he pressed the weight of his hips down into your pelvis. All that you could get out of your mouth was a strangled moan of discomfort, and of course, it came out muted. 

Your panties are already around your ankles, and a chill runs down your spine as you realize he’d pulled them down while you were still sleeping. Your sleep shirt is pulled above your navel, and as one of his hands holds your mouth, his full weight on top of you, his other hand starts to travel down your body. He roughly grips each one of your breasts, kneading and teasing your sensitive buds. Another strangled moan. 

“Does that feel good?” He asks, his voice low and slightly too unsure for someone who clearly had planned this. 

He continues to knead each breast, then pinches your nipples. Warmth stirs in your core, and you get a sick feeling. You start to writhe beneath him, your body betrays you, and he takes full advantage of how responsive you are. He learns your body quickly, what strokes make your back arch, and the level of pressure that makes your eyes threaten to roll into the back of your head. 

“You’re so pretty.”

He grunts against the fabric of his mask. 

“Fuck.” 

When your body is properly teased, his fingers wander between your legs, where you’re now hot, wet, and needy. You blink tears away as he parts your lips, middle finger stretching across your warm center, discovering you. 

It’s at that moment that you think about how strong his body feels. You can’t be that much shorter than him, but he feels massive against you. Your attempts to push him away are pointless, as you’re forced to accept the pleasure he was providing you. The circles he draws with his fingers are precise, and it only takes a few minutes before you’re a complete mess. Shaking, gasping into his hand, and you become grateful that he was saving you from the embarrassment of your roommates hearing you. 

“I’m making you feel so good. Aren’t I, baby? Look at you.”

You cum easily, and you feel it from head to toe. 

He stays pressed against you as the reality of the moment sinks in. You let a stranger who’d broken into your apartment let you feel this way. You’d let him make you …

“You’re okay, pretty girl.” Realizing you’re too mortified to call for help, he removes his hand from your mouth. He lifts the lower part of his mask, and now you’re staring at his pink lips. For a moment, you thought you might recognize him just by his lower face, but no. 

“Please –” You choked out. 

“You did so well.” He grabs your face, and you stare back with wide, frightened eyes. You were scared, although, for some reason, you didn’t think he’d hurt you. “That’s all for tonight, I promise.”

“Who-who are you?” 

His lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line, “We shouldn’t rush things, okay? I’ll be back. I’ll explain more.”

“Please, don’t. I won’t tell anyone, just please–”

“I know you won’t tell, Y/N. You’re a good girl.” 

You took in a sharp breath in response, and he slowly lifted his weight off of you. You took in his silhouette, how his dark jacket squeezed his muscular physique, and you prayed to see something that would help identify him. You couldn’t take not knowing who he was. Thinking he could be every stranger you passed on the street. Even as he walked over to your window and climbed onto the fire escape, you felt him on top of you. 

You turned your sore neck towards your nightstand, tapping the screen of your charging phone. The time read 2:34 a.m. You turned your gaze to the ceiling next. 

You never fell back to sleep, of course, and your 8 a.m. alarm snaps you from your fog. When you check your phone, you find several unread messages. 

Unknown number: I can’t stop thinking about you 

Unknown number: Seeing your face while you orgasmed changed my life, I think 

You cover your mouth as you scroll through several pictures he’d sent you. Several were from last night while you were sleeping. Your panties around your ankles, your vagina on full display, and his hands groping your chest. Then your heart stops when you see the photos from a few weeks ago. Your black dress. His cum on your chest. 

Unknown number: I’m sorry I interrupted your sleep, but you can’t be late to class today 

Y/N: I’m calling the police, you fucking crazy person 

Unknown number: Harsh baby 

Unknown number: I really don’t want to have to post these photos anywhere. let’s keep them between us 

Unknown number: You enjoyed it 

Unknown number: Just think about how much you’ll love it when I finally fuck you 

You can’t type anymore; your fingers are shaking too badly. You throw your phone across the bed before you start to hyperventilate. How did he know about your class? Was he in it? You think you might die of humiliation right then. 

Your roommates are expecting you to ride to campus with them, and you don’t intend to let them know anything is wrong. You act like this morning never happened, and it works for a few hours. You already operate your life with a thin layer of anxiety. What’s one more thing to worry about? 

It was a simple problem to work out. Figure out who did this to you and how to keep it from happening again. You were a smart girl. You could do that. 

Poor thing, Peter thought as he watched you tap your leg underneath the table. You were late to class and got stuck with a seat at the very front. You’d opted for dark leggings and a black hoodie that swallowed your frame. 

