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themorningsunshine · 1 year

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Muffins

Pie - eyed over you - Chapter 3

Mafia - Baker AU

Masterlist Series Masterlist

Previous Part

Pairing - Mafia!Bucky x Baker!Reader

Summary - When a new baker in town refuses to abide by his rules, Bucky has no option but to go and take care of it himself. But nothing could prepare him for what stood on the other side. Nothing could prepare him for you.

Warnings - Mentions of murder, lots of fluff (gotta give the fluff before the angst for it to hurt more, yup I am evil), Steve and Sam being a menace

Word count - around 6k

a/n - So, after two delays, hell a lot of editing, and straight up changing the whole structure of this chapter and then combining it with another (hence the length), it’s finally here. Thank you so much to all of you for putting up with me. Please let me know what you guys think about this. Your kind words keep me going.

You placed the muffins in a tray for display before making a note in your diary to buy more chocolate chips when you go to the market on the weekend.

Running a bakery all on your own is a difficult job but you wouldn't trade it for anything else in the world. Even though you were not a morning person, the prospect of coming here and baking made it getting up from the bed every morning a tad bit easier.

As you heard knocks on the door, you frowned before looking up, there was still some time left before it was time to open up the bakery.

But when your eyes landed on the figure standing outside the door, looking like a complete misfit in his dark clothes and sunglasses and surprisingly, a baseball cap covering his forehead, a pathetic attempt at being discreet, you can't help the way your lips turn upward and your heart flutters.

He was here just yesterday and yet it felt like you were seeing him after too long.

Get yourself together.

It's just a crush, it'll go away.

You wiped your palms on your apron before walking towards the door to open it.

You gave him a teasing smile before saying, "You're at the wrong place. Baseball convention is another mile from here."

He rolled his eyes before stepping inside the bakery, bending a little, the door a little too short for him. "Hello to you too, sweets."

You chuckled before walking towards the counter as he took his usual seat. Everything felt like a routine. Engraved in your soul as if it had always been there.

"Gracing this bakery with your presence two days in a row. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Maybe I just missed my sweets." He shrugged as if it was obvious.

"Continue this and you are going to get diabetic." You remarked with a smirk.

"Not the sweets I was talking about, but okay."

The smirk immediately left your lips as you could practically feel your heart beat out of your chest. He didn't mean it. He's just teasing.

But no matter what you think, you can't help the way the red color crept up to your neck at his words.

Okay, this crush is getting out of hand.

"So, how's work?" You say in an attempt to change the topic.

He tenses at your words. You had asked him what he did, and he had replied that he was a mechanic. It was becoming more difficult for him to lie to you.

But maybe, he won't have to much longer.

He was pretty sure Walker was on his way to screw things up.

That son of a -

"Earth to James!!" Your voice moving and your palm waving in front of his face brought him out of his thoughts.

"I asked how was work." You said with a frown. James always got weirdly uncomfortable when you asked about work. Maybe he didn't want to talk about it, but you were no one to ask.

"Oh, it's been fine. You know, the usual."

"Yeah, yeah. Steve is a dorky idiot and Sam is an annoying prick. I know." You said imitating the words he had said to you not a long time ago.

Bucky chuckles. Telling you about Steve and Sam was easier. Maybe sharing something about him which wasn't a lie, made him feel less guilty.

He knew this was wrong.

He was creating a web of lies that you will find out one day.

But Bucky Barnes wasn't a good man and he would take whatever time he has got before the inevitable happened.

Which wasn't going to be today.

He wasn't going to let Walker ruin this.

He will just sit there, hiding half of his face with the baseball cap. It would be easy. It wasn't like Walker would expect to see him here anyways.

He was just here to make sure that he didn't hurt you.

The both of you striked a conversation just like usual and you immediately felt better. You knew it was going to be a great day. Had started off on the best possible note, atleast.

The clock striked eight before you knew it and you got up from your chair to flip the sign at the bakery.

"Why don't you hire someone to help you?" James asks, sipping his coffee.

"Why, you're looking for a job?" You teased him with raised eyebrows. "Job at the garage doesn't pay enough for your baseball conventions?"

He rolled his eyes. "When are you gonna let this one go?"

"I think… never."

He chuckled before asking again, "But, seriously, sweets, why not get a helping hand?"

" 'Cause I am selfish." When he narrowed his eyes, you continued. "I know this sounds weird, but I don't like it when anybody else cooks the food. It's just never good enough."

"So, why not hire someone to deal with the customers?"

"That's literally the best part of the job." You half exclaimed. "People telling you whether they liked the sweets or not is the best part, James. Almost as good as getting to eat all the leftovers."

James chuckled before setting his coffee mug down. "There is no pleasing you."

You shrugged before walking behind the counter to get everything ready for the morning rush you were sure was about to walk through the door any moment now.

When a few people came in, some regular customers and some students hoping to get in some caffeine to start the day, you saw as James involuntarily tensed.

Bucky watched the front door with focused eyes as minutes ticked by. He knew Walker will be here any minute now.

And he was proven right as he saw John Walker opening the door of the bakery and walking in with a smug look on his face, shoving away whoever came in his path.

Bucky wanted nothing more than to pull him out of here, away from you and this warm place but he couldn't do that. There would be consequences, which he normally wouldn't give a second thought to, but the real nuisance would bring questions.

He watched as you greet him with the same grin on your face that you used for all your customers, saying in a soft voice, "Hey, what can I get you?" And Bucky can swear Walker doesn't even deserve to breathe the same air as you.

"Why not start by paying off?" Walker said with a tone harsh and loud enough that a few customers turned to see what was happening.

You frowned your eyes in confusion, "I am sorry." You were still speaking in a calm, soft voice, trying your best to get whoever this man was to calm down. You didn't want a commotion so early in the day.

"Walker." He said as if it was enough of an introduction before continuing, "And I think you have an idea of where I am coming from. You owe us."

James watched as realization dawned on your face and you stood straighter, your smile turning into a forwn. "I don't owe anyone anything."

He leaned towards you, keeping his arms crossed on the counter, speaking with a smirk, "Don't try to act smart, baby doll. Pay up and no one gets hurt."

He watches as you cringe at the nickname and almost take a small step back, discomfort clear on your face.

Bucky almost gets up from his chair, his first instinct to slit off Walker's throat with the knife he had tucked in his jacket. He would make it less messy too, but painful.

Control, he isn't going to hurt her.

"I am not going to pay you a single cent, Walker. So, why don't you take your ass out of my bakery and leave me alone?" As you speak, your hand inches towards the knife that you keep below the counter for situations like these. Even though you hoped you'd never have to use it, it was better to be prepared than sorry.

John clenches his fist as his eyes bore into your skull, "Don't make this difficult. You don't know who you are trying to mess up with. The people I work with wouldn't blink an eye before dumping your body in a dumpster. Just pay every month and we leave you alone."

"I have said it before and I'll say it again, I am not going to pay you to let me live." It's as if something switches inside you. The slight fear or discomfort that could be seen in your features is completely gone now.

Bucky watches as Walker growls in impatience before reaching for his jacket pocket.

Nope, not happening

"Listen to me, you little bitch - "

Walker is cut off immediately when a larger figure stands between him and the counter.

James shields you from him, obstructing his view.

"Leave her alone." The sound is almost a growl. And if Walker hadn't been too preoccupied he would have noticed how familiar that sounded.

"And who the hell are you?" He spat.

Bucky looks down at him and watches as all the color is drained out of his face when he recognises him.

"S - si "

"Leave her alone and if you show up around here ever again, it will be you in the dumpster, cut into more pieces than you can count."

Fear is obvious on Walker's face, as he completely forgets the weapon he was reaching for, trying to get his senses to work, confusion evident on his face.

Before he can ask any questions, Bucky takes a step towards him, with sheer coldness in his eyes as if he could slit Walker's throat right now and wouldn't blink.

You watch as the man - who had introduced himself as Walker- saunters out of the bakery with quick steps.

You frowned your eyes at whatever had happened here.

You weren't going to pay the mob any money, you knew that. But you also knew that you couldn't have overpowered that man, especially if he had a weapon hidden under there somewhere.

"You didn't have to do that, James." You said softly, in an attempt to get his attention away from the door he was boring holes in.

He turned back and you watched as his expression turned into the soft one you were so familiar with.

You walked from behind the counter towards where he was standing before explaining, "He works for the mob. Trust me, you don't want to get involved with them."

Bucky's breath hitches at that. How could he explain to you that he wasn't just involved with the mob?

"It's okay, sweets. They won't hurt me." That was some truth. They were never going to hurt him, and before Walker could utter a single word to anyone about the events of the day, he would be fired. Bucky would make sure of that.

"I know." You sighed, looking down at the floor as if contemplating something. It was silent for a moment before you looked up, "Thank you, James. It does mean a lot to me." You said with a soft, grateful smile on your face and your hand reached out to his.

"Anytime, sweets."

A moment passed before anyone of you dared to move. Your hand was now brushing his arm in slight touches.

You broke the silence, "Come on, have some muffins. They are on me." You said before turning back and walking towards the counter.

Bucky had to stand there for a moment because his skin had suddenly started to feel cold and empty. Like it wasn't enough without your touch, before walking back towards the counter and standing right in front of where you were taking out some muffins on a plate.

"So, Ms Feisty, something against the mob?" He said, trying desperately for his voice to sound joking.

You shrugged while passing the muffins to him and turning to pour some coffee for yourself. "I am not going to pay them money just because everybody else does. Why the hell do I pay taxes?"

"But the way you were standing, you don't just want to rebel, sweets. You hate them." He said, an emotion in his voice you couldn't really place. He prayed that that wasn't the case, that he had read the situation wrong and maybe you didn't really hate the mob.

"Hate is a strong word, James. I - despise them." You reply before looking up at him to meet his eyes, but he looks away, almost as if looking at you right now would physically hurt him.

"I mean, they aren't really that bad, right? It's not like I know a lot about them but I have heard they protect the city." He tries.

"Uh-huh. They are not good people. You remember that day when we met? When it was raining and I had lost my way, and you were there - "

"I remember the day we met, sweets." He interrupts. Every part of that day was engraved in his mind.

"Yeah, yeah right. So, that day I was coming back from a friend's house. She has a daughter, Ellie, about 5 years old."

He hums, nodding his head, not sure where you were going with this.

"Both of them were switching houses. Leaving their home, that they had built, to live in a one bedroom apartment in the not so respected area of the town. You know why?"

He narrowed his eyes.

"Because her dad was killed." You took a deep breath, trying to keep the rage from bubbling up to the surface. "A 5 year old lost her father, James. And why? Because of some stupid mob feud."

"What was her dad's name?" He asked, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.

"Jake"

Bucky's moments halted as images came back to his mind's forefront. He had killed that man himself. Shot three bullets straight into his chest. He had felt no remorse then. That man was a traitor. Had joined hands with the enemy, knowing very well what the consequences could be.

He had felt no remorse then because he hadn't given a moment of thought to the people he might be leaving behind. It made his work easier. Pretending that there were no consequences to whatever they did.

