#Peter would do some shit like make his own t and gaslight everyone around him about it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

whothehellisyn · 3 years

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Cat and Mouse | Ch. 7

Series Masterlist

Rating: 18+

Pairing: Dark!Mysterio x Reader

Chapter Warnings: unreality, paranoia, wet dreams, minor gaslighting (moved objects), sleep paralysis

AN: you know the typical warnings, and we’re almost caught up to my current writing!

It’s been two weeks since Quentin left, and it’s been three days since you’ve slept. You can feel the exhaustion affecting your body and your mind, as you’re much clumsier now. Earlier you dropped a glass again, and just now you hip-checked the kitchen counter because you miscalculated how far you were from it.

“Fuck!” You groan, rubbing your hip. “God, I’m so fucking tired.”

“Maybe you’ll pass out eventually, and just collapse and force-sleep.” You say. It’s a hopeful thought. “Maybe if we’re lucky, it’ll happen later on tonight.” You nod to yourself and go back to perusing the kitchen for lunch.

“Damn, I need to go to the store soon.” You note, wondering if you should make a list. “Wait...” Oh yeah. You can’t do that.

“Is there enough for this week?” You ask. You start to do some mental calculations, counting up the cans and boxes.

“Maybe? If you’re careful.” You decide. “No more snacks, just the meals.”

Making conversation with yourself has become second nature now, and you don’t hesitate to ask yourself things that don’t matter. Over dinner, you explain to yourself wether you believe in fairies or not. You pretended to give a tutorial on cooking as you prepared your meal. You’ve started to feel more and more tired throughout the day, but in the middle of cleaning up your dishes it starts to really hit you.

Even as you wash your plate you can feel your eyes trying to close. Your body begins to settle into a sort of lull as the sink runs, the white noise is so comforting and soft...

The metallic clang of the plate slipping from your fingers and landing in the sink makes you jump, snapping awake.

“I’m way too tired to be handling breakable items.” You mumble. You know you have to shower before you try to get some sleep, but it’s so tempting to just go to bed dirty.

“Don’t be gross,” You chastise yourself, “You stink.”

You start the shower again and begin to get undressed. Just before you go to get into the shower, you hear the big metal door clanging shut. Wrapping a towel around yourself, you peek out of the bathroom and look for Quentin. Nobody is in the suite, but there’s brown paper bags on the kitchen table. You go to them and discover that they’re groceries, a mix of fresh foods and shelf items.

t occurs to you that this means you’re being punished for the long run. Then you start to think more about this delivery. Apart from your short bathroom breaks, this was the first time all day you’ve been out of the main area longer than a few minutes. How could he have known you needed food and also when you’d be occupied long enough to deliver food without you being able to see him?

You tighten the towel around your body and look around the tops of the walls. He’s got to be watching you somehow.

You search around for fifteen minutes before you realize you’ve left the water on.

“Shit, shit, shit!” You say, running to the bathroom. You feel the water and luckily it’s still warm. You shrug off the towel and rush to get clean. Hopefully he doesn’t have cameras in the bathroom.

Wether it was the grocery delivery or the shower, that sleepiness from earlier is gone much to your chagrin. You lie on the floor, on the verge of tears from frustration. God, you’re so fucking tired.

“I just want to sleep!” You whine, covering your eyes with your arm. “I don’t want to sleep in the bed.” You add, as if to stop yourself from suggesting it.

But maybe you have to, even if you don’t want to. You sit up quietly and sneak over to the bed to avoid your own will from realizing what you’re doing.

The bedsheets are so soft, have they always been? They don’t even smell like Quentin anymore, thank god for that. You use the blanket you’ve been sleeping with onto of the bedspread and curl up in the comfort of the mattress.

You don’t even remember falling asleep.

You dream that you’re in SHIELD headquarters and Peter Parker has dyed his hair green on accident. Director Fury’s eyepatch keeps changing eyes but he doesn’t seem to notice. He asks you if you’re allergic to tomatoes and that he wants to know because he just learned how to make spaghetti.

Your neighbor Madeline announces to the three of you that she is now the new head of SHIELD and puts Director Fury in a mason jar. You get put in a coffee mug and she makes Peter dye his hair purple before putting him in a Tupperware. Apparently Director Madison has a fascination with putting people in containers.

It starts storming inside the headquarters, and little fishes and seaweeds drop from the clouds and onto everyone. “It’s a hurricane!” Director Fury yells, dumping you out of the mug. “We have to take cover.”

You obey, and hide next to Peter Parker underneath a desk. He has an octopus on his head, but you try not to stare. He’s about to tell you something when–

You wake up still exhausted, but feeling much better than before. What a weird dream.

You half expected Quentin to be in bed next to you, but you’re still alone. You go to unpack the groceries from last night but they’re already put away. Another quiet visit.

