#kidnapped peter parker

[stxar-pvnk]

So playboy Tony has a one night stand with Mary. He thinks nothing of it.

And this is like a year or two before Afghanistan, so she gives birth to Peter, doesn't make it and Tony has to look after him,

Tony's not a good dad at first but in the last few months with Peter gets really attached to Peter,

Then Afghanistan happens, he gets kidnapped, he's saved and he's goes to pepper

"Wheres Peter? I've missed him so much.."

And pepper just starts tearing up and tony gets all serious

"Pepper where's my kid." And pepper has to tell him that Peter got kidnapped a month before

[aindyghosh]

Take Me Home (IronDad fic)

A tight-lipped groan made it out of Peter when the black sack was harshly pulled off his head. He rapidly blinked to adjust to the abrupt absence of darkness. He was pretty sure a look in the mirror would reveal a scrunched-up nose and a grimace contorting his features.

As it was, though, he'd have to make do with his ample imagination. The large goon currently glaring at him did not seem all that inclined to allow him out of the chair, much less produce a mirror to correct his appearance. He could feel his hair sticking out in every direction.

Sadly, that little tidbit of situational awareness had escaped his fellow kidnappee.

"Who the hell are you and where have you brought us?" Flash demanded. "Do you know who my father is? Trust me, this is not the first time someone has kidnapped me and my father hates it when I'm not home for dinner! He's gonna make you regret putting your hands on me! You're gonna be out of a job before you can say sorry!"

Was he trying to scare a bunch of criminals with unemployment?

Goon-number-two — shorter than the first but still huge enough to keep up the intimidating factor, hirsute hands and a sculpted moustache curlier than MJ's hair — took a menacing step forward, his burly arms crossed across his chest. He didn't threaten, or otherwise speak, but it still shut Flash up.

Small mercies.

"Eugene Thompson, right?" A third man entered. Significantly shorter than the other two, with an overall harmless appearance except for the smirk playing at the corner of his nicotine-stained lips. It made Peter's skin crawl. "Son of Harrington Thompson and Rose Thompson. Both respected lawyers, and currently vacationing in a rural village on the outskirts of Darjeeling, India with limited, close to no, available network service." The man bent to the boy's eye level. "Did I miss anything, Flash?"

No answer.

The man knew, much as Peter did, what the silence meant.

Main Goon — because it was evident who was in charge here — petted Flash's hair like one would a stranger's puppy in the park before straightening up to his full height. "But don't worry," he said with the same nasty smirk twisting his near-blackened lips, "You are of no interest to me. Keep your head down, don't cause too much trouble, and you'll be home by the end of the day, yeah?"

He didn't wait for Flash's response and turned his gaze on Peter. It was green and cold. "Hello, there, Peter!" He grinned, resembling a shark baring its teeth at its prey far too much for his comfort. "It's lovely to finally meet you!"

"Who are you?" He slipped a sliver of nervousness into his voice, just the right amount for the man to rule him out as a potential danger.

"I'm glad you asked. My name is Daniel Brooke, and I'm going to be your host for the next few hours." The man spoke in a gentle tone as false as Mr. Leons' black wig.

(The man was a natural blonde and the black wig clashed with his light eyebrows almost as much as Mr. Stark and "Secretary Nudnik", Mr. Stark's latest nickname for Thunderbolt Ross, did.)

"What do you want with us?"

"Another good question. You must be very popular with your teachers," Brooke said (never mind that Flash had demanded those exact same answers a mere few moments ago). The praising inflection set his teeth on edge. "I know your secret, Peter. That's right," he cooed when momentary fear passed through his face — this time, very, very real — before he schooled his features back into neutrality. "Your school may be stupid, your friends can be naïve, but not me. You can't fool me."

Peter swallowed thickly. "I don't have any secrets."

The man laughed. It was a shrill noise, and it clawed at Peter's senses like rusted metal scraping against bone. "That was an admirable attempt, Peter, but I'm afraid it missed your intended mark by a mile." Brooke grabbed the arms of the chair he was tied to, and bent down until he was at his eye level, similar to what he had done with Flash but a little more aggressive. Up this close, Peter noticed the yellow spots on his crooked teeth and the stench of bear that overpowered his otherwise pleasant cinnamon and sandalwood scent. "Your internship with Stark Industries, I know about that."

It took Peter a moment to register Brooke's words, but when he did, a weight that he hadn't even been aware of lifted off his shoulders. He exhaled a breath, shaky not because of his present predicament but because of the uncomfortable lack of distance between them.

Looking at him now, everything that had added to the sinister impression Brooke was so obviously going for, only made him seem a run-of-the-mill part-time villain involving himself in situations that demanded someone of a higher pay grade.

"It's not exactly a secret." Peter couldn't help it here. He'd spent the last few minutes shit-scared imagining all the different ways these people could hurt him if they knew about Spiderman: they could go after May, his friends. Hell, Flash, too. The boy was literally there.

What did they even want from him if it wasn't revenge from Spiderman?

"Yes, but people don't believe you, do they? But I do. I know you're telling the truth."

"Okay?" Peter wouldn't lie, he was a tad creeped out. "Why did that make you want to kidnap us?"

"Flash is collateral. I don't need him. Like I said, he keeps quiet and does what we ask, and he'll be dropped off at his home unharmed." Flash appeared nearly insulted at being waved away dismissively. What was up with people? Everybody was crazy, he decided. "I only want you."

"Why?"

Brooke frowned. "What do you think?" He made a series of pointless vague gestures. "Money, of course. I want Stark Industries to pay the ransom."

"You want a ransom," Peter repeated if only to ensure that he hadn't, all of a sudden, become hard of hearing. Brooke nodded. Okay, then. "You want Stark Industries, the leading tech company in the United States, to pay ransom and for that, you kidnap a lowly intern?"

"You're not a random intern!" Brooke screamed. He looked more offended on Peter's behalf than Peter, himself, was. "You're Stark's personal intern! I know!"

Peter was, honestly, getting tired of Brooke insisting he knew things. News flash, he didn't.

He inhaled a deep breath through his nose, ignored the smell of stale beer and the nearest drainage system that left a bitter taste in his mouth (sometimes, super senses were a bitch severe inconvenience) and let it out equally as slowly. "Even then, Stark Industries has a no-negotiation policy for kidnappings." Mr. Stark had it documented after Afghanistan. It was a whole thing. Considering that he was the only person in SI prone to being kidnapped, nobody else had more than half a trembling tree branch to stand on.

"I'm sure Stark will make an exception for you, seeing as the two of you are so close."

He could feel Flash's eyes burning into the side of his skull. Well, it wasn't like he had ever hidden it. If anything, it was the boy's fault for not believing him in the first place. "I wouldn't be so certain."

Mr. Stark wouldn't make an exception for him, he'd simply track his shoes down — there was a tracker in it; he knew, Mr. Stark knew that he knew, both of them pretended the other didn't — and blast his kidnappers to another continent.

Peter didn't say this from experience. Believe it or not, this was the first time he had been taken hostage for any reason. But Spiderman had been injured in multiple fights, and Mr Stark's mood tended to take a nosedive whenever he received a scratch on his body, and stab wounds unleashed a whole different monster. Entirely dramatic reactions on Mr. Stark's part but the man never listened to him.

So yes, this was a novel adventure for him.

"We'll see. Peter. We'll see." Brooke patted him on his shoulder and promptly walked away, gesturing his minions to follow after him before swinging his hands in a fashion that reminded Peter of his school's band march.

Left. Right. Left. Right.

Peter sighed. As amusing as watching the men was now, he was only prolonging the inevitable. He turned his head to the right, and sure enough, Flash was already staring at him, eyes wide, lips parted, breathing short and fast, his forehead practically inked with a bunch of question marks.

But first things first. "Flash, you need to calm down." The last thing he needed was a fellow kidnappee on the verge of a meltdown.

"You were telling the truth about being Tony Stark's intern?"

Wasn't it wonderful how it took a short, half-balding man with a severe case of bad breath to say it once for Flash to believe while Peter, his classmate, had been saying it since the end of sophomore year?

"I can't believe this!" And he was off with his rambling.

It was just as well. Peter needed to think, and he couldn't do that while having an ill-timed rapid-fire round with his school bully.

Okay, what did Mr. Stark always say? Chalk out the facts, identify the problem and brainstorm a solution.

Alright. Facts.

They were on their post-decathlon (which they won, in case anyone was interested to know) field trip — this time to Coney Island — when the team had opted to ride the longest roller coaster in the amusement park. Peter had refused for...reasons. It wasn't that he was terrified of heights (please, he was Spiderman), he was merely wary about the safety aspect.

Regardless, Peter had expected to be alone for the duration of the ride. Mr. Harrington had offered but he could see his teacher was pumped about the Cyclone, which was the name of the death trap, by the way. He would never have pegged Roger Harrington as a roller coaster kind of guy but to each their own, he supposed. In the end, Flash had generously given up a seat on the ride to "keep Peter company". Mr Harrington hadn't needed to be told twice.

Was it irresponsible of him to leave two kids alone while going off on a ride? At the time, it hadn't seemed all that dangerous.

He'd been wrong. That was precisely when a sack had been put over their head. His Peter-tingle had tingled, of course — God, May was rubbing off on him — but there was nothing he could have done without arousing suspicion.

And that brought them to his current situation.

Spiderman, snatched in broad daylight by a couple of small-time villains. His secret identity was a boon in times such as these, though it was hella stressful to maintain it.

Step two, identify the problem: He'd been kidnapped, he had a civilian to protect, and they needed to escape. How would he do that in a way that wouldn't instantly tip Flash off to his secret identity? As it was, some days, he felt as if Flash was a Spiderman stalker with how fluent and knowledgeable he was in Spiderman's activities.

Step three: solution. He had no clue how to approach this.

"Is that a StarkWatch-438?"

The non-sequitur grabbed his attention before he could carefully evade it. "What?"

"Your wristwatch! Is it a 438? How do you even have it? It launched less than a week ago and has a two-month wait period!"

How the heck did Flash even see his watch? His hands were tied behind him. "Does it matter right now?"

"Yeah, you're right," the boy muttered. Huh. Peter was going to mark this day in his calendar. "Use it."

"What?"

"Use it!"

Peter stared at him. Flash stared back. After a minute or two, the other boy made a noise of realisation. "You don't know how to use it, do you?"

"To read a watch? Yes, Flash, I do know how to read a watch."

"Not how to read it, dummy!" Flash snapped, but his voice contained much less venom than usual. "The panic button. Press the panic button."

Ah! Right, the panic button. Peter cleared his throat, but any and every reply suffered a premature death on his tongue. What would he say, in any case? He was aware of the panic button. He'd inspired it after one too many instances of fainting in a dark alleyway due to untreated stab wounds.

But he wouldn't use it. He couldn't. It would be embarrassing to have Iron Man come to Spiderman's rescue, even if nobody knew about the Spiderman bit.

"The signal would go to May, Flash! How do you think my Aunt would help this situation?" There, that ought to be a good excuse.

"She could alert the police?"

"Mr. Harrington would've already done that, I'm sure. Look, I have this under control, okay?" Or he would as soon as he figured out a way to get rid of the ropes confining his hands and escape with Flash without resorting to his Spidey strength.

Unfortunately — or fortunately, as Flash would later argue — the decision was made for him in the form of a red-and-gold blur crashing through the glass panes of the semi-constructed building they had been kept hostage in.

Flash squeaked, and Iron Man's head cocked as if regarding a particularly interesting creature. No, he wasn't looking at Flash.

"Peter Parker." The mechanical voice of the suit typically rendered all voice modulation flat, but this time, the unimpressed note eluded its filtering. See, this was how one made themselves a domineering and fearsome figure. Not with crooked teeth and too wide a smirk.

"I was about to call you—"

"It has been two hours and you still haven't pressed the panic button on the watch that you are wearing."

He was so grounded.

He hoped to hell and back that Mr. Stark wasn't actually in the suit. He'd do anything, God, please, just not a lecture in front of Flash. He'd never let him live it down.

The suit — because he was going to assume, for his sanity, that this was the suit and Mr Stark was commandeering it from within his lab miles away for a quick Underoos rescue before he had to get back to some or the other meeting and wouldn't have the opportunity to chew him out with an audience in attendance — made to approach Peter when he shook his head and nodded towards Flash. "Help him first."

A sigh. FRIDAY was messing with him, wasn't she? Both father and daughter had an equally snarky sense of humour.

Flash's ropes were off within twenty seconds. Peter's in less than that. Was Mr Stark aware of Flash bullying him?

This was a disaster in the making, wasn't it?

It only escalated from there when Daniel Brooke and his two loyal henchmen burst into the room, Brooke emphasising his insanity with a crazed "Hah!"

"I knew it!" The man crowed. "I knew you wouldn't leave your precious intern alone! I'd thought you'd concede to the ransom demand but this is even better!"

Iron Man tilted his head to the side again. "Who are you?" And this time, his voice was very, very flat.

"Daniel Brooke. You took everything from me! Now, I'm gonna take everything from you!"