But now he could see the consequences. In the form of rage in your eyes at the tale and the hurt he felt in his chest, thinking about the girl. He knew how that felt. Being alone, and helpless.

"She didn't deserve that. None of them did. Nobody deserves to lose somebody they love, James. But it hits the worst when it's unforeseeable. When the people who did it are out there in the world, as if their hands aren't tainted with blood, living their life and you can do nothing about it." You say, swallowing the lump in your throat. Thinking about your friend and Elliot always brought you to tears. You tried to help them as much as you could, but there was only so much you could do.

Bucky looks into your eyes and sees tears in the corner of your eyes. He wants to hold your hand, to comfort you, to tell you that they are going to be fine. But how could he, when his were the hands that were tainted with blood, that had taken the life of that man without a second thought.

So, he just sits there, listening to you talk about the lady and her kid, even though each of your words is like a sword stabbed through his chest.

When he knows you are fine, he takes his leave, bidding you goodbye before walking out and calling Steve.

"Steve, I need you to do something."

"What's up, Buck? Everything okay?" Steve replied in a concerned voice. Even after everything, his concern for his best friend never faded.

"I am sending you some details of a lady and her kid. Send me the contacts of the person who bought their house."

"Give me half an hour. But who are these people?"

"They are going to be our responsibility, Steve."

He cuts the call and sends a quick text with all the details he might need.

He can't help but turn back towards the bakery to have one last look. He has made up his mind. He was going to tell you the truth.

he didn't care if it meant you would hate him. There were many people in the town who despised him, what's one more?

But when he turns back and his eyes land up on you, handing a cup of coffee to a middle aged lady, talking to her with a softness unique to you.

As if you can feel his eyes on you, you turn towards the window and as your eyes meet, your smile grows wider. A smile that's only reserved for him, he realizes.

And he would have hated himself for how quickly his resolve fades away.

But Bucky Barnes was not a good man.

And maybe many people in this world did hate him, but he would be damned if you were one of them.

He wanted this. The weekly bakery visits, the warmth, the sheer simplicity of it all, even if it was all this was ever going to be.

And it was about damn time he got what he wanted.

Why should he apologize for the monster he has become when no one ever apologized for making him this way?

Maybe, one day you'll find out the truth and hate him more for lying to you, but it wasn't going to be anytime soon. He will make sure of that.

So, he straightens his coat and walks away from the bakery, choosing to not pay any mind to the inevitable doom that could leave the both of you shattered.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*

"James Buchanan Barnes"

He turns back from what he is doing to find you, cross armed, shooting daggers at him.

"How could you, James? It's like you're not even trying."

He can't help the smile that finds its way to his lips at the way you look. Your christmas sweater that you had deemed "perfect" for the occasion and a scarf draped loosely on your neck, trying to look intimidating, just makes you look even cuter.

You walk towards him and take the candy decoration from his hand, to place it exactly just an inch away from where he was going to, because it looked in your exact words, "more festive"

Bucky just smiles at you as he watches you ramble more about Christmas decorations.

When a week ago, he had heard you reminding Pietro that he had to come over to help you decorate, he had stepped in and offered his help. He was free that day anyways, he had told you. There was an international shipment that he had to sign off that day, but that could wait.

When Pietro had shaken his hand and thanked him for 'saving him', he didn't understand, but now he did. You were extremely particular about how each and everything had to look for christmas and was not shy to tell the other person what a terrible job they were doing if it wasn't exactly the way you had wanted.

But if the cute pout on your face and the warmth that it caused in his chest was any indication, it was worth it. The cookies whose smell reached him even in the living room was just an added bonus.

Right now, standing in the middle of your apartment, surrounded by incomplete decorations that signaled the arrival of a festival he wouldn't have cared the slightest about a year ago, being scolded by you for not hanging the canes correctly, he regretted nothing.

3 hours and a lot of debates later, all of which you won, the house was finally decorated enough for the festival.

"Here you go." You said, handing him a warm cup of coffee and placing a plate full of cookies on the table in front of him. It was your way of saying thank you.

Bucky looks around your apartment. It's just above the bakery and much smaller than the mansion he lived in. But it felt different in a way he couldn't point out.

A shelf filled to the brim with books standing in the corner, pictures adorning the walls, each telling a different story. Some soft music playing on the speaker, it was like a blanket of warmth stood over your house. A little messy, but beautiful nonetheless.

His eyes then land on you, sitting across from him on the sofa, sipping your coffee with a warm, content look on your face, your scarf now lying on the table.

As if you could feel his gaze, you turn back to look at him and your breath hitches in the throat at the way he is looking at you.

It's as if the world could crumble around him and he wouldn't blink an eye.

You can't get yourself to look away. So, you just raise your eyebrows, because you have suddenly forgotten how to breathe and if he didn't look away right now, you are not sure you will be able to survive longer.

He just shrugs and turns towards his coffee, as if it was a natural occurrence. As if your whole world hadn't stopped spinning for a moment there.

Bucky looks at you through the corner of his eyes and watches as red color creeps up to your neck and you try your hardest to not smile.

He now recognises the feeling.

Your apartment feels like home.

And the next realization brings with itself questions and doubts he wasn't ready to answer.

He wouldn't rather be anywhere else.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩

He clenches his fist as he drags his feet towards the bakery.

It was pretty late. He knew that.

But he just had to be there.

He liked his work more often than not. The impending guilt and the danger aside, the reason that had initially brought him to this world still stood.

It made him feel something. The adrenaline of each task, the satisfaction of seeing everything that belonged to his enemies burning down till there was nothing but smoke.

The mafia world had welcomed the darkness that he had inside of him and made him one of their own, for which he will be eternally grateful.

But for some time now, it hasn't been enough.

The darkness that had surrounded and consumed him for so many years now was suddenly not enough.

Something inside him changed.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, he had thought twice before shooting that man today. The whispers inside him that asked him every time 'if there was any other way' had become louder now and even the noise of the bullets couldn't silence it.

He knew what was happening.

He was seeking the light.

And every single part of him knew that this could only end in disaster. In a fire that threatened to burn every single thing to the last piece.

But that didn't stop him from taking the next step. Or the one after that.

He was still walking to the one place that could silence away his thoughts and make it all go away. Like a moth attracted to a flame.

Maybe this was selfish of him. Maybe he was tainting you with his darkness.

He will think about that some other day.

When the bakery comes into view, he realizes just how late it is.

You would be about to close now.

Maybe he could catch a glimpse before you retired for the night. It wasn't enough. It was never enough. But it had to do.

As he reaches the bakery, he watches as the door slowly opens and a young boy steps out.

He frowns before walking ahead, and his eyes almost widen with who he sees.

"Peter, what are you doing here?"

Peter looks up from the book he is currently holding and his eyes widen with fear at the figure who stands before him.

"S - sir, I - I was just - "

A voice from inside the bakery calls out to him. A voice Bucky recognizes all too well.

"Peter, you forgot this."

You step out of the bakery with a textbook in your hands as you hand it over to Peter.

Peter opens his mouth to speak but then closes it. Too afraid about what was going to happen.

You turn around and when your eyes land on James, your lips turn into a grin before you know it.

"James, hi"

Peter's eyebrows shoot up as he looks between the both of you. You have a glint in your eyes as if you couldn't be happier by anything else and the man he had feared with everything he had for the last couple of years, had a softness to his features that made Peter wonder if he was somehow swallowed into an alternate dimension.

"Hey, sweets." Bucky says almost on instinct, before turning towards the boy who is still looking at the both of them as if he just saw a dolphin flying in the air.

You probably notice it too, because you then point towards Peter before saying, "James, this is Peter, and Peter, this is James Barnes."

"James?" Peter says almost on instinct, confusion evident in his voice.

"Wait, you know him?" You ask, looking between the both of them now.

Peter looks at Bucky and almost crumbles with fear by the warning glare he is shooting towards him. But there is something else there too. Something, he can swear he has never seen in the mob boss' eyes.

There is fear in them. A tiny flicker of it. He fears the answer he is going to tell you. Whatever it was, it was too important for him.

"No, no. I don't think we have met before."

"Oh, okay." You say, confused as to what had just happened here. "All the best for the test and tell MJ I said hi," You give him an easy exit from a situation he was clearly uncomfortable in.

You watch as a small blush spreads across his cheeks before he bids you goodbye and glancing at James once, takes his leave.

"He is a nice kid." You break the silence after Peter walks away, out of earshot. "Pretty smart. I was helping him with his test tomorrow."

Bucky looks back at you and shrugs in response. "Good for him."

"By the way, it's closing time, James." You say with a teasing voice and he is relieved that you don't ask any further questions.

"Come on, sweets. You could make an exception for your favorite customer."

You roll your eyes before replying. "What about this? You help me clean up, and I get you something special I made today."

"Help you clean up?"

"Aww. The prince doesn't like to get his hands all dirty?" You smirk.

"This special treat should better be worth it, sweets." He huffs before walking inside the bakery.

You walk in behind him while giggling.

"And that's it."

You look at him with a smile and silently clap your hands together with an impressed look.

If any of his men would see him right now, wearing an apron with a bunny on it, hands covered in flour, working in a bakery with soft music playing in the background, their eyes would pop out of their heads. But he couldn't care less.

"Great job for a first timer, Barnes. You have earned yourself a serving of something special."

Bucky smirked before replying, "Something special, you say?" He leans in and sends a wink your way.

You roll your eyes before turning towards the kitchen, hoping that it wasn't evident how flustered you were.

You take out something from a box and place it on a plate in front of him.

Bucky looked at it closely with a frown. It was clearly made of chocolate and was shaped like a dome. He could swear he had never seen it in your bakery before.

"Come on, give it a try. If I wanted to poison you, I would have done it ages ago."

He picks up one and after a moment of close inspection, takes a bite.

As the taste of chocolate invades his senses, he moans and puts the whole into his mouth.

You watch as his head falls back in delight.

Once he is done, which is faster than he would have wanted, he says, "Sweets, that was the best damn thing I have ever had."

You chuckle, "You say that every single time, James."

"And I mean it every single time."

You just smile at him before putting another on the plate.

As he devours that one quickly too, he inquires, "What is it called?"

You smirk before replying, "James."

"Yeah?"

"James. That's what it is called."

His eyes widen and he takes a moment to reply, "You named a sweet after me?"

"Well, technically, you were the inspiration for this."

He frowns. "How so?"

"Well, It's full of chocolate and exceptionally sweet. It's exterior is hard but its insides are so soft, they practically melt in your mouth."

Bucky looks at you, baffled and you look away, unable to meet his eyes.

He opens his mouth to say something, but is suddenly shushed by you.

"That's my favorite song." You whisper, as if not wanting to obstruct the soft melody.

Bucky listens to the sound coming from your phone.

Wise men say

"Only fools rush in"

But I can't help

Falling in love with you

He looks back at you and at the way you have a soft smile on your face, your features highlighted by the soft glow of the kitchen light.

