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tonystarchive · 8 months

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IRONDAD & SPIDER-SON WHUMP MASTERLIST—PART 1

Last Updated: September 2023

As promised, here is my long overdue Irondad Whump Masterlist! This list took an embarrassing amount of time to compile and over forty pages in my Google Docs (!!!!!).

Due to the sheer amount of fics, I will be posting in parts. Within these posts, each fic will categorized by its most prevalent trope/theme.

I hope the work from these talented contributors brings as much whumpy joy to you as they do to me!

Also, a very special shoutout to my most treasured Irondad authors iron_spider, for_the_night, madasthesea, losingmymindtonight, AdVitemAeternum, MotherKarizma, and so many more! This post is dedicated to you. ♡

Adoption/Tony Stark is Peter Parker’s Biological Father

5 Times Tony Acted Like Peter’s Dad by for_the_night

Summary: “And the one time he actually was." *Featuring an award evening, nightmares, a father-son field trip, appendicitis, and a very special gift—oh, and SO many forehead kisses.*

Alive and Healing by Watermeloness

Summary: “‘...bank robbery gone wrong in Queens. We’re receiving live footage from the crime site, where a 15-year-old teenager has been severely injured. Witnesses report a young boy getting shot after trying to stop the perpetrators. The last we’ve heard, his state is critical and he’s being rushed to…’ Statistically, there are a lot of 15-year-old teenagers in Queens. The city is filled with 15-year-old teenagers that are all brave in their own ways. This doesn’t have to be their teenager. But Peter is not picking up his phone.”

Dad Is Just A Word (You Give It Meaning) by madasthesea

Summary: “Father's Day, two years after May dies. Peter has something special to give and something important to say.”

For Want of a Dad (In Need of a Son) by GhostInTheBAU

Summary: “So, have you given the camping trip any more thought?’ Ned asks, and he groans internally at the change in subject. He'd much rather go back to talking about his non-existent love life, thanks. The trip is during spring break—a four-day long trek out into the wilderness, camping and hiking and gathering who even knows what, learning all about nature and the great outdoors. But the real kicker? It's an event specifically designed for fathers and their sons, which is something Peter doesn't have, and something he will never be. Not again." Or: Peter longs to have a deeper relationship with his mentor, a more meaningful connection; but he's managed to convince himself that the only reason Tony Stark spends any time with him at all is purely because of his enhancement. Because of Spider-Man.

Homebound by AdVitamAeternam

Summary: “Shortly after Homecoming, Peter starts having panic attacks. Tony happens to have some experience with those. What do you do when everyone around you has a tendency to die? What do you do when the last person, the most precious, the one you absolutely cannot lose, maybe wants you? Do you give in, or do you run? Do you take what they offer, or do you keep them as far away from the disaster that is your life as you can?”

I Love You More Than Anything Series by iron_spider

Summary: “The highs and lows of Tony unexpectedly becoming a single dad at 31—from Peter’s early baby years, all the way past the defeat of Thanos”

I’ll Always Protect You (Even If You Don’t Want Me To) by JAWorley

Summary: “So much changed with Peter’s body chemistry after the bite that new things are still coming up that surprise him. One day he and Tony are having a fight and Peter is so stressed out he ends up having a seizure. Seizures… great, so that’s a thing now, and Tony has decided that the best thing is for Peter to stop being Spider-Man. The more the seizures happen, the more protective Tony becomes. All Peter wants is to have his life back." Or: May asks Tony to take joint custody of Peter to help with the Spider-Man thing and this new stress seizure issue. Peter learns that sometimes parents do what’s necessary even if it’s not a popular choice with their kids.

Questions of Science, Science and Progress (Do Not Speak As Loud As My Heart) by l_u_c_k_y_c_l_o_v_e_r

Summary: “I had to find you, tell you I need you. Tell you I set you apart." Or: Peter stays with Tony for a few weeks, and the pair get into all kinds of shenanigans. And maybe, just maybe, those few weeks will usher in something more.

These Days I’ll Sit On Cornerstones by Finny3120

Summary: “Tony was ill-prepared to find that the vigilante he'd recruited was a 14-year-old boy. He was even less prepared for Peter Parker to be mute. But Peter hasn't spoken since his uncle died. And the more Tony works with the teen, the less it matters to him. He hears Peter just fine.”

You’re Stuck With Me by for_the_night

Summary: “I’m adopting you. I don’t care what you have to say.’ Peter gaped. Of all of the entrances he’d expected from Mister Stark after being alone in a hospital room for hours, that wasn’t one of them." Or: Peter gets taken to hospital with a ruptured appendix and Tony comes to a daunting realization of just how little hold he has on the kid outside of Medbay.

Alternate Universe

My Baby, My Baby by SpaceCowboysFromMars

Summary: “Silence falls over them like a warm blanket. Distantly, there’s commotion down on the street as people walk home from clubs. Peter thinks Tony might be his best friend in the whole world. After a long, peaceful moment, Tony says, voice dripping with warmth, ‘Night, kid.’ ‘Goodnight, Mr. Stark." Or: Tony and Peter in the middle of the night, in five alternate universes.

Visiting Hours by Sara (ctrsara)

Summary: “Boss?’ Tony jolted out of his half-asleep state. ‘What’s up, FRI?’ ‘There is a visitor here to see you.’ Tony jumped up. Anyone he knew would usually call or text first, so he was immediately on alert. ‘Who is it, FRI?’ ‘I need you to have an open mind, and know that I do not believe this person is any threat.’ Oh, yeah, that made him feel better. ‘Excuse me? How about you let me decide that, Watson?’ He started walking towards the door, activating his watch gauntlet. ‘Wait, Boss.’ He was annoyed, but he trusted his AI enough to stop and listen. ‘I also need you to know that I have performed biometric scanning, and this person is who they appear to be. However, they insist they’re not from our universe, and that is the part I don’t understand." — In a universe where he never invented time travel, and never brought anyone back, Tony Stark gets a late-night visitor he never could have expected. Prompt taken from @idk-bruh-20 Irondad fic idea #97 on Tumblr. Idea from @derpmallow.

What The Heart Knows by AdVitamAeternam

Summary: “When Peter wakes up, his head is being assaulted by a sledgehammer. He has no idea where he is. He has no idea what happened to him. He has no idea who he is, other than ‘Peter.’ But then, he looks over at the man who is scrutinizing him with worried eyes, and he knows who the man is. That's his dad." Or: The one where Peter gets hit over the head really, really hard and has temporary amnesia, and makes a very reasonable assumption based on the data presented to him.

Angst

A Far Green Country by madasthesea

Summary: “He just wanted Peter to be happy. More than anything in the world, he wanted Peter to be happy. Oh, Tony thought as that realization sunk down into the pit of his stomach and took root. I love him.”

A River To Skate Away On by frostysunflowers

Summary: “Peter has survived a spider bite, a building falling on him, turning to dust and being a teenager. He can handle anything. Except being forgotten.”

Agape by canon irondad (tomlinsoul)

Summary: “It's Tony's first date night with Pepper since the Snap, and Peter can't wait to spend some quality time with his little sister. Too bad a pair of hapless intruders, head trauma, and a panicked helicopter ride throw a spanner in the works." Whumptober 2022 Day 8: Head Trauma + Day 7: Seizures + Day 19: Repeatedly Passing Out + BTHB: Big Brother Instinct

Broken Heart Syndrome by iron_spider

Summary: “Tony is clearly really upset, the kind of upset that Peter’s only seen the likes of a couple of times, and it’s too close after everything happening to really talk about it. He can definitely see that now. ‘I’m sorry,’ Peter says. ‘I’m sorry, I should have answered—’ ‘Yeah, you should have answered!’ Tony yells. His bottom lip is trembling and he shakes his head, his eyes wild. He runs his hand over his forehead. ‘Okay, okay, I’ll know for next time,’ Peter says. He doesn’t know what’s gonna make this better. Probably nothing. ‘There better not be a next time,’ Tony says, dropping his hand from his face. ‘God, like this? Pete, no one knew where he was but you, and you—you kept it that way so nobody knew what the hell was happening, and you—you weren’t answering, kid, and that asshole sent me all that shit plucked directly from my nightmares, and I was trying to be strong for May because she was worried, too, and you—and you, I—I thought I wasn’t gonna ever—I thought—Jesus, Peter, you don’t think, you don’t—’ Tony bends over, clutching at his arm and breathing hard through his mouth.”

Dead In There, You’re Dead In There by iron_spider

Summary: “Peter, you’ve been acting insane for the past however many days and it’s giving me an ulcer, what’s going on, what did I do? Tell me. Tell me and I’ll fix it.’ Peter is still stalking around, and Friday is listing off his injuries, from a concussion to broken ribs to a sprained ankle, and Tony feels sick looking at it all. ‘You’ll fix it,’ Peter says, glancing over at him with pure disdain, the look bookended by matching explosions somewhere behind them. ‘Yeah it’s something you can’t fix, if it happens, nope, can’t fix it, it would just—but you’re just saying—’ Tony starts forward towards him. ‘Pete, explain to me what’s happening, please.’ ‘The protocol, the protocol,’ Peter insists, waving his hands through the air. Tony shakes his head. ‘The protocol?’ ‘The Avalon Protocol, Tony,’ Peter spits out, with venom.”

Dead-Eyed by iron_spider

Summary: “Hey,’ Tony says, fast, into the phone. ‘Everything alr—’ ‘Hey, no, I don’t know where he is,’ MJ says, in a rush of breath. ‘I don’t know where he is, Tony, and I know I have access to that tracking thing, but it feels weird for me to do that, and it doesn’t feel weird for you to do that, so you should do that. And find him and tell me what’s going on.’ ‘Okay, calm down,’ Tony says, getting up and stepping back from his workstation. ‘You know you can’t tell me to calm down, because I’m calm, and I’m always calmer than you because you’re like, inherently, not calm. At all, about anything, but especially about your family—’ ‘Okay, this is not calm,’ Tony says, starting to pace, even though he’s not calm either, she’s right. She sighs loudly in his ear. ‘When was the last time you saw him?”

Earthly Dust From Off Thee Shaken by ExpectoPatronum

Summary: “It had started with leaving his bedroom light on at night before he went to sleep. For a while, that had been enough. But then it wasn't.”

“Forever” by WithACherryOnTop

Summary: “Peter could feel the darkness creeping up on him again, like it had only moments earlier in the Avengers Compound bullpen. ‘‘ony.’ ‘Just go to sleep, bud.’ Tony gently scratched his nails at the nape of Peter’s neck. Peter collapsed bonelessly in Tony’s arms, all evidence of the tears, crying, and sobs hidden except for a stained shirt and the boy’s even, congested breaths. Tony wiped a hand over his face, a bit flustered. ‘Wow. That went way worse than I expected." Disclaimer: All characters belong to Marvel and/or Sony. I do not give permission for this work to be copied and/or posted to any other sites.

Gonna Pick Up The Pieces by orphan_account

Summary: “I don’t want to talk to you,’ Peter says. He’s been hiding for the better part of an hour, sitting in the cabin’s laundry room, wedged between the washer and the dryer. Something about the sounds coming off of them calms him, weirdly. The swish of water, the rumble of the motors, cotton rubbing cotton, the button on a pair of jeans dinging the side of the barrel. ‘That’s bullshit,’ Tony says. ‘You always want to talk to me.’ As true as that usually is, this time it rings discordant and tense. Peter clenches his jaw. ‘Not really,’ he says. ‘You just sorta assume that.’ ‘Of course I do. I make for lovely conversation.’ ‘Eh.”

Head’s On The Fritz by augustheart

Summary: "Hello?’ ‘Tony?’ ‘The one and only. What’s up, kiddo?’ The answer rises up in Peter's throat. Stops at the back of his tongue and wobbles there, heavy and leaden. He wants to spit it out, to cough it into the unbearable silence, to not be loud—but, to be steady. ‘I—’ he says. He trembles. ‘Can you—come over? Please?" Or: Tony makes things better

Hold Me Together by An_Odd_Idea

Summary: “Peter still doesn’t feel quite solid. Sometimes Tony can’t believe he’s really there either. They cope.”

I Have You by sweetspiderstew

Summary: “Tony has Peter all to himself, and there's nothing else like some good quality time in the workshop, but little mishaps happen, and there's a lot of hugging.”

I’ll Be Right Here by An_Odd_Idea

Summary: “Peter has a nightmare, and Tony goes to be sure he’s okay. It’s not the first one of its kind.”

It Came At Night by Marvelous_Writer

Summary: “What’s supposed to be a normal weekend visit to the Compound turns into one of disaster when unexpected visitors show up." (Set after Spider-Man: Homecoming) Whumptober Day Five: Gunpoint

It’s Time to Leave (and Turn to Dust) by hopeless_hope

Summary: "We’re going to help you, I promise, but you’ve got to trust me. Do you trust me?’ Peter looks at his mentor, fear written across his face. He raises a shaking hand back to Tony’s chest, and Tony places his hand over the kid’s. Peter closes his eyes and feels the hard surface of the arc reactor against his palm. Peter doesn’t like soft things, but this isn’t soft. It’s solid and steady and strong and feels like a truth he can believe in. It feels like presence. ‘Yeah, I trust you." (In which Peter has trouble coping with the events of Infinity War, but a certain Tony Stark is there to help.)

