#Peter Steele smut

[erosmutt]

peter steele fr made the sexiest song and said "i'll do anything to make you cum" and NO ONE talks about it ?!?!

[bloozers]

About me !!!

Requests are open <3

Hi! I’m blaze , I’m 22 and I’m from New Zealand! 🇳🇿 I enjoy music I play instruments such as: electric guitar , bass guitar , and a bit of piano? I also skateboard and I do art. I’m autistic and I’m bisexual my pronouns are she/her ❤️ my top 5 bands atm are: Metallica , Mötley Crüe , GNR , Megadeth and Type O Negative.

People I’ll write for:

Kirk Hammett

James Hetfield

Dave Mustaine

Lars Ulrich

Nikki Sixx

Vince Neil

Tommy Lee

Slash

Axl Rose

Duff Mckagen

Steven “popcorn” Adler

Sebastian “baz” bach

Peter Steele

Things I WONT write for!

People who have passed

Non con shit

Anything rlly out the gate like chains,bondage,whips no thx

Death/loss of a loved one

Member x member

MDNI PLZ 😭🙏

[kathy-ifnt]

Just go to his bed already!!!!

🥲

Join my patreon to see what happens if u do join him 👀

PATREON | TWITTER

[mandomaterial]

Peter Steele is literally so hot. He’s built like a fucking fridge and we all love fridges. Imagine running your hands through his long wavy hair and grabbing at it a little whilst making out- and he’s so fucking talk too- like over 200 cm! Anyone looks tiny compared to him. Oh got- imagine being picked up and or thrown around by him. He’s a guitarist too… wonder what else those fingers do… he’s got plenty of experience so you better get ready cus I’m sure he has a loooot of stamina. I live big beefy guys. Period.

[corrodedcoffincumslut]

Be My Druidess - Eddie Munson X Fem-reader

AU 90’s Eddie & Fem- Reader (mostly referred to affectionately as Kitten, no use of Y/N). Eddie takes girlfriend (reader) go to watch your favourite band, Type O Negative in concert. You get too excited and do something impulsive, it drives Eddie crazy with jealousy causing him to get very possessive, needing to show everyone you're his girl.

Warnings- SMUT - Over 18’s ONLY, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!! M-F (P in V) unprotected, cream pie, fingering, Squirting, Dom! Eddie & Sub! Reader, Mean! Eddie, Possessive! Eddie, Jealous! Eddie, (slight) Degrading, (slight) Humiliation, Orgasm Denial, Public Exposure, Public sex, Choking, Daddy Kink, Breeding Kink, Mentions of reader being Bratty, Drug & Alcohol use Eddie & Reader (Weed & Beer). Reader has nipple piercings. Eddie has a PA piercing.

Word count- 3.8K

Authors Note-Sorry this took so long to write and post after I hinted it all those months ago. Life got crazy like it does sometimes so apologies. Also I met our man JQ and it spurred me on to finish it at 2:30am the day after I met him.

PLEASE DO NOT REPOST TO OTHER PLATFORMS WITHOUT MY PERMISSION 😈

However please REBLOG , COMMENT & LIKE my posts if you enjoyed them. I love feedback so I can grow as a writer. I have a tag-list going so please inbox me if you wish to get added to my tag-list when I post new content.

❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤

Eddie had got you tickets to your favourite band tour for your birthday, Type O Negative. The dark grunge, gothic, sexual undertones igniting a fire in you as soon as you heard the sultry tones of Peter Steele's deep, gravely voice. Only encouraged by how attracted you were to him. Hugely tall stature, gloomy outlook, long black silken hair, muscular frame and known openly for his eagerness to please the women he chose to pleasure, to serve. Topped off with the rumours of his huge cock, you were completely sold. You begged Eddie to get you both tickets for months, and he’d surprised you, a week before the gig. Stubs now in his hands, after driving to the city after a long shift at the garage on the release date to queue in the rain, all to surprise you. To see your pretty ruby lips fall open in awe, he could see the hearts appear in your eyes already.

Excited, you dressed to impress. Numerous guys keep staring at you in your skimpy outfit. Eddie is more than proud to show you off as his girl. At the end of the day you’re a hot goth/alt chick and it made the guys drool. You wore your best band shirt, cut up to show more cleavage than should be legally allowed in public, a pvc skater skirt and your new demonic platforms, torn fishnet stockings held up by a black suspender belt.

Eddie knows you’re crushing hard on the lead singer and can tell you're getting horny and turned on, fidgeting as they’re run onto the stage. Eddie lifts you into his broad, strong shoulders for a better view when they play the intro to your favourite song, “Be my Druidess”. As the drum beat kicks in, Eddie starts to bounce up and down causing a criminally delicious friction across the crotch of your thong. The back of Eddie’s neck bumping your clit on every bounce to the beat.

Your thighs start to clench and Eddie notices, your pussy throbbing, he can probably feel your pounding heartbeat through your core down his spine. His hands grip your shins as you feel your sweetness seep through the thin fabric of your panties onto his neck. Hands tight, fingers clasping his hair, his skull to keep you grounded.

Peter Steele notices you and points you out in the crowd, the eye contact alone causing you to fall over the edge into euphoric bliss. Feeling high, impulsive and incredibly horny, all amplified by sharing a few joints with Eddie on the ride to the venue. You flash your bare chest to the stage (after deciding on going braless earlier, something Eddie loved). Showing everyone your perfect supple tits, shiney metal bars catching the stage lights, glistening in the darkness like stars. The erotic image of your bare chest and nipple piercings projected on the massive screens on either the side of the stage for all to see. The band loves it. Peter loves it more. The crowd loves it even more, a hurricane of cheers roars up from the audience. Eddie hates it.

Your cheeks flush red with a blush, caught up in the scandal, all eyes in the room falling on you. The man beneath you is furious. Jealous twists in his stomach, ripping through him uncontrollably sweeping his mind into frenzy. He squeezes your shins in a claw-like grip, fuelled by the envy of everyone’s eyes on you. Admiring the curves of your womanly shape, his Venus incarnate. Aphrodite in the flesh. To him you were his goddess. Your exquisite body was his to worship only! The soft slopes of your breast, the ample curves of your hips that were now on show to the world, or what felt like the world crammed into the tiny venue. What started out as a playful tease quickly became his own personal hell. Hazy headed and caught up in the moment with your inhibitions low, but the repercussions of your actions had become a harrowing punishment you were going to find out. He ripped you down from his shoulders and back on your feet, landing to look him square in the face. His usually soft chocolate brown eyes, swallowed by huge ebony irises, full of anger. The green-eyed monster inside shining through the deep black.

“They can look, but they can’t touch Baby… I’m only yours” you muttered with a kiss to his chapped bitten lips, trying to save yourself from the consequences of your earlier actions. No softness was returned, the same stare locked on your eyes. A sick deprived thought pops into his mind.

“Princess” he growled in your face. Your eyes locked in fear. “You’re right, you are MINE. And you belong to ME. And I think I need to remind you of this. So you’re gonna watch this shitty band you love so much and you’re gonna cum on my fingers while they watch… While they ALL watch” Eddie whispers in your ear, lips and teeth biting the shell. You stand there frozen, unable to move. Slack jawed, eyes wide with fear, your core getting slicker with every word Eddie huffs out. You’d never seen this side of Eddie before, sure he’d gotten moody at a bar if some guy got a little too close for comfort. But a few choice words, mostly consisting ending with a “fuck off” and a swift middle finger in their direction. Then once they’d left he was golden, but this was different. A possessive darkness had overcome him and you couldn’t help but love how it made you feel. Wanted. Owned. HIS.

Eddie’s deft hands turn you back to face the stage, your back pushed flush to his lean chest. Eddie’s left hand holds your chin, forcing your face forward in shame, directly at the object of your desire. His right hand snakes down your chest over your soft stomach, drawing linguine patterns across your goose pimpled skin, before dripping down over your barely clothed soaked cunt. “Actually, bad girls get punished. Maybe I won’t let you cum at all, maybe I’ll edge you till you beg. Beg for MY cock to put you out of your pathetic misery. All whiny…needy. ‘Till you cry those big crocodile tears cause your little cunt aches, ‘cause you know I’m the ONLY one who can make you CUM. Make YOU feel that GOOD. Fucked out and cockdrunk. ALL. FOR. ME. YOUR Daddy”. Heat pools in your sopping cunt, thighs sticky from your sweet nectar, leaking through your tiny thong.

Calloused fingers run agonising circles over your swollen bud through the thin fabric of your thong for what feels like an eternity. Before pushing the flimsy material aside to meet your drenched pussy. Sliding his fingers through your folds a few times spreading your slick from your entrance up to your pulsing clit. Dipping his middle finger in your dripping entrance, he groaned in pleasure at just how wet you were, Your soft gummy walls sucking him in. Stretching your hole he pushed a second finger in and began thrusting them in and out, caressing that special spot only he could reach.

Gasps fell from your open mouth, lost in the crowd of screams and bass filling the venue. Your eyes screwed shut with every pass of Eddie’s nimble fingers surging you towards your ultimate high. Feeling your pussy walls starting to clench and contract as you approached nirvana. Moments from release, Eddie’s touch left you completely. Edging you just he promised.

Your eyes shoot open as you lose your euphoria, eyes landing back on the stage. “Please, Eddie.I wanna cum so bad” you whine.

“I told you, Kitten. Only good girls get to cum. And you’ve been far from good.” Eddie smirked in your ear. Sliding his finger back into your soaked folds, back up to your tingling bundle of nerves. Again feverish chills ran through your body, as Eddie mercilessly rubbed tight circles over your throbbing clit with his thumb and his thick fingers fucked up into your tight hole.

Tears welled in your glassy eyes as the bolts of lightning pleasure shot through you,whimpering trying your hardest to obey. Your hearing started to faze out as your only focus was to hold back your orgasm from overtaking you. Your body started to twitch as the feeling became too much. Your abused cunt spasming around Eddie’s cruel rapid thrusts. Gasping for air, your vision started to white out. Unable to hold back any longer you flung your head back into the crook of Eddie’s shoulder as cum gushed out your pulsating cunt. Incoherent apologies fell from your mouth as your cum ran down your thighs. “Mmmmm… Sssorry, I’m…Mmmm…Sorry, Daddy… Mmmm…couldn’t hold it any longer. It’s too gggooooddd” your moans gasped out. Breathless you panted, fucked out in the middle of the crowd. Your cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, standing shamefully in a puddle of your own nectar. Eddie cruelly laughed into your ear.

“Told you weren’t allowed to cum, Kitten. You’ve made such a mess on yourself and Daddy’s fingers'' Eddie teased, the prominent hard bulge digging into your ass and he curled himself around your slight frame. Removing his hand from your mound, he brought them up to your mouth. “SUCK”. It was a simple instruction and you immediately obeyed, not wanting to annoy Eddie further. Eddie pushed his fingers far into your wet mouth, your tongue wrapping around the thick probes. “Mmmm.. thank you Daddy” you whimpered. “Tastes so sweet”. “Yeah, you do Kitten, give Daddy a taste” Your hand instantly slipped downward and into the front of your drenched panties.

Swirling your nibble fingers around your wet folds collecting your slick. Once sufficiently soaked in your juices, you drew them to Eddie's waiting lips. Pushing them through the threshold onto his pierced tongue. Feeling the metal bar under your fingertips, reminding you of the sinful memories of it pressed on your core, causing another shudder down your spine. “Mmmmm Princess, you are especially sweet tonight. Is this ‘cause Daddy’s being mean to his Kitten?” Eddie cooed, licking and sucking the cum from your fingers. You nodded in response, mouth agape with lust, eyes lost in Eddie’s blown out obsidian pupils.

Eddie grabbed your hand and pulled towards the back of the venue, fighting against the waves of people surging towards the stage. Hand gripped tight in his, interlocking fingers forcing you along. Landing at the back corner of the venue, Eddie forcefully pushed you against the wall. “Need you Kitten. NEED you NOW” Eddie growled through gritted teeth. Hiking you up and onto his thighs, your legs naturally wrapped around his waist, ankles locking, your pressed back supported against the rough of the stone wall.

Impatiently he unbuckled his belt, the metal clanking being drowned out by the bass reverting off the walls. Popping the button of his dark jeans and pulling his zipper down, exposing the very angry tent in the front of his charcoal grey boxers. A wet stain of pre-cum teasing what was waiting inside. Looking down where your bodies met, you bit your lip in anticipation as Eddie freeing his throbbing cock from its confines. “Sooo pretty Eddie” your open mouth moaned, biting your lip, almost drooling at the sight. Eddie was BIG. And THICK. At least eight inches of a beautiful pale porcelain pink, ridged with a prominent vein running on the side, the head a deliciously mauve colour. The slit dribbling with precum adorned with a ring through the end. Your favourite piercing of his for sure, his PA. Licking your lips, you reach down between your bodies to grip Eddie’s cock. A harsh slap handed on your hand batting you away from the object of your desires. “No. You don’t get to play. To decide. This is for me, cause you’re MINE. And you need putting in your fucking place. Silly Kitten forgetting who she BELONGS too.”

Pushing your thong to the side Eddie rutted ruthlessly into your tight wet cunt. Giving you no time to adjust. The action stole the breath from your chest. Stunned you took what Eddie gave you. Hard thrusts from his sharp hips into the plush fat of your thighs setting a relentless pace. Every stab with his cock, took more air from your lungs. Your head started to drown in pleasure. Overwhelmed senses, your skin felt on fire, ears ringing from the deep bass, vision blacking out with every pass of Eddie’s hard cock against the spongy spot inside. The metal ring gliding furiously against your g-spot. Quivering in Eddie’s arms, your thoughts consumed by him. Only him. He was the sun to your moon, heaven to your hell, devil to your angel. And you were HIS. Your love is an engulfing black hole. He’d sucked you inside with no escape. And you were perfectly okay with your fate.

Dragging you back into reality, Eddie’s calloused fingers wrapped around your throat, light pressure squeezed at the sides. Your breath hitched in your throat as the blood restricted under Eddie’s fingers. Your eyes closed as you succumbed to the ethereal bliss. Dizzy and lightheaded the fire inside your cunt burned even hotter. White hot sparks fizzing inside. Pushing you ever close to the edge.

Incoherent words between throaty gasps and moans poured from your lips, Eddie’s eyes fixed down where you met as you fell apart above. You buried your head in the crook of Eddie’s neck. Swallowing his the smell- tobacco, leather and spice cologne, an underlying hint of weed mixed with his apple shampoo that lingered in his hair and the most enthralling of all, Eddie’s natural musk, his sweat. You licked a stripe up the column of Eddie’s neck, lost in the subspace you’d fallen into. Eddie groaned in satisfaction. “Yours Eddie. I’m YOURS Eddie” you mumbled back into his solid, thick neck.

“Yeah, that’s right Kitten. You’re mine and you make me feel so good. Do you feel good? Is Daddy making you feel good?” Eddie breathlessly panted back. “Mmmm yes Daddy, feels so good. Daddy always makes me feel so good, always takes care of me.” you moaned back between breaths.

“Always Kitten” Eddie’s gaze softened slightly, his usual loving self crawling back through the darkness that had clouded his mind. That award winning smile creeping back onto his lips. The curtain of Eddie’s hair that shut out the world fell forward as your lips locked in passion. Messy and chaotic, teeth bashing, misjudged lip alignment, tongues battling for dominance. Burying each other's groans and breaths. Your hands clawed at Eddie’s sturdy shoulders and thick neck, begging for contact, gripping tight with a need to be even closer.

The coil in your stomach, still tightening evermore. Fanning the flames that licked your insides, burning hot lighting the fuses of the fireworks held in your core. All the time Eddie’s thrusts never faulted, determined on hunting both of your pleasure. Engulfing passion overcoming your bodies, as the only things that existed in this moment were you two. Ignoring the noise of the crowd, the heat of the venue, and the very compromising position you were in. Gasping for air, Eddie broke your intense kiss. “I’m close Kitten, need you to cum again for me. Need you to soak my cock. Claim what’s YOURS. Show everyone here I’M YOURS and YOU'RE MINE.” Eddie’s words whipped you back to this realm. Your toes curled in your boots, as Eddie’s fingers found your swollen bud once again. “Hmmm Eddie, make me cum, wanna cum again for you Daddy, wanna soak your pretty cock” you nodded back, glassy eyes like pearls. Eddie’s finger worked tirelessly rubbing hard figures of eight on your clit, using your own release to slicken the friction.

Edging you closer and closer to the edge, your heart pounded in your chest, your hearing dulled from the sound thumping inside, as the squelch between you two intensified. “Mmmmm…Gonna…cum Ed’s” you hummed, which was all the warning you could give as you began to plummet into the depths of your orgasm. The flames licked higher inside your stomach, consuming your body and soul. As you cried hot tears spilling out your eyes, down your damp cheeks, knocking your head back onto the wall behind in ecstasy. If it wasn’t for the blinding pleasure consuming you, you would have been concerned of how hard your head hit the wall behind, fearing a concussion. But in this moment only one thing mattered, Eddie Munson.

Cum gushed from your abused cunt, squirting down, soaking Eddie’s strong hairy thighs. The intensity of your orgasm wetting Eddie’s boxers and jeans impatiently sitting on his mid-thigh, ruched up under your ass. Your back arched against the roughness of the wall behind you, scratching the smooth skin, snagging the threads of your shirt. Your hands shot to Eddie’s messy curls, tugging at the root, grounding you once again, as you felt yourself float away in ultimate pleasure.

“Yes, that’s it Kitten” Eddie ecstatically cooed. “Look at you…so precious, making a mess of me. So sloppy, claiming my cock as yours”.

“Mmm…Eddie, All for you. Love you Daddy” you whimpered. Tears still falling from your wet doe eyes.

Eddie’s punching hips started to waver, as he started creeping closer to his own release. Chasing the feeling, his thrust began erratic and harder, sinking deeper into your slippy, warm, wet cunt. After a few more earth shattering thrusts Eddie groaned, “Gonna cum inside Kitten, Breed this pretty pussy. Gonna ruin you for every other man. Fuck your were made for me. Leave you with my cum dripping out this perfect pussy. Fuck a baby in you. Make you mine forever. Would you like that Kitten, make your belly all swollen with my baby. You’ll look so beautiful carrying our baby. My beautiful baby momma, wanna make you my wifey. Start raising the next generation of mini Munson’s. Fuck baby, I love you so much.”

Lost in his own pleasure his inner secret desires flooding out. And with that image cemented in his brain, Eddie came hard. His hot creamy white seed, coating your podgy warm walls. Eddie kept fucking your quivering pussy, with each thrust contracting, milking his cock until it became too sensitive for Eddie to stand. Pulling his softening cock out of your abused hole, his cum dribbling out as he’d described.