“That’s kinda of rude, don’t you think?” You ask.

“Personally I think it’s incredibly fucking rude, but what do I know?” You reply.

“No, no,I definitely agree with you.” You say, opening the fridge to look for where everything has been put. “Especially because butter,” you grab a knob out of the box, “goes outside the fridge!” You tear off the paper and drop it onto a plate.

“Of course he’d put all the butter in the fridge, the fucking bastard.” You say jokingly. “He’s the exact type to not understand the needs of butter.”

You chuckle for a few seconds before you go quiet. You’re really laughing at something you told yourself, huh? That’s not what normal people do. Maybe you’re going crazy.

“You’re not crazy, dumbass.” You say in an obvious tone. “Social conventions are bullshit, everyone talks to themselves at least a little.”

You feel the need to add to your defense, “At least you’re not seeing stuff.”

Two more days pass and you start to feel more paranoid about the surveillance that surely is required for these quiet visits of Quentin’s. You’ve also been incredibly bored and anxious to do literally anything since day three, and now you’re getting tired of talking to yourself. Which is pretty fucking bad because you don’t have have anybody else at this point.

You’re eating a bowl of soup for lunch when you notice the bathroom door is closed. That’s weird, you think. it was definitely open a few seconds ago, you just came from the bathroom not ten minutes before. Setting the bowl down on the kitchen counter, you approach the bathroom door and let it swing open.

The bathroom is empty. You were certain you hadn’t closed it, but maybe you did and just didn’t realize it. The days all blend together now anyways, it’s not unreasonable to have done it without noticing.

You go back to your soup, picking it up off the table where you left it.

But you didn’t leave it there. You left it on the counter, didn’t you?

The metal door hasn’t opened since the groceries were delivered and put away last week. You’re certain of it. You even started showering with the bathroom door open so you’d be able to hear it.

You abandon the soup and start opening up cabinets. You open up every single cupboard, the pantry, the linen closet in the bathroom, you even open up all the drawers. You tuck the bed skirt up under the mattress so you can see under the bed. You find nothing but...

Something is in here with you. You don’t know if it’s Quentin, or a drone, or both, but there’s no fucking way you would think you placed the bowl on the counter unless you really did. You’re not sure how to proceed with this information.

You go to put the leftover soup in the fridge, and on the middle shelf at your eye-level is the plate with the butter on it. You calmly take it out and place it back on the counter.

“Like I said, a fucking bastard.” You say quietly.

You crawl into bed that night wary of your surroundings. Nothing has been moved since lunch, but you can’t shake the feeling that something else has changed. It’s something unconscious, you think. Like if the walls were suddenly two shades lighter than they were yesterday. There’s no way for you to prove something is different but you can sense it all the same.

You get underneath your trusty blanket and lie in the darkness. You want to fall asleep, even if it means that whatever is in here has the chance to do something. You can dream if you sleep, you can go be somewhere else and “talk” to people.

You are dreaming, but it’s a sea of images and sounds and sights. It feels like home and nowhere simultaneously, which was fine. You feel something crawling all over you, and when you look down, your body is covered in thick vines that have wrapped around your limbs.

You wake up flailing, inches down the bed from where you fell asleep. The covers are thrown off, your pajamas slouching down towards your left foot as if something had grabbed it to yank you off the bed.

These sort of peripheral out-of-sight visuals continue. Sometimes you feel breath on the back of your neck that belongs to no one, or feel the looming presence of a person inches away from you until you turn around to face an empty room. You know he has illusion technology, you know it must be him, but it feels so small and minuscule compared to what he’d usually do.

Maybe he’s trying to make you feel crazy, so you’ll run into his arms afraid you’re insane. Maybe you’re trying to make you feel crazy, accidentally.

You sleep again, this time waking up to sleep paralysis. You’ve never had it before now, at least that you can remember. You had dreamt of a weight on your chest, and something choking you with just enough pressure to make you lightheaded. You hallucinate that a rotting corpse is straddling and strangling you as you lie immobile, and when the paralysis leaves you you sob with relief.

Days melt again and sleep comes rarely. The times you do fall asleep you’re always jarred awake, that feeling of falling taking over. You fall asleep anxiously, your heart pounding slowly as if it’s preparing itself for more terror.

You step out of the shower one morning and in passing notice your obscured reflection in the bathroom mirror. Full of steam, your body is a blurry mass of flesh tone within its confines, but what catches your eye is a large, dark object directly behind you.

Breathing shallowly, you pick up a hand towel and slowly make your way to the surface of the mirror, before swiping quickly as if it startle the thing behind you first.

As you swipe away the steam, the visage disappears instantaneously. Whatever was behind you is no more. Paranoia begins to rear its head.

The night terrors and sleep paralysis are awful, the peripheral hallucinations as well, but nothing mentally prepares you for the dream you have.