Meltdown by inkinmyheartandonthepage

Summary: “You said two-thirty,’ Peter said, acting as if he hadn’t heard Tony. ‘I forgot that you changed it to two thirty and not three.’ Tony took a step towards Peter. ‘Hey, Pete. It’s fine. You’re not that late kiddo. Hell, I’ve been to board meetings hours late.’ The joke didn’t land, and Peter’s eyes started to well with tears. He took in a hiccupping breath. ‘Oh god. I forgot. I forgot." Or: Peter isn't coping after Titan and has been doing everything to keep busy and not think about it. Everything comes to head when he forgets that a time was changed in his busy schedule leading to a meltdown.

Mine, And Yours by crowkag

Summary: “Is it Peter?’ He was met with loaded silence. The anxiety spark became an anxiety plunge and twist. ‘Happy. Is it Peter?’ ‘It’s… well. Who else would it be, right?’ ‘Hogan.’ He hated this. The spark, the plunge, the twist. The tension creeping from his shoulder blades, clawing down arms both flesh and metal, somehow, someway, and bunching up inside his palms. The hysteria of it all. ‘It’s—alright, I won’t sugarcoat it. The kid’s alive, but he got shot, Tony. Twice." Or: Tony reunites with Peter in a less-than-ideal manner.

Relax, Just Breathe by hailfire_73

Summary: “Tony,’ said Peter, lifting his head from the glass, his stubbornness spent. ‘I don’t feel so—’ ‘Do not,’ said Tony, through gritted teeth, and meeting Peter’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He had just one hand on the steering wheel as he drove them into the night. ‘Finish that sentence.’ Morgan leaned over, hung out of her booster seat, and whispered, ‘It gives dad attacks." Or: The Starks go on a road trip that goes wrong when Peter gets food poisoning from questionable carnival food.

Scars Can Heal And Reveal Just Where You Are by parkrstark

Summary: “Jesus Christ, Pete,’ the voice says again, and it's not just a voice. It's a voice that belongs to the shadow. The shadow is light in the dark. It's warm. ‘What are you doing on the floor? You're lucky you're by your bed or else it would have been you breaking my fall.’ Peter blinks at the shadow and can't tell if he's comforted or irritated by the new company. ‘What? No quip about me breaking a hip?’ There's silence. ‘Peter?"

Shots Ring Out by itsluckyyou

Summary: “Peter Parker had training. Training to deal with robbers, petty crime, and possible alien invasions. Nothing could have possibly trained him for this, though." Or: There's a shooter wandering the halls of Midtown School of Science and Technology.

The Pills (They Gotta Go) by searchingforstars

Summary: “Tony. What are these?’ Tony glances up. Sees the packs of pills clenched in Peter’s fist. He’s sure some of them must be dust judging by the force that Peter is holding them with. ‘My pills?’ ‘Why are they sitting at the back of the pantry?’ Peter asks, voice dangerously low." Or: Tony decides taking his medication is optional. Peter strongly disagrees.

We All Have A Hunger by MotherKarizma

Summary: “Morgan,’ he croaked, throat afire, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Hey—hey, it’s okay, I’m just…’ ‘You’re sick.’ She mustered up something like bravery, using it to straighten her back and plaster a very grown-up look on her face. ‘I’ll get Daddy!’ ‘No!’ Morgan jumped, eyes wide. Peter fought to calm his voice. He offered her a smile that couldn’t have been convincing, not even to a five-year-old. ‘No, you don’t have to. I feel better now. You don’t have to tell him.’ Morgan’s lips wobbled. Peter knew what her fake pout looked like well enough to know this wasn’t it. ‘Petey…’ Peter had a lot of reasons to feel guilty. He felt guilty for scaring her. He felt guilty for forgetting to lock his bedroom door, for making scaring her a possibility. He kind of, in a way, felt guilty for doing it in the first place, though not nearly enough to stop. But more than anything, he felt guilty for this: ‘Morgan, promise me you won’t tell him. He…he won’t let us swim anymore if you do. And I’m not sick, my tummy just hurt a little bit, but I’m all better now. Promise me you won’t tell him, okay?’ ‘But…’ ‘Morgan. Promise.”

We’re Here by An_Odd_Idea

Summary: “Comfortember prompt 3: Nightmares Peter has nightmares about when Thanos stabbed Tony on Titan”

Who Needs a Happy New Year When You Can Have a Happy Forever? by searchingforstars

Summary: “Peter's already feeling insecure about his place in Stark family holiday traditions, but it turns out it doesn't really matter because New Year’s Eve is significantly less fun when you’re a pair of PTSD-riddled superheroes, anyway." Or: Tony has a panic attack in a Burger King.

Without You (I Was Broken) by parkrstark

Summary: "How did you get shot? You just webbed me up 5 stories from being shot!’ ‘D-Didn’t know it was coming.’ ‘Dammit, Peter! This isn’t the first time your spidey sense hasn’t worked. I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt because Rhodey told me I was being insane. Why didn’t you tell me it wasn’t always working? You shouldn’t go out into battle like this when your powers are being wonky and—’ ‘You’re here.’ ‘What?’ ‘You’re here.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I don’t...I can’t really feel the danger when you’re around."

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fotibrit · 9 months

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peter’s claustrophobia has been getting worse. The more time that passes since he got crushed by the building, the more he feels like he escaped only by luck. He still hasn’t told Mister Stark about it all, and dosnt think he ever will…

Until he gets sick. Mister Stark tries to make him more comfortable, throwing Starks own weighted blanket on Peter.

And peter starts hyperventilating.

#sicktember ideas?#tony stark #iron man #irondad and spiderson #irondad fic ideas #peter parker #spider man #spiderson #irondad #marvel mcu #avengers #peter parker and tony stark #peter parker whump

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irondadmadlads · 10 months

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Irondad Prompt #185

Inspired by @fotibrit

Peter doesn’t have PTSD. Sure, his hands get sweaty and his breathing picks up whenever he’s in a tight space, but that’s only because he’s claustrophobic! He was never claustrophobic before Toomes. Maybe his dreams consist of space and ashes and fading away into nothingness, but nightmares don’t always have meaning! He never had this reoccurring nightmare until he died on Titan. Peter doesn’t have PTSD.

But Tony notices how Peter is always on edge. Always anxious. F.R.I.D.A.Y. hears the boy cry at night, not being able to sleep after a bad dream. Bruce sees the boy run out of the room when a trigger is mentioned.

Peter may think he doesn’t have PTSD, but his family does. And they’re worried about him.

#iron man #irondad #peter parker #tony stark #spiderson #irondad and spiderson #irondad prompts #spider man #irondad and spiderson prompts #spiderson prompts #spiderman & ironman #mcu iron man #mcu tony stark #mcu tony stark & peter parker #mcu spiderman #peter parker whump #ptsd #peter parker has ptsd

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waitimcomingtoo · 2 years

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Bleeding Love

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Synopsis: you always patch Peter up, even though you’re scared of blood

themes: whump, best friends to lovers, mutual pining

Masterlist

Peter clutched his side as he swung to your window. He landed on your fire escape and let out a shaky breath before looking through your window. He saw you sitting at your desk and smiled a little, accidentally reopening the cut on his lip. He winced in pain and used your head to knock on your window. You looked up from your desk and immediately opened up your window.

“Good evening.” Peter smiled weakly.

“Good evening.” You chuckled. “You know, between your choice of greeting and you waiting outside my window like that, you’re becoming more like a vampire everyday.”

“Isn’t that what you’ve always dreamed of? A vampire boyfriend?” Peter teased as he climbed through your window. He took a seat on your bed and laid down for a second to catch his breath. He always came to you for patching up after patrol so he knew you wouldn’t mind.

“Yes. But you don’t exactly meet the criteria.”

“Why not? I can run really fast, all my senses are heightened, and I’m really pale and pasty. I’m basically a vampire.” Peter insisted as he propped himself up on his elbows. You smiled a little and walked over to him, tilted his chin up to check his teeth.

“Hm. No fangs though.” You clicked your tongue and dropped his chin. Peter blushed at the contact before pressing the button on his suit and letting it slip off his body.

“Oh please. I sat through ten hours of those poo poo garbage Twilight films with you. I know those sparkly vampires you love so much don’t have any fangs.” Peter said. You snuck a glance at him, letting your eyes linger on his abs for a second before quickly clearing your throat.

“I know you did not just call the greatest saga in cinematic history “poo poo garbage”.” You said and pretended to be offended.

“So what if I did?” Peter taunted. “What are you gonna do about it, jelly bean?”

“I’ve told you a hundred times not to call me that.” You groaned. “And you know what I could do about it? I could refuse to patch you up. I could just let you get septic and bleed out.”

“I have to call you jelly bean. It’s arguably the cutest nickname in existence and I don’t have a girlfriend to call that so I must bestow it onto you. And I don’t know what “septic” means, but it doesn’t sound good.”

“I don’t really know either.” You realized. “I’ve just heard it on bunch of times on Greys Anatomy. And if you call that “poo poo garbage” too, I’m gonna beat you up.”

“But I just got beat up.” Peter whined.

“I know. Come here.” You smiled softly and cupped his face in your hand. You took a antibiotic wipe from your first aid kit and started to wipe the dirt and dried up blood off of Peters face. When you wiped at the gash in his cheekbone, you noticed that the blood was still coming. Bright red blood trickled from the wound and you felt a wave of nausea hit you. You stumbled back a little before trying to collect yourself.

“Oh wow. You’re really bleeding.” You said with a fake smile so that he wouldn’t know something was bothering you.

“Yeah. He got me pretty bad.”

“It’s okay. I’ll fix you up.” You gulped and put the wipe down. Your held your breath as you dabbed at the cut with a hydrogen peroxide soaked Cotten ball. The blood was still coming, making you feel weaker by the second. You gagged a little and took a deep breath to keep from throwing up.

“Are you okay?” Peter asked when he noticed your expression.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” You lied and continued to try and clean his wounds. You held gauze down on his cheek cut and applied pressure, relieved that the gauze covered the cut. Bright red blood started to seep through the white gauze and you felt your stomach drop. You gagged again and tried to play it off.

“Are you sure, jelly bean?” Peter asked. He reached forward and rested his hands on your hips to steady you.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be okay? And don’t call me that.” You said quietly and you applied some Neosporin to his cut.

“I don’t know. Your mood changed all the sudden.” Peter frowned as he studied your face.

“I’m fine. Just stay still.” You told him as you felt yourself salivating, something that always happened right before you threw up. You bit your tongue to keep from gagging and focused on applying a bandage to his face.

“Okay. I will.” Peter said, still not convinced that you were okay.

“How did this happen? I thought you always wore your mask?” You asked as you gently cleaned a bruise forming on his other cheek.

“I do. And I was. But I was trying to stop a purse snatching and one guy turned into four guys before I could get away. They all got a few good punches in.”

Your face changed as you picked up his hand and started to clean his bloody knuckles. This time, it wasn’t from nausea. You looked solemn as you silently cleaned the blood and dirt away.

“Whats wrong?” Peter asked as he gently tugged on your shirt.

“I hate that you have to do this. I hate that you have so much pressure on your shoulders.” You said quietly while wrapping a bandage around his hand.

“I don’t mind it. I kinda love it actually. I love being important.”

“You’ve always been important.” You said without looking into his eyes. Peter smiled softly and scooted to the end of your bed to be closer to you.

“I know. But now I feel like I’m important to other people.”

“You’ve always been important to me.” You told him. “Even when you were shorter and smaller and wore those adorable glasses that I miss so much.”

“I still have them. They’ve just been in the same spot on my dresser for the last three years.” Peter told you, making you smile as you finished bandaging his other hand. You stayed in comfortable silence as you cleaned a scrape on his clavicle. You had to push Peter back a little so he propped himself up on elbows to give you better access to his wound. You gulped a little and tried to think of anything other than his abs or his bleeding cuts.

“Do you really miss it?” Peter asked after a beat of silence.

“Miss what?”

“The old me.”

“I like every version of you.” You chuckled as you looked into his eyes.

“I know. But if you had to pick one. Pre bite or post bite?”

“I do like the new you.” You admitted. “I like your confidence and all your new abilities. I especially like that you can just shoot a web and grab us things from the kitchen without ever having to get off the couch. And the giant muscles aren’t too bad either….”

“But?” Peter asked when you trailed off. You looked into his eyes for a second before looking back down at the wound.

“But sometimes I miss when you’d come over in the middle of the night because you wanted to show me a passage in a book you just read. Or something you had built out of Legos without using an instructions. Now you come over in the middle of the night with bloody lips and black eyes. I don’t know. I just worry about you.”

