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High school was going about as good as you could expect for a kid like Peter Parker: certified genius, obsessed with studying how things worked and inventing his own machines, a loner with stunted social skills, and a mind full of anxiety (and a shit ton of paranoia). He aced his classes and spent free time studying or inventing more often than playing video games (though he did play his fair share of video games). He never really went outside, there was too much risk of running into someone who hated his guts, instead relying on his inventions to keep his mind occupied and his body energized. If the stress (loneliness) became too much, he wrote down his thoughts in code (his Aunt May said that writing things down makes it easier to cope with them) so that no one else could understand them.

Peter’s paranoia was extremely overexaggerated, he knew that, but that didn’t stop his mind from providing the worst possible outcome for every single thing he did. It did keep him from making too many mistakes, saving him from making everything so much worse, so he supposed it wasn’t too bad (there were much worse things than paranoia).

It wasn’t really a surprise that Peter was traumatized. His childhood was full of teasing and minor physical violence that only got worse once the bullies realized that Peter was too weak to fight back. Elementary and middle school were a blur of wedgies, swirlies, and being shoved into lockers (because honestly, Peter was small and had virtually no muscle). High school made the physical anguish worse and worse and worse. The kids knew where to hit Peter to make him unable to breathe, they knew that Peter wouldn’t say anything to defend himself.

Even the teasing got worse. The older they got, the more words they learned (or they became brave enough to use them because they realized they wouldn’t actually be smited by God for saying ‘fuck’), the more insults they had at their disposal. Peter didn’t say anything, he knew that would only make it worse (bullying assemblies always say to refuse to respond, but apparently everyone seemed to know that Peter went home and cried).

So Peter was alone during high school. Frustratingly alone. It does things to the human psyche, to be alone throughout a tough time. Humans are social creatures, they need social contact. Especially when it seems like there’s no one and nothing to help them (sometimes Peter desperately wishes he wasn’t human (or that he wasn’t even alive) so he wouldn’t crave human contact). But of course, Peter was left alone to endure the teasing, shoving, and occasional black eye gifted to him by the worst of the bullies on a particularly bad day. There wasn’t anything he could do about it; he was a loser nerd with absolutely no muscle mass and a talent for blurting out the most useless information when under pressure. No one would be deterred by that wonderfully amazing skill (not(Peter had tried failed miserably)).

Most days, he went home locked himself away, not trusting anyone to get close to him. He couldn’t afford to. Friends would only make him happy. Peter couldn’t afford to be happy. The word itself sounded like a million different punches and insults. Happiness just wasn’t meant for a kid like Peter Parker.

Aunt May and Uncle Ben were concerned (why wouldn’t they be? Their surrogate son was being bullied every single day of his life), but Peter wouldn’t talk to them. He didn’t want to burden them with his weakness. Ned tried to comfort Peter (He had been hopeful, he’d thought that maybe Ned could finally break the cycle of anguish), but if even that notion was carried out then Ned would be threatened and given a too hard shove near the top of the stairs. It wasn’t long before Ned ditched him for friends who weren’t targeted by the meanest kids in school (he didn’t even bother to talk to him about it, didn’t even try to stick it out for more than a month (was Peter really that much of a loser that he couldn’t keep a friend for more than a month?)) Because ‘Puny Parker’ didn’t deserve friends for being so weak. ‘Penis Parker’ was too much of a dork/nerd/loser/pussy/faggot (he wasn’t sure about that last part, but who was he to prove wrong the people who seemed to know Peter better than he knew himself?) to have friends, or to have anyone to care about him. Anyone who tried to get close ended up finding out the hard way to stay away (Peter couldn’t count the number of people who had been threatened because they didn’t know any better than to stay away from him. He was responsible for so many tears.). So Peter was alone, left on his own to ace his classes and create new machines and play single-player video games (because he was honestly too afraid to meet someone online and become friends with them and have them leave him too). He couldn’t trust anyone, he couldn’t confide in anyone. He was scared; so, so scared of what would happen if he did.

Peter buried himself in learning and creating. He fell into his work, discovering how anything and everything was allowed to exist in this cruel (so goddamn cruel) universe. It distracted him from the impending doom he would receive at school. It distracted him from the dull aching in his head that would only increase when he sat still. He worked and worked until he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore. And then he would sleep dreamlessly. When he woke up, he would rush to start working again, just so his head wouldn’t ache. Just so he could think clearly. He didn’t wonder why his head pounded, never told anyone his troubles (who would he even tell? No one was allowed to talk to him, much less listen to him), never allowed himself to believe there was something wrong. He just worked.

When Aunt May and Uncle Ben finally thought that Peter had worked enough, they ran him out of his room and onto the couch. They would have a ‘friendly conversation’ (Peter hated them, hated every time his Aunt and Uncle tried to talk to him, because they didn’t seem to understand that no one was allowed to talk to him) which consisted of them asking Peter questions and Peter giving the shortest responses he could think of (and Peter was a genius, it wasn’t really that hard). The ‘friendly conversations’ would last a few hours, then Aunt May would cook pasta (because Peter could honestly eat Italian for the rest of his life), they would eat and talk and Peter would open up a little bit more (because Aunt May’s pasta was literally to die for even if she couldn’t cook anything else if someone held a gun to her head), and then he would realize that he had opened up a little bit more and run off to lock himself in his room once again and debate his entire life and whether or not it was actually worth living before hastily drawing new blueprints for another machine and working on that until the next ‘friendly conversation’.
Most ‘friendly conversations’ resulted in an anxiety fueled mass production of different machines or robots. He built based on real life, different creatures suited for a specific purpose inspired by the organism’s traits. Most were irrational precautions in case of invasion from one of Peter’s bullies (he doubted that anyone actually knew where he lived, but Peter had experience in advanced hacking and had found everyone else’s addresses. It couldn’t be that hard for someone else to find his) In the process of making the actual creature, Peter also made a variety of cameras to see what the robot would in any environment or weather (you never know what you might encounter)

The machine was fairly difficult to plan out, each creature presented its own challenges. Luckily, Aunt May and Uncle Ben gave Peter a steady supply of metals, a variety of mechanical parts (motors, pistons, wheels, gears, etc.), workable glass, and different synthetic materials (Peter silently wished they would stop, he didn’t want to be such a burden to them when they barely had enough money to begin with), letting him build pretty much whatever his imagination desired. As such, Peter’s room was filled with different robotics and random parts that ended up being discarded but never trashed. Spare parts he had never gotten around to cleaning up or using were scattered along the walls and underneath his bed. Different workstations huddled close together in one corner, allowing a space that was home for (most) of the more serious clutter.

It was times like this, when he realized just how messy and disorganized his room was that Peter was pretty glad his Aunt and Uncle had a house with a basement that they let him claim as his room. It was a saving grace sometimes, and he didn’t have to seriously worry about his Aunt and Uncle being disturbed by the robots he would let roam around.

