Is It Me I'm Keeping You Safe From? (Peter YB x Reader) (CONTINUES!!!)

Covetousness.

Another day another nightmare as Peter, distressed, tossed about in bed. He heard echoes of his mother's words in the back of his head. He was 'insane', a 'freak', a 'monster'. A merciless strew of baleful, mental detriment, deleteriously corroded what was left of Peter's pollyannaism. His nightmare came in the form of something rather different than the rest. It hadn't been another one as a young boy being screamed at unendingly, but instead, he stood in what his brain outlined to be Y/N's closet. It hadn't looked like her closet, though he knew it was. His mother's words became Y/N's in that sweet, soft voice and she was scared.
"You're a stalker, you're a monster!" She exclaimed. A strange unwelcome feeling of dread filled him, as if he'd done something gravely disturbing involving Y/N. He wasn't in the closet anymore, Y/N was there, Peter had blood on his hands.
No matter how much he wanted and tried to tell her sorry for whatever atrocity he had clearly committed, the version of him that spoke did not apologise, instead speaking disturbing truths about Y/N. He wanted to tell her sorry, he wanted to help her. No matter what he tried or how upset he got, there was not controlling the other side of him. Looking down, Peter studied what lay before him: a large, unidentifiable, mangled, bloody corpse's eyes rolled back, looking at him, at his hands; his bloody guilty hands. It was truly horrirfying. He'd done this, he was all the things he heard Y/N scream at him in his mother's words, but they we're different. He wasn't being called a 'stupid boy' or a 'devil's child' anymore. Y/N called him a 'murderer', a 'stalker', a 'killer', he was all of these things, the proof lay at his feet: a disturbed carcass, a knife in Peter's very own red hands.

Peter awoke with a start, springing up once again out the bed with sudden hyperventilation. This dream certainly wasn't like the others. He didn't want to liken his mother to Y/N but he heard her voice in hers, an odd sour and sweet combination that he desperately needed to rid his mind of. Slowing his breathing in an attempt to compose himself, Peter tried to adjust to the situation. It felt real, far, far too real for his liking: Y/N's petrified look, the blood dripping off each finger, the corpse... He didn't want to be a stalker but he felt it was too late; he felt as though he was because now- he had heard Y/N say it. Not the real Y/N of course but... Y/N called him a stalker. Peter was a stalker.
He felt deranged, like it was somewhat fate to watch her from afar day after day, to sneak into her room just to watch her sleep, to make her love him, to take her away as a fateful kidnapping. Everything felt wrong now.
To take his mind off of things, Peter stood out of bed in an unfortunate, wobbly trance, carrying his now heavy body to the sink. He gazed at his mirror's reflection as if his eyes were glazed over, seeing the blurry smudge of his face looking back at him. His weary eyes adjusted as they averted to his hands, there was no blood, thankfully.
Just then, blinking, Peter looked sternly at himself with confidence remembering something- the date. If he was crazy so be it, but he wasn't going to ruin this date for Y/N because of it. He was going to be presentable and kind! He forced a smile, proceeding to aggressively wash his face.

Y/N took an excited peek at a large box in the back of her closet. She was up early and had wanted to be ready as soon as possible. Having never felt this way before, she couldn't help but feel ecstatic about today: a date, with the damn guy she keeps thinking about! Paraphinalia toppled off as she pulled the box out from the closet to where she knelt. This was the first time in a long time Y/N felt the need to look good, she wanted to make all the girls at those clubs she passed jealous. It was a makeup box, complete with mostly-untouched makeup of all kinds. On the rare occasion, Y/N would get the urge to buy and use makeup, she would buy several differing items of all ranges: pallets, foundation, brushes etc, and once she'd gotten them all home the most she'd ever use was blunt pencil eyeliner and old mascara. To be frank she didn't know how to use most other things, but she would have to now. Excitedly opening up the box, Y/N was delighted to find all the things she could possibly want, picking things out and placing them around the carpet in attempted organised piles. She scrambled about for a mirror in the other unorganised piles about the floor. Just then, she stopped. There were no unorganised piles. There were ALWAYS unorganised piles. Confused, Y/N turned around. Everything was tidy, from the drawer tops to the floor, to the dust that no longer subsided. Had someone been in here? Lucy doesn't tidy either... Y/N mentally shrugged, chuckling, who else would it have been? Certainly not the guy she was seeing today...