You both into silence again while you patched up a laceration on his shoulder. The sight of the blood made you feel weak again but you powered through for Peters sake. You patched his shoulder up before cupping his face to see if he had any other lacerations that needed attention. Peter looked into your eyes with his brown eyes and gave you a soft smile.

“Sometimes I miss when it was simple. I miss when I knew you were safe.” You said quietly.

“Come here.” Peter said as he stood up. He pulled you into his arms and held your head against his shoulder. You wrapped your arms around his bare torso and let out a sigh, relived that he made it home safe another night.

“I’m so glad you’re my best friend. I don’t know what I would do without you, jelly bean.” Peter mumbled in your ear as he stroked your hair down.

“Me either.” You chuckled and hugged him tighter.

“Hey. You didn’t scold me that time.” He smiled and he pulled away to cup your face.

“Yeah. Don’t get used to it.” You scrunched your nose, making him laugh. You laughed as well before stepping back into the hug.

“Sometimes I feel bad for people who aren’t us. What do people who don’t have a super hero best friend do on Saturday nights?” You asked against his shoulder.

“I know right? Their lives must be so boring.” Peter chuckled

“Must be.” You sighed and held him tighter. The hug lingered a little longer than it shoudl for just friends and you both seemed to become aware of that at the same time. You pulled away from the hug and awkwardly patted his shoulders.

“Okay. You’re all cleaned up. Are you okay to get home by yourself

“Yeah. I’ll be fine.” Peter winced and limped over to where he kept spare clothes in your room.

“No you wont.” You sighed when you noticed the limp.

“Yeah. I won’t.” Peter admitted as he tugged a shirt on.

“Do you want to crash on my top bunk?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Peter smiled and went over to the ladder of your bunk bed. He was about to climb up but stopped to look at you.

“Hey.” He said softly. “Thanks for always patching me up.”

“No problem.” You smiled at him.

“I love you jelly bean.” He said with a teasing smile.

“And I often dislike you but ultimately tolerate you.” You shrugged, making him smile.

“Just kidding. Love you too.” You said with a playful roll of your eyes.

A few nights later, your phone rang in the middle of the night. You didn’t open your eyes as you reached over and held the phone to your ear.

“Jelly bean?” Peters shaky voice sounded.

“Peter? What time is it?” You asked through a yawn.

“I messed up.” Peter whimpered, making you sit up in bed.

“What? What happened?” You asked, feeling fully awake now.

“I got hurt. I’m really hurt.” He said, sounding like he was crying.

“Okay. It’s okay. I’m here. Can you tell me where you are?” You asked as you got out of your bed.

“I’m in the alley next to that diner you hate.”

“Ew. I hate that diner.” You mumbled as you threw some supplies into a backpack.

“It’s really bad, jelly bean.” Peter whimpered. “I got hurt really bad this time.”

“It’s okay. Just try to stay calm. I’m gonna come get you okay? Is there anything else I should bring besides the first aid kit?” You asked as you threw anything you could think of into your backpack.

“Just a lot of gauze. I think I lost a lot of blood.” Peter said, making you stop in your tracks. Your mind immediately pictured the amount of blood awaiting you and you felt nauseous just from the thought of it. You sat down on your bed and put your head between your hands to try and calm yourself down.

“Jelly bean? You there?” Peter panted.

“Yeah. I’m here. I’m gonna stay on the line okay? I won’t hang up on you. I’m on my way.” You told him as you climbed out your window. You went down your fire escape as fast as you could and started running towards the diner.

“Please hurry. I don’t feel so good.” Peter whined, starting to sound weaker.

“Shh. It’s okay. I’m coming. Just hang on, Peter. I’m coming.”

“Okay. Okay, please hurry.” Peter cried on the other line.

“I’m coming. Just hang on. I’ll be right there. Just keep talking to me, okay? Don’t stop talking.”

“I don’t know what to talk about. I’m really scared.”

“Don’t be scared. You shouldn’t be scared. Someone who has endured 18 seasons of Greys Anatomy is on their way. You’re in good hands.” You said, and you heard a pained laugh.

“That’s so many seasons.” Peter said through a laugh.

“Don’t I know it. And I was there for every single one.”

“You need to start watching better television.”

“Yeah. Once I patch you up, you can show me your favorite show. How does that sound?” You asked him.

“That sounds good. We can do that.”

“Okay. It’s a date.” You said as you spotted the diners neon sign.

“It’s a date.” Peter said, and you could tell he was saying it through a smile.

“I see you. I’m gonna hang up now. But I’m right here. Can you see me?” You asked him as you made your way down the alley.

“Yeah. I can see you.” Peter said as the two of you made eye contact. You hung up and slid your phone into the waistband of your pajama bottoms before getting on your knees.

“Hey. What happened?” You asked as you cupped your face and made Peter look at you. His mask was off and he was slumped up against the side of a building looking pale and broken.

“This guy stabbed me. And then he stabbed me a lot more times.” Peter said in a weak voice. You made a face and Peter frowned.

“What?”

“I hate to split hairs here, but it’s “many” more times. You know how I hate improper grammar.” You told him before cracking a smile.

“You’re so annoying.” Peter whined through a smile.

“I know. I’m sorry.“ You sighed. “I’m gonna check on the wound, okay?”

“Okay.” Peter nodded as you pressed the button on his suit. It loosened and you pulled it down his body until your found the stab wound. Once the suit was past his waist, you saw the large gash from the knife. It was deep and gushing blood, making the corners of your vision turn black. There were smaller stab wounds surrounding the big one, making Peters stomach look like a cutting board. You immediately gagged but played it off as a cough.

“Oh my God.” You said in a grave voice.

“Is it bad?” Peter asked, but you could barely hear him. You were disassociating to keep yourself from thinking about how much blood you were looking at.

“No. It’s not bad.” You lied as you took a bunch of medical supplies out of your backpack.

“Then why did you react like that?” Peter asked while you applied pressure to the biggest wound. The gauze immediately saturated with his blood and you gagged again.

“I didn’t react. This is just my face.” You lied again and got more gauze.

“Are you sure it’s not bad? It feels really bad.” Peter panted as he tried to get a look at the wound.

“It’s not that bad. Are you in pain?”

“Yeah. I am.” Peter admitted. You looked into his eyes in a panic, not used to him admitting when he was in pain.

“Peter. It’s okay. I’m right here, okay? I got you.” You assured him as you dug around in your back back with your free hand. You put his hand over the gauze so that you could tug his suit all the way off. You helped him into a pair of basketball shorts that he had left at your house before changing out the gauze. Peter let out a little whimper when you applied pressure.

“I know it hurts. I’m so sorry.” You said as tears welled up in your eyes.

“I’ve never been hurt this bad. I usually heal pretty fast but I don’t know this time. I’m really scared, jelly bean. I feel really scared.” Peter told you, crying as well.

“Don’t be scared. I think the bleeding is gonna stop soon. I’m gonna lift the gauze and check okay?”

“Okay.” Peter nodded as you lifted the gauze. The wound was still gushing blood and you almost fell over from the sight.

“Oh my God.” You gagged and adverted your eyes.

“Did you just gag?”

“No.” You lied and darted your eyes to the side. When you looked back, you saw the wound again and gagged.

“You gagged again.”

“I’m not gagging.” You lied through a gag as you patched up his wound. Once that one was handled, you moved on to the other smaller ones. You gagged each time you had to clean one and stopped trying to hide it.

“Oh my God. This is so gross. I’m gonna puke.”

You gagged and looked away as you applied pressure to a wound.

“Are you okay?” Peter panted as he watched your behavior with confusion.

“No. I’m not okay. Nothing about this is okay.” You gagged again as you put a bandage on a cut.

“Is it really that bad?” Peter worried, thinking your reaction was from his injuries.

“No. It’s not you. I….I have hemophobia.”

“You hate gay people?” Peters eyes widened.

“What? No!” You shouted. “It’s fear of blood you dingus. I have a fear of blood, okay? If makes me really nauseous and I feel like I have to faint when I see to much. And I am seeing a whole lot right now. A whole lot.”

“What? You have a fear of blood? Since when?”

“I don’t know. Since always.” You mumbled in embarrassment while patching up another wound.

“You never told me that. Why wouldn’t you tell me that?” Peter asked, sounding hurt from your secret keeping. You were too busy gagging to realize he was hurt.

“Because what kind of friend would I be if I couldn’t take care of you? I’m the only one who knows your secret. If I wasn’t there to patch you up, you would probably get septic and die for real.”

“So you just…”

“I hold back my vomit and power through until you’re okay.” You shrugged as you pressed down on another wound.

“You do that every time?” Peter asked in a soft voice.

“Every time.” You nodded, finally looking into his eyes. You had both hands pressing down on a gauze pad as you stared into each others eyes. He sat up a little, no matter how much it hurt him, and brushed some hair away from your face.

“Why?”

“Because I love you. And I need you need to be okay.” You told him, making a smile tug at the corners of his lips. Even as bruised and broken as he was, he still looked perfect. Peter slipped his hand beneath the back of your head and pulled your closer to him as he sat up.

“I love you too, Jelly bean.” He said as his eyes fluttered shut. Yours closed too but instead of feeling a kiss, you felt his hand go limp and flop to the ground. Your eyes flew open and you saw that Peters head was hanging limply to the side and he had lost consciousness.

“Fuck. Peter? Peter, are you okay?” You panicked and checked his pulse. His heartbeat was there but very faint.

“Peter, wake up. I don’t like this, Peter. Peter wake up! Hey! Hello! Time to wake up! Can you hear me? Peter wake up!” You cried as you shook his body. His eyes didn’t open so tears came to yours.

“I gotta get you to a hospital.” You whispered and quickly put yo ur backpack on. You went to Peters side and slipped your arms under his knees and torso before trying to lift. He was much heavier than you imagined but you kept going until you got him off the ground. The blood was soaking through the gauze right in your eyeline and you felt your knees buckle but you never dropped him.

“I bet Thors best friend doesn’t have to do this shit.” You groaned as you started to walk down the alley with Peters lifeless frame in your arms. Your steps were slow and careful as you carried him out onto the streetlight lit sidewalk.

“Okay. Here we go. Okay.” Your voice was strained as you struggled to carry him. You tried to walk as fast as you could but he was seriously weighing you down.

“Oh my God. You’re so heavy. You’re like a bag of sand.” You groaned as your knees buckled again. You fell to your knees but were careful not to drop Peter as an idea came to you.

“Over the shoulder. Over the shoulder is how we’re gonna do this.” You decided as you threw Peter over your shoulder. He was still heavy but not as bad as before. You kept walking and were able to pull your phone out of your waistband.

“Siri, where’s the nearest hospital?” You shouted at it.

“Showing results for hot pockets near you.” Siri answered.

“What the fuck is a hot pocket?” You mumbled and kept walking. You turned to see if any cars were coming and accident smacked Peters head against a stop sign.

“Oh shit. I’m sorry!” You winced and gently set him down to see if he was okay. That’s when you noticed all the blood that had soaked into your clothing. Your shoulder was drenched in blood and the stain had spread down yoru body. Your hands and face also had his blood on them now and you started to gag.

“Okay. That’s a lot of blood. I am covered in a lot of blood.” You spoke out loud to calm yourself down. You tried to wipe the blood off on your hands but it wouldn’t come off.

“Okay. It’s not coming off. There’s too much. But that’s okay. It’s just blood. Blood keeps us alive. It’s just blood. Just Peters blood all over me. Drenching my clothes and staining my hands. That’s fine. This is fine.” You repeated to yourself as you picked him back up again. You let out a loud cry as you threw him over your shoulder and kept going.

“This is fine. Everything is fine.” You told yourself while tears streamed down your face. You crossed the street and kept walking until you saw one of those blue signs that points to the nearest hospital. You adjusted Peter on your shoulder and walked as fast as you can. You could feel the hot blood trickling down your body, making your shirt stick to your skin. You gagged and felt yourself getting weaker by the second. You’d never seen this much blood before and it was really difficult for you to push through. Finally, you saw the bright lights of a hospital up ahead.

“Okay. We’re here. We’re here, Peter.” You shouted to him as you ran through the front doors.

“I need some help!” You cried out. A bunch of nurses and a few doctors immediately ran over to you. Someone took Peter off your shoulder and set him down on a gurney.

“He lost a lot of blood.” You told a doctor as you caught sight of your hands again. They were drenched in Peters blood and your fingers were sticking together. You looked away from them and saw Peters chest, seeing that all of his stab wounds had bled through the bandages you had placed. You looked away from that too and made eye contact with yourself in a nearby mirror. You had blood all over your face but clean skin poked out in streaks from where your tears had cleaned the blood away.

“He lost so much blood.” You whispered before passing out.

Peter woke up before you, becoming very confused when he realized he was in a hospital bed. He looked over and saw you fast asleep in a hospital chair that you had pulled up to his bed. Your hand was holding his as your head rested on your arm. Peter smiled softly and gave your hand a squeeze. He watched you stir awake and slowly lift your head up.