"Hey, man, this wasn't the deal!" Goon-number-one objected.

"Silence, you imbeciles!" Brooke hissed. "And did I give the guns to you for show? Point them at the two boys, fools!"

The men exchanged a silent look and crossed their arms in a creepy synchrony. "We want our money. We don't care about your revenge." Oh, would you look at that? Not so loyal as Peter had initially thought.

"Ugh! I have to do everything around here!" This was a comedy show. "Stark, you listen to me, you ruined my business—"

"I don't even know who you are!" Iron Man's protest was more of a tired whine. The only thing missing was him stomping his foot like a child who'd just been denied living on ice cream.

"I am Daniel Brooke. Weren't you listening?" No, he wasn't, Peter was nearly eighty-four per cent sure. Mr. Stark was great at tuning unnecessary chatter out. And to him, almost everything anyone said qualified to be unnecessary chatter. Unless it was about science. Then you'd have his full attention. For a few minutes, at least. He got easily bored. "I used to supply sandwiches to HYDRA—"

"To HYDRA," Iron Man deadpanned.

"Yes, and you destroyed the base, and I lost all my income. My wife left me."

"That might be the beer stench," Goon-number-one muttered under his breath.

Peter snorted.

He was ignored.

Brooke was still prattling on. Peter settled in for a lengthy villainous monologue when Iron Man's repulsors went up and blasted the man in the face.

He went down like the Chitauri after Mr. Stark had destroyed their motherboard.

Probably not his best analogy.

The two goons immediately put their hands up in surrender, horror painted across their faces.

Iron Man, in response, simply tucked Peter and Flash under either arm and lobbed himself in the air, away from the building and towards home.

🩷

They dropped Flash on the street in front of his home first.

It was Mr. Stark inside the suit.

He got an extremely lengthy lecture.

And he was grounded.

At least, he didn't have to control himself from hurling his guts up due to the fling-a-fling of the roller coaster. His Spiderman identity also managed to remain safe.

Another day, another identity save.

All in a good day's work.

God, this was getting exhausting.

[moondusted-ao3]

Whumptober Day 4 - Hallucinations

This is my post for Day 4 of Whumptober 2024 - Hallucinations, Sensory Deprivation

"Of course. The walls of the cell were completely soundproof. How could Peter have forgotten that? A bomb could go off outside, and he would have no idea. Being without his sight or hearing must be taking a toll on him if he was starting to hallucinate already. Peter curled back into a ball, shaking with silent sobs. He'd been through worse; he wasn't even being tortured yet. Not really. He just had to hold on until his family got here. He just had to hold on."

Ao3 Link

Warnings: None

Fandom: Marvel (Spider-Man)

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Word Count: 2659

     Peter Parker sat in the corner of the cell, arms wrapped around his legs, eyes straining to see in the pitch blackness. It felt like he'd been in this cell for months, but it must have only been hours. Everything was pitch black, and the room was soundproofed even to his enhanced senses. The walls were padded with some kind of fabric that absorbed any sound he made, and the room was so quiet he could hear his own heartbeat.

     There was nothing to do except sit with his thoughts, and he passed the time by imagining the Avengers coming to save him. If he closed his eyes, he could almost see Mr. Stark now, blasting down the door with his repulsor and swooping in to be the hero. Actually… Peter strained his ears, trying to hear the faintest sound outside the soundproofed walls.

     Was that the sound of a repulsor in the distance? The longer he listened, the more sure he was that he could hear the sounds of fighting outside the door. If he focused, he could almost see the edges of the cell shaking. Help was coming; the Avengers were here! They must be about to break down the door! Peter knew it wouldn't be long before his mentor realized he was missing and came to get him. Footsteps echoed in his ears, heavy metal boots stomping down the hallway. They came to his door and… stopped. No matter how hard he strained, he couldn't hear a sound. Not even the faintest hum.

     Of course. The walls of the cell were completely soundproof. How could Peter have forgotten that? A bomb could go off outside, and he would have no idea. Being without his sight or hearing must be taking a toll on him if he was starting to hallucinate already. Peter curled back into a ball, shaking with silent sobs. He'd been through worse; he wasn't even being tortured yet. Not really. He just had to hold on until his family got here. He just had to hold on.

     Peter was walking home from school when his Spider-Sense pinged danger nearby. When he subtly glanced around, his eyes caught on two men in black suits on the other side of the street. One of the men made eye contact with him and frowned, leaning to mutter something into his partner's ear. Whatever these men wanted, his Spider-Sense knew it wouldn't be good. Luckily, he'd been taking "spy lessons" with Natasha and Clint. Those lessons were paying off now, he'd been taught how to lose a tail.

     Thinking fast, he quickly ducked into a crowd of people walking in front of him, slipping through them with a polite "Excuse me." as he nudged past. The moment he lost sight of the men, he ducked into an alley and pressed against the wall. The two men in suits walked by the opening a few moments later, angrily looking around. He pushed himself tighter to the wall as they looked down the alley. Frozen in fear, he held his breath until the men walked by, sighing in relief when they disappeared.

     A few moments passed before he could convince his feet to move and start back towards the street. His Spider-Sense pinged again, and something sharp dug into his neck. He quickly reached up and pulled out… a dart? It must have been drugged, his vision began darkening around the edges and a bout of vertigo almost knocked him off his feet. He tried to make a break for the exit to the alley, but his knees buckled before he could take a single step. A woman stepped out of the shadows, gait confident as she strode towards him. The darkness in his vision grew rapidly, but he faintly heard her say "Target acquired, bringing it in now." before he slipped into unconsciousness.

     Out of sheer boredom (and stress), Peter had taken to literally climbing the walls. Pacing laps around the floors, the walls, and the ceiling, counting his steps, was pretty much his only form of entertainment. Twenty steps to each wall, seven to touch the roof. The auditory hallucinations hadn't stopped, and his hopes were constantly rising with the sounds of distant repulsor blasts, only to be shattered when reality kicked in.

     What must have only been a few days of captivity felt like years. Years of no light, no sound, no interaction with any living thing. The door hadn't opened since he'd been thrown in here, and the lack of food and water was beginning to take a toll. His muscles were weakening by the minute, and his enhanced metabolism was acting against him. Usually, he would eat almost three times the amount of food a baseline human consumed and still be hungry. Now, with nothing else to eat, his stomach felt like it was planning on consuming itself.

     Peter sighed and dropped from the ceiling, carefully walking to the corner of the room, one arm extended to feel the soft padding of the walls in the darkness. Collapsing to the floor, he decided it was time to get some sleep. As he slowly drifted off to sleep, he did his best to ignore the sound of clanging metal and fighting outside his door. Logically, he knew it was just another hallucination, if only someone could tell that to his heart.

     Splinters flew across the room as the door burst open. Startled awake, eyes wide and heart hammering, Peter's eyes flew to the door. The light flooding in from the hallway blinded him briefly, and he had to squint to make out the form standing in the doorway. When his eyes adjusted, he saw the silhouette of Iron Man illuminated. "Mr. Stark?" His throat was dry and his voice cracked from disuse.

     "Hey, kid." The armor spoke. Peter sobbed, throwing himself towards his mentor with tears in his eyes. "Mr. Stark! You came! You reall-" Peter slammed into the wall, bouncing back and landing hard on the ground. Utterly confused and heartbroken, he sat up and rubbed his eyes. Pitch blackness surrounded him, the wall unbroken. Peter screamed, sobbing and wailing into the dark, his cries muffled by the soundproof walls. "Please, please come get me." he pleaded as unconsciousness claimed him again.

     Peter blinked awake, wincing against his pounding headache. Icy fear ran through him when he realized he couldn't move, his arms and legs restrained to a chair with thick metal cuffs. No matter how hard Peter strained, his enhanced strength couldn't break the cuffs. Giving up on the restraints for the moment and attempting to distract himself from impeding panic, he scanned the room.

     The walls around him were stark white, tables covered what looked like medical equipment and papers scattered around, and screens next to him that looked like they were showing scans of his body. His shirt was missing, and several electrodes had been attached to his chest, wires leading to machines nearby. As he turned his head, he could feel wires tugging from even more electrodes attached to his forehead. Craning his neck, he could barely see tall metal claws that reached up and supported what looked like a giant metal circle.

     Just as the panic began to take hold, the door in front of him opened. Several people in white coats walked in, a familiar woman leading the group. It was the same woman who had shot him with the drugged darts in the alley. She wore the same white coat as the others, and as he looked her over, he saw a small pin on her collar. A small circle pin with a skull and tentacles. Hydra. Fear flooded his body, adrenaline making his hands shake. She smirked. "Hello, Spiderman."

     They knew his secret identity. A sense of impending doom set in, and he took a deep breath to attempt to calm his racing heart. Surely Mr. Stark would realize he was missing soon and come find him. He just had to stall. Licking his dry lips, he put on a mockingly cheerful grin. "Me? Spiderman? I'm flattered, but I think you have the wrong guy."

     "Snarky, aren't you? Just like your father." Did these people know his father? Peter's confusion must have shown on his face, because the woman sighed. She picked up a folder off a table, opened it up, and showed him the contents. It was full of pictures of him and Mr. Stark. There were pictures of them at a restaurant, one of him ruffling Peter's hair, and even a picture of them working on the Iron Man suit in Mr. Stark's private labs. "My dad? You've got it all wrong. I'm just his intern. I'm not even sure he remembers my name."

     She sighed, closing the folder. "Lying to us is a very bad idea, Mr. Parker. You'll learn that soon enough. We have big plans for you." She gestured to the men, who began messing with the machines beside him. Peter's heart felt like it was beating out of his chest, and his hands began to shake. "W-what are you doing?"

     The woman smiled. "We're going to make you better. You're going to be our perfect weapon. And then, you're going to kill the Avengers." The men pressed buttons on their machines, and the metal ring descended to clamp on his head. Peter opened his mouth to try and stall, but all that came out was a scream as a shock of electricity burned through his skull. Pure agony coursed through his entire body as he seized and shook, clenching his jaw to stop himself from screaming. The machine paused for a brief moment and he gasped for air before it started up again. All thoughts fled his mind; all he could feel was pain. It continued for what felt like hours but could have only been minutes, streams of electricity flooding him in bursts. When it finally stopped, all Peter could do was heave for air. He shook his head to try and clear the fog that had settled in.

     "How are the readings?" The doctor asked, stepping closer to look at the screens. She frowned at whatever she saw. One of the men stepped forward, angling his screen so she could see. "His healing power is extraordinary. His brain is healing almost as fast as we can erase it. It must be double the Winter Soldier's. The machine isn't going to work, not without increasing the electricity, which could kill him."

     Sighing, the woman turned to look at Peter, slumped in his chair. "You will obey us, one way or another." Peter lifted his chin and looked her in the eyes in defiance. Coughing, his voice hoarse from his screams, he rasped "I'll die first."

     "No, little spider, you won't. But you'll be begging for death when I'm done with you." Turning back to the men, she gestured towards Peter. "Throw him in the pit. Maybe some time in the dark will soften him up." Peter fought as they uncuffed him, struggling as best he could, but the aftershocks of the electricity still coursed through him. Helpless, he allowed himself to be dragged away.

     Peter was huddled in the corner, hands pressed so tightly over his ears that it began to hurt. The sounds of fighting echoed inside his head. Every repulsor blast made his heart jump in hope, but they were never real. Visual hallucinations were becoming more and more common. Mr. Stark bursting into his cell to save him was a regular hallucination, and he broke a little bit more every time it appeared.

     Every time he saw Iron Man break down the door, Peter would run to him, sobbing, and every time, Mr. Stark would disappear right as Peter jumped into his arms. If his captors opened the door right now, he would fall to his knees and beg them for any interaction at all. Torture would be better than this. He didn't know how much more he could take. How many times he could fling himself into his mentor's arms, only to have him taken away again. He was so dehydrated he couldn't even cry, only dry sobs escaping him.

     Outside the walls, the faintest sounds of fighting echoed. Gunfire sounded, making Peter flinch and press his hands even harder over his ears. He rocked back and forth, muttering, "It isn't real, it isn't real, it isn't real."The door burst open again, the silhouette of Iron Man once again burning itself into his retinas. Sobbing louder, Peter closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around his legs. He buried his face in his knees, trying his best to ignore the footsteps approaching him.

     "Hey, kid." Peter couldn't stop himself from looking up at the sound of Mr. Stark's voice. Even though, logically, he knew this wasn't real, he couldn't stop himself from wishing. He couldn't stop himself from hoping. And every time he finally let his guard down and allowed himself to believe that this time, it was real, the hallucination ended.

     "Are you alright? Peter? Are you hurt?" Mr. Stark's voice sounded frantic as he stepped out of the armor, reaching out. Peter flinched, throwing himself away from his mentor. "Don't touch me! Please, please don't touch me. I don't want you to go. I don't want to be alone anymore." He sobbed, voice dry and hoarse from disuse. His eyes were wide, and he couldn't stop staring at the man. He knew that the moment he looked away, Mr. Stark would disappear, and he would be alone in the dark.