You look at him and with a teasing smile puts your hand forward, indicating to him to take it.

He looks between your outstretched hand and your face with a frown.

"Dance with me." Your voice is so soft, he just can't get himself to say no. But, who is kidding? He will set the whole world on fire and watch it burn with a smile on his face if you asked him to.

He slowly places his hand in yours as the music continues.

Shall I stay?

Would it be a sin

If I can't help

Falling in love with you

The both of you stand in the middle of the kitchen, the moonlight sweeping its way through the windows.

Everything is brightened in a warm glow but you know nothing will ever shine brighter than the way his ocean blue eyes do right now.

Take my hand

Take my whole life, too

For I can't help

Falling in love with you

One of his arms finds its way around your waist while the other holds yours.

You place your free hand on his shoulder and he gently pulls you closer.

The both of you stay like that for the rest of the song, swaying slowly to the music.

Like a river flows

Surely to the sea

Darling, so it goes

Some things are meant to be

You don't know who leans first but before you know it, the distance between the both of you starts decreasing.

You hold your breath and your gaze move from his eyes to his lips.

You would be lying if you said you had never thought of this before, of how his lips would feel against yours, how he would taste like.

This man had occupied your thoughts since the day you had met all those months ago and you were pretty sure he had no idea of the effect he had on you.

Take my hand

Take my whole life, too

For I can't help

Falling in love with you

For I can't help

Falling in love with you

Just as the song is about to end and there's nothing but an inch of distance between the both of you, the door to the bakery was suddenly pushed open with a force and the sound of the bells invaded the comfortable silence that had covered the room in a blanket.

The both of you took a sudden step away, and you needed a moment to calm your heart which felt like it was about to beat its way out of your chest, before looking up to see who it. was.

You squinted as two men, one blonde and the other dark haired, stood at the door, looking comically too big, having no idea of what transcribed in the bakery before they had not-so-smoothly barged in.

The blonde one speaks, breaking the silence, "I knew we'd find you here."

You watch as he steps towards James, who looks at him with sheer annoyance. "What the hell are you doing here, punk?"

The other man looks at you and forms a smirk before stepping towards you. "So, this is where you always sneak off to? I guess I understand why."

James huffs in annoyance and with a sten face stops him, "Shut up, Wilson."

You look between the men who looked like they were in a staring contest when realization hit you. "Steve and Sam?"

All the men look at you at the same time and you feel like a deer caught in headlights before you stand up straighter reminding yourself that no matter how intimidating the situation was, this was your bakery.

"And you must be y/n l/n. It's great to finally meet you, Ms l/n" Steve says, smiling.

"Please, just call me y/n."

"Or we could call you beautiful." Sam replies before stepping forwards, stretching his hand to take yours for a shake.

You let out a chuckle before shaking his hand. "Y/n is fine."

"What are the both of you doing here?" Bucky speaks up, shooting daggers at Sam, his fists clenched.

"There's an emergency. We need to go." Steve replies, a serious expression adorning his face.

Sam interjects them "What's the hurry? I have heard so much about this bakery. We could eat something before leaving."

Bucky spats at him, "This bakery has closed, Wilson. Time's up. Get your butt moving."

Sam pouts and you chuckle at the antics of these grown men, "Why don't you come here some other day, Sam, I have something that I think you'll like."

Sam looks at you, a childlike smile replacing his pout, "I like her already."

Bucky steps forward towards Sam, pulling him away. "Don't listen to him, sweets."

Steve and Sam turn their head towards him so fast. you are sure they will get a sprain later. Sam raises his brows with a smirk on his face, while Steve looks at him with a smile on his.

James then quickly bids you goodbye before pulling the both of them outside the bakery.

Once they reach the car Steve and Sam had driven in, they both look at him with amused grins.

"Back off, the both of you. What's the emergency?"

Steve's expression turns serious as he replies, "Our shipment from Iran has been stopped at Morocco and they are refusing to comply."

Bucky narrows his eyes at the information. Who would dare to stop their shipment and risk getting on his bad books? "Who is it, Steve?"

"It's Alexander Pierce."

Bucky lets out a breath before looking in the direction of the bakery once more and then turning towards Steve and Sam.

"Get in the car. We need to leave right now. This is going to be a long assignment."

Next part

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m4tthewmurd0ck · 8 months

Text

COMING SOON!!!

Mob!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Ballerina Reader

(I do my best to be as non-descriptive as possible, but I do use she / her and mention that reader is a ballerina)

Inspired by the question: Have you ever tried to eat at a restaurant, which happened to be a mafia / mob front, but you didn’t know that, and everyone inside just stared as you walked in because nobody actually eats there?

I FINALLY decided what I want my first piece back to be and I’m so excited shdiznejfns it’s very funny if I do say so myself. Once I got the idea I rushed and typed it on my phone and I already KNOW there are so many spelling errors because I have auto correct turned off and right now it looks like shit hahdndisfn. BUUUUT I just need to give it a quick read through / fix errors on my laptop and we’ll be good to go! Full preview below the cut :)

It had been Bucky’s idea to name the restaurant Tony’s. After their dear friend who had given his life in a war that should’ve never been fought.

It had been Peter’s idea to ‘open a restaurant’. He pointed out that it would be the perfect realistic cover, though Steve argued that they didn’t really need one. Everyone in Brooklyn and the neighboring cities knew who they were, why did they need to put up any sort of front?

In the end, Bucky sided with Peter. They needed a place to talk shop and handle business, and it had to be somewhere that the outside wouldn’t attract any trouble (aka law enforcement). A warehouse was too obvious and was practically begging to be raided. He agreed with Steve, though, in that everyone knew who they were and what their business really was. He pointed out that it was actually a good thing. It would be pretty obvious that the restaurant wasn’t a restaurant, and they wouldn’t attract actual customers. But they’d make it legit, so that they couldn’t be shut down. Like Peter said, they needed a realistic cover.

Within a month, Tony’s was up and running. Running, as in the lights were on during what would be deemed normal business hours. The door was kept locked, but that didn’t matter because as Bucky predicted, no one tried to actually eat there.

Until one day when rehearsal ran nearly 2 hours late. You were tired, exhausted mentally and physically, and you just wanted some comfort food before heading back to your apartment to enjoy the next 2 days off. Still somewhat new to the city, you decided to get off of the subway one stop earlier, and find a restaurant on your way home.

Luckily for you, a neon sign reading TONY’S caught your eye. Unbeknownst to you, there was a meeting going on inside, and someone had forgotten to lock the front entrance.

As you pushed the door open, you had no idea the events that were about to unfold.

💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫

IF YOU’D LIKE TO BE TAGGED WHEN I POST FOR BUCKY, LET ME KNOW!!

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liz-allyn · 1 year

Text

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.

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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of-many-fandomss · 4 months

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Guess who loves mafia!au’s?? *raises hand* I do! Send in some requests :)

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maple-the-awesome · 1 year

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Prettiest One In The Room || Part 2/2

Pairing: Mob! (any) Peter Parker x Reader

Words: 4,488

Overview: After being the victim of cruel remarks and snide laughter from others, you decide to take your husband's generous offer in proving just how much he loves his new wife. Warning: Smut, +18, oral (fem. receiving), gentle dom!Peter, sub!Reader, virgin!Reader, vaginal sex, multiple orgasms, hint of overstimulation, breeding kink if you squint, husband kink (because Peter loves being married to you😉), some dirty talk (but mostly praise because Peter worships you😍).

Marvel Masterlist 🖤 Fandom Masterlist 🖤 Requests

PART ONE

You would shiver at the feeling of the cold marble counter brushing against your exposed thigh, however you're a little too distracted by Peter attacking your neck to complain. Addicted to the soft touch of your skin against his lips, he presses a trail of kisses as far north as your jaw and as far south as your collarbone, each as messy and wet as the last. Sometimes he hits the same place twice before finally deciding to give into temptation and nip you there; never enough to draw blood nor hurt, but plenty to make you whimper in anticipation. This is only the beginning after all.

You can feel Peter's calloused hands dust over your curves as they slide back downwards to your legs. After spreading them apart, he shamelessly positions himself in between which allows him better access directly to you. Personal space is further reduced by guiding your legs around his waist while his arms snake around your torso, pulling you chest-to-chest where he can successfully tower over you. This forces you to keep your head cranked backwards especially when his lips finally meet yours.

You're not sure what's more surprising: his clear desire for his wife that he's amazingly kept hidden until now or the fact that he's somehow deaf to the rapid pounding of her heart. It's almost nauseating paired alongside your wavering nerves and wild thoughts that all seem so out of place. You planned for this. You want this especially after finally laying to rest your worries of being a shame to your husband...So why do you feel so anxious right now?

"...Princess?" Peter only barely pulls away, his breath still warm against yours.

You give a hum for it's all you can muster.

"Do you not want this? I've told you time and time again: I won't be mad if you don't, but I'm not a mind reader, love. You have to be honest with me-" Crap, he isn't deaf after all.

"-I don't know what to do with my hands," you blurt pathetically, cheeks feeling as hot as the sun while you refuse to meet his eyes.

It's true. Your trembling hands have been clenching the edge of the counter in an iron grip, too busy debating their possible options to actually commit to one. Should you be hugging him back? Running your fingers through his slicked back hair? Maybe move them lower down his body until-

-A deep chuckle rumbles in Peter's chest, muffling itself against another quick kiss," this isn't a test, sweetheart, and don't you dare worry about me. Just do whatever makes you feel right."

Giving it some more thought paired with his encouraging words, you finally move your arms around him, wrapping them delicately over his shoulders where your fingertips can be tickled against the longer hair at the back of his head. Your bashful smile melts against his when he resumes work, this time biting your lower lip until you open your mouth only a crack. You soon open much wider however, when his tongue forces its way inside.

Dizzy from this deep kiss, your attention is only stolen away by the feeling of your dress being rolled up. All night you've been tugging at its ends trying to keep it from riding up too far yet here you are now, eagerly shifting your weight to help Peter swiftly move it upwards until exposing your full lower half.

You're taken aback by the animalistic growl he gives once looking you over, a sound that affects you in an almost embarrassing way that goes directly to your core. He has no guilt in staring, in fact he even goes as far as to lick his lips while plucking at the band of your new black lingerie," have you been hiding these pretty things the whole night, princess? 'makes me think someone was planning this, hmm?"

He must've truly been joking again, because you notice a very brief flash of surprise in his eyes when you look away shyly. Of course, it's gone by the time he blinks and replaced by a mischievous glimmer instead as he twiddles the ribbon against his finger, leaning towards you closer with a whispered voice that tickles your ear," usually I don't appreciate anyone being one step ahead of me, but for you, my sweet princess...I'm willing to make an exception."

Both of Peter's hands grasp your hips, giving them a squeeze as he pecks your lips before promptly moving along your jawline towards more important places," tell me, did you pick these out specifically for me?"

You hum your reply, each featherlight kiss leading down to the very crook of your neck.

"I bet you spent hours trying to find the perfect match. Which hug your figure best..."