“Hey.” Peter smiled at you.

“Hey.” You smiled in relief and sat up in your chair.

“Am I in a hospital?” He asked you.

“Yeah. It turns out the first aid kit that fell off that truck in front of us that one time is no match for major stab wounds.” You said, making him crack a smile. When he noticed the blood staining your clothes. You had cleaned your face before going to sleep but you didn’t have any spare clothes with you.

“You look like a used tampon.” Peter said, making you both laugh.

“I feel like one too.” You told him. “And I don’t suppose you feel much better.”

“I can’t say that I do.” He sighed. “Have you been here all night?”

“Yeah. Of course I have.”

“But you’re scared of blood.” Peter said softly.

“You remember that?”

“I remember everything you say to me.”

“I only told you that because I thought you were dead.” You chuckled shyly and looked down at your still intertwined hands.

“I lived bitch.” Peter said in a completely serious tone. You both laughed and you gave his hand another squeeze.

“I’m glad you did.” You told him. “I’m glad you lived.”

“Me too.” Peter smiled softly and gave your hand another squeeze. He looked around again at all his IV’s and tubes and frowned suddenly.

“Wait a second. How did I get here?”

“I lifted you up WWE style and carried you here.”

“No way. WWE?” Peter laughed in surprise.

“Honest to God.” You nodded. “I was ready to rumble.”

Peter threw his head back and laughed again before wincing in pain. He put his hand over his stomach and felt the bandages beneath his hospital gown. His expression changed suddenly and he looked at you.

“What?” You wondered.

“You carried me here. You picked me up and carried me here.” He said through an unbelieving smile.

“Well I wasn’t gonna let you get septic and bleed out.” You rolled your eyes a little.

“You’re too good to me.” Peter smiled and rubbed his thumb over your knuckles. He frowned when he felt how dried out your hands were.

“Your hands are all chapped.” He said and looked at you in confusion.

“Yeah, I uh….” You trailed off and laughed in embarrassment.

“I had to get the blood off. But it stained. So I had to really scrub.” You said as you looked at your hands. You remembered the night before when you woke up after passing out. You remembered scrubbing your hands until they hurt just to get the blood off.

“Is that all my blood?” Peter asked when he looked at your stained clothes again.

“Nah. I had a nosebleed.” You said in a serious tone. Peter frowned in confusion and you cracked a smile.

“I’m kidding. This is your blood. You’re like, full of it.”

“Most people are.” He said, making you laugh. He laughed as well before looking at you seriously. He reached out and cupped your cheek so that you would look at him.

“You saved my life, jelly bean.”

“No I didn’t.” You laughed shyly. “The doctors did. I was just your ride. And by that I mean you physically rode my shoulder to this hospital.”

“You were more than that. You came and found me in the middle of the night and carried me to the hospital. Even with your homophobia and everything.”

“Hemophobia.” You corrected.

“Yeah, that. Why didn’t you tell me about that?” Peter asked, and this time you could tell he was hurt.

“Because you’d stop coming to me if you knew.” You said without looking at him. Peter put his other hand on your face so that your eyes met his once again.

“If you’re scared of blood, wouldn’t you want me to stop coming to you?”

“No. I never want you to stop coming to me.” You shook your head, making him smile a little. Peter rubbed his thumb along your cheek as you wrapped your hand around his wrist.

“I love you what you do. I love that you’re Spiderman. But I love Peter Parker more. And sometimes I worry that if you’re always off saving the world, you’ll get too busy for your old best friend. So when you come knocking at my window needing a bandaid, even if it makes me want to puke, I’m happy that you’re there. I’m happy you still need me.”

“I’m always gonna need you, jelly bean.” Peter said softly as his eyes dropped to your lips.

“I’m pretty sure I told you not to call me that.” You said with a teasing smile as his hands slipped off your face.

“And I’m pretty sure I told you that until I get a girlfriend, you’re gonna have to deal with it.” Peter shot back.

“So you’d still call me that even if I was your girlfriend?” You raised an eyebrow, making Peters face turn red.

“Well I suppose I’d call you other things too.” He gulped and looked at your lips again.

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Bloody Mary.” He said, making you burst out laughing.

“Not cool. That was a low blow.”

“Carrie is another good one. Because of what happened to her at prom.”

“Hm. Yes. I would love it if you called me another’s girls name. That’s what every girl dreams of.”

“I’m kidding.” Peter laughed shyly. “I’d still call you jelly bean because I truly do think it’s a top tier nickname, but I’d call you all the other ones too. Baby, princess, lover-“

“I like lover.” You cut in, making Peter blush again.

“Then I’d call you lover. If you were mine.” Peter said with a soft smile. You raised your eyebrows and started to laugh as you looked at him.

“What?” He wondered. “Why are you laughing?”

“Peter, you said it yourself. I came and found you in the middle of the night and carried you to the hospital. Even with my hemophobia and everything. I…” You trailed off and looked at him, knowing this was the moment when everything would change.

“I’m already yours.”

Peter’s eyes softened as he sat up even more in his hospital bed. You felt your chest tighten and felt like something big was about to happen.

“Could you please come closer?” Peter asked in a quiet voice. You understood what Peter was really asking for and got out of your chair to lean over him. He slipped a hand behind your head as he pulled you down into a kiss. You smiled against his lips as you thought of the almost kiss from the night before and wondering if he remembered it too. Peter moved his hands to cup your face as he deepened the kiss. When you pulled away, you smiled at him for just a second before it dropped.

“Oh my God.”

“What? What’s wrong? Because the way you’re looking at me right now is not how a man wants to be looked at after kissing a girl for the first time.”

“Your nose is bleeding.” You whispered as a wave of nausea hit you.

“Oh no.” Peters eyes widened. “You’re not gonna-“

Peter stopped speaking when you grabbed his bed pan and threw up into it. You looked at him sheepishly before handing him a couple of tissues.

“Throw up are you.” He finished his sentence as he accepted the tissues.

“Sorry. I can usually stop that. You just caught me off guard.” You smiled in embarrassment as you sat on the end of his bed.

“It’s okay.” Peter said as he took your hand again. “You were strong for me all night. You needed to get that out. Don’t be sorry, lover.”

You smiled at the nickname and laid down down on Peters bed and cuddled into his side.

“I have to say, I much prefer that to jelly bean.” You said as you looked up at him. Peter smiled down at you as you wrapped his arm around your shoulder and kissed your temple.

“So do I, lover. So do I.”

Tag List 🏷

awesomebooklover17 @thebookwormlife @imanativeofswlondondahling @serendipitous-amor

@lavender-writer @whatareyouhidingpeter @takenbyheartstrings @ultrunning @imyourliquor-youremypoison @andreasworlsboring101

@letsloveimagines @peterparkoure @a-villain-vying-for-attention @justcallmehitgirl @jackiehollanderr @mara-twins @maryjanee23 @geeksareunique @emmamarshmellow

@unbelievableholland @flixndchill @sovereignparker @thisisthebiplace @every-marveler-ever @undiadeestos @caelestii-e @eridanuswave @itscaminow @fiantomartell @solarxmoonchild @canyouevencauseicant @illwritetomorrow @thehappygrungelife @saysomethingspiderman @smilexcaptainx

@quaksonhehe @kelieah @seasidecrowbar @lovelessdagger @electraheart-3174 @unbelievableholland @yourtypicalhotmess @horanxholland @thesuitelifeofafangirl @marshxx @heyheycharlatte @nooneinvitedfascistbarbie @tomshufflepuff

@maybemona @alexxcorona113

#peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker imagine #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker x y/n #peter parker whump #peter parker angst #peter parker fluff #peter parker fanfic #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland fluff #tom holland x y/n #tom holland fanfiction

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revengewitch · 5 months

Text

You like dark Iron Dad?

Maybe you also like the forced adoption trope?

Are you a sucker for overprotective Tony?

Do you like a good whump? :3 Then I invite you to my AO3 page~ ^.^

#marvel #ao3 #peter parker #tony stark #iron man #spider man #irondad #archive of our own #spiderman #dark tony stark #spiderson #iron dad #spider son #irondad and spiderson #iron dad and spider son #dark iron dad #dark irondad #peter parker whump #whump

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liz-allyn · 1 year

Text

these violet delights - a dark! mob!peter tale [tasm peter vs kilgrave]

summary: The Purple Man comes to visit Mob!Peter at home.

words: 10.5k

a/n: this began as a submission to Wicked's Trick or Treat, but then it turned into a dead dove, sorry 'bout that. my fancast of the purple man/kilgrave in this universe is Jesse Eisenberg, sporting Lex Luthor vibes. But I love David Tennant and you can picture anyone you want! i also did not use "you" or second-person narrative, instead opting for generic "she/her" pronouns and descriptions.

warnings: so many

I repeat. So. Many. Warnings. Including non-con touching/ sa/ forced sex acts (peter is a victim in this), kidnapping, mind-control, oral (m receiving), cheating, angst, mentions of bodily fluids, mentions of self-h4rm, explicit violence, gore, dead doves for you. and one for you. and one for you. everyone gets a dead dove. do not eat it.

This is a work of fiction intended for mature audiences above the age of 18. Sensitive topics are explicitly discussed. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

The second Peter Parker touched the doorknob of the multimillion-dollar Colonial overlooking Forest Park, gooseflesh spread across the nape of his neck. His movements went still, jaw clenching.

Behind him, the shrieking of young children in the distance exacerbated his nerves. He glanced at the residential street around him, peeking through the golden fall curtains of the trees, then down at the modest Jack-O-Lantern underneath the entryway.

It was Halloween, a couple of hours before sunset. It was a weird time of year. One that always got his blood pumping. Everything usually felt a little off on a night like this. But this was different.

Cautiously, he pushed open the door to his lavish home, stepping inside.

The moment Peter stepped into the darkened foyer of his home, he knew immediately something was amiss. He glanced around cautiously. It was so quiet.

By this time, Eddie should’ve set up the goody table outside. It was his job to keep a friendly face on and keep a look-out while Miles and Penni took shifts handing out candy to the kids.

Peter wasn’t really comfortable with hosting Trick-or-Treaters, or any other guests on his property. Too many strangers. Too much unwanted attention. Miles reasoned that if they weren’t trying to appear like a bunch of greedy mobsters, then maybe they shouldn’t have the biggest house on the block and not hand out candy on Halloween.

Despite seeing no one loitering nearby, Peter knew something was wrong.

It was silent. Grave-level silent.

The hairs on his body stood on end. The back of his neck prickled, his senses stirring to alert him to danger. He crept from the foyer and peeked into the expansive sitting area. There, he discovered a brutal scene.

A massacre.

Bodies spread out. Draped across the floor and furniture. Arranged, like broken stems and torn petals of a bloody bouquet.

It could’ve been mistaken for an elaborate, grotesque Halloween display. Hillbilly Chainsaw Massacre. Summer Camp Slaughterfest. Co-ed Killers From Outer Space. Except that Peter could smell real blood. And that these were members of his crew.

He felt queasy and faint, like being in a plummeting elevator. The rapid flutter of a single heart caught his attention, pulling it away from the carnage.

His eyes darted over to see Felicia Hardy sitting on the bottom step of the grand staircase of his home. Her body slumped against the banister. In her lap, she rested the weight of a Chef’s knife almost as long as her forearm. Cold red droplets streaked across her face and neck. The steel blade was coated in crimson.

Felicia’s expression was hollow. Solemn. Tired. Her chest moved shallowly. “Heya, Spider,” she faintly murmured, not making eye contact.

Peter observed his master-at-arms with concerned dread. Part of him wanted to rush to embrace his longtime friend. The other part kept a considerable distance, eyeing her bloody knife.

“Cat,” was all he could say. Alert. Cautious.

“Killer night, huh.” The sharp exhale she let out sounded like a laugh and a cry. She gazed distantly, making no attempt to move as he inched closer to her. Peter had never seen anyone sleepwalk, but he imagined that it would look like this. It was like she was hypnotized. Possessed.

He swallowed deeply, holding down bile, and crouched down to her eye level. “What happened here?”

A long moment passed. She shuddered, tears building just behind her eyes, “I killed ‘em.” It was a whisper that could barely be heard without his abilities. “He told me to kill them,” she explained, only confusing him further. “Told them all to be still and wait their turn. And they did. So I did.”

He shifted closer to her, heart pounding. “Who told you?”

“They were my friends,” she replied, eyes vacant. “My only friends. And I killed them.”

“Felicia,” Peter said firmly. He reached out his finger slowly, hooking it under her chin. Carefully, he pulled her focus to his gaze. He couldn’t recognize her. The formidable woman, with claws and balls of steel, looked up at him in hopeless shame.

“He told me to sit here and wait for you,” she explained, dread in her voice. “And to tell you he has your girl upstairs.”

