Did I tell you guys about the Crossroads Demon starker au I’ve been thinking a lot about?
Peter has heard the rumors about this place told in hushed whispers and hidden behind hands, as though simply speaking the words will call attention to the creature that supposedly can be found here.
Dirt cakes beneath his nails as he digs, heedless of the rocks and detritus that scrape his skin and draw blood. It mats under his nails and on his skin as he digs, cold sweat on the back of his neck.
The battered tin lunchbox with Captain America’s shield on it serves as his container for his offering—a photograph of the summoner, graveyard dirt, a black cat bone, and yarrow, placed exactly at the center of a crossroads.
He shovels the dirt back over the box and climbs to his feet, wiping his filth hands off on his jeans, the back of his hand swiping over his mouth, smearing grime and rusty blood over his lips.
He’s not sure how long it’s supposed to take, but as the minutes tick by his despair grows; it was all just rumor and superstition. With a broken sob, he turns away, thin shoulders curling forward.
“Now now, it can’t be all that bad.”
Peter whirls and goes wide eyed at the man standing before him. He’s barely taller than Peter but much more muscular, broad shouldered and narrow hipped with inky black hair that’s tousled artfully. He cuts an impressive figure in a trim black suit, the shirt and vest underneath as black as his eyes, the only color in the whole thing the strip of crimson silk around his neck.
At his side are two great beasts-and Peter hesitates to call them dogs because he’s never seen a dog this big. They stand tall and proud, barrel chested and black as night and have the oddest crimson eyes Peter has ever seen.
Swallowing hard, he shifts uneasily on his feet, gaze caught by the man (demon?) across from him. The man smirks, slow and wry, “Come now, tell me what brings you here,” he encourages, voice low and smoky like the cigars his uncle used to enjoy.
Peter hesitates and then nods, hands fisting at the hem of his T-shirt, “I-I’ve heard you help people,” he murmurs softly.
He’s heard the stories; The man down the street who had cancer and came back from the crossroads cured. The woman unable to bear children, blessed with twins. The unsolved murder, suddenly solved when the man responsible walked into the police station and confessed.
He’s heard the stories but he’s not sure he believes.
The man nods and scratches the head of one of the beasts, “If you have something of value to trade,” he agrees.
Peter’s heard about this too—the trade.
A soul, usually, as the stories go.
“I, I don’t have money,” he stammers and the man laughs, and Peter swears he hears thunder in it, low and rumbling.
“Oh pretty boy, I don’t need money,” the man says with a laugh. He snaps his fingers and a wad of cash three inches thick appears in his hand, “Your petty human paper means nothing to me,” he says with a grin.
Peter gasps as it goes up in flames, a hundred thousand dollars, smoldering in his palm, like it’s nothing. Enough money to feed he and his aunt, pay the mortgage, hire a lawyer...gone.
The man’s eyes sharpen, “Now tell me what you want or let me go, I don’t like being summoned without making a deal.”
Peter swallows hard and nods, “I...I need you to help me. My uncle was murdered and they can’t find his killers.”
The man tilts his head and studies Peter, “And what? You want me to find them? Punish them?” he asks. “Perhaps flay them alive or torture them with their darkest nightmares?” he suggests with a smirk.
Peter shakes his head vehemently, gut roiling, “No! No, I want them to be arrested and tried for their crimes!” he says, voice trembling.
For the first time the man shifts, and Peter flinches, stepping back as he closes the gap between them inhuamnely fast. A hand closes around his jaw and his gaze is forced up to meet the ebony one above him.
Up this close he can smell sulfur and brimstone and smoke, and the hand on his jaw is inhumanely hot. The man smirks, “Don’t lie to me boy, I can see inside your heart,” he hisses softly, “tell me the truth.”
Peter is trapped, the demon at his front and the hounds behind him now, their presence threatening and hot, reeking of ichor and misery. He whimpers and trembles in the grasp of the demon—because that’s what he is, despite Peter’s best attempts at ignorance.
“I want them punished,” he admits, voice cracking with anger that’s been repressed for far too long. “I want them to in agony for what they did to my uncle and aunt when they broke into our home.” He’s panting now, sweat on his chest, burning with righteous fury, “I want them to pay.”
The man grins in delight, “Finally, the truth,” he murmurs, voice sibilant and low, mouth twisted as though he’s tasting some arcane delight. “And what price are you willing to pay?” he asks hungrily, gaze sweeping Peter’s lean form.