     "Kid, we're here to get you out. I'm sorry we took so long. You're not alone anymore. We're gonna take you home. " Mr. Stark's voice was thick with emotion, quiet and calm as if speaking to a wounded animal. "I promise you're safe now."

     Sobbing, Peter closed his eyes. "I keep seeing you coming to get me. Over and over and over I keep seeing you save me, and it isn't real. It's never real. I want to go home!" Peter shouted, hugging himself. "I just wanna go home…"

     "I'm real, Peter. I promise I'm real. I'm here." Slowly reaching toward Peter, he gently whispered reassurance as he stepped closer. "It's okay. I'm here to take you home." Peter's face was filled with resignation and despair as he watched Mr. Stark's hand descend. It looked like he was watching his incoming death, not his mentor coming to save him. He closed his eyes as Mr. Stark stepped closer, not wanting to see him disappear again.

     He gasped when the man's hand met his shoulder, incredibly warm against his freezing skin. "Mr. Stark?" He breathed, eyes opening wide and filling with hope. His mentor just nodded, and Peter lept from the floor, wrapping himself around Mr. Stark and burying his head in his shoulder. He shook with silent, dry sobs, and his mentor just held him tighter. They stood there for what seemed like hours, only interrupted when Captain America's voice echoed out of the Iron Man suit. 

     "You have the kid, Stark? We're getting swamped up here!" Mr. Stark started to move, and Peter panicked and held even tighter. "We gotta go, Underoos. I'm not leaving you, I promise. I'll never leave again." Peter flinched but nodded and slowly let go of Mr. Stark, terrified that he would disappear. His heart almost stopped when he let go, and it felt like time stood still for a moment until he realized that his mentor was still there and grinned.

     "Alright, let's blow this popsicle stand." Mr. Stark grinned back, stepping into his suit and heading to the door, checking behind him to make sure Peter was still following. It was as if the weight of the sky left Peter's shoulders the moment his feet hit the hallway, and the sheer force of his relief could have moved mountains. Finally, he was going home.

Thank you so much for reading!! Please let me know what you thought :D

[themculibrary]

Kidnapped!Peter Masterlist

a foul player dealing for me (ao3) - sandyk M, 2k

Summary: Peter gets kidnapped with a bunch of other interns, but honestly, it'll be fine.

Becoming a Hero (ao3) - Dorthea mj/peter T, 40k

Summary: His brain tells him to get back up. To run. To get away. That the next attack will happen in just a second. That someone will come, and they’ll shoot a bullet through his head. That’s it. End of Peter Parker. But his body doesn’t respond to anything. He can barely lift his arms, because it feels like an elephant is sitting on his chest.

Peter knows this is the end. Knows nobody will get to him in time… he’ll bleed out, in the desert sand. Alone.

His eyes feel heavy and slowly he closes them. Tries to breathe, knowing he can’t. Tries to forget the pain, but he can’t do that either. It digs through his chest, not like a bullet, no… It’s sharp and hard. There’s not one, there are a million. A million little things in his chest. But he can’t see them.

And soon, he can’t see anything, but darkness…

-

In an alternate universe Peter Parker wins a competition to meet Tony Stark, only things goes horribly wrong when Peter is kidnapped in Tony's place. His life on the line, Peter only has one option... he has to become a Hero.

Blood and Bone (ao3) - deadvinesandfanfics pepper/tony M, 40k

Summary: Peter… wasn’t exactly sure how he’d gotten here.

The room was dark, and silent, except for the repetitive thump-thump of a heartbeat from somewhere beside him. It sounded like Mr Stark’s arc reactor, with a soft tick accompanying every second beat: that, and the smell of motor oil and fancy cologne.

His head throbs, and his muscles ache. He feels like he’s just lost a fight with a brick wall, or several. There’s crusted blood on his upper lip as well as his temple. He can feel it matted in his hair, and he wants nothing more than to take a shower right now.

Looking around a little more, Peter realises that he doesn’t even know where they are. The room is nearly pitch black which makes it impossible to make anything out. He thinks he’s tied to some sort of cheap plastic chair; his hands are bound behind his back with a mess of rope and some thin metal handcuffs - so he assumes his identity is safe. No way whoever this was would leave him in just metal handcuffs if they knew he had his powers.

Then, a huff of noise off to his side.

“Mr Stark,” he blurts, panicked. “I think we might’ve been kidnapped.”

captivity (ao3) - killerqueenwriters T, 6k

Summary: To say Tony is hysterical would be an understatement.

It’s been twelve hours without so much as a peep from either of his sons: no texts, no calls, no readings from either of their suits, either of their watches.

Copyright Infringement (ao3) - Anarchyduck T, 4k

Summary: Peter’s arms snap to his side as his heels click together. He struggles to get out of it, whatever this is, as the Big Guy laughs again.

“Spider-Man say hello to Blood Bender.” he nods to the shorter guy standing beside him.

“B-Blood Bender? Like, from Avatar the Last Airbender?” Peter lets out a strained laugh. “Seriously? Isn’t that like copyrighted? Better not let Nickelodeon hear you. Don’t think they’d like to be associated with a dru-“

His throat constricts close.

OR: Peter gets in over his head, kidnapped, and is rescued by the most unlikely (or likely?) person.

Friday's Child (ao3) - Dimity Blue (Arnie) pepper/tony, mj/peter G, 58k

Summary: "Mr. Stark's son was kidnapped in 2007 when he was five, and, despite everyone's best efforts, no trace of him was found. Until today. When your fingerprints were put into the system, they came up as a match for Peter Stark's."

He's My Kid (ao3) - jennylarner pepper/tony G, 10k

Summary: “Rhodey.” Tony’s voice breaks. “Rhodey they took my kid.”

There are tears on Rhodey’s cheeks. “I know Tony, I know.” He whispers, his own voice trembling with the effort of staying calm. He had to stay calm, for Tony. “But we’re going to get him back.” He placed a hand over the phone. Tony stares down at it. “Do you want me to do it?”

Tony shakes his head. “No.” He murmurs. “No. I need to do it.”

...

When Peter goes missing and Tony can't find him, he knows who he needs to call. Post-Civil War. Eventual reunion of Tony and the Rogues.

He Promises (ao3) - justpeterparkerthings peter/harley G, 2k

Summary: Harley fell hard, the boy- Peter, the infamous intern- quickly became a constant in his everyday schedule. He didn't mind, infact the younger lifted his mood on most days, sometimes just offering to listen to Harley rant or watch a movie with a cup of hot chocolate.

Everything seemed to be going wonderfully well, all until Peter was kidnapped.

home (ao3) - Hailfire_73 T, 9k

Summary: “You were pretty certain he’d be here by now.”

The truth was, he’d like to know. He needed to know. What was keeping Mr. Stark from coming and getting him? Maybe, he thought, he didn’t think Peter was worth being saved. Maybe he just didn’t care.

“Clearly,” he said, as he moved a piece across the board. “You were wrong about your Tony Stark. That’s check, by the way.”

Peter studied the board but shifted his eyes back to him. “I give up.”

“Smart boy,” he told him. “A good man knows he’s beat.”

OR

Peter has been kidnapped and is forced to survive in a universe different, a universe ruled by Superior Iron Man, but surviving may mean there's nothing left of him once rescue finally does come.

i didn't finish my chem homework yet (ao3) - MyDestinyIsWritten T, 5k

Summary: Peter and MJ get kidnapped after school and Tony is a worried and protective dad™

I Did Not See That Coming (ao3) - TheDumbestAvenger T, 5k

Summary: When the mission goes south, and Peter is kidnapped right under Tony’s nose, the only thing he has left is hope to someday be reunited.

I Hope You're Happy (I Won't Be) (ao3) - Phoenix_Inferno N/R, 22k

Summary: "If Peter wasn't already wrung through the wringer, sliced up and beaten within every inch of himself maybe he could have put together that this was a trap.

He wished he had realized it sooner.

He wished to all the gods in existence that he had realized it sooner."

_

Peter should have known his incessant need to save everyone was going to eventually shatter his whole world. Maybe then, he could have done something.

In A Different Light (ao3) - kingdomfaraway T, 3k

Summary: Sometime around 3:00 am New York time, Steve’s phone went off. He didn’t think Tony would even call if it wasn’t the end of the world, all hands on deck situation. A jolt of fear ran through him as he answered, mentally preparing himself for any battle he’d have to take on.

But then, in a small broken voice, one that seemed to belittle the man Steve couldn’t imagine ever being so small, Tony said four words.

“I lost the kid.”

Love's Gonna Get You Killed (ao3) - peterparkersbff T, 1k

Summary: There’s a gun pressed to Peter’s temple and a man breathing down his neck. As depressing as it is, this is slowly starting to become a constant occurrence in his life. Not even the same people, everyone just… wants to kill him, Peter supposes.

But this time is different. They're not here for him.

My Guy (ao3) - JulieJewels mj/peter T, 7k

Summary: Michelle Jones has never really thought about it - Peter's always just been there. But now he's disappeared and Tony Stark isn't getting anywhere with his so-called investigation. So much for him being a genius. MJ has never been good at twiddling thumbs, but now it seems like she might have to learn it, and fast. Right?

Wrong, of course.

Paint it Black (ao3) - crystallopianqueen T, 44k

Summary: The Avengers are broken and scattered across the globe after the events of Civil War. But when Peter Parker is taken by the very worst of humanity, Tony Stark will do whatever it takes to get him back, even if it means hunting down former friends and enemies to do it.

Strike Three (ao3) - opal_earrings G, 4k

Summary: “With a groan, Peter lifted his aching head off his chest and craned his neck upwards. He was handcuffed, suspended from a chain that reached the ceiling. When he kicked his feet, his toes only just scuffed at the floor.

He’d been kidnapped.

Peter’s stomach sank at the realization. Oh, God, he was definitely going to miss his curfew. Mr. Stark would be furious.”

Or: Peter’s already missed his curfew twice in the past week, and he doesn’t want to find out what will happen if he misses it a third time. Which is inconvenient for him when he finds himself chained up in a warehouse with his curfew fast approaching.

Tag, You're It (ao3) - SpaceCowboysFromMars T, 3k

Summary: They’re just rounding the corner of the canteen, hand-in-hand, when Peter is slammed with a feeling that makes everything within him stop working. He freezes, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as his senses scream at him, warn him, plead with him to get away from the unseen danger-

Something cold is pressed into the center of Peter’s spine. There’s a click and a deep voice, “Make a sound and I’ll shoot the kid.”

Peter turns his head ever-so-slightly, just enough to see Mac Gargan’s face staring back at him as he presses the muzzle of a gun to the teenager’s back.

The Redundant Rescue Mission (ao3) - for_the_night G, 4k

Summary: “Oh, hey guys! What are you doing here?” Peter asked, appearing from behind a tree.

Bucky blinked. “We’re here to rescue you.”

“Oh… I mean, I can go back if you want? I'm sure I can crawl back through the window and I won’t tell anyone.”

Steve bawked at him. “Excuse me?”

“I can even tie myself back up if it makes it better?”

“Are you seriously suggesting un-rescuing yourself?”

Or: Peter gets kidnapped, but Steve and Bucky are a little late in getting the mystery kid back to his dad

weapons never weep (ao3) - McSquishee pepper/tony T, 36k

Summary: “Let me make something clear, insect. You are a freak of nature that serves no purpose outside of science and war, and you do not have nor deserve the luxury of human rights. I gave you the opportunity to make this easy on yourself, but if you must be difficult, I will have no qualms over forcing you into submission by any means necessary.”

The man looked over to him, his expression unwavering and offering no guilt or remorse.

“You are naught but a weapon, and I will treat you as such. Don’t forget that.”

-or-

On a mission gone haywire, Peter is abducted by HYDRA, and they will do whatever it takes to harness his biology for their benefit.

[spiderman-gets-squished]

Does anyone know that account that finds marvel fanfics because I am DESPERATE. I think the fic got deleted 😭 because I swear it was in my bookmarks but I'm hoping it's available somewhere even if they deleted it off AO3.

Okay so Peter Parker was kidnapped by these randos and I think held in an underground part of a bank??? The bank thing might be incorrect but he was in some kind of room with a hatch on the ceiling that was too small to stand up in.

Every so often his kidnappers would drop down bagels for him to eat and he would throw whatever he didn't eat into this pile that got moldy.

Almost positive at the end he was rescued by Tony and Steve but it's been so long plz help.

[adgaea]

Bad Things Happen Bingo

Chloroformed - ADGAEA - Spider-Man - All Media Types [Archive of Our Own]

Chloroformed

Peter always manages to get himself into trouble.

TW: chloroform, unnamed character death, overdose, vomit, kidnapping, ransom

Disclaimer: I own nothing except for my plot.

[logansgaar]

"'Rescuing' Wanda from a place she doesn't even want to leave, a safe place" was such a batshit insane line they had Tony say with Peter Parker sitting right there, like I don't know how more people don't see how detached from logic Tony became believing he was right.