He approached the bedroom door with catlike footsteps. Inside the room, he could hear obscene noises—soft breaths, wet lips, eager tongue. His senses shrieked in his skull as his eyes found the wide crevice of the doorway.

He recognized the color of her hair instantly. Her image burned red hot in his periphery the same way it burned into his thoughts. The back of her head. The delicate wings of her shoulders. The undulating ridges of her vertebrae. He followed the perilous ladder of her spine all the way down to her belted waist, where a soft, cloudlike chiffon skirt draped over her bottom.

It was a vision he’d only seen in his dreams. But at the present, he was looking at a nightmare.

The petite woman whom he shared the bedroom with was bent over the lap of a stranger. Her hair obscured his view, but the sinful noises spilling out of the room left little to the imagination. The smell of sex, sweat, tears, and saliva hit him like a cannonball. He blinked several times, eyes questioning, as if he stumbled upon a horrific mirage that his eyelashes could sweep away.

The nightmarish image came into clear focus.

His wife—a newlywed for only six weeks—was on her knees in front of an armchair, head bobbing in the lap of a strange man sitting in front of her. Head thrown back in passion, the man groaned lasciviously over the sound of the young woman’s gurgling throat.

It felt like eons passed with Peter standing in the doorway of his bedroom, just staring in bewildered silence. His mind turned over repeatedly, like he was staring at a puzzle and couldn’t fathom the image it created.

His new bride. His innocent angel. His shrinking violet. Choking down another man’s cock like it was her last meal.

Buried deep, somewhere in the rational parts of his brain, he briefly noted the backless, chiffon halter babydoll she was wearing. It was almost a blush pink in the yellow light of the bedroom floor lamp. Lilac. It looked expensive. He’d never seen it before. It suited her well.

He noticed how soft she looked as her hair brushed across her exposed back. That was something he secretly loved about her—her softness. She was a little lamb. He had yet to see this much of her skin. He’d never seen her like this, so exposed. So filthy.

Incomprehesively, he was almost embarrassed at stumbling upon such an intimate, lewd scene. At the same time, he felt his own cock twitch at the sight.

The confusion in his mind quickly settled. His mind caught up to his vision. His stomach dropped and soured. His heart hammered in his chest. His jaw clenched, bit down so hard he could taste blood. It surged and boiled in his veins.

Another vulgar moan erupted from the man as he reached forward and snatched the back of her head. If there was any uncertainty about what was taking place, the blinders were removed. The stranger gathered her hair in his wide grasp and for the first time, Peter could see his wife’s face.

She was wearing makeup, more than he’d ever seen her wear. Or she had been, at one point this evening. The remnants of her mascara and kohl cat eyeliner ran down her cheeks in wet streams. Her plum wine lipstick was smeared across her lips and chin, the color staining the stranger’s cock as he harshly fucked her throat. She gripped onto the man’s knees for balance, her painted nails digging into his pants.

“Fuck yes...” he could hear the man breathlessly sigh, but the air escaped Peter’s lungs. His mind was racing. His brain was short-circuiting. It was skipping through a barbaric list of commands, his adrenaline screaming at him to take action.

Scream. Run. Cry. Punch. Bite. Claw. Fall. Hide. Yell. Pummel. Kill. Crush. Kill. Hurt. Rip. Kill.

His feet started moving.

In addition to the bellowing commands of his adrenaline, the shrill sirens of his senses got louder with every step.

His heart hurt. There was a sharp ache that surprised him. A little less than two months ago, he hadn’t spoken more than five words to her. Regardless, there was a sickness-laced darkness that threatened to pull him under. The pain confused him. Infuriated him.

They hadn’t even bothered to look up yet. He felt like he was leaving the confines of his body. Watching himself move across the room, stalking silently toward the lovers.

Peter kept his gaze fixed on his lamb—treacherous whore—and the blinding-white-hot rage rising up his throat, threatening to cut off the blood flow to his brain.

After taking a particularly harsh thrust into her mouth, her eyes flew open. She coughed and gagged, her wet lashes fluttering as the man pulled her mouth back off of his cock.

Peter’s senses felt like an axe to the skull. He barely registered the shadow in her expression. His wife looked up at her husband, and that’s when he saw it:

Pure terror screaming from her eyes.

Peter’s brain struggled to catch up to speed. He couldn’t even tell if he was breathing anymore. Already moving in their direction, his arm shot up quickly. His long fingers outstretched toward the couple as he began to pull his middle fingers back to his palm.

“Freeze.”

Peter froze. The soft word muttered aloud brought everything to a halt. Like he’d reached the end of a leash. He nearly stumbled over his own feet and whiplashed slightly with the momentum of his muscles seizing.

“Don’t move,” the man’s soft voice commanded again.

Peter didn’t move. His gaze remained fixed on the last trajectory of his eyesight. He observed his wife, her body frozen and unmoving. She was locked in a straight-backed kneel at the man’s feet, her weight bearing down on her knees in an uncomfortable L shape.

He could observe her carefully in this position. Her chin trembled. She panted, drawing short breaths, as if she was on the verge of hyperventilating. He could hear her heart thrumming twice as fast as his own. That wasn’t the sound of lust. It was fear.

Peter remained as a statue: outstretched arm, muscles tense, chest heaving from an overwhelming mix of rage and panic.

He couldn’t move. He wanted to. But he couldn’t.

His eyes fell back to the occupant in the chair, still lounging back as if it was his bedroom they were in.

The alabaster-faced man gazed up at Peter with a half-smile. Sharp lines accentuated his brow, cheekbones, and jaw. His dark brown hair hung long in unkempt, ragged curls, framing his hollow cheeks and stopping at his jaw.

He looked young, with one of those faces that made him look forever in his twenties. Or thirties. Or teens. Maybe it was the smugness he wore on his face suggesting a foolish youth.

Peter wanted to put his fist through it.

Pale blue eyes stared brightly beneath a jutted brow. The kid’s face widened into a smirk.

“Hi,” he said, as they were having a pleasant meeting. He pointed his index finger at him, shooting a playful finger-gun. “Don’t tell me—you must be Peter.”

Peter was silent. Transfixed. Stunned by the casual tone and the bizarre situation. The stranger flipped a switch, as if he wasn’t just getting his dick sucked, and suddenly paid no attention to the woman genuflecting in front of him.

He grinned warmly, shameless in his partial nudity. “I heard so many things about you. Good things. Y’know. Mostly.”

The kid glanced down at the woman on her knees, then turned back to him. “Congratulations… on the wedding by the way!” he apologetically added, as if had forgotten his pleasantries. “Arranged marriages seem so old-fashioned these days, but I get it. Respect for your culture and all that.”

Peter’s mouth felt cotton-dry. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as he struggled with all of his might to lower his arm. To flex his fingers. To say anything at all. It was to no avail.

The intruder gestured at the young woman on her knees. “I gotcha a present,” he grinned, reaching down and running a long finger beneath the chiffon strap across her shoulder. Peter could see that it was a halter dress of some kind. He watched intently as the man’s fingers slid down the fabric, resting at the top of her breast. “Call it a ‘something borrowed.’ No need for a thank-you card.”

Peter’s nostrils flared at the action, despite what he’d seen just moments ago. Despite the fact that he had no previous plan to win this woman’s heart, or let her win his own. Despite that he felt connected to this person in name and title only. And when he saw, with his own eyes, his new… partner engaging in a sex act only six weeks after their turbulent agreement had been finalized... it wasn’t jealousy.

She didn’t owe him faithfulness, if he really thought about it. Even if he planned to be. He planned to be celibate, to be honest. If he could help it. If he focused his energy on business, and not pleasure.

No, it would make sense that she would’ve taken a lover. Given how cold things were between them.

It wasn’t jealousy.

This stranger’s touch infuriated him. The idea that this audacious asshat dressed his wife in lingerie, and was roving his hands on her like inspecting the trim on a car. Like... she was a possession. She was his possession.

The stranger leaned back comfortably in the armchair as Peter tore himself apart. “I was just catching up with... uh...” He glanced at the girl he was facefucking moments before, then gave up. “I didn’t get her name.” He waved his hand with fanfare. “The lovely Mrs. Parker!” he proclaimed, with a shrug. That was good enough by his standards. “She’s been an above-average hostess this evening.”

Peter swallowed, trying to force his tongue to move. It felt like choking on glass. Seeing her mouth on another man felt like choking on glass.

The vile ‘guest’ reached down, cupping his junk idly. He hadn’t bothered to tuck himself away. Peter watched him disgustedly.

“Oh, that? No, not like that,” the man replied sheepishly, pointing down at his exposed crotch. His eyes darted between Peter and his wife, before elaborating. “Oh! That was nothing. She was just showing me a trick her dad’s friends taught her.”

Peter took that piece of information like a brick to the head. It jarred him. His eyes found her, eyeing the profile of her shamed face. He looked at her, really. For the first time since they had signed the marriage certificate. Her chin quivered gently.

He thought about what little he knew about the woman he agreed to marry. Her father was a crook. And not a good one. He ran a sloppy organization, with sloppy amateurs, and sloppy results. He had never thought too hard about her family, regarding them as a nuisance more than anything.

“They had a nickname for her,” the cruel man continued as if he was telling a hilarious story. “They called her the ‘Black Hole.’” He chuckled, barely able to contain his entertained grin behind thin lips.

Peter glanced over to see quiet tears rolling down his wife’s cheeks. She kept her gaze fixed forward. Stealing her expression, she made a decent attempt to conceal her horror and shame. Peter’s jaw clenched empathetically. His chest burned. The glass found his heart.

The intruder seemed oblivious, finally tucking himself back into his pants with a good-humored headshake, amused with himself. It was after a few seconds that he finally noticed Peter’s grim expression.

“Get it?” he asked, beneath a giggle, his smile dimming only slightly.

Peter glared.

Eventually, the man let his shoulders drop. He muttered bitterly, his fun spoiled. “Right over your head. Oh well.”

The ‘guest’ came to a stand in front of the chair, side-stepping around the abused woman in front of him, leaving her in his wake. He dug his hands in the pockets of his pants, eyes roving around the room. The intruder looked at home, strolling through Peter’s bedroom. He observed in silence, listless, like wandering through a library. Passing judgment on the pieces of Peter’s life.

Peter finally noticed the man’s attire. It was a bizarre mish-mash of items: a sharply-pressed, eggplant-hued button-up, untucked. The tails of the shirt draped over the stretchy waist of oversized joggers. A plum, silk-lined, single-button, velvet tuxedo jacket fit snugly over his shoulders. A lavender pocket square poked out from the breast pocket.

Several blinks later, Peter recognized that all of the items were pulled out of his own closet. Some well worn. Some unused. Right down to the brand new, still-in-the-box, memory-foam slippers that May gifted him years ago.

Peter ground his teeth while glaring at the intruder. This was a message. His dark eyes roved over the callous figure, taking in the prevailing hue.

The Purple Man.

Peter’s blood went cold. He’d never met him, but he’d heard stories: nightmarish fairy tales about a devil who could control you with just a few words. A man dressed in purple, leaving grisly scenes drenched in buckets of crimson in his wake.

Peter didn’t believe in fairy tales. He believed in horror stories.

He believed his friend at the D.A.’s office—the disgraced, former lawyer committed to an institution upstate. The blind madman of Hell’s Kitchen—who claimed that he savagely beat his friends to death with a gavel because The Purple Man told him to do it.

Peter wasn’t sure if he really believed in the Devil. Until now.

“I wonder how much all this cost,” the man in purple stated curiously, observing the molding of the bedroom. He glanced over at Peter, still standing between the doorway and the bed. The next words left his mouth like a cold threat. “Answer me when I speak to you.”

“What did you do to Felicia?” Peter asked, thinking of the woman unable to move from her spot downstairs.

He snorted, “The anime chick with the silver hair?” Peter glowered at him, arm still outstretched. “I was actually really confused when I arrived,” he stated. “I thought that little... slutty minx... downstairs was your wife. I mean, she’s the one that answered the door. She’s way too hot to be a housekeeper. Too skinny to be a cook. She’s got great tits.” He paused and asked, “You think they’re real?” He pondered thoughtfully. “They feel real...”

Peter grimaced at the comment, his blood boiling.

“But no,” the uninvited guest continued, “I was surprised to learn that she’s the ‘head of security.’ I mean, come on. Really?” He barked out a laugh. “I don’t wanna say ‘that’s why you never let a woman do a man’s job,’ but that’s what we’re all thinking, amirite?”

He shrugged, questioning aloud, although the couple rendered silent was his only audience.

The Purple Man glanced over to his timid captive, eyeing her backside lewdly. “And this little angel was up here all by herself.”

Peter bristled.

“She told me you don’t let her out much,” he explained. “Bitched a little about freedom and shit, but...” The intruder lowered his voice to a whisper, a secret just between boys, “I see why you keep her under lock and key. A girl like this doesn’t have any business out and about by herself. Just asking for trouble.”