His latest project surrounded spiders. It was inspired by Uncle Ben saying, ‘You surround yourself in a web of your own creations and leave no room for anyone else.’ during one of the ‘friendly conversations’. Peter thought that Uncle Ben was pretty passive aggressive when it came to Peter’s interactions with other people. He would kindly point out different ways for his nephew to interact with people, then seemingly accuse Peter for isolating himself and refusing to interact with anyone else.

Of course, Ben’s nephew was a loner by nature, it was obvious by the stammers and aversions Peter had towards socializing, but no human being could last 15 years without collecting some variety of friends. In Ben’s entire knowledge of the kid, Peter had never gone over to someone else’s house or invited someone over to his. It was strange, possibly mentally harmful, and terrifying. Aunt May and Uncle Ben weren’t just worried, they were scared. Their nephew wasn’t making friends, he wasn’t interacting with other people outside of school, and as far as they knew, Peter stayed downstairs in his room whenever he wasn’t at school or with them (or so Peter had heard from a conversation he had overheard when his Aunt and Uncle thought he was still in his room).

But Peter didn’t try to fix anything, didn’t try to assuage his Aunt and Uncle’s worries. There was no reason to. He had lived his whole life like this, and Peter was relatively fine. Why should he change? Even if he wanted to, there was still the matter of his bullies and everyone who avoided him. Just because he tried harder to interact with others didn’t mean that any of it would stop. It didn’t mean that the bullies wouldn’t find someone else to torment until the end of high school, or college, or life. Peter endured, because even if he wanted to change he couldn’t let anyone else get hurt.

So he continued to lock himself away and work on his machines and inventions. Life went on, Peter worked on his spiders and his smaller scale projects in between bursts of inspiration and the bullies teased and shoved and occasionally punched him.

The announcement of his science class’ field trip to Oscorp honestly excited him. Possibly the first genuine feeling of anything positive in months. Peter knew most of Oscorp’s current projects, and was following the progress of their study of spider’s religiously. The opportunity to actually be able to see the research in person was more than anything Peter could ever hope for.

Peter walked out of school at the end of the day with a half smile on his face (he wouldn’t be lying if he said he had forgotten how to actually smile a long time ago)

“Hey Penis Parker!”

Peter started walking faster, realizing his mistake and immediately wiping the smile off his face. He knew he shouldn’t try to run, but the blaring pounding in his head that was telling him to escaperunhidegetout. Of course, a full day of Flash (and therefore pretty much everyone) ignoring him tended to put Peter into higher spirits.

“Don’t walk away from me Parker.” His voice hardened into one that Peter always dreaded. This voice meant that he was going to suffer for at least another two weeks from the wounds alone.
Peter stopped and turned to face his harassers.

Flash Thompson (his real name was Eugene, but apparently he was too cool for that ‘dumb name’) was the one who scared Peter most. He was quicker, taller, and stronger than Peter could ever hope to be. Not that he really had any hope to begin with. Flash’s friends (all pretty much nameless, because Peter honestly didn’t even try to care anymore) followed behind him, with the same evil smirk. One of them grabbed Peter’s collar and dragged him down the sidewalk, not particularly caring just how it would look to an outsider (but of course, who could really care about Puny Penis Parker anyway?). It felt a bit strange, being forced to walk forward against his will, but Peter had to let Flash do whatever he wanted. Or someone else would get hurt. His selfish desire to get away would only hurt another nerdy kid.

Peter knew that he was traumatized from Flash’s treatment. He knew that the strain of being teased and punched and yelled at almost every time he did something the taller boy didn’t like would lead to even more overwhelming anxiety and paranoia. Peter was afraid of things that would never happen, like Flash beating him up because he talked to his Aunt and Uncle; or Flash eventually finding out just how smart Peter actually was (he hid his genius quite spectacularly after he realized that second graders don’t grasp algebra in two seconds), and then making his punishments even worse. There were so many things that Peter Parker was afraid of that he knew he shouldn’t be. But he couldn’t help it. His very survival instincts had changed to appease Flash’s violence.

And that was an even scarier thought.

After ten blocks of being jostled and thrown and jabbed, they pushed him down an alleyway filled with trash and rats. Peter could tell not even the most desperate homeless man would want to live here. It looked like literal shit, and he could swear that there was literal shit lining the trash piles. It took all his willpower for Peter to keep his lunch down. The nameless bullies laughed, watching the boy’s struggle. Peter cautiously looked back, waiting for the punches to begin. He knew it would be worse, much worse, than normal. Normally, Peter would just be thrown down the stairs, or pushed onto the floor, or called ‘Puny Penis Parker’ while Flash and his friends quickly ran away laughing. This time, Flash didn’t want anyone to see the abuse, which obviously meant worse. Peter just wanted to leave, he wanted to go home and make a few more spiders (and maybe code one specifically to follow Flash so that Peter would have eyes on him at all times).

Flash cracked his knuckles, a smirk darkening his face. He walked slowly to Peter, no doubt enjoying how small his victim was. Flash crouched down in front of the boy, squishing the soft face in his fist, “I have a friend who thinks you look really pretty beaten black and blue.” Peter shuddered. He might not have gotten the most action in his life (literally none, ‘cause no one is allowed to talk to him, but who’s counting?), but Peter knew what those words meant, “Told me that the first time he saw you, you had a black eye and a bruised cheek that went straight to his dick. He loves that you take your beatings so well for me. Means he has more material to jack off to.” Peter was flung back to the ground; Flash rolled up his sleeves, “Now, I usually wouldn’t do this, but I’m a sucker for romance, and Skip needs to get fucking laid so he won’t tell me his gay fantasies.” A punch landed on Peter’s face, knocking him backwards to the ground, “So do what he says, and there won’t be a problem. Capiche?”

Peter nodded, grunting out a sound that was supposed to be a ‘yes’. Flash grabbed his shirt collar, and punched him again. When Peter’s head collided with the concrete again, he gasped in agony. The ache in his head flared up, stronger than it had ever been before. He could almost swear he heard a voice trying to talk to him.

But that couldn’t be. No one was allowed to talk to him.

“Did you bring me my present, Flash?” The new, unfamiliar voice made his heart stop. His body shivered against his will; Peter desperately hoped that they didn’t notice. He stayed down, forcing himself to keep still, and at the same time trying to bury himself in the ground without moving too suddenly. Sudden movements aggravated predators; Skip was most definitely a predator.

“Don’t tell me about it afterwards, and we’ll be good to go.”

There was shuffling, the sounds of people walking away, and then it was just Peter and Skip left in the alley. A large hand landed on his shoulder, causing Peter to flinch away. Skip let out a low hum of discontent, obviously upset with his victim’s wish to get away (but Peter wasn’t going to run away, Skip seems like the type to make sure Peter would never run away again). Peter slowly looked up, eyes wide with fear. His stomach churned as he met the gaze of cold green eyes. His own eyes welled with tears, his mouth wavering.