Peter trembles in his grip. He doesn’t know what to offer; he has nothing—no power or prestige, no money.
“My soul?” he asks weakly, dread threading through him.
The man smirks, all teeth, and then nods. “Do you know how we seal the bond?” he asks softly, tongue swiping over his bottom lip.
Peter shakes his head, swallowing hard, “Blood?” he hazards.
The man rolls his head in a lazy nod, “Most of the others do, yes,” he agrees, hand sliding from Peter’s jaw to his throat, grip firm but not too tight. “I however, would like something, a little different from you,” he murmurs, hot breath on Peter’s skin as he leans in, lips scant breaths from Peter’s.
His eyes are dark and glowing, like embers in the night, and Peter trembles, fear and anticipation leaving him breathless.
A kiss, he thinks, a kiss won’t be so bad, if that’s what the demon wants.
A small price to pay for revenge.
The demon laughs, as though he’s heard Peter’s thoughts and shakes his head, “No sweet boy, I want your body, your flesh, your seed,” he croons, running a hand down Peter’s chest to cup his cock, grinning when he finds Peter half hard.
Peter gasps and frantically tries to think of something else he can offer, but he knows he has nothing else to give.
He nods, and damns himself for eternity.
A breath later a hot mouth is against his, tongue sweeping and demanding, and the taste of whiskey and smoke fills his mouth. Pleasure suffuses his veins, makes him weak and pliant and the next thing he knows he’s being pushed up against the stop sign at the side of the road, the demon’s hand beneath his shirt.
Nails take over his skin and he hisses, mewls and arches into the touch, gasping as the demon rubs his palm against Peter’s cock. He’s aching and dripping, grinding into the touch desperately, mewling softly, please please please.
The demon laughs and then suddenly he’s naked, shivering in the October night air. The man flips him and pushes him forward till he’s bent in half, face flushed as his ass pushes backward.
“Mmm, I haven’t seen anything as lovely as this in a millennia,” the demon murmurs, trailing a finger down Peter’s back, sliding down to press against the tight furl of his hole, the pressure and heat of his skin ripping a cry from Peter’s throat.
The demon chuckles and withdraws, “Has anyone taken you little one?” he asks, voice soft and silky like whiskey. Peter shakes his head, thighs quivering as he waits for something else to happen.
“Mmm, then I’ll be sure to make it pleasurable for you,” the man murmurs, and Peter gasps because his fingers are back, slick and hot, rubbing at his hole while his free hand slides up the sweaty planes of Peter’s chest to toy with his nipples.
Peter yelps when they’re twisted, a burning pleasure blooming under his skin with each touch, the ache as relentless as the demon’s hands on his body. His cock jerks against his belly, drooling and dripping, splatters of it falling to the dusty earth below.
The fingers at his hole push in and Peter shouts, seeing stars as he’s stretched, the burn of it leaving him shaking and sobbing. Lips press to his neck and a low voice murmurs in his ear, “Good boy, you’re so good Peter.”
Peter keens as they’re spread, sinking deeper, and then they touch something inside him that has his cock jolting and his voice cracking as he shouts again.
Low laughter fills his ears, “That’s it pretty, scream for me.”
Peter can’t hold back his sobs of pleasure as the demon attacks his prostate relentlessly, crooning filthy words of praise in his ear.
“Oh sweet thing, I haven’t seen anything as beautiful as you since the Fall.”
“That’s it dear boy, take it.”
A tongue flicks at his cheeks, swiping up the salt of his tears. “Delicious,” the demon croons.
A hand tangles in his curls and he can’t help the gasp he lets out when his head is pulled back, spine arching. He pushes back against the fingers inside him, desperate for more, begging through bitten red lips for anything the demon will give him.
The fingers inside him disappear and he keens at the loss, whining and arching back, flushing when the demon laughs at his desperation. He hears the jangle of a belt and the rasp of a zipper and then something hard and hot is pressing against his hole, something huge and thick and he barely has time to look back before his head is being wrenched back around.
He’s seen it though—the demon’s cock. It’s flushed crimson and dripping at the tip, thick veins pulsing under the skin and Peter has no idea how it’s going to fit because it’s easily as thick as his forearm and nearly as long.
When the demon pushes in Peter shouts, spots dancing in his vision as he’s speared open, sobbing as it keeps going, hard and thick and impossibly hot.