Peter glared in response, nostrils flaring. The pig headed comment made his skin crawl. On the other hand, he didn’t miss the feeling of guilt that sank in his stomach for locking her up like an object.

The intruder carried on, like he was conversing with a friend. “Yeah, if I was you,” he mused, “I’d have a whole fuckin’ slew of women. A harem. I’d keep one in every room.” He peered towards the doorway but made no move to escape. “I mean this house is ridiculous,” he continued. “You’ve got a lot of rooms. So maybe not every room. A man’s gotta have some peace.”

He shrugged, throwing a sideways glance at Peter. “That’s what I’d do. If I were you.” His voice dropped an octave. “But I’m not you. I’m smarter.”

Peter glowered back, as the two men locked stares. A long moment passed.

“You do know who I am, right?” The Purple Man interrupted suddenly.

Peter recalled a name that Brock discovered while digging through Murdock’s appointment calendar. A high school dropout with an brilliant IQ. An avid gamer. A nobody.

“I know who you are,” Peter replied, beneath a regretful glare. “Gotta be honest, though. Didn’t give two shits about you ‘til now.”

He responded giddily, “I’m pleased that we were able to change that. I mean, what’s a girl gotta do to get you to notice them?”

He whispered with a deadly calmness, like making a vow, “Believe me, Kevin. You have my attention.”

The Purple Man’s face twisted as he spat, “Ugh! God!” He spun on his heel, hissing and kicking indignantly. “I fuckin’ hate that name!” He bristled with anger, rendering a glower. “My mother gave me that name!”

The sudden outburst of rage sent a trickle down his wife’s spine. She shivered, and he spotted it out of the corner of his eye. Their captor didn’t seem to notice.

The intruder shouted with disdain, “How hard is it to show a little fuckin’ respect? I don’t identify with that name. My name is Kilgrave.”

Peter fought to hold in a humorless laugh. “Kilgrave? Isn’t that what your little video game buddies call you?”

“Actually, Kill_Grave_69 is my PSN handle,” he corrected matter-of-factly, his mood shifting dramatically. “I sent Kill_Grave a message, but he hasn’t replied yet.”

“You like playin’ games with people, Kevin?” Peter taunted, his rage bubbling over. “Is’at what this is to you? A game?”

Kilgrave sighed, annoyed and bored. He gazed at Peter, declaring softly, “If you say ‘Kevin’ again, I’ll make your wife bite off her own tongue.”

The woman in reference shuddered on her knees. Peter locked his jaw.

“I’m serious, Peter,” Kilgrave warned. “She likes to swallow.”

Peter’s eyes flicked over to his wife, a pang of sympathy rising in his chest. He was ashamed of himself. Ashamed that the first thought that ran through his mind when he came upon the pornographic scene was betrayal. How daft. How arrogant. How did it not occur to him that she was being forced against her will?

He was a fool to think he could keep her safe. Perhaps it was his pride assuring him that no one would get past the gates of his fortress. It was hubris. His dogmatic belief that he’d prevent tragedy from reaching his loved ones.

At least, not again.

"Spoiler alert, I guess,” Kilgrave added, his lewd commentary interrupting Peter’s self-pity. “That’s another thing we talked about: You guys haven’t fucked.” Kilgrave crossed his arms, glancing back between the couple. “I mean, what’s with that? Talk about trouble in paradise.”

Despite himself, Peter bristled with embarrassment. A tinge of pink on his cheeks added to the red flush of his rage creeping up his neck. “With the size of that rock on her finger,” Kilgrave added, “you’d think that’d be worth at least a couple of blowjobs.”

Her eyelids slammed shut, jaw clenched. Peter glanced down to see the tremble of her legs, her kneecaps digging into the merciless wooden floor. He couldn’t imagine how painful it was, and how long she’d been in that position.

Kilgrave chuckled, staring at Peter with amusement. “Between your wife’s Jaws of Life and your slutty housekeeper’s Triple D’s... What are you, queer?”

His lip twitched at the slur. He struggled to maintain his composure, aware that at any moment he could cause his wife—the frightened lamb—further harm. Simultaneously, he pictured gouging out the mouthy bastard’s eyes with his thumbs.

Peter swallowed hard, speaking when spoken to. “What is it you want?”

“I’m here on business,” Kilgrave shrugged nonchalantly. “But first, I want to play a game.” He looked over at the woman. “We were already in the middle of one when you showed up, but we can start all over again. I guess.” He turned to Peter. “You ever play ‘20 Questions?’ It’s my favorite icebreaker.”

He tilted his head, childishly groaning, “Does this mean I have to listen to you talk about yourself through 20 Monologues?”

“Oh, no, this is all about you guys,” he declared, sitting on the edge of the king sized bed. He licked his thin lips hungrily. “I think what we have is an opportunity for you two to really open up to one another, y’know? Bare your hearts. Let’s see the real juicy stuff!”

The double-entendre was not lost on Peter. He gulped anxiously.

Kilgrave patted down the duvet on either side of him. “C’mon, you two,” he grinned, sparkling with childlike mischief. “Gather ‘round!”

Peter suddenly felt his legs lurch forward, his arm able to drop. The release of his tense muscles was relieving, but immediately he was horrified at being unable to control himself. He approached the bed slowly, sitting next to Kilgrave on the right. Kilgrave looked up to see his wife falter as she attempted to move off her knees. With a yelp, she toppled forward on her face.

Kilgrave snorted, shoulders shaking with humor. “What a klutz.” She half-crawled on wobbly legs, only sparking more laughter.

“Oh my god,” the weasel-like man howled. “She looks like a baby cow!” Peter’s eyes ran over her figure, taking inventory of as many injuries as he could see. One of the halter straps of her dress was askew off her shoulder. Finger shaped bruises peppered her jaw. Her knees were scraped and bloody. There were obviously injuries he could not see. Picturing them was like dunking his brain in acid.

“C’mon, I don’t have all day,” Kilgrave mocked her. He beat on the bedspread emphatically, like summoning a dog. Peter seethed in silence. “C’mon. Atta girl.”

Wincing in pain, she approached the edge of the bed, using her fingers to claw up the duvet. She thrust herself up next to Kilgrave on his opposite side, her legs dangling awkwardly off the edge of the bed.

“There she is,” he sang fondly, before lifting his gangly fingers and slapping them down on her thigh. She gasped at the pain, her legs still prickling as the flow of blood returned to her feet. His hand clamped above her knee, fingers digging into her flesh. “Such a pretty little cow.”

A soft whimper escaped her lips. Peter shut his eyes at the noise, squeezing them tight enough to trigger a migraine. He recognized that she was hanging on to what little power she had, trying to withhold her pain in front of her tormentor. If she could keep it together, then he’d better do the same.

Peter opened his eyes, glaring sideways at him. “You said you were here on business?”

“Easy, easy,” Kilgrave turned to him. “I’m asking the questions here.” He lifted his other hand and settled it on Peter’s thigh. “No need to get all worked up,” he slithered, ice in his eyes. Peter glanced down at the intruder’s hand touching his pant leg. It was a possessive hold, as if he owned Peter like the stolen clothes he was wearing. Like he owned the bed they were sitting on, the house he’d invaded, or the woman he’d assaulted.

Peter met his gaze, stone-faced. But he had the overwhelming urge to cry. From rage or fear or heartbreak, he didn’t know.

“You’ll need to wait your turn,” Kilgrave cooed, like admonishing a child. The most feared mobster in New York, the Unlikely King from Queens—reduced to a child.

“I’m supposed to say something clever, like ‘Mr. Fisk sends his regards,’ or some passive-aggressive bullshit like that. But all that seems so cliche. Dull.” He shot a quick glance, left and right, snuggling into his space between the couple. He knocked his knee into Peter’s playfully. “So. Tell me about you two. How did you meet?”

Peter’s jaw shook like an earthquake, fighting the command. The fight was getting exhausting.

“The day before our wedding,” his wife squeaked out. Her throat sounded raw. “At our house. Or... it used to be my house.” As she spoke, she gazed achingly at the open doorway. She reminisced with a bitter tone. “He brought daisies. Couldn’t hand them to me. Left ‘em on the table. Wouldn’t even look at me.”

Peter’s eyes rested heavily on the floor, brow furrowed.

“He spoke with my father for a half-hour while I waited upstairs,” she recounted, trying to keep her voice from cracking. “Thirty minutes, to decide the rest of my life. Mama locked me in my room. They took away anything sharp. In case I tried to back out.”

Peter looked up and over at her, beyond their tormentor, and watched the way her lip trembled at the admission. He followed the length of her arm down to her idle fingertips. The chiffon dress bunched up around her thighs, revealing her secrets. Etched scars lined her thighs and told a story of a lifetime of suffering. Eyes full of sorrow, Peter looked back up at her face. His heart broke to see that familiar faraway gaze.

“You’d rather kill yourself than marry him?” Kilgrave blurted, snorting repugnantly. “Wow. That’s a ‘swipe-left’ if I’ve ever heard one.”

Peter avoided the urge to comment, holding himself back from shooting a dirty look. He ignored him, keeping his wife in his sight. He hoped that somehow she could feel his gaze. He wanted it to feel like a kind gesture. A warm, friendly ray of light. A compassionate embrace.

She swallowed hard, and for a moment Peter wondered if she could feel him. “I’ve spent my whole life in a cage,” she explained numbly. “Like a pet in a shop waiting to be sold. Waiting for Papa to put me to good use. Or get rid of me somehow.” She whispered sorrowfully, “A coffin’s not so different. At least it’s quiet.”

Peter’s jaw clenched as he felt his eyes sting. It was the hopelessness in her voice. The familiarity of it. He had no idea of the suffering that she endured. He hadn’t fully considered getting to know her. He didn’t truly plan on being alive much longer.

“Hmm,” Kilgrave hummed, considering the weight of her words. “I bet you’re a delight at parties. What did you think of him when you saw him?”

Her husband thought he could see the faintest ghost of a smile flit across her face. She pulled her gaze away from the doorway, and looked at Peter. He nearly flinched at the action. He was too ashamed to look at her.

“Pretty eyes,” she stated, a breath of fondness in her voice. It made his cheeks turn red. “He was prettier than I thought he’d be.” She stared at him. Through him. Like she could see his soul. “My sister told me once that the pretty ones are the meanest.”

He dropped his eyes to the floor.

Kilgrave turned to Peter. “What about you, Prince Charming? What went through your head that night?”

This time, he didn’t fight.

“I just wanted it to be over,” Peter replied, flatly.

Despite herself, she winced. The sting of his words was apparent.

“Oof,” Kilgrave commented. “Bad first impression?”

“That wasn’t the first time I met her,” Peter explained, betrayed by his own tongue. His eyes closed in defeat.

Kilgrave nodded. “Tell me about that.”

He paused, but not for long. “It was at a wedding,” Peter explained. “She was twelve. I was fifteen.” Her eyes shot over to Peter, surprised by the revelation. “She wore a yellow dress with daisies on it. These kids... um. They were pickin’ on her. Callin’ her names.”

His lips turned downwards at the memory, heart aching. “I felt sorry for her. She spent the whole reception cryin’ in the bathroom. We could all hear it.” She looked away, the memory returning to her. “I told those kids to lay off, but... only after...” He let the words fall away. Kilgrave didn’t ask for more this time. It was a meaningless excuse anyway. “She doesn’t remember me,” he affirmed, “but I was there.”

The couple met each other’s eyes briefly, and for a moment they were alone with one another in their thoughts.

“Aww,” the wicked man blushed, his tone thick with saccharine. “That’s sweet. So you knew from the moment you saw her you were gonna marry her?”

“No,” he replied. “She’s not—” He choked on the words. His vocal cords constricting. Swallowed hard. He looked up at her helplessly, seeing the wounded look on her face. It was as if all he could do was hurt her.

“Finish that sentence,” Kilgrave callously commanded.

He begged his mouth to stay closed, but it creaked open. “She’s not Gwen.”

The sound of the name rang out. Tolling like a distant bell harkening some terrible fate. “Oh. Wait.” Kilgrave snapped his fingers near his head, as if he was struggling to fit the pieces of the story together. “Hang on. I’m remembering this.” He made some odd noise, a humming screech that sounded like a computer crashing. “Nope. Sorry. Nothing. Who’s Gwen?”

“She was the woman I loved,” Peter shuddered as he spoke. “We met in high school. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.”

“Okay...?”

“She died,” Peter swallowed dryly. Now they were both staring at him expectantly. It was obvious from his wife’s expression that she didn’t know about Gwen. That was Peter’s design. The seconds ticked by, his wife staring at him with something between curiosity and horror. “It was an accident,” Peter said, suddenly feeling like he needed to.

Kilgrave leveled his gaze at him, studying Peter intently. “Was it really?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. The glass had spread to his veins. “No.”

Her eyes widened at his response. Peter stared at her, his gaze heavy with guilt. Kilgrave made a pleased sound, like taking a bite out of a delicious cake. “Did you kill her?” he smirked ravenously.