Eddie lowered you to your feet, pushing your panties back over your dipping pussy, trapping his cum inside, pooling in the small cotton gusset. “Gonna keep that inside for me Kitten, if you’re good maybe I’ll fuck another load inside you when we get home.” Standing you on shaking legs, he supported you until you could confidently stand yourself. Stuffing himself back inside his drench boxers and fastening his uncomfortably damp jeans. “Jesus Christ Kitten, what was that flood? Like a fucking tsunami on my jeans” he chuckled, eyes meeting yours. Your cheeks blushed with embarrassment.

“Sorry Ed’s” you squeaked face heated with humiliation. “I didn’t mean to make such a mess… I don’t know what… how… it happened”. Your timid voice squeaked, embarrassed for the soaked wet mess staining Eddie’s dark jean clad thighs.

“T’is okay Kitten, it’s more than okay! That was fucking hot!.. You’re so fucking hot sweetheart!.. I love you so much, Kitten” Eddie gushed,punctuated with hasty kisses. You both still pressed to the safe haven of the wall. “I love you too Eddie, sorry I made you angry” your voice dropping quieter on every word, shame filling your flushed face, tears welling in your eyes at the thought of Eddie’s anger earlier directed at you. As much as it excited you, it also terrified you.

“Hey, hey Kitten” Eddie’s hands grasped your cheeks. Large palms swallowing the sides of your face. “No, I’m sorry. I should of never done that to you. I just got so consumed by the thoughts of all these people seeing you, but I know it’s your body and your choice what you do with it. I’m just so glad it’s me you decide to share it with. I guess this shit music, kinda made me feral too. I think get why you’re always trying to blast it out in the van!” A wicked smile creeping over Eddie’s lips. “How about I grab us some beers and we finish watching the gig. They’ve still gotta play “Love you to death” and I know you know the subtext behind that song, then after I guess we can act that out back home…that is if you can stand?” A quirked eyebrow and another giggle rippled through his chest, a soft kiss landing in your lips.

“Make it two beers each and you’ve got yourself a deal, Munson” you counted. “But remember, they can look but they can’t touch, baby. That’s only for you Daddy, I’m yours and your mine. Don’t ever forget it”. Your finger bopped his nose playfully, lips meeting again.

Spinning on his heels, Eddie practically ran to the bar, wallet in hand, leaving you smiling to yourself. The memory of your beautiful goofball boyfriend, his devilishly handsome face, he was your everything. Him making his pussy drunk confession of his inner desires to make you his forever. This was definitely a gig you’d never forget, and for all the right reasons.

Eddie returned to you moments later, beers in hand as promised. “Come on Kitten, let’s get you back to the front, before I fuck you raw against that wall again. ‘Cause I don’t know if these jeans or your panties can take another soaking like that. God you’re so beautiful, I never want to be apart from you. My Druidess, you’ve definitely cast me under your wicked spell… not that I’m complaining. I’ll serve you for as long as you'll have me, Sweetheart”. Eddie's eyes boring into yours full of want and adoration, a love in which you thrived in.

“You better be joking Kitten, I told you I wanted you to keep my cum inside, that’s gonna be pretty hard to do then when it’s dripping down your legs. And I don’t think you want to disobey me again…so I’d say if those panties are being thrown anywhere tonight, it better be over my rear view mirror with the last pair, from when you bratted out and tried to defy me… I may be under your spell, Princess, but I’m still your Daddy. And what Daddy says goes, or have you forgotten that and need reminding again?” Eddie’s warning whispered in your ear, his hot breath pricking up the tiny hairs on your neck, his hand now clamped back between your legs over your barely clothed, soaked, raw cunt. Your spine jolted you back upright, shook.

“No Daddy” was your only response.

“Good girl”

🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️

@bexreadstoomuch @thecomfortgoth @emotionaldreamer @broccolisoupy @elvendria @capricornrisingsstuff @foxxymunson

[eatingrosescollab]

Relistening to The Penumbra Podcast. We spend 2.5 seasons begging Juno and Peter to find each other, they live together for a YEAR and we get…3 episodes about them??? Before Peter leaves again??? Wtf is that about how is that ok.

Anyways I have to start writing TPP fanfiction or I’m going to go crazy.

[teddysalto]

if i do write, would yall ever read? i have been debating on writing and i cant find barely anything my faves 🙁

[stat1cstarz]

I’ve been inspired to write some Rockstar!Vincent Sinclair stuff, I’ve seen people draw him as Peter Steele, but I haven’t seen anyone write anything though

So please please please send in stuff

I’m dehydrated

[lolahasmoxie]

Eddie in the 90’s would 💯 rail you to Type O Negative.

[rocketttqueennn]

taking requests!! just msg me who you want it written about, I'll write for other bands too (i.e. motley crue, megadeth, type o negative, ect) I'll get back to you asap !

[erosmutt]

chat what if i wrote peter steele smut ik i'm basically a hayden (and harrison) blog but...

[kathy-ifnt]

König the battering ram Bass player of Call of duty based on Peter Steele’s pics!

GO TO MY PATREON FOR THE UNMASKED AND FULL NSFW PIECE!!!! RUN BESTIESSSSS💖

Press HERE for pipi

[keisobe]

little bit of self-indulgence but may i request college au! miguel (you can make him a professor, fellow student up to you) tutoring reader with a bit of suggestive content ;)

☆ﾟ°�� 𝐍𝐎 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓 (𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨’𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚) ⋮ heavily suggestive (borderline smut). professor + student relationship. not completely proofread. ⎯ miguel cannot keep his hands off his favorite student

professor miguel had a major soft spot for you. yes, a very unethical practice as he was your superior, but he couldn’t help himself. your sickly soothing voice calling him ‘sir’ or even ‘mr. o’hara’ would play in the back of his mind while he prepped for his next lab. the permanent eye contact he would hold with you during his long lectures left him flustered throughout the whole day. he would even give small compliments here and there about your work— a rare thing anybody could ever receive.

he even personally recommended you to the most prestigious internship in alchemax (as a previous senior engineer that worked for the company itself, call it nepotism). boasting about your skills and intellect with lustrous eyes until he catches himself mid sentence. putting aside his thought process, miguel chugged down his hot coffee and held it in— even if it did burn the entirety of his mouth cavity. he spat it out in the nearest bathroom afterwards.

he cannot feel like this, especially for his student.

but when you graced your presence in his empty office, asking sweetly for tutoring lessons over the summer— he immediately gave in.

now he found himself looming over your smaller frame, gazing down at your hands, fiddling with the steel pen he personally gifted to you when you were accepted into the internship (though he never told you how you even got in). the air felt off without other students bustling in and out of his lab, occupying the other seats as they asked their professor’s personal insight. it was just you and him, alone.

“something wrong?” miguel, usually stern with his voice, softly asks you when he notices the furrow in your brows.

upon his concern, the conflicted look on your face melted into a cheeky smile. miguel couldn’t help but feel relieved that he didn’t upset you when he was carefully dissecting the notes and research you asked help on. but what surprised him was your next statement.

“we’re finally alone, it’s weird to think that, right?”

if he was drinking coffee right now, he would’ve spat it out from utter shock. there were thoughts, very inappropriate thoughts that crossed his mind when he thought about this predicament. yes you’re right, nobody else was here, not even his coworkers that would rudely interrupt him when he graded assignments (ahem peter) can catch the both of you.

“yeah… you’re right.”

he left it at that, but his eyes fell down to your mouth— the pretty gloss adorning your lips left miguel thinking about your body being propped between his legs, the fly of his slacks down as the softness of your hands tracing around his exposed skin.

“mr. o’hara, are you okay?” you leaned closer to miguel with fluttering lashes, tilting your head to the side with a small smile.

your feigned innocence drove him crazy, to the point he was clawing at the arms of his chair. he was completely restrained, bound by his title, bound by his position— it was slipping away from his grasp and into your pretty hands. shit, all this self-discipline and you weren’t even touching him.

at the end, miguel really couldn’t help himself.

“fuck– i can’t— please come here.” miguel initially planned for a more intimate tone, but he was completely desperate.

immediately, you stood from your seat and walked over to his side of the desk that created a barrier between the two of you for the last three hours. before you had the chance to situate yourself between his legs, his rough hands met you halfway as he held your waist— pressing you down abruptly onto the cold surface that elicited a sharp screech from one of the legs of his desk. with your face and chest pinned down, miguel had a perfect display of your frame.

you felt a warm press against your ass, his death grip guiding your hips onto his erection while he let out a strangled groan from the contact. you began to take control of your own hips, grinding down onto his hardness as miguel slowly came more and more undone. beads of sweat dripped onto the notes splayed across the desk, accompanied with his deep-throated groans that he failed to suppress in his throat.

suddenly, his weight came crashing down onto you, but his hips still sputtered against you. miguel was burning; his skin heated with lust and his sweaty palms continued to grope and pinch and squeeze and take and take all of you in his touch.

“please sir…” you whimpered out, looking into his intense gaze with anticipation.

miguel’s breath fanned your cheeks as he threaded a comforting hand through your hair, then immediately, he gripped your scalp tightly that left your vision blurry with tears. his other hand sneakily reaches between the plushness of your thighs, dragging sharp nails along your untainted skin.

“miguel…” he mumbled with a heavy pant, the buckle of his belt clanking against the floor as his ironed pressed slacks pooled around his ankles. “call me miguel for tonight.”

MOCHIFILM © 2023. please do not copy, translate, or modify any of my work. all of my works are not permitted to be posted on any other sites.

[silverzoomies]

Screwball

peter maximoff x reader smut

warnings: smut, slow burn, kissing, hand jobs, loss of virginity, temperature play, mutant reader, ice powers, porn with plot, clunky writing

word count: 14,151

a/n: im so late posting this. i meant to finish this one like a month ago. but it's already september !! and a heatwave fic seems so out of season !! oh well !! i hope someone out there enjoys this. i went through hell tryin' to finish it. but i'm pretty happy with the way it panned out,,

apologies for the usual: clunky writing, slow as fuck execution, potentially ooc dialogue, etc etc etc kbgsjbdghsoiheg

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Westchester, New York had never seen such a record breaking heat wave.

And in all his reckless, fast paced years up to the ripe age of thirty, neither had Peter.

His fragmented memory is jam packed. Cluttered with disorganized checklists of every place he’s ever been. Not that he’s bragging or anything. But Peter’s basically seen the entire world, and then some. If one were to count those gnarly, X-Men space missions. He’d gone places no non-mutant could ever conceivably dream of reaching. From the deathly cold peak of Mount Everest, to the blistering sands of the Sahara desert itself.

Even with all that collected experience, Peter’s a hundred percent sure; he’s never faced summertime heat as insanely lethal as this.

Okay, sure. Maybe declaring Westchester as hotter than the Sahara might be a bit of a stretch. But to Peter’s credit, this heat wave is dangerous enough to warrant a citywide advisory. Which, in layman’s terms, means: don’t get ballsy. Unless you wanna end up fryin’ like an egg on the sidewalk.

The weather outside is so grisly, in fact, the X-Men themselves had to call their latest mission quits. Imagine that! Crazy, right? A fierce team of mutant heroes, capable of taking on behemoth sized sentinels. And even they didn’t dare another second in the heat.

Peter detached himself from the concept of religion ages ago. But thank the mysterious powers above, whoever they may be. Because he was legit two seconds away from collapsing to the ground, in a boiled heap of skin and bone.

He stumbles off the X-jet on wobbly legs. And no joke, Peter swears his muscles have somehow melted into jelly. It’s supremely embarrassing, the way he struggles to keep up with the team as they move ahead. They all stop before going upstairs, waiting to reconvene with Xavier. Organized in a careless, half circle; the X-Men look as though they’ve returned from an Olympic marathon. Their bodies exhausted, and blanketed in buckets of sweat.

Naturally, on account of Peter’s super dope, mutant genes; his body functioned at a nonstop rate of super sonic speed. As a repercussion, his average body temperature burned leagues hotter than any non-mutant’s. It wasn’t abnormal for Peter to dread the tormenting heat of the summer season.

In the blazing eye of a dangerous heat wave, swarming the city like an apocalyptic storm; Peter’s absolutely certain – like, for sure, he’s teetering on the brink of death. A miserable, stewing-in-your-own-sweat kinda death. Leave it to Logan to recite the eulogy at Peter’s funeral. No doubt, Wolvie would have nothing but positive things to say about Peter after he died. Most definitely.

Peter might be a teensy bit freaked out actually. Since he had no idea he was even capable of experiencing heat exhaustion. It almost makes him paranoid. Like a hypochondriac with a chest ache. In an attempt to force his recovery, Peter chugs through exactly thirteen bottles of dollar store water in a flash. The source of his stash? A stainless steel, mini fridge in Hank’s lab.

He knows Hank’s gonna be totally peeved when he finds the fridge raided clean. But Peter doesn’t bother worrying about that right now. Instead, he makes a mental reminder: Water bottles. An IOU. One he’ll probably forget about within the next two seconds. And never get around to fulfilling.

Professor Chucksters is talking, but Peter can’t find it in himself to listen to a single word. Whatever momentous info the ol’ baldy drops, flies a thousand miles over his feverish head. Peter cranes his neck back in overheated agony, lazily chugging Hank’s last remaining bottle of crisp, cold water. The smooth bite of that cold down Peter’s throat makes him exhale with relief through his nose.

Halfway through, he stops to shower his head in the rest. Letting chilly droplets rain down over his silver hair. Sharp tingles erupt down his neck and across his shoulders. Peter shudders, humming in delight to himself.

Oh. Shit. Wait…

Peter then comes to the regrettable realization that, in a heatwave so hazardous; water is a necessity to be shared.

No shit, blockhead.

Now, mind you, Peter isn’t known for his forethought. He’s pretty overzealous. Had he taken time to stop and think for a hot sec…yeah. Sure. Maybe he should’ve been more mindful of his suffering teammates. Oopsie daisies.

Much like a careless dog, Peter shakes off the cold drops soaking his hair. Sprinkles of water splash all around him, with Jubilee caught in the line of fire. She jumps in place with an abrupt, but silent exclamation of ‘ew!’ Shooting Peter a look of burning fury. Damp strands of Peter’s hair fan over his eyes. He runs his fingers slowly through them to give his forehead some air.

Maybe Peter’s a little delusional. Because he swears on his life he catches a red tint in Jubilee’s cheeks. She scoffs, like she can’t stand his bullshit. He throws her a wink. A beat later, she smiles and rolls her eyes.

Peter smirks. Lucky for him, his speedster charm has yet to fizzle out.

The team waits patiently for their opportune moment to flee. It’s obvious they’re all pretty antsy. Probably since they’re dying to change into something lighter. Better fitted for Satan’s city wide celebration of hellfire and brimstone. Anything but the jumpsuits, at least. But that’s just a hunch.

In Peter’s own personal opinion? The most ideal scenario would be to strut around naked, in nothing at all. Sounds awesome, right? Freedom from the suffocation of needless threads! However, societal standards and modern customs definitely wouldn’t allow such debauchery. Not to mention, Peter isn’t super keen on the idea of peeping his teammates in their birthday suits.

Except for Raven, maybe. He never gets tired of looking at those scales. All that blue. Nice.

Oh. And…you. Frankly, Peter’s willing to risk it all just to catch a glimpse of you in the buff.

He swallows a thick lump forming in his throat, sneaking a lightning fast glance in your direction. Observing you with a gawking gaze, Peter ignores the way his heartbeat kicks up to roadrunner speed. Faster than fast. Like, cartoonishly fast. It’s ridiculous.

You’re completely impervious to any heatwave debuffs. Lucky lucky. Standing there without a care in the world, you listen attentively to professor Charlie Brown’s ramblings. Since you’re so distracted, Peter lets his speedy eyes shamelessly wander. Trailing down the glittering, icy blue of your jumpsuit. Uniquely personalized to coincide with your wintry gimmick.

Which doesn’t at all explain why it’s so inappropriately skin tight.

Peter feels himself choke on his next breath. But he’s quick to blame it on the weather. Yeah. It’s just the heat that’s stifling him. Nothing else. Get real, dude.

The sparkling material of your suit hugs your figure a little too perfectly. Complementing every irresistible curve. Peter always thought you looked so ludicrously fine in that suit. If not way, way, way too distracting. Sometimes, he found it ultra hard – ignoring any euphemisms – to maintain focus during missions. Usually because your frosty ass came twinkling in his peripheral, throwing off his mojo.

But let’s chalk Peter’s lack of focus up to his chronic ADD instead, ‘kay?

Heck. Maybe it wasn’t the ADD’s fault. At least, not entirely. Like, cut the bullshit for a sec. Peter doesn’t have a lot of sexual experience. He’s never gone any further than a dozen heated sessions of heavy petting. And from time to time, though he hates to admit it; it haunts him. The way he’s so suppressed. Overflowing with pent-up desire.

Thirty years old and still a virgin? Clock’s ticking, Quickie. No wonder he can’t take his hungry eyes off your body.

Speaking of your body.

Damn, is it hot in here? Or is it just you?

It’s most definitely not you.

Your body naturally radiates a refreshing aura of frigidity. It’s no coincidence, the way your teammates linger so closely in your proximity. Peter can’t really blame them for doing so. You’re the human equivalent of an icebox. Even a touch of your finger could turn the entire X-mansion into a winter wonderland. Part of him wonders why you haven’t done so already. Since you’d be sparing everyone the infernal anguish of this awful heat wave.

Maybe you’re just as absentminded as he is.

Anyway, right about now, Peter desperately yearns to be a long lost tub of neapolitan. Stuffed deep inside your metaphorical freezer.

Which…sounds way dirtier than intended.

Fuck. Alright. Moving on.

Tugging at the collar of his jumpsuit, Peter fights to catch his breath. The fierce heat from outside has somehow seeped its way into the X-Men’s base of operations. Almost like an act of god. Or more like a punishment, maybe.

In desperate need of relief, Peter looks to you once more. He finds himself struck with an ingenious, lightbulb moment then.

A blink, and he bolts, appearing directly behind you. A faint gust of wind flutters your hair. But the breeze fails to even make you flinch. Peter isn’t the least bit subtle with his actions, as he presses his burning body a little too closely into your back. And hoooooooooooooo mama! The sweet relief of your icy presence is so worth any consequences, should they arise.

You whip your head around suddenly, giving Peter a weird look and a once over. He can’t really blame you for staring at him like that. Sure, you’re both teammates. Even family, one might argue. You’re both fighting for the same cause. But you haven’t built an inseparable bond with Peter or anything.

Honestly, he’d be totally down if you did. But that’s neither here nor there.

Peter always thought you were pretty damn cool. In more ways than one, if your glacial mutation was included in the mix. If he were more honest with himself, he would’ve acknowledged his dumb, boyish crush on you an entire ice-age ago. Oh well.

He’s still too much of an awkward spaz for his own good sometimes.