“Pl-please don’t…” Peter’s voice was quiet, barely able to be heard even by himself.

Skip used the hand not on Peter’s shoulder to grab his face, squeezing harder than Flash would ever dare (Skip was clearly one of the most disgusting types of people on the planet; why does Flash interact with him?). The older boy’s face turned to an aggressive sneer while Peter choked out a sob that was probably louder than he probably wanted it to be. They were still out in public, after all, still in the alleyway that smelled of shit and piss and was absolutely disgusting. Who knew what would happen if they were caught? What new insults would Peter’s classmates come up with now? How many more people would simply begin to shun him after this? When would it just be over? Why was Peter losing his virginity in a disgusting alleyway to a disgusting stranger?


“You’re gonna do what I say, when I say it.” Skip’s voice was rough, deeper than it had been, though that was probably from the arousal Peter could see tenting the boy’s jeans.

Why the fuck would anyone get off on a defenseless child?

“You’re gonna be the perfect little slut for me. You’re gonna take whatever I give you, and you’re not gonna talk back to me.” The hands on Peter’s face pressed harder. Peter thought he could feel his jaw begin to crack under the pressure, “Understand?”

Peter nodded, impulsively responding as well as he could with his face being actively crushed, “Y-yes, s-s-sir.”

Peter was pushed back to the ground, hitting his head hard when he hit the concrete. He gasped in pain, while Skip groaned with lust. “You’re so pretty like this. I bet you’d make the prettiest sounds while I’m fucking your slutty hole, too.” Peter shuddered and turned his head away. He didn’t want to be aware of anything that would happen to him. He wanted his brain to shut down, to let him disappear for just a moment. Just a moment, so he wouldn’t be conscious to experience this (He didn’t really want to experience anything, but he wasn’t about to tell anyone that).

Skip’s hands went to his belt, undoing the buckle quickly and pushing his pants down within a few seconds. Peter shivered, his head ringing louder than ever (This was so disgusting, why was Peter being subjected to something so disgusting what is he being punished for why why why?).

“Stand up and take off your shirt.”

A tear fell down Peter’s cheek as he placed his hand down on the shit-stained concrete. His paranoia addled mind was screaming at him to do what Skip asked, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins wanted him to stay still and make no sudden movements (In the battle of fight, flight, or freeze, Peter was definitely the type to freeze).

Skip growled and kicked at Peter’s stomach. It wasn’t enough to really do damage, but it still hurt. Peter coughed, feeling the vomit trying to make its way up his throat (He really hoped the guy didn’t have a thing for mouth-fucking. Peter would vomit all over Skip’s dick. That would be both embarrassing and most likely to result in the most painful outcome.

“Stand up and take off your shirt.” The command was repeated in nothing less of a growl. Peter no longer cared about preserving what little virtue he had, instead focused on not making Skip mad (mad Skip meant more violent Skip and more violent Skip meant more pain for Peter).

Peter slowly sat up and did so, trying to get himself to not think for once in his life. It was difficult, unbelievably so. His mind raced as the fabric lifted up, letting the cool air wrap around his skin. He thought about an escape route, something that he could do to get away before he was raped.

“Good boy.” The words made Peter unreasonably angry, and again he thought there was a whisper of a voice trying to talk to him, “Now bend over.”

Peter struggled to move. He didn’t want to be yelled at again. The cool air, tinged with fumes and pollution, stung his skin. Peter tried to imagine that he was back home, back to work on his spiders and their silk and throwing things around when he eventually got too angry at his own insolence to continue. He imagined having a ‘friendly conversation’ and talking to his Aunt and Uncle and trying to convince them that he was perfectly fine. He imagined Aunt May’s spaghetti, tasted the way the meat sauce would get caught outside of his mouth when he tried to slurp up a single noodle. He imagined being back at school, being alone and quiet and stared at with disgust. Flash would come up to him and call him ‘Penis Parker’ and walk away, maybe with a shove off his chair. Peter decided that anything he imagined would be better than this.

Tears tried to crawl out of his tear ducts. Peter sniffed and willed them not to fall.

A rough kick against his ass forced Peter to drop on all fours, “You’re too slow,” Skip growled. And now Peter was on his hands and knees, practically allowing someone to rape him. No one would save him, no one would even care. Puny Penis Parker had no one.

More tears threatened to fall. Peter wouldn’t allow himself to fall that low, he thinks.

Fingers tuck into the waist of his jeans, pulling roughly. Peter’s so skinny that they fall to his thigh without too much effort. Skip lets out a low hum of approval, then there’s the sound of a zipper. Footsteps walk around Peter, then a hand lifts Peter’s chin. Brown eyes covered with unshed tears meet blue ones blown with lust.

Another hand suddenly caresses his shoulders, “So soft.” Skip leaned forward, and his tongue lapped at Peter’s neck, and the first tears fell. He was unable to stop them (he was so useless), “You taste amazing, sweetheart.” The hand on his shoulders joined with the one on his face, and Skip planted a rough kiss on Peter’s lips. More tears fell, “Crying suits you, sweetheart. You should cry more,” Skip walked around to Peter’s backside, placing his hands on Peter’s hips. The hands pushed down his boxers, and another revolting groan emerged from Skip’s lips, “Your ass is absolutely delectable.” Peter let out a gasp as a tongue lapped at his cheeks, and a thumb pressed into his crack and against his hole. It was the first time he had ever been touched by another person. Of course Flash would take everything Peter had left to hope for. Of fucking course Peter’s first anything would be part of his abuse. It made sense, it really did. Flash was a dick, who in turn encouraged other dicks to stick their dick into anyone they saw as inconvenient

Peter was more than mad. He wanted blood, wanted the body parts of anyone who had ever hurt him to be ripped from their body while they were still alive and shove it up their assholes and see how they like it

So lost in glorious gory thought, Peter didn’t notice a hand reached around his legs to palm his soft sex. He didn't hear the words Skip said in response, though he would assume it wasn't anything that would make him feel better about being raped in a fucking alleyway full of shit Peter didn't really notice as Skip pushed two fingers into his mouth and ordered him to suck on them. He did notice when those two fingers were shoved harshly into him, forcing him to open for something that he didn’t want.

The tears were streaming freely now, hot and angry. Peter didn’t even really notice them falling anymore.

“You’re so tight sweetheart, loosen up a little. You’re too tense.” Skip’s other hand gripped Peter’s hips, much too strongly, as the fingers inside him sped up their pace and a third one was added much too early. Peter shouted in pain and agony, breathing heavily. He hated this, hated his life. He wanted it to end. He wanted to bang his head on the concrete until he died or suffered enough brain damage to not know what was happening to him.