You whimper when his large hands cup your ass as a perfect fit. His wedding ring is cold to the touch and judging on his grip, you wouldn't doubt a temporary imprint or two of it against your soft skin.

"...Which would make me hard for you..."

You bite your lip as you feel one of his hands move too slowly to reach your inner thigh, tracing a line from just above your knee up to the very place you can't wait to have him at.

"...Which would feel like utter heaven to wear while I shower you in all my love..."

You finally give a moan as Peter suddenly sucks the most sensitive skin of your neck harshly.

"Which you'll never be able to so much as look at again without remembering the time I tore into you, my beloved wife; the prettiest woman to ever live."

"P-Peter, you're going to leave marks," you warn, your concern overshadowed by pleasure as your husband continues to ignore your statement, deciding to fulfill it instead by giving you another suck slightly higher.

"That's the plan. 'have to set it straight with everyone else out there: you're mine and I have no shame in worshiping you."

It'll be impossible to hide all the marks Peter decorates you in right now, but maybe that's not a bad thing. While your cheeks burn with heat, there's a candle of excitement within your chest at the thought of leaving this bathroom arm-in-arm with your husband, covered in his lovely hickeys while wearing a smug smile upon your smeared lips. No one will be able to deny it then: you're his and he'd never have it any other way.

Peter's hands move again, only barely grazing over your upper thighs where they hesitate so that his fingers may pluck gently at the band of your lingerie.

"May I?"

It feels like a dream to have Peter push you further back onto the counter after you nod, removing your legs from his waist and placing them in a bent position over his shoulders once he kneels down. You must've been holding your breath for it, watching intensely as he carefully pulls off your panties to leave your bottom half completely exposed to him and only him. It's not until his thumb- roughly compared to his previous touch- brushes against your wet clit that your breath is released in a shaky gasp.

"So wet already, princess...and I've barely even touched you. How are you possibly going to make it through the night?" He doesn't remove his thumb from your clit, rather he continues rubbing circles against it which have your toes curling inside your heels.

"That feels good, doesn't it? Do you like when I touch you there, princess?"

You hum, tossing your head back.

"Words, princess."

"Y-Yes...It feels heavenly!" You fail to suppress the moan by chewing on your inner cheek. That task is impossible as Peter's finger dips into your soaking folds where it then dances over your opening.

Pleased by your previous answer, he smirks," you're the only person in the world I'll ever get down on my knees for, you know that?"

You dare to look down, curiosity getting the best of you when you feel his warm breath against your pussy, however you can only get a brief glance at the sight before your head is thrown back again, an unrestrained cry filling the air as Peter's lips attach themselves to your clit. Before you can even fully process the feeling of his tongue against your nerves, he uses it as a distraction to push his long finger into you.

Both actions are foreign in feeling. Sure, you've experimented with yourself a little as a horny teenager and you'd be lying to say you haven't secretly touched yourself even after marrying Peter. Once growing comfortable around your new husband, the next natural step was to fuck your own fingers while imagining the touch to belong to him as a fruitless attempt in reaching a proper orgasm much to your own frustration. Luckily, you don't think that's going to be a problem after tonight.

Peter's finger disappears to his knuckle as he pumps into your pussy, his tongue swirling over your sensitive bulb in the meantime. He doesn't bother being dignified about it nor is he afraid of the echo of his own slurping as he practically eats you alive like a starved man.

One finger then two, stretching you out in a way that's only a taste of what's to come. They burn at first, yet the more he moves inside your tight pussy, scissoring and curling against your wet walls, the more that pain transforms into a pleasure that has your mouth hung open, droll barely kept from dripping in the corners.

Never have you been able to make yourself feel this way. Where you'd normally lose strength just as your legs began to shake, Peter shows resistance, merely smirking while keeping at it. As your moans increase in volume with his name being torn from your throat in the form of a prayer, he only temporarily moves away from your pussy, his voice unforgivably deep.

"Are you gonna cum, princess? Go ahead then...Show your husband that he's doing his job well. 'show him how much you love it when he eats you out."

You're certain your grip on the counter is white at this point, any words you try to speak broken against your own moans until the feeling is overwhelming. You weren't sure how much longer you could last, however the answer is quickly provided when Peter gives another powerful suck while curling his fingers inside.

Crying out his name, you feel yourself finally come undone over his fingers and face. Your body shakes and you can't help lifting your hips into him in weak thrusts. He doesn't stop right away, instead catching your hips in his hands and pulling you into his face where he can easily kitten lick his share of your juices even if it leaves you whimpering.

It isn't until Peter stands to his feet that you can see what you've done, his jaw shining in the lights hanging above you both. Smirking, he shamelessly sticks his fingers into his mouth one at a time, sucking them off before kissing you again which allows you to taste yourself on his lips, too.

"Mmm, you taste wonderful, princess," he hums, pecking your forehead," but I'm ready for the main course, how about you? You took my fingers so well. 'think you can do that to my cock, too?"

"Please."

Peter chuckles before undoing his belt, letting his pants fall and pool at his ankles. His erection is clear in his boxers, a bit of precum visibly leaking onto the fabric. When he pulls this last remaining barrier of clothing down, his cock finally springs free and slaps his stomach.

You gulp, both out of desperation and slight worry. It's one thing to imagine what he looks like down there as you pump yourself with a measly two fingers, but it's a very different effect to see him in person like this. He's long and lean yet far bigger than just two fingers. A part of you wants to worry over this size, fearing the pain that will come from it regardless of what he's already done to make you slick. Of course, that's the quieter side of your head. Regardless of such silent worries, you lick your lips, dying for a taste.

With his cock in hand, Peter gives it a few pumps to prepare while caging you against the counter with his free hand. Despite the current situation including all the dirty things that have been said and done leading up to now, his voice is soft as he whispers in your ear," do you still want this, princess? We can keep it down to just you if you want."

"And leave you like that?" You whisper back, shivering at the sound of his cock sliding in his hand at a steady pace, and that's just it being coated in his own precum! What sinful sounds is it going to make pushed deep inside your slick?

"I could always finish myself off if-"

"-But I want you," you complain, placing a hand on the back of his head. Your fingers tangle in his hair, not applying any pressure but assuring he doesn't get any ideas of moving away," I want you inside me now. I want you to officially make me yours; all of me."

Peter moans lowly and you can feel his smooth tip barely poke against your folds," all of you, hmm? You want me to fuck your little pussy then?"

The tip pushes through only enough to run up and down through your folds, coating itself in leftover juices which makes you shiver again,"...break you open and pump you full of my big cock? Would you like that, princess?"

"Yes, I would, Peter. Please just fuck your wife already!" All he has to do is lean a little forward and he'll be in. Why must he tease like this?

"Atta girl."

You both moan when Peter finally pushes forward, his cock slipping into your pussy at a leisurely pace. Just as you expect, it burns a lot despite his fingers having already loosened you up. Such a feeling fills your eyes with tears which Peter brushes away with his thumbs kindly.

Whispering sweet words of encouragement along the way, he takes his time slowly sinking in until his balls reach your entrance, forbidding him from going any further," don't rush yourself, darling...Take your time and relax for me."

You whimper, your breath increasing as your pussy tries to adjust to his size, although it takes longer to get comfortable than you would like. Nevertheless, you listen to Peter's urges, waiting not so patiently for most of the stinging to subside before moving forward with the part you desire most.

Your husband groans when you weakly try to roll your hips against him, taking it as a sign to begin moving himself. Pulling out, he leaves just his tip in before slamming back into you again causing you to cry out in pleasure. With this, he begins the task of pumping into you as promised, starting out slow just to get you accustomed to the process.

With practice, your whines of discomfort become moans of pleasure ripped from the very depths of your lungs. Both of your arms wrap around him, digging into the back of Peter's suit which will more than likely need a special trip to the dry cleaners to get ironed out after the way you've been gripping onto the fabric (not that he minds one bit). Meanwhile, he keeps his own arms tightly around you to prevent you from being pushed too far back onto the counter by the force of his strong thrusts, instead keeping you trapped securely right where he can please you best on the edge.

"You're so damn tight, princess...So tight for me and only me. Does it feel good having your husband finally claim your pussy?

"Just." Thrust...

"Like." Thrust.

"You." Thrust!

"Planned!" THRUST!

Your nails scratch his skin with the same amount of pressure that your teeth bite into your lower lip with, trying to suppress the shameful smile his dirty words give," oh yes!"

Suddenly Peter stops and, for a split second, you fear that's a sign he came already, however before you can feel too disappointed over that, you realize the true reason for his pause.

"We're fucking busy!" He shouts angrily as the bathroom door only just begins to creak open.

This makes your heart leap both due to his livid tone and the fact that someone almost caught the two of you, although you're sure the woman probably feels worse given how quickly she slams the door with a horrified gasp. Surely she put two and two together hearing moans then a man's voice coming from inside the women's bathroom...Oh well.

You might've let the interruption ruin this otherwise perfect moment if not for Peter lifting you off the counter and, in one swift movement, bending you over it with your bare ass in the air towards him.

"Hands on the counter, princess," Peter orders and you happy oblige," now unless you have any objections, I'd like to continue where we left off from here."

While you eagerly slap your palms against the smooth surface, keeping yourself upright with your back purposefully arched in a beautiful way, your prepared posture falters immediately when Peter pushes into you roughly from behind.

No longer facing him, you must watch from the mirror in front of you to see just what your husband's up to back there (not that this is a bad sight). His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, sweat beading on his forehead as he holds your hips into place with a powerful grip. A mix of swears and praises fall from his satisfied smirk, his lustful eyes drifting from the sight of his cock disappearing into your deep pussy then to the mirror where he can check on your own expression.

Honestly you're a complete mess; absolutely breathtaking. You can barely keep your eyes open let alone keep yourself upright on the counter, falling over nearly every time Peter thrusts into you. It isn't probably not all that ladylike to have so much drool dripping from your mouth which hangs open and sings admirations for the man doing this to you, but he's touched to hear such songs.

"Peter-!" You go to shout, shutting your mouth quickly to muffle the sound in fear of someone else hearing. Even assuming that woman didn't go spread the news about Peter Parker currently fucking the soul out of his wife in the bathroom, others are bound to know the difference between an angry wife and a very happy one when they hear it themselves.

Despite your thoughtfulness towards keeping this show private, Peter seems to have a different idea, reaching forward to pull your hair. It might've been his idea of being dominant, however it feels more like he's running his hand through your hair instead of actually pulling it. Damn him and his caring nature right now!

"Don't be shy. Tell them exactly who's fucking you, princess. 'make them regret ever doubting you."

You whimper.

"You about to cum again already, sweetheart? Damn, do you love your husband's thick cock that much that you can barely last?" Peter mocks, his thrusts getting harder," come on, princess. You deserve this. Cum for your husband and let everyone hear you do it!"

"PETER, MMM!" You don't need to be told twice. By the time Peter finishes his sentence, you're already letting loose over his cock. You both moan, you for the feeling of being so full and loved while Peter moans for the feeling of your tight pussy hugging around him so delicately; a perfectly fit just as he imagined you'd be for him.