You seem…confused. Staring at Peter as if silently asking him a question. If he had to guess, it’s probably something along the lines of – what the hell do you think you’re doing, you handsome scoundrel? Peter exchanges your puzzled look with an uneasy smile. Dramatically, he fans himself with a hand. Hoping you get the hint, he pokes his tongue out to playfully express his suffocating torment.

Thankfully, you pick up what he’s putting down. As you turn back around, you giggle cutely. Peter breathes an alleviating sigh. He’s left to bask in the glory of your wintry aura. So freeing, and so, so cold. He could kiss you as a thanks, if only you’d let him. But you’ve already directed your attention to Xavier’s painfully long lecture.

Wait. Seriously, how long was this talk supposed to last? It feels like a million years at this point and-

Peter checks the Star Trek watch on his wrist. It’s only been…five minutes. Huh.

The gathering of ye olde X-council draws to a close. At long last! Xavier wraps up his spiel of heroic efforts , world peace , and wonderful work everyone. Bla bla bla. Don’t get Peter wrong. He harbors a lot of respect for the guy. Any other day, and he would’ve found those words somewhat awe inspiring. If not the slightest bit misguided.

But today? Professor, dude, now’s not the time to be preaching words of wisdom. Your nerd club’s literally cooking from the inside out. Give it a rest.

The team wastes no time. As soon as Chuck’s given the go-ahead, they’re gone. High-tailing it upstairs as fast as their tired legs can go. Which isn’t all that fast. At least, not by Peter’s standards. But he’s hella impressed with the enthusiasm.

Unlike everyone else, you move at a frustratingly slow pace. Walking behind you feels akin to waiting too long in a DMV line. Something Peter’s never had to do a single day in his life. And he’s not about to start now. It’s monotonous, and borderline infuriating. But his heightened impatience is probably just another consequence of this outrageous heat.

You take your sweet ass time – and holy moly, did you have a sweet ass – as you ascend to the first floor of the X-mansion. Peter follows after you like a lost puppy, not too far behind. On your way to – presumably – your room, you climb another, dreaded flight of stairs. And since when were stairs a hindrance to a speedster like Peter? He’s never once felt winded making a simple ascent like this. Ever.

Peter’s growing more and more restless. His skin feels sticky and uncomfortable under his jumpsuit, but he can’t rush home to grab a change of clothes. He’s unwilling to risk a race through whatever hellscape lies in waiting outside. No matter how little time it takes him. Not while his lungs are cooking to a crisp.

He aches for the touch of your icy hands. Plain and simple. Nothing to it. Nothing sexual. No strings attached.

Unless…you had a preference for strings. Peter would tie them around his wrists and move like a marionette puppet if you asked. Shit, you want a whole show? Bring out the dancing Muppets.

Midway through your ascent, Peter appears in front of you. He stops you suddenly, leaning casually with his hand against the wooden railing. His other hand rests on his hip. Lamely, he forces himself to act as naturally as he can. Which is virtually impossible, considering the circumstances. But even so, Peter throws you his signature grin and nods his head.

Be cool, dude. Be cool. Ease into it. Just try not to think about how you’re literally baking to death here.

His overheated exhaustion is impossible to miss. Even a dense chimp in a blindfold could sense something’s off about him. The quick rise and fall of Peter’s chest is a dead give away. Revealing how labored his breathing really is. Trickles of sweat race in a tense competition down Peter’s temples. Warm heat pools in his cheeks, and his skin appears ghostly pale.

That…might be the reason you gaze at him like you’re worried sick. As if you’ve seen a haunting, silverette ghost. Peter looks like he’ll pass out sometime within the next five minutes. Realistically, he should probably seek medical attention immediately. But he fakes his aloof casualness anyway.

“Heyyyyy, what’s the haps? Where’re you headed in such a rush, Screwball?” Peter asks, somewhat condescending.

“Screwball?” You narrow your eyes, puzzled, “Oh, y’know, my room probably? I might take a nap. Why?” You laugh despite your confusion, crossing your arms. Fixing Peter with a look that only suggests one thing: suspicion.

Fair enough.

He nods, rapidly tapping his fingers on the railing.

“Cool. Coooooool. I can dig it. Nothin’ wrong with that. I mean, who wouldn’t wanna spend a summer afternoon like this lazin’ around in bed, amiright?”

Good. Nice and easy. Peter should probably stop there, and speak no further. But his hazy, addled mind works on autopilot. The words race past his lips faster than he can keep up.

“It’s hot as hell today too. So, you could totally sprawl out butt ass naked and-”

Too late.

“...Yeah?” Based on your expression alone, Peter knows he’s made a total ass of himself. By some miracle, you don’t deck him with an icy fist of freezing fury. Not that you seemed the violent type to begin with.

“Wait, no-” He abruptly pauses to try and make sense of his thoughts. A stifling heat in the air swarms his head, drowning Peter in hot molasses, “Oh. Gah! What the hell am I even saying? Sorry, that was-uh…that was totally weird, right? Uh, lemme start over-uhm-”

Peter clears his throat, masking his mortification with his speedster charm. Super popular with the ladies. Tested on the battlefield of life and approved. A five star rating. No need to question why he still hasn’t managed to get laid, like ever.

“Sooooooooo…anyway. Y’wanna hang out?” He asks, cheesing a dorky grin.

“You never ask me to hang out with you. But today, of all days…that’s when you do? Everything’s closed, Peter. Y’know, because of the heat advisory? I mean, clearly…you look like you know.” You gesture to Peter himself.

A sweaty sheen coats his skin. He really should’ve taken a cold shower in the communal washrooms. At least before confronting you like this. Man, he really screwed this up. If this interaction falls flat, Peter’s just gonna bail. Maybe he’ll try and stuff himself in that mini fridge of Hank’s. He’d be way better off there. Until Beastie finds him, anyway.

“Uh, yeah? Pffft …no duh. I knew that. But, so what? Just ‘cuz there’s some lame stuff happening outside. That doesn’t mean we can’t do somethin’ totally cool inside. Know what I mean?” Simple and subtle.

“Hm…” You think on his offer for a moment. But it feels like he's aged another thirty years by the time you reply, “At least let me change first, okay? You probably should too! I know you gotta be burnin’ up in that jumpsuit, sweetheart!”

A dopey smile plays on Peter’s lips, pressing into his dimples.

So…sweetheart, eh? That’s a new one.

Politely, you push past Peter to make your way up the remaining stairs. Without any forethought or plan of action, he cuts you off again. He slides across the floor into your visual radius, worn sneakers squeaking along polished wood. Wait…why’s he losing his balance?? Peter doesn’t usually lose his balance. Shit.

Ah. he’s lightheaded now. Great.

You’re close enough that Peter can feel the tempting coldness radiating off your body. Oh, man. If only you’d envelop him in your frosty arms completely. You could even lay on top of him like a blanket of snow post avalanche. Anything. Please. Peter is so beyond desperate to beat the heat, he’d let you pelt him with a flurry of snowballs. At least then, he wouldn’t feel a spark away from igniting into flames.

Staring at him with an impatient look, you tilt your head and furrow your brows. Awkwardly, Peter shifts on his feet. Thick humidity overflows his lungs, close to bursting with the force of an atomic bomb. Breathing is near impossible at this point. Peter may as well bite the silver bullet, before he finally kicks the bucket.

Godspeed, or however the saying goes.

“Hi…sorry. Okay-uh…hear me out, please?” He begs. Peter brings his hands together in front of him like he’s praying at the altar, “This is gonna sound weird. Like, next-level weird. Yer probably gonna think I’m a huge creep. And I’m not tryna freak you out ‘er anything. ‘kay? Like, I totally get it if yer not down for this. ‘Cuz, y’know, we’re not really all that close. Plus, you probably have other stuff you’d rather be doin’ than helpin’ out some loser like me, but-” Peter rapidly stammers over his words.

Way to go, ponyboy. Graceful as ever.

Holding out a small hand to politely silence Peter, you utter his name in the sweetest tone he’s ever heard. Hushed, soft, and so gentle. Your voice is the equivalent of candy to his eardrums. He kinda really digs the way you sound when you talk. So courteous and nice all the time.

Be still, his palpitating heart. Seriously. Calm down. Or he’s literally gonna die.

“Peter?”

“Uhyeahwhat?” He stammers again.

“Are you…okay? You’re sweating like crazy. You look like you’re gonna pass out, dude.”

Peter throws you an ‘ok’ sign with a hand, his grin sluggish.

“Peachy keen, baby.”

He swears with every fiber of his sweltering soul that calling you ‘baby’ made you blush. But, y’know, since he’s a little bit doubtful, he might have to test that theory again. Just to be a hundred percent sure. Break out the ol’ chalkboard and sketch some x’s and o’s like a scientific diagram. Top of the line research. He’s the leading psychoanalyst in speedster charisma. 

“You sure about that?” You ask, arching a brow, holding an easygoing smile.

Taking a few steps closer, you bless Peter with your emanating chill. He doesn’t at all expect you to raise your hand. Peter swallows a thick, blistering lump in his throat. Frozen in place, he watches in slow motion as you bring the tips of your frosty fingers to his chest. Brisk, winter cold spreads in fractals of frost over his jumpsuit.

Freezing heaven on scorching earth. It’s sorta…poetic, in a way. Peter blinks rapidly, caught in a mind-altering daze for a beat or two. Your touch really is like a miracle cure, alleviating that stifling thickness suffocating his lungs.

“W-Wow. Okay.” He chokes awkwardly, cheeks flushing. His skin tingles under his jumpsuit, “Wow. That’s cool. Literally cool.”

“Peter?”

“Mmmmmmhmmm?” He hums, slouching his shoulders. Peter shamelessly relaxes under your wintry touch.

“You’re suffering in this heat, aren’t you? You need me to help you out?”

Stupidly, like a colossal, doofus dumbass, he shakes his head. You’re offering the exact thing Peter came to you for. A golden opportunity. He’s really hit the jackpot now. All he has to do is face the music, and admit it. Just be honest. Say it, doofus!

“Huh? Naaahhhh! Pffft …why would-...hey, I told ya! I’m juuuust peachy, Screwball! Don’t gotta worry about me!”

Hanging in the air by a delicate string, is a tension Peter’s too stunned to identify. Taking another step closer, the swell of your breasts meets his chest. The hand you’ve placed over his speedy heart trails tantalizingly slow, up to Peter’s flushed cheek. His dark eyes flutter closed, and he almost falls face first into your touch.

“I can take care of you, y'know? I really don’t mind, honey. It wouldn’t be an issue.” Your soft voice exudes genuine compassion. The sweet, gentle attention burns his skin to a boiling point, his veins melting underneath.

That unidentifiable tension in the air permeates, thicker than summertime heat. Despite the relieving cold you’ve given him to bask in; Peter finds it even more difficult to breathe. It confuses him, the way you act so nice and considerate. And now? He’s melting entirely.

Literally. No dramatizations. Peter can feel his damp skin drooping slowly off his bones.

He’s already close enough to death as is. What’s with the tenderness and affection, huh? Were you going out of your way to make sure he dies faster? Have some humanity, for Geddy’s sake. Jeez.

“I-uh…I…” Peter stutters, at a loss for words, “I wouldn’t wanna put you out like that, but…uh…”

“Alright. Whatever you say.” You steadily pull your hand from Peter’s face, “Offer’s still on the table, though!”

Wait. Wait. Wait. Why are you pulling away? No, no, no! You can’t pull away! Not yet! Come on!

All at once, the soothing cold you’ve gifted Peter disappears. No thanks to the steaming fever brought upon by his overheated, speedster body. He nearly whines at the loss, pulling his lip between his teeth to stifle any embarrassing noises.

It takes Peter only a millisecond to give in. With a slower reaction time than usual – not really all that slow, from an outside perspective – he darts his hand out in a flash. Peter lightly grabs your wrist, stopping you from retracting your hand any further.

“Wait-” Peter groans, acting hasty. Frustrated with his own awkwardness, he rolls his eyes, “...I’m…I’m literally dyin’ here, okay? Like, no joke. I think my heart might actually explode. And I…kinda can’t breathe right now? So, uhm…can you just, like, touch me? Just a little bit? But not-” He panics suddenly, eyes widening, “N-Not like-...not in a weird way, I swear!”

He almost tacks on a suggestive ‘unless you really want to,’ but decides against it. Better not, lest he dig himself into a deeper hole. So far under the Earth’s surface, he’ll come out the other side. Not a bad idea, actually. Maybe it’s cooler over there.

“And I’ll totally make it up to you. I promise. Pinky swear. Cross my heart, hope I don’t die of heat stroke.” He insists.

You giggle again, cute as can be. It’s not the least bit condescending either, thankfully. Peter feels the weight of a billion megatons finally lift off his shoulders. With a nod, you take his hand in yours. A surprisingly intimate gesture, since the two of you have never done anything quite like this before. Hell, you’ve never spent time with each other one-on-one outside of the X-Men.

“C’mon, you silly goose.” You lightheartedly joke.

Your affection catches Peter off guard. Not that he’s got a problem with it. No siree. In fact, his heart might’ve skipped a few beats. A lazy smile plays at his lips, as you guide Peter down the hall to your room in your usual, slow stride.

Oh, sweet, frosty sanctuary calls.

As soon as Peter steps inside, you quickly close the door behind you. Feeling somewhat out of place in the unfamiliarity of your space, Peter distracts himself with the posters on your walls. He casts quick glances over the silly knick-knacks occupying your desk and dressers. Turns out, your room has a lot of personality. Neat.

He overhears a faint click suddenly. Whipping around to find you locking the door, Peter narrows his eyes in thought.

Huh.

Maybe he’s overthinking. Probably. But doesn’t locking the door like that suggest some…implications? Then again, Peter could be looking at this in all the wrong ways. Like, okay, if he were being realistic? More than likely, you didn’t wanna risk someone walking in. Not while you got handsy with one of your teammates in your room. Totally reasonable, he thinks.

But then-

Leaning your back against the door, you steadily unzip your glittering suit. Pulling the tiny, snowflake zipper down just enough to expose the swell of – Oh, hellllloooooooooo snowy cleavage. Where in the world have you been all his life? Peter has to refrain from whistling.

Okay. You totally did that on purpose, didn’t you? That was completely intentional. And Peter’s definitely not reading too far into things. He’s most unequivocally not letting his attraction to you affect his perception of a simple gesture. Not at all.

He can’t control his lingering gaze. Peter’s droopy eyes follow the slow movement of your hand, his mouth falling agape in a heat-exhausted stupor. Somewhere around him, he can barely make out your voice. But it’s muffled. All noise. Akin to a teacher from a Peanuts cartoon. Bwah Bwah Bwah Bwah.

Peter blinks.

“Huh? Sorry…you say somethin’?” It’s a failed attempt at a recovery. Peter taps his temple, “Gotta couple screws loose in here right now. Y’know, heat’s kinda gettin’ to me.”

You arch a brow, gazing at Peter like you see right through his bullshit. And yeah, he’s gonna go ahead and bet you probably do.

“Uh huh?” You scoff, giggling, “I asked if you’d be more comfortable on the bed, doofus.”

Moving closer to your bed, you bend over to adjust the fuckload of plushies resting on the blankets. Wow. Check that out. It’s like a Toys R Us threw up. A colorful mess of too many plushies for Peter to count. There’s barely any space to lie down, even if he wanted to.

Doing a quick double take, he glances between you, and your occupied bed. Peter sways where he stands, light headed from heat exhaustion. His brows shoot up in unexpected surprise. He whistles through a suggestive grin.

“Waiiiit, seriously?” Peter huffs a charming laugh, “Wow. Didn’t peg you for the direct type, Screwball. Y’wanna take me out to dinner and a movie first?”

“Dinner and a movie? I dunno, Peter. You’re askin’ for a lot.” You giggle again, acting nonchalant. You make your way around the room to a record player on a corner shelf. Neatly organized vinyls are aligned meticulously next to it. As you poke through your collection, you continue, “But sure. Fuck it, right? Why not! What movie?”

Distracted, as he usually is, Peter glances curiously around your room. Framed photos, postcards, and letters adorn your walls. Pinned carefully in place. Some of the photos, he suspects, are of your family. Others, more than likely friends. There’s even a few group photos of the X-Men together, bringing a fond smile to his face.

Bwah bwah bwah bwah?

Wait. Shit. You’re talking again. And Peter totally missed whatever you said.

“Huh?” Peter darts his head in your direction, watching with half lidded eyes as you set up the record player.

“Dude.” You roll your eyes affectionately, chuckling, “I said, is it hot in here, by the way? Just wondering. Since I can’t really tell.”

“Oh-” Peter exaggerates a sigh, “It’s really bad, babe. Like, sooo bad. I’m definitely gonna die if you don’t come over here and put those icebox hands on me, like, right now. Seriously.” He snickers, falling limply backwards into your bed.

Several plushies bounce with the impact of his weight. Some tumble onto the floor. Others topple onto Peter himself, but he leaves them be. He clutches a Beatles Blue Meanie plush to his chest. Breathing in quick, muggy breaths. Peter finds he’s even more consumed by the record-breaking heat. It’s a miracle he hasn’t disintegrated into a pile of ash by now.

“Howard the Duck.” Peter adds, staring at the ceiling in cloudy thought. He twirls the Blue Meanie in his hands.

“Pffft…what?” You laugh, “What are you even-”

“That’s the movie I wanna see. When you take me out? I wanna watch Howard the Duck. Oh! And I want popcorn too. Can’t watch a movie without popcorn. But it’s gotta be one of the big ones. With extra butter. And some candy-”

“ When I take you out. C’mon, really? Dude, didn’t critics totally pan that movie? I swear, I saw that in the paper just recently! It’s such an awful movie, Peter!”

“Uh, yeah? And so what? That’s kinda what makes it the ultimate date move, babe. Check it out – we could have the most awesome time makin’ fun of it.” Peter throws his head back further into your bed, peering at you from upside down, “Ooooh! Did you hear about the duck boobs scene? No joke. I kid you not. It’s got duck titties.”

A mellow tune slowly encompasses the quiet, muggy space of your room. Peter instantly recognizes it from the first few beats alone. Obscured by Clouds. Pink Floyd. …Cool. Peter’s pretty fond of that album himself. It’s not necessarily his favorite, per se. But it’s awesome enough. And it’s perfectly fitting for the mood of sweltering, summertime vibes too, he thinks.

“I didn’t until now.” You sarcastically scoff. Meandering towards Peter on your bed, “Spoilers, dude.”

He brings his head up to look at you. Spreading himself out, Peter knocks more of your poor plushies to the floor. Carelessly, he drops the Blue Meanie plush. Letting him fall to his ultimate demise. Au revoir, his blueness.

“Right. My bad.” He snickers. After a beat, Peter adds, “I love this album, by the way. It’s a nice vibe.”