Still beautiful. 

He wished he could’ve stayed longer this morning and provided you with the aftercare you deserved. It might’ve made the texts he sent a little bit easier to bear. It was wrong to manipulate you, he knew that, but it felt like the only way. Your feelings were so closed off, even towards your friends; what chance did he have trying to date you the normal way?  

He couldn’t risk you rejecting him. He would have you in the dark of the night if he couldn’t have you any other way. 

He knew he was hurting you, but maybe you’d start to turn to him for comfort instead of the bottle. 

Much to his dismay, even after everything, you went out with your friends that night. 

Peter knew the last thing he needed to be with you was predictable. Of course, you expected him to come back that night. Conveniently, you fell asleep in your roommate's room. And then the living room the next day. The night after you locked yourself in your bathroom. 

Peter could see the lack of sleep in your eyes the next week in class. Eventually, you slept in your bed again for a few nights. When you finally thought he’d forgotten about you, Peter returned. 

On a night when your very intention was to black out. From afar, Peter saw you take at least eight shots. It was far from smart. Especially now that a masked vigilante had completely taken advantage of you in such a state. But you couldn’t help yourself, could you? 

“Poor baby, look at you,” Peter thought out loud this time as he caressed your cheek. Your eyes were dark with mascara, lipstick smudged across your cheek, but you were still perfect. His very own doll. He kissed your lips and started to warm your cold body with his. Almost like muscle memory, your lips moved back against his, slow and drowsy. You tasted sweet like cranberry-flavored liquor. “You need someone to take care of you, don’t you? To love you. I can love you. I’ll love you so good.” 

He had to taste you. All of you. 

You're far too drunk to fight him. Your arms are practically limp at your sides, and Peter pries your thighs open easily. 

He sank into the bed, arms wrapping around the back of your thighs as he pulled your pussy to his lips. He kissed the fabric of your panties, nose pressing against your clit as he smelled deeply. 

“Please,” Peter perked up at the sound of your voice. Fuck, you were begging him. The deepest part of your conscience wanted him. 

“Please, Peter,” He corrected you, dangerously, and to his satisfaction, you listened. 

“Oh, please, Peter.” 

Peter pulled your panties to the side and ate your pussy for a full hour that night. It felt magical. You’d come to now and then to have an orgasm, fall back asleep, and wake again to find yourself cumming again. Meanwhile, Peter just savored the taste of you. Peter took a video, of course, of your soft whimpering as he licked you over and over. You wouldn’t remember tonight, but he’d remind you in the morning. 

When that empty, doll-like gaze replaced the light in your eyes, Peter knew you were going to black out. And you blacked out more often than not, especially when it hit day four of getting drunk. Thursday through Sunday, like a self-harming ritual.

Somehow, you always made it home. It was impressive, given how your body would sway on the long walk home. You were never dumb enough to go out on your own, at least. The days you couldn’t convince one of your friends to go out with you were the nights you rotted in bed. While your roommates made popcorn and watched a loud movie in the common room, you lay still in your bed, headphones in, and didn’t move for hours.  

They never worried about you. You must’ve always been like this. You were almost a Senior in college, and yet this is the only version of yourself that they’d known. 

Peter would wonder what you were like in high school. Your social media didn’t go back that far. Or maybe it was the summer after high school that changed you forever. Your parents could’ve fucked you up a long time ago, he guessed, but he did fantasize about making your life better. 

Whatever had happened to you, he could help erase it. Like his own past had been erased.

A fresh start. 

You initially caught Peter’s attention in class—a nine a.m. lecture on database management. You arrived five minutes late, though your leisurely walk to the single empty seat next to Peter made it clear the two of you had different concepts of time. Your oversized sweater and sweatpants didn’t really match, although, you were the kind of beautiful that meant you could wear a paper bag and still be stunning. 

Your eyelids were so heavy that he was sure you hadn’t taken a second glance at him. Pen in hand, head resting against your palm, and empty notebook in front of you, Peter watched as you practically slept through the class. He hadn’t quite figured out when you made time for studying, although you never seemed to struggle through any exams or projects. 

You smelled like vanilla and almonds, your signature scent. Peter had taken note of your collection of perfumes and lotions when he first looked through your room. Your sweater hung loosely against your frame, one shoulder exposed and bra strap on display. Peter wasn’t much of a writer, but he could write poems about the curve of your neck, and subsequently, novels about the architecture of your collarbones. 

