#dark marvel

“Why don’t you give me a chance? I can be nice.” he says in a calm voice but it only makes you sob harder.

You’re sitting in the middle of his bed, having curled yourself into a ball, knees pressed against your chest as you tremble with fear. His metal fingers caress your scalp in a gentle manner as he talks to you. 

“I’m not a monster. I’ll treat you with love and respect, I promise.” he nears you, hand brushing against your cheek. A small sob escapes past your lips and you bury your head in your arms, hiding your face away from him.

The monster that took you away from your life, in the middle of the night. Like a ghost. 

He is a ghost though, you’ve heard a lot about the Winter Soldier. There was a time he was in every newspaper, surrounded by a vastitude of sordid crimes he committed in Vienna.

That was years ago but now he’s acclaimed as a hero. One of the many that fought against Thanos to bring back everyone that disappeared. 

But in your eyes, he’s still a monster. Heros don’t kidnap people. 

“Please, just let me go. Please.” you beg with a muffled voice. 

His hand stops the gentle motion in your scalp, fingers digging into the hair roots as he roughly pulls your head up, forcing you to face him. 

 “Don’t push me, doll. I’m trying to be nice here, but if you keep being a brat then I won’t be understanding anymore, got it?” he growls, his deep voice gives you chills and you weakly nod.

He’s furious, lips pulled into an ugly frown. Tears descending your face and wetting your shirt. His shirt, to be exact. 

He lets go of your hair, rubbing his face in discontentment. Bucky lets out a tired sigh and brings his hand back to your hair, continuing to stroke your head. You flinch, thinking he’d grab your hair again but he ignores your startled reaction. 

“I’m sorry, doll. I didn’t mean to lose my patience but you have to work with me, alright?” he softens his voice, a tinge of regret soaking it.  

“You gotta be good for me too. You can do that, right?” he insists and you reluctantly nod. His lips open into a wide smile.

“C’mon, use your words, doll. You got this.” 

“Y-Yes. I’ll be good.” your voice is too low but Bucky still manages to hear it, pulling you into his arms, kissing the top of your head. 

“That’s my good girl. We’re gonna be so happy together, doll.” 

"Babydoll"

You smiled hearing your husband enter your shared bedroom as you got out of the shower, wrapping a fluffy towel around yourself before going to greet him. He sat at the edge of the bed with a knowing smirk, shamelessly eyeing you up and down like he always did, your cheeks heating up under his watchful stare. You loved how much he adored you. He strode over, humming at the scent of your body wash, his nose trailing up the column of your neck, pressing soft kisses to your skin, his hands wandering to the edge of your towel.

"Miss me, baby?" He pulled it off, letting it pool to the floor leaving you bare before him, picking you up and laying on on the mattress, you were so perfect, pliant, he could already smell your arousal, your nipples pebbled against the cold air begging for his warm mouth.

"moy kotenok" He purred, nipping at your earlobe, your brows knitting in confusion, he never spoke Russian to you, only his brother-

“James?” You squeak, your heart starting to beat rapidly, blood running cold. This wasn’t your husband. You tried to scramble away, cover yourself but he grabbed your wrists in his hand, pinning them above your head. You then noticed the dark ink that peekd beneath his shirt, his telltale silver chain slipping out and dangling above your face. Your husband only wore his wedding ring, you tried so hard, unable to move his heavy body off you.

"Bucky-Bucky get off, what are you doing-

"Taking what should be mine, kotenok, showing you what being loved by a real man is like" He crawled off you, thighs spread wide kneeling in front of you. "He doesn't know what you deserve printsessa"

He shoved your legs apart, holding them from squirming, your twitching pearl amusing him. "S'been long, hasn't it, you say you don't want me but that swollen button says otherwise, what if I-"

He spits onto your clit making you cry out, a rough calloused thumb coming down to flick it to his hearts content. Your body jolted at the sensation, it was wrong, so wrong, God it had been so fucking long...

No.

"Bucky st-stop" You hiccupped as he moved faster, he could see your slick dampening the sheets, his idiot brother didn't know what he was missing.

"Why would I do that, hm? Look at how your body responds to me, you want this. Gonna get you so pregnant, bunny” Bucky smirked, giving his thick bulge a squeeze, making a show of shamelessly palming his erection. “Y’wouldnt even know who the daddy is”

He doesn't waste a second pulling his cock out, grinning at the way your cunt welcomes him home despite your futile protests. You scratch at him between moans of pleasure, your legs wrapping around his tapered waist. He pounds into you with purpose, he wants his child in your belly, he couldn't wait to see his brother dote on you not knowing any better.

He got harder thinking about your breasts leaking with milk as you got bigger, milk to feed his baby, milk to feed him. He'd find a way.

"Gonna put my child in you printsessa, give you my baby, show you where a man puts his cum, you'll take it won't you bunny, such a good housewife"

"No-No you-you can't oh God!" Your body shudders as pleasure and guilt washes over you, clinging onto him for dear life as he fucks you through your orgasm.

"That's right, cum for me, he can't make you cum like I can, don't think I haven't heard you with him, look at you, just a slutty little mess, you smell of sex kitten"

He intends on making the biggest mess in your pussy, needing it to drip onto the sheets you sleep in. You'd stay wrapped up in his essence while it leaked out of you, his sperm exactly where it needed to be, right in your belly-

"Get ready kitten, get ready to take it, fuck-squeezing me so good, tell me you want it, I know you do, m'gonna cum so hard for you princess, just for you, all this-fuck-do you feel it, s'all for you, SHIITTT" He roared, pumping you with the stutter of his hips, the headboard slamming against the wall as he emptied himself, shamelessly moaning into your neck.

~

What had once been a great fear of yours had turned into something akin to a comfort.

The basement was a lot of things—dark, isolating, and creepy to name a few—but in the weeks that you’d been exiled to it’s suffocating walls, you slowly found solace in being left with nothing but your solitude and your thoughts. At least it felt that way. In truth, you didn’t feel much of anything at all and had grown content in that feeling.

Or lack thereof.

The days blended together until it was one long endless stretch of darkness, and it gave you so much time to think. You thought about every decision that had landed you here, all the way from your first conscious memory to that fateful day when you and your friends stopped in some seemingly unassuming town for food. If you thought about it too hard, you could feel a chill creeping over your still form.

Lingering on the day your friends were murdered threatened to put you back in that headspace you’d been in when you were first brought to this house. Your breathing would become shallow at the memory of your erratic emotions and your inability to hold your bodily fluids and the time you’d nearly lost your mind at the mere sight of blood.

You had quite literally lost your mind.

You’d been driven insane by the abuse you’d suffered and had been forced to witness, mind shattering and falling apart from the actions of the same person tasked with putting it back together in whatever manner benefited him. Peter had torn you down and built you back up like some demented caregiver and despite the fact that you knew this—recognized this—you were essentially powerless to do anything about it.

You were in too deep, this was your life now, and such a thought was both comforting and suffocating. On the one hand, you knew what was in store for you. The rest of your days were laid out before you so meticulously, a breakdown of what every single day would be like for the rest of your life. In a way…it was relieving to think that you’d never have to expend any more effort into planning a single thing about your life ever again.

…but in the same breath, that was so tragic.

The excitement of possibilities and opportunities was something you’d never feel again. You’d never have that wonder about what the next day or month or even year would bring. You briefly recalled fleeting thoughts of grad school once and possibly living abroad for a while. Peter would never allow that, and even if he wanted to, Steve would never allow him to even consider the thought.

This was your life now.

Such a simple sentence brought on far too many emotions for you to handle, and so you didn’t. Handle them, that is. You didn’t feel anything and it didn’t just start and end with the complexities of your heart. You didn’t feel the pillow beneath your head nor the thin sheets over your frame. You didn’t even feel the shift in the room when someone—no doubt Margaret or Christine—opened the door and descended the stairs to bring you food.

Surely you ate.

You were still alive, after all, but you didn’t recall eating. Truth be told, you didn’t even recall bathing or using the bathroom. If you thought long and hard about it—struggling with your memory so much that it made you frown in the darkness—you could recollect brief flashes of memories that painted a picture.

Sharon’s worried face before you as she held some orange juice in front of your face, Margaret standing in front of you in the bathroom, tone pleading as she encouraged you to empty your bladder, and even Tony and Pepper standing over your bed as Pepper said something to him, her stricken expression clear even in hazy memories.

The days and everything that happened in them blended together so seamlessly that it all started to feel like a dream. How funny it was that you once feared the basement so much it was enough to give you a panic attack, and now that you were down here you felt the calmest you’d ever felt in months. You felt unreal—untouchable even in a way—and it wasn’t long before you forgot that this wasn’t meant to be forever.

You forgot that a day would come where Peter would come down—likely with Steve in tow—and tell you that your punishment was over and you could finally rejoin him amongst the world above ground. You didn’t know how you felt about that, and you found yourself wondering if you even wanted that.

Of course, you wanted that.

You couldn’t live in darkness and solitude forever, but stepping out of this room meant going back to the problems the basement currently shielded you from. When you stepped through that threshold again, Steve and Bucky and all of the other husbands would likely still be upset with you with the mentioned being more cross than the others. You would have to step back into an atmosphere where you weren’t trusted—again—and you’d have to earn it all back…again.