Crossing your arms against the counter, you use them as a pillow to rest your head on as you sigh pleasantly. Once catching your breath, you glance over your shoulder with a tired smile in preparation to praise Peter, however that apparently has to wait.

Before you can process it, he's sneaking one of his hands around your front, his fingers searching blindly for something which he knows he's found by the way you raise your head against with a loud gasp.

"Peter, what are-?"

"-One more time, princess. I want you to cum one more time for me, please," his leans completely over your arched back, pressing against you until his teeth are able to nibble your ear lobe.

"I-I don't know if I can-can," you mewl, unable to help the movement of your legs as they prance in place. You're still so sensative from your last two orgasms yet Peter wants a third?

Thinking about it now, you're certain those first two orgasms were your strongest ever. Hell, maybe you've never actually orgasmed before if it's supposed to feel like that. Never have you felt anything near those powerful waves of pleasure when playing with yourself, so if Peter's feeling anything like you right now, you can understand why he's suddenly addicted, but can you really survive a third?

"You can do this, sweetheart. It'll be quick. Just one more so that I can cum with you this time. Don't you want to learn what it's like to have a man's stuff himself inside you?"

So dirty.

"...But if you're really that tired, you can rest. I can finish myself like I said earlier. Just tell me what you prefer."

Hmm, so many options? Try for another orgasm, let him finish himself off and possibly cum elsewhere on your body. Hell, you're not against the idea of blowing him either.

"I'm waiting for the green light, princess."

You moan at his breath in your ear," go-go ahead...b-but I can't guarantee I'll be able to walk out of here."

"I'll carry you then," Peter smirks before mercilessly playing with your swollen ball of nerves, swirling around it with his thumb while slowly starting his thrusts up again.

You can't bother to keep your head up this time, resting it on your arms while allowing Peter to do as he pleases. He deserves it anyways with how good he's been making you feel for your first time.

He uses his free arm to wrap around your stomach, pulling you into him until there's no space left. Your back is completely pressed to his, his pelvis smacking against your ass as his cock buries itself into your slick folds at a rapid rate that has you screaming his name in no time.

You're so sensitive, your pussy feeling stretched to its limit while your clit's overwhelmed, but you don't want it to end. If you could, you'd stay like this the entire night, however realistically, you won't be able to last too much longer from now. Peter won't either. Soon, his own moans are matching the volume of yours, his grip tightening over you yet his naughty hand losing its persistent rate rubbing your blub.

Letting his head fall forward, Peter bites then kisses your shoulder sobbly," you-you feel that, princess? My cock...twitching inside you? I'm getting close...Mmm...'can't last much longer..."

Oh, you feel it alright. Even if you didn't, you could tell just by the way his face is screwed in the mirror. Peter's unraveling, reaching his own breaking point just as you are.

"I-I'ma...too," using whatever strength you have left, you push your ass against him, giving weak thrusts to help him along as you feel yourself beginning to cum once more. This time you have tears in your eyes, enough to roll down your cheeks as you shout into the air without any regard as to who might hear it," PETER! F-FUCK!"

The deep groan behind you is the only warning you have a split second before you shiver at the feeling of something foregin filling your insides. It's warm and thick, coating your walls beautiful if only you could see it.

Peter's thrusts shutter, both of his hands hurrying to steady himself by grabbing hold of your hips. He holds you to his leaking cock, giving it a few good thrusts to make sure he fills you completely, pushing his seed deep inside. You feel cold and empty when he finally pulls out with a sigh, although there's some satisfaction in his hand covering your entrance immediately afterwards.

"Such a good girl...So full of my cum," Peter whispers happily, using his fingers to push back in any of his thick liquids that seep out of your aching folds. If it weren't for your birth control, something tells you you'd definitely be pregnant after this, but if the process is this nice, maybe that's not a terrible idea someday.

You refuse to let go of the counter, using it as support to turn around and face your husband while still catching your breath. The first thing you do is look down, confirming for yourself that beads of white cum cover your pussy's entrance even around his hand. As for his cock, it's already starting to rise again despite being slick in your juices and his own cum along the sides.

"How...-" You inhale tiredly with a teasing smile,"-are you still hard after all that?"

"That's what happens when you have such a gorgeous wife. I could go all night if she asked," Peter leans forward, wrapping his arms tightly around you and pressing a needy kiss to your lips. Judging on how desperatly he claims your mouth, one would think he hasn't kissed you in ages and defintely didn't just get done fucking the life out of you.

His cock presses against your inner thigh, something that would've made you wet again if not for your three orgasms having turned your legs into jelly. There's no way you can go for more when you can barely stand straight on your own.

"Lift me onto the counter?" You ask into the kiss, Peter happily obliging.

You can't tell if it feels better to be sitting down with how much your pussy and lower back burn, however at least you're steady enough as you wrap your arms around Peter's shoulders, pulling him into another kiss.

He's the one to eventually pull away, his hands covering your cheeks as he carefully looks your face over with a hint of worry in his eyes," I didn't get too rough, did I?"

"Not at all. I loved it," you confirm, pecking his lips," I love you."

Peter smiles at this, letting his hands fall back around you," I love you, too, princess...and I hope you know that now without a doubt. Never let anyone make you think differently."

"And what if I want another lesson to prove it?"

"Sweetheart, you can have this without the 'lesson' part anytime you desire."

"...Then how about more tonight? I need some rest, but I'm not against the idea of taking care of you in the car ride back- if you want that is," you offer against his ear, running a hand down Peter's chest while giving his necktie a suggestive tug in the process.

Needing no other options, Peter makes quick work in lifting you up bridal style and demanding the first guard he crosses outside of the bathroom to start the car. It might not be exactly as you planned earlier, but you're certain tonight is going to be even better than what you dreamed.

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buckyalpine · 2 years

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Home

18+ Minors dni

Mob!Bucky x f reader

A/N: Wanted to try writing something for Mob Bucky so here we have: comforting Bucky after he has an awful day. Please Reblog, Like and Comment! <3

Warnings: Angsst, death of a character, fluff, mentions of nudity but nothing sexual

Word Count: 800

The door slammed shut, which was the first sign that Bucky had a bad day.

Bucky gave you the world; as soon as he stepped inside your beautiful shared home, he was no longer a feared mob boss. He was your protector, your baby, your absolute everything. Anything that went down with his work always stayed outside of your home, a rule he created for himself the day you agreed to live with him. He wanted to give you everything; you deserved happiness, peace and he vowed to himself to never let you take the burn from the dangerous of his work.

Whenever he came home, he would leave the weight of his work at the door, wrapping you in his arms, kissing every inch of your skin, listening to you ramble about whatever you did in the day. It was beautiful. It was home.

But there were slip ups. Like tonight.

Bucky stormed up the stairs, slamming the door to his study. He had ignored the worried look on your face, unable to talk about the disasters of his day. He poured himself a glass of whisky, downing two glasses before slowly sipping a third.

You found Bucky slumped over his office chair, his head in his hands. You had never seen him look so defeated; he had never showed weakness to anyone, including you.

“James?”

Bucky remained silent. You only used his formal name when there was a serious problem. You made your way over, kneeling in front of him. His expression was cold, his jaw clenching as he sat up straight in his chair.

“I’m fine. I need to take care of some things y/n”

You noticed the tick of his jaw, his knuckles white from the grip he had around his glass. His eyes continued to shift around the room, refusing to meet yours. You could see his mind racing, his breaths becoming laboured.

You said nothing. You stood up, moving to his on his lap, wrapping your arms around him. Your face was buried into the crook of his neck while you rubbed his back, soothing him. You pulled away, moving your hand to cup his face, kissing his nose and then forehead. As soon as your lips brushed his forehead, his walls began to crack. He leaned into you, arms clinging around you like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

You held him close, stroking his hair and rocking him while he sobbed into your shoulder, the weight of his day unable to be contained anymore. You continued to silently comfort him, allowing him to release everything he was feeling, placing soft kisses on his temple.

“Peter….” His voice was raspy, shaking as he remembered everything that had gone wrong. Your heart stopped. You didn’t want to overwhelm Bucky with the million questions that flooded your mind. You loved Peter. He was the youngest member in Bucky’s gang and he had a special place in your heart. You would pick up a gun yourself if anything happened to him. “Is he okay?” Bucky nodded and you breathed a small sigh of relief. “What happened Bucky?”

“His aunt….she’s….that fucker Rumlow, they…” Bucky couldn’t continue, feeling his composure break again, fresh tears stinging his eyes. “I can still hear his screams y/n”

You didn’t need Bucky to continue to know exactly what he meant, your own heart shattering. You knew Peter only had his aunt after his mother and father passed away. He needed extra money and insisted on working alongside Bucky, refusing to take no for an answer. Bucky reluctantly allowed him to do small tasks, always keeping him out of harm’s way. Until now.

“He has nowhere to go, he’s alone” “He can stay with us” There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in your voice. Peter was like your baby brother and you knew Bucky wouldn’t want Peter anywhere else.

“Baby are you sure it, could be danger-”

You immediately cut him off. “No. He stays here with us. We are his family Bucky”

Bucky looked at you, tears welling in his eyes again, this time because of the love he had for you and the fierce way you loved others. You led him to the bedroom, helping him undress until he was bare. You slipped your clothes off, pulling Bucky into you, hoping the feeling of skin on skin would ground him. You wrapped your arms around him, letting the warmth of your bodies relax him. His hands roamed your soft skin as he nuzzled into you trying to get impossibly closer.

There was nothing sexual in that moment. His heart felt heavy but he closed his eyes melting into your touch. You allowed him to feel, you didn’t pry, you comforted him in a way he didn’t know was possible. He knew this wouldn’t be the first time he would feel like this again. But he also felt a sense of calm.

Because he knew. This was home.

#Bucky Barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barns imagine #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes angst #fluff #angst #bucky barnes comfort #peter parker #mob bucky barnes #mafia bucky #mob bucky #bucky x female reader #bucky x f!reader #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes mob au

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withahappyrefrain · 2 years

Note

Idk if someone has requested this already for your bingo prompts but jumping onto the bandwagon and requesting arranged marriage for reader and mob boss peter (can I also request a slight age difference and reader being terrified of what her husband does)

I like to think I added a nice twist to the whole "arranged marriage" trope.

Warnings: reader has a crappy family, some violence, mention of abuse

You stared ahead as your mother applied blush on your face. The itchy fabric of the dress she insisted on you wearing was digging into your skin. You desperately wished to yank out the bobby pins digging into your scalp.

Instead, you stayed still as she made you 'presentable'.

"Remember, don't say a word unless he asks you. Last thing we need is that mouth of yours ruining our one chance."

How do you pay a hitman to take care of your debts when you have no money?

You offer him a wife as payment.

In a way, you were glad Peter Parker wanted to see you before agreeing to marry you. Though it didn't make you feel less like some animal on display.

Your mother's hand on your arm yanked you out of your thoughts.