“No,” Peter responded quickly. His eyes told a different story.

“Tell me the truth.” Kilgrave’s mouth was watering.

“I didn’t push her,” Peter elaborated grimly. “But I put her in harm's way.” His lip trembled, face crumpling. “She was killed because of me.”

“Siiick,” said Kilgrave, not truly impressed. Peter’s attention wasn’t on him.

Whatever expression he expected from his wife, he got the opposite. She stared at him with pity.

“Well,” Kilgrave sighed, “that was even more of a downer than I anticipated.” He rolled his eyes, kicking his legs idly in frustration. “Fine, sure. You lost one girl. You got another. This one’s still young, and... alive? She seems alright. I mean, I’m sure Gwynn was great, but... are you really gonna spend the rest of your life moping over some dead pussy?

His eyes flashed with rage, “Don’t fucking talk like that about her—”

Kilgrave leaped to his feet, outmatching Peter’s fury, exploding like a bullet out of a gun. Suddenly, he was giant and imposing. A mushroom cloud leering over Peter’s face with fiery eyes and flaming breath.

“YOU don’t get to tell ME what to do!” his voice bellowed, like a crash of thunder. His booming voice was enough to make both of his captives flinch. “Ever! UNDERSTAND?”

Peter looked up at his tormentor and tried to hold back a shudder. The monster’s eyes had gone black and soulless, filled with rage. Any good humor in his nature evaporated instantly, lips pulled tight. His curls vibrated with anger.

As he stared up at him bitterly, Peter heard the sound of his wife’s heart thumping wildly. She kept her head forward and sniffled gently, trying to tighten her trembling jaw. It was as if she was pleading with Peter through her heartbeat. Begging him not to do anything stupid and get himself killed. Because then, she’d be left alone. With him. Again.

A caged animal, indeed.

Several long moments passed before Kilgrave’s shoulders eased up. His features softened, his expression shifting to apathy. He shook the hair out of his face like a dog, exhaled slowly, and sat back down between the couple.

“So,” The Purple Man continued, biting back indignation at being interrupted. “You didn’t want anything to do with the girl. She’s a means to an end. You could care less about her.”

Peter flinched, struggling. He subtly wished he could bite off his tongue to keep it from moving. Kilgrave noticed it immediately.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he commanded.

Peter exhaled, feeling his heart sink in his chest. “That’s not true,” he muttered quietly, staring apologetically at his wife.

She batted her eyes at Peter, before breaking eye contact and staring ahead before Kilgrave could notice.

“Elaborate,” he replied coldly.

Peter swallowed hard. “I didn’t want to hurt her,” he admitted with a huff. “I wasn’t trying... It wasn’t right, what her father did to her. None of it. He was planning on making a deal with Martello. The Hammerhead. Trading her for protection. I thought—I thought I could help her. Take Hammerhead off the board. Get her father’s loyalty. Help her, like I shoulda helped her when we were kids.” Peter glanced down at the floor, his forehead creased. “I shoulda stayed out of it.”

Kilgrave hummed, nodding as if he was filled with wisdom, “Tale as old as time. Women are our inevitable downfall.”

Peter bit his tongue, closing his eyes to keep them from rolling, holding back an offending remark.

Kilgrave moved on, looking over at the woman in question. “What about you, cowgirl?” he questioned, with a slight smirk. “Your daddy sent you off like a dowry. A sheep for the slaughter.”

Her darkened eyes remained fixed on the floor. Peter admired her strength.

“You didn’t wanna play house with the rich man with nice eyebrows?”

“How should I know,” she bit like a whipcrack, her words laced with venom. “He hasn’t spent more than five minutes with me since I got here.”

It was a stunning display of boldness from her, surprising both men. Kilgrave pulled back his gaze, eyeing her with intrigue.

“There we go,” Kilgrave simpered. “Now we’re getting to the good stuff.” He turned to Peter who was trying to focus on remaining silent. His efforts were dashed the moment Kilgrave spoke. “Respond.”

“She hates me,” Peter immediately murmured, then bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. “She hasn’t said it. But I know. She... she can’t stand to be in the same room as me. I hate the way she makes me feel.”

He would’ve willed himself to stop breathing if it meant no more words would spill out. But Kilgrave was hooked, engaged in his favorite television drama.

“How does she make you feel?” Kilgrave beckoned, hungry for more.

Peter’s brow furrowed. “Like a monster.”

She let out a slow exhale, her resolve crumbling as tears dripped down her face.

Peter barely recognized his own voice, sounding as weak and broken as he felt. “She’s terrified of me. Cries in the room all the time. Won’t even look me in the eye. Like I’m... like I’m gonna hurt her or—” He swallowed hard, “I-I wouldn’t do that.”

“Or what? Finish what you were going to say,” he ordered coldly.

Peter squeezed his eyes tight, exhaling slowly. “Like I’m going to beat on her. Rape her.”

She went rigid; ice in her veins. Kilgrave shifted in his seat, adjusting his lap ever so slightly. “Is that what you like doing, Peter?”

“No,” Peter responded without hesitation, eyes defensive. “Never. I don’t...” He glowered at Kilgrave. “I’m not sick like that.”

If he could tell that it was a subtle insult, Kilgrave didn’t let on. “What are you like, Peter?” he grinned wickedly. “Be truthful. When was the last time you hurt someone?”

He stared. Mouth closed. Helpless. “This morning.”

Kilgrave smiled, holding his gaze. “Did you kill them?”

“Yes.”

“Did they suffer?”

Peter blinked at him, fighting a sting in his eyes. He spotted the way his wife shivered in his periphery. “Yes.”

“And did you like it?” he asked, like the cat that ate the cream. “How did it make you feel?”

Peter wished he could vanish into thin air. He let out a shaky breath, his eyes brimming with tears. “I felt powerful,” he admitted, shame and self-hatred evident in his tone. “It made me feel strong. Felt like justice. For Gwen. I liked it.”

The long-haired man chuckled darkly, “You really think it has anything to do with justice?”

A tear escaped his eye. Peter thought of the final expression on Gwen’s face, blood dripping from her mouth and nose. “I don’t know,” he answered. It was the truth.

Kilgrave’s expression shifted, unhappy with the answer. “Okay, Peter Parker. Pillar of pious penitence.” He spat each word mockingly, leaning closer to the taller man, invading his space menacingly. Peter knew he couldn’t stand anyone having the moral advantage over him. Or any advantage.

“Tell me this then,” Kilgrave glowered, hissing through gritted teeth. “Maybe you’re not a rapist, but you’re not a eunuch.” His piercing blue eyes dropped downwards. “At least that I can tell. You sleep under the same roof as this...” Kilgrave glanced over at his wife, his eyes roving down her chest and legs. “...Sacrificial calf, tell me—Have you ever thought of just fucking her and getting it over with?”

Peter felt his heart seize in his chest. The air caught in his throat.

“Answer the question!” Kilgrave barked.

His jaw clenched. “Yes,” he irked out, shamefully. “I have.”

“Ah ha!” Kilgrave rejoiced, clapping his hands together. “So the boy’s cock does work. Let’s hear about it.”

“I don’t...” Peter stuttered, his skin beginning to crawl. “I-I don’t wa—”

Kilgrave gripped Peter’s shoulder tight. It was like clutching a stone in his fist. He leered over him regardless, pouring poison into his ear. “Details, Peter. Details. You want to fuck her, right? How bad? You ever jerk off thinkin’ about itr?”

“Yes,” he choked out. He let his eyes fall closed, ashamed and unable to look at the woman whose life he had destroyed.

“You watch her when you do it?”

“N-no,” he stuttered. “Sh-shower.”

“What do you like about her? What’s your favorite part? Her ass, right? You strike me as an ass man.”

Peter hoped that soon Kilgrave would tell him to throw himself off of a building. “Her eyes.”

Kilgrave groaned, deflating at the answer.

“She’s innocent,” Peter added truthfully, with bleary eyes. “Not like—” He clipped the words, but one look from his tormentor reminded him of the futility of his resistance. “Not like me,” he whispered, heartbroken.

The Purple Man glared at him, stewing with disdain.

“Poor Peter Parker,” he mocked with a singsong tone. He gazed down at him through narrow slits, regarding him as ant under a bright magnifying glass. “Pitiful, pathetic prince of pathos. Pauper of power.”

Disgraced, he stared back, hollow and exposed. The sensation of a tear rolling down his cheek stirred him.

“Do you want to know why I like to play video games?” Kilgrave stated coolly.

He could think of a hundred vicious replies. A hundred ways to hurt, maim, and kill. But none of them were real options. He looked at him apathetically. Hopelessly. It didn’t matter how he responded.

“It’s an even balance of power,” Kilgrave elaborated. “A fair fight.” His eyes roved over Peter’s figure, sizing him up from head to toe. “All I need is two thumbs and I can win fair and square. Keeps things challenging.”

The maniac fell silent, staring at Peter in a way that made his skin crawl. His smile faded. Again, the friendly persona evaporated. He spoke again with a voice weighed down with malice.

“You have all this money,” he stated. “All these... pawns, like the dead ones downstairs.” He reached over, squeezing Peter’s bicep gently. “You work out.” He gently patted Peter’s cheek. “You’ve got a pretty face. All this... ‘power.’” His azure eyes leveled, and the look sent a chill down Peter’s spine. “And yet all I hear about is how sad your little lonely life is. Your shitty bad luck. Your dead parents and your dead blonde whore.”

Peter’s chest heaved, filled with fear or fury. He bit the inside of his lip, watching the vitriol rising in the man.

Cruel jealousy filled his words. “You got it so easy, you don’t even know it,” Kilgrave hissed. “Silver spoon up your ass. Guys like you, you think you can just buy everything you want? You think you can just bully everyone? Beat them into submission?”

The intruder’s heart beat even faster with self-righteous fervor. He was insane, Peter concluded, unhinged and oblivious to the hypocrisy of his words.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re not scared of me,” Kilgrave sneered. “Doesn’t matter if you couldn’t give two shits. Doesn’t matter if you own the whole world. I control you. All I have to do is say the words. That is real power, my friend.”

Kilgrave jumped to his feet, standing tall in front of the couple. He puffed up like a god casting down judgment. He was drunk on his version of power. Basking in the glow of their helpless misery.

“And sure,” he added, his smile growing larger, his voice getting louder. “When I’m done here, there’ll be a limo waiting for me. And I’m gonna go to the nicest hotel in the city. I’m gonna order room service, and I’m going to eat it off the girl at the front desk’s naked body.”

He proclaimed this triumphantly. Like he was standing in a pulpit. Like he could hear thunderous applause. He probably could.

“And then I’m gonna play a few hours of Call of Duty,” he continued. “I’m gonna kill a few spoiled little shitheads like you online, and even if I lose the game...” He laughed with a careless shrug, “I’ll just tell them to go fuck their mothers and swallow bleach.”

“Then I’m gonna leave with my giant suitcase full of Wilson Fisk’s money,” he spat each word at the couple, matching their disgusted horror with his own outrage. “But before you judge me, let me tell you that I don’t do it for the money, Mister and Missus Parker.”

He popped the ‘P,’ like a bloody dot on the end of a sentence.

“I do it because I like it,” he declared. “I like to help people. And when you help people, good things happen to you!”

Kilgrave took a deep breath, and exhaled loudly. He was regaining his composure, albeit for dramatic effect. “So, now for my next question, Peter, I ask you this:” he leaned forward, placing both hands on the bed as he glanced back and forth between the horrified duo. “Trick or Treat?”

Peter blinked silently, terrified to respond.

“Choose!” Kilgrave roared.

“Treat!” Peter yelped, tears running down his face.

“Good choice,” Kilgrave declared. “Now. Are you finally ready to fuck your wife, or should I do it for you?”

Peter’s eyes were black as coal, overcome with rage. He whispered, agonized, “Touch her and I’ll rip your fucking throat out—”

From the tuxedo jacket pocket, Kilgrave suddenly brandished a straight-edge razor. It flashed in the low-light of the bedroom. He handed it to the woman he only regarded as ‘Missus’ Parker.

“Use this to cut your own face off,” he commanded. The moment the razor went into her hand, she closed her fist on the blade. Her eyes were wide with fright, her arm trembling.

“No! Stop!” Peter bellowed, voice shattering weakly, as he reached out and grabbed the end of the razor. He clutched the blade, feeling the sting of it in his palm.

Kilgrave leapt backward with alarm. “Nobody move!”

The couple didn’t move. Both hands on the blade of the razor. Blood spilling into blood. Kilgrave’s eyes went back and forth between the two of them, before settling on Peter suspiciously.

“You really do care about her,” Kilgrave stated, intrigued. His voice was thoughtful and unsure, as if he was observing the results of an experiment. He watched Peter’s tortured expression carefully. His lip trembled, his eyes wet.

“Please,” Peter begged him, shaking uncontrollably. Swallowing every ounce of pride, he pleaded for mercy. “Please. It’s me that Fisk wants. She’s got no part in this.”