You supposed you still had friends in the wives, but who was to say. Yes, you’d remained silent when you witnessed Nat escape, but you had a feeling that someone like Margaret likely wouldn’t agree with what you did. You recalled a conversation you had with her once about the needs and sanctity of the house coming first. Allowing one of the wives to escape and possibly ruin everything wasn’t exactly in line with that.

Nat didn’t seem upset with you, at all the last time you saw her, but you didn’t truly know verbatim what Peter had said to Bucky to get him to take her out of the basement. Sure, he could’ve insinuated that keeping her down here and punishing her in a harsh manner after they’d been trying for a baby wasn’t smart, but he also could have flat out said to him that according to you, Nat thinks she's pregnant.

You only wanted to save her, and while you liked to think she’d understand if she knew you told Peter, you also weren’t so sure. You weren’t sure of a lot of things anymore, and your uncertainty about so much—the result of whatever truth you thought you were living being turned upside down—made you retreat into yourself even more.

“Y/N, you need to eat something…”

The familiar voice faintly reached your ears, and as you slowly turned your head, you thought to yourself that you hadn’t even heard Margaret open the door and walk down the stairs. She was staring at you with an expression you couldn’t quite name, and it was only after some time did you register the weight in your lap.

Your gaze landed on a tray of food, and as appetizing as the toast and eggs and sausage looked, you had no desire to eat. You felt lucid for the first time in ages, and you slowly blinked before shaking your head. The words to tell her you weren’t hungry were on the tip of your tongue, but the redhead spoke before you could find your voice.

“You barely ate anything yesterday. And the day before…and the day before,” she breathed. “Steve wants to see an empty plate.”

You blinked again at that, and despite the fact that she was repeating Steve’s words, you could see her own concern in her eyes. You struggled to recall just how long you’d been down here and just how many plates you’d barely touched. You couldn’t recall, and despite the nagging at the back of your mind, you couldn’t bring yourself to want to eat.

Even so, you and Margaret knew better than anyone how Steve could be, and so you slowly reached out for a piece of toast.

“I’ll eat,” was all you said.

She seemed relieved as she left you—albeit reluctantly—and you nibbled on the bread in your hand. The taste of it on your tongue made your stomach twist, and you put the rest of it back down without thinking. You had every intention of finishing it later, but once your food was set aside, all you wanted to do was sleep.

Your sleep wasn’t dreamless, and it rarely ever was. Sometimes you dreamt of your mom and your friends and your life before Peter took you for himself like some villain. Those dreams served nothing more than to torment you, and you often woke from them with tears in your eyes, vision blurry even in the darkness.

More often than not though, you dreamt of Peter and your life here. Sometimes it was awful nightmares about Steve—and even Bucky sometimes—where his handsome face was contorted in that perpetual frown it always seemed to be in when he laid eyes on you. Only it would be so much worse.

Your brain liked to conjure up visions of him where he was absolutely murderous, and it was no secret as to why. There’d been the brief moment here and there where you wondered if Steve would just say ‘to hell’ with all of his rules and get rid of you—in the most violent and dismissive fashion—and force Peter to find a sane wife. 

A better one.

That left a bitter taste in your mouth…and you hated it.

You liked to think that the thought of Peter with someone else only upset you because you didn’t think any woman deserved to be subjected to this. You liked to think that righteously and noble of yourself, but the truth was much more demented and depraved and twisted. No woman did deserve any of this, that was true, but the thought of Peter loving someone else made your stomach churn.

You could say it until you were blue in the face that this wasn’t love—it couldn’t be—but it didn’t change how you felt. You couldn’t fathom the thought of being tossed aside and replaced, and being replaced by someone better would only add insult to the injury. It wasn’t fair that they got to break you until there was hardly anything left only to cast you aside because they didn’t like the inevitable results of their choices.

The thought made you want to be sick.

Peter would never, and you knew without a doubt that he would never, but for all that he put you through, the least he could do was remain by your side and look after you forever. Something deep within you hated him so much for what he did—the dark-haired man worse than you initially thought him to be—but a larger part, the part that had been carefully put back together by him, only wanted him to show an endless display of apologies for the rest of your days.

You deserved that.

You deserved to be free, but that was never happening, and as it were, could you even function properly if you were allowed to walk off of this property tomorrow? Your mind didn’t work the way it did before you were brought here. It had been taken apart and scrambled and replaced with one that wasn’t your doing. You feared that you would never be able to function right again, and who would want you?

Who would want you besides Peter?

You were an abused, broken, and genuinely unwell mess…and Peter loved you for it…in his own way. You could see it in his eyes whenever he looked at you that the thought of losing you would send him over the edge, and you knew you felt the same, but you were sure it was for entirely different reasons. At this point in your life…what were you without Peter?

When you weren’t dreaming of your friends and family, and when you weren’t conjuring up nightmares of a familiar blond, you were dreaming about the man who put you into this mess. Sometimes you dreamt about who he actually was and in those dreams there was no doubt about his motives and his actions and you felt the appropriate fear when staring into his eyes.

…but more often than not you dreamt about the man he manipulated you into loving. You dreamed about welcoming him home from work and kissing him and touching him. You dreamed about the days where he simply held you as you cried, conveniently ignoring that he was the reason for your tears. In this house of horrors, Peter was your safe place, and you knew that was purposely done, but again, you felt powerless to do anything about it.

It shouldn’t be that way, but your only other choice was to spend the rest of your days in torment.

“She hasn’t eaten properly in weeks,” the soft words reached your ears, and you knew they weren’t meant for you.

There was a beat of silence, and as you were slowly gripped by consciousness, you took note of the smell of food. It didn’t tempt you, and you almost turned your head away.

“Do you think it’s because of Peter?”

Jane.

You absentmindedly wondered why she was down here and not resting. You hated to think that she’d come down here just to check in on you when she should’ve been looking after herself. You felt her hand on your head.

“She hasn’t seen him in a month…and we know how she—how they can get…”

You squeezed your eyes tight at that, heart aching for the first time in forever at those words. Had it been that long already? Had you really gone a month without seeing him, talking to him, touching him? Was that the cause of this…numbness? You were sure Peter wasn’t the only factor here, but you couldn’t deny that you missed him. You weren’t used to being without him, and this was the longest you’d ever gone without being with him since you first woke up in this house.

…but you knew that this was as much of a punishment for him as it was for you.

What if he didn’t miss you at all? What if you were in hell while each day only brought him more peace not having to be around the crazy one? That thought made your heart ache more, and for a brief moment, you never wanted to see him again.

“Steve only thinks it’s been a handful of times, but she’s not eating. At first, we weren’t too alarmed, especially considering…”

You placed Margaret’s voice now as she trailed off.

“...but then every tray just went basically untouched, and she’s lost a lot of weight. I think we need to tell Steve to contact Dr. Banner.”

You recalled a familiar face with glasses and dark hair.

“She doesn’t use the bathroom every day either. She mostly sleeps,” the redhead added.

“Have you mentioned this to Peter?”

“So he can come barging down here and start a whole other thing with Steve? They’ve only just settled back into being civil with one another. If Peter finds out she’s like this…”

Margaret scoffed, and you detected the unease in her tone.

You had never thought about the aftermath that followed your punishment and how it might have affected things upstairs. You had never thought to, you supposed. You had just assumed that Peter would fall in line with what Steve wanted as usual. After all, no matter how you felt about what you’d done, the household—or more importantly the husbands—did not agree. You’d broken their rules, and rules were rules.

It had never occurred to you that this whole ordeal—and you being at the center of it—might cause friction between Peter and Steve.

You were pulled from your thoughts by the sound of your name, and you were loathed to admit that it took so much of your strength to open your eyes. Jane was as pregnant as ever and glowing, and she gave you a small smile when your gazes met.

“Do you want to try eating something today?

Her tone was light, but you detected a hint of pleading.

Your gaze shifted, and you looked at the tray of food in Margaret’s hands. You eyed it, wanting to eat for their peace of mind if nothing else, but you couldn’t bring yourself to. You swallowed, and Jane must have seen the guilt and conflict in your eyes.

“It’s okay,” she assured you. “You don’t have to.”

You didn’t miss Margaret’s look.

“We’ll leave it here, and you eat when you’re ready.”

She touched your face, and with a few lingering looks, they left you.

It wasn’t long before you dozed off again, but it wasn’t a deep sleep, and you drifted in and out of consciousness. It felt like no matter how much you slept, you just couldn’t shake the feeling of being exhausted. Exhausted, not tired. Your whole body seemed to ache, and you dreaded the moment you’d have to get up and shower.

The next time you were even halfway lucid, you felt a hand at your back and a spoon at your lips. On instinct, you turned your head away, but the person’s hand was firm.

“None of that. You need something on your stomach,” the voice was just as firm as the grip, and it was comfortingly familiar.

Your eyes widened a bit at the familiar face, and you unintentionally parted your lips, allowing her to give you a taste of broth. It took you by surprise, and you coughed a bit, but swallowed it nonetheless. Nat gave you another spoonful, and so in shock at her presence, you accepted it.

