#savior complex

pov you have a savior complex

the grammar on this one almost killed me and it's a complete nightmare but i'm tired of looking at it lol

Savior complex, villain complex, martyr complex, messiah complex, god complex, guilt complex

⌒⌒✦﹒x complex flags ⨟ flags for those who have these complexes.

PT. Savior complex, villain complex, martyr complex, messiah complex, god complex, guilt complex. x complex flags. flags for those who have these complexes. END OF PT.

its no mistake that vol 2 dropped on conventional christmas, the secret episode is due to drop on january 7 which is orthodox christmas, and the fake finale is directly between them.

disregarding the relationship to season 1 and the time it takes to find will, it is crucial that there are 12 days between dec 25 and jan 7, those days non-inclusive.

12 days of waiting, just like the 12 days of christmas themselves, 12 hours on the clock, and the 12 children who were chosen by vecna as vessels with vecna and will being at the helm.

this DIRECTLY mirrors jesus and the twelve disciples. vecna wants to remake the world in his image, into camazotz, where a hivemind takes control. this mirrors the alleged power of god and the behaviour of the church. this is what the epilogue represents, especially with mike’s sexual repression.

furthermore, it also parallels dr kay and brenner, and their efforts to use the BLOOD of henry to create more of him through unwilling pregnant women and then stealing their babies to create a hivemind, dr kay, who has a ‘god complex’, and dr brenner, who is eleven’s ‘papa’.

it is then no mistake that kali first tries to convince eleven to kill herself in a church. eleven becomes a mythologised jesus figure, dying for their sins, kissing mike goodbye with an ‘i love you’ to somebody who knows he cant say it back, so mike feels like/ becomes a judas figure. eleven having to be submerged in water to access her powers then mirrors a baptism, and vecna’s vision showing hopper her death at his hands, a father killing the child, is also symbolic of the relationship between the heavenly father and sacrificial son. terry ives is then compared to the virgin mary, who never had a choice in the matter and raised her child like a lamb to the slaughter.

the comparison between mike, brenner and hopper then makes sense: biblically, both the heavenly father and the traitor judas betray jesus in this way, in the way that jesus knew was always coming. eleven was almost raised into this mindset of cnstantly having to be the savior, by dr brenner, who wanted a weapon against the russians, by mike, who wanted to save will, hopper who wants sarah back and sees her in jane. jesus thinks he is saving the world, but according to historical account, he is merely an apocalyptic accelerator in accordance to jewish apocalyptic literature. according to historical account, the world is not saved, and he is not resurrected. in the epilogue, hawkins is not saved, and el is not alive.

the many names of jane ives begin to make sense. from jane ives, to 011, to jane hopper. the many names of henry begin to make sense: henry creel, 001, to vecna. the jesus of historical reality and myth, who fought to help the outcasts and the poor, fighting against the corrupt institutions in power; and the jesus of the church, who sees things in false dichotomies of good and evil, condemns those who do not conform, and is eager to cast upon earth his heavenly wrath. camazotz is the garden of eden, where the fruits of knowledge and free will are forbidden. the three names of each figure parallel the trinity: the father, the son, and the holy spirit.

the specter of religion and religious conformity haunts the narrative.

Warnings : NON-CON, DUB-CON, dark Peter Parker, Stockholm syndrome, Captivity, Saviour Complex, Toxic Relationship, Manipulation, Mind Games

Summary ~ You were the one soul Peter couldn't give up on, and he would bind you to him if that’s what saving you required.

Part 1, Part 2 , Part 3

You wake in a stranger’s bed.

But it only takes a second to realize it isn’t a stranger’s.

It’s Peter’s.

The room is sterile, soft, quiet, far too careful to be casual. Muted walls. Curtains drawn. A small desk in the corner stacked with books he knows you read. A blanket tucked around your legs, your shoes neatly placed by the door.

It feels like a museum exhibit of a life you didn’t agree to.

You sit up slowly and that’s when you see it.