Kilgrave stared quietly, as if he was considering it seriously. It was enough to give Peter hope.

“Drop the razor,” he ordered.

The weapon clanged as it hit the floor, narrowly missing their limbs.

“I’m sorry, I just thought of another question,” Kilgrave declared, leaving Peter’s plea unanswered. He leaned in close between them, his thin lips positioned between both sets of ears. “Cards on the table. If you had to choose, right now,” he asked devilishly. “Who would you rather have rape your wife?” He locked eyes with Peter, smirking sadistically. “Me? Or you?”

Peter’s heart sank as it threatened to burst from his chest. He held Kilgrave’s stare, peering up powerlessly. His stomach lurched, bile rising in his throat.

This was a message, he thought. A warning to all who dared to stand up to powerful men like Wilson Fisk. Those who were arrogant enough to try to beat the devil at his own game.

It didn’t matter that Peter may have been the lesser of two evils. They were all evil. The city was overflowing with evil deeds and evil men. Like his father-in-law. Like Fisk. Like Kilgrave.

Like Peter.

Kilgrave simply smiled. Because he knew what Peter really was.

He knew what his answer would be.

And how poetically unjust was it—in his flimsy attempt at protecting this poor girl he pitied, the woman he wondered if he could one day love—that he would be the one to hurt her. He had imprisoned her to protect her. And he was going to cause her suffering.

He really was a monster.

But Kilgrave just wanted him to say it out loud.

Peter’s lip wobbled as he watched the intruder raise an eyebrow. He was waiting.

“Answer the question,” Kilgrave grinned wickedly. “Who would you rather it be?”

He tried to keep his mouth closed, but it felt like trying to hold back an avalanche. He knew exactly what word was going to come out, and with it, the contents of his stomach would follow. The remnants of his broken soul soon after.

“Peter.”

Kilgrave blinked, turning towards ‘Missus’ Parker. He’d forgotten she was there.

The woman sat calmly on the foot of the bed, her bloody hands placed in her lap. Blood droplets staining her scars. Her body was a mountain. Steady. Unfazed.

She locked eyes with Kilgrave. There was an audacious half-smirk on her face.

“I would rather it be Peter,” she answered, knowing well-enough that the question wasn’t directed at her to begin with. She didn’t care. She was making her thoughts known.

“I would rather be probed by aliens,” she stated confidently, hatred woven into each word. “I would rather be railed by every dick in a leper colony. I’d rather be inbred by a family of cannibal hillbillies. I’d rather be fucked by a grizzly bear.”

Her voice taunted him, seething through gritted teeth, “Literally. Anyone. Else.” She glared at him viciously. “Anyone but you.”

Kilgrave’s face fell slowly, his eyes growing cold at her harsh rejection.

She smiled, victorious, if only in this one fight. “And no matter what you say, that’ll never change.”

His eye twitched as he glared at her. She relished in the way his nostrils flared, basking in the glow of his rage. Savored the way a vein bulged from his forehead.

Kilgrave studied her lividly, crossing his arms. “You heard the lady,” he replied. He commanded, “Pin her down.”

Peter’s hands shot forward of their own accord, grabbing his wife’s wrists and throwing her back across a bed they had never shared until this moment. Despite her resolve, she shrieked as she attempted to push him off. She twisted like a snake beneath him.

Tears sprang from his eyes and hers. He could hear his own disembodied voice, mumbling incoherently, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry so sorry...”

In seconds she was subdued under him, his hips pinning hers down.

Peter watched her fall silent and still, tears rolling down the sides of her face. He squeezed his eyes closed, focusing his energy on releasing her wrists to no avail. Hot droplets from his eyes splattered as they fell on the skin of her heaving chest.

“Don’t do this,” he pleaded, to anyone who would listen. “I don’t... don’t wanna do this...” He squeezed his eyes tighter.

“Look at me,” he heard her whisper. He opened his eyes at the sound of her voice.

She gazed up at him, her eyes gentle. Sympathetic. He wanted to drown himself in them.

“It’s gonna be okay,” she timidly whispered. “We’re gonna be okay.” He wanted to collapse under the weight of his guilt.

He trembled, “Please don’t hate me. Please, I’m... I can’t...”

“I know,” she nodded softly, barely above the sound of her heart. “I know. You’re nothing like him.”

Peter gritted his teeth, sobbing, growling as he tried to move his hands, only peeling one finger away from her wrist.

“Give me her panties,” Kilgrave coldly ordered.

Peter’s hand reached under the skirt of the dress, gripping onto stretchy lace. With a snap, he tore the fabric from her waist. She yelped at the burn. He held his trembling hand outstretched, presenting Kilgrave with his trophy.

He snatched the underwear, examining it in his hand. “Well, whaddya know,” he sneered. “Looks like she’s not that broken up about this after all. She’s dripping wet. Just like a whore.”

Kilgrave tucked the underwear back in his jacket, turning listlessly toward the brutal scene. “Put your hand on her throat.”

She flinched as Peter followed the order. His large palm settled heavily the base of her throat.

Kilgrave peered over at them, intently watching the way his hand circled her neck. Blood from the razor cut on his palm coated her throat, making a sticky red mess. Kilgrave licked his lips at the sight.

“Such large hands,” his tormenter observed. “Bet you’re strong. Bet you could just... crush her throat with just your thumb and forefinger. Like snapping a toothpick” Peter’s bloody hand trembled, his whole body quaking with terror. “I wonder what that would sound like.”

Peter shook his head, spiraling into panic, “P-Please don’t—”

“Relax,” Kilgrave admonished him, as if scolding a frightened child. Sickeningly, Peter felt his pulse slow down. His next breaths were even and steady. Kilgrave grinned, “I told you that you were gonna get a chance to fuck your wife, did I not?”

She bit her trembling lip, glaring over at Kilgrave from the side of her vision. He stared back at her, skewering her with his look. “I never said she would be alive when you did it.”

Peter felt like he was going to be sick. His skin went cold and clammy. Kilgrave broke into a fit of giggles.

“Fucking coward,” Peter ground out, shooting a glare at The Purple Man. “You wanna beat somebody? You wanna kill me? Just fucking do it. C’mon, just be a man and let’s do this—”

Kilgrave yawned, rolling his eyes. “Dirty talk, hmm,” he glowered mockingly. “Careful with that mouth. Unless you want my cock in there too.”

The muscles in Peter’s shoulders went rigid as he stared at him. His throat bobbing. His voice squeaked, “Is-Is that w-what you want?”

Kilgrave tilted his head, curiously. Peter sounded... hopeful, almost. He gazed at him, feeling like prey begging a predator not to eat him.

Peter blinked away tears, sensing a tug on the lure. He cleared his throat, softening his gaze. “C’mon,” Peter reaffirmed, steadying his voice placatingly. “Let’s go then. Just you and me. I’ll do whatever you want.”

It was a bold offer. Not surprising, but bold. Kilgrave studied him closely, the gears turning in his mind. He finally snickered, amused.

“You will,” he sneered with a twisted grin. “I have no doubt about it.”

Peter’s eyes followed him, unsure of his meaning. Kilgrave stalked up to the end of the bed, reaching forward and wrenching Peter’s hair back. He gasped at the sharp pain, his neck vulnerably exposed.

“Tell you what,” The Purple Man replied, tauntingly. Kilgrave reached down for the hand resting on his wife’s throat. Slowly, he pulled it up to his mouth.

Peter let it happen. He didn’t have to be told.

“You be a good boy,” he said, turning his hand over. Kilgrave stuck out his tongue and ran it over Peter’s palm, licking the wound. He bit back bile as he watched Kilgrave lick his blood from his lips. “And maybe, I’ll let you share.” His blue eyes travelled over to his wife’s, shooting her a threatening glance.

She lifted up off of the comforter, wrists still firmly in place with Peter’s other hand. It didn’t matter. Kilgrave was close enough that she hit her target. He screeched and hissed as she shot a wad of spit in his eyes.

“Ow, ow, gross!” he roared as if he’d suffered the most egregious of indignities. He rid himself of the velvet jacket, using it to wipe at his face furiously. When he turned back to her, he was livid.

“That’s it!” he screamed. Kilgrave stalked towards the bed, tossing the jacket aside. “Fucking whore!” he hissed. He reached down, snatching the razor off the floor. “Sorry, Pete. I’m tagging you out.”

He gripped Peter’s hair once again, pulling his neck back. She shrieked as she saw the razor come up to her husband’s throat. The blade sliced into his flesh, leaving a red-hot mark.

In an instant, Peter’s hand moved to stop the blade.

Kilgrave was stunned.

So was Peter, with his hand gripping the monster’s wrist.

It was as if his Spider-sense reacted before his consciousness. A reflex of self-preservation.

Kilgrave’s eyes widened with horror, his lips beginning to move. Seizing the opportunity, Peter flexed his hand, triggering his web-shooter. The intruder was thrust backward, a sticky mass pummeling his face and covering his mouth.

He stumbled backwards, collapsing on his knees, pulling wildly at his gag. The web wouldn’t move. He was silenced.

Chest heaving, Peter turned over his palm, observing the wound already starting to heal. He looked over at Kilgrave, understanding the biology of how his powers worked.

Kilgrave was a disease. His existence was a plague. His words were a virus.

One that Peter’s body could fight, given the right antibodies. From the moment Peter’s blood came in contact with Kilgrave’s saliva, his body did the rest.

He released the arms of the woman beside him, pulling his other hand back as if he touched fire.

Kilgrave scrambled like a cockroach in the light. Peter watched him attempt to scurry away. He released another web, yanking the man’s legs out from under him. Tangled and bucking frantically, Kilgrave rolled over on the floor.

He met Peter’s gaze, his expression dark. Monstrous. And immune.

Fear turned the blue in his eyes to ice. In the blink of an eye, Peter reached down and snatched Kilgrave up by the throat, lifting him off the ground. The shorter man kicked wildly. Peter sucked in labored breaths, imagining the sound of a toothpick snapping. Tears continued to run down his cheeks, a storm of grief and hatred fueling the crackling lightning of his eyes.

He reached forward, grabbing Kilgrave by the chin. His fingers reached over the web and expanded across the man’s jaw. The part of Kilgrave that he used to hurt his wife. To torture his family.

Peter's mind was blitzed. Body on autopilot. Defaulting to factory settings. Returning to his innate nature.

With a tear-soaked growl that turned into an agonized scream, Peter gripped Kilgrave’s jaw with enough pressure to crack the bone. The ridges of his fingertips buried themselves into his flesh. With a final howl, Peter snatched his hand back. And with it, he ripped the jawbone from Kilgrave’s skull.

The sound of the crack was grotesque. The spray of blood was everywhere. Stickying his skin. Filled their nostrils with the scent of copper.

Peter blinked several times. So did Kilgrave. Both men stared in awe of the horrific act of violence.

The only difference was that one of them was now missing half a face. His tongue dangled limply from his throat, and he became the walking dead.

Kilgrave’s legs buckled beneath him as he dropped down to his knees. Peter’s arms twitched, his body trembling from adrenaline, terror, and rage. He stared down into the piercing blue eyes of the intruder who was currently grappling with the horror of having his power taken away.

Peter watched the blood pour from The Purple Man’s mouth, his stomach twisting. Not at the gore, but at the feeling of relief. He stepped back, relishing in the savage violence as much as he feared it.

He jolted at the rustling sound beside him. The weary woman approached him from the side, arms wrapped protectively across her chest. She stared at Peter’s deed with a wary expression. He shrunk back away from his wife, avoiding her eyes. Afraid of what she’d see.

A gargling noise spewed out as the blood began to fill Kilgrave’s exposed throat. He was fighting for consciousness. Fighting to survive.

Peter glanced at the frightened woman beside him. He should turn her away. He should shield her eyes—

She stepped forward with the straight razor in her hand. He watched her reach down, methodically wrapping her fingers around Kilgrave’s tongue. With a swipe of the razor, she sliced it off. He grunted in pain, the action rolling his eyes up. He finally keeled over.

Peter watched her in stunned silence, listening as Kilgrave’s pulse went quiet. She glowered down at her tormentor’s body, her chest and arms covered his blood. Her hands gripping the razor and the man’s tongue. Both of them hard-earned trophies.

She turned around and looked up at Peter. They locked eyes, standing in the dim light of their bedroom.

For the first time, they saw each other clearly.

She wasn’t a lamb, or a pet. She wasn’t an animal.

Neither was he.

He regarded her with admiration. She regarded him with forgiveness. Compassion softened their eyes as they observed each other. And by rendering compassion towards one another, they showed mercy toward the reflection of themselves.

Exposed, for what each of them really was.

Whatever they had to be, to survive.

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A/N

in case there is any confusion, I am fully aware that my version of kilgrave is an unrepentant, evil sack of shit. he says and holds beliefs that are outrageously offensive, inappropriate, and ignorant. I do not vibe with anything this character says or does. It’s fiction ;-)

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