“Sharon’s supposed to be in my place…but…Steve and Bucky are at work,” she shrugged, and you couldn’t take your eyes off of her. “...and I had to see you.”

For the first time in a month or so, you felt…something. For a brief moment, your perpetual numbness had lifted, and you both spoke at the same time.

“I’m sorry.”

It was said by two different voices, but it echoed as one.

“You’re sorry…?” Confusion filled you. “Why are you sorry?”

Your voice was small and unsure, and Nat looked so like you were unused to seeing her. She was normally so strong and fierce—a great source of envy for you—but now she looked sad…and regretful.

“You felt more obligated to protect me than yourself…and had I thought for a moment that you’d see me…I never would’ve left.”

Your shoulders fell at that, and you hated that Nat felt…guilty over your predicament. Your own choices had led you here, and that was what you told her after clearing your throat.

“It doesn’t change the fact that I thought the best thing that could happen was I’d get help and we’d all leave this place…and the worst was that I’d get dragged back,” she fed you more broth. “Not once had I considered that someone else would get dragged into my mess.”

You didn’t quite know how to respond, because after all, you didn’t really agree with her. You hadn’t felt obligated to do anything. It seemed like a no brainer to you to not say that you saw her that night. It was never even a question, never even a consideration to tell Peter Nat had escaped.

You swallowed, only taking a tiny sip when she offered you another spoonful. The green-eyed woman frowned at that.

“Nat…”

The words were on the tip of your tongue, but she merely shook her head.

“Bucky was practically ready to flog me for leaving him,” she lightly said despite the severity of the topic. “When they threw me down in here, I was prepared for it. Even with my possible delicate condition.”

Your eyes met hers, and she sent you a crooked smile.

“I knew only one person could talk them out of whatever they prepared to do to me…and I knew there was only one thing you could say that would change their minds…” you bit your lip at that. “Thankfully, I thought wrong, but even if I was pregnant, I’d still understand why you did it.”

She gave a small, bitter laugh.

“I may not have agreed with it nor been the biggest supporter of that decision…but I get it,” she shrugged. “After they found out what you did, I think I was scared for you more than I’d ever been scared for anyone…and I imagine that’s what you’d felt like.”

Your gaze found the sheet on your legs.

“If I had known something that could save you too, I might’ve done the same.”

When she offered you more broth, you sadly shook your head. A look passed over her features at that, and her face fell. She set the spoon back in the bowl with a small sigh before standing.

“I had to check on you,” she told you. “They said you haven’t been eating, and I didn’t realize how bad it was…”

You noticed the way she eyed you, and you suddenly had the urge to find a mirror. She set the bowl down, and she looked unsure about it.

“I’m going to leave this here. Just in case…” she trailed off, a bout of worry crossing her features. “I’ll come check on you again when I can.”

You nodded at her words, but the shock from Nat’s presence and the few sips of broth had taken more energy than you cared to focus on, and you were already sliding back down in bed.

It took her a long time to climb the stairs and shut the door behind her.

It could’ve been days later when you heard the low timber of a voice that wasn’t wholly familiar to you. It scratched some part of your brain, but not enough for you to pinpoint where you’d heard the tone before. Unfamiliar fingers were prodding at your face and neck, and the feel had you frowning in your semi consciousness. 

The man hummed to himself.

He was speaking, but you were in and out of sleep, so you couldn’t tell—nor cared—if he was speaking to you or someone else whose presence you weren’t aware of. A voice spoke back, and both sounded so muffled and far away to you.

You felt those same fingers on other parts of your body, as well as cold metal, and the intense temperature against your warm skin made you jolt a bit. You pushed at the hand, but a voice shushed you, but it didn’t sound close enough to have the intended soothing effect. Words were exchanged again, but you were already falling back asleep.

It was a dreamless sleep, the first in a long time, and it made the passage of time feel like a blink.

A voice so hauntingly and achingly familiar to you reached your ears, and you thought you were dreaming.

“I don’t give a fuck about what Steve would’ve wanted. His wife is healthy and coherent and probably getting ready to give him another Goddamn baby,” the voice hissed, interrupting a smaller more feminine one. “She’s been like this for weeks, and no one said a word to me.”

“Peter-.”

“Dr. Banner should’ve been here weeks ago. I should’ve known about this weeks ago. I should have seen her weeks ago…!”

Sleep was pulling you back in again, and the louder the voice got, the more it started to fade. The wrathful pitch grew higher and higher but also fainter and fainter until it was gone entirely, and sleep welcomed you again.

Your mind was struggling to put pieces together, and in your sleep, you thought to yourself that those words sounded like they came from some demented doppelganger, the tone sounding so much like Peter but not at the same time. You had never heard him so angry, and a voice in your head convinced you that you dreamt it, used to a sweet disposition from your dark captor, the dichotomy of which never failed to throw you into greater mental turmoil.

When your senses came to you again, you felt stronger than you had in probably two months at this point. You weren’t entirely sure, completely confused by the passage of time. The basement smelled different, and even the bed felt different, but as you shifted, you understood why.

The numbness that you had started to find comfort in was gone, and you could feel the bed and pillows and sheets beneath you…and they felt familiar. Too familiar. They felt like home. They felt like the place where you’d spent hours in Peter’s arms and hours sleeping and hours accepting the affections of the man who’d kidnapped you.

You thought you might have conjured the feeling up, but then you inhaled, and Peter’s scent filled your nose, and you thought of the nights he’d slept here alone in your absence. The faintest of touches disturbed the back of your hand, so featherlight that you could almost ignore it, but the slight pressure in your chest wouldn’t let you.

When you opened your eyes, his face was the first thing you saw.

His hair was a little longer, a little curlier and brushing his ears, and his face was as pretty as ever, but the dark circles beneath his eyes betrayed his sleepless nights. Had you the strength to move, you would’ve reached out to touch them.

Peter was knelt beside the bed you shared and his hand was in yours and his brown eyes lit up at the sight of your own. His face shifted so suddenly and seamlessly that you would've sworn he’d been smiling at your sleeping face this entire time instead of with that pinched brow and clenched jaw you’d been initially met with.

“Hey,” he softly and slowly greeted, dragging the word out in a whisper. “...my pretty girl.”

You swallowed, blinking a few times before briefly glancing around to confirm you were where you thought you were. Your gaze caught onto the medical equipment by the bed, blinking at the bag two feet above you with unidentifiable liquid in it. You absentmindedly reached up with your free hand as you traced the direction of the tube.

“Hey, hey,” Peter softly admonished, taking your other hand too. “Don’t touch it.”

You looked down at the feeding tube going into your chest, and you felt your heart skip a beat. Confusion filled you, and you were just about to speak when Peter let one of your hands go to take your chin instead. Still in the process of escaping sleep, you could only blink at him, a million questions running through your mind that you didn’t have the capability to voice.

“You’re really weak and…you haven’t been eating,” you watched his face as he said this, and you took note of the dark shadow that passed over his features, and you thought to yourself that perhaps you hadn’t dreamt that interaction at all. “Dr. Banner gave you that because you need to eat.”

Peter appeared to get choked up, and your eyes widened a tad. Sniffing, he rose a bit to press his lips to yours, fingers brushing over your cheek.

“You need to eat, you need all your strength,” you felt his tears on your face. “...because we’re going to have a baby.”

He pulled away only enough to look into your eyes, his own looking between them as he spoke.

“My pretty girl is going to have a baby,” he whispered more to himself than you. “...and you want her to be healthy and fat, don’t you?”

His thumb brushed over your lips, but it was hard to focus on anything he said after ‘baby’.

“I need you both healthy,” he said, voice cracking, and he kissed you again. 

His arms circled around you, and you felt his wet face fall to rest against your neck and shoulder. He kissed the skin there that peeked through above the large shirt, his whispered happy words reaching your ear.

How could you? You were too busy just… surviving.

You dragged yourself from bed every morning to the shriek of your alarm, pulled on the same worn jeans that barely fit anymore, and shoved two slices of dry toast into your mouth on the way out the door. Work was always chaos with customers yelling, your manager hovering too close, and your name badge always falling off. Lunch breaks were a can of soup in the back room alone. You came home exhausted, head pounding, heart heavy, and eyes already burning with unshed tears.

Your apartment was quiet with peeling walls, broken blinds, and a fridge that whined louder than it cooled. You tried to keep it clean because it was the one thing you could control, but the growing stack of unopened bills on the kitchen counter mocked you every time you walked past them.

No one had noticed your slow unraveling. Not your coworkers, not the landlord, not even the people you used to call friends. You had gotten too quiet and withdrawn. You didn’t smile anymore. You just didn’t have the energy.

But they noticed.

Steve leaned back in the driver’s seat of the black SUV parked across the street, arms folded with his eyes fixed on your apartment window.

“She’s doing it again,” He muttered, voice tight.

Bucky leaned forward beside him, resting his metal hand on the dash. “Counting the envelopes. Same as last week.”

“She’s not eating enough.”

“Didn’t sleep last night either.”

They watched as your shadow moved behind the curtain, slow and slumped. Like someone walking through a dream they couldn’t wake from. You turned off a single lamp, then collapsed onto the couch in a silent heap.