He didn’t get the chance to sit next to you again, as your arrival at the lecture seemed to be unpredictable. What was more predictable was where you’d be from night to night. 

Peter hadn’t necessarily made many friends during his college career. He lived off campus, and he stayed in the shadows for the most part. He guarded Spider-Man’s identity more closely than ever, which meant he’d learned to become virtually undetectable. Even as Peter. Lingering in the corner of every party you attended and nursing a beer at every bar you hopped. 

His intentions were innocent at the start, really, and Peter kept a healthy distance. He only slipped in from the fire escape into your window when you weren’t home. He never approached you. Only followed you home to make sure you didn’t get into any trouble. 

Your friends were sloppier than you when it came to hookups. They made out with strangers at bars. Went home with a new guy every week. Peter liked that you never flirted back with the drunk fools that slobbered over you. 

It was like you knew, deep down, there was someone better out there for you. Peter wasn’t naive enough to assume you were a virgin, but at least you were intentional. 

Those carefully laid boundaries worked for a few months. Peter secretly lived his life alongside yours, and he was content with that. Until the first night you come home alone.

It was a perfect storm of events. The cops raided the house party you were at. You and three of your friends ran out the back door and down an alleyway. You all make it a block away before one of them takes a hard spill and sprains her ankle. Three of your friends sober up quickly and make a plan to take the injured one to the hospital. You, on the other hand, are too far gone, and everyone knows it. Your friends, thinking logically for you, sent you home in a ride share. 

Peter follows you, of course, swinging between dark alleyways and traffic-lined streets. 

That night, Peter is far from careful. He doesn’t even wear a mask when he lands on your fire escape. 

He slips into your unlocked window carefully. The room is eerily silent except for your soft breathing. He imagined that you passed out moments after you got through the door. You managed to slip out of your boots and leather jacket, but you’re still wearing your black, sleeveless dress. 

Peter’s never seen your tits from this close up. They’re practically spilling from the top of your dress. He barely recognizes that he’s already touching himself through his jeans. His heart pounds in his chest, knowing the risk he was taking, but it feels right being this close to you. 

Your soft lips are parted, your chest rises and falls slowly, and Peter realizes this is the most intimacy he’s felt in years. 

He doesn’t touch you, not at first, but just the sight of you is enough. With you sleeping and his hands moving purposefully beneath his briefs, not much had changed. You were still a fantasy to him. A line he wouldn’t cross. 

This was just a taste, he told himself, to hold himself over. He imagined those lips around him, his hands tangled in your hair, how you’d take all of him. How your eyes would widen as he came down your throat. 

The idea was so intense, so overwhelming, that it sent Peter over the edge. He held his breath as he came, hard, his eyes squeezing shut tightly due to the force of it. When he opened his eyes, he expected to have an immediate sense of regret. 

He was a good person. Good people didn’t do things like this. He had no plan for the very possible chance that you’d open your eyes. But you continued to sleep. White, sticky, liquid coated your chest, and you didn’t even stir. 

Peter wished it felt wrong, but you looked perfect. He tucked his manhood back into his briefs and realized that the only thing he would regret about that night would be not taking a picture. So he did. 

Anxiously, you paced in your bathroom. You stared down at your phone as you tried to steady your breathing. It wasn’t the first time you’d sent the message, but it wasn’t any less panic-inducing. 

Y/N: Hey so what happened last night?

You left out the part about waking up covered in … the idea made your stomach churn. 

Priya: Rach twisted her ankle. U don’t remember? 

You did. Vaguely. 

Y/N: Yeah that part I remember. Who did I go home with?

Priya: No one. We got you an Uber. I peeked in your room this morning and saw you sleeping. Assumed everything was fine. What’s wrong?

Y/N: Nothing. I was just so drunk and I think maybe I had weird dream. 

Priya: Did you dream about hooking up with Smoothie shop guy again? 

Y/N: Lol maybe 

Priya: Sleep it off baby 

Priya: We’ll bring you a smoothie after class :) 

You were being paranoid. You took a shower and tried to forget. You didn’t have the best habits, you knew that, but you took precautions to be safe. Last night was a fluke, but you could protect yourself if worse came to worst, couldn’t you?  If something bad had happened, you would remember it. You just needed more sleep. And maybe another night where everything didn’t go completely wrong. 

When you stepped back into your room, you realized your window was cracked. In your robe, you walked over, shut it tightly, and locked it. 

An entire two uneventful weeks go by before that eerie feeling returns. 