In your eyes, he must look a lot like a beached starfish. Sprawled out and helpless. Drying to death in the heat of the summertime sun. Peter has his long legs hanging loosely off the edge of your bed. Moving in between those spread legs, you carefully climb onto the bed. Your knee stops just short of his crotch. As you inch yourself further over his body, Peter’s eyes widen. He blinks slowly, feeling hot beads of sweat roll down his temples.

“I know you do.” You grin down at him with a warm gaze. Peter’s lungs threaten to shrink into nothingness.

“Y-You do? Huh…no shit?” He appears put off, raising a silver brow, “How’d you know?”

You shrug, keeping your grin, “Guess I pay more attention to you than you think, hmm?” Perched over Peter with a palm to the sheets, you brush the silver bangs out of his eyes, “You got any limits?”

Peter blinks again, dumbfounded.

“Lim-...uh, what now?”

“Limits, y’know. Like, where am I free to touch? Anything you’re not comfortable with?”

“Oh. Uh…you can…touch me anywhere? It’s whatever yer comfortable with. Yer the one doin’ me a favor here.” he gazes at you with an unsure, sleepy eyed look. Nervously nibbling his lip, tasting the salt of his sweat, “Do you-uh…do you do this kinda thing a lot? Fer…other people?”

“Nope.” You blink down at him with that genuine, sweet smile again. Shrugging, “Just you.”

A subtle aura of addictive cold radiates from your body like a light. Peter can feel the faintest hint of it as you move in close. It teases him, promising sweet relief from the merciless summer heat. With his lips parted, Peter stares longingly into your eyes. His smile reveals a glimpse of his front teeth, as he snickers in disbelief.

“Uh huh. Alright. See, now I know fer sure yer just messin’ with me.” He bashfully laughs.

“Not yet I’m not.” You throw him a coy wink. Innocently, you ask, “Where do you want me?”

Which could so easily be misconstrued. Dammit.

Yeah. So, this one’s definitely on him. Peter’s inexperienced, sexually charged instincts immediately jump somewhere totally depraved. He’s a little ashamed of that fact. But hey, who’s the one climbing over him on their bed? Who’s the one fluttering those pretty lashes? Giving him those flirtatious smiles. Come on. Really? No wonder he’s lost his mind in the gutter.

Where do you want me?

Peter’s dark eyes immediately dart to his crotch for less than a second. But it happens so fast, he doesn’t doubt you missed it.

“Uhhhhh…I dunno. I didn’t…I didn’t really think about it? But, you cou- HHHHHHhnnnnnnnaaaaaaa-”

Frigid cold invades the exposed skin of Peter’s neck, as you press your hand gently there. A tiny thumb brushes his adam’s apple. Shivering, Peter bunches his shoulders. Tingling chills surge across his body.

“That’s good. That’s g-great. Awesome. Totally awesome. Thanks. Thank you.” He chokes in a rush, instantly melting into your icy touch.

Relaxing his body in your bed, Peter’s head falls loosely back. He breathes a long sigh of relief, his mouth falling open in a dopey smile. His eyes flutter closed as he laughs. Steadily then, your hand travels lower. Grazing frosty fingertips over his chest. Your fingers soon find the zipper of his jumpsuit, and you tug it down a little further.

That heavy tension from earlier grows a thousand times more distracting. For whatever reason, the mellow melody of Pink Floyd’s ‘When You’re In’ only seems to heighten said tension. Almost like it’s setting a certain kinda…steamy mood. 

Did Peter wake up in some cheesy, VHS porno? He’s definitely living the plot of one.

Peter flutters his eyes open, met with the sight of you on your knees over him. Your gaze appearing heavy, focused intently on your task. You nibble your lip in thought, looking fine as hell while doing so. Pressing your small palm to his chest, you finally grace him with glorious cold again. Right over the sweaty abomination for a shirt he wore under his jumpsuit. He’s almost embarrassed that you’re even touching it.

Using your glacial gift, you manifest more coolness. Allowing it to spread all over Peter’s body. He sucks in a harsh breath, freeing his lungs from their heated asphyxiation.

There it is. Sweet, icy sanctuary, at long last.

“Ohhhhhhhh …” Peter groans, “Nice.”

His adam’s apple bobs in his throat, his veins straining under his skin. Digging your nails firmly into his chest, you manifest snowy trails of glittering frost. The biting cold nips at his skin over the fabric of his shirt. Like walking chest first into an arctic glacier.

“Is this helping you much at all?” You ask, barely above a whisper.

“You have nooooooooo idea, babe.” Peter breathes a grateful sigh, “This is, like, so amazing. Thanks. I owe ya one.”

“Nah. Don’t worry about it.”

Your freezing hand meets Peter’s sweaty forehead, pressing into his skin. Like you’re checking his temperature with the gentleness of a mother’s touch. Humming to the music, you card your cold fingers through his damp locks. Firmly massaging Peter’s scalp.

Peter lets his eyes drift shut again. His mouth falling open out of his control. Leaving his hair, you bring your attention back to his body. Watching him carefully for any sign to stop, you tug the wet, frost nipped fabric of his shirt. Bunching it up over his neck, exposing his broad chest.

He shoots an eye open, fixing you with a curious look. Feeling hot skin under your soft palms, you slide your hands over his raised pecs. Your fingers gliding in a touch as delicate as powdered snow. It sends sharp chills down his spine. A sensation he’s quickly finding extremely addictive and all too pleasant.

Instantaneously, something clicks in Peter’s brain.

A beat, and your touch goes from relieving, to downright pleasurable. Even sort of…arousing. Peter immediately reacts, arching his back in an abrupt jolt. He laughs his surprise through a broken moan, tossing his head back for the umpteenth time.

“O-Oh, fuck.” He chokes, loud enough to disturb whoever occupies the room next door.

Peter’s so righteously fucked now. Because he really shouldn’t be as turned on by this as he is. It’s just…he’s so boiling hot. Miserable as hell. And not only are you finally breaking him free of hellfire’s tyranny. But you’re also touching him sorta intimately. Peter’s really not immune to attention like this. Especially not from a stone fox he’s super attracted to.

His nipples harden under your frigid spell, perky against the tips of your fingers. Peter hisses, whimpering another moan without meaning to. Your only response is to giggle. Curiously, you tilt your head. Quickly taking notice of the way Peter’s noises have changed in pitch.

They’re more like moans of ecstasy now. Because, well, they sorta are. Whoops.

Lowering your hips, you suddenly move to rest on Peter’s lap. Just to give your knees some much needed rest. His hammering heart threatens to burst straight through his ribcage. Rising from the bed onto his elbows, Peter tries to protest.

“Wait! Wait, don’t sit- hoooohhhh.” A throaty groan slips off his tongue.

The full weight of your lower half drops onto his lap. Right over the stiff hard-on in his jumpsuit, doing little to hide itself. Your ass is so outrageously cold against his crotch and… oh, fuck. That’s so perfect. Peter groans again through a shuddering breath. Limply, he lowers himself onto his back. Hoping to conceal his shame, he brings his hands to his face.

Except, there’s no denying his obvious desire anymore.

“Auuuuugh.” Peter curses himself, “Shit. I am seriously so, so sorry-” Your name plays on his tongue in a desperate, apologetic tone, “I-I really…I dunno why I’m so-uh…I’m not usually-”

“Hey, don’t worry! It’s okay. Believe me, I don’t mind…”

Gosh. There you go again, doing that thing. The thing where you act so unexpectedly understanding in the face of an awkward situation. But even then, Peter can hear your smooth voice waver. Despite all you try to hide, he can tell. You’re just as nervous as he is, but ultimately better at masking it.

He doesn’t see it, but you gaze down at him rather suggestively. A fresh, newfound sense of lust lingers in your eyes. Raking your nails teasingly down his chest, you draw numbing streaks of snow, making him wince. The frost manifests seamlessly from your fingers, tickling Peter’s ever burning skin. It melts instantly, leaving beaded droplets.

“Does it really feel good when I touch you like this, pretty boy?” You tease, that waver in your voice barely leaking through again.

Wooooah. Okay. Okay. Hold up. Rewind. What?

Peter isn’t hearing you wrong this time. He couldn’t be. It’s impossible to misread the dirty tease in your tone. In the blink of an eye – rapid fire speed – the blood pooling in his cheeks vacates straight to his dick. Peter’s cock twitches, pulsating under his jumpsuit – under you – and shamefully unveiling just how horny he really is.

The high-speed boom boom boom of Peter’s heart skids to a deafening halt. His exhausted lungs finally collapse. Squeezing out his final remnants of life. If someone were to hook him up to an EKG, he surely would’ve flat-lined. Sayonara, suckers. This foolhardy speedster’s at the end of his road.

But…what’s this?! Peter’s still alive and breathing? Who could’ve predicted such a phenomenon??

He lowers his hands from his flushed face, peering over the tips of his fingers. His black coffee eyes blown exceptionally wide.

“Woah. Hold on now. What?” Peter snorts. He shakes himself free of total shock, frantically nodding, “Uh, yeah? It feels…really fuckin’ awesome, to tell you the truth.”

“Mhm?” You hum a sensual vibration, biting your lip, “Mind if I try something bold then?”

Peter arches a curious brow. You’re kind of a little minx, aren’t you?

“Literally? You can do whatever you want with me, babe. I’m all yours.” He heaves an exasperated laugh.

A smirk dawns your pretty lips, and you shimmy backwards over Peter’s lap. Until the bulging swell of his hardness lies before you, squirming under his jumpsuit. Teasing him, you drag your biting touch down to his crotch. Euphoric cold dances across his pelvis. You stop short of his hard-on, and Peter draws in a ragged breath.

“Awww…feelin’ a little stiff, sweetheart?” You coo in a sultry sound. Peter feels his blood pressure drop to a life-threatening degree, “Let me help you out.”

Testing the metaphorical, frozen waters; you bring your frigid palm over his bulge. You watch Peter for any sign to retract your hand, fixing him with an intense look. But to your surprise, his cock doesn’t soften under your frosty touch. Not like one would expect. Oh, no. The opposite happens, in fact.

“Mmmmhh…oh my god.” He moans, his front teeth clamping hard into his lip. Jolting in response to his own sensitivity, he rolls his hips into your small hand, “Please…”

You squeeze the thick length of him as well as you can over his jumpsuit, applying more pressure. Awkwardly stroking his dick with your wintry tipped fingers. The bleak touch you cast sends chills racing through Peter’s veins, and sharp pleasure rises in his groin.

“F-Fer the record, by the way, this is not how I expected this to go.” Peter shivers, breathlessly chuckling.

“Oh, no?” You mutter, climbing over Peter on your knees. Glacial breath ghosts his lips. You lean in close, giving his cock another firm squeeze, “Hope you’re not too disappointed.”

“Fuuuuuuck no, baby. Not a chance.” Peter groans his reply, lifting his hips. Yearning for more of your gratifying chill. Another wintry wave of cold seizes through his groin, and Peter’s eyes roll back, “Holy shit. That’s it.”

Peter finds himself a little conflicted. His brown hues can’t decide if they wanna gaze into your own, or stare longingly at your lips. In the past, Peter thought about those same lips more often than he’d admit. But to be so up close and personal with them like this…

“I’m not even gonna lie to you, Screwball. I really wanna kiss you right now.” Peter admits defeat. Even in your polar proximity, humiliation burns his cheeks with the force of hellfire.

Knitting your brows, you narrow your eyes. And for a painfully long instant, Peter thinks he’s finally fucked up. As if confessing his desire to kiss you was somehow a step too far over the line.

Is there even a line left between the two of you anymore? Or did you both trip over it the moment you gave him ‘fuck me’ eyes?

You lean in a touch closer, quietly chuckling. Cold puffs of air fan over his lips, a needle-thin space away.

“You’re so silly, y’know that? Why do you keep callin’ me Screwball?” You ask, placing a tantalizing kiss to the corner of his lips. Like the touch of a delicate snowflake, “You make it sound like you think I’m crazy.”

“Well, okay, first of all, you gotta be some kinda crazy. ‘Specially if yer screwin’ around with me.” Peter jokes. He’s beyond winded under the teasing brush of your soft lips, “S-Second of all, it’s an ice cream thing. You ever-uhm…stop by an ice cream truck before?”

Why’s he even doing this? Making casual conversation like it’s a date at the diner. Peter half expects you to pull away. Since this is the least sexiest thing he could be doing. Amazingly, you remain where you are. Trailing kisses across Peter’s cheek, down to his ear. Leaving feather-light sparkles of frost in your wake. Still, they melt within seconds.

“Yeah. Of course I have. So?” You mumble.

He tenses as goosebumps descend down his neck. The tight grip you have on his dick doesn’t let up. Any words Peter planned on saying seem completely lost on him now.

“Uhhhh…Screwball’s the little…it’s got the-uh…gumballs at the bottom. It’s, like, a cone-”

Righteous work, casanova.

“Right. And I’m Screwball because…?”

Damn you, little minx! You know why. The answer’s totally obvious. There’s no way you’re that dense. Nah. You’re just so set on teasing Peter, tempting him to nervously ramble. Like you find his embarrassment…humorous or whatever. Pfffbbtt …

“You messin’ with me? It’s ‘cuz it’s ice cream, yeah? No duh. And ice is, like, yer thing, babe. I dunno. It made more sense in my head.” Peter laughs in spite of himself, “Listen…can I please kiss you? Before I make even more of an ass outta myself?”

In this position, Peter can’t kiss you. Even though it’s all he can think about. You’re too busy mouthing at his neck, grazing his skin with your teeth. Fondling his cock in freezing strokes, making him whine under his breath.

Up until this very moment, Peter’s hands remained mostly still. He’d dig his fingernails into your blankets, as the pleasure of freezer burn simmered in his pelvis. But he held himself back from ever really touching you. Since this little interaction wasn’t supposed to end up like this to begin with.

But now? Well…shit.

You knead at his junk like you’re making biscuits, flicking your icy tongue across the skin of his neck. Eliciting another husky whine from deep in his throat. Peter’s pretty sure, judging by your forwardness; you wouldn’t mind so much if he touched you just a little, right? Like, you totally wouldn’t protest if he brought his large hand to the back of your head, would you?

He threads his fingers through your soft hair, tugging your head back gently. Pulling you from his neck, just so he can meet your wanton eyes again. There’s a single second of hesitation, as both of Peter’s hands claim your cheeks. That second seems to stretch for what feels like an hour, while Peter memorizes the features of your face. His racing, speedster heart leaps at the sight.

He swiftly pulls you down for a kiss. It’s clumsy as all get out. Initially, anyway. But if there’s one thing he can actually pride himself on? At the very least, he’s had a lot of experience with canoodling. Kissing you comes as naturally to Peter as running does. His skillful lips and tongue guide yours effortlessly. Coercing you into a heated makeout session. Against his own, your lips are frosty cold. Like drinking crisp water straight from a chilled glass.

Or…it’s more like he’s lapping his tongue across some kind of…slushy ice cream. Like…a Screwball cone, maybe?

No?

Fuck it. Whatever. The only difference is, you don’t taste anything like cherry. You taste like you. And Peter would argue that’s almost better. Almost. Cherry’s pretty hard to beat. It’s a tough competition.

As you fall victim to his bitchin’ makeout skills, Peter indulges himself. He touches you the way he’s dreamed since forever and a day. His hands glide thick fingers down your chilly body. Feeling every glittering facet of your suit under his fingertips. Meeting the curves of your hips, he squeezes them firmly.

“Mmmmm…this is awesome.” Peter breathes, “This is really fuckin’ awesome.” He hums into your lips, stifling a moan by kissing you again. You stroke his clothed cock a little faster, and he chokes, “O-Oh…yer so awesome. Fuck.”

“You’re really awesome yourself. But I’ve always thought that about you.” You titter, nuzzling his nose so tenderly, “The others on the team? Yeah. They’re alright. But you? Peter, you’re the coolest.” You admit with a bashful smile. After locking him in one more, passionate smooch, you pull away, “Sexy too.”

“W-Wait, really? Are you bein’ serious right now?” Peter asks, stupefied. He furrows his brows. Another beat, and he forces himself to smirk proudly, “I-I mean…well, yeah. Pssshh …of course. Why wouldn’t you think that? I’m the bomb, baby.”

Peter keeps his hands on your hips, feeling your ravishing curves. Stroking them with his thumbs. They fit so perfectly in his grasp. And Goddamn, Peter doesn’t ever wanna let go. Mark his words. Right here, right now. He’ll glue his hands to you forever if he has to.

Lowering your ass over his crotch, you keep your erotic gaze focused on his. Your intense eye contact never seems to break for even a moment. Pressing into the exposed, damp skin of his chest, you brace your freezing hands over Peter’s pecs. A filthy moan teases your lips, as you roll your gorgeous hips forward and back. Grinding into his needy bulge.

Oh.

This is happening now. Fuck yeah.

Peter squirms in place, tightening his hold on your hips. His nails tear at the tiny sequins of your jumpsuit, digging into the sparkling material. It’s such a needlessly skin tight thing, for fuck’s sake. Criminally skin tight, even. How did Xavier ever greenlight that? Peter can see the tempting outline of your pussy in it, deliciously rolling into his clothed cock. His mouth waters at the sight. Lifting his hips off the bed, he meets your slow thrusts.

“Ohhhhh. Oh, what the fuck-” He moans an octave louder.

A strangled sound catches in his throat, and you’re quick to shush him the moment it frees itself.

“Pietro, honey, you gotta be quiet, okay?”

Hushed moans pour from your parted lips as you speak his given name. Peter’s completely bushwhacked at the mention of it. Since no one ever – excluding his mom, in her more frustrated moods – uses that name. A tickling flutter erupts with a burst in his belly. He almost creams himself at the sound of that name in your voice.

“Come on. Be good for me. You can be good for me. Can’t you, baby?” You plead. Moving your hips in a painfully slow, steady rhythm.

“Fuuuuuuuck. Babe, please-” Peter begs, “Faster? Faster, please. Yer killin’ me."

Your sharp nails sink into his bare chest, manifesting more glassy shards of frost. Winter cold seizes Peter’s body entirely, infecting him with frostbite’s kiss. Peter knits his brows tightly, his dark eyes mesmerized with your every movement. The freezing solace permeating from your pussy proves a little too overwhelming. As sharp, pinpricks of cold rush through his veins; it all morphs into carnal heat.

His muscles quickly tighten, every inch of him tensing in an instant.

“Wait wait wait! Fuck!” Peter whimpers in desperation, a flurry of moans erupting from his throat. His rock hard cock twitches, pulsating under you as he cums. Leaking thick streams of his seed into his boxers and jumpsuit, “F-Fuck! I’m sorry, baby! Ohhhhh god! I’m so sorry.”