He had the audacity to lecture Steve about bringing Wanda, a 27 year old woman under house arrest because someone else's bomb went off who participated in her own rescue because she did in fact want to leave, being there when he'd just committed a war crime by kidnapping Peter, a 14 year old boy who said no, from his safe home in Queens to be a child soldier, and grooming him (which btw does not exclusively mean sexual, it also means "the action of attempting to form a relationship with a child or young person [...] or inducing them to commit an illegal act"...like illegal entry into a foreign country or vigilantism that had literally just been outlawed via the Accords).

To be absolutely clear, I think we're supposed to acknowledge this glaring flaw in Tony's logic here, the point is supposed to be that for as well intentioned as Tony is, the statement "you're wrong, you think you're right, that makes you dangerous" applies to him. And it's honestly sad how many people in the last decade missed that entirely

[abi7100]

Tony off handedly mentioning that Peter is "burning up" Peter flinching and crying, begging not to be burned, swearing that he's not sick, he's not a burden, please don't burn him, please don't get the torch, he's sorry, he'll be good, he can take care of himself, he doesn't need the torch, he doesn't want to be burned, he won't be a bother, he'll-

[idk-bruh-20]

Irondad fic ideas #154

CW: this one's pretty gruesome. read at your own risk 

Peter is a young child who's been kidnapped. His parents and/or his aunt and uncle were killed and he was taken. Along with a bunch of other little kids, he's been held captive and experimented on.

When the Avengers suddenly bust the kidnapping operation, the kidnappers try at the last second to destroy their research. They gas the small room where the kids are being held.

It's Iron Man who ends up blasting through. What he finds is horrifying. All but one of the children are dead.

The one who's left is just sitting among the bodies, crying, shocked, terrified. Iron Man carries him out of there, then once they're safe from the gas Tony steps out of the suit to comfort the kid while he's given oxygen.

Little 5-year-old Peter Parker imprints on his savior hard.

He just went through an unimaginable amount of trauma, then Iron Man burst through like an avenging angel. This is the first time he's ever felt protected in his memory. Tony holds the crying kid, and the kid can tolerate no one else near him.

This becomes a slight problem when they get back to base. But Tony can't find it in him to let SHIELD take the kid away, let them strip him of this one tiny bit of comfort. He keeps seeing all those other kids when he closes his eyes.

This one needs him right now. And if "right now" eventually becomes "this is my son," well. Who could've predicted that.

[angelyuji]

the thing abt writing yandere fics for comic book characters is that all of them have totally different personalities in different shows and books. like take batman for example. battinson is a socially awkward, mission obsessed, billionaire who hasnt talked to a woman until selina kyle. other versions of bruce wayne went to college (dropped out), had friends and gfs (even if it was for an image), and is charming and kinda manipulative (bale!batman falls under this). and in some other comics, old man bruce wayne is an asshole who is an asshole and shitty to his kids and in others, he’s kind and forgiving and an amazing dad.

anyway what im getting to is that a lot of my yandere fics for these characters are going to be all over the place in terms of characterization.

also heres a yandere peter parker fic teehee☺️

tw // kidnapping, yandere stuff, nothing too crazy i dont think, also gwen is dead

“(y/n), just listen to me, please.” peter’s eyes water as you stare past him, a shadow of your former self. peter tries to touch you, but you jerk away. your ankle stings as the cuffs keeping you chained to his bed tightens. peter wilts, “please just listen to me. this is for your safety, (y/n).” he tries to move in front of your face, but you turn your face. you keep your eyes trained on the poster on his wall, some stupid old band. you scoff to yourself, you couldn't believe that you used to find him adorable.

peter twitches at the sound before he explodes. “JUST FUCKING LOOK AT ME.” he grabs your face, gripping you tight. you freeze, afraid to anger him further. tears drip down your face and peter softens, lightly petting your cheek.

“im sorry, im sorry.” his voice cracks. “i… i just don’t want to lose you like i lost-” he swallows, “like i lost gwen…” he breaks down, falling to his knees. he rests his head against the bed, sobs wreaking his body.

you stare at him, unsure of how to react. hesitantly, you pet his hair. his voice is muffled as he keeps his head down. “you’re the most important person in my life, (y/n).” he looks up at you: his eyes red and watering, cheeks flushed. “i can’t go through it again. i won’t.”

"please, (y/n), just- just say something. just tell me y-you won't leave me." he takes your hand and presses a kiss on the back of your hand. you feel his warm tears drip onto your skin.

you hesitate, "i..." you remember when gwen died, how grief-stricken your friend was... you couldn't break his heart again, "i won't leave you, peter. i promise." he looks up at you, his eyes watering again. he pulls himself onto the bed, much to your dismay, and pulls you into a tight hug.

"i love you so much. i love you, i love you." he continues to mumble as he buries his head in your shoulder. you sag, feeling all of the fight leave your body, and let him cry. you feel him start to nod off and his weight presses against you. you lay down, making sure not to wake him. peter continues to whisper as his eyes droop closed, "i love you, (y/n). i'll keep you safe no matter what."

[mintyys-blog]

dark! peter parker x fem! reader: caught in his web

WARNINGS: stalking, swearing, murder, kidnapping, smut, DUB-CON (kinda), mention of death, isolation.

The streets of New York were eerily quiet tonight, the kind of quiet that carried a weight. No bustling chatter, no honking horns, not even the faint echo of distant sirens. The city felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something—or someone. The sensation crept up your spine, subtle at first, then undeniable. It wasn’t the usual paranoia of a city dweller walking home late at night. You quickly walked, boarder line running at this point. Something was making goosebumps raise on your arms and you weren’t planning to find out what was the cause.

Rounding a corner into an alley—a mistake you’d regret later—you froze as a figure descended from above. The faint hiss of webbing broke the silence, and there he was. Spider-Man.

But this wasn’t the hero you’d grown up hearing about. His suit was darker, the once-bright red now muted like dried blood. His mask was torn just enough to reveal the edge of his jaw, clenched tight, and his eyes—those lenses glowed faintly in the dim light, casting a cold, predatory aura.

Behind him, a man hung suspended in webbing, struggling and begging for mercy. His voice cracked, desperate. “Please! I swear I’ll stop—I won’t do it again!” He tried to move but the webs had him stuck in place.

Spider-Man didn’t answer right away. He tilted his head, his body unnervingly still, as if considering the man’s fate. His steps were delicate, silent as he crept closer.

“No,” he finally said, his voice low, almost a growl. “You won’t.”

You didn’t think; you just acted. “Stop!” you shouted, stepping forward before fear could take hold. Your body froze, what did you just do? You should have just walked away. You gulped.

Both the criminal and Spider-Man turned their attention to you. The man in the web looked hopeful. Spider-Man, however, looked… curious. He cocked his head to the side, “Who are you to tell me what to do?” His voice was sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade. He took a step closer, and though his movements were slow, deliberate, they carried an undeniable sense of danger. Based on the stories you heard, he was friendly right? So why didn’t it feel that way?

You swallowed hard, heart pounding, but you didn’t back down. “You’re supposed to be better than this.” You looked around with your eyes, slowly backing away.

For a moment, he said nothing, simply staring at you. Then, to your surprise, he laughed—a low, humorless sound that sent a chill through you. The sudden sound made you jump.

“Better?” he echoed, taking another step forward. “Better doesn’t keep this city safe. Better doesn’t stop people like him.”

“But you’re a hero…” it sounded like a whisper coming from you. A mere prayer, hopelessly uttered. You felt trapped, but not by the alley walls. It was the way his glowing lenses locked onto you, the way his presence seemed to fill the space, leaving no room for escape. He flicked his wrist and his webs dropped the man from the great height. His body hit the ground hard and you could hear his bones crack upon impact. Blood was seeping from the man’s head. Your eyes widen, like a deer in headlights you stood still. Did that just happen? Did Spider-Man… kill someone? Even if they were a criminal- that wasn’t what he was known for.

“What’s your name?” he asked suddenly, the question catching you off guard.

“Why does it matter?” you shot back, trying to keep your voice steady. Your hands were shaking, you needed to make a run for it, but even if you did he would catch you.

“It matters,” he said simply. “Because now, I want to remember you.”

And that was how it began. You didn’t know it then, but from the moment you spoke, Spider-Man had spun his web around you—and he had no intention of letting go.

You tried to forget that night. You told yourself Spider-Man had bigger things to worry about than some stranger who crossed his path. But the unease lingered, creeping into your thoughts every time you were alone.

At first, you dismissed the signs: the shadow that seemed to flicker in your peripheral vision or the faint, almost imperceptible sound of movement outside your window. But then, it became impossible to ignore.

One morning, you found a package waiting on your doorstep. A sleek black box with no name or return address, just a small red spider emblem pressed into the lid. Inside was a pair of gloves—luxurious and perfectly fitted.

You froze. You’d mentioned needing gloves weeks ago, but only to a coworker during a passing conversation. There was no way anyone else could’ve known.

You tried to shrug it off. Maybe it was a coincidence. But the next day, a bouquet of lilies appeared in your apartment. Your stomach twisted. You hadn’t bought them. And you never told anyone lilies were your favorite.

That night, you couldn’t sleep. Every light in your apartment was on, and you sat on your couch, your phone clutched in your hands, debating whether to call the police. But what would you even say? Spider-Man was stalking you? They’d laugh you off—or worse, accuse you of making it up. He was the city’s hero, after all. The savior. You saw posts and news articles praising him, everyone loved him. How could they not? They don’t know him.. and in a way you don’t either. The friendly neighbour hood Spider-Man saves a family in distress.

Still, you couldn’t shake the memory of him in the alley. The way he looked at you—it wasn’t just anger or menace. It was something else, something darker and more complicated. And when he killed that man without so much as a hesitation.

You tried to move on, tried to act like everything was normal. But deep down, you knew he hadn’t forgotten you. And then, one cold night as you walked home, he proved you right.

It was late, the streets eerily quiet, when you heard the familiar thwip of webbing. Your heart jumped into your throat, and before you could react, he was there—dropping from above with a grace that was both mesmerizing and terrifying.

“Are you following me?” you demanded, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to sound firm.

He tilted his head, the glowing lenses of his mask narrowing slightly. “Following? That sounds… malicious,” he said, his voice smooth but laced with something that made your skin crawl. “I prefer to think of it as watching over you.”

“That’s not comforting,” you shot back, taking a step back. “You’re Spider-Man. Aren’t you supposed to be saving people, not stalking them?”

“Saving people,” he repeated, his voice tinged with bitterness. He crossed his arms, the motion fluid yet deliberate, like he was trying to keep himself calm. “Do you know how many people I’ve saved? How many of them I’ve pulled back from the edge, only to watch them destroy themselves—or someone else? I save them, and they still fail.”

You froze, his words catching you off guard. There was anger in his voice, but beneath it, you heard something else. Pain. “In the end people are really… disappointing.”

“But you…” His voice softened as he stepped closer. “You’re different. You don’t look at me like the others do. You don’t look away.”

“I’m not different,” you said carefully, forcing yourself to stand your ground. “I’m just a person trying to live their life.”

He studied you for a long moment, his head tilted, his lenses reflecting the faint streetlights. Then he took another step forward, his tone quieter now. “You remind me of something. Someone I lost.”

Your heart pounded as you stared at him, trying to make sense of his words. “Who.. are you? Really?” He stays silent, “Peter.” He removed his mask.

“Peter,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

He stepped closer, his figure towering over you now, and you felt the cold brick wall press against your back. He was too close, his presence suffocating.

The face beneath was younger than you expected, but worn with exhaustion. His dark eyes bored into yours, scanning your expression as if searching for something. He looked so human, so vulnerable—and yet so dangerous.

“You should be afraid of me,” he said softly, his tone almost gentle. “Why aren’t you?”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. “Because I don’t think you’re a monster. Not yet.”

Something flickered in his eyes at your words—something that might have been regret. But then it was gone, replaced by a grim smile. “Yet..” he scoffs, “you should go home, it’s dangerous around at this time.” He took a few steps back, putting back on his mask. “I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

And with that, he was gone just as fast as he came.

When you got home, you had to tell someone, a someone you could trust.

“Come on, come on, pick up!” You grew frustrated, finally right when you were about to give up, your friend, Levy answered. “Bitch what do you want? I was just in the middle of some hot se-“

“Levy! I need to talk to you, it’s important okay?”

She paused, “y/n? Are you okay? What’s wrong?” You took a breath, you could tell Levy anything, even if it was as crazy as this. “Spider man is stalking me.”

Levy went silent, then she bursted out laughing. “I’m sorry I’m sorry, I- I think the main character syndrome is getting to you, girl” you groan, “no, listen! Please okay! His name is Peter and I think he.. I saw him kill someone okay!”

Levy stopped laughing, “what? Are you sure?” You knew how it sounded, it sounded insane, YOU sounded insane. But it was the truth.