"Did you hear me? You better listen when he talks, men hate a woman who doesn't listen."

Of course, they just want a doll, not a wife. You fought back the snide comment. Your family had been tense about this meeting for the past few days. Snarky comments wouldn't help.

It was a double win for them. They'd get rid of their debt and of you.

"It's the best I can do," your mother sighed, "Tell him she's ready."

Your eyes fixated on the gaudy artwork your father insisted on hanging in his office. In a way, you were thankful that they told you this news the night before.

It gave you the chance to cry into your pillow until you fell asleep. Now a numb, empty feeling resided within you.

Was it such a shock that they would hand you over to a man so easily capable of being cruel and violent?

It shouldn't, given their annoyance towards your whole existence.

"You'll finally be useful. He's needed a new wife anyways, it's been three years since his first one died."

The door opened, yet your eyes still remained on the stupid artwork. They remained on it even when a long, lean torso clad in well tailored dress pants and a button up stood in front of you.

Long, ring-adorned fingers hooked themselves around your chin, forcing your head to tilt upwards until you made eye contact with your potential husband.

Peter Parker was handsome, you'll give him that. But his amber eyes were hardened and looked devoid of emotion. Not that you expected much from someone who made themselves known for being able to quickly and efficiently commit violent acts.

He tilted your head to the side, his lips tightly drawn together as he inspected you.

You tried to keep your face neutral, to not show any emotion. Partly so if this deal went sour, your parents couldn't cast (as much) blame onto you. Partly because you didn't want him to think you were scared.

You hoped he couldn't see that your hands were shaking.

"Stand." His voice was deep, laced with a Queens accent.

Hesitation filled you, until your eyes made contact with the death glare your mother was sending you.

And so you stood, albeit slowly. You already knew he was older than you, but the fact you didn't even come up to his chin made you feel like a child.

Perhaps that would deter him.

Instead, he chuckled, "You're so little."

You couldn't help but look down, your hands fidgeting with the hem of your dress.

This time you felt all of Peter's hands as they cupped your jawline, his fingers reaching the back of your neck. Your gaze was brought back to his face, his brow knitted in concentration as he studied yours.

"Pretty eyes," he muttered, "You talk?"

"When I want to," you whispered without thinking. Great, you blew it. He'd reject the offer and your family would actually have a valid reason to hate you and-

"And a sense of humor! I'll take her," He told your parents, as if you were some cut of meat and they were the butcher's at the local deli.

His hands dropped from your face as he turned to your parents, "Gotta get the place ready. I can take her Wednesday."

Pretty eyes and a sense of humor. That was all Peter Parker needed to determine you would make a suitable wife.

He didn't even attempt to have a conversation with you. That was what sealed the deal. He just wanted a warm body to fuck and birth his children. And while he found delight in your sense of humor now, that certainly wouldn't be the case later.

Sure, life with your family wasn't great. But what was the point of trading one hell for another?

So you ran. Or tried to.

You barely made it to the gate of your family's house when you heard yelling. You attempted to begin to climb up the gate when a large hand grabbed your ankle, pulling you down.

A curse fell from the lips of one of your father’s henchmen as you kicked, freeing you briefly. For a moment, you thought you had a chance. That perhaps a higher power did exist and took pity on you.

How stupid of you.

Another pair of arms grabbed your waist. You used all your strength to try to free yourself. Just when you thought you had a chance, you felt a rag cover your mouth.

Despite the sweet smell that flooded your nostrils, your body surged with panic. It became difficult to fight back, having to use all your strength just to jerk back your wrist.

And still, it wasn't enough. The rough material of rope dug into your skin.

You don't know when you closed your eyes, but the last thing you recalled hearing was "Let's give Parker an early wedding gift."

Despite years of no one listening to you, you still managed to mumble a weak "No.

Not that it mattered. It never did.

—----------------------

Rough hands grabbed your arms, pulling you up from the car seat. Your body was slow to react, though that didn't stop you from trying to resist.

The rag placed in your mouth made it next to impossible to scream, though it didn't prevent you from making such an attempt.

An elbow jabbed you in the ribs, causing you to bend over in pain.

"No wonder your folks want to get rid of you."

The men dragged you into a huge house that had nearly all of the lights turned off.

You tried to fight back, tried to wrangle yourself out of their grip. But they held on tight, practically dragging you through the house into you came into a study.

Hands shoved you hard, pushing you onto the floor, the marble bruising your knees.

You looked up to find Peter Parker sitting on the couch.

What a pathetic site you were. You could feel the mascara that had stained your cheeks, your body bruised and beaten from your attempts of escaping.

"What the fuck is going on?" He asked, sounding angry. That didn't shock you, he did say that he would be ready to take you in two days.

Now he was getting you early.

"Boss saw her trying to escape. Said to get her and bring her over to you," one of your father's men explained.

He nodded his head as he stood up, walking over to you. You stared at the floor, too ashamed of yourself to look at him.

"Her family says she's all yours." The other man mentioned.

It shouldn't have shocked you that your family would be willing to give you away to a violent man without any regards to your well-being. But it still stung.

This time you couldn't even wipe away your tears.

"They wanna know when you'll hold up your end of the deal," one of the men said to Peter.

Peter didn't respond. Instead, he kneeled down, his hands reaching to cup your face. The cool metal of his rings felt soothing against your hot, tear-stained face.

His eyes examined you. First your face, then the rest of your body. His amber eyes hardened upon seeing the bruises and marks on you, a scowl forming on his face.

"Hello? Parker, you got an answer or not?"

"Wednesday. Like I said I would," He replied without looking at them, his eyes still on you.

"Enjoy your new wife. Good luck with this one," they scoffed.

"Take the back way, Miles will show you," Peter leaned in, his lips hovering over your ear.

"You're safe now."

No you weren't. Your parents just handed you over to a man who had killed with his bare hands. Not only that, but they showed him exactly what they thought of you, letting him know the level of treatment they expected from him towards you was low.

Peter's hands moved towards the rope that bounded your arms and hands together, making quick work of removing them.

"They're not gonna fucking touch you after that," he muttered.

You stared at him in confusion.

Suddenly a gunshot rang out, clearly coming from inside the house. Then another.

From a distance, you could hear the voices of your father's men, yelling out in agony.

Two more shots quickly silenced them.

Peter's hands moved up to your face, removing the rag your mouth had been gagged with.

You stared at him. You should run. You could run now, thanks to him removing the ropes. Why would he do that?

Wouldn't he want his wife tied up, nice and pliant? Or did he get some sick, twisted pleasure from the idea of you putting up a fight against him? A fight he would win in an instant.

"W-why did you do that?" Was all you could ask.

"So that way when your family finds their bodies on their doorstep, they know not to bother me about why I haven't offed Craven to take care of their debt," He explained, as if it was clear as day.

He held his hand out for you. All you could do was stare in horror at the man in front of you.

"I need to check the burn marks you got from the rope. There's better lighting in the library." As if that should be enough to convince you.

He kneeled down, his hands reaching towards you. You tried to move away, a shriek beginning to fall from your lips.

One of Peter's ringed hands quickly clamped over your mouth, his body pinning yours to the ground.

This was it. He'd seen you disobey him and now he would put you in your place.

"Look, I know it's hard to believe, but you're safer with me. I just made sure those lowlifes you call 'family' don't ever bother you again. Running away is probably the dumbest choice you could make right now." Peter's voice was firm and gruff, sending shudders throughout your body.

You could only stare back at him, the events of today finally catching up to your mental state.

That was when his eyes softened. He removed his hand from your mouth, his long fingers gently stroking the sides of your face.

"You're safe here. Let me help you," He whispered.

His eyes looked gentle, never leaving you as he pushed himself off of your body, extending out a hand.

Shaking, you raised yours, taking it.

You didn't trust him.

But Peter Parker was right. As for now, he was your only option.

Which is how you found yourself in his library. A first aid kit adorned the marble coffee table as Peter was on his knees, inspecting your injuries.

"It's minor," you said softly, watching him apply an antibiotic cream to a burn on your arm.

"This isn't minor," He responded, shaking his head.

"I've had worse," you said, shrugging.

It wasn't until he looked up at you with a frown on his face and those soft eyes that you realized the weight behind your words.

You didn't need his pity. You had done just fine without it.

"Why did you pick me? As your wife?" You then asked, wanting to distract him and yourself from your previous words.

A small smile crept on his face, like he had heard an inside joke, "You're smart, pretty clever, and nice. Not to mention beautiful."

You crossed your arms, "You got all of that from a five minute meeting?"

Peter shook his head as he put away the first aid kit, "I knew that before we met. I know a lot more than you think, lamb."

How dare he make assumptions and act like he was your savior in all of this? He was just as much as responsible for you being in this situation as your parents. And to practically admit he had seen you before? Was that supposed to make you feel better?

You were about to question him when you were interrupted.

"Daddy?" A small voice called out.

You looked up to the doorway. Standing there, was a small child who couldn't have been older than three. She had curly dark brown hair and bright blue eyes that were still full of sleep. Clad in a long nightgown while holding onto a stuffed elephant, she looked out of place in the elegant library.

Peter gave you a knowing look before getting up to walk over to the small child.

"What'cha doing up lovebug? Was it too loud?" He asked softly, kneeling down.

She nodded her head, still rubbing her eyes with one hand while the other clutched her stuffed animal.

"I'm sorry bug. Those men who were being loud are gone now and they won't come back," He said as he picked her up, a large hand rubbing her back.

It wasn't the fact that Peter Parker had a child that was shocking.

"Sophie?" Her eyes looked up at the sound of her name, meeting yours.

It was the fact that you knew her.

The little girl who you had been made to watch when you and your mother visited Betty Brandt. Betty wanted the little girl out of her hair, your mom wanted you out of sight.

So you two spent time together, reading stories and exploring the gardens. The small child had taken to you.

The last words she said to you from several days ago rang in your head.

"Daddy says I'm going to get a new mommy soon!" Sophie explained.

You smiled at her news. Her father was involved in the business, though no one ever seem to know his name.

"That's wonderful Sophie! I bet she's so excited to be your new Mommy!" Secretly, you were praying that would be the case. The last thing this sweet girl needed was someone who wouldn't even try to love her.

"I saw a star last night and made a wish on who I want to be my new Mommy! But I can't tell ya 'cause it won't come true if I do!"

You had just laughed at her words and went back to tending to the garden.

The call of your name pulled you out of the haze surrounding your thoughts. Somehow, Sophie had gotten out of Peter's arms and was crawling up the couch, into your lap.

"My wish came true! You're my new Mama!"

Your stomach lurched, your hands shaking. And yet, when you looked down to see that big smile on her face and saw how the corners of her eyes crinkled, you couldn't find it in your heart to show any disdain.

So instead, you gave her a small smile as you pushed a curl out of her face, "Your wish came true."

"Sophie, you wanna show Mama your bedroom? We can read you a story," Peter suggested. You looked up, your eyes meeting his.

A small smile adorned his face. He had caught you. Was this his plan all along? To trap you?