Peter’s mind finally, slowly, went numb to the world around him. There was nothing for him to think about anymore. He was just a toy. A toy for a sick pervert’s use. He should appease the pervert, make this last no longer than it needs to. Peter absorbed the sensations, the horrible sensations going through his body, and absently they began to turn into something vaguely akin to pleasure. This was his first anything after all, why shouldn’t he enjoy it? Every so often, he would let out an involuntary sound responded to by a filthy groan from Skip. A minute felt like thirty, and all too soon Peter felt the tip of something he didn’t want pressing against his entrance. He didn’t want it, but maybe he would enjoy it. Maybe he’d enjoy the rocking back and forth as the pervert pounded into him and took everything from him and made him lose everything that made him Peter Parker in the first place.

“So pretty.” Skip’s voice was full of lust. Nothing but lust. Peter was just a prize to him. Nothing but an item to claim. Peter’s head started pounding louder and louder against the numbness that was just as consuming. Once more, a whisper of a voice tried to speak to him. Peter wouldn’t speak back, but it would be nice to have someone to soothe his aching.

His mind raced back to reality as Skip pushed in. It was far too quick, far too painful. All Peter could think about was how his Aunt had said that your first time would be something special, shared with someone you love. He laughed as he cried, tears spilling even faster down his face. He vaguely recognized Skip speaking, but his brain focused more on the pain that it tried to force into being pleasure. The tight feeling in his chest made him acutely aware of how wrong all of this was. He didn’t understand how people could be so cruel. He didn’t understand how he could be anything other than weak.

Because he was so disgustingly weak. He can’t defend himself, he can’t run away, he can only cry as some stranger’s dick pounds in him over and over again. He can only cry as hands grip his hips too tight, holding him still as his subconscious tries to get his body to run away and fight to be closer to the only person who would be willing to touch him.

When Skip finally finishes inside him, Peter is… he is. There’s nothing he can do except follow Skip’s orders to put his clothes on and go home. There's nothing for his brain to analyze (ha, anal), and there's nothing that Peter would want to do anyway. He's turned off; to the situation, to the environment around him, to life. He's on autopilot, letting whatever happen, happen. Skip kisses Peter before he leaves, smearing saliva onto Peter's cheek from his fingers. It's disgusting, and Peter sighs. He doesn't know if he's still pretending to be pleasured or not. He doesn't think so, but the pounding in his head is trying to tell him otherwise. At least Peter thinks so. He's too tired to try and tell the too much of a whisper voice that no one's allowed to talk to him.

Peter vaguely remembers the walk home, which took much longer since he was so disoriented that he forgot to take the subway. He vaguely remembers walking into the house, a hollowness clouding his eyes. He vaguely remembers his brain waking up after he steps into the shower to try and scrub away every fingerprint Skip left on him. He vaguely remembers going down to his room and locking the door behind him.

Peter remembers how he cried until he couldn’t cry anymore. How he curled up in a fetal position and wept. How his Aunt and Uncle kept knocking on his door to answer his weeping, but Peter’s ass was too sore to walk up to the door and let them in.

Besides, they aren't allowed to talk to him anyway

Peter remembers vividly how much he wanted to kill everyone who had ever hurt him.

His dreams were full of blood.

Chapter Text

Peter woke up in the middle of the night, gasping for air and shaking with fear. His entire body ached, his ass thoroughly bruised and holy shit there’s blood still leaking out of his hole. Peter shivered as he slowly and painstakingly went to the bathroom and cleaned himself again. His skin still felt like there was someone grabbing his hips and forcing him to the ground, his head still felt the calming numbness that accompanied extreme dissociative states. Because of course it would take being raped for Peter to finally be able to escape his thoughts and leave his body (he didn’t want to admit to himself that he would be willing to do it again, just to get out of his head).

Peter was honestly lucky. He wasn’t too outwardly scarred from the encounter, he could hide the bruises with concealer (he had a stash that his Aunt and Uncle didn’t know about) and there was absolutely nothing to worry about.

Except that Flash knew he’d been raped. Flash’s friends knew he’d been raped. Soon the school would know he’d been raped. Only they wouldn’t know that it was really rape. Peter would be labelled as a slut along with everything else. Oh, there were so many things to worry about.

And if it happened again?

There would be no denying that Peter was a little faggot who would do anything to get fucked into oblivion. There would be no one to step up and say that Peter was raped and not a slut.

Jesus Christ, Peter’s head hurt.

Anxiety had never been a stranger in Peter’s life. Ever since his parents died, there had been the looming fear that something would take his Aunt and Uncle from him. Then there was the fear of someone at school so avid about ruining Peter’s life that they would start interrupting every aspect of his life. Now, there was the fear of being attacked. Of being raped again and again until there was nothing of Peter left to fuck over, nothing of him left to hope or imagine or invent. Of course, there was nothing he could do about it now. Skip would come back, maybe even in the same alley. He would force himself inside Peter and decorate the pavement with blood and cum. Again and again (and maybe Peter would just let him).

And with that thought, Peter’s breath started hitching. He couldn’t get in enough air. His brain was rejecting life, like it so often did. His entire body began to shake, and he wanted to scream and never stop.

Then his laboured breaths turned into hyperventilating, and he could do nothing more than hold his body close to himself and try to stop himself from reaching for the knife that he always kept close (no matter how much he wanted to see the blood drip down his arm, he wouldn’t let himself fall down that far).

Peter’d had many panic attacks before. So many panic attacks that he’d had to go through alone. None of them had ever been quite like this one. None of them had ever made him yearn for someone to hold him and never let him go. This time he couldn’t let go of the panic and start working in a daze. This time, he couldn’t move his legs, or his hands, or even try to move his body to rock himself back to sleep. He wasn’t able to distract himself, and so he was left with his thoughts. Thoughts that made his hyperventilation turn into fierce screams.

He couldn’t stop screaming, and all he saw was Skip laughing at him.

Which was why the knock on his door made him yelp in pain, because he saw Skip’s fist racing toward his face. He felt the familiar sting on his already black eye. At this point, trying to stall the tears was useless. At this point, his entire face was wet, and he couldn’t breathe and

oh god... he can’t breathe, he can’t… he can’t do anything he’s so useless no wonder why no one wants him to be his friend or hug him or be there to stop everyone from being so mean to him everyone’s so mean and he just wants to die it would be so much better if he was just dead and nothing else would hurt if he was dead it would just be black and numb and he likes the numb he likes not being able to think about anything please god please let him die-

The door burst open, the hinges cracking and falling to the floor.