It’s easy to write off the rest of these moments as Quentin’s doing, after all, he’s a master manipulator.

You’re running through the maze again. It’s still as dimly lit and damp as it was the day he forced you through it, but this time something has changed within you.

Quentin catches you with ease, just like last time. But when he grins, you grin back and catch his lips with a very open kiss, tongues working into each others’ mouths. You wanted him to catch you.

His Mysterio clones pin you to the wall and you moan, legs opening wide for the Quentin as they grab your arms. You’re not wearing panties, and Quentin groans approvingly as he kneels on the ground and buries his face in your sex, hiking your gown up past your hips. He rips the side seams, leaving you naked before the three men. The clones, rid of their helmets, bite at your neck and take turns kissing you messily.

Everywhere you look, everything you feel, is Quentin Beck. The two clones lean to kiss you at the same time, Quentin fucking you with his tongue as he eats you out. You get close and closer to climaxing when he pulls away suddenly and looks up at you, dragging his tongue against your clitoris torturingly slow.

“Fuck, please,” you gasped. “Please, I don’t want to cum yet.” Quentin slows his pace even more, his tongue hot and wet against you. The mysterios begin to tease your nipples with their fingers as they suck on your neck, one dipping down to use his mouth. You whine and squirm against them and the pleasure.

“I want you to fuck me, please.” You beg, stomach tightening from the impending orgasm.

Almost excitedly, Quentin pulls back and tugs his suit off, though his clones haven’t stopped their pace at all as if to keep you on edge. They’ve raised you further up the wall, Quentin nestling between your legs like he was made to be there.

He pushes into you and your entire body thrums with how good it feels. How good he feels.

“Fuck, you feel so fucking good sweetheart.” He groans. He sets an unrelenting pace, quick and hard.

You’ve devolved into a series of pleases and fucks and yeses, alternating between those words as he rubs your clit with one hand and grabs your hip with the other. His clones are whispering things to you, Quentin too.

“You gorgeous little thing, you’re ours and nobody else’s.” one says. “You’re such a good girl for us, sweetheart.”

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard they’ll have to carry you back, all fucked out from my cock.” Quentin says, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you baby?”

You nod, your entire body stimulated from the three of them. It would feel good to be spoiled that way, to be carried back and tucked in and away from everything else.

Quentin’s breathing has become ragged, his head resting in the crook of your neck as he thrusts harder and harder into you until he cums, your own orgasm following suit as the feeling of his release inside you pushes you over the edge.

You wake up sweating, underwear damp and proof of what had just transpired.

The one place Quentin couldn’t hurt you, and there he was, fucking you inside it. A wet dream to betray your hatred.

You know it’s impossible for him to know what just happened but you still feel ashamed and confused.

The shower water is hot, borderline unbearable, and you roughly wash your arousal out of yourself with your fingers. It did not happen. It couldn’t have happened. It will not have happened.

Various excerpts of the four of you play in your head every idle moment you afford your brain. It lurks behind every thought you process as if to remind you that it came from within your mind.

You push it away as much as you can, try to ignore the sinking feeling. Somewhere Carl Jung is preaching to a dead choir about wish fulfillment. Plenty of people have dreams about the things that happen to them, and it gets jumbled up and spit back out in their sleep as something contorted and wrong. You’re just processing the awfulness of this all, that’s all. Your brain is trying to make sense of this betrayal in the only way it knows how.

But it also makes sense considering what you and Quentin were, before. You can still remember how soft the first kiss between you two was, something tentative and sweet. He cupped your face that first time, stroking your cheek with his thumb like he was trying to remind himself you were real.

You’d fallen asleep in his arms, once. There was even an inkling of a future with him in your mind. Maybe that’s why you lash out so much. It’s true that what he has done is evil, but to be truthful you’re more scared and disgusted by yourself.

After everything, part of you wants to love him, the real him. Because he has to be in there somewhere, doesn’t he? You want to salvage this awful, terrible thing even after he tortured you. You wonder what there is to say about it. Perhaps it’s just you clinging to what little reality there is left, even if that reality is a false one.

The water has run cold. You turn the knobs to shut off the flow and wrap yourself in a towel. There’s a lot to think about. You dress silently, and say nothing as you stare at the television for a while.

“I’m not sure how much of this isolation I can take.” You whisper suddenly. “We’ve gone full to circle to having… that sort of dream after everything that’s occurred.” You say even quieter, “What if I’m starting to need someone?”

You look up from your seat on the bed at the television. “I think you’ll be okay.” You try to say reassuringly. “The nightmares aren’t so bad that you can’t sleep afterwards, you still have an appetite...” You trail off.

You nod, and bite your lip as tears start to fall. You have those things, for now. But even trying to be hopeful about things working out somehow just hurts in the end.

#cat and mouse

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