It was easy to assume the worst in Peter Parker, given all the stories you heard.

But you also heard the stories Sophie told you about her 'Daddy'. The one who read her a story every night, who played cowboys and tea parties with her. Who made the best spaghetti "in the whole wide world!"

The way he kneeled down to soothe Sophie when she first walked in matched up with those stories.

Could you be safe here?

"C'mon Mama!" Sophie tugged on your hand. You smiled, standing up and letting her show you the way.

A large hand placed itself on the small of your back. You turned your head to find that Peter was now walking beside you.

"After she shows you her bedroom, I can show you yours," He said softly.

"Mine?" Your brows knitted in confusion. Surely he meant his bedroom.

He nodded his head, "Figured you'd want your own."

You stopped, only able to stare at him. Peter offered a gentle smile in return as the hand on your back applied a slight amount of pressure, reminding you to keep walking.

All your life you felt like you were on edge, always ready for the worse to happen.

That feeling hadn't gone away, but for right now, it was dull.

You were still determined to figure out Peter Parker. The man was going to be your husband after all.

And despite his methods, despite all the stories you heard, it was possible that he did care about you.

#my writing #Abby's 3K celebration #Peter Parker AU #Peter Parker imagine #mob!peter parker #tasm fanfiction #spiderman Au #peter parker x you #peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker imagine #tasm peter x you #tasm peter x reader #tasm!peter imagine #tasm!peter x you #tasm!peter parker x reader #tasm!peter x reader

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backtothefanfiction · 7 months

Text

The Angel In The Garden of Evil

A Mob!Au Andrew!Peter Parker Story

Peter Parker’s wife left him 3 years ago. Suddenly she’s back and she’s brought some news that is about to change everything, unfortunately that news comes with it’s own set of complications and he’s out for blood.

PROLOGUE: YOU EITHER DIE A HERO, OR LIVE LONG ENOUGH TO SEE YOURSELF BECOME THE VILLAIN

ONE: THE CALL OF A NIGHTBIRD

TWO: MR & MRS PARKER

THREE: THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME

FOUR: SOME SHADOWS LOOM LARGE

FIVE: YOU DON'T OWN ME

SIX: HE'S GOT A SOUL AS SWEET AS BLOOD RED JAM

*SEVEN: IN THE LAND OF GOD'S AND MONSTERS I WAS AN ANGEL, LOOKING TO GET F*CKED HARD

EIGHT: THERE'S NO REMEDY FOR MEMORY

NINE: AN EXPLOSION IN CHINATOWN

TEN: MILLION DOLLAR MAN

ELEVEN: PUTTING THE PIECES TOGETHER AGAIN

TWELVE: THE GOOD NURSE

THIRTEEN: WHEN YOU’RE EIGHT LIVES DOWN

FOURTEEN: FAMILY FEUD AT THE FUNERAL

FIFTEEN: ME AND THE DEVIL

SIXTEEN: FROM FRIENDS TO ENEMIES

SEVENTEEN: A FRIEND IN THE SHADOWS

EIGHTEEN: ONE LAST GAME

*NINETEEN: WASH IT AWAY

EPILOGUE: NOT ANOTHER ENVELOPE

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reidslovely · 1 year

Text

Sit With Me, Crawl Inside (Mob! Peter Parker)

Request: No

Description: After Peter throws himself into his work, he forgets to pull himself out. His fiancé has a plan how to join him in his office.

Genre: Smut(?) with angst. 18+

Content Warnings: Cock-warming, smut adjacent I guess no sex and no one finishes. Peter cries and some mention of murder. I wrote this very quickly and it’s just a cute little idea I had. I low-key hate it but I will not let it go to waste.

Reblog, and leave a comment if you feel like it.

_________

On the typical night when Peter came home the house would suddenly feel warm, filled with love. With (Y/N) rushing to him, the sound of her feet carrying her down the hall to the front door would echo. He would brace himself for impact, to grab her and spin her in his arms. Not tonight.

Tonight Peter carries himself through the door, the tie on his neck feeling like it is choking his last bit of life from him. Blood still splattered on his shirt and pants filled him with shame.

Tonight he shuts the door quietly, not wanting to alert her of his arrival.

Tonight he sulks past her, greeting her with just a kiss to her head.

Tonight Peter shuts his office door on her.

(Y/N) stood at the end of the hall, the heat still alive in her face from his fleeting kiss. She had only seen Peter like this once before, it was at the very start of their relationship. Before she knew what he did for a living.

Before she knew who Peter Parker was, and what that power does to people.

It was their fifth date, Peter was late and she was sitting on the boat alone. On her second glass of wine, watching the waves over the side of the boat. All these dates later, and he finally bailed. It was the screeching tires that drew her attention back over to the dock, Peter flung his body out of the black car apologizing profusely as he ran to her. Greeting her with the same fleeting kiss as a hello, before sitting across from her. She did most of the talking that night, noticing he seemed off his head rested against his fist as she spoke. He was lost, not in the story she was telling like he usually was- but in his own thoughts.

Peter assured her nothing was wrong, he was tired is all. Long day at the office. She bought it.

Until their date was cut short because of Peter snapping at what she believed to be a client on the phone. Muttering to her that some people can’t do their jobs and that he was really sorry as he arranged for his driver to take her home.

Now in this moment she listened to her instincts, she walked back up the staircase, taking a quick glimpse at Peter’s office door. He would have his few moments of anger, and join her for bed. When they woke up in the morning everything would be back to normal. Or so she hoped.

Hours passed, seven o’clock quickly turned into eleven and Peter was still not in bed. (Y/N) rolled herself over to Peter’s side of the bed, her face buried in his pillows. As she laid there she thought of everything that could have gone wrong for him to be so distant, even on his worst days since (Y/N) found out she knew everything and he never acted like this. She felt a presence at the door, she looked over her shoulder to see Peter now shirtless, in a clean pair of pants leaning in the doorframe.

“Do you wanna talk to me about it?” (Y/N) asks, her voice low similar to how her mother would comfort her. “I’ll listen.”

Peter only shook his head, swallowing hard. She opened her mouth to speak to him, hoping he’d come crawling into bed with her. Letting their bones intertwine, and settle into their cloud of comfort they built for each other. Instead, he pressed another light kiss to her cheek, grabbing her pillow from her side of the bed and a knitted blanket from the armchair.

“Lot’a work, gonna sleep in the office tonight.”

There was no way for her to refuse, for her to rebuttal, for her to beg him to stay. Not even the lingerie under her robe could tempt him, she bit down on the inside of her cheeks watching him leave.

“I love you.” (Y/N) says as he walks out. She could see Peter turn around in the dark of their hallway.

“I love you too.”

He disappeared down the stairs, and the shut of his office sealed the deal.

The house felt empty even with the two of them in the house. (Y/N) stood by Peter’s office door, the black silk of her robe still wrapped tightly around her body from her shower this morning. She held the plate of various breakfast foods making a bit of all of his favorites, wanting to get him to eat anything. Hesitantly she knocked on his office door before poking her head in, she leaned against the door frame waiting for his attention to be drawn back to her.

“Pete..”

Peter lifted his head looking at his wife, his eyes puffy and his face stained. He had been crying. “Peter..” Her voice was more gentle than the last, coaxing Peter to her. He stood from his chair, walking over to her. (Y/N) let him take the plate from her hands, sitting it on the small end table by the door. He pulled her body into his crying, his body shaking as he sobbed. (Y/N) wrapped him in his arms, letting him cry.

“I know baby, I know Pete.” She whispers against his chest, letting him hold her tighter. Not feeling close enough, knowing that if he could crawl inside her and rest it would bring him so much peace.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

Peter lingered in her neck, nodding slowly after thinking he settled them down into the leather armchair, his hand firm on her back.

“I don’t know how it happened. I think everything through. I plan everything through. To the last fucking detail.” Peter spoke quietly, his thumb rubbing against her back. “I just..his wife walked in. She’s covered in his blood, and she is crying over his body. And.. and she just looked at me like I was the monster her husband was.” Peter’s voice shook, as tears started to pour down his face. (Y/N) wiped them slowly, her lips pressed to his temple as he held her impossibly close, his knuckle turning white where he gripped her thigh.

There was an intimacy Peter craved when he got like this, (Y/N) was never sure why. Her lips pressed against his cheek, as she rested against him. “You’re gonna look at me like that one day..” He whispers. “You’re gonna see me as the monster I am.”

“No, no. No Peter, I never would..” (Y/N) jumps to defend herself. “You are not a monster. You are a good man, you are doing what everyone else out there is too scared to do. Look at me, look at me Peter.” (Y/N) said, grabbing his face gently, wanting his undivided attention. “You are not a monster. You are the love of my life, you will never scare me.” She kissed him briefly, his hand trailing up her thigh touching her bare core, his fingers briefly trailing over.

“No, not like this Peter.” She says pushing his hand away, “not while you are so upset. It’s not fair to you.”

“Please, it’ll make me feel better.” He brushed his nose against her collar. “Won’t even fuck you, please I just need to feel you. Be inside you.” Peter’s beg wore her down, kissing his nose as she pulled his sweats down to where she can pull him out. Peter wrapping his larger hand around hers as she pulled his cock out of his pants, he pressed his ear against her chest listening to her heart flutter.

“I love you.”

(Y/N) says as she pumps him in her hand a couple times, smearing the warm pre cum around, making it easier for her to slide him into her.

“Promise?”

“Forever, through everything.”

She whispers back to him, her legs moving to straddle him. His hands fall to grip her thighs as she leads him into her. Both of their breaths hitch as she settles into his lap, his head dropping against her shoulder. His grip never loosened, as if he was scared she’d be ripped away from him if he even thought about it. (Y/N)’s head pressed into his hair, relaxing against him letting the comfort of being intertwined wash over them both.

_____________

@sincericida @helloheyhihowdyheya @bxcketbarnes @toomanyfictionalboyfriends @andrews-lovr @raajali3 @ateliefloresdaprimavera @a-lumos-in-the-nox @megmehz @eevylynn @messymissy

short tag list took some people out for inactivity or not allowing me to tag. if you want to be tagged in future pieces fill out the google forum in my pinned post or ask in the comments! love u 🤍

#tasm peter parker #tasm peter x you #tasm!peter imagine #tasm peter parker x reader #tasm peter smut #tasm peter x reader #tasm andrew garfield #peter parker oneshot #peter parker x you #tasm peter parker x reader #mob!peter parker #mob peter parker x reader #peter parker x reader #tasm peter parker x self insert

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liz-allyn · 3 months

Text

love on the brain: sugar & vice, vol 2 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!OC]

summary: You didn’t think it was going to be easy, did you? AKA The night Peter and Honey reunited—Four. Months. Later. [mob!peter parker x oc!MJ]

words: 11.8k (omfg)

NSFW/MINORS DNI - ABANDON ALL CHASTITY, YE WHO ENTER HERE (detailed warnings below)

extended warnings (spoilers): p^rn with plot, detailed smut, really just... filthy and deranged. slightly dubcon parts (although consent is clearly confirmed), no Y/N...ever, arguing, anger, jealousy, physical violence (slapping, scratching, throwing objects), almost hate sex, fem!reader with a vagina and breasts and wears a dress, oral (f! receiving), P in V, rough!dom Peter, sub!reader, possessive!peter, mirrors, titty!worship, shame and slight degradation, use of emojis, f! being restrained, discussion of masturbation, slight breeding kink, non-consensual voyeurism, moderate BDSM kink, “punishment” play (spanking, edging) bratty reader, peter parker being a dunce around women, mob!au, furniture harmed in the making of this

names used: daddy, princess, baby, babygirl

A/N: This is a one-shot standalone story that takes place immediately after the Epilogue of Vol 1. And serves as the official beginning of Vol. 2. If you haven’t read Vol.1, you really should. The main OC is AFAB and goes by the name “Honey.” You’ll need to read Vol. 1 to know why. I try to be loose with my descriptions for people who prefer a Reader-Insert. But I’m not perfect. In this canon, Honey has a Latina heritage (as do I). Take that as you will. Thanks to @moonyslove78 and @blooming-violets for cheering me on through this very long hiatus.