Steve’s jaw clenched. “She’s barely hanging on.”

“She won’t ask for help.” Bucky said it like a fact, not a judgment. He understood what it was to keep your head down, to try and stay invisible in a world that demanded too much. But seeing it in you stirred something dark in his chest.

“She doesn’t have to ask,” Steve said. “We give it to her.”

Bucky glanced at him. “You sure she’s ready?”

Steve smiled, just faintly. “She doesn’t need to be. She just needs us.”

And so they watched. Every night and every morning. They learned your routine, what bus you took, where you bought groceries, and how you cried when you thought no one could hear.

They memorized the little things like the way your fingers twitched when you were anxious, the soft way you spoke to your kettle when it boiled like it was your only friend, and the sound of your laugh on the rare, rare days it slipped out like sunlight through a crack.

They listened, waited, and planned.

Because they knew what you needed. And you’d never be able to survive the real world on your own. Not like this, not with how fragile you were.

You needed to be taken care of. Watched over, looked after, and controlled.

You needed a softer world where you didn’t make decisions, didn’t pay bills, and didn’t break under pressure. You needed to be told when to nap, what to wear, and when to use your words.

And soon… You wouldn’t have to worry about anything again.

Your first sensation was warmth. A strange kind of heavy warmth like being wrapped in cotton candy. Your nose twitched. The air smelled like frosting and something vaguely floral.

You stirred as something soft crinkled beneath your head. The sheets were thick and soft as your fingers brushed over the comforter, silky and smooth, and definitely not your own.

Your eyes cracked open.

The ceiling above you was white and painted with stars. Glow-in-the-dark ones, stuck in little constellations.

And the walls… Your eyes widened.

Pink.

Every inch of the room was soft pink, creamy white, or pastel lavender. Plush animals lined the dresser. A white toy chest sat at the foot of the bed, painted with your name in curly bubble letters you did not recognize. The rocking chair in the corner was draped with a fuzzy throw blanket that looked like it belonged in a dollhouse.

You sat up fast, heart hammering in your chest.

The room was too quiet. There were no city sounds, no sirens, and no neighbors through the wall. Only the faint hum of ventilation. The kind that sounded… industrial.

“Where the hell–” Your voice caught in your throat. Your mouth was dry and your head throbbed.

You swung your legs out of bed. The floor was covered in a plush white rug. Even the pajamas on your body weren’t yours, it was a soft oversized nightshirt with a glittery cartoon bear on the front.

Your fingers trembled as you reached for the nightstand. No phone, no clock. Just a pacifier, a pink one, sitting there like it belonged to you.

You backed away fast toward the door.

It opened before you could reach it.

Steve stepped inside first. The Steve Rogers, Captain America. Bright-eyed and smiling with a soft grey henley shirt. He looked… friendly. He looked like he was about to read a bedtime story.

“Hi, sweetheart,” He greeted, voice warm. “You’re up early.”

You froze.

Then Bucky stepped in behind him, tall and quiet, dressed in black. His gaze swept over you like a stormcloud, unreadable and intense. His arms stayed loose at his sides, one hand twitching slightly in that way you’d come to associate with danger.

You took a step back. “What… what is this?”

“You were so tired,” Steve said gently, stepping forward. “We figured it was best to let you rest. Your body’s been under so much stress.”

“Where am I?”

“Home,” Bucky answered. His voice was deeper than you remembered. Rough, quiet, but certain.

“This isn’t my– this isn’t–“ You choked on the sentence.

Steve reached out a hand like he was offering you a hug. “You don’t have to worry about anything anymore. We’ve taken care of everything. Bills, job, apartment: gone.”

Your stomach lurched. “What?”

“You don’t have to be an adult now,” He explained with a soft smile. “You can just be our little girl. We’ll take care of you. All you have to do is be sweet.”

You blinked, staring. “You kidnapped me.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked away for the briefest second. Steve tilted his head. “We rescued you.”

You shook your head, backing up further until your feet hit the edge of the bed. “This is insane. This is– I want to leave. You can’t do this.”

Bucky’s expression darkened. His jaw clenched, and his shoulders straightened.

“Not happening,” He stated flatly.

Steve sighed softly, like you were being difficult on purpose. “You’re overwhelmed and that’s okay. Most littles are, at first.”

“I’m not a little,” You snapped. “I’m a grown adult and I want to go home.”

Steve moved slowly in front of you. His smile was still there, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore, sweetheart,” He said quietly. “We’ve seen how you struggle. You were falling apart.”

“I was managing!”

“Barely,” Bucky muttered.

“You cried every night,” Steve added, more gently now. “You were collapsing. No friends, no one checking in. You were going to slip right through the cracks until we stepped in.”

You shook your head over and over. “This is wrong. You don’t get to decide this. I didn’t ask for this!”

Steve smoothed your hair with one hand. “You didn’t have to. We know what’s best for you.”

You slapped his hand away.

He didn’t react, but when Bucky stepped forward, you flinched. His eyes locked with yours, hard and icy.

“Don’t do that again.”

You flinched, but you didn’t back down. Something burned in your chest: hot, angry, and terrified. You weren’t going to sit here and nod like a good little puppet while they rewrote your life into some pink, padded fantasy.

So you moved, fast.

Before either of them could stop you, you bolted toward the open door, ducking under Steve’s arm and slipping right past him. Your bare feet slapped the cold floor as you sprinted down the hall, your breath ragged and chest heaving. You didn’t know where you were going and you didn’t care. All you knew was you had to get out.

“HEY!”

Steve’s voice thundered behind you, but you didn’t look back.

Your fingers grazed a doorknob, locked. Another one, locked. You turned a corner blindly, heart slamming in your ears, and spotted a staircase. You surged toward it–

And slammed into something, or more so someone.

Bucky.

He caught you effortlessly, arms snapping around your middle like a vice. You kicked, screamed, shoved, and clawed at his chest but it didn’t matter. He lifted you off the ground like you weighed nothing.

“Let go of me–!” You screamed, your nails digging into his skin. “LET ME GO!”

“Bad choice,” Bucky growled.

His voice was low, and there was no softness left in it. No calm or compromise. Just disappointment wrapped in steel.

He turned sharply on his heel and carried you back down the hall as you thrashed like a wild animal. Your fists pounded against his chest, tears blurring your vision.

Steve stood in the hallway doorway with his arms crossed, disappointment plain on his face. “You really thought you could just run?”

“GET AWAY FROM ME–!”

Bucky stepped into the pink bedroom again and kicked the door shut behind him. It locked with a heavy click.

You squirmed harder, but he sat on the bed and hauled you over his lap before you could process what was happening.

“Wait–no, no, don’t you DARE–”

SMACK.

The sound cracked through the room. Your whole body jolted.

SMACK.

Your breath left you in a choked gasp as the sting bloomed sharp and hot across your bottom.

“I warned you,” Bucky muttered, arm steady as stone as he landed another swat.

SMACK.

“You don’t run,” Steve said from across the room. “You don’t hit, you don’t scream.”

“Go to hell–“ You spat, voice cracking.

SMACK.

Bucky’s grip tightened. “You’re gonna learn fast, doll. Actions have consequences.”

You kicked your legs, humiliated, furious, and sobbing now as the punishment continued. Not hard enough to injure, but firm, controlled, and designed to break down your fight.

When it was over, you were trembling and panting. Your face buried in the blankets, eyes hot with tears.

Bucky lifted you gently, repositioning you in his lap so you were facing him and held you in his arms like a child, body limp from exhaustion and fury.

You turned your face away, still refusing to give in.

But Steve approached and crouched beside you, voice maddeningly soft. “Shhh, sweetheart. It's okay now. It’s over. That was the last time you’ll ever have to feel that scared. All you have to do now… is listen and behave. Be our good girl.”

Your lip quivered, but you bit it hard. You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

But Bucky’s hand was rubbing slow circles into your back now, murmuring low words you couldn’t understand. Not because they were mumbled, but because your head was fogging. Your fight was bleeding out of you.

“We’re gonna take such good care of you,” He murmured. “Whether you like it or not.”

And in your haze of confusion and fury and fear… That terrifying truth sank in.

They weren’t going to let you go. They were going to keep you.

You didn’t know how long you sat there curled in Bucky’s lap, stiff and trembling, your cheek pressed to the worn fabric of his t-shirt. His hand never stopped moving on your back, slow and rhythmic like you were some frightened animal he was trying to soothe.

You hated it. You hated how warm he was. You hated how safe it felt, even now. You hated that your eyes were still wet.

The punishment had left your skin burning, but it wasn’t the pain that rattled you. It was the helplessness. The dizzy, sinking realization that you couldn’t fight them. That they were bigger, stronger, and smarter.

You hated them. And a small, whispering part of you hated yourself for wanting to cry in someone’s arms.

Steve came back into the room with a pink plastic tray. You flinched at the sight of it. There were two bottles, a tiny bowl of applesauce, and a spoon with a bunny on the handle.

“No,” You said instantly, your voice was hoarse. “No. I’m not doing that.”