Peter looked up, terrified that this was the moment Flash finally decided to bring the torture home. But what did he do wrong? He knew that Skip had why would he break in now? Unless he wanted more. It was too soon for him to want more. Peter closed his eyes, waiting for the hands to rip off the pants that he had painstakingly put on after trying to make sure he was clean of abuse and cum and blood. He waited and waited but nothing happened and his breathing was picking up again because it would be better if it was just all over

please let it be over please he doesn’t want to be raped again he doesn’t want it all just let him be alone and panicking in peace what did he do why wasn’t it enough to get the pervert off and leave him alone whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy-

“Peter!” It wasn’t Skip. He wasn’t going to be raped again. No, Peter was safe for now. Was he safe? Who was it. Peter’s eyes were still closed. He didn’t want to open them, “Peter, are you okay?” It was his Uncle. It was Uncle Ben who was kind but passive aggressive and worried too much. It was probably just the panic attack, making him extra paranoid and angry and depressed, but Peter really hated his Uncle. He hated every attempt the man made to reach out and connect with his nephew. Peter hated him. He hated the accusations and the ‘friendly conversations’ that were no doubt Ben’s idea. Because Uncle Ben was the type of person to talk out his problems, but no one was allowed to talk to Peter. It would be so much easier if Ben just beat him when he was angry. So much easier, ‘cause that’s what Peter’s use to.

“Oh, honey…” That was May. Aunt May, who went along with her husband’s stupid ideas and tried to get Peter to talk to them with good pasta. Peter is beginning to think that he hates both of them, “Have you been like this since you got home?”

Peter refused to move. His breathing had calmed to laboured-but-not-hyperventilating. He would be fine without them. He would be fine, so why is there still that desperate want for them to hold him? He hates them. He hates his life. If they just leave he can end it right now. He has the tools to do so. He has sharp things and chemicals and it would be so easy.

Who would even really care if he was gone?

He just wants to relinquish control of himself. For a little bit, anyway. He wants to go back to being numb to his mind, and just feel the sensations of what was around him (he doesn’t let his thoughts tell him that he wants to be raped again to make it happen. He doesn’t want to admit that even though it was a Bad Thing, it kinda felt good when he didn’t think about it).
Peter tried not to flinch when May and Ben reached out to hold him, not really recognized that they weren’t there to hurt him. Eventually, his breathing settled and his mind quieted enough for Peter to vaguely get the sense of enjoyment from being held so close to someone else’s body. He felt their warmth, and their love, but he didn’t remember what they meant to him.

Peter gave away any remaining control he had, barely managing to hold onto every other part of him that still held onto hope.

His head felt quieter than it had ever been. Quieter than it would most likely ever be again.

He fell asleep in the arms of his caregivers, who would never know his pain. Who would never be able to, because Peter would never allow himself to tell them.

When he woke, the warmth of them was gone. Peter shook with sobs of loneliness, but he knew that he would’ve panicked again if he had woken up with someone else. He stretched through the dull aching that racked his body and made it so goddamn difficult for him to move, then absentmindedly grabbed his bag and began the commute to school. He wouldn’t let his trauma get in the way of anything. He wouldn’t give Flash the satisfaction of knowing that Peter was almost completely broken.


Only a fool would converse with Peter (Penis) Parker directly in front of Flash Thompson. There was no greater shame in Midtown Tech than to be caught associating with the boy. Anyone who tried would either be shunned or bullied until you begged for forgiveness. Most of that forgiveness involved a few punches. Peter wouldn’t be responsible for someone else being Flash’s victim. Not anymore. Not when Flash would subject a victim to rape and not feel an ounce of guilt.

He sat alone on the bus to Oscorp, clutching his notebook full of formulas and notes to his chest like it was his lifeline. In a strange way, it was. All of his ideas and creations were born on its pages. Everything he had spent hours perfecting and agonizing over. He wouldn’t be able to bear it if something happened to his life’s work. His work was the only thing keeping him stable, at this point. Fuck, it was the only thing keeping him from just ending himself.

He curled in on himself the entire trip. He turned to face the window, ignoring the harsh glares from the people unfortunate enough to have to look at him. The position was uncomfortable; his ass was still sore from its harsh treatment. Each breath was harder and harder to take, and tears kept threatening to fall, but Peter didn’t particularly care anymore. His mind kept working through the spider silk formula. He hoped imagined that studying the spiders would provide some sort of clue.

When the bus finally arrived at its destination, Peter was the last to get off. He rushed to catch up to his teachers. Maybe if he still had some semblance of an intact mind, he would be excited. Now, it was simple scientific curiosity. He would gain no joy from his observations, only information. Still, Flash’s ominous presence was enough for Peter to glance at the exhibits, jot down notes, and move on. He wouldn’t let the bully even think that anything had changed. But Peter was full of hatred. He was angry that he hadn’t been able to complete his silk for months, he was losing his sanity over the fact that Flash encouraged rape, and he was tired.

The boy forced his head down and clutched his notebook tighter. He would have to contain himself, be silent and invisible. Nothing had changed. If he saw Flash giving too harsh of a stare, he put his head back down and continued walking.

Their tour guide had a comforting voice, something soft that made Peter almost begin to remember that there were some humans who were kind. He half-heartedly listened, honestly a bit bored at repetitive information that only benefited the rest of his classmates who were honestly so stupid Peter wanted to scream. His ears only perked up with interest when spiders became part of the presentation.

“32,000 different species of spiders, each with unique properties that assist their survival.” The guide spoke with more enthusiasm than she had during the other exhibits. It was obvious that she prided in Oscorp’s genetic splicing, “A select few were chosen to assist with Oscorp’s latest project,” She paused in front of multiple glass boxes, each containing a spider, “creating an entirely new species of spider. These fifteen specimens have gone through several tests to identify their brain capacity and skills of survival. For instance, they can jump after their prey, create funnel-like webs to trap any intruders, obtain strength to lift objects over one hundred times heavier than they are, and they possess reflexes akin to precognition. These abilities used to be found only in separate species, yet through our innovative technology and brilliant scientists we have been able to combine them.”

Peter stood at the back of the group, barely picking up the guide’s words. It wasn’t particularly new information anyway. He scribbled down notes, gazing at the screens giving much more detail about the experiments. One image displayed an entire room filled with spiders, each crawling up and down their webs, jumping about and chasing each other. Peter’s eyes widened as a clip showed a glimpse of one spider eating another. He made a note to analyze the cannibalistic traits in spiders. They were interesting creatures, he had an urge to learn all about them.

A slight itch on his left hand made his gaze down to where it was positioned, holding his notebook. A small spider, with an abnormal blue color, was crawling along his hand. Peter gazed down at it, watching its movements. Such a small thing, capable of unimaginable strength and agility. The way it moved was beautiful and elegant, and the boy only wished to find his own version of this elegance. A small smile found its way to Peter’s lips, too focused on the creature upon his hand to be aware of Flash’s watchful eye.

So when the bully walked over, causing Peter to flinch as he realized his mistake, the boy wasn’t prepared for the spider to bite just beneath the first knuckle of his thumb. He let out a painful yelp and jumped in the air, raising his left hand reflexively in a vain attempt to get away from the pain. The spider fell on the ground and skittered away. There went Peter’s live observation. A chill went down his spine, and he glared at his bully.