As far as Peter knows, you have no clue he’s a virgin. Until now, he was content with that. He hadn’t planned on announcing it anytime soon. In hindsight, it’s pretty fucking embarrassing how easily he comes undone. All from a little dry humping, no less.

Yeah. You’re bound to figure it out sooner or later. Yikes.

Sticky, white pearls of his cum seep through his jumpsuit, staining the material. Your erotic motions slow to a stop, once you notice the streaks sticking to your clothed cunt. Tilting your head, you raise a brow. A delicate blush swarms your neck and ears, as you stare down at Peter with genuine surprise. He tilts his head back shamefully, sighing.

“D-Did you just-” You hesitate to continue. Wintry fingertips trace over his bare chest, “Damn, Quickie, that was fast.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” Peter sighs again, bringing his fingertips to the bridge of his nose, “Dammit.”

He squeezes his eyes shut tight, feeling blistering warmth rapidly return. Taunting him with the promise of death by suffocation all over again. Before he finally succumbs to it, you crawl over him. Knees braced on either side of his body.

“I’m…god, I’m really fuckin’ sorry about that.” Peter awkwardly stammers, “I-I just…fuck! Yer just so-”

You shush him, chuckling, “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. That was so, sooooooo hot. Really hot, if I’m being honest.”

By virtue of his blessed genes, Peter takes very little time to recover. And hell, you make it an impossible feat not to chub up all over again. Your arctic tongue intertwines with his hotter one, as you meet him in another sloppy kiss. Cold hands grasp his cheeks, quickly sliding through his hair. Dragging your nails across Peter’s scalp, you kiss him with more urgency.

Peter sneaks his hands to your juicy ass, warm palms feeling at your plush booty cheeks. He gives one of them a light, playful smack. Drawing out a squeak from you, Peter giggles into your mouthy kisses. He’s distracted enough, he almost doesn’t notice you tugging the zipper of his jumpsuit.

“C’mon, get this thing off already.” You pull the zipper down even further, murmuring through frantic kisses, “Before you die of heat stroke in my bed.”

With a hmph , Peter nods his head, “Hey, if it’s life ‘er death? Guess I’ve got no choice then, huh?” He replies, fabricating his confidence, “Just a sec.”

Peter sits up fully on your bed, his feet absentmindedly kicking a few plushies on the floor. You slide off the bed entirely. Stepping back to give Peter the space he needs. From your perspective, the removal of his sweaty jumpsuit takes less than a second. But from Peter’s own POV, it’s a thousand years before he finally pulls himself out of his clothes. Clumsily, he peels his sticky limbs free.

“Fuckin’ shit-” He curses, struggling to free one of his ankles once he’s done.

He hadn’t noticed it before, but a faint air of raw cold filters through the space of your room. With his body free of stifling clothing; Peter can finally embrace that coolness in full. It bites sharply at his skin, making him shudder. Peter inhales a slow, deep breath just to feel it all

“Oh, wow! It feels damn good in here, Screwball! Like, woahhh! I feel like I’ve been sweatin’ my balls off this whole time until now.” He says.

“That’s the most charming thing you’ve said all day.” You sarcastically chime. And he snorts.

Peter promptly rids himself of his sweat soaked shirt, aching to feel more frigid air on his skin. He tosses the drenched fabric to the floor. Left in his cum stained boxers, Peter shifts uncomfortably on your bed. Self consciously, he gazes at you with a doe eyed look. He twiddles his thumbs in his lap.

“Sooooooo…uh…a-are you gonna take off yer-uhm…” Peter gives you a once over, gesturing to your jumpsuit.

He lets his long, sturdy legs hang off the side of your bed. Watching as you take slow steps backwards, pulling that tiny, snowflake zipper of yours. Dragging it all the way down. A mischievous spark twinkles in your eye, and Peter’s heart skips a thousand beats. Even though you’re trying your best to be sexy, you’re still just as clumsy as he was.

Which somehow, ultimately makes you even sexier to him.

You peel your limbs out of your glittering jumpsuit. Revealing the underwear beneath, fitting your body in all the right ways. Peter’s adam’s apple bobs, his eyes flitting up and down your curvaceous form. Drinking in the image of you almost completely bare.

“Holy shit.” Peter mumbles, leaning back and bracing his hands on your bed.

You’re giggling again. Blessing his ears with a precious sound he’s grown to adore over the last…however long it’s been since you invited him in. Peter can’t really remember. It’s impossible to hold any sense of rational thought while watching you like this. Especially when you pull off everything except your little, lace panties. Freeing your-

Whoaaaaaaa, mama.

There they are. In all their beautiful, freezing glory. Your icy cold knockers bounce freely. And with a flawlessly executed jiggle, too. If Peter had a sign, he'd rate them a perfect ten.

The skin of your breasts is heavenly soft, dusted in a faint motif of frosty snowflakes. Nipples perky.

Peter's wondered about those suckers for ages. And you most definitely don't disappoint. He whistles, his eyes flying open. Black pupils dilating like drops of heavy ink. No matter how hard he tries, he can't tear his gaze away from those bouncy beauties.

"Damn, Screwball…" Peter grins, shaking his head, "Yer a smokeshow, babe."

Subconsciously, he palms his hardening dick over his boxer briefs. Momentarily grimacing at the texture of drying cum in the fabric. His focused gaze lingers a little too long on your totally righteous titties. You're talking again. Speaking words in that sweet voice, though they go unheard.

Bwah bwah bwah bwah!

You must have given up on trying. He barely sees you coming, as you collide your lips with his again. Shocking him out of his boob-induced daze. The moment you're in close enough range, he reaches out to touch you. Burning hot palms fondle your breasts, fingers toying with your nipples. Furrowing your brows, you squeal into his mouth.

"Your hands-" You whine, "Your hands are so hot. It's like you're on fire." And Peter chuckles a heated breath in response.

"See? And that's why we're here. Gotta beat the heat somehow, eh?" He says, his hands playing with your frosty titties. Silken and cold on his skin.

Sinking to the floor, you lower yourself onto your knees. Peter knows without an ounce of doubt; your poor knees have to be aching like hell right about now. Yet, you persist. He scoots a little further at the edge of your bed, allowing you to ease yourself between his spread legs. With one less layer of clothing in the way of your touch, the coolness feels even more crisp and harsh over his cock.

“God, you’re so pretty…” He mumbles.

Peter stares down at you in awe, curling his fingers into the sheets. Biting your lip with an impish grin, you ease his boxers off completely. As your glimmering eyes meet the full length of his cock, you're instantly enamored. His dick, colored a scarlet hue and pulsing with thick veins, bounces over a silver bush of hair.

You haven't even touched him directly yet. But Peter can already feel that freezing aura easing in close. Swiping your tongue across your plush lips, you gaze at Peter's dick like your hunger hasn't been satiated in weeks.

No words are spoken between you both. As one of your hands treads carefully. Barely touching his thickness with your fingers. You stroke him in slow, but firm motions at first. Peter arches his back in shock, the cold like electricity rushing through his veins. Arctic temperatures rapidly pump his body full of adrenaline.

Maybe that’s why he’s so into this. Being a speedster, he’s always been addicted to the rush of exhilaration.

“Ohhh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” Peter moans.

Your strokes slide up to the swollen, purple-ish head of his cock. Squeezing tightly. But the tip is too outrageously sensitive. A simple, icy cold tug of it gets Peter practically seizing. White light flashes through his vision. And just like that, he’s going totally mental. He jumps with an abrupt jerk, his body vibrating.

Peter whimpers in quick gasps, “Ah! N-Not the tip, baby! Not the tip!”

You make a quick retreat, sliding your hand down to the thick base of his length. Pumping his vascular cock in a frosty fist. He can feel his blood vessels constricting with every motion. Cold creeps under his skin, bringing with it a burning sensation. Peter’s groin tightens, and his moans turn to pleading whimpers.

With a cheshire grin, you flutter your lashes over a naughty gaze. Leaning forward, you tease the smooth length of his cock with your lips. Kitten licking a vein with the tip of your tongue.

“W-Wait! Hold on, Screwball! Fuck-” One of Peter’s hands finds your head, clutching strands of your hair between his fingers, “It’s too much, baby! I can’t-”

A long, chilling swipe of your tongue brings momentary crystals of ice. Igniting the burn along his skin. Peter never thought himself a masochist. But this freaky, frosty jerk-off session has somehow completely rewired his brain chemistry. Pain never felt so good.

In all your wickedness, little minx, you refuse to heed Peter’s warning. Your mouth engulfs the scorching heat of his cock. Surrounding him in a crisp, cold shroud. Bringing upon him a vengeance of the bleakest kind. Like a frostbitten hug, sending shockwaves of pleasure fluttering through his bones. Peter’s breathing quickens.

“Ah! FUCK! Gonna fuckin-...I’m fuckin’ cumming, baby! Sorry, sorry, sorr-” He falters over broken whines.

Acting on impulse like the total spaz he is, Peter panics. Tugging your head from his cock so he doesn’t bust a load in your mouth. He lags a few seconds behind. Late again, as per usual.

Peter accidentally showers your precious lips in his cum. Painting your face in hot, messy strands of it. He writhes in place, sluggishly rocking his hips forward. The spurting tip of his dick kisses your lips, the length bouncing with every eruption of thick, sticky heat.

For a second time in a row, he’s blown his load prematurely. Impressive, in a really lame way. But, hey, even if Peter feels a little bad for glossing you in his cum. He’s gotta admit, you look drop dead gorgeous like this.

Peter quickly snaps out of his post-nut daze, his eyes dancing across your decorated face.

Ah. Actually, now that he’s thinking somewhat clearly again…it’s a little gross. He fumbles over an onslaught of apologies. Reaching to the floor for his discarded shirt without thinking, he wipes your face clean of his nut.

Wait. Fuck. Why’d he use his shirt? Shit. Get it together, Quickie!

As always, you’re just as chill about this as you have been everything else, “That wasn’t so bad. But thanks. Sorry about your shirt, though.” You giggle. But all Peter does is shamefully laugh in response.

You’re perceptive enough to catch onto his sudden hesitance. He tenses, avoiding your pretty eyes. Bouncing a nervous leg at the speed of a rabbit’s kicks. Twice now, you’ve seen him finish way too early. And though he knows in his heart you wouldn’t judge him for his lack of experience; a small part of him fears the worst.

He really likes you, actually. It’d hurt like hell if you thought less of him over something so trivial.

“You okay there, sweetheart?” You ask. Playful, but still concerned.

Peter’s heart aches in the presence of your gentle nature. Swallowing his pride, he opts to confess. And if you think him pathetic for being a thirty year old virgin? Fuck it. He’s betting Hank’s mini fridge is still vacant.

You’re resting on your knees in between his legs, tracing feather-light, frosty patterns into his thigh. Peter’s skin swiftly erupts in goosebumps again, his body never accustomed to your arctic touch. Taking a deep breath, he drops his head forward.

“I…gotta be honest with ya about somethin’. I’ts-...” Peter cuts himself off with a sigh, burying his face in his hands, “I’m kind of…a virgin. Y’know, if you couldn’t already tell. I just…didn’t wanna say anything.”

“Pfffttt …” You puff in disbelief, like you’re assuming he’s messing with you. But Peter blinks, staring down into your eyes with a look that tells you he’s all business, “You’re serious? But, Peter, no offense? I’m really surprised! You always seemed like such a player. Like, you flirt with literally everyone.”

Peter stares at you in silence. He shakes his head, brows furrowed. A timid grin curling into his lips.

“I guess? I talk a big game, yeah. And I’ve made out with a lotta girls. Screwed around a few times. But…nah. I’ve never-uh…actually, really screwed. I dunno if the timing was never right or what, but…” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. Despite fighting an internal war of crippling shame.

“Well, we’ll just have to remedy this then, won’t we?” Your hand rises to his chin, thumb tenderly stroking rough, silver stubble.

His eyes fly open, cheeks swarming a bright red. A beat, and Peter’s dick already twitches to life again at the prospect of your offer. However, despite his body’s insatiable desire, he waves his hands and shakes his head.

“N-No! No, babe! Listen, you don’t have to. I really wasn’t implyin’ anything when I said…uh…it’s just…I-I’ve never told anyone. That's all!”

“It’s fine! I said I would take care of you, didn’t I?”

He swallows, caught off guard by your choice of words. ‘Take care of you.’ His brows raise high, and the cartoonishly fast pounding of his heart returns. Fluttering in his chest, hiking up to sonic speed. Peter opens his mouth to protest, to remind you that you shouldn’t feel pressured into stealing his v-card.

But you’re already pushing yourself off the floor, climbing over Peter on your bed. With your icy hand to his chest, you guide him down onto his back. He gazes up at you with an uncertain, but lustful look in his dark eyes. In spite of the significantly cooler temperature of your room; Peter’s entire body breaks out in a humid sweat.

Okay. Calm down, man. Take a chill pill. Relax.

“You got any condoms?” You ask, blunt and up front.

So. This is really happening, huh? Yeah. Peter’s gonna lose his v-card to one of his teammates. No biggie. Screwing his fellow X-Man Screwball? Totally not a big deal.

Peter swallows dryly again, an awkward chuckle vibrating over his tongue.

“Not on me, no. I don’t really-uhhh…carry those around.” He makes a hasty move to sit up, “But I can run to the store really quick and grab some. Y’wanna snack ‘er a drink while I’m at it? I could really go fer somethin’ sweet like-”

Your frosty lips capture his in yet another, intimate kiss. For the sake of Peter’s inexperience, you take your time. Guiding Peter down onto his back once more. Working with tender consideration. When your tongue so lovingly swirls with his, he scowls. Tasting the lingering bitterness of his nut. He curls his lip.

“Euuuugh! Augh! Blegh! Is that really what I taste like? Eck! I’m so sorry, Screwball. I’ll try to spare ya next time. Eugh. That’s disgusting!” He rambles, overcompensating for his uneasy nerves again.

“Next time?” You raise your brows. Supple, wet lips smirking.

“Y-Yeah? Yeah…like… pfftt …if you want…” Peter shrugs, casual, blinking puppy dog eyes, “I dunno about you, but I’m havin’ a killer time fuckin’ around like this.” He adds, fingers toying with the hem of your panties.

Reaching for his cock, you take his length into your icy cold grip. Peter jolts again, cursing under his breath.

“I need to confess something too.” You say, bashful. Peter watches your facade of confidence diminish for a moment, “Would you still wanna do this if I told you I’m just as cold on the inside?”

“Woah…yeah. Listen, that is the opposite of a problem for me.” Peter reassures you, looking between your bodies, “Call me crazy? I’m really diggin’ the whole cold thing.”

He watches your fingers hook through the hem of your panties, sliding them down your smooth legs. It’s a bit awkward for you to get them off in this position. But eventually, you’re entirely exposed.

No more messing around. This is the real deal.

Wiggling your ass, you position your wintry cunt over his cock’s swollen head. Peter’s fingers tremble as they grab your ass for purchase. Holding you steady, he keeps his lidded gaze on your pussy. Entranced in the sight of your puffy lips lowering over his tip. Barely nudging it in, giving just a little tease of what’s to come. He shivers, muscles locking, shockwaves of glacial cold racing through his veins already.

“Ohhhhhhhh …wow…” He whines, teeth clamping his lip, “Please, ya gotta gimme more than that, baby.”

“Pietro, be patient.” You chastise him, fluttering your eyes closed.

Sighs and erotic moans of euphoria rise from the both of you in unison, just as his leaking tip dives through your cushiony walls. Peter shudders again, craning his neck back. Moaning a broken, strangled sound from deep in his chest. The tight, freezing sting of your cunt causes him to tense up. Peter digs his nails into the flesh of your ass, his lips parting for breath.

“Mmmmmfffuuck. You good? You okay?” You ask, little mewls bubbling in your throat.

Through frantic, wordless intakes of breath, Peter nods.

He’s never felt anything like this in all his thirty years of life. It’s a completely new sensation. The plushiest of pins and needles constricting tightly around his cock. Or the world’s softest pillow, pulled straight out of the freezer. Sex with you is the kind he could so easily become addicted to. If it was possible to stay connected this intimately forever, he’d do so in a heartbeat. No questions asked. Totally worth the searing pain of frostbite.

You take a few moments to adjust to the length and girth of him. It feels like centuries before you’re moving, but the wait is more than worth it. Your cunt weeps around his cock, swallowing him up completely in a frosty slickness. Peter chokes, his breath hitching. The pace you set is frustratingly slow, bouncing into his pelvis in steady slams of bush on silver bush.

“Fuck yeah. Just like that. More? C’mon gimme more, baby, please. Oh, please!” He whines, submissive and needy.

Sitting up a little straighter, you balance your cool hands on his chest. Peter’s skin is all raw and red, frostbitten from your previous teasing. It’s a little painful now, actually. Leaving a tingly burn. But the stinging pain registers as pleasure in Peter’s speedy brain.

Your pussy molds perfectly with the thick shape of him. Roughly shocking you with a surge of dull pain, Peter’s cock knocks straight into your squishy cervix. His expression contorts in overstimulation, his mouth falling open. He wets his lips with his tongue.

“That’s it. Fuckin’ ride me. Mmmmm yeah~” Peter moans, “Yer so fuckin’ cold. Shit-” His moans steadily trail off into whimpers.

“Should I stop? Is it too much?” You halt your movements for a second too long.

“Don’t you ever fuckin’ stop.” He groans, animalistic and ragged, “Ohhhh~ Please don’t stop.”

As you thrust your beautiful body into his lap, Peter follows your lead. Driving his hips against your ass with each bounce of contact. Overshadowing that sultry melody of Pink Floyd with the lewd smacking of skin on skin. Your cunt hugs his cock in a grip tight enough to induce more freezer burn. But it’s such an alluring feeling, he bites his lip almost hard enough to draw blood.

Peter’s brown-eyed gaze rakes down your body. Intoxicated with the way your titties bounce and your pussy sucks the ever-speeding soul out of him. He has to mentally-prep himself so he doesn’t cum too soon again. But the piercing cold compressing his dick sends thrilling pulses through his limbs. Erotic pleasure burns deep in his gut.

“Pietro!” You cry. Riding his dick and mewling soft kitten noises, you circle your little clit with your fingers, “Want me to cum on your cock, pretty boy? Wanna feel this tight, little pussy cum for you?” 

Ohhhhh. You can’t do that to him. Dirty, little minx. He’s never heard such filthy words like that come out of your mouth. And the way you sound, how you look touching yourself on his cock; It all triggers a carnal instinct in the recesses of his mind.

Peter lifts his hips in a display of super strength, abusing your cervix repeatedly with his cock. Pounding your pussy so fast and hard. With a force deep and rough enough to make you see stars. A filthy squelch of a sound echoes from inside you.

“Oh my god-” Peter’s face contorts in needy desperation, brows creasing, “Please? Wanna feel you cum, baby. Need you to cum on my dick so bad.”