Steve set the tray down on the bed, completely unfazed. “Sweetheart, your tummy’s empty. You didn’t eat dinner last night, and it’s well past lunch. You need something gentle.”

“I’m not a toddler,” You snapped. “I’m not hungry. I’m not doing this.”

Steve just smiled softly, like he already knew you’d say that. “You don’t have to be hungry to eat, little one. We’re going to take care of you now. That includes making sure you eat right, nap, play, and dress properly.”

“I won’t.”

Bucky’s arms shifted slightly around you, still holding you tight. You could feel his breath slow against your back, that low patience of his barely twitching under the surface.

“You said that before,” Bucky murmured, almost absently. “Still ended up over my knee, didn’t you?”

You glared at him with everything you had left. But your muscles ached and your throat was tight. You wanted to scream, to fight, to hit someone, but you were tired.

And that… that scared you more than anything.

“Here,” Steve said gently, lifting the spoon with the bunny handle. He scooped a bit of applesauce and held it up. “Just a few bites. Then we’ll change you into something comfier and let you rest. You’ve had a big morning.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” You snapped, but it came out smaller than you meant.

Steve tilted his head. “Like what?”

“Like I’m… like I’m…” You couldn’t finish it.

“Like you’re precious?” He offered. “Like you’re tired and overwhelmed, and just need two people who love you more than anything to make the big world go away?”

You looked away as your jaw clenched. Your stomach rumbled in betrayal.

Bucky’s grip around you tightened slightly as a warning. “Last time we’ll ask,” He said. “Open your mouth.”

You sat still and tense. Then, after too long… you did.

Just a little, just barely, but Steve smiled like you’d just handed him your heart. He fed you a tiny bite, and you hated the way it made you tear up again.

It was applesauce. It wasn’t even good. You weren’t giving in. You weren’t.

Bucky shifted you slightly, holding you closer, like the fight leaking out of you was some kind of affection. You could feel the heat in your face as another bite was lifted to your lips.

“I hate you,” You whispered.

Steve didn’t flinch. “I know. That’s okay. You won’t forever.”

You let the next bite in. Then the next. Until the bowl was empty and one of the bottles was pressed into your hand. You didn’t want to drink it, but you did. Small sips, just to have something.

Afterward, Bucky stood and carried you again. You didn’t fight him this time. He sat you on the bed and handed Steve a stack of clothes from the dresser.

Soft, ruffled, and pastel.

You shook your head before he could even speak. “No. I can feed myself. I can dress myself.”

Steve just gave you that same quiet, sweet smile. “Not anymore.”

When they were done dressing you, you were shaking, burning, and mortified. You’d been clothed like a doll.

Bucky lifted you again, this time bridal style, and laid you gently in the bed.

“I’m not tired,” You croaked. “I’m not napping.”

“You’re exhausted,” Steve murmured, tucking the blanket around you. “Your body’s been running on panic and caffeine for weeks. This is just what you need.”

“I don’t want it.”

“But you need it.”

They were both still for a moment, then Steve moved toward the headboard. You heard the soft click of something being unlatched.

Your blood ran cold. “What are you doing?”

Bucky didn’t answer. He simply lifted your right wrist and guided it gently into the padded cuff Steve had pulled from the side rail. It locked with a faint snap.

You screamed again, kicked at the blanket and immediately felt the other cuff lock around your ankle.

“No– no, no, please–”

“It’s just for safety,” Steve said calmly, brushing your hair back as he fastened the last restraint. “So you don’t hurt yourself. It’s just to help you stay still so you get the rest your little body needs.”

You couldn’t breathe as you yanked at the cuffs. They were padded but firm, tight enough to keep you in place without hurting you.

“Please don’t do this,” You whispered. “I don’t want this. Please–”

Steve kissed your forehead. “One day, you’ll thank us.”

Bucky stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed. Silent, watching, and guarding.

The soft hum of a white noise machine filled the air. The nightlight glowed pink. The ceiling sparkled with tiny plastic stars.

And you…

You lay there trapped and shaking, crying softly.

The last thing you saw before your eyes gave out was Steve adjusting the monitor in the corner of the room, a baby monitor, so they could watch you from anywhere.

“You’re safe now,” He whispered. “You’re home.”

He kept his head down. Moved through life like smoke. Weightless. Invisible.

But he had started cutting through the park sometimes. It was faster. Trees made the ride cooler. And lately, there was music.

A flute.

At first, he had just noticed the melody drifting through the trees, soft, familiar. Something warm and bright in a life that had gone so dull. Like a hand reaching out from a dream.

The second time, he had found the source. You were perched on a low stone wall near the fountain. Your case was open for coins. Your eyes were closed, expression peaceful. Hair catching sunlight. Fingers dancing over the instrument like it was an extension of your soul. Something about you tugged at the edge of his memory. You looked familiar, but with everything that had happened, he wasn’t sure. Everyone was older now. Changed. Maybe he had saved you once as Spider-Man. Maybe you'd passed in the halls at school. The thought gnawed at him as he stopped nearby and unwrapped a sandwich. He ate slowly, watching you from the shade, trying to place the echo of your face in his fractured past.

It became routine. His rides were slower. He started adjusting his breaks to match your playing schedule. Sometimes you weren’t there, and he circled the park twice just to make sure. When you were, he lingered. Sitting on benches. Pretending to scroll his phone. Pretending he wasn’t waiting for your eyes to find his.

One afternoon, you played something different.

Something familiar.

Peter had frozen mid-ride, his bike wobbling to a stop. His heart had stuttered.

He knew that song. Knew it.

Marching band. Sophomore year. That fall when everything still made sense. Autumn games and stiff uniforms. Cracked lips from trumpet practice. Your flute somewhere nearby in the bleachers. Maybe you’d laughed at something he’d said once or maybe you’d just laughed, and he had told himself it was because of him. He wasn’t sure. The memory was soft around the edges, blurred with time and magic, but it clung to him all the same.

This was why he had recognized you. Not the park. Not a blurry face in the crowd. But this—this moment. That song. That memory.

It had hit him hard. Like he was sixteen again. Like the world hadn’t fallen apart.

Without thinking, he had dug into his pocket and tossed a few coins into your case.

You had glanced up, caught his eye.

You smiled.

"Hey you."

Just that. Casual. Offhand. Warm. Like it was nothing.

To Peter it was everything.

He had walked away before you could take it back, his heart thudding like he had just jumped off a rooftop.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~

He kept coming back. Every day now. Delivery or not, Peter Parker found a reason to pass through the park. Sometimes he told himself it was coincidence, that he was just taking the most efficient route. But he knew better. He wanted to see you. To hear that music. To catch a glimpse of something warm and alive in a world that had turned so cold.

Sometimes, when you packed up early, he followed you at a distance. One afternoon, he’d trailed you all the way back to your building after catching a glimpse of you while patrolling rooftops. He told himself it was for your safety. That it wasn’t weird. That it didn’t mean anything that he sometimes perched on a nearby rooftop and watched your window glow into the evening, his fingers clenched around the edge of the ledge like the bricks might give him something to hold onto. Something real.

Some days you said hi. Just a word, a glance, a smile that lingered too long in his memory. Sometimes you just nodded, focused on your playing, brow furrowed as your fingers danced with precision and grace. Once, a gust of wind had scattered your sheet music across the grass and he had dropped his bike without a second thought, sprinting to help catch it before it was ruined. You had laughed, cheeks pink, breathless from chasing pages. You’d thanked him, called him a lifesaver, your eyes lighting up like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His face had burned for hours after.

He memorized everything about you. How you sat. The curve of your fingers. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when it got in the way. The snacks you liked, trail mix and peach rings. The way you hummed softly between songs, completely unaware you were doing it. He knew which shoes you wore on long days, the chipped polish on your thumbnail, the gentle sway of your body when you played with your eyes closed.

You’d become his routine. His comfort. His obsession.

Eventually, he had asked you out. It had taken him three tries to get the words out. His voice had cracked the first time, failed him the second, but the third time, on a cooler Thursday afternoon you had looked up, surprised. Hesitated just long enough for panic to bloom in his chest. But then you had smiled. That smile. And said yes.

He hadn’t slept the night before. His mind had raced, imagining every possible conversation, every touch, every look. What you might wear. What he should say. How he could make you see him- really see him. Not just as some awkward stranger with delivery bags and a nervous laugh. But as someone who mattered.

You had noticed him before. The boy on the bike. Cute in a scruffy, slightly awkward way. He looked about your age, maybe a year older. He wasn’t the only person who passed by regularly., there were the lunchtime walkers, the young moms with strollers, the joggers who circled like clockwork. But something about him stood out. The way he lingered. How he always seemed to stop nearby when you played.

Busking was never just about the money. It was about watching people. Sharing your music. About trying to make life feel normal in times that never quite felt normal anymore. Not since the Blip. Not with aliens, mad Titans, Avengers, and heroes flying overhead like they belonged more than you did.

He stopped a lot. First it was just a few coins in your case, then a note or two. You’d noticed him, sure. The cute boy on the bike who looked to be about your age. He lingered more than most. One of the reasons you busked was to people-watch, to share something gentle in a world that never quite felt gentle anymore. Music helped life feel normal. Whatever that meant now. Not with aliens, Blips, mad Titans, Avengers and heroes turning the sky upside down.