“Yes! Look I think he is after me..!” You replied, your voice was uneven and shaky, thinking back to everything you’ve been experiencing the past few weeks. The gifts, the feeling of being watched, everything. “I’m coming over right now,” there was some noise on her end, “I’ll be there in like 15 minutes? Also lock your doors and windows. I’ll be there soon”

True to her word, she came as soon as possible. Levy locked the door behind her, hugging you. “I would ask how you’re doing but..” she trailed off, letting go. “Also, here” she hands you a mini can of pepper spray. “Now, please explain everything.”

Levy ended up staying for a few more nights and the gifts and feeling of being watched went away. It was sad to see her leave but she convinced you to go down to the police station and write a report. They may not do much but at least it will on file.

Unsurprisingly, they didn’t do much, you left out the part of him being Spider-Man obviously, but without the evidence of actually being stalked they couldn’t do much. This was disappointing but they didn’t have much to go off.

The house felt off tonight. You couldn’t explain why, but there was a heaviness in the air, a subtle shift that had you glancing over your shoulder with every step. The faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards sounded louder than usual, amplifying the silence that surrounded you.

You tightened the grip on the kitchen knife in your hand as you moved from room to room. It was ridiculous, you told yourself. Paranoid. But the feeling of being watched clung to you like a second skin.

“Calm down,” you muttered under your breath, trying to reason with yourself. “No one’s here. You checked the locks.” You attempted to reassure yourself.

And you had. Twice. But the pit in your stomach wouldn’t settle.

Your bare feet padded softly against the hardwood floor as you made your way back to the living room. The shadows seemed to stretch unnaturally, pooling in the corners where the dim light from the lamp didn’t reach. You froze mid-step when you thought you heard something—a faint rustling, like fabric brushing against wood.

“Hello?” you called out, your voice trembling.

No response. It would be worse if you actually got a response.

The knife felt small and useless in your hand, but you clutched it tighter, moving cautiously toward the noise. Your heart raced, pounding in your ears as you peeked around the corner into the hallway.

Empty.

You let out a shaky breath and turned back—only to come face-to-face with Peter.

He was there, impossibly close, his dark eyes glinting with something unsettling. You gasped and stumbled backward, raising the knife instinctively.

“Whoa,” he said, raising his hands as if to placate you, but the smirk on his lips betrayed him. “Easy there. You might hurt yourself.”

“Get out of my house!” you yelled, your voice stronger than you felt.

Peter tilted his head, his smirk widening. “I don’t think you’re in a position to make demands, sweetheart.”

You didn’t hesitate. You lunged, aiming the knife at him, but he was faster—so much faster. He caught your wrist with ease, twisting it until the blade clattered to the floor.

“Feisty,” he muttered, almost to himself. “I like that.”

You screamed and lashed out with your free hand, landing a solid hit on his cheek. The impact surprised him, and for a moment, you thought you might have a chance. But then his expression darkened.

“Bad move,” his eyes narrowed and the pitch perfect ‘boy next store’ look cracked, revealing the sinister look underneath.

Before you could react, he spun you around, pinning your arms behind your back. The feel of his breath against your neck sent a shiver down your spine as he leaned in close.

“I was going to take it easy on you,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “But if you want to make this difficult…”

You thrashed in his grip, but it was like fighting against steel. He was too strong, too quick. You kicked back, your heel connecting with his shin, but it barely phased him.

“Stop!” you screamed, your voice cracking.

“Stop fighting me,” Peter snapped, his tone losing its calm edge. “I don’t want to hurt you, but you’re making it really hard not to.”

You felt the sticky sensation of webbing wrapping around your wrists, binding them together. Panic set in as you realized he wasn’t just stronger than you—he was something else entirely.

“Let me go!” you cried, struggling against the restraints.

Peter sighed, almost sounding disappointed. He turned you to face him, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “I’ve been watching you for weeks,” he admitted, his tone softening. “Keeping you safe, protecting you from all the dangers you don’t even see. And this is how you repay me?”

“Watching me?” Your voice wavered. “That’s not protecting me—that’s stalking!”

He tilted his head, studying you like you were the one who didn’t understand. “You don’t get it,” he said quietly. “You’re everything to me. I couldn’t just sit back and let someone else take you away.”

Tears pricked your eyes as you realized how hopeless the situation was. “You’re insane,” you whispered.

Peter’s expression hardened for a moment, but then he smiled—a chilling, empty smile. “Maybe. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re mine now.”

He scooped you up effortlessly, your struggles meaningless against his strength. The webbing held your wrists tightly as he carried you toward the window, his grip firm and unyielding.

“Peter, please,” you begged, desperation seeping into your voice.

“Shhh,” he murmured, stepping out onto the roof. The cool night air hit your face as he glanced back at you, his smirk returning. “You’ll see. This is for the best.”

As he leaped into the darkness, the last thing you saw was the world below fading into shadow.

The first thing you noticed when you woke was the cold. The room was dim, lit only by the faint, flickering glow of a lamp in the corner. Your wrists ached, still bound by the unyielding webbing, and your head throbbed from where you must have hit it during the struggle.

Panic surged as the events of the night came rushing back. Peter. The fight. The way he carried you off into the night like a predator dragging its prey.

You were lying on a mattress—not your bed, not even a proper bed. Just a thin, worn piece of padding in the middle of a room that looked abandoned. The walls were cracked, the paint peeling, and the windows were boarded up, leaving no way to see outside.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway, and your breath caught in your throat.

The door creaked open, and there he was, standing in the doorway with a tray in his hands. Peter Parker looked almost normal—if you ignored the darkness in his eyes and the faint bruise on his cheek from where you’d hit him.

“You’re awake,” he said, his voice calm and almost… pleased.

“Where am I?” you demanded, your voice shaky but edged with anger.

Peter stepped inside, setting the tray down on a rickety table. He didn’t answer right away, instead pulling up a chair and sitting across from you. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he studied you.

“You’re safe,” he finally said.

“This isn’t safe,” you shot back, tugging at the webbing on your wrists. “This is kidnapping!”

Peter frowned, as if the word offended him. “Kidnapping is such an ugly term. I prefer to think of it as… keeping you out of harm’s way.”

“Harm’s way?” You let out a bitter laugh. “The only person putting me in danger is you!”

His expression darkened for a moment, and you braced yourself for the worst. But then he took a deep breath, his lips curling into a small, unsettling smile.

“You don’t understand yet,” he said softly. “But you will. The world out there is cruel, full of people who would hurt you, use you. I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. But I’m different. I’m the one person who will never let anything happen to you.”

“You’re hurting me right now,” you said through gritted teeth, yanking at the restraints again.

Peter sighed, standing up and walking over to you. You flinched as he crouched down beside you, his gloved hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured, his voice almost tender. “But you keep fighting me, and that’s not going to work. You need to trust me, even if it’s hard right now.”

“Trust you?” you spat. “You’re insane!”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. But he didn’t lash out. Instead, he stood and began pacing the room, his hands flexing at his sides.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” he said, more to himself than to you. “I thought you’d understand, that you’d see I’m doing this for you. But I guess I need to show you.”

“Show me what?” you asked, your voice dripping with defiance.

Peter stopped pacing and turned to face you, his expression unreadable. “That you belong to me,” he said simply. “And that no one else can have you. Trust me, compared to the others I’m your Prince Charming!” He laughed a little.

A chill ran down your spine at the weight of his words.

“Please,” you said, trying a different approach. “You don’t have to do this. Just let me go, and I won’t tell anyone—”

“No,” he interrupted, his voice firm. “I can’t do that. I’ve seen what happens when I let people go. They forget. They leave. And I can’t… I won’t let that happen with you.”

His voice cracked slightly, and for a brief moment, you saw the person he used to be, the one that saved people. But that hero was gone, consumed by whatever darkness had taken root in him.

Peter knelt down in front of you again, his face inches from yours. “You’ll understand,” he whispered. “Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But you will. And when you do, you’ll see that this is where you’re meant to be.”

He stood and walked to the door, glancing back at you one last time before leaving. “Rest,” he said. “You’ll feel better once you’ve had some time to think.”

The door closed with a heavy thud, and you were left alone in the suffocating silence.

You stared at the boarded-up windows, at the walls that felt like they were closing in around you. Peter might think he had control, but you weren’t going to give up. Not yet.

Your eyes scanned the room, searching for anything—anything—you could use to escape. The reality of what was happening- what happened set in. You were kidnapped by a hero, and no one could save you. Would he kill you? He isn’t above killing.. you’ve seen that first hand. Your breathing quickened, and you felt like you were dying. Sobs and battered breaths came from you, you rolled over on your side curling up and closing your eyes. Hoping that when you wake up this will be a bad dream.

Peter sat in the small, decrepit room across from yours, staring at the door separating you from him. His head was in his hands, his fingers tugging at his hair, as if trying to quiet the voices that whispered relentlessly in his mind.

He wasn’t crazy. He knew he wasn’t. Everything he’d done—everything he was doing—was for you. But that didn’t stop the guilt gnawing at the edges of his resolve.

He stood abruptly, pacing the room. He’d spent so many nights like this, torn between doing what he thought was right and the weight of what it cost him. You didn’t understand yet, and maybe you never would. But how could he explain to you what it felt like to lose everything and still keep going? How could he explain that you were the only light left in his dark, crumbling world?

Peter closed his eyes, his mind drifting back to the night he lost May.

Her frail, bloodied hand had trembled in his grip as she whispered her final words. “You’re a good boy, Peter,” she’d said, her voice barely audible. “Always trying to do the right thing.”

But the right thing hadn’t saved her. The right thing hadn’t stopped the people he loved from being ripped away from him over and over again.

He had tried to move on, tried to let the pain drive him to do better, to be better. But when he saw you for the first time, it was as if the world shifted. The way you stood up to him, most people would have run the other way or ignored it. But you, your sense of morality and kind heart. Your smile was soft, kind. It reminded him of the way May used to look at him—like he mattered, like he wasn’t just a burden carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He hadn’t meant to fall for you. At first, it was just a glance here, a quiet admiration from afar. He was curious after all. You have interested him the night you met. But then you smiled and he felt like maybe—just maybe—he could breathe again.

But the world wasn’t kind. It never had been. He saw the way others looked at you, the way they surrounded you like vultures circling something pure and good. They didn’t love you the way he did. They couldn’t.

Peter’s hands clenched into fists as he thought of them—the coworker who “accidentally” brushed against you too often, the friend who lingered too long when they hugged you. They didn’t care about your safety. They didn’t lie awake at night worrying if you got home okay.

He did.

Peter reached for his phone, scrolling through the photos he’d taken of you over the weeks. They were his lifeline. Proof that you were real, that you existed outside the constant storm in his mind.

“You don’t get it yet,” he muttered under his breath. “But you will. You’ll see that they don’t deserve you. None of them do.”

He stopped on a photo of you laughing, your head tilted back, pure joy radiating from your face. His hand trembled as he stared at it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

But it wasn’t just your beauty that drew him to you. It was the way you treated people, the way you never hesitated to stand up for others, even when it wasn’t easy. You reminded him of who he used to be, of the boy who once believed he could save everyone.

And maybe, in a way, saving you was saving himself.

Peter exhaled shakily, his thoughts returning to earlier that night. When he had watched you walking through your house, the knife in your hand trembling as you tried to appear brave. He had almost stepped out then, almost revealed himself just to comfort you. But he knew you wouldn’t understand yet.

And then there was the call.

His jaw tightened as he thought of the man from your work. He had already warned him once—made it clear that he needed to stay away from you. But the man hadn’t listened. None of them ever did.

Peter remembered the fear in the man’s eyes when he cornered him in the parking lot after work. “She’s not yours,” Peter had said, his voice cold and steady. “She never will be. Stay away from her.”

He hadn’t killed him. He wasn’t a monster. He was innocent after all. The only crime being he tried to charm his way into your life. But the broken hand and the bruises had sent the message clearly enough. And if it hadn’t, the man waking up in the middle of the night to find Peter crouched over him had sealed the deal.

“Stay away,” Peter had whispered, his webbing silencing the man’s panicked cries.

They always stayed away after that.

Peter shook his head, clearing the memory. He didn’t want to think about them anymore. They didn’t matter. Only you mattered.

He glanced at the door to your room again, his heart aching with the desire to be near you. He hated himself for the way he’d scared you, for the way he’d taken you from your home. But what choice did he have?

Peter walked to the door, resting his hand against it.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said softly, knowing you couldn’t hear him. “I just want to keep you safe.”

He pressed his forehead against the door, closing his eyes. “You’re all I have left.”

For a moment, he thought of walking away—of letting you go. But then he thought of the world outside, of all the dangers that could tear you away from him. And he knew he couldn’t risk it.

He couldn’t lose you too.

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the old lamp in the corner. You sat on the edge of the thin mattress, your wrists raw from pulling against the webbing that bound them. Sleep was impossible, your mind racing with thoughts of escape and the memory of Peter’s dark, unwavering gaze.

You’d called him insane. A monster. And yet, in the briefest moments, you had seen something else in his eyes—something that didn’t fit the terrifying image of the man who had ripped you from your life.

Fear.