Your backpack. Your water bottle. The frayed hoodie you thought you lost two jobs ago.

Folded. Preserved. Shelved.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, heart racing.

That’s when you hear the door click open.

He’s carrying a tray.

Peter smiles like this is domestic. Normal. Like this isn’t the aftermath of you passing out from stress and fear after realizing he found your latest job, shut it down, and cornered you like prey.

“You’re awake,” he says softly.

You don’t answer.

He sets the tray down on the desk, brushing a napkin smooth. “You haven’t eaten in two days. You need food.”

You stare at him.

“Where am I?” you ask. You try to keep your voice steady. Strong.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he walks to your side, crouching slightly, just enough to meet your eyes.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs. “That’s all that matters.”

Your jaw clenches. “You can’t keep me here.”

Peter tilts his head. “Why would you want to leave?”

He says it like it’s love. Like it’s logical. Like this isn’t madness masquerading as devotion.

You don’t speak.

And that’s when he leans in.

His hand finds your face, not rough, not angry. Gentle. Reverent. His thumb traces the hollow beneath your eye.

“I’ve watched you for months,” he says. “Pretending to be fine. Scraping by. Starving. Hurting. Running.”

His voice dips lower, intimate. “I can’t watch it anymore.”

“You don’t get to decide—”

“I do,” he says, and this time, his hand tightens. Just slightly. Just enough to remind you how strong he really is. “I do now. Because no one else will. They never looked at you, not like I did.”

Your breath trembles.

Peter exhales. “You don’t have to be scared. You’re mine now.”

The word mine lands like a stone in your chest.

He moves closer, kneeling between your knees, his hands resting on your thighs, warm, steady. You try to recoil, but he’s already in your space, trapping you.

“You said you hated me,” he whispers. “Back in that alley. But you didn’t mean it.”

“I did,” you say.

He smiles again, but there’s no joy in it. Only obsession.

“Then why didn’t you scream when I touched you?” he asks. “Why didn’t you fight when I kissed your neck?”

Your skin goes cold.

“You froze,” he says. “Because part of you didn’t want me to stop.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” His fingers drift higher on your legs. “Tell me to stop. Tell me to back away. Say it, and I will.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

He watches you, hunger blooming in his gaze like wildfire. “You’ve been so lonely. So tired of surviving. Let me give you more than that.”

You should push him away. You should scream.

But your body betrays you because part of you is exhausted. Because his touch is gentle where it shouldn’t be. Because the warmth of him, the control of him, is starting to feel less like a cage and more like a sick, aching comfort.

You hate him.

You crave him.

You shake your head, but he leans forward, mouth brushing the skin of your throat.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers again, voice breaking.

You close your eyes.

And you don’t.

Peter’s lips meet yours, soft at first, hesitant, like he’s still trying to convince himself this is mutual. But the moment your mouth parts whether out of surrender or survival, he deepens it.

His hands are under your shirt. Up your spine. Mapping you.

He kisses you like he’s starving.

Like you’re the answer to every desperate thing in him.

And you let him.

Your body moves before your mind catches up, clinging to him, clawing at him, threading your fingers through his hair as if anchoring yourself to the one person who won’t let you go.

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, laying you back on the bed, covering you with his body. He’s shaking. You don’t know if it’s restraint or relief.

His hand cradles the back of your neck, thumb brushing just behind your ear in a motion too gentle for the hunger in his eyes. He kisses you like he’s waited forever, and now that he has you, he’ll never let go.

You feel like you’re being drowned in warmth.

And that terrifies you.

Because for the first time in a long time, you don’t flinch.

You don’t fight.

You let yourself be held, touched, kissed because you’re too exhausted to run, too hollow to scream. Because maybe, just maybe, a part of you wants to believe that being wanted, even this violently, is better than being nothing at all.

Peter senses the shift instantly.

Your body relaxes beneath his, trembling but not pulling away.