You’d spotted him watching you more than once. Eating lunch nearby. Pretending not to glance up every time you played something new. You hadn’t thought it meant anything. Just someone you noticed. Like the regulars on their lunch walks or the young mothers who pushed strollers past you every day.

It wasn’t until your music flew away- pages lifted suddenly by a strong breeze and he darted out, catching them with sharp, impossibly fast movements that you thought for half a second the Matrix had glitched.

But when he talked to you afterward, all you saw was someone painfully shy. Awkward like a puppy that hadn’t gotten used to his own growing legs. So why wouldn’t you say yes to a coffee date? What harm could come from a single cup of coffee?

The date had been... okay. Not bad. Not great. Just... stilted. You talked, filling the silence because he didn’t. He watched you too intently. Laughed at odd moments. Gave you compliments that were strange, thoughtful, but almost unsettling in their precision.

At one point, somewhere between the coffee cooling in your cup and the awkward silence that had stretched a bit too long, he asked, "Do you still get a chance to draw?"

You blinked. "Draw? I-" Of course you did. You loved to draw. It was why you were hoping to get into art school next year. "How did you-"

"Oh," he interrupted quickly, shrugging a shoulder, not quite meeting your eye. "Your busking sign. It’s just really nice. Figured you made it yourself. Thought maybe you were into art or something."

It was a plausible excuse. Just enough truth to hold up. But it still left you with a weird feeling you couldn’t quite shake.

You’d chalked it up to nerves. Maybe he was just shy. You’d been kind. You always tried to be kind. He seemed like someone who didn’t quite know how to exist in his own skin, like every word took effort and every pause stretched too long. Something about him made you feel like he hadn’t talked to someone properly in a long time.

Still, by the time you reached your apartment, there was a heaviness in your chest. The air around you felt thick, almost reluctant. You had tried to brush it off, first dates were always weird, right? Not everyone was good at them.

You stood outside your apartment a moment too long. The door was right there, the keys in your hand, but you hesitated. Just long enough.

You smiled. A polite, practiced thing. "Thanks for the coffee. It was nice."

He had leaned in, tentative, eyes flicking to your mouth. You hadn’t expected it, but you didn’t move away.

You had let him kiss you. Just a quick brush of lips. Nothing deep. Nothing serious.

But you could feel the way he trembled like it meant more to him than it should have. Like the contact had cracked something open in him that he’d been keeping sealed too tight.

Then you had pulled back. Shifted your keys in your hand. You didn’t want to be rude, but something about the way he looked at you after the kiss - it had made your skin prickle. Not because it was bad, just... too much. Like he had been starving and you’d handed him a feast.

"Okay, well... goodnight, Peter."

You had turned, voice light but firm. A soft boundary. A cue to end the night.

You reached for the door handle. Just as it clicked, his foot slid into the frame.

"Wait."

Startled, you had looked up. "Peter?"

He wasn’t smiling. His voice didn’t match the quiet boy from earlier. His shoulders were stiff now, jaw tight, hands flexing at his sides like he was holding something back. There was a tension to him you hadn’t seen before, a coiled readiness, barely leashed.

"Don’t go. Not yet."

Your smile had faltered, the keys in your palm digging into your skin now. "It's late. I don’t really know you that well..."

His eyes had darkened. Something sharp flickered behind them, and your pulse stuttered.

"But you do know me."

You paused, unease spreading through your chest. "What?"

He had stepped closer. Not violent. Not yet. But the shift was unmistakable. The energy changed, like a string pulled taut.

"You said hey. You smiled. You looked at me like I was real. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"

There was something unraveling in his voice, something that made your stomach twist.

Your voice had tightened, instinct kicking in. "Peter, I think maybe you should go."

He had shaken his head slowly, like you’d spoken a foreign language. Like you hadn’t understood the part you were meant to play in his mind.

"I lost everyone," he had murmured. "May. MJ. Ned. No one remembers me. No one sees me. I’m no one. But you… you looked at me like I mattered."

Your heart skipped.

Wait- MJ? Ned?

Those names hit like ice water to the chest. They weren’t just names. They were names you knew. Names from your old high school. You didn’t even realize he’d said them all until they echoed inside your skull like a warning bell.

How the hell did he know them?

Your blood ran cold. Your breath caught in your throat.

"Peter-"

His hand brushed your cheek. Too soft. Too deliberate. Like he thought he had a right to touch you. Like this was some scene he'd played out in his head over and over until he believed it was real.

"You do know me. Somewhere in there, you remember. I know you do."

You took a shaky step back. The hallway suddenly felt too small, too quiet, like the world had narrowed into this moment and there was nowhere left to go.

Your voice cracked. "Peter, stop. Please."

But he didn’t. He wouldn’t.

When you tried to close the door, he had pushed it open like it weighed nothing—like you’d never stood a chance against him. The frame creaked violently under his hand, swinging wide with impossible strength. The door didn’t even resist him—it flew back, banging into the wall with a sound that made your breath seize.

You stumbled back, nearly tripping over your own feet, heart slamming in your chest as the reality of just how strong he was came crashing down on you. Not metaphorically. Not some passing thought. Physically. Overpoweringly.

You barely had time to scream. The panic surged like lightning through your veins, cold and disorienting. Your body screamed at you to run, to fight, to do something—but your limbs weren’t listening. Every part of you was frozen, every cell electrified with dread, your thoughts tripping over themselves in a whirlwind of fear. You had never felt so small. So powerless.

The door had slammed behind you. And you were trapped.

Peter grabbed you. His hands were too tight on your arms, fingers digging in just enough to remind you how much stronger he really was. His breath came fast and ragged, the air between you hot and suffocating. He kissed you again. Rougher this time. More insistent. Like he was chasing something just out of reach. Like he needed it to fix whatever was broken inside him.

You didn't kiss back. But you didn’t pull away either.

Because what if you did?

What if he got angrier? What if he hurt you? What if this- this trembling, desperate version of him was the only thing standing between fear and violence?

So you didn’t fight him.

You tried to speak, voice soft and shaking. “We can keep talking, Peter... okay? Just- just slow down.”

“No,” he whispered, his forehead pressing against yours. “No, you need to remember. God, please just remember.”

As Peter's lips crashed against yours again, his hands tightened around your arms, holding you in place. You tried to speak, to plead with him to stop, but your words were lost in the chaos of his kiss. His breath was hot and ragged, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth as he deepened the kiss.

"I'm sorry.. I'm sorry. I need this, need you to touch me. Please... if you can't remember then just touch me.."

You felt a surge of fear as he lifted you off the ground, his arms wrapping around you like a vice. You tried to struggle, to push him away, but he was too strong,. Peter carried you to the bed, tossing you down onto the pillows as he followed, his body pinning you beneath him his hands already push up the skirt you'd been wearing caging you in, her breathing hard in your chest.  "I just need, need you, need someone. Please..." His mouth was on yours again, swallowing any protests, smothering the edge of your voice with something desperate and raw. You could feel his tears now wet trails you hadn't seen fall spilling onto your cheeks, warm and aching. He pulled back just enough for you to catch your breath, but not enough to give you space.

Somewhere in your panic, your chest ached- not from fear alone, but something more twisted. The crushing sense that he wasn’t just dangerous- he was grieving. Drowning in it. And for a moment, that grief wrapped around you as tightly as his arms.

You didn’t know what he’d been through. What he'd lost. But you knew the sound of someone who was breaking. You'd heard it in your own voice, in the city’s silence after the blip, in the news anchors whispering names with trembling lips.

He was so alone. You could almost taste it when his tongue slid into your mouth, trembling and uncoordinated. Not hungry. Not lustful. Just desperate.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your body still hadn’t decided what was safer: running or staying still.

But your mind whispered the same thing again and again.

Make it better.

That’s what you did. You helped. You soothed. You made people happy. You kept the world soft when it went too sharp.

And right now, he needed something soft. Needed something human.

So you didn’t say no.

You didn’t say anything at all.

You felt his body shift above yours, felt the tight restraint in his muscles even as he tried to be gentle—tried to seem gentle. His weight pressed into you, his body tense, like he expected you to disappear if he didn’t hold you still. Like he was afraid you’d vanish like everyone else.

You were scared- terrified- but your limbs stayed heavy. Your mind raced, but your voice was gone. Every instinct told you to stay calm, to stay quiet, to keep this moment from tipping any further. You didn’t know what he’d do if you resisted. You weren’t sure he did either.

He cupped your face with shaking hands. His cheeks were wet with tears that still hadn’t stopped. His voice cracked. “I don’t want to scare you. I just- I need this. I need you. Just this once. Please… just stay.”

You swallowed hard. Every word lodged in your throat. Your fingers trembled where they lay frozen against the bedspread.

“Peter” you whispered

His breath caught, like that was all he’d ever needed. You weren’t sure if you meant it to soothe him or yourself.

He leaned down, his forehead brushing yours again, slower this time. His lips pressed to your temple, your cheek, your jaw- clumsy and reverent and utterly wrecked.

You closed your eyes.

You didn’t fight.