It had been there, lingering beneath the surface of his control. You didn’t understand it, but it had made him feel almost… human.

The door creaked open, and you tensed, your breath catching in your throat as Peter stepped inside. He was holding a tray with what looked like soup, a bottle of water, and a folded napkin.

You expected him to smirk, to taunt you with the power he held over you. Instead, he looked… hesitant. His shoulders were tense, and his lips pressed into a thin line as if he was bracing himself for rejection.

“I brought you something to eat,” he said quietly, his voice devoid of the edge you’d heard before.

You didn’t respond, your eyes narrowing as you watched his every move. He stepped closer, carefully placing the tray on the table near you.

“I know you’re angry,” he said, his voice softening. “You have every right to be. But you need to take care of yourself.”

“Take care of myself?” you snapped, your voice sharp. “You tied me up, dragged me to some—some prison, and now you’re acting like you care about my well-being?”

Peter flinched, and for a moment.

“I do care,” he said, his voice breaking slightly.

You stared at him, searching his face for a hint of the cold, calculated predator who had brought you here. But he wasn’t meeting your gaze. Instead, he was staring at the ground, his jaw tight, his hands fidgeting at his sides.

“You don’t understand what it’s like,” he said after a long pause. “Losing everyone. Watching the people you care about disappear because you couldn’t protect them.”

His words hung heavy in the air.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you said quietly, though your voice lacked the venom it had before. “I didn’t ask to be part of whatever… twisted thing this is.”

Peter’s head snapped up, and for the first time, you saw his humanity glistening in his eyes.

“I know,” he said, his voice uneven. “I know you didn’t ask for any of this. But I—” He stopped, taking a shaky breath. “I couldn’t just stand by and watch something happen to you.”

“Nothing was happening to me,” you said, though your voice wavered. “I was fine.”

“No, you weren’t,” Peter said, his tone firm but not harsh. “You just don’t see it. The way people look at you, the way they use you. They don’t care about you the way I do.”

He stepped closer, and instinctively, you leaned back. He stopped, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said softly. “I would never hurt you. You have to believe that.”

You didn’t respond, your chest tight with a mix of fear and confusion.

Peter hesitated, then sank to the floor, sitting cross-legged a few feet away from you. He rested his elbows on his knees, his hands threading through his messy hair.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he said quietly. “I just… I didn’t know what else to do.”

You watched him, unsure what to say. His shoulders were slumped, his head bowed as if the weight of his own choices was crushing him.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said after a moment. “You don’t have to keep me here.”

Peter laughed bitterly, though there was no humor in it. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t hate myself for scaring you, for—” He stopped, shaking his head. “But if I let you go, I lose you. And I can’t—” His voice cracked, and he buried his face in his hands.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered.

The raw vulnerability in his voice made your chest ache despite yourself. This wasn’t the confident, terrifying figure who had tied you up and dragged you here. This was someone broken, someone desperate.

For a moment, you didn’t see a kidnapper. You saw a boy who had lost too much, who was clinging to the only thing he thought he could still save.

“Peter,” you said, your voice softer now.

He looked up at you, his eyes red, his expression open and raw.

“I don’t hate you,” you said carefully, though the words felt heavy on your tongue. “But this isn’t the way to keep me safe. This isn’t how you help someone.”

Peter stared at you, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said again, his voice barely audible.

“Then let me go,” you said, meeting his gaze. “Please.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Peter’s hands trembled as he pushed himself to his feet, his face a mask of conflict. He tilted your chin up to look at him, he brushed some hair out of your face.

“I can’t,” he said finally, his voice thick with emotion. “Not yet.”

He turned and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.

You sat in the quiet, your mind reeling. For the first time, you felt the cracks in Peter’s armor, the pain that drove his obsession. And while it didn’t make you forgive him, it made you wonder just how far he had fallen—and whether he could ever be pulled back.

A month had passed.

You counted the days by the faint rays of sunlight that seeped through the cracks in the boarded-up windows. At first, time had blurred into one long nightmare, but slowly, things began to change.

Peter began to trust you—or at least, he wanted you to think he did. The tight confines of your room had become less suffocating; the webbing on your wrists was no longer a constant restraint. He started letting you use the bathroom on your own, though he would always wait just outside the door, his shadow visible beneath the gap.

Then came the short walks around the house, his presence always hovering close. The house wasn’t much to look at—an abandoned wreck that seemed more like a tomb than a home—but the moments of freedom, as small as they were, felt monumental.

You knew he was watching your every move, analyzing your every expression. You couldn’t make a wrong step, couldn’t let him see the flicker of defiance that still burned within you.

And yet, something else had shifted too.

Peter had grown… softer, in his own way. The mask of control and certainty he wore when he first took you had begun to crack, revealing something raw and vulnerable beneath.

He wanted you to talk to him. He craved it. And while you hated yourself for it, there were moments when you gave in—because in those moments, you saw the boy behind the monster.

It was one of those days when the silence between you felt heavier than usual. Peter had let you sit in the small living room, the faded couch creaking beneath you as you stared out at the boarded-up windows. He sat on the floor a few feet away, his knees drawn up, watching you like a hawk.

“You don’t hate me as much anymore,” he said suddenly, his voice quiet but steady.

You stiffened, your gaze still fixed on the sliver of light peeking through the wood. “What makes you think that?”

Peter tilted his head, his lips twitching into a faint, almost shy smile. “You don’t flinch as much when I get close. You don’t fight me when I touch your shoulder or—” He paused, his smile faltering. “You don’t look at me like I’m a monster all the time.”

You didn’t know how to respond. He wasn’t entirely wrong. Fear still coursed through your veins every time he got too close, but there was something else too—a strange understanding of his brokenness.

“I still want to leave,” you said, your voice measured.

Peter’s expression darkened, but he nodded slowly, as if he expected the answer. “I know.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“Why are you like this, Peter?” you asked suddenly, your voice softer than you intended.

He looked up at you, his brown eyes wide, vulnerable. “Like what?”

“Like… this.” You gestured vaguely around the room. “Why couldn’t you just talk to me? Why did you think this was the only way?”

Peter’s hands fidgeted in his lap, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Because talking wouldn’t have been enough,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “You would’ve smiled at me, been polite, and then walked away. Just like everyone else.”

“That’s not true,” you said, though even you weren’t sure if you believed it.

Peter let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. “You say that now, but I know how it works. People like me… we’re invisible until we’re not. Until we do something that makes people notice.”

You watched him, the weight of his words settling uncomfortably in your chest. He wasn’t just talking about you—he was talking about his whole life, about the isolation and pain that had shaped him.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” you said quietly.

Peter looked up at you, his eyes shining with something raw, something desperate. “Doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know how to be anything else,” he whispered.

The vulnerability in his voice, in his expression, was almost too much to bear. You wanted to hate him, to scream at him for everything he had taken from you. But in that moment, he looked more like a scared, broken boy than the man who had torn your life apart.

“You’re not a bad person, Peter,” you said carefully. “You just… you’ve lost your way.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing against yours where they rested on your lap. You flinched instinctively, but you didn’t pull away.

Peter’s breath hitched, and he looked up at you with an expression that was equal parts of stoicism and shame. “You really think that?”

“I think you need help,” you said honestly. “Real help. Not this.”

Peter swallowed hard, his grip tightening on your hand as if you might disappear if he let go. “You’re the only help I need,” he said, his voice stern.

His words sent a chill through you, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you let him hold your hand, let him believe for just a moment that this was enough. What surprised you was the kiss that came afterward, you let him, fearing that if you broke his fantasy he would get angry.

Because maybe, just maybe, if you could reach the boy inside the monster, you might find a way out.

The air between you and Peter had changed.

Over the past weeks, the walls that had once kept you both separated—physically and emotionally—had started to thin. It wasn’t that you had forgiven him; you weren’t sure you ever could. But the boy who sat across from you now wasn’t the same as the shadowy figure who had stolen you away.

Peter was still obsessive, still relentless in his belief that he was doing the right thing. But he was also… human. And that humanity, as flawed and broken as it was, had begun to show in small, quiet moments.

Like now.

The two of you sat on the worn couch in the living room, a blanket draped over your legs. Peter had insisted on it when he noticed you shivering earlier. He was close, closer than he used to be, but you hadn’t moved away.

“I used to come here with May,” Peter said suddenly, breaking the silence.

You glanced at him, surprised. He rarely spoke about his past unless prompted.

“She used to say this place was a waste of time,” he continued, a small, wistful smile tugging at his lips. “But it was ours. We’d come here to escape everything. The world, the city… everything that felt too heavy.”

His voice softened, and he glanced down at his hands. “After she died, I didn’t come back for a long time. It felt… wrong. Like I didn’t deserve it anymore.”

You stayed quiet, letting his words hang in the air. He was opening up to you, and for reasons you couldn’t fully explain, you felt compelled to listen.

“What made you come back?” you asked, your voice gentle.

Peter hesitated, his gaze flickering to yours before quickly looking away. “You.”

Your breath caught, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say.

“I didn’t have anything else,” he admitted. “I kept telling myself I was doing fine, that I didn’t need anyone. But when I saw you…” He shook his head, his voice trailing off. “You made me feel like maybe I wasn’t completely alone anymore.”

“Peter,” you began, your tone cautious, but he cut you off.

“I know what I did was wrong,” he said quickly, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I know that. But you have to understand—I didn’t know how else to keep you safe. You’re the only thing in my life that makes sense.”

He reached out tentatively, his hand hovering near yours. You stared at it for a moment before slowly, cautiously, letting him take your hand.

His grip was warm, trembling slightly, as if he couldn’t believe you were letting him touch you.

“You’re not alone, Peter,” you said, your voice steady despite the turmoil in your chest. “But this isn’t the way to hold on to someone. It’s not fair to me, and it’s not fair to you.”

Peter’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. But instead, he shifted closer, his eyes searching yours with a mix of desperation and hope.

“I don’t know how to let go,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Every time I try, it feels like the world is falling apart all over again.”

The creak of the old front door echoed in the house as Peter pulled his hood over his head. He was dressed in his suit, though the mask dangled from his hand as he glanced back at you.

“You’ll be okay here,” he said softly, his voice laced with hesitation.

You nodded, feigning a calmness that didn’t match the pounding of your heart. “I’ll be fine.”

Peter studied you for a moment longer, his brown eyes searching for something—maybe reassurance, maybe doubt. Then he stepped closer, his gloved hand brushing against yours.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promised. “Don’t worry.”

Before you could respond, he slipped the mask over his face and disappeared into the night.

As the sound of his footsteps faded, you sat still, waiting. Your heart raced, and you fought to keep your breathing steady. This was your chance—your first real opportunity in weeks.

Peter trusted you now. He’d grown comfortable, letting you walk freely around the house, leaving the door unlocked when he left. He thought you were resigned to your new life, thought you were beginning to understand him.

He was wrong.

You moved quickly, but quietly, scanning the small house for anything useful. Most of the windows were boarded up, but one in the kitchen had been left partially uncovered. It was high, but with some effort, you could squeeze through.

You grabbed a chair, dragging it toward the counter beneath the window. Your hands shook as you climbed up, your pulse hammering in your ears. The window was old, the glass smudged and streaked with dirt, but you could see the faint glow of streetlights in the distance. Freedom.

The latch was stiff, and you gritted your teeth as you pushed and pulled, trying to pry it open without making too much noise. After what felt like an eternity, it gave way with a soft click.

You pushed the window open, the cool night air rushing in, and pulled yourself up, your legs dangling awkwardly as you tried to maneuver through the small space.

The cool night air kissed your skin as you pulled yourself halfway through the window, the thrill of freedom igniting a spark in your chest. The streetlights in the distance seemed so close, so tangible, as if you could reach out and grasp the life you’d been ripped from.

Then his voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Your entire body froze.

Slowly, you turned your head, dread pooling in your stomach as Peter stepped into the room, his silhouette framed by the faint glow from the hallway. He’d pulled off his mask, his face pale, his expression unreadable.

“You weren’t supposed to do this,” he said, his voice low and eerily calm.

“Peter—” you began, your voice trembling, but he moved faster than you could react.

In an instant, he was at the window, his hand wrapping around your ankle like a steel vice. He yanked you back inside with one sharp pull, and you landed hard on the floor, the breath knocked out of your lungs.

You scrambled backward, trying to put distance between you and him, but he didn’t give you the chance. He loomed over you, his gaze dark and unreadable as he stared down at you.

“I trusted you,” he said, his voice chillingly calm, but his hands were trembling at his sides.

“Peter, I had to try—”

“Had to try what?” he snapped, his tone rising as he cut you off. “To leave me? To run away like I’m some kind of monster?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the fury in his eyes silenced you.

“I gave you freedom,” he continued, his voice shaking with barely-contained anger. “I let you walk around the house. I let you breathe, and this is how you repay me?”

“Peter, please,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “You don’t understand—”

“No, you don’t understand,” he interrupted, his tone sharper now. “I’ve been patient. I’ve been kind. And you’ve taken advantage of that.”