“What the fuck was that Parker?” Flash laughed, “You just screamed like a fucking girl! You a trans freak as well as a twink?” It was obvious the taller boy was angry. Why wouldn’t he be? Peter had spent the entire trip completely silent until now. Instincts made him curl in on himself, more in an attempt to protect his notebook than himself.

Angry Flash would mean more unwanted sex with Skip. Unwanted sex with Skip meant an even greater loss of sanity. Greater loss of sanity meant (most likely) the abandonment of his experiments. Peter couldn't lose his experiments.

Although...being raped had sent Peter into a mind-numbing spiral. It was a very relieving thing, being numb to the world around you. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to continue pleasing Skip's insane desires...he could ignore the world completely, without care or thought.

“Calm down gentlemen,” The guide interrupted, “and watch your language young man. Insults can damage the brain more than you think.” Peter silently thanked her, if only because Flash went away and his notebook was save.

The rest of the visit went by in a blur. Nothing else was of interest, or something that Peter had yet to learn about. He stayed mostly out of sight, and sat in the back of the bus on their way home. He began to run as soon as he landed on the sidewalk, forcing his legs to carry him even though his laboured breathing and aching chest begged him to slow down and rest. When he arrived home, Peter ran up to his room and locked the door. Then unlocked it. He didn’t want his caregivers to worry too much. And if he had another life shattering panic attack they might be able to barge in on time to stop his self-destruction.

It as only when Peter set his notebook down that he realized he felt stranger than normal. There was more pain than normal. He looked down at his hand, really for the first time since he was bitten. The spider bite was swollen and looked to be pulsing. There was only morbid curiosity running through Peter’s head as he stared at it. He poked at it, wincing as the touch bombarded his entire hand with pain. Then he poked it again, watching the spot wreathe underneath his skin. The veins around it were raised to the surface, and Peter swore he saw something pulsing through them.

It most likely wasn’t venom; the spiders used in the experiments that even had the ability to use it didn’t have long lasting effects. The side effects, if there had been any in the first place, would have run their course already.

Peter grabbed a syringe from a shelf just above his desk. He knew it had already been cleaned, he never left his equipment dirty. Even if it wasn’t, he wasn’t really sure he would care. The stuff pumping through his veins was far more interesting. The needle was placed a few centimeters away from the bite, just along the thickest vein. Peter didn’t flinch as he stuck the metal in his skin and drew blood. Amazement filled Peter’s gaze as he watched the blood fill up the syringe, and even more as blood pooled along his thumb. A strange urge to taste it consumed him.

His head started rattling in his skull. It was like he could feel the neurons firing. It felt electric as he lifted his hand to his mouth, and lightly sucked on the red liquid. It felt pleasant to have the metallic flavour race down his tongue and into his throat. Peter didn’t think he had ever experienced such a delightful buzz, something akin to desire or just plain need. He salivated, craving more blood. It didn’t even have to be his. There was just an overwhelming sensation calling him to drink, to feast. He regretted that there was no one else for him to poke and prod and bite until their insides turned into absolute mush.

Peter grabbed a knife that he had started keeping around when his paranoia became too hard to ignore. The blade cut his skin cleanly, without so much as a waiver of hesitation. This time, Peter smelled the blood. He let out an involuntary groan (that fortunately didn’t remind him of Skip and the revolting groans and moans that bastard forced Peter to listen to) before practically sticking his tongue into the self-inflicted wound. He basically moaned with each drop he sucked into his mouth.

It was basically an out of body experience.

He didn’t even really remember his own name at this point.

There was just the blood; the sweet, delicious blood.

A lull in the flow caused a whimper. Luckily, it also caused Peter to run over and lock his door, a sliver of sense returning to him. He didn’t need his caregivers barging in on him practically getting off to the taste of his own blood.

Hell, he’d probably end up cutting them open before they got the chance to realize what he was doing.

Peter flopped onto his bed, sucking at his arm and reopening the wound whenever it would heal.

He fell asleep lapping at the remaining specks of red emerging from the cut that he’d reopened upwards of five times.

Chapter Text

Darkness covered his vision, though he knew his eyes were open. Strands of thin, soft thread rested between his fingers, vibrations trickling slowly through them. His ears heard nothing, save for a low pitched, constant note. On his tongue was the slight tang of his own blood. Shame filled him to his core. He had cut himself, something he swore he would never do, to taste his own blood. Surprisingly, the purpose for the cutting didn’t weigh as heavy as the cutting itself. He had broken a vow, a promise to himself.

“You don’t deserve any of this.”

He didn’t really hear the voice that spoke. He felt it through the vibrations. Information flooded his head. He was in a spiderweb, that explained the soft threads. It was fairly common knowledge that spiders used vibration to communicate, since most species didn’t have ears. So he was a spider then...did that explain the blood drinking? He didn’t think so, but it did explain the urge to bite into prey.

“You were hurt so badly, little Spider.”

The next vibrations made him flinch. He wasn’t prepared for the sudden onslaught of words when he was deep in thought. It was only harder making sense of words through spider silk.

“Why don’t you let me comfort you?”

These vibrations settled him, relaxed him, and he leaned back into the web. The low tone slowly quieted, and he was left in silence. More vibrations trailed up the webs, speaking only words of comfort and praise. They grew closer, until he could feel soft hands feeling their way down his naked chest. He flinched, startled and panicked and his rape flashed through his mind.

“Shhh, my brave little Spider. You’ve been through so much pain. Let me take care of you, poor little thing.”

The words came through his ears this time, registering in his mind as a husky female voice. But he couldn’t see her. Why couldn’t he see? He could feel, hear, scent, taste, but why couldn’t he see? His breathing picked up, making him all the more aware of the hands on his chest. They rubbed him softly, a comforting motion, but he didn’t feel any relief. His mind was clogged with his flashbacks, and now his lack of a primary sense. He longed to be back in his room, back to being in pain…


He didn’t feel any pain.

Why didn’t he feel any pain?

“Calm, little Spider.”

The words were spoken and translated through the webs. He felt the scent of the female wash over him, telling him to calm down and settle. Pheromones, he suspected. But humans weren’t supposed to be subject to pheromones like other animals. Yet another thing he would need to study.

The hands travelled across his arms, warming his skin, then covered his own hands. He hummed in content, this was likely the first time he had even held hands with someone. How funny it should be in a dream. The phantom hands remained still for only a few moments, before moving back to his chest, then up to his face. They cupped his cheeks, and he felt the heat of another person leaning in closer.

“Will you let me help you?”

He automatically shook his head. Help was not necessary, not wanted, it was practically banned from his life.

“Will you help yourself?”

Another shake of the head. He wouldn’t push back, not knowing that another would get hurt if he did. There were too many risks.