And when he began to move, you let him. Let him pull off your underwear. You didn’t fight when he took off your dress, and you didn’t stop him when he tugged his own shirt over his head, revealing a lean chest that trembled with the weight of what he was doing. His hands shook slightly as he fumbled with his belt, shedding his jeans in a rush like the fabric was keeping him from getting closer to you. You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t speak. Just watched him undress, vulnerable and exposed in more ways than one, until he returned to you like he hadn’t taken a single breath without you under him. 

It felt safer to give him this piece of yourself than to see what he might become if you didn’t.  Peter moved your legs, opening them with slow, trembling hands. His touch was careful but insistent, as if trying to commit the shape of you to memory. His palms skimmed over your thighs, petting softly, reverently, like he couldn’t believe you were real. Mumbled whispers slipped from his lips- fragments of apologies, gratitude, promises not to forget. Not to let go. His breath caught as he positioned himself, voice hoarse and thick with emotion.

He filled you like an invasion. Not rough, no, he was still trying to be soft, trying to be tender- but there was no mistaking the tremble in his limbs or the desperation in the way he pushed into you, like he could bury everything he’d lost inside you and find himself again. It wasn’t pain, not really. But it wasn’t comfort either. It was too much. Too sudden. His body was solid against yours, lean and muscular in ways his awkward posture had hidden.

You gasped when he moved, your breath catching on a sob with the first slow thrust, your body stretching around him in protest. But the ache was fleeting. It was quickly swallowed by heat.

Because it wasn’t just fear thrumming in your veins- it was instinct. It was the softness of his lips, the tremble in his hands, the way his kisses fell like apologies against your skin. It was the way your body reacted, even against your will, to every press of his hips and the quiet, broken noises he made as he whispered your name.

"You feel so good," he breathed into your neck, like it was a secret he couldn’t believe he was allowed to say. His voice cracked as he moved again, deeper this time. "God, thank you. Thank you."

And then, he thrust harder.

Not out of cruelty, but out of urgency. His body moved with more force, more need, like he couldn’t hold himself back anymore. Each push drove deeper, pressing you further into the mattress. Your breath hitched. Your back arched.

It still felt like too much, like your body hadn’t caught up to what was happening—but it also sent lightning through your nerves. That awful twist of panic and arousal tangled in your gut, impossible to separate. Your heart pounded against your ribs, fear and sensation blurring together until your skin felt too hot to hold in place.

"I missed this. I missed everyone," he murmured, though you’d never given him this before. He pressed kisses to your jaw, your throat, your shoulder, feverish and fragile. "Please don’t forget again. Please…"

You couldn’t believe it felt good. But it did. Your body betrayed you with each helpless pulse of pleasure. Every kiss he pressed to your skin made you feel smaller, softer, more lost in a sea of his need.

You wanted him to stop. You wanted him to keep going. You wanted him to be someone else. You wanted this to mean nothing. You wanted it to mean everything.

He clung tighter, hips moving faster, gasping your name into your throat like it was a lifeline.

“God,” he breathed, voice thick and desperate. “You feel so good. I didn’t know I needed this-I didn’t know how much-”

You could barely breathe beneath the weight of him, the rhythm of his thrusts speeding up, deeper now, more erratic. Each push drew a soft sound from your lips you didn’t mean to give. Your body burned with the storm of sensation and fear and heat. It was like standing in front of a fire, unsure if it would warm you or consume you whole.

He pressed kisses to your temple, murmuring between them. “Thank you… thank you… thank you.”

And then, like your body had betrayed you completely, your climax rushed toward you with no warning. Your muscles tensed, breath catching, pleasure crashing over you in a blur of heat and confusion. You weren’t sure if you cried out or just gasped- but he felt it.

Peter groaned, burying his face in your neck as he followed you over the edge. His body trembled with release, his breath hitching against your skin. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” he kept whispering, voice cracking under the weight of it.

You stayed still. You didn’t move. Your skin was hot and damp, your chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. A dull ache throbbed between your legs, not sharp but deep, your limbs tingling with a raw mix of overstimulation and disbelief. Your fingers twitched against the sheets, barely able to grasp the shape of what you'd just let happen.

He wrapped his arms around you like a blanket, holding you so tight you could hardly breathe. You stared up at the ceiling, dazed and sore, your mind numb and scattered. The sticky, wet mess he left inside you had already begun to slide down your thighs, pooling uncomfortably between them. You felt coated, used, like the heat and guilt clinging to your skin wouldn’t ever come off. It made your stomach turn, and still- you didn’t move.

His heartbeat thudded against your shoulder, uneven and too fast, like he hadn’t come down from whatever place he'd gone to. He sighed, nuzzling against your skin like he was trying to melt into you, like you were a lifeline he was terrified to lose.

You swallowed, throat dry. “Peter?”

“Shhh…” he cooed, brushing your hair back from your face with shaking fingers. The gesture was gentle, almost tender, but it sent a chill down your spine. It didn’t feel like comfort- it felt like control. Like you were being soothed the way someone might hush a child or calm a frightened pet. It made your skin crawl even as you stayed still, the weight of his hand too much and not enough all at once. His eyes were still damp, rimmed red with guilt. “It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re okay. Yeah?”

You hesitated, your lips parting before you could find anything solid to say.

So you nodded.

Because you didn’t know what else to do. Because saying no felt too big. Too late.

He pressed a kiss to your temple like a promise, curling around you tighter. His arms were heavy and warm. His breath still trembled.

“I’m here,” he murmured. “I’ve got you. I’m not going to disappear. You’re not going anywhere. Just… be here.”

The words were meant to soothe, but they didn’t.

They curled around you like a net, binding instead of calming. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, but your chest still felt tight, like your lungs didn’t trust the air. Your limbs remained heavy, pinned by more than just his embrace.

You didn’t feel safe. You didn’t feel comforted.

You felt hollow.

Like something inside you had gone missing, or maybe just caved in. His embrace was too tight, too warm, and your skin buzzed with a tension you couldn’t shake. You couldn’t tell if you were still holding your breath or if your body had simply forgotten how to breathe.

And you lay there in silence, the ceiling a blur above you, the room too quiet.

You weren’t sure what had just happened.

Steve has always known y/n, but never paid attention to her when they were younger. All Steve and Bucky focused on was being boys in the military. Even after traumatic events, Bucky makes his way to Steve’s place to hang out.

Finally, after a while of convincing, Bucky got Steve to come to his house for once. Steve had always said y/n wouldn’t want old men in her house watching games and drinking beer, but Bucky insisted and made sure to tell him about his pay into the bills for this huge house.

“Finally, you’re here,” Bucky said as he opened the front door to greet Steve. “Sorry, there were so many options,” Steve said as he held up a case of bears that he had never tried before.

“Well, beer is beer. You can put them in the fridge, then meet me in the living room. Y/n is cooking for the night,” Bucky said before closing the door and walking away to catch up on the game that he had turned in for the night.

Steve is new to the house, but not new to hanging out with Bucky, so he walked through his house like it was his with no worry. As soon as he hit the kitchen, his head took a spin.

“Oh, hey, Mrs. Rogers — Long time, no see,” y/n said as she cooked, only taking one look at Steve before she went back to concentrating. She hated messing up her food, especially when feeding other people than herself.

“Yeah, yeah, I- I guess it has been,” Steve said as his mind aimlessly scanned y/n’s figure. She looked older than usual, but in a good way. Everything had filled out for her, and that made Steve feel disgusted in himself. Why would he notice that? She’s his best friend’s sister.

“So, uh, how has life been treating you?” Steve asked as he started putting up the beers he brought over, while slightly taking a look at her fingers. She wasn’t married.

“It’s been fine. Just focusing on college and work. That’s all,” y/n said, not really making too much conversation because this part of the recipe was the hardest, and she had no time to mess up.

“Oh, well, it was nice seeing you again,” Steve said as y/n turned around to give him a slight smile before continuing her work. As he walked out of the kitchen, he couldn’t help but get one last look at her figure, especially her ass that had seemed so perfect. What was wrong with him?

Throughout the night, Steve had been thinking about y/n. Of course, he was having fun with his best friend, but y/n kept coming into his mind like she was something he had to check off a list for the night.

The way she looked and sounded would constantly roam around in his mind. She was prettier than back then. How was that possible? She looked like the woman he and Buck would crush on.

“So, you’re staying the night, right?” Bucky asked his best friend, hoping he’d just say yes. “Uh, yeah, since I’ve been thinking about it,” Steve said without thinking. Well, he was. He was thinking about y/n. It’s like he wanted more time around her, even though she’s been in the dining room doing work and eating.

“Great, I’ll go ahead and get the guest room ready since we’re at halftime right now,” Bucky said right before getting up and making his way upstairs. The house they lived in was huge, meaning he’d probably take a while, so Steve got up.

“So, college, huh? What, uh- What year?” Steve asked as he made his way into the dining room. “Senior year,” y/n replied with a smile. “Hmm, so I’m guessing you’re smart and all that, yeah?” Steve asked, making y/n chuckle. “Yeah, I guess you can say that,”

“Yeah, well, me and your brother would’ve never made it into college. I mean, look at us,” Steve said, knowing y/n remembers the old times they’d have when they were all young. Usually, y/n was never with them, but she’d hear about them.