Sitting up on his elbows with his mouth hanging lazily open, Peter brings his fingers to his drooling tongue. His eyes are half lidded and cloudy, almost rolling back into his skull. He reaches out, the wet pads of his fingers meeting your cute bud. He buzzes his digits in a scorching vibration, knowing how sensitive you are to his heat. Easily coaxing you towards release.

“HOH! FUCK-” Peter’s eyes flutter in shock, “ Ohmyfuckingod that’s really fuckin’ tight. ”

His body tenses hard as stone. Feeling you clench around him while he fucks you so deep he thinks he’s reached your stomach. Within a few, measly seconds of teasing vibrations on your clit; you’re cumming. Coating his cock in a wave of crisp slickness. You tremble uncontrollably, tilting your head back and crying like a siren of the arctic seas. Singing a mantra of the name Pietro.

Peter grips your hips hard with both hands, sinking his blunt nails into your skin. Animalistic instinct overflows his mind as soon as he’s reached his own peak. Ecstasy tumbles over Peter in an overwhelming crash, much like an avalanche. And just as he’s pumping you impossibly full of hot, thick ropes of cum; something happens.

His release burns inside you, pooling in a milky heat. A stark contrast to the freezing temperature constantly flowing through your body. Your nails scratch red lines into his chest, manifesting glass crystals of frost. They burn like hell, and Peter hisses. One, final slap of your ass against his lap, and –

A ripple of explosive, winter cold rushes from your body in a flash. The bombastic wave coats your entire room in powdery snow and sheets of ice. Turning the small space into a glorified freezer. It even hits the record player, slowing the final tune of Obscured by Clouds to a creeping stop. Piercing cold fires through Peter’s lungs, and he chokes on it.

…D…Did that really just happen??

Glancing around frantically, he pushes himself up on your bed.

A soft, tingling blanket of snow drapes his body. Peter sputters, quickly brushing as much of it off as he can. You’re still sitting over his lap, his softening dick tucked safely between your pussy’s plush walls. With every puff of warm air from his lungs, Peter can see his breath fanning like smoke through the air.

“Woooahhhhh, babe…” He nudges you on the shoulder to get your attention, his expression wide eyed and bewildered, “Are you seein’ this shit?”

Recovering from your numbing state of euphoria, you lazily scan your room. You gasp, though it sounds more like a really cute squeak; covering your mouth with a hand.

“Ah! What the hell did I do!? I’m sorry! Oh my god, Peter, I’m so sorry!” You say, dropping your face into Peter’s frost-bitten chest.

He hisses as you lean into his sensitive, scarred skin. And before you can spout off another flurry of sweet apologies – a noise catches the attention of you both. Outside, the two of you hear the unmistakable sound of children’s laughter. Joyful cries, followed by playful giggles and screams. You raise your head, meeting Peter’s doe eyes with a questioning look.

Narrowing his eyes, he pats your thigh. Signaling you to hop off his lap.

Clumsily, Peter zips around the room in a blur, searching for something to cover himself up with. But his clothes are all caked in snow. And not to mention a little something else. Peter has to resort to a blanket stuffed underneath all the others on your bed. Untouched by your surprise blizzard. He cloaks himself in the blanket, appearing at your door in a fwip.

Discreetly, he pulls the door open.

Or, at least, he makes an attempt. It’s completely frozen in place, sealed with ice around the lock and hinges.. Why is he even surprised at this point? Peter tugs the handle once or twice with barely any strength. And when that doesn’t work, he jerks it open with a harsh flex of his muscles. He pokes his fluffy, silverette head halfway out the door. Looking up and down the hallways.

Only to find…

Your orgasmic snowstorm reached places far beyond the confined space of your room. Looks like Christmas came early this year. The hallways of Xavier’s mansion are all drenched in frosty spreads of snow. It’s not nearly as much as what’s accumulated in your room. But it’s enough to stir up the students and teachers. Many of the kids run around excitedly. Bouncing, cheering, celebrating.

And who can blame them?

To those unseen forces of the universe out there: thanks for blessing us all with the power of Screwball's ecstasy.

Out of nowhere, the X-Men’s laser eyed leader makes his appearance. Scott comes skidding to a halt outside your door just at that moment. He balances himself with a hand to your door, a genial smile on his face. A fuzzy fust of red tickles the apples of his cheeks and the tip of his nose.

Across the hall, Logan leans casually against a wall. Puffing a cigar, wearing a thin undershirt that compliments his jacked form a little too well. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his fitted jeans.

For a moment, Scott doesn’t seem to register why Peter’s even in your room.

But in this life, one speedster can only be so lucky.

“Wh-...Peter? Hey-uh…where’s-” Scott mentions your name, and continues, “I wanted to give ‘em my thanks for doing this.” He gestures over his shoulder to the mess of snow covering the walls and floors, “Some of the kids were getting really sick from the weather. And I know Xavier's gonna be pissed, but-...” His voice slowly trails off.

Scott’s smile falls for a beat. But Peter finds it hard to read his emotions without seeing his eyes clearly. Those sunglasses must do him loads of favors on a daily basis. If he tries, he can gauge what’s going through Scott’s head based on the look of surprise that crosses his face. Followed by a sly, knowing grin.

Summers is an intelligent guy. It doesn’t take long for him to put two and two together.

Especially with the way Peter stands in your doorway. He’s draped in a blanket that clearly isn’t his, shoulders bare underneath. The surface of his skin burns cherry red in some places. His hair is a tousled, fuzzy mess, and his cheeks are flushed bright pink.

Peter awkwardly swallows, avoiding the vibrant gaze of Scott’s red-tinted sunglasses. He directs his attention over his shoulder instead, making accidental eye contact with Logan. Wolvie arches a thick, quizzical brow, his eyes glancing over Peter’s blanketed form.

He really hadn’t meant for anyone to find out about this. But it looks like the cat’s out of the bag.

“You kids better be using protection.” Scott jokes, patronizing.

Which is funny, coming from him. Peter’s got ten years on him at the least.

“Uhhhh, yeah. I’ll totally tell ‘em you said thanks. We cool? Bitchin’. Later, Summers.” Peter rushes through his words ultra fast, before slamming the door shut behind him.

That’ll be a rough one to explain later. But hopefully no one’ll be nosy enough to pry. Besides, Peter doesn’t wanna think about it right now. Since, y’know, he kinda just got laid for the first time. Which is really fucking awesome, now that he can stop and really digest that it happened. And with someone he’s been crushing on too.

Maybe he’s luckier than he thought.

Peter presses his back against your icy door, letting the thick blanket covering his body fall to the floor. Leaving him butt ass naked in your freezer of a room. He rakes his fingers through his hair, cheesing a goofy smile to himself.

“What’s goin’ on? Were you talkin’ to someone?” You ask, emerging from your bathroom and brushing snow off a towel.

“Oh- pfffttt …just Summers. Yeah. He-uh…wanted to tell you thanks. ‘Cuz you kinda went all blizzard on this whole place and now it’s, like-” Peter makes a wide gesture with his hands, mimicking the sound of an avalanche falling. Or, that’s what he tries to do, anyway. He’s never been the best at charades.

“HUH!? What are you-” You rush to your door. Those pretty titties of yours bounce with every step. And Peter ogles them shamelessly. Poking your head through the door, he overhears the sound of your gasp. Followed by the shyest little, “Heyyyyyy, Logan.”

Before you’re closing the door again, marching to your bathroom with your head cast down in shame. 

“Xavier’s gonna kill me, dude! I can’t believe this!” You whisper-shout.

Your bashfulness and frustration are so cute, Peter has to refrain from snickering. And as you reach the doorway, you stop yourself. He catches the motion of your eyes checking him out, before your gazes meet again. Peter smirks.

“Uhm…how was your first time, by the way?” You ask in a quiet, uncertain tone, “Was it…okay?”

Oh, you cannot even be serious right now.

Peter gives you a weird look. Staring at you like you’re some strange, newly discovered entity from a far off universe. Really, you must be, if you’re gonna question a good time like that.

“Okay? Okay?? ” Peter appears before you in less than a blink’s time.

He wraps his strong arm around your waist, pulling you close to his body. Grinning confidently, he darts down to kiss your frosty lips.

“Screwball, baby, that was a total rush. Are you crazy? It’s not every day I make somebody cum so hard they kickstart an early winter, y’know. Not bad fer my first time, if I do say so myself.” He waggles his brows.

I’m really glad I could help you out…” You mutter, smiling so sweet.

Your fingers trace the burns littering Peter’s chest with a feather-light touch. Even the faintest brush makes him wince in pain. But he’s not ashamed to admit it’s totally worth it. What’s a little freezer burn and frostbite between friends, huh?

Or, between…whatever the two of you are now.

“Oh, you did wayyyy more than help me out.” Peter winks, kissing you once more, “You rocked my world babe. Don’t sweat it, ‘kay? I had a great time.”

You saunter off to your bathroom then. And Peter reaches out to playfully smack your ass as you walk away. He admires your gorgeous figure in all its naked glory. His eyes following the jiggle of your booty cheeks.

“Yer still takin’ me on that date, right? Dinner and a movie?” He asks, startling you with his sudden appearance in the bathroom. Peter presses himself into your back, standing tall in comparison to your height.

“Can we hold off? Do you think you can wait until the city isn’t on fire?” You meet his dark eyes in the mirror over the sink, “And it can’t be Howard the Duck.”

“No. It’s most definitely gotta be Howard the Duck.” Peter brings his warm hands to your shoulders, thumbs gliding along your soft skin. He leans down to pepper your sex hair in kisses, “I won’t accept nothin’ else, got it?

“Mmmhm. Shouldn’t I be the judge of that, Peter? Since, like, you keep implying I’m the one paying.”

He scoffs, slowly gliding his large hands over the irresistible curves of your body. He gives a mischievous grin through the mirror, his look oozing speedster charm.

“Who said anything about paying?”

[bettyfrommars]

Handcuffs & Crab Rangoon

(also known as How I Met Your Mother)

playgirl!Eddie x Reader

By Request! From this ask, directly inspired by this delicious artwork by @sporelium (run don't walk if you haven't seen it yet) but also inspired by the 1995 Peter Steele Playgirl cover. Peter notoriously kept his joystick hard for most of the 6-7 hour shoot because he thought readers of the magazine would enjoy it more than if it were flaccid (I'm fine either way, but damn, thanks baby). wc: 4.3k

18+Only, mature content, smut, rockstar!Eddie, oral (f receiving), protected p in v, reader wears overalls, pet names, fingering, mention of Eddie's scars, accidental edging, sex on the job, sneaky sex, she/her is used once, no y/n, reader is a tough cookie, but Eddie is magic. It is the mid-90's.

Playgirl!eddie afterthoughts

---------

You’d been helping out a photographer for risqué magazine shoots as an assistant for almost 5 months now.  It was the fourth job you had just to keep yourself afloat while trying to live an independent life in LA. To make it in show business you had to be extremely talented, drop dead gorgeous, backed by generational wealth, or just plain lucky, and you were none of those.  So, you broke your back to make ends meet while taking night classes and working on the script you were writing with two other friends.

The studio loft on the second floor was an expansive space with windows overlooking the industrial district all along the wall.  Sasha, the photographer, stood adjusting her camera on the tripod, while the makeup artist touched up the rockstar you were working with that day, and Need You Tonight by INXS played low from the radio on a nearby shelf.  

You saw him from the back first; long, dark wavy hair hanging down over the white robe he wore to protect his modesty for the time being.  You noticed that his hands were strong and calloused as they hung at his sides.  June, the makeup artist, was on a step stool to blot his nose with powder and fix the crown of his hair.  

June saw you coming and introduced you, causing Eddie to turn on his heel, tightening the sash on his robe as he did.

You sucked in your bottom lip to hold back a whimper at the zing you felt when his warm hazelnut eyes met yours.  His full, soft lips parted in greeting, a long strand from his bangs bouncing on his eyelash, his gaze rolling over you from head to foot indulgently.

Of course, you’d heard of rock star Eddie Munson from Corroded Coffin. At one of your other jobs, a girl you worked with had his magazine cutouts taped to the inside of her locker.  Last year, he was Cher’s date to the Grammys.  He was getting ready to go on tour, and procuring tickets was all any of your friends could talk about.

But, goddamn, he was much better looking in person than any tabloid or tv show could've ever prepared you for, and the chemistry vibrating in the space between the two of you was palpable.  

“Eddie…Munson, you say?” You squinted, as if you were trying to place him, like the name sounded familiar but you didn’t know why while June fixed the back of his hair. “Football player, right?”

The tip of his tongue sipped out to wet his lips, curling one side of his mouth up in a half grin.  “I love a girl who knows her sports.”

There were a few loaded seconds there when the two of you just sank into a sexually charged stare-down, both unwilling to budge.  

Sasha called your name, snapping you out of it.  She came over to let Eddie know what your role was, and encouraged him to let you know if there was anything you could do to help him relax.  She finished explaining a few things to him while you brought over a glass of lemon water.  

Sasha walked away and he took a sip, keeping his eyes on you over the glass, smirking.

“What?” you mirrored the smirk.  “This will be such an easy job for me because I know you rockstars don’t have any problem taking your cocks out and being admired in public.”

“Oh, you know me, huh?” He challenged.

You worked your jaw, pussy clenching, wondering what he looked like out of his robe.  “You’re all the same, aren’t you? Arrogant, over-sexed, and too pretty for your own good.”

“Well, you got me on the pretty part,” he winked.  “But nah, I’m not a rockstar.  I’m just a small-town freak who got lucky and, this has all been fucking overwhelming to tell you the truth.”  Eddie was tall, with broad shoulders, and your mouth dried up a little at the tattoos on his forearms that peeked out from under the sleeve of the robe.

You took the glass from him when he was finished.  “We have the small town thing in common, at least,” you said with an incline of your head.

It was time to get started, but even as Sasha motioned him over, he paused next to you, so close that the ends of his hair grazed your shoulder.  “So, if I can’t get relaxed on my own, then that means you have to help me?”  He whispered it, but forcefully, so you could feel his warm breath on the side of your head.  You could smell the mix of spearmint and tobacco.

Keeping your eyes straight ahead, you swallowed hard as the woodsy spice of his scent hit your nostrils.  “I’ll do my best for you, Mr. Munson,” and then you dared to glance up, your breath hitching as he unfastened his robe and lowered it from his shoulders right in front of you, only a few feet away.  

You tried not to show emotion because you knew he was watching, but you closed your mouth to keep a yearning mew from escaping.  There were tattoos scattered around his defined muscles, but there were also fascinating scars like floral blooms along his neck, chest, and stomach. Your eyes ached to travel down to the V-shape that cut into his hips and the treasure below, but you refused to give him the satisfaction.  Not yet anyway.

You were just about to tell him he could keep the robe on until he was comfortable, but he threw the article of clothing over for you to catch.  “I’m ready as I’ll ever be.”

Half of the people Sasha photographed were too shy to take the robe off right away, and maybe Eddie would have hesitated in other circumstances, but you had a strange feeling he was doing this for you.  If Sasha wasn’t asking him to look at the camera, his eyes were always banking in your direction.  

“I think we should try the handcuffs,” Sasha said to the room, but mostly to you.  

You made your way over to where the props were, knowing that Eddie’s eyes were keeping pace, and playfully dangled the silver cuffs from your thumb and forefinger as you retrurned, wiggling your eyebrows; a gesture he was happy to return. 

“Front or behind?” You asked Sasha.

“Behind for now,” she answered.  “You okay with that Mr. Munson?”

“My god,” he chuckled, putting his hands behind his back for you to have easy access to the tender skin of his wrists.  “Call me anything but Mr. Munson.  Eddie is fine.”

You always tried to keep things very professional, but not only that—you’d been around so many naked bodies, they all started to look the same to you.  This was your job, and mostly it never even occurred to you to see the models in a lustful way..  You never let your eyes hover too long on the private parts of your clients; maybe just a glance and that was it.  But the job of fastening Eddie’s handcuffs had you taking in the firm structure of his ass like it was a visual last meal.  

You stroked your finger a few times in his palm.  “Is that too tight?” 

The combination of your touch and the way you whispered gave him chills in the best way possible and his fingers flexed, as if trying to reach out for you.  “I hope you have a key for these things,” he mumbled.

“I do,” you assured him.  “But I’m about to swallow it.”

“Hey,” he hushed over his shoulder before you could walk away.  “Should my dick be hard for this?”

You wanted to kiss his arm, you wanted to bite it.  Instead, you put your hands together and intertwined your fingers.  “Do you want it to be?”

Eddie lowered his chin, voice barely audible.  “Are you offering to help, sweetheart?

Sasha took a few more photos as he was, standing to the side, eyes flicking to where you stood behind Sasha’s shoulder.  When it was time for you to take the handcuffs off, Eddie stretched his hands, turning to face front. “No chick wants to look at a flaccid dick when they buy magazines like this,” he announced.  “Give me a second to…get ready? If you know what I mean?”

While Sasha and June went out for a smoke break, Eddie put his robe on, and headed for his private dressing room, but he paused in the door and turned to find you. His eyebrows popped up a few times,  motioned with his hand down low for you to follow him in.  You knew  you could lose your job for fornicating with Eddie during a photo shoot, but at that moment, you couldn’t have cared less.

Once you were in, Eddie closed the door and leaned back against it, his robe falling open.  He clutched a fist into the front of your overalls, pulling you closer.  Your fingertips feathered down the ridges of his scars, thumb caressing over his missing nipple, and he jutted his head forward to meet your mouth, but you were too fast, dropping to your knees to taste his cock, taking your job and his request a bit too seriously.  

“Hey wait,” he sank his hand around your throat, guiding you back up to full height.  “Kiss me first,” he brushed his lips across yours.  “And then you can kill me.”

While the tiny person in charge of your brain ran around inside your skull screaming, your  lips met his, tips of tongues introducing each other first, and then echoed moans, opening wide to take each other deeper.

“I know what will get me hard,” he told you in a breathy rush.  “Take these off,” he motioned to the overalls you were wearing.  “And sit on the counter.”

He walked forward so that you would back up, his hands supporting your waist.

You looked back at the counter top. “But we don’t have much time to—” 

“I don’t need much time,” he said, swatting a stool out of his way so it crashed to the ground.  “I want you in my mouth.”

You shivered and obeyed, unhooking your overalls, letting them fall to the floor.  You were in nothing but a tank top now, ass on the cool edge of the Formica, and he pulled your underwear down your legs, salivating and biting his lip as he did so. 

 “Fuuuuck, you are so wet,” He pushed your knees wider with his strong arms and sank his tongue into your glistening folds, flicking the nub a few times.  “Did you get this wet just for me? Hmmm?”