“You have already eliminated the risks. Can you not feel the change, little Spider? Can you not see the brightness all around you, scent the prominence of a world previously so void of smells? Can you not reach out and feel the intricate details on each strand of my silk, or hear the softest swish of the leaves in the lightest wind? Already, your muscles have strengthened, your feet have swiftened, your cells have begun healing your bruises faster than they can form. Do not lie to me and say you have not thought about how you could have ended your suffering. Little Spider, you have all the tools you need.”

His head rolled back at the intense wave of protection and revenge that coursed through him. A strange pleasurable sensation sparked between his eyes. There was a soft press of lips against his cheek, then again on the corner of his mouth. He gasped, then felt sharp fangs bite his bottom lip.

The body he couldn’t see backed away, seeping more and more pheromones that caused his own body to froth with rage. His back arched in attempt to get back in contact with the unfamiliar presence, but his hands and feet were stuck where they had attached to the web.

“Take your revenge, little Spider.”

Peter woke to the taste of his own blood, and pain blooming along his bottom lip. He began to bolt up to a seated position, but was thrown back down by a phantom force. Panic bubbled in his chest, tears threatening to spill over. Then his mind was consumed by anger that he would even think of crying. No, crying was reserved for when his brain was numb to the world, when he was a toy for someone else to play with however they wished. He needed that numbness, where his head was pounding but he couldn’t feel the pain. Where everything fell away but the sight in front of him.

He needed to find Skip.

Absently, he sat up, ripping apart his mattress as he did so. The realization that his hands had been stuck didn’t strike him. He just needed to feel nothing.

Quickly putting on the first shirt and pants he saw, not bothering with underwear since they would likely be ruined anyway, he crawled out the window and down the fire escape. He didn’t think about the fear his caregivers would likely undergo once they realized he was gone. His ears were ringing, his head pounding forcefully. All his thoughts were focused on his mission.
Peter walked quickly, avoiding the touch of anyone he passed. He dodged contact with agility he had never possessed before, twisting gracefully without thought.


Nothing else mattered but finding Skip, his rapist. The one who made him discover the glory of an empty mind. Peter’s eyes stung with tears as the pounding in his head only grew. He needed. What, he didn’t really know. But Skip would give it to him, and Peter would go to him again and again. No matter how forceful or harmful it would be. Peter just needed.

The smell hit him first when he arrived at the alley full of figurative and literal shit. He wrinkled his nose, and walked over to the spot where his first sexual encounter had occurred. He leaned down and sniffed, knowing that both of their scents would still be there. It was faint, but the scent of Skip’s...ejaculate...still remained on the concrete. It didn’t take Peter long to trace it; Skip’s smell was pungent and disgusting.

Why was he trying to be raped again?

A sudden flare of pain erupted at the base of his skull. Right. Mind numbing. Numb minding. Being numb. Peter laughed at his thoughts. He almost wanted to start skipping. Another flash of pain erupted in his brain. He thought he heard someone talking to him. He couldn’t make out the words. Peter kept walking; no one was allowed to talk to him.

The closer Peter got to the source of the scent-trail, the more disgusting it became. God, Skip was a scourge of a human being. It sucked that he was the only one able to relieve Peter of his mind.

Building after building, block after block. The scent trail led him further and further into unknown territory. Peter wasn’t the type to go exploring the city. Too much chance of running into Flash, of being ridiculed and beaten. But nighttime was nice. Not many people, the cover of darkness. Perfect for stalking prey.


Peter absently followed the scent up a building. Crawling up the bricks that had no hand or foot holds.

The window to Skip’s room was locked. Peter punched through the glass.


“Wha…?” Sleepy Skip was thoroughly confused at the sound. Peter hummed in amusement. He continued crawling, contorting his limbs with flexibility he never had before, “Parker?” Sleepy Skip recognized him. How nice. Hopefully he would get right to the point and fuck him so he could be nice and numb. Or maybe Peter would have to lose more of his dignity for Skip to be good prey. Maybe Peter would need to present and beg and plead and Peter didn’t want to do that.

He wanted to eat.

Crawling up onto Skip’s bed, Peter began sniffing. The rapist smelled even more lurid up close. An unsatisfying smell for Prey, but Peter was hungry, and he doubted he would be able to get another meal any time soon.

“What the fuck Parker? Why you being such a creep? People don’t sneak into someone’s room and start crawling all weird-like into their bed.” Sleepy Skip wasn’t so sleepy anymore. The fear was waking him.

Good. Peter wanted the rapist to be aware that he was being eaten alive.

He took another experimental sniff, almost right in the rapist’s junk. Peter sneered and hissed, flaring his nostrils. He couldn’t believe he was going to eat this so obviously unsuitable Prey.

The rapist’s fear interrupted Peter’s senses, and Peter smiled.

Then bit his dick off.

Peter was lucky the rapist slept naked. Not lucky for the taste, but the screams were nice. Peter’s teeth had grown sharp, and the bite was nice and clean. Blood streamed from the wound, filling Peter with the same need he’d had before. The need to eat. To feast. Peter grinned up at the Screaming Skip’s face, swallowed, and began to tear into the rapist’s left eye. And part of his nose. The screams were beginning to get annoying.

Peter sowed the rapist’s mouth shut.

His wrist ached afterwards, but the sounds were muffled and Peter could finish his meal in peace. Despite the terrible smell, the rapist’s blood was delectable. Just the thing to sate Peter’s hunger. His head still pounded, still wanted to talk to him, but that was a problem to be fixed later.

Peter licked the blood around his lips and dug into the rapist’s chest, breaking the rapist’s ribcage to eat his heart. The sounds stopped completely.

{Ooh, what a pretty picture!}

Peter ignored the voice. No one was allowed to talk to him.

Chapter Text


Peter groaned, head pounding and body aching.

[Peter, wake up]

Who was talking to him? Why were they talking to him? No one was allowed to talk to him.

{We’re gonna be your new best friends Petey-Pie. Best friends forever}

No. Not allowed. Peter growled, something unnatural gurgling in the back of his throat.

[You’re making him angry. Stop making him angry.]

{I’m just giving him the lowdown on the showdown, White. Don’t @ me.}

Peter lifted a hand up to his forehead, wincing when the touch felt wet. He groaned again, choosing to ignore the mysterious people who weren’t allowed to talk to him for now. His eyes opened to a sea of red. The metallic scent of blood infiltrated his nostrils; Peter now wanted to vomit all of his insides and run back to his room and mess around with chemicals (preferably to make a poison that he wouldn’t be able to survive).

Why was there so much blood?

{Oooh, loss of memory. Classic case of being a bad-ass who kills people and occasionally himself}

[Yellow, this isn’t Wade, don’t get any ideas. This guy can actually die]

{I’m not sorry.} The voice pouted. How does a voice pout, why are they talking so much?

Ignore the voices.