It had gotten a little quiet. No odd tension, but Steve was desperate to continue a conversation. He was desperate for an answer.

“So, uh, and man treating you right?” Steve asked, making y/n shake her head. “Haven’t been thinking about dating. I’ve got too much on my mind,” y/n said, speaking the truth.

“Kind of hard to believe,” Steve said under his breath, yet not low enough for y/n to not hear. “Why?” Y/n asked. “Oh, uh, because you’re pretty. You’ve really grown, and I just feel like a lot of men would be after you now,” Steve said under pressure.

“Yeah,” y/n slightly smiled, not knowing exactly how to respond to that, but it was Steve. He’s been best friends with her brother for years. He wouldn’t ever mean anything by that.

“Goodnight,” Steve said as he passed y/n who had been heading towards her room. “Goodnight!” Y/n said back, making Steve feel a certain way. He’s been feeling a way about y/n all night. He knew it was fucked, but he couldn’t stop. He just couldn’t.

She had gotten so hot, he saw her as another woman he and Bucky would be going after.

As Steve went to make his way towards the guest room, Steve heard the shower turn on. Y/n’s shower. That’s when he froze.

Bucky had already made his way to bed, and now y/n and he were the only ones up. What if he had made more conversation with her? What if he scoped out her room, just to see. Just to see.

Within seconds, Steve made his way into y/n’s room, locking the door behind him for some reason. It’s almost like Steve’s body moved before his kind. He wasn’t able to think before doing.

The smell of y/n’s body wash instantly hit Steve’s nose. The way the room smelled made Steve think how y/n would smell. Would she look hotter if she smelled this way? God, everything was going wrong with Steve, but by the second, he couldn’t care less. He was taking a huge risk. Like being in her bedroom with the door locked.

For a second, Steve just wanted to walk around the room and see what was going on, but now. Now, he wanted a look at her. He couldn’t ignore the huge bulge in his pants anymore.

“Shit,” Steve cussed as he pushed his cock down while making his way towards her bathroom. “What the hell is wrong with me?” Steve asked himself as his hand touched her bathroom door.

Without thinking, he opened it slowly and quietly. Now he could hear y/n singing clearly with her music in the background. Something about that turned him on. Everything was turning him on. His kind was going crazy over his best friend’s sister. Why was that?

After a while, Steve didn’t even know he had stepped all the way into the bathroom. There weren’t any places to really hide with his size. He was visible, yet something in him didn’t care.

Why would she make a scene? He’s her brother’s best friend. It’s not like he’d ever hurt her. All he’d do is protect her like his own sister. Actually, that was a lie, because he’d never get hard around his own sister.

“God, I’m tired,” Steve heard y/n say right before she turned the shower off. Steve had no true idea what he was doing in here, but he quickly stood on the wall next to her shower.

Y/n opened the shower curtain with a sigh, not really paying attention to anything around her. That was until she looked up and saw Steve in the reflection. “Oh my-“ Steve went to scream in shock, but the man quickly grabbed her and placed his hand on her mouth to shut her up.

“Ssh, ssh, it’s just me,” Steve said like that would make y/n feel better, but it didn’t. She was completely naked, and his hard-on wasn’t hard to feel with his tight and slightly thin pants.

“Stop, I’m not going to hurt you,” Steve said as he pulled her wet body closer into his. “I just wanted to talk, that’s all,” Steve said, trying to bring up something so this wouldn’t seem weird, but he couldn’t. His cock was not on his side.

“Let me go, Steve,” y/n muffled through his hand, slightly upsetting Steve. Usually, she calls him Mr. Rogers. He’s much older than her, so why would she stop? What was her problem?

“Just relax, y/n,” Steve said as he began walking out of the bathroom. “No!” Y/n kicked and slapped to get free, almost forgetting that he and her brother are super soldiers. She wasn’t getting anywhere if he didn’t let her go.

“C’mon, y/n, stop that shit,” Steve said as he threw the younger girl into her bed, that to hover over her and pin her down. “What the hell is wrong with you!? Get off! Get out!” Y/n yelled, instantly gaining Steve’s hand over her mouth again.

“Keep your fucking mouth shut!” Steve slightly yelled, upset that she could’ve woken Bucky up if he hadn’t gone to sleep yet, but thankfully for him, these walls are thick and brick. “If you continue to make noise, I will do something I would never want to do to you,” Steve threatened.

Even though y/n didn’t know what that would be, she kept her tone down. If Steve had changed and gotten in danger, Bucky wouldn’t have made it in the room in time to save her. She was now vulnerable.

“I’m not here to hurt you, I just simply want to get to know you better. It’s been years, and I just- I just can’t believe my eyes,” Steve said as he looked down at y/n’s wet and naked body, scanning her like his last meal.

“Once I let your mouth go, I expect you to keep it quiet enough for my best friends not to hear, okay? If you disobey, I don’t know what I’ll do, but I know it’ll shut you up,”

Y/n stayed silent, more afraid of his second threat as he removed his hands. She wanted to scream, but super soldiers can go insane in seconds.

“Like I said, y/n — It’s just so hard to believe how attractive you are. I don’t even want to keep my hands to myself anymore,” Steve said as he used in is his hands to grope one of y/n’s breast lightly.

“Fuck,” Steve cussed, mind kicking everywhere before he sipped down to wrap his tongue around her nipple and suck. Y/n began to move, trying to tell him to get off without screaming, but he wouldn’t budge.

A few moans escaped her mouth, making her feel sick and doomed. There was nothing she could do if everything he was going to do to her would make her give a natural reaction.

“Tastes so good,” Steve said before moving his slips to her other nipple, sucking down a bit hard to he could force out her moans. Tears began to stream down y/n’s face because she knew nothing could be done. He wasn’t like he used to be. The old Steve wouldn’t do this to her. Right?

“Just keep moaning, and this’ll all feel good for her both of us,” Steve whispered on her breast as his hands moved down to his bulge. At first, he palmed himself, wanting to savor everything, but within seconds he took himself out. He needed to feel her.

“No, Steve, please — Please don’t do this to me,” y/n begged as she felt his cock rub against her lips. By the way he felt, she knew he was huge and hard. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want any of this.

“I’m not doing anything to you, y/n. I’m not hurting you, so stop your whining,” Steve said right before he started laughing at her entrance. Y/n lacked lubricant, so she felt like she was being ripped apart.

“Ssh, princess, ssh,” Steve tried calming y/n down as he slid further into her heart, only forcing y/n to feel the pain in her lower stomach. He was huge, and he wasn’t thinking. He just wanted to feel her lips wrap around his cock and suck him in.

“It feels so good, just please hold on, fuck,” stave cussed at the end, feeling his head god wild. He just knew she’d feel this tight all the time. He could imagine it. He bet she’d always been this tight. Even when they were younger.

“Please, Steve- No more!” Y/n cried out as she tried pushing at his body, but that only made him wrap one hand around her neck and use his other hand to grab her waist. That’s when he began pounding into her without thinking.

Y/n’a cried for louder, and she thought that would alarm Steve, but that only made him want to continue to go rougher. Bucky wouldn’t be able to hear them anyway. Steve had y/n to himself all night.

“You’re soaking my cock so much, I bet I can use all of that to prepare your ass — Do you think we can do that?” Steve asked, making y/n’s heart beat faster, and her fight harder.

*:ꔫ:*Under the Tree*:ꔫ:*

♡Dark!Stepmom!Natasha♡

You didn’t buy any gifts this year. It was fine, it was just you for the holidays, anyway. However, when you come down the stairs this morning, there is a stack of small presents under the tree. All of them addressed to you.

*:ꔫ:*The Third Stocking*:ꔫ:*

♥︎Ex!Agatha♥︎

There are only two stockings on your mantle. One for your and one for your dog. This morning, there’s a third. It’s withered, seemingly hand crafted, and moving ever so slightly. Almost as if it’s alive.

⋆❅₊⁺⋆˚Footprints in the Snow˚⋆⁺₊❅⋆

♡Stalker!Wanda♡

You fall asleep watching the snow float softly outside. When you wake up, there are footprints leading to your bedroom window. None leading away. The window is open. Just enough to let something slip through.

⋆❅₊⁺⋆˚Down the Chimney˚⋆⁺₊❅⋆

♥︎Dark!Girlfriend!Rio♥︎

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

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

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

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

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

Somehow tonight felt different.

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

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

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

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

"Yes," you replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They didn't survive.

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart sank. "Too much?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What was it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wow," you breathed.

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

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

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

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

It started out slow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How are you settling in?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then came the presents.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was the kind of gift given by a dead beat dad, not at all because you wanted it, but so they could wave it in your face.

The real breaking point occurred one night at the diner.

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

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

"…And she's settling in?"

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

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

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

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

"No. Not yet."

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

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

The mind remained racing.

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

Right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Peter," you broke the silence.

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

"I need to ask you something."

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

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

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

"What did they say?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And that's supposed to mean what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wanted to run. You wanted to yell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you weren't going to let that happen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where are we off to?" You asked

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He never looked more like a stranger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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