He crouched down in front of you, his face inches from yours. His dark eyes burned with an intensity that made you shiver. “I thought we were making progress,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “I thought you were starting to see things my way. I-I really thought that you were starting to love me too.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “I can’t stay here, Peter. I can’t live like this.”

His jaw tightened, and his hand shot out, gripping your chin and forcing you to look at him. “You don’t have a choice,” he said coldly.

Tears stung your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “You can’t keep me here forever,” you said, your voice trembling but defiant.

Peter’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “Can’t I?”

He stood abruptly, towering over you as you stayed on the floor, too afraid to move. He paced the room, his hands raking through his hair as he muttered to himself.

“You think you can just leave me?” he said, his voice growing darker with each word. “You think I’d just let you go after everything I’ve done for you?”

He stopped suddenly, turning to face you. The anger on his face was matched only by the cold determination in his eyes.

“No more privileges,” he said firmly. “No more freedom. You’re going back to your room, and you’re staying there until I decide you’ve earned my trust again.”

“Peter, please—”

“Quiet!” he snapped, his voice echoing through the room. “You lost the right to argue when you tried to betray me.”

You flinched at the venom in his tone, your chest tightening with a mix of fear and anger.

Without another word, he grabbed your arm and hauled you to your feet. His grip was firm but not painful, though you could feel the tension radiating from him.

He dragged you back toward your room, ignoring your protests and pleas. When he pushed you inside, he stepped back, his expression hard as stone.

“You think I’m the bad guy,” he said, his voice low and cold. “But you’ll see. You’ll see that I’m the only one who cares enough to do this.”

With that, he slammed the door shut, the sound reverberating through the walls.

You sank to the floor, tears streaming down your face as the weight of what had just happened settled over you.

On the other side of the door, Peter leaned against the wall, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving as he fought to control the storm of emotions inside him.

He wasn’t angry because you tried to leave.

He was angry because the thought of losing you terrified him more than anything else.

The silence in the house was deafening.

Days blended together as you sat in your room, staring at the same four walls, the same peeling wallpaper that had grown all too familiar. You couldn’t even remember the last time Peter had spoken to you—he just brought food, delivered it silently, then left again without a word.

He’d cut you off completely, like you were nothing more than an inconvenience. The door to your room was locked at all times, the once-muted sounds of him moving around the house now replaced by an unnerving stillness.

And then, there was the bathroom.

Once a freedom you were allowed, it had become a rare gift, granted only when Peter thought you needed it. He stood just outside the door, always too close, but never speaking, his presence a silent reminder of your captivity.

At first, you raged against the isolation. You screamed at the walls, demanded that he speak to you, ask you questions, anything to break the suffocating silence. But as the days stretched into weeks, you stopped.

Now, there was only quiet.

You sat by the window, watching the shadows of the night grow long, thinking about nothing and everything at once. The house had grown colder, both literally and emotionally. Peter had stopped being a presence in your life, and in turn, you had stopped fighting against it.

Except you hadn’t stopped needing him.

It was a quiet hunger, this longing for connection. The loneliness gnawed at you like an empty pit in your stomach. You tried to tell yourself that it didn’t matter—that he was a monster, a kidnapper, someone you could never trust again. But the more time passed, the more you found yourself craving any bit of human interaction, even if it was from him.

Even if it was him coming into your room and just standing there, doing nothing but existing in the same space as you.

You hated yourself for it.

At night, when the house was silent, you would lay on the cold, hard floor and cry. You cried for the life you had lost, for the days that seemed to stretch on forever. But mostly, you cried because you felt as if your very soul was withering away in that room, and there was no one to see it.

There were no more demands. No more pleas. You knew better than to ask for anything now.

But that didn’t stop you from trying.

The door to your room creaked open one morning, and there he was. Peter.

He didn’t look at you as he stepped inside, his eyes fixed firmly on the tray of food he was carrying. He set it down on the small table by the bed and didn’t say a word. His face was unreadable, and for a moment, you thought he might leave again without a glance in your direction.

But then, without looking up, he spoke in a low, almost hushed voice.

“You can eat, then go to the bathroom if you need to.”

You nodded, your heart hammering in your chest as you picked up the spoon, your hands trembling slightly. You wanted to speak to him, to ask why he was even saying anything at all, but you stayed silent. He wasn’t ready to talk, not yet.

As you ate, Peter stood at the door, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t leave, but he didn’t move closer either. He just… watched.

You finished your meal in silence, the tension hanging thick in the air. When you were done, you glanced up at him, your mouth dry.

“Peter,” you whispered. The word felt strange on your tongue after weeks of silence.

His eyes flicked to yours, but he didn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice cracking. “I’m sorry I tried to leave. I… I just wanted to be free.”

Peter’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he would turn and walk away. But instead, he stepped forward, his gaze flickering briefly to the door.

“I know,” he said softly. “But freedom is a lie. No one is ever truly free.”

Your heart sank, but you nodded, feeling the weight of his words.

Then, just as quickly as he had spoken, he left, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

The days passed, and little by little, something started to change. It was subtle at first—a slight shift in his demeanor when he brought you food, the way he lingered just a little longer by the door. His silence, though still heavy, seemed to be less hostile, less like a punishment and more like… waiting.

You didn’t push him. Instead, you focused on earning back what little trust you had lost.

One evening, when Peter brought you dinner, you didn’t just eat in silence.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

Peter didn’t respond right away, but you could feel the hesitation in his posture. Then, after a long pause, he said, “You’re welcome.”

You nodded, even though the words barely felt like a breakthrough. But they were something—something that made your chest tighten with cautious hope.

The days went by, and your interactions, though brief, grew a little more frequent. He allowed you to sit in the living room sometimes, his presence always looming but never quite stifling. When he took you to the bathroom, he didn’t look at you with the same cold detachment he once had. There was something softer in his gaze, something that made you think, just for a moment, that maybe, just maybe, he wanted you to be okay.

And slowly, you found yourself longing for those small moments of interaction more than anything.

You knew better than to hope for more—knew better than to believe this could ever be anything resembling a normal life. But even in the silence, you couldn’t ignore the subtle change.

Peter wasn’t saying much. He wasn’t apologizing for what he’d done.

But he was present.

And sometimes, that was enough.

You hadn’t realized how touch-deprived you were until the moment Peter’s hand brushed against yours as he handed you your food. It was a brief moment, almost imperceptible, but it sent a shiver through you, something deep inside you stirring with a longing you hadn’t acknowledged before.

The silence had worn down your defenses, eroded your ability to fight the emptiness that gnawed at you. You didn’t want to admit it, but the isolation had begun to twist you, making even the smallest contact feel like a lifeline. And Peter, despite everything, was still the only person in this prison you called a life.

The evening was colder than usual when Peter came into your room with the bathwater prepared. It had been a long time since he’d bathed you himself, though you could tell by the careful way he avoided meeting your eyes that he was still hesitant, unsure of how much to give or take.

He hadn’t offered any explanation for his strange acts of care. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe he thought that tending to your most basic needs might somehow balance out the pain he had caused you. Or maybe, deep down, he craved something more than just control. Something human.

He helped you undress with a gentleness that almost startled you. His hands trembled slightly as he touched your skin, but it wasn’t the nervousness of a man who feared you. It was a quiet vulnerability, a tenderness that you hadn’t expected from him.

When you were seated in the tub, the warm water washing over your body, Peter knelt beside it, his gaze lingering on you for a moment too long. The intensity in his eyes made your heart race, and for the first time in weeks, you found yourself feeling something other than fear or sadness.

You hadn’t even realized how badly you’d needed this—the simple act of another person caring for you. Of someone seeing you as more than just an object.

“Lean back,” Peter said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You obeyed, letting your head rest against the side of the tub as he began to gently scrub your back. His touch was careful, almost reverent, and every stroke of his hand against your skin felt like it was melting some of the tension that had built up in you. The loneliness, the ache inside you—slowly, it started to ebb away.

As he reached your shoulders, his fingers brushing against your neck, your breath hitched. There was a brief moment when your gazes met, his eyes locked on yours, and for the first time, you didn’t see the cold, calculating man who had taken you from everything you knew. You saw Peter—the boy who had been shattered, just like you.

You didn’t know what made you do it. Maybe it was the isolation, or the years of keeping yourself locked away inside your own mind. But when Peter’s gaze softened, when the silence between you felt like the calm before a storm, you leaned forward, your lips barely grazing his.

The kiss was soft—tentative, almost fragile—but the spark it ignited inside you was overwhelming. You didn’t pull away. Neither of you did.

Peter’s hand rested on your cheek, his fingers trembling as he deepened the kiss. The warmth of his touch, the way his lips molded against yours, was the closest thing you’d felt to comfort in a long time. But as much as you craved it, as much as you wanted to lose yourself in that moment, you knew it wasn’t the solution to everything.

Peter pulled away just slightly, his breath ragged, his eyes searching your face for something he hadn’t found in a long time—understanding, acceptance, maybe even trust.

“Do you want to stay?” he asked quietly, his voice rough, almost unsure.

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. You knew what he was asking, and you felt the weight of his hesitation pressing down on you.

You didn’t know what to say.

But you nodded.

For the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel like you were trapped in a cage of your own making. Even if Peter hadn’t fully earned your trust back, even if he still held you in his grip, there was something in his actions, in the quiet moments between you, that felt different.

“Okay,” Peter whispered, his hand gently cupping your face. “I’ll let you stay.”

That night, when he led you to his bedroom, you didn’t question it. The room was bigger, more comfortable, more inviting than the small, sterile space you had grown accustomed to. The bed was huge, with soft, dark sheets, and there was a warmth to it that you hadn’t felt in weeks.

Peter didn’t say anything as he gestured for you to lie down. Instead, he climbed in beside you, the weight of his presence pressing against you in a way that was both comforting and suffocating. But you couldn’t pull away.

He didn’t touch you after that. He simply lay there, his back to you as you stared at the ceiling, your thoughts racing. The bed felt too big for just the two of you, but it also felt like the first step toward something you hadn’t allowed yourself to think about—something resembling normalcy, intimacy, even tenderness.

The room was silent except for the sound of your breathing, slow and steady, and Peter’s, a little heavier, a little more erratic.

You wanted to say something. You wanted to fill the silence with words that would break the barrier between you, but you didn’t know how.

You wanted to tell him that you didn’t know how much longer you could live like this, that you didn’t want to be kept, that you needed something real, something more than this twisted version of intimacy. But you stayed quiet.

Because, despite everything, you craved his presence. You craved him.

And for that one night, you let yourself forget everything else. You let yourself rest in his presence, even if it was only temporary, even if it was just for the night.

You closed your eyes, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to sleep without the constant fear gnawing at your bones.

The days passed in a quiet blur, each one blurring into the next, but the soft rhythm of Peter’s presence in your life was starting to take hold. Though the isolation of the house was still oppressive, something had shifted between the two of you. It wasn’t trust—not yet—but it was an understanding.

Peter still wasn’t fully open with you. He still kept his distance emotionally, often retreating into himself after the rare moments of intimacy you shared. But there were more of those moments now—small, fleeting acts that spoke louder than anything he’d said. The way he let you sit by his side on the couch, or how he’d give you a small, almost unnoticeable smile when he brought you your meals. There was a vulnerability in him that you hadn’t seen before.

And still, you felt yourself growing dependent on him in ways that both terrified and comforted you. The loneliness that had once consumed you had begun to lessen, replaced by a new kind of ache—a desire for the attention, the care, the touch that he had begun to give you.

That evening, Peter arrived at your door to bring you your dinner, his usual stoic expression in place. He stepped into the room, setting the tray down on the bed, and then paused, his eyes lingering on you. You could see the conflict in his gaze—he wanted to say something, you could feel it—but he remained silent, as he often did.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” you ventured, your voice soft, careful. “I haven’t seen you much.”

Peter stiffened slightly, his hand resting against the doorframe as he avoided looking at you directly. “I’ve been busy.”

It was a vague answer, but you didn’t push. You never pushed anymore.

He turned to leave, but before he could reach the door, you spoke again. “Can I… can I sit with you tonight? Just for a little while?”

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, Peter didn’t respond. He stood there, unmoving, as if weighing the request in his mind. Finally, he let out a slow exhale and nodded, his voice barely a whisper.

“Alright.”

The small word seemed to reverberate in your chest. It was a permission, an invitation, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to feel something that wasn’t fear.

That night, you joined him in the living room, sitting quietly beside him on the couch. The tension between you two was palpable, but there was a comfort in the silence. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of a lamp casting gentle shadows against the walls.

Peter didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His proximity was enough. You could feel the warmth of his body, the way his knee brushed against yours, a subtle connection that made your pulse quicken despite the calmness of the moment.

You didn’t look at him directly, afraid that the vulnerability you were beginning to feel would show too much. Instead, you stared at the floor, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.

“Do you ever… regret it?” you asked, almost against your will. “Taking me? Keeping me here?”

Peter’s gaze flicked to you, and for a moment, you saw the weight of his past in his eyes—the pain, the remorse, the lingering darkness. He hesitated before speaking.