Usually, getting drunk made you feel better. You felt lighter and could smile a little more easily. Every once in a while, getting drunk made every single bad feeling you’d been pushing down bubble to the surface. You’d sat around the coffee table in the living room with your friends, taking shots, and trauma dumping. Suddenly, you missed the person you’d never see again, and it weighed on your heart so bad that you could feel it aching in your chest. Tears had fallen, and of course, your friends had comforted you.

“You wanna sleep in my room?”

You smiled through your tears. 

No. Never.

“I’m okay. I’m so tired. I just wanna put my headphones in and fall asleep.”

Goodbyes were said, and each roommate retreated to their respective room. 

You had a 9 a.m. lecture that you hadn’t made it to all week. It would be the smart and responsible thing to cry yourself to sleep rather than stay awake and overthink. 

Your shoe box of a room was actually the biggest in the four-bedroom apartment. You were also blessed with a real window. You’d hung tall sheer curtains from your ceiling to block some of the light. Your walls were filled with artwork you’d found online and posters you’d thrifted over time. You opted for darker greens and muted maroon colors in the places you could make your own. You were renting, after all, but the building itself had oodles of charm. Your landlord likes to remind you that the building was once a factory in the early 1900s. That’s why the ceilings were so high, and the old pipes in the wall screamed every time a toilet flushed or a dishwasher was run. The wall your metal-framed bed rested against was exposed brick. Normally, you’d turn on one of the many lamps, but tonight, moonlight streamed in from your window. Silver light danced across the floor, across the sheets, across you. 

Heavy eyelids blinking slowly, mind drifting to the sound of a sad indie ballad, you let sleep take you and prayed that you didn’t dream. 

Sometime in the middle of the night and in the deepest part of your REM cycle, a heavy hand pressed down onto your mouth. A scream never left your lips, no matter how hard you tried to force it out. Your eyes snap open, and you make out dark, brown eyes staring down at you. That’s about the only thing you make out because the stranger’s face is covered in a black mask. 

Honestly, the initial fear that you felt was for your roommates. You hoped they were okay even as he pressed the weight of his hips down into your pelvis. All that you could get out of your mouth was a strangled moan of discomfort, and of course, it came out muted. 

Your panties are already around your ankles, and a chill runs down your spine as you realize he’d pulled them down while you were still sleeping. Your sleep shirt is pulled above your navel, and as one of his hands holds your mouth, his full weight on top of you, his other hand starts to travel down your body. He roughly grips each one of your breasts, kneading and teasing your sensitive buds. Another strangled moan. 

“Does that feel good?” He asks, his voice low and slightly too unsure for someone who clearly had planned this. 

He continues to knead each breast, then pinches your nipples. Warmth stirs in your core, and you get a sick feeling. You start to writhe beneath him, your body betrays you, and he takes full advantage of how responsive you are. He learns your body quickly, what strokes make your back arch, and the level of pressure that makes your eyes threaten to roll into the back of your head. 

“You’re so pretty.”

He grunts against the fabric of his mask. 

“Fuck.” 

When your body is properly teased, his fingers wander between your legs, where you’re now hot, wet, and needy. You blink tears away as he parts your lips, middle finger stretching across your warm center, discovering you. 

It’s at that moment that you think about how strong his body feels. You can’t be that much shorter than him, but he feels massive against you. Your attempts to push him away are pointless, as you’re forced to accept the pleasure he was providing you. The circles he draws with his fingers are precise, and it only takes a few minutes before you’re a complete mess. Shaking, gasping into his hand, and you become grateful that he was saving you from the embarrassment of your roommates hearing you. 

“I’m making you feel so good. Aren’t I, baby? Look at you.”

You cum easily, and you feel it from head to toe. 

He stays pressed against you as the reality of the moment sinks in. You let a stranger who’d broken into your apartment let you feel this way. You’d let him make you …

“You’re okay, pretty girl.” Realizing you’re too mortified to call for help, he removes his hand from your mouth. He lifts the lower part of his mask, and now you’re staring at his pink lips. For a moment, you thought you might recognize him just by his lower face, but no. 

“Please –” You choked out. 

“You did so well.” He grabs your face, and you stare back with wide, frightened eyes. You were scared, although, for some reason, you didn’t think he’d hurt you. “That’s all for tonight, I promise.”

“Who-who are you?” 

His lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line, “We shouldn’t rush things, okay? I’ll be back. I’ll explain more.”

“Please, don’t. I won’t tell anyone, just please–”

“I know you won’t tell, Y/N. You’re a good girl.” 