It feels like his insides are being pushed aside, the bruising weight of it too much and he rocks onto his toes trying to get away, only to be pulled back and forced further down the length of the demon’s cock.
When it’s fully inside him he’s delirious, trembling and whining, incoherent with something that’s too sharp to be pleasure and too soft to be pain. The demon licks the sweat from his neck and laughs softly, “Sweet boy, it’s been an age since I had one as soft as you,” he whispers, and then rolls his hips back, the drag of his cock punishing and sweet on Peter’s prostate.
Peter’s knuckles are white where he clings to the metal of the signpost, palms aching at the sharp bite of the edges, and he cries out when the demon’s cock tugs at his hole, very nearly gone from inside him and yet still too much there.
“Hold on sweet thing,” the demon says, laughter in his voice, and then plunges in, Peter’s scream echoing into the night.
It’s too much; too hot, too thick, but his own body betrays him—his cock drools and he moans louder with each thrust, relishing in the burn of too much inside him.
He’s had a finger or two inside himself before but nothing like this—each thrust of the demon’s cock is like a punch to his gut, a punishing ache in his prostate that has him weeping, gasping for air through a raw, dry throat.
“That’s it little one, take it.”
The demon growls and thrusts harder, teeth latching to Peter’s delicate flushed skin, marking him outside as he reaches around to fist Peter’s cock, the stimulation sharp and furious and he wails, tears on his cheeks as he comes.
The demon howls and bites down, copper in the air and on his tongue as he fucks into Peter relentlessly, the drag of his cock on Peter’s too sensitive insides like agony, but he pushes back into it nonetheless, panting like a bitch in heat as the demon milks his cock dry.
The sudden spurt of heat inside him is followed by the growl of something in a tongue that’s twisted and sounds like hell itself as the demon marks him on the inside—his, for all eternity.
When the demon finally stills, Peter is shaking so hard he’d fall over were it not for the demon’s hands around his waist. Lips press to the nape of his neck and one of the hands on his hip slides up to cup his throat, rough fingers pushing at his jaw till it’s tilted and the lips find his once more.
He tastes blood on the demon’s lips—his blood— and he thinks dizzily that they’ve sealed this bond with blood, tears, sweat and cum and that perhaps it’s not just his soul he’s lost here tonight, but his mind and body too.
Peter gasps and winces when the demon withdraws, clinging to the signpost as he rearranges himself and then suddenly finds himself dressed and standing back in the center of the road.
His legs quiver and his body aches, but he finds that the throb is dulled—the demon’s work, perhaps?
The man in question looks no less impeccable as he did when he first showed up—as though nothing has happened. The great beasts are back at his side, drooling acid and breathing in great bellows that stir the dust.
The demon smirks and an odd, unearthly glow—like hellfire, Peter thinks giddily—appears behind his eyes.
“I’ll see you again, Peter Parker.”
Peter lunges forward and then stumbles when the hounds growl menacingly. The man laughs, patting their heads, “Hush Dum-e, U, let the pretty boy alone,” he croons, smirking at Peter.
“Well?” he drawls, sardonic and lazy.
“I uh, what if I need you again?” Peter asks, wondering what the hell is wrong with him as he does. If this isn’t some hallucination, then he’s sold his soul, and been fucked within an inch of his life by a demon who he shouldn’t want to see ever again.
The demon quirks his head and then smirks, “If you need me, call me,” he murmurs, flicking his fingers—Peter gasps as a smooth piece of card stock appears in his palm.
The lettering is black and raised—Tony Stark, Knight of Hell.
When Peter looks up the man—Tony—is gone.
The next morning there’s a story in the news about two men who stumbled into the police station, covered in wounds, screaming about hell hounds and a man with glowing eyes torturing them in the night.
The confess to the murder of Ben Parker and the assault of May Parker and are thrown in jail where their screams each night haunt the hallways—just as they are haunted by their crimes, each and every night.
Peter calls Tony’s name one night soon after and gets on his knees to thank the demon.
Vengance has never tasted so sweet.
@starkerforlife6969 @starkerchemistry @sluttystarker @xarles56 @darker-soft-starker @peterparkers7evilexes @peterparkersapunkassbitch @peterparkerisaslut-x @peterr-parrkerr @sbiderslut @dollmeatpie (whose writing this was inspired by) @starkeroverload @thefaultinourstarker @cagestark @starkeris-infinity-worried @im-a-goner-foryou
