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Peter, for 7 months, had been blissfully unaware. Until that conversation with Ned, the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. He thought he had been okay with it. He thought it was consensual, but-
”Yeah…” Peter shifted away, “I’m not doing it, man.”
He doesn’t remember this part. Why doesn’t he remember this part? All he knows is he got convinced to do it. He doesn’t remember how, but–
Peter bundled himself under his covers, clenching his eyes tight. His heart is cold. It feels like his stomach has sunk down, and it feels so heavy. Skip wouldn’t– he couldn’t have known-
Peter was stalling so much, shifting nervously as he stared down at Skip’s– at his…
He remembers moving his head slowly down, hesitation pulling his shoulders tense. He remembers giving a small nervous laugh, before there was a sudden weight against his head. He could feel Skip’s hands trying to push his head down, but Peter– Peter wasn’t ready–
Peter resisted, forcing back against Skip’s hands, and eventually Skip had let up. Peter jolted his head up and backwards, and something twisted his stomach into knots–
Peter clenched his hands into fists. He didn’t– Peter didn’t even remember that. Peter didn’t remember that happening until just now, months after it happened. Why didn’t he–
”If you give me head before the food we ordered arrives, you only have to do it until the food gets here. If you don’t, then you need to do it until I cum–”
Peter had felt so trapped. He couldn’t do it before the food arrived. He couldn’t, and he doesn’t know why. He remembers talking Skip down into only doing it for 5 minutes, and he remembered asking, ”Do I need to do the whole 5?”
Peter pulls his knees to his chest, dipping his chin further into the blanket. Skip had said yes. He said– he said yes. But– but Skip couldn’t have known he didn’t want to, right? I mean– they’re kids, he can’t expect Skip to know how to read people, right? It’s not– it’s not rape.
”Do I have to?”
“You don’t need to, but then you don’t get the money.”
Peter doesn’t cry. He can’t. He wasn’t raped. He absolutely couldn’t have been. Skip wouldn’t have. At least, not on purpose.
Peter couldn’t move his head. He doesn’t know why. Skip clasped his firm hands around the side of Peter’s head, and Peter had never felt so dehumanized. He had never felt so… he hadn’t ever felt so inhuman as that moment, as he was used like a fleshlight.
Is that all he is?
Peter remembers pulling his phone out with shaky fingers, typing ”signs of coercion” into his phone. He remembers not liking what he found. He remembers, as he took in a shaky breath, Skip’s contact showing up on the top of the screen. He remembers opening it.
—
Peter can’t think, but all he’s doing is thinking. It doesn’t make sense that– it doesn’t.
He doesn’t know how he feels about Skip anymore. He can’t believe Skip did that. Peter wasn’t raped– he’s making it seem worse than it was. He wasn’t raped, because if he was, he would’ve known after it happened. Peter was perfectly fine.
It all came to a head when Peter had gone to Skips’ house. Peter said he would… said he’d give oral. When he got there, Peter was given $20, “for no reason”. Peter remembers putting it in his pocket slowly, suspicions nonexistent.
Peter remembers stalling. He remembers dancing to music as Skip had his cock out, and Peter determinedly avoided looking in his direction. He didn’t feel like it. He really, really didn’t.
”Man, at this rate I’m not getting any head.”
Peter could feel his stomach sink as the guilt flooded inside of him. He said he would–
”My jaw hurts,” he had whined.
”That’s because you’re doing it wrong.”
Peter remembers just wanting it to be over. He remembers the nausea, the way he wasn’t moving his head, the way he almost gagged over the taste as he swallowed.
He remembers making Skip french toast after.
—
Peter can’t breathe. He can’t. He feels so sick and disgusted, and absolutely vile. He feels like a prostitute. A cheap whore. He feels so–
He can’t do this anymore. He can’t. He’s so tired. It’s so stressful, Jesus, it’s so stressful.
The text from Skip sits mockingly in his DMs.
”You suck at head, man.”
Peter stares at the message. It feels as if it’s branding into his skin. He feels like everyone can see it. He doesn’t know why, but he feels like a failure.
Peter types out a hesitant response, ”Because I didn’t want to do it.”
He watches the message go from delivered to seen.
”Well whose fault is that when you KNOW you just need to say that and I’ll stop?”
Peter closes out of the inbox, and he feels so sick. He doesn’t cry.
—
For the next two weeks, Peter feels like a ghost. Like he isn’t real. Like he’s not human. He doesn’t feel like living anymore. He can’t. He’s so, so tired. He lays in his bed at night, music playing through his earbuds, and stares at the dark ceiling.
This is the very bed he was ra–
Don’t lie to yourself, Peter. Stop it. You weren’t. One of your best friends wouldn’t do that to you.
Peter closes his eyes. School is starting soon. He doesn’t know if he can do it. He doesn’t know why he feels so shitty. If it was rape, then wouldn’t he be crying? His eyes are dry. They’re the driest they’ve ever been.
Peter takes out his phone, opens the groupchat with Ned, MJ, and Skip, and he leaves it. He pulls up Skips profile, and he blocks his account. He pulls up Skips contact information, and he blocks and deletes that, too.
God. He doesn’t know what to do anymore.
Peter closes his eyes, heart blissfully numb, and he tries to sleep. He tries, but he can’t. And then the messages start rolling in before 10 minutes have passed, and Peter doesn’t know what to do.
Ned:
hey man, u good?
y u leave the gc?
MJ:
Peter?
What’s up?
Why’d you block Skip?
Peter doesn’t know what to respond, so all he says is:
It’s not a conversation to have over text.
MJ responds immediately, ”I’m coming over tomorrow at 2. Be ready.”
Peter doesn’t respond.
—
Peter is sweaty in anxiety on his covers. The same covers where–
“What’s up, Parker?” MJ sat across from him on his floor, uncharacteristically soft. “I’ve noticed you’ve been off lately.”
Peter laughs internally. Of course she had. She’s MJ. He couldn’t have expected any less, and yet. And yet he wishes she hadn’t.
Peter shrugs, “I dunno.”
MJ raises a sculpted brow, “Don’t lie to me.”
He doesn’t know how to say it. How do you say you think one of your best friends raped you? How? He feels like if he says it it’ll make it solidified. Too real. Like he won’t be able to take it back.
MJ sighs, and in a soft movement, moves to rub his knee gently, before she retracts her hand. It’s such an uncharacteristic touch from her. It feels like she’s shedding a bit of her shell so that he’ll shed some of his. Peter feels like, out of anyone, he owes MJ a bit of vulnerability.
Peter fidgets with his hands, before he takes in a deep breath.
“I think… I think something happened that wasn’t completely consensual.”
MJ’s shoulders tense, but she gives him a nod nonetheless, and allows him to continue.
He does.
—
By the end of it, he’s sweating. His face is all red in anxiety, he’s chuckling nervously, and he feels so hot and cold at the same time and it’s all so disorienting.
MJ was so insanely supportive of him in a way Peter never thought she would be.
He remembers MJ looking at him, and saying ”That was rape, Parker,” with such surety, for a moment Peter had believed it himself.
But… how? How did–
He feels lighter with this admission for some reason. He’s not crazy. He’s not insane. He’s not overreacting. It was rape.
But then he had the heartbreaking realization that he was raped.
He still can’t cry. He still can’t feel. He doesn’t know how to feel, or how to process it, or–
He was raped in his own bed.
Peter lays in that bed that night, and he doesn’t know how to feel. He doesn’t know what it means. He doesn’t know whether he should care or not.
Peter is thankful that he has his real best friends here to support him, though. Still, he wishes this shit never happened.