You took in a sharp breath in response, and he slowly lifted his weight off of you. You took in his silhouette, how his dark jacket squeezed his muscular physique, and you prayed to see something that would help identify him. You couldn’t take not knowing who he was. Thinking he could be every stranger you passed on the street. Even as he walked over to your window and climbed onto the fire escape, you felt him on top of you. 

You turned your sore neck towards your nightstand, tapping the screen of your charging phone. The time read 2:34 a.m. You turned your gaze to the ceiling next. 

You never fell back to sleep, of course, and your 8 a.m. alarm snaps you from your fog. When you check your phone, you find several unread messages. 

Unknown number: I can’t stop thinking about you 

Unknown number: Seeing your face while you orgasmed changed my life, I think 

You cover your mouth as you scroll through several pictures he’d sent you. Several were from last night while you were sleeping. Your panties around your ankles, your vagina on full display, and his hands groping your chest. Then your heart stops when you see the photos from a few weeks ago. Your black dress. His cum on your chest. 

Unknown number: I’m sorry I interrupted your sleep, but you can’t be late to class today 

Y/N: I’m calling the police, you fucking crazy person 

Unknown number: Harsh baby 

Unknown number: I really don’t want to have to post these photos anywhere. let’s keep them between us 

Unknown number: You enjoyed it 

Unknown number: Just think about how much you’ll love it when I finally fuck you 

You can’t type anymore; your fingers are shaking too badly. You throw your phone across the bed before you start to hyperventilate. How did he know about your class? Was he in it? You think you might die of humiliation right then. 

Your roommates are expecting you to ride to campus with them, and you don’t intend to let them know anything is wrong. You act like this morning never happened, and it works for a few hours. You already operate your life with a thin layer of anxiety. What’s one more thing to worry about? 

It was a simple problem to work out. Figure out who did this to you and how to keep it from happening again. You were a smart girl. You could do that. 

Poor thing, Peter thought as he watched you tap your leg underneath the table. You were late to class and got stuck with a seat at the very front. You’d opted for dark leggings and a black hoodie that swallowed your frame. 

Still beautiful. 

He wished he could’ve stayed longer this morning and provided you with the aftercare you deserved. It might’ve made the texts he sent a little bit easier to bear. It was wrong to manipulate you, he knew that, but it felt like the only way. Your feelings were so closed off, even towards your friends; what chance did he have trying to date you the normal way?  

He couldn’t risk you rejecting him. He would have you in the dark of the night if he couldn’t have you any other way. 

He knew he was hurting you, but maybe you’d start to turn to him for comfort instead of the bottle. 

Much to his dismay, even after everything, you went out with your friends that night. 

Peter knew the last thing he needed to be with you was predictable. Of course, you expected him to come back that night. Conveniently, you fell asleep in your roommate's room. And then the living room the next day. The night after you locked yourself in your bathroom. 

Peter could see the lack of sleep in your eyes the next week in class. Eventually, you slept in your bed again for a few nights. When you finally thought he’d forgotten about you, Peter returned. 

On a night when your very intention was to black out. From afar, Peter saw you take at least eight shots. It was far from smart. Especially now that a masked vigilante had completely taken advantage of you in such a state. But you couldn’t help yourself, could you? 

“Poor baby, look at you,” Peter thought out loud this time as he caressed your cheek. Your eyes were dark with mascara, lipstick smudged across your cheek, but you were still perfect. His very own doll. He kissed your lips and started to warm your cold body with his. Almost like muscle memory, your lips moved back against his, slow and drowsy. You tasted sweet like cranberry-flavored liquor. “You need someone to take care of you, don’t you? To love you. I can love you. I’ll love you so good.” 

He had to taste you. All of you. 

You're far too drunk to fight him. Your arms are practically limp at your sides, and Peter pries your thighs open easily. 

He sank into the bed, arms wrapping around the back of your thighs as he pulled your pussy to his lips. He kissed the fabric of your panties, nose pressing against your clit as he smelled deeply. 

“Please,” Peter perked up at the sound of your voice. Fuck, you were begging him. The deepest part of your conscience wanted him. 

“Please, Peter,” He corrected you, dangerously, and to his satisfaction, you listened. 

“Oh, please, Peter.” 

Peter pulled your panties to the side and ate your pussy for a full hour that night. It felt magical. You’d come to now and then to have an orgasm, fall back asleep, and wake again to find yourself cumming again. Meanwhile, Peter just savored the taste of you. Peter took a video, of course, of your soft whimpering as he licked you over and over. You wouldn’t remember tonight, but he’d remind you in the morning.