“I didn’t… mean for it to be like this.” His voice was low, almost regretful, but there was something else there too—a quiet resignation. “But I’ve made my choices, and I’m not going to back out now.”

You nodded, your heart sinking as his words landed. He didn’t regret it. Not enough to let you go. Not enough to change.

But you could feel the cracks in his walls, the way they were slowly starting to form. His actions had changed, even if his words hadn’t.

And that was enough for now.

The next few days were different. Peter still didn’t speak to you much, but when he did, his voice wasn’t cold or dismissive. He seemed to be watching you more closely, his gaze following your movements with an intensity that was both unsettling and… comforting.

One evening, after you’d eaten and he’d allowed you to have a bath, he surprised you. As you dried off, he appeared in the doorway, his presence suddenly more intense than usual.

“You’re… you’re being good,” he said, his voice low, almost hesitant.

Your stomach fluttered at the compliment, though you tried to keep your expression neutral.

“What do you mean?” you asked.

Peter stepped into the room, his eyes locked on yours. “You haven’t been… difficult. You’ve accepted things. I can see you’re trying.”

“I am,” you said quietly. “I don’t want to fight anymore.”

Peter nodded, a strange, almost unreadable expression passing over his face. He was standing closer now, and for a moment, you could almost feel the tension between you building to a breaking point.

“Good,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. He seemed to hesitate for just a moment before he reached out, his hand hovering just in front of your shoulder.

You didn’t pull away. You allowed him the space, even as your heart raced at the proximity. Slowly, his hand landed gently on your arm, his fingers brushing against your skin with the faintest touch. It wasn’t the rough grip you had grown used to—no, it was soft, almost tender.

His thumb brushed over your skin, sending a shock of warmth through you.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

The words felt like a promise, one that you were slowly starting to believe, even though you knew the truth. Peter was still unpredictable, still dangerous in his own way. But in that moment, his touch felt like the only thing holding you together.

He stayed there, his hand resting lightly on your arm, the silence stretching between you both. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you needed to.

And for the first time in a long while, you felt like you weren’t alone.

The house had grown quieter in the last few days, the tension between you and Peter almost palpable. There were moments when you would catch him watching you from across the room, his gaze lingering on you with an intensity that left you feeling exposed. It wasn’t just the silence—it was the weight of everything unspoken, the way the air seemed to thrum with things neither of you could say.

Still, something had shifted in the way Peter looked at you. The coldness had faded, replaced by something softer, more uncertain. You couldn’t explain it, but you could feel it—the way he lingered longer when he gave you food, how he would sometimes stand near you and just… be there.

There had been no words. No explanations. But in the silence, you understood.

It was late one evening when you found yourself sitting on the edge of the couch, absentmindedly playing with the edge of the blanket, lost in your thoughts. You hadn’t seen Peter for a while, and though you told yourself you didn’t care, you couldn’t shake the strange feeling that gnawed at you when he wasn’t around.

It wasn’t just loneliness, you realized. It was something else, something you weren’t ready to name.

The door to the living room creaked open, and you glanced up to see Peter standing there. His eyes flicked to you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, with a quiet sigh, he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. He didn’t sit down immediately; instead, he lingered by the wall, his posture tense, as though he were unsure of what to do next.

“Peter,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He turned his head, his eyes meeting yours. “Yeah?”

There was something about his gaze—something that made your heart race. He was watching you closely, as if waiting for you to make the first move, but you didn’t know what you were supposed to say, what you were supposed to do.

“I—” you started, your words faltering. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Peter’s eyes softened, just slightly, and for a moment, you thought you saw something in him that mirrored your own need for connection, something that made him hesitate before taking a step toward you.

You couldn’t stop it—couldn’t stop the way your chest tightened, the way you longed for him to cross that distance, to close the gap between the two of you.

Before you could stop yourself, you stood up, your heart pounding in your chest. You moved closer, your body instinctively drawn toward him, and as you reached him, your hand brushed against his arm. The contact was electric, and you both froze.

He looked down at you, his eyes wide, as if waiting for you to pull away. But you didn’t.

You didn’t want to pull away.

Slowly, tentatively, you reached up, your hand cupping his cheek. His breath hitched, and you could feel the way his muscles tensed under your touch. But still, he didn’t pull away.

“You’re not going to push me away?” you whispered, your voice barely audible, your words trembling as you spoke.

He swallowed, his eyes locked onto yours. “I don’t want to.”

It was all the permission you needed.

You moved in closer, your lips brushing against his in a kiss that was slow and tentative, as though you were both testing the waters, unsure of where this might lead. Peter’s lips were soft against yours, hesitant, as if he were afraid to go too far, too fast.

But you couldn’t stop yourself.

The kiss deepened slightly, and Peter’s hand came up to rest gently on your waist. His touch was light, careful, as if he were afraid that even the smallest movement might break something between you. His fingers brushed against your skin, sending a shiver through your body, but there was no harshness, no urgency—only a quiet, desperate tenderness.

You could feel the way his body tensed, holding himself back, as if he were afraid to give in to the desire that was building between you. He pulled away just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and uncertain.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispered, his voice low, however his eyes held a different story.

Your heart fluttered at his words, and for the first time in a long while, you believed him.

You nodded, your hand resting gently on his chest. “I know.”

There was a brief moment of silence between you, both of you standing there, as if the world outside the walls of the house didn’t exist anymore. Neither of you moved—just stood, your hearts racing in sync with each other.

Finally, Peter leaned in again, his lips brushing against yours with more confidence this time. It was gentle, soft, but there was an undercurrent of something more—something raw and desperate that neither of you could deny. The kiss was electrifying, full of passion and warmth. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and he picked you up, holding your legs around his hips as he lead you to the bedroom.

You feel on your back, gasping for air, “Peter” he kisses your neck, leaving love bites. “That’s right, baby, say my name” the cockiness in his tone; followed by him undressing you. You shivered, not because of the cold— because his gaze on your body. He looked like he was drinking you in, like how one would stare at a huge feast. He looked starved.

“You’re so beautiful..” he removes his own clothes, dipping his fingers in your warmth. You were wet, embarrassing so. He was slow and delicate, it was apparent that he was holding back— almost scared of hurting you. Almost. Your moans egged him on, adding a third finger while his other hand rubbed circles on your clit. You closed your eyes throwing your head back. “Keep your eyes on me, sweetheart” when you look at him his dark eyes were clouded with lust and admiration.

The way he made you feel was heavenly, you tried to shallow your moans but failed to do so. He leaned down to kiss your neck, breast, anywhere that he could reach. Soon you came undone, your body shaking after. Peter removed his hands, sucking his fingers clean. “You taste so addicting” he muttered, it was quiet you almost didn’t hear it.

He pushed back some of your hair, “are you ready?” He asked, his eyes filled with nothing but love. “Yes” you whispered back. You wanted this, craved this. As messed up as it was, you wanted him. You shouldn’t have, you should have hated him, cursed him out, hit him to your hearts content. But you didn’t want to. Your feels for Peter were confusing but you knew that you weren’t opposed to his actions.

He trusted in, slowly, and you felt the burn and stretch instantly. You tried to close your legs but with Peter in between them it was pointless. Noticing your pain he kissed your tears away, pumping slowly. After a while it started to feel good. “Harder..” you panted out. He obliged, quickening his pace and boarder line slamming into your warmth. “Peter! Oh— right there” he angled his hips, touching your g spot. He panted, groaning at how hard you were gripping him. Your nails were raking down his back, leaving red marks on his pale skin.

He picked you up, resting on his knees and you wrapped your arms around his neck while you rode him. He was still trusting to meet your pace. You sunk further onto him due to the new position. You cried out, body shaking as you cum for the second time. “Please— I can’t—“

“You can, and you will” Peter thrusts at an unforgiving pace, overstimulated, tears ran down your face. It was too much, you tried to tell him but all that came out where moans and whimpers. “You can take it, I know you can”

He throws you back on the bed, in missionary, then he threw your legs on his shoulders and thrusted into your warmth. The wet sounds followed by the skin slapping was going to tip you over, again. “Just a little more, baby” he whispered in your ear, kissing your neck. “Mhm,” one of his hands comes to play with your clit, rubbing in small circles. With a loud moan you cum for the third time. Peter follows soon after, throwing his head back, as he finishes inside you. He pants, staying inside your pussy just a little longer than pulling his cock out. He lays down beside you, panting for a minute then rolling over and kissing you gently. “You did so good, I knew you could take it.” You smile, sleepily. He gets up, going to the washroom to grab a warm cloth, cleaning up the inside of your legs. He continues to praise you, and you feel like you’re about to fall asleep.

Peter notices your closed eyes and lack of response. He smiles to himself. He kisses your head, throwing the cloth somewhere in the room and pulling the covers over you. He climbs in beside you, holding you close.

No one was going to take this from him. No one.

[mrsdarkandyandere7]

Never Leaving

Pairing: Dark Peter Parker x (female) Reader

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

SUMMARY: Peter needs to keep you, even if you don’t want to. 

WARNINGS: Kidnap.

AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback.

--

“I wanna go home. Please!” you cry out, struggling against the ropes that keep you restrained to the chair. 

“Don’t cry, c’mon.” Peter begs, nervously twisting his hands as he tries to make you look him in the eyes. But that’s what you least want. Right now, just the sight of him makes you sick. “I know this is ….unexpected, but I had to take you. It’s for your own good.” 

You bitterly scoff, closing your eyes for a moment. You hate him. 

“I just want to go home, Peter. Please, that’s all I want.” your voice is barely loud enough to be heard, but Peter immediately reacts. His hands are quick to grab your cheeks, his touch soft yet demanding your attention as he forces you to face him. 

“This will be your new home. Our home.” he stops for a moment, his eyes pleading you to understand his stance. “We can be so happy together, I just know it.” 

Peter suddenly leans forward, ignoring your attempts to turn your head as he grabs the back of your head, forcing you to stay put and accept his kiss.

The moment his lips touch yours, you feel your stomach churning, anxiety and fear revolving inside you. It barely lasts a second before he pulls away, a dreamy expression taking over his face.

A smile decorating his lips as he gazes at you, clearly ignoring the shock and disgusted on your face. 

“See? We’re perfect for each other, we’re soulmates. And I can’t let you go away from me.” 

[hanasnx]

muffy!reader who makes too much of a habit getting Spider-man’s attention. You pay media sources and news outlets to make him think you’re in danger, just so he can find you on the rooftop where you’re meant to be held captured by mob goons, perfectly fine with your legs crossed, dangling your louboutin heel impatiently. You smile the second you see him of course, and he’s just goes “really? This again?” And you just shrug with a big smile saying you just wanted to see him. One of the only people in New York to have Spider-Man’s personal cell, and this is how you get his attention. He really can’t stay mad for long, but he does take you back home and tells you to stay put, an emphasis on not calling anymore media outlets. You pout and he sighs, pulling his mask up just over his mouth and pulling you into a sweet goodbye kiss that you make way dirtier by shoving your tongue down his throat, but he’ll just deal with you later. And he has all of patrol to figure out how he’s going to do that

-🐞

it’s part of your spoiled rotten brat archetype to not understand you’re taking him away from people that need him. you think this is some cute little thing, meanwhile he’s thinking about how you don’t take him seriously. it’s soo delicious

i loved the bit about how you’ve got his personal cell and this is the shit you do <3

it’s a little reminiscent of how we meet muffy ainsworth (muffy!reader’s inspiration) in the comics. she basically was involved in a staged elopement, her fiancé “kidnapping” her and spider-man believes it to be a real one and puts a stop to it. she expresses to him—this is the first time they meet—that he ruined her elopement 💀 and i think he calls her nuts

[adgaea]

Bad Things Happen Bingo

Sensory Overload

Sensory Overload - ADGAEA - Spider-Man - All Media Types [Archive of Our Own]

Peter’s so confused, especially since he was kidnapped as a civilian. Some passerby had managed to get the jump on him right after he left school. He hadn’t even seen their face before he felt his spider sense go off, and he was too late to stop the hit to the back of the head and the hand that pressed a needle full of some chemical in his neck.

TW: Kidnapping, drugging, sensory overload, panic attack

Disclaimer: I own nothing except for my plot.

[irondadfics]

Hi I’m looking for a Peter whump fic where he gets kidnapped and has his blood drained, I think by a needle in his neck. He eventually escapes and calls Tony for help but Tony either doesn’t initially pick up or he quickly hangs up maybe because of an argument they had and because he didn’t realize Peter was in trouble

could either of these be your fic?

After the Storm - Febuwhump 2022 by polaroid15

Chapter 7: Used as an experiment

Peter is followed home by a man in a trench coat.  It goes down hill from there.

5 times Tony joked about Peter being part spider by KatinaMoon

Scene is in Chapter 6:

+1 time he definitely didn't

[littlelostbirdy]

I'm not gonna lie I've read A Lot of fics in A Lot of fandoms but never have I encountered a character that gets auctioned off as much as Tim Drake