“Yes Eddie,” you whimpered, bracing yourself on the beige counter next to the vanity, watching him drag his chin all the way up your slit, and then pull and twist his tongue down, darting it into your hole.  His eyes met yours again, his mouth latching onto your sweet spot and sucking there.  You wrapped your legs over his shoulders and sunk your heels into his back.

His fingers dug into the meat at your hips, his mouth diving deeper, sucking in while his tongue flicked. He reached a hand down between his legs and started stroking himself, getting more and more turned at the way you were gasping and twitching.

You grabbed the top of his head.  “Fuckkk Eddie fuck just like that.”

His eyes were closed now while he devoured you, but the look on his face spoke of how seriously he took the task, rolling his tongue and working you in a way that made your eyelids flutter and a choke catch in your throat.

But then there came a knock at the door.  

It was Sasha, and thank god she didn’t try the doorknob because you hadn’t locked it in your frenzy to get on Eddie’s joystick.  . 

“Coming!” You shouted nervously, dropping to your feet, stepping into your underwear and then your overalls.  

Eddie sucked in his bottom lip, licking what was left of you from his mouth.  He caught your elbow as you were fastening the second clip.  “Can we finish this later?”

The way he asked it was almost shy, as if his face hadn’t just been between your thighs.  Meanwhile, your engorged pussy was soaking your underwear, begging to be finished.  You saw that his chin was still wet from your arousal and whisked some of it away with your thumb.

He bent to let his lips graze at your ear as he closed his robe. “I like the way you taste.”

Back out on the floor, you let Sasha know that Eddie was talking your ear off about something, but that he would be out any second.  Sasha and June exchanged a look, mostly in regards to the way the straps of your overalls were all twisted and buttoned wrong, but neither one of them addressed it.

When Eddie came out and took his robe off again, he was hard, rolling his big hand around the head a few more times as he got on the prop bed that was there for the next set.  There was a model named Cindy in lingerie there to be in the shots with him, and you felt a jealousy rise in you that didn’t make any sense.  It rose so hot in your gut while their mouths hovered inches apart, pretending they were about to kiss, that you had to look away.  Every so often, he’d glance over at you while he had his cock in his hand, determined to keep the beast hard, and you wondered if he was thinking about having his tongue inside of you.

Because, you were definitely thinking about it.  You took a little private time around the corner just to touch yourself through your denim, working your fingers at your core, wondering if you should just finish yourself off and be done with it just as Sasha finally called for another smoke break.

You tried not to be too obvious, casually strolling back to Eddie’s dressing room, making sure the model Cindy was comfortable and fetching her the sparkling water she asked for while Love Bites by Judas Priest played on the radio.

Eddie was already in there waiting, yanking you inside by the wrist so he could lock the door, planting hot, hungry kisses down along your neck. 

You dropped your overalls like they were on fire, caressing his hard length in a way that made him moan. “I need you so fucking bad,” you breathed, pulling your tank top up and over your head so that you could be flush with his skin, to feel the ridges of his scars.  “That last set was almost two hours,” you were still talking as he backed you further into the room.  “How is your cock still hard?”

His fingers slipped down through your folds and he hissed at the way you were dripping.  “Just the thought of this, sweetheart.”

There was a floral couch against the wall and when your calves met with it, you plopped down into the cushion and Eddie followed, knees to the wood floor, wrapping his arm around your thighs to take your sweet bud into his mouth again, teasing it with his nose first.

“Fuck fuck Eddie, I’m already so close,” you took a fistful of his beautiful hair, careful not to mess it up too bad and bucked against his mouth.  “You’re so good, I love it when your tongue fucks me.”

Your hole was clenching around nothing, needing more, and that was when two of his fingers slid in, the ones with the chunky metal rings, they stretched you out suddenly, making you curse with pleasure.  Eddie zig-zagged his tongue rapid fire over  your clit, groaning at the way your hole gripped his fingers.  His cock was leaking pre-cum and he thrust his hips into the couch as he felt your walls begin to ripple.

“Fuck Eddie, you’re gonna make me cum…so hard….” the orgasm seemed to snap your body in two, pulsing a waves of pleasure up your spine, making your mouth freeze open on a sharp inhale.  And then you were babbling, “cummincumming so hard, Eddie!”

“Turn over,” he demanded in a deep voice once you were able to catch your breath.  “I need to clean you up.”.

And so you got on your knees facing the wall and held onto the back of the couch, trembling at the way he spread your cheeks and lapped you up all along your drenched slit.

“We’re ready if you are!” Sasha called from out in the studio making you spin around.

“Oh shit,” you breathed, looking down at how swollen and ready his cock was.  “I can’t leave you like this.”

“I can wait, sweetheart,” he mumbled, standing to pull his robe back on and offer you his hand, tossing his hair back over his shoulder.

By the time the photo shoot was over, Eddie would’ve been edging his release for over 4 hours, and he didn’t seem phased at all about it.

It was time for the handcuffs again.  Eddie wanted a cigarette, and Sasha encouraged him to have it in a seat by the window and she’d get a few shots of him there.  He held his wrists close together in front of him while you secured the cool metal, his chocolate orbs fixed on your face.  He liked how your fingers quivered as you cuffed him, and his erection had finally softened enough to not be obnoxious, but it was still making your mouth dry up with desire.

He wanted to light the cigarette himself, so you passed him the lighter.  He spread his legs, hitching one heel up on the leg of the chair, exposing the patch of hair at the base of his cock and around his balls 

“That’s perfect,” Sasha told him, finger tapping on the shutter button, producing a blast of fast clicks..  

You glanced up at the clock, knowing your time with Eddie would be over soon.  Cindy the model could’ve gone home, but she’d decided to stay and wait to watch the rest of Eddie’s shoot, her eyes sparkling with lust.  Maybe she would be the one to get Eddie off and not you.  She was physically more what you assumed his “type” would be since, in your mind, all rock stars were the same.

You didn’t have to wonder for long which woman he’d rather fuck, because he was eyeballing you from across the room as he put his robe on and said a few last words to Sasha.  The dressing room door was hidden around the corner and down the hall, but you decided not to follow him straight in like you had the last two times; your carnal needs were making you sloppy.  This time, you went out into the stairwell to the back entrance and knocked, hoping he would get the hint because it only opened from the inside.  Eddie pushed it open with a hard metal clank, and then your hands were in his hair, and wordlessly the two of you fell into each other.  He was doing the work of unfastening your overalls while you were coherent enough to ask about condoms and he presented a string of them out of the pocket of his robe.

“You came prepared,” you stumbled over your clothes, yanking your shirt off as you went.

“Nah,” Eddie cocked his head.  “I had my gofer bring me these.  The guy is quick.” 

“How do you want me?” You kissed down his chest, flicking his one salty nipple with your tongue, making him groan.

He ripped one of the condoms off the pack and tore it open with his teeth, and then spat the paper edge out.  “I need to be able to see your face,” he crashed his nose against yours diving in for another kiss.

“Sit,” you told him, urging him back into the wooden chair in the corner of the room.  It was right next to a full length mirror so he could watch you fuck him from the side if he wanted to. There were no arms on the chair, and he complied, licking his lips, eager for whatever you had in mind while he rolled the condom on.

You kicked  your leg over him like you were mounting your motorcycle and sat your hungry, soaking hole down on the tip of his cock.  Eddie took hold of your hips and guided you down, releasing one long moan as you went.  You whined, coming down flush with his lap, his cock stretching you out in a way no one ever had before, settling yourself first before you began to move.  You pushed up from the balls of your feet, riding him, and Eddie clamped a hand onto each of your ass cheeks, creating a rhythm, using his strong arms to help lift and lower you.

Your foreheads came together as you moved, hard nipples grazing his chest. You watched him grit his teeth and gasp.  “Damn, you’re so tight.  I’m close, I’m so fucking…close,” he bit out.  

Your clit rubbed against his patch of hair as you worked, and it wasn’t long before you began to hiccup with the contraction of your own release.  Never in your life had you cum this soon and this close together.  “You’re gonna make me cum again, oh my god.”

“Yeah?” He pulled his head back.  “Look at me.”

You met his eyes as you bounced, his hips snapping up to meet you every time you bottomed out.

“Yes,” you said breathlessly, finding the yearning in his stare too much to handle.  “Like, right now, right…fuck, Eddie I’m cumming!” Your head dropped to his shoulder while the tremors rolled through you, walls squeezing his cock, making his toes curl and his hips jerk erratically, the chair legs squeaking from his weight.

He held you flush to him, his release hot and plentiful; so much so, he might’ve worried about the integrity of the condom if he hadn’t been so pussy drunk on the way your hole was still clenching him like a fist.  You locked your chest to his and he caged you with his arms, locking you there.

Your knees threatened to turn to butter and betray you as you dismounted the ride of your life, both of you finding the footing to scramble around and retrieve your clothes. Eddie could stay in the dressing room as long as he wanted, but you? You were only a shell of the employee you normally were that day and you feared that Sasha was probably coming to look for you at that moment, ready to tell you to take a hike.

Eddie pulled his shirt down over his head, adjusting it over his jeans and flipped his hair from out of the collar. You snapped the first buckle on your overalls and gave him a tilt of your head. “Hey stranger, I almost didn’t recognize you with clothes on,” and then you fixed yourself in the mirror quickly before planting one more kiss on him on your way to bolt for the door.

“Hey, wait,” he called out, making you turn around. “Is that it? This is goodbye?”

Eddie Munson was a beautiful rockstar. Eddie Munson was in music videos on MTV. Eddie Munson could have any woman he wanted in the world, single or taken, and so no---you hadn’t expected more to come from this. You thought maybe he had a new fuck for every day of the week and you just happened to fall into his lap at the right time when he was bored and had some time to kill.

“Did you need anything else?” You asked it in your professional assistant voice, your work voice, and put your hands in your pockets to patiently wait.

He sat down on the couch to put his Converse on, absorbed in his task as he spoke to you. “My hotel is just up the street. Are you busy tonight? We could have dinner. Anything you want, my guys will get it for us.”

“I’m busy tonight,” you lied.

“What about tomorrow?” He pushed, tying the next shoe. “I wanna hear more about this small town you grew up in. I’ve really been missing home lately.”

You softened. “I refuse to believe you are anything but a spoiled city boy.”

He stood to his full height, stretching his chest, and hooked his thumbs into his belt loops, giving you a shrug and a familiar smirk. “Just think about all the ways I could prove you wrong if you came to hang out with me tonight. I might even surprise you.”

You got all awkward for a bit, fighting with yourself over why you weren’t on your knees begging for this man. Regardless of your silence, he found an old receipt for a tin of mini mart pretzels in his pocket and wrote his room number and hotel on it.

Passing it to you pinched between his two fingers, he added without meeting your gaze, “I’d really like to see you again.”

But then Sasha was calling for you, needing help with equipment, and you were scurrying out of the room with your heart in your throat.

You paused with your hand on the doorknob. “Crab Rangoon?”

Eddie scoffed. “What did you call me?” He was jutting his arms up into the sleeves of his leather jacket when you favored him a glance over you shoulder.

You swiveled to face him and made a circular gesture with your hand as if the implication was universally understood. “If there happens to be some crab Rangoon at your hotel tonight, I will stop by.”

Eddie’s face was blank, totally unreadable for a few seconds, and then a smile teased at the corners of his mouth, crept across his face, and jumped to his eyes. He gave a nod, “crab Rangoon it is then.”

---------

[liz-allyn]

sugar and vice, pt 1 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]

summary: I have a meet-cute in a coffee shop. but for mob!peter.

words: 5.5k

warnings: Shameless TASM mob!daddy Peter fantasies, including, but not limited to, kidnapping, knives, bang bang shoot shoot, pining, eventual smut

Part 1

“Just a coffee, black. Biggest ya got.”

Wearily, yet still wired, Peter tapped his fingers on the stainless steel counter. It was late. Or early. Streetlamps still blazed in unholy darkness outside. It had been a long night. But he had felt like he’d been up for years. 

Across from him, a young woman wearing overalls and a daisy-yellow bandana gave him a heavy nod. “Sure,” she replied, gravely. “I have to warn you, though. We over-roast our beans. It’s bitter as hell.”

He blinked at her, not expecting such honesty. She had a trusting face. Pretty eyes. 

“Ya wanna sweeten it up for me?”

He could hear the lame pickup line of a younger version of himself. One that wore a confident smirk, walked with bravado. One that hadn’t lost what he had lost. The older Peter of today brushed that voice away. “I like bitter.”

He glanced up at her eyes and saw sympathy. “Oof, tragic,” she frowned, shaking her head teasingly, her coyness peeking through. She retrieved a paper cup and filled the dark liquid to the brim. 

The personalness of it threw him off. Peter had wandered in like a zombie. He only briefly heard her ask for his order and his name, both of which he gave, and he expected nothing in return but the coffee. He watched her carefully, shifting uncomfortably. He was the only customer in the shop at this hour, but he didn’t expect to be seen. 

“Here you go,” she declared, handing the cup over. “One large black graveyard dirt, extra tears.”

It wasn’t so much the joke, rather the way she beamed when she said it. It was like sunlight peeking through the curtains just right, casting a familiar space in an ethereal glow. 

She glowed.

Seeing it awakened his senses. He felt the way flowers must feel, desperately reaching their petals out toward the sun after they’d been neglected through a long, dark winter. 

Before he knew it, he was smiling back. Teeth bared, eyes crinkled, grinning like a fool. He thought his muscles couldn’t remember what smiling felt like. It ached.

She reached out, extending the cup towards him. But it was so much more than that.

His gaze darted from her sparkling eyes, to the curve of her mouth, back to the apples of her cheeks—

“Thanks for stopping by, Ben!”

The illusion vanished, as did his smile. He pulled away, staring at the stainless steel countertop for a moment. He thanked her and took the cup from her hand, dropping a couple of bucks in the jar. He didn’t spare her another glance as he turned on his heel. 

For a moment there, he felt free. He’d forgotten what he was underneath the leather gloves, thick cashmere coat, the bitter coffee, and the fake name.

His hand found the door, the winter chill penetrating his glove. Just as he began to push it open, he heard a shout.

“Wait!” 

He did, glancing back at her, against his better judgment.

“I forgot to tell you,” she said, almost shrinking into herself with a sheepish expression. She blushed at the eagerness and volume of her own voice. “To have a great day.”

He blinked, brow creased.

“It’s, uh, sorry— it’s stupid,” she rolled her eyes, slapping her palm across her forehead. “But I’m… I’m supposed to say ‘have a great day’ and I always forget, maybe ‘cos I’m a little ADHD, and my boss always reminds me that I need to say it every time, but that’s awkward, right? Like it needs to come up in conversation, I can’t just blurt it. I mean, I can. Like, I just did. But that was weird, right? It was weird. And sometimes, I’m thinking about the next 3 things I have to do, or the thing I just did and I get… I don’t know, a little lost in the moment, and then it passes, and then I felt like I missed out, y’know?”

He stared. “No?”

“On saying what I want really to say,” she said with a voice full of warmth—gentle and genuine in tone. Her babbling ceased as she emphatically declared. “I really hope you have a great day. You deserve it.”

There it was again. That smile. Sincerity and kindness sliced through him like a razor. He was a child again, getting a kiss on the cheek from his mother. Her cheerful gaze lit him up inside, like setting off a roman candle beneath his ribs. It wrapped him in a firm embrace, filling him, shielding him, and grounding him all at once.

This time, he couldn't look away. Didn't want to. He waited until he could hear the flutter in her heart. He was smiling again.

“Thank you. I think I will.”

And as if she’d cast some sort of spell, he did. The way she enchanted him, he was certain if they lived 400 years ago they might accuse her of witchcraft. He always had a good day when he saw her. No matter how painful, or dirty, or bloody. She became his good luck charm. His ability to ‘have a good day’ became entirely dependent on seeing her.

He shouldn’t go back there. He should try the Starbucks down the street. But he couldn’t help it.

She’d pour him basic drip coffee, announcing aloud to the whole shop as she handed it to him. “Here you go! Extra large, extra-hot dark roast, with extra-darkness and a splash of angst.” There was affection in her gaze despite the sarcasm of her voice.

“One extra large coffee, black as the devil’s soul.” She’d whisper to him privately, gifting him with a good-luck smile, even when the coffee shop was full of people during the morning rush. In those moments, she made him feel like they were the last two people on the planet. And it always made something in his belly flutter.

“I have an extra-black ‘Fault in Our Stars,’ with a shot of ‘The Road’ for my friend in the suit!” 

Her friend. He couldn’t help but blush. How could he come to this place every day, stand in line, and feel like he was coming home? She was magic.

The coffee really was awful.

“Let me know if you ever want me to sweeten that up for you,” she graciously suggested, as the cup left her fingers. The brush of her fingertips against his felt like wildfire. Her comment was innocent, but his mind wasn’t. “I think I can make it taste better—I have some window cleaner left.”

He was smiling again. It blossoms into something reciprocal. That should be enough. He shouldn’t be greedy. He should walk away now. He should run. 

“What would you suggest?” he asked coyly. It was the first time he had ever done so.

A million saccharine-infused terms of endearment flowed through his mind—sweetness, sugar, gumdrop, sweetheart, sweetie, cookie, peach, muffin, angelcake—most of them were trash. (Really, Parker? What is this, high school? Whaddya doin’? You ever talk to a woman before? Why do you sound like somebody’s grandpa? Such a creepy —

Some of them weren’t appropriate between friends. None of them appropriate coming from a stranger.

That’s what he was, deep down. God, this precious girl—she was so trusting. Was she friendly like this with everyone? No, he had noticed as time went on. She’s warm and kind to everyone she meets. But not like this. Not the way she is for him.

“Ooh, getting adventurous, are we?” she teased him, stars in her eyes. 

For him. All he could do was stare back in awe at the Milky Way in her gaze. He would follow them and venture on any journey where they may lead.

“How do you feel about lavender and honey?”

Flowers and sugar for Brits and fancy people. He quirked his brow at the concept. “In coffee?”

Her eyes twinkled with excitement, as she spun around and began her concoction. 

For him.

He needed to leave. But he followed the length of her arms, the delicacy of her fingers, the way her hips moved as she danced around her workstation. He was hypnotized again. 

He imagined dancing with her. Letting her body flow and wrap around his like curtains billowing in the breeze. He barely registered that she was holding a new cup out toward him. While he was daydreaming, she had written his name on the cup and drew a little heart next to it.

He stared at it. It’s not exactly his name. But it’s the one he’d given her. And in return, she had given him so much.

He took the cup from her hand and couldn’t help but feel like he was undeserving of her kindness. Or her attention. Or her heart.

“Don’t make that face,” she softly admonished as if she could read his mind, or she might have read his sad look as disproval of her efforts. “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”

She gave him a smile. She gave and gave and gave. Gave him a reason to keep living. She didn’t even know.