Peter slowly sat up, leaning back on his hands. His movement stopped when something squished in between his fingertips. Slowly, Peter glanced down. Pounding returned to his head. He hadn’t even noticed that it was gone, didn’t get to savor the feeling. Eyes met blood and crushed bones and guts and intestines and organs and

they were all over the place and they were all over him and they were all over the walls and they were everywhere and it was all covered in blood and bones and he was sitting in the center of it all and why was he in the center of it all what did he do-

{Whoopsie doopsie you made a mess!}

Peter’s heart pounded through his chest, beating faster and faster with every glance at the blood splattered over the entire room

but it wasn’t his room where was he why was he here what did he do why did he let it get this far he wouldn’t hear the end of it now he would be the murderer and no one would talk to him ever again he would be all alone and lonely and sad and depressed and nothing and no one would save him-

Peter’s lungs closed, forcing him to hyperventilate. There was so much blood, everywhere around him. Not an inch of the room was uncovered. He closed his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the scene around him. There was no way he was responsible for this, Peter was a nonviolent person, much less a killer who would be this gruesome.

{Think again, Petey!}

[You are just going to keep making things worse, Yellow, shut up]

Ignore the voices.

Peter shook his head violently, cringing again when the loud pounding only became worse. This couldn’t be his life right now. He couldn’t be seated in the scattered remains of a body. He couldn’t be the one responsible. He wouldn’t allow himself to be the one responsible. Being responsible only opened up a whole new can of disgusting worms that would give his tormentors new fuel to make Peter’s head hurt even worse on a daily basis.

So he had some work to do.

Peter was extremely lucky that it was still dark and that no one was awake to see him tiptoe around the house to find cleaning supplies.

[This is a terrible idea. You’re going to get killed.]

{Not if he kills them first!}

Ignore the voices.

The kitchen was the first place Peter looked, the most likely place to find the best supplies to clean up blood. Or at least mix together to clean up blood. God, Peter was going to clean up a body. He was going to cover his own tracks so he wouldn’t be arrested for cold-blooded murder in the highest degree. His breathing picked up once again, only calming slightly as he quickly scoured the cabinets and drawers to find things he would need.

He went to the bathroom next, making sure he covered all of his bases before starting the clean-up. He definitely wasn’t going to open any of the doors along the hallway, there was a high chance of running into someone else or opening an extremely loud door and waking up anyone who was sleeping. No, he wouldn’t risk anything. He would be smart in cleaning up a dead (mutilated) body.

Sneaking back to the bedroom, Peter started immediately, cleaning up the blood (and a fucking eyeball) that had somehow managed to make its way outside the room. After that extremely disturbing step (Peter had never wanted to experience holding an eyeball in his life), Peter closed the door and started cleaning up the opposite corner. He figured working his way out of the room would be the best form of action.

Peter cringed as he walked through the blood and guts and bones (oh god there were bones ripped in fucking half), it was so gross. The scent wasn’t much better, and anyone who woke up would definitely get a nose-full of the tangy metallic smell of blood. His feet (bare, why the fuck were they bare?) picked up some of the guts that he tried to hard to avoid stepping on, and when he tried to pick them off...well...he couldn’t get them off. He couldn’t get the fucking guts and blood off his foot.

Why couldn’t he remove the goddamn motherfucking guts off his foot?

A truly animalistic growl ripped out of Peter’s throat, and he pulled with more strength than he thought he possessed. More blood than he had originally stepped in starting dripping from his foot, and he barely managed to hold back a high pitched yelp or sudden pain.

[Good job, Peter, you’ve ripped skin off your foot. I can just imagine the fucking infection you’ll get after walking around in this]

Ignore the voices.

Try not to scream.

Peter really didn’t want to scream. He didn’t want to wake anyone up by screaming.

But his foot was missing skin. He had just ripped off part of his foot. Because there were guts stuck to it.

Fuck it. Fuck all of it. He wasn’t going to deal with this. It’s time to go. He doesn’t want to clean up a body. He might be a genius, he might know how not to get caught, but this was above his realm of giving a fuck. He could clear his name easily with a bit of hacking, why did he care about making sure there was no evidence?

[Oh yeah, Petey, you go girl! Stick it to the man!}

Ignore the fucking voices.

There was literally no reason for Peter to still be here, no reason for him to give a shit; about this dead guy who probably deserved it. So he stood up, wincing when he put his weight on his torn up foot, and walked out of the room.

[You do realize that going out the front door is probably a terrible idea, right?]

{But it’s the only way out…}

[Well we obviously didn’t come in through the front door. Considering we were in someone’s room, in the middle of the night, and we definitely went home before we woke up here, didn’t we?]

{Maybe we were getting laid!}

Peter froze. He remembered walking through the city at night. He remembered walking straight up the wall to the window. He remembered wanting Skip to rape him again (and again) to feel numb to the world just one more time. Oh god he was going insane. He was going fucking insane and this was just a fucking fever dream.

[Oh, this is definitely not a dream]

{You wouldn’t want to see what we could come up with}

Peter’s head hurt so much. It ached and pounded and Peter just wanted to go home and sleep and wake up from this nightmare. After he went to sleep it would be over. There would be no more voices, no more blood, and no more weird things happening to his body that would let him walk up a fucking wall.

{We should hurt someone, someone else’s pain is the best medicine.}

[Yellow, you are going to break the poor boy.]

{He’s already broken, there’s nothing more I could do}

Ignore the voices.

Peter took a deep breath. Soon, he would wake up and everything would be back to normal. Without worrying too much about it, this was a dream after all, Peter walked back down the wall. He was still covered in blood, and his foot was still torn open (though he couldn’t feel the pain anymore), but it was a dream so he was fine. Who cared about anything in a dream? Certainly not Peter. He wasn’t going crazy, he didn’t just kill the person who had raped him a few days ago, and he certainly was not hearing voices because no one was allowed to talk to him.

{Oh no, Petey’s gonna get arrested!} The voice was singing now. Why was it singing.

It didn’t matter. Peter was just dreaming.

And then he heard the sirens. He heard the sirens right next to his ears, they were so loud they shouldn’t be this loud. Peter covered his ears with blood stained hands and continued walking.

“Sir!” No more voices, he couldn’t take much more of someone talking to him. Especially not when he couldn’t see them, “Sir, I’m going to need you to stop walking.”

Ignore the voices

[Peter, that voice is not anything inside your head. That voice is the cops. You are going to be arrested because you are covered in blood.]

Ignore the voices

There was a body in front of him, walking with him, talking to him, “Sir, I have to take you in for questioning. Can you please come with me?”

{Go with him Petey, then you’ll have all the food and blood you can hope for!}

Ignore the voices.

Peter didn’t want blood. He also didn’t want to go with the person in front of him. So he kept walking, ears covered, body stained with blood. He must be dreaming, and soon he would wake up and everything would be okay.

The next moment, his hands were being ripped from his ears and everything was so much louder. He couldn’t take the sound, so he screamed.