He deepens the kiss. One hand on your hip now, holding you still, grounding you. His mouth parts against yours, warm and insistent, tongue brushing your lower lip like a question you can't bring yourself to answer. Your breath catches.

And still, you don’t stop him.

You hate yourself for it.

His lips trail down your jaw, the corner of your throat, leaving heat wherever he touches. Your hands twist in his shirt, not pushing him away, not drawing him closer, just holding. Anchoring yourself.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” Peter murmurs against your skin. “Having you like this. Not running. Not afraid.”

His teeth graze your neck, sharp and delicate. You gasp before you can stop yourself.

“You taste so sweet,” he breathes. “You don’t even realize it, do you? What you do to me.”

You can feel him now, how hard he's breathing, how tightly he's gripping you, how much restraint it’s taking for him not to lose control entirely.

And some twisted part of you likes it.

Because for all the power Peter has, you still make him unravel.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

Your voice cracks, raw, but it's the truth or at least, it's what you need to believe.

Peter doesn’t even flinch.

“I know,” he says. He cups your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip. “But hate fades. This won't.”

He kisses you again, slower now, like he's savoring the moment. Like he knows you're breaking, inch by inch.

His body presses into yours, weight warm and terrifyingly comforting. His hand slides under your shirt, resting over your heart, not groping, just feeling your heartbeat.

It’s racing.

“Shhh,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

His hands never leave your skin. Every touch is deliberate, possessive. Worshipful. Like he’s not just undressing you, he’s unmaking you.

Your mind screams that this is wrong.

That you shouldn’t want this.

That it’s all part of his plan.

But your body’s traitorous. Starved for affection, desperate to be seen. Even if it’s by someone who’s twisted your life into a nightmare.

Peter’s mouth finds the softest parts of you, his breath hot, his touch reverent.

His hand moves lower, slipping beneath your waistband. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t force. He watches you.

You hold your breath.

“I need to feel you,” Peter says, voice trembling. “Tell me no. I dare you.”

But you don’t.

You can’t.

Because something in you has shattered, and now you’re letting the pieces cut him open too.

And when he touches you, slow and certain, it feels like a confession.

Not love.

Not lust.

Something darker.

Something binding.

He slips a finger inside you, and your traitorous body clenches around him. He adds another finger, his thumb circling you clit, drawing out a stifled moan as you writhe beneath him.

Peter moves back up your body, his mouth capturing yours in a deep kiss. You're drowning in Peter, his touch, his kiss, his presence consuming you completely.

His fingers still buried inside you, stretching you, stroking you, while his mouth devours yours. You can't see anything but him, can't feel anything but him. You're overwhelmed, your senses heightened, your body trembling with anticipation.

You don't notice when he withdraws his fingers, doesn't feel him replacing them with something else, something harder, thicker, longer. Not until he starts to push his length into you, inch by deliberate inch.

He takes his time, letting you feel every moment of your surrender. You're filled, stretched, invaded, and you can't do anything but take it. You try to gasp, to protest, but his mouth swallows the sound, his tongue muffling your cries. You claw at his back, your body tensing as it struggles to accommodate his size. But Peter doesn't stop. He can't. Not now. Not when he's this close to claiming you completely.

This is a claiming, a taking. And you're powerless to stop it. You can feel your body responding to his, your clenching around his cock, your body begging for more.

He starts to move faster, his hips thrusting against yours, his cock sliding in and out of you. You moan, your body moving with his, your nails digging into his back.

He whispers things you can't process, promises you're too far gone to fight.

He reaches down, his fingers finding your clit, his thumb circling it, making you moan and writhe beneath him. He wants you to come with him, to share in his release.

Your body tenses, your pussy clenching around his cock as you come. "You're mine now," Peter grunts, his voice a dark rumble, his cock throbbing as he comes, filling you with ropes of his cum. He kisses you through it all, his mouth capturing yours, swallowing your moans, your cries. When it's over, you're still in his arms, his arm drapes possessively around your waist.