He took a sip. It warmed his tongue, his throat, his heart. It ached.

“S’good,” he hummed, honestly surprised. He was telling her the truth. He reached for his wallet with his free hand, retrieving a wad of bills. He always paid in cash.

She waved him off, mock offense on her face. “No, silly. That’s not how gifts work!” Her laugh sounded like church bells. 

She was a gift. For him. His flower. His Honey.

“This one’s on the house,” she assured him, as he hesitantly lowered his wallet. She whispered low, in a tone that burned him up inside. “It’ll be our secret.” His mind felt like it was rebooting. She said it innocently, but he was anything but. She scoffed with a flippant laugh, “Just don’t tell my boss, okay?”

Her boss. He knew about her boss. Tod. With one ‘D’. 

Some mornings, particularly Monday through Thursday, he’d see the pencil-like man stiffly pacing the back of the bar while she and another young girl kept up with demand. Hawkish eyes, always watching. Always judging. Rarely picking up a milk jug himself.

He dominated the register. Peter hated handing him cash. His face reminded him of a cheese grater if it could look unhappy. “Are you sure you don’t want a pastry?” he offered the ‘add-on’ with what was supposed to be a smile. 

Peter’s eyes shot over to his Honey as she was artfully pouring foam, adding her magic to someone else’s cup. She refused to look at Peter and he hated it. It reminded him of a defense tactic. Don’t look at the thing you don’t want to be taken away. As if he was a prized possession that she wanted to hide away from Tod, who might accuse her of having ‘favorites.’

It stirred wild emotions to be thought of that way, especially by her. 

How dare her boss accuse her of any wrongdoing. How dare he threaten her.

“I’m fine,” said Peter, with a chill he hoped Tod could feel. 

He needed to leave. 

He needed to take his Honey and his Lavender Latte and just go. 

He shook his head. His brain was lagging again. He turned away from the straight-backed scarecrow before a robotic ‘thank you for being a customer’ could be responded to. 

Peter waited. Eyes on the floor. Eyes on the exit. Eyes on the windows. Eyes on her, but only briefly. He waited and daydreamed bitterly, waiting for her to call out a name that wasn’t his. 

“Honey Lavender Latte,” his enchantress called out. Hearing her voice caught him from his downward spiral. He made eye contact with her as he took the cup from her hands. Warmth radiated from her eyes, although muted. It was enough to soothe and comfort him. 

She blushed, sheepishly, unable to contain the smile in her voice. “Have a lavender-ly day.”

His mood lifted. Such a silly girl. Witchcraft, indeed. “Thanks, Honey,” he replied, without thinking.

Her big eyes widened for a moment, and her heart quickened. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked away, unsuccessfully hiding her teeth.

Peter would call her that a million times in a row if it would elicit that reaction.

“Have a great day,” Tod interrupted, murdering the moment.

Poor girl. She cowered slightly, like a dog hearing the word ‘no.’ She took a breath and put on a smile, turning back towards her work. 

Tough girl. She didn’t need Peter to defend her. 

He glanced over at Tod with a deadpan expression, and walked out of the shop before he did or said anything else stupid.

The world was full of Tods. It was also full of monsters. Sometimes Peter was one of them. No Tod was truly worth his attention.

Except for that one time. 

A Tuesday morning in the middle of the holiday shopping season. Peter stood in line patiently, arms crossed, gritting his teeth. He glowered behind the bar at Tod, standing too close to his Honey. She gazed up at her boss helplessly, watching him turn red in the face, as the flagpole of a man waved his arms wildly. Clearly agitated, he kept his volume low but his body language screamed at her. 

“What I need your help with is this,” Tod hissed as he towered over her. “I need you to tell me what is the best method for getting information into your head. How can I communicate with you in a way that you’ll understand?” His voice was soft although he flailed like a wavy-arm inflatable man in a car lot. 

“Tell me honestly,” he sneered, dressing her down in front of a line of customers. At this point, Peter didn’t need any superpowers to be able to hear the conversation. She visibly fought the urge to cry. “Do I need to write it down? Do I need to scream at you? Do I need to throw something? Do I need to take you aside and have an hour-long conversation?” She kept her eyes on the ground as he kept pelting her with icicles. “Tell me your preference here. What is it that you’ll respond to?”

The scene came to an abrupt end when the glass of the shop window shattered. The sound silenced him finally. The front door swayed limply, having been yanked off its hinges and slammed into its frame. His Honey glanced around the shop with concern. 

Peter was no longer there.

He didn’t come back that day. 

Neither did Tod.

Some sort of accident, his Honey told him the following week, although he already knew the details. She explained to him why the shop had a new manager, a well-composed woman named Leyla. By the airiness of her mood, he could tell she greatly preferred Leyla’s managerial style.

She was happy, and that made him happy. 

And that should be enough. 

He should leave. He should run. Get as far away from her as possible.

But he was intoxicated by her. Drunk on her sweetness and her Honey Lavender Lattes.

He looked at her like she was the queen of the hive. He’d let her take that crown, any anything else she could ever want, if he had the chance. He’d worship her. He already looked at her like she was a goddess. The devotion in his honey-tinted eyes was clear to anyone who bothered to look.

“Peter Parker!”

Hearing his real name while he stood grinning like a fool in front of his Honey one afternoon made him flinch, sending a shiver up his spine. He turned around, yanked from his reverie, watching three men stroll into the shop. 

He positioned his body in front of her, obscuring her from their view. His hands were tight balls at his sides.

Peter was familiar with two of the faces, but razor-sharp focused on the mountain in a suit they called Filch. He’d seen that greasy face more times than he’d want to admit, shrouded in darkness and cigar smoke. Seated at the hand of Wilson Fisk.

His jaw locked in place.

Filch looked overjoyed to see him. Like they were old friends. Like Peter didn’t know that Wilson Fisk was plotting to move against him. 

“I thought that was you!” he brightly exclaimed. He strolled through the shop, like a cheetah stalking prey. Removing a hat and revealing what little hair he had left underneath. “Long way from Queens. Fancy finding ya all the way out here, eh?”

Peter knew better. The only surprise in this situation was intended for Peter. He’d been followed here. Watched.

His spine went rigid, shoulders into stone. 

Don’t look at the thing you don’t want to be taken away.

He could hear her heart flutter faster behind him. As if she could sense the way he bristled when they arrived. Trouble in her kingdom. A disturbance to the delicate sanctuary she had built, like all of her totems and protection spells were wearing out.

Peter kept his back to her. He kept his eyes trained on the three men, who spread out in a familiar pattern. They were scoping the place. Checking for cameras, other patrons, and all possible exits. 

Don’t look at the thing you want—

“Hey, Sugar, it’s cold outside,” Filch called out, with all the grace of flagging down a hooker. “Whaddya got to warm us up?”

Peter stared straight ahead. Glaring. Fuming.

“Might I suggest the coffee?” his Honey answered. “Just made a fresh pot of the dark roast. It’s good.”

He might have cracked a smile if he wasn’t busy envisioning a scenario where he’d have to kill the three men in the room with just the tools available in a coffee shop.

“Pour me a cuppa that,” Filch replied, his eyes never leaving Peter’s.

Peter only slightly relaxed when he felt her presence back away behind the bar. She grabbed a paper cup and filled it with steaming-hot tar. She set the cup down on the counter and backed away, minding her workstation. “That’ll be $2.50.”

Good girl, Peter thought. He saw Filch go for his breast pocket. 

“I gotcha,” Peter cut in before Filch could move closer. He grabbed the cup and handed it over to his rival’s lapdog. “‘S’on me.”

Filch eyed Peter cautiously, reaching out where both hands could be visible. He took the cup with exaggerated gratitude. “No, I couldn’t possibly—”

“I said I gotcha,” Peter firmly cut him off, the cords in his neck going tight. Peter retrieved a few bills from his coat pocket, never breaking eye contact with his opponents. “We good here?” 

Too many seconds passed with no response. He could feel the twitch of his pulse in his throat. Filch’s eyes drifted back behind the counter. He was too close to her. He studied her in a way that was far too intimate. It made Peter’s skin crawl.

“We’re good,” Filch replied. A smile curved his lips. He held the cup up, toasting him. “Have a great day.” 

Peter swallowed hard as the three men sauntered out. He watched them go, his stomach sinking, bile rising. 

They’d been watching him alright. Who knows how long. He’d been a patron of this shop and he would order from this girl and stare at her with doe-eyes and hearts swirling around his head, out in the open where anyone could see. And they did see. He showed his hand and now the game was over.

“Who’s Peter?” he heard her voice softly ask. 

The illusion was shattered. He turned his head, but couldn’t bear to look at her. He felt sick. Empty. Furious. Petrified.

The monsters were gone now. But they’d be back.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could say, as he walked out of the door.

They’d be back. He’d be there first.

She watched her favorite customer disappear into the night, her eyes wide with longing as she followed him. He disappeared in a few blinks of her eyes.

Something unsettling crawled beneath her skin. Maybe it was longing, but she was familiar with longing. This was new.

Her hands were shaking and she wasn’t sure how that happened either. One minute she was staring into his dreamy, honey-hued eyes, then the next he was running in the other direction. Not unlike their first meeting, a scene which she replayed over and over again in her head, trying to figure out what made him go so rigid.

Who’s Peter?

Peter Parker.

Peter Parker.

She repeated his name in her mind, reciting it like a mantra. She wasn’t great with names, but he told her his name was Ben on that first morning so many months ago, and she made a point to remember his name, and to say his name, because people liked it when you said their name, it made them feel closer to you and she wanted more than anything to be close to him.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Her wheels were spinning again. She used her thumb to push down hard on the center of her opposite palm. The dull pain grounded her back to reality. 

When she opened her eyes, she half expected him to be there. He always seemed to show up when she least expected it. He was a bright spot in her day, despite his gloomy demeanor. He could be dark as a raincloud, but she loved dancing in the rain. 

Or as her co-worker Nasrin teased her one day, he was her “tall, dark, hot cup of coffee.” She hid her face in her hands as Nasrin got to the “sucking him down with a straw” part of the analogy. She was incredibly grateful that he had been standing by the door, and there’s no way he could’ve heard that.

Now she had a first name and a last name and a... another name? And a place — you’re a long way away from Queens. A quick Google search of the names in question pulled up too many generic results. There was a dated article about a Ben Parker who was killed in an armed robbery, but her tall, dark friend couldn’t have had anything to do with that.

It twisted her stomach when she considered the fact that she really didn’t know him. She didn’t know who those guys were, and by the looks of things, she didn’t want to know. She should just drop it.

She did the best she could to keep busy, but there weren’t any more customers after that. She sent a quick text to her new manager that she wasn’t feeling well, and closed the shop early. She took the subway home. 

Once she got on the train, she didn’t make it back to the platform. It was late, but the subway car was still unusually empty, save for a couple of randos sitting at the opposite end of her car. Any other night, the near-solitude would’ve been a blessing. Tonight, something felt off.

Twenty minutes into her ride, just as the train was about to cross the river, it jerkily slowed to a stop. Her cessation of movement stirred her. Her head popped up from the glow of her phone screen curiously. She worried her lower lip as she glanced at the doors and windows, as if she could somehow see whatever it was that was stopping the train. 

She jolted as she felt a hand clamp down on her upper arm. Startled, she looked up at the two other occupants of the train car, now standing inches behind her. Two men that had been seated quietly, also seemingly distracted by their phones. 

“Come on, sweetie pie,” one of them said, towering over her. “It’s time to go.” She didn’t recognize either of them, but her instincts reminded her of the altercation in the coffee shop. These two had the same ‘goonlike’ look.

She tried wrenching her arm away, but the stranger held tight. “Get off,” she hissed. His partner on the left took her other arm, albeit more gently.

“Hey, take it easy,” the other man admonished. “No need to be rude.”

“Yeah, we’re friends,” the first man added, with a greasy smile. Her eyes darted around frantically. Panic set in as she realized she was alone in the subway car. The doors slid open, but there was no platform. Instead, the doors opened to building rooftops. The train had stopped on an elevated track above the street.

“Let’s go,” the gruffer man beckoned, grabbing her arm more tightly. He dragged her through the doorway, on a dark walkway next to the tracks. As soon as he lifted her, she erupted into a fit of screams. She kicked her legs, shrieking for help, but no reply came. She didn’t know if no one could hear her, or if people knew better not to respond.

“Keep it down,” one of the goons ordered coldly, dragging her along. She desperately resisted, letting her legs drop out beneath her. 

She heard a hiss and pop as the subway train sprang back to life behind them. She watched helplessly as it pulled away. 

“A wild one, aren’cha?” the red-haired roughneck tutted, yanking her back up to her feet. “Be a good girl or I’ll throw ya over my shoulder.”

She tried jerking away again, but halted as she faced the edge of the walkway. The dizzying height stunned her into submission. Her knees began to lock up, trembling with fear. 

“Take it easy, Katz,” the man’s partner chided him, albeit insincerely. The two of them practically carried her down the walkway. “You’re scarin’ her.” 

They arrived at an old set of metal stairs leading to the street below. The sharp, steep grade of the steps made her vertigo even worse. 

“No, help! Somebody help!” she hollered, wrapping her fingers in a death grip around the banisters and anything else she could reach. 

“Keep your mouth shut!” the red-head called Katz snapped at her. He reached around and tried to put his beefy hand on her mouth, but she bit down on his flesh the second his fingers reached her lips.

“Ow!” he roared. “Bitch!”

She saw him rear back his fist. Then she saw nothing.

When she came to, her whole body ached. Every muscle throbbing, like she’d been twisted into a pretzel. Her eyelashes fluttered open. Flickering flourescents stung her eyes. Bleary, she gazed around in a dreamlike state until her senses slowly started to awaken. 

She tasted glue. And blood. Took heavy humid breaths through her nose. She was on her side, on a concrete floor in a garage she didn’t recognize. The smell of motor oil and cleaning solution stabbed her nostrils. She gazed up at the shadowy, filthy undercarriage of a Rolls Royce lifted high up above her. Loud bangs jarred her out of slumber further. She faintly wondered who would be jackhammering—

Loud pops. Gunfire.

Her body went rigid, then sprung to life in terror. Attempting to open her mouth to scream, she realized that it was taped shut. Even slight movements of her jaw stung her flesh. She tried to sit up. Her arms tingled, like her limbs had fallen asleep. When she tried to move them she felt a sharp sting on her wrists. 

Alarm started to take hold. She couldn’t move her arms or legs. She glanced down and passed her dirty, blood-stained shirt to the duct tape wrapping her ankles. It might as well have been iron. Her wrists were also firmly bound behind her. Trying to pull them on them felt like ripping off her own skin. She whimpered excruciatingly.

The sounds were getting closer. She glanced around, eyes begging for help. Searching frantically for any reprieve amidst the scattered car parts and junk. 

The gunfire was getting closer.

She scooted, inching her way across the floor until she reached a work table. She was lining her spine up against the table leg when the garage door rattled open. She was out of time. A spill of light from outside lamps flooded in, blinding her. She could only vaguely recognized her own shrieks behind the wall of duct tape.

A group of people stood at the garage doors with their backs to the light. She watched their imposing silhouettes with horror.

A tall, male form approached her, his long black coat trailing behind him. Tears that she couldn’t contain sprang from her eyes. She was trapped, terrified, like a rabbit staring down a wolf. All she could focus on was the gun in the man’s hands as he stalked toward her. She squeezed her eyes closed, waiting to hear a final shot that would end her life.

“Easy, easy,” a familiar, deep, and soothing voice rolled over her. “Shh, don’t be scared, Honey.”

Her breath hitched. Eyes popped open.

Crouched down to her eye level was her tall, dark, and bitter friend. Ben—Peter—whatever his name was— the moment she recognized his soft chocolate eyes and the scattering of a peppery beard on his otherwise boyish face, she felt a wave of relief. 

His leather glove still held firmly onto a pistol. The sight of it dropped her back to reality. Like a bucket of ice water being poured over her body. She shuddered as he scooted closer.

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay,” he placated with a calm voice. “You’re okay.”

She wanted to believe him. He set his gun down on the concrete floor and reached for her with both hands. Another sound of a distant gunshot made her jolt. She recoiled away from his touch, shrinking herself up against the table leg. 

He flinched at her reaction with a pained expression, as if she’d stabbed him. His hands faltered for a moment.

A man’s voice rang out from the group lingering behind, a youthful tone from someone barely older than a teenager. “Boss, we gotta go!” 

A deeper voice called out in response, “C’mon, Pete. The calvary’s on the way. Get her on her feet! ”

Her eyes widened, tears streaming down her face. He stared back at her, his expression turning grim. She gazed up at her savior to realize that this was no true rescue. 

A sickly feeling crept over her as she put the pieces together. Whatever this was, whatever was happening, whatever had happened to her—it was because of Peter. 

Her tall, dark, and dangerous stranger. He grabbed her by the hips, scooting her closer. She wailed as he scooped her body up in her arms, dizzy with how fast and effortless it seemed. He carried her like a toddler having a tantrum, except she was restrained already. 

Peter said nothing as he carried her out of the garage, barely looking at her, as he marched towards an idling, blacked-out SUV. She barely had time to spot the driver, a gorgeous woman with long silver hair. 

She smirked at her, eyes sinister.

When the SUV finally came to a halt, all she knew is that they were in an underground parking garage. Her limbs felt heavy, the assault of adrenaline starting to take its toll. Few words were spoken during the car ride, and none to her. Thick tension filled the air.

She was on the floorboard, her cheek pressed up against the carpet. She gazed at the feet of two men seated in the back. One of them was the fresh-faced teenager she heard calling Peter ‘Boss.’ His name was Miles, she had heard. The other was a rugged, haunted-looking man, with large dark eyes fixed on the windows, ever watchful. Miles called him Miguel, before the older man shot him a look to stay quiet.

“That’s the unifying issue with the men in this car,” the woman driving the SUV snarked. “You all talk too much.”

Her heart hammered at the glint of a knife. Miguel opened a switchblade, grabbing her ankles. 

“Whoa, hang on,” Miles talked to her—the first one to do so. “He’s gonna cut the tape, just so you can move your legs, okay?”

She gazed up at his soft dark eyes, her own still welling with tears. She felt the release on her legs give way as she kicked the rest of the tape off.

“Lights out,” a cold, distant voice ordered. The sound came from the front passenger seat, where Peter sat in tense silence.

Both Miles and Miguel seemed to hesitate, glancing at each other.

“You sure?” Miles questioned.

“He didn’t stutter,” the silver-haired woman replied, definitively. There was a bite in her voice, but it carried with it a tiredness filled with frustration. She sounded more like an older sister jabbing a younger sibling.

The woman popped open her door to get out. “Let’s go, boys. We got groceries inside.” 

The world went black again. A dark hood was thrown over her head, obscuring her view. 

Continue to Part 2

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