This is 18+ AF. And if you think the term ‘AF’ shows how old and out of touch you are, then you’re probably not old enough to read this.

This version of TASM Peter Parker is not canon. The relationships here are not healthy and the characters need therapy. Don’t date a mob boss IRL.

#1 - Love on the Brain

>>> heya boss. how’s your trip? 😜

Peter arched a brow as he peeked down at the text message.

>>> ⋯ >>> your trip to pound town? 🍆🍑

He rolled his eyes, swallowing back an irritated snort.

Real mature, Felicia.

He almost tapped out a haughty reply but stopped. Corners of his mouth turned down, he found himself unable to respond.

“So many choices. I just don’t know what I want.”

An understatement.

The girl of his dreams sat across from him in the quaint East Harlem Cuban restaurant. They were crammed together at a bistro table near the kitchen. The enormous menu took up the entire surface, and she had spent the last 25 minutes reading the items aloud.

It was nearly 11 p.m., and they had yet to pick an appetizer.

The woman he’d called ‘his Honey’ sweetly sighed with a shrug. “Now that we’re here, I just can’t make up my mind.”

Her voice had a singsong tune to it, purposefully careless. Blissfully ignorant of the fact that Peter was starving.

“Maybe I’m just not feeling Cuban food tonight,” she shrugged, nonchalant.

Peter swallowed hard. Tried to rid his expression of any hint of impatience or irritation.

“Oh,” he remarked delicately, thinking of all the different dinner reservations he’d made for tonight. It didn’t matter what magazine talked it up, didn’t matter how many “tire awards” it had won.

Honey was unimpressed.

“M’surprised,” he said, as emotionlessly as possible. “Thought you had your heart set on this place.”

The place was one of those hole-in-the-wall joints that had less than 10 tables, which made takeout the most popular choice.

On this night however—a Tuesday— the restaurant was nearly empty, except for the overdressed couple and the loathsome kitchen staff, who didn’t expect to be subject to “este cabrón” and his picky girlfriend strolling in 30 minutes before closing.

While Peter could feel the heat of their ire over the oven, Honey avoided it. She explained to the manager that Peter was “un ricacho que tiene demasiado dinero.” And with that, they were seated.

When Peter approached her earlier that afternoon in the park, he’d expected a much worse welcome. He nearly died of a panic attack when he spotted her on the park bench. It had been four long months since he’d attempted to communicate with her, and he half-expected her to throw her iced coffee in his face.

Actually, he had no idea what to expect from her. Terrifyingly.

Peter had lamented to Felicia— “There’s no card that says, ‘Sorry, I ghosted you for a few months while attempting to shake the heat off my back.’ Which flowers say, ‘I apologize that the last conversation we had, I called you a whore in front of a room full of cops’?”

The true challenge came when Peter actually looked into her eyes. He didn’t expect that one look would render him useless.

She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Ethereal. Glowing. The human equivalent of a bouquet of sunflowers, with happy round cheeks and her hair tied back in a ponytail. She was the color of rainbows, and summer, and sunshine. She was the cherries of her red lip stain and the golden rays of her yellow linen sundress.

God, that dress.

Peter planned for everything—but not that dress.

His carefully rehearsed speech went out the window when he saw her in that dress: a cotton ruched-waist, tea-length gown in a yellow gingham pattern. It featured a sweetheart neckline that cradled her breasts perfectly between the halter tie-back straps.

He had no idea where that dress came from, but it was the most perfect piece of fabric ever to grace a woman’s body. He would buy her twelve more of them, no matter the cost. He’d buy every last one.

He’d give her the sun, the ocean, Hawai’i, and all the stars in the sky— if only she’d forgive him. He was ready to throw himself on a bed of hot coals as long as it meant that she would take him back. If she would come back home.

Truthfully, he needed her to come home.

Not to get ahead of himself, he started by taking her to dinner.

That was Felicia’s advice—women love dinner. solves everything. the fancier, the better, with lots of red meat—u know how they say food is the way to a man’s heart? dinner is the way to the ovaries. works every time.

Actually, Felicia gave Peter lots of advice. For once, he was more than grateful to accept it.

>>> make her feel like you can’t take your eyes off her. but don’t stare. like a creeper >>> be a gentleman, but not a pushover. you wanna be the good guy. soft YA novel boyfriend type

Followed quickly by—

>>> but not too soft! don’t be a little bitch. if she plays hard to get, you play offense. >>> and defense.

Peter had no idea what she was talking about. But he knew when it was wise to trust the advice of more intelligent creatures than men.

Five restaurants later...

“I thought going to dinner was your idea?” Honey asked with pursed lips.

“It was; it was my idea,” he nervously replied. “Six hours ago—it was my idea.”

She narrowed her eyes to slits. “Hmm. Six hours. Long time to wait.” Her eyes fell down to the menu again. Her lack-of-sympathy said everything.

Peter’s pocket buzzed again, and he glanced down at the incoming text message from Felicia.

>>> ...????

He rolled his eyes. Tapped out a response.

<<< Not great.

“Am I interrupting something?” Honey asked with a clipped tone.

Peter jumped, pocketing his phone immediately. “No, just... just something... silly,” he muttered. “How ‘bout we get a few plates in, yeah? I’m gonna just order some stuff—”

“Like what?” she questioned skeptically.

“I don’t know,” Peter shrugged, his stomach twisting. “One of everything.”

“That’s wasteful,” Honey said, judgment sharpening her gaze. “Food waste is bad enough as it is in this city.”

“Well, at this point,” he snapped with an exasperated sigh, “I might be able to eat two of everything.” The words floated away from him, and he bit the inside of his cheek, wishing they would come back. Hesitantly, he made eye contact with Honey.

She peered at him disgustedly from over the top of her menu. She scoffed, crossing one leg over the other, and dropped the leather-bound book closed.

“Don’t let me slow you down,” Honey said icily. “I’m not that hungry anyway.”

Peter’s eyes nearly bulged out of his skull. His pocket buzzed again.

>>> the fuck? what do you mean? >>> she was in love with you b4... how hard can it be to take her on a date? >>> christ. did you fuck this up, parker?

He shoved the phone back in his jacket, nearly punching through the silk fabric.

“If I’m wasting your time, tell me,” Honey sharply retorted. She crossed her arms even tighter across her chest. He had to force himself to look away from the way it plumped her breasts together. “I’d hate to keep you from something important.”

Felicia was right. He was fucking this up. Before he could open his mouth—

“Excuse me, señorita,” a masculine, smoky voice crooned at them.

Peter and Honey glanced up to see a chiseled man in his 30s approach the table with a hurricane glass of ice. He was a specimen of Latin American art—a bronzed statue, with carved muscles that bulged out of his floral shirt. Deep brown eyes—no, hazel eyes— fixed on Honey as he reached across the table with rolled-back sleeves. The corded muscles in his arm, toned by long hours of hard labor, flexed gracefully as he gently set a cocktail in front of her.

A frosted, colorless liquid speckled with crushed mint leaves filled the glass. Honey blinked with delighted surprise.

“Our compliments,” the young, disgustingly attractive waiter explained with a sultry smile and a thick accent. “In case you found yourself thirsty while browsing the menu.”

A blush colored her skin as she glanced up at their handsome waiter. The sparkle in her smile was as blinding as ever, and she graciously looked back between the glass and the server. The waiter— no way in hell this fuckin’ guy is a waiter— beamed back at her, enamored.

“Oh, wow!” she gasped, reaching for the glass with dainty fingers. “Is this a mojito? That’s my favorite! How did you know?”

The waiter graciously chuckled. “Lucky guess. You look like a woman of refined taste.��

Peter felt his blood pressure rising.

Honey didn’t even look at her date, as if he was suddenly invisible. “Thank you,” she grinned, self-satisfied. “I mean, I do know my way around a Bacardi bottle.” The waiter chuckled, maybe too hard, at her silly joke.

“We want you to enjoy your evening with us,” the waiter added politely, sparing Peter a glance but keeping all his attention on Honey. “We are honored to have you as our guest.”

The waiter spoke gentlemanly as he splayed his long fingers across his chest. “Please, take as much time as you need. No need to feel rushed. It is my pleasure to serve you.”

Peter could feel a twitch behind his eye. Could have been the fire shooting out of his eyes. Fuck this prick, probably another Broadway reject or somethin’, couldn’t buy himself a decent shirt—His mind churned along with his anger.

Oblivious, Honey beamed up at him with a golden smile. “Thank you so much for saying that,” she replied, endearingly sweet. “You are too kind, um... I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

“Pedro.”

Honey’s brows shot to her hairline. “Pedro?” she repeated, absolutely delighted. She glanced over at Peter. “Isn’t that something?”

The mob boss’ lip curled mirthlessly. “Oh, it’s somethin,’ alright.”

Peter continued to burn his stare—fuck his stupid accent— into the side of the aloof waiter’s head. He wondered if Pedro’s handsome, chiseled jawline was sharp enough to cut through a noose.

Buzz..

>>> you’re keepin’ your cool, right? >>> remember what i said. >>> anything she wants. no questions asked! >>> don’t get all crazy possessive either

The joyful sound of her laughter ripped his attention away from his phone and back towards his charmed date.

“Pedro,” she sweetly preened. “Can you give us a recommendation?” She briefly flashed her eyes at Peter before looking back at her new friend. “My date’s clearly distracted. He has no idea what I like.”

Oh? Peter raised a brow at that. And lost his appetite.

Peter followed Honey down the hallway to his hotel suite while storm clouds swirled in his gut. Lighting crackled with each footfall. Tension clogged the atmosphere, and they shuffled in a silent fog to the door.

Despite Felicia’s advice about controlling his inner beasts, Peter’s hackles were raised, and his stomach growled. Now, he was hungry for more than just food. And simultaneously, he’d never felt so powerless.

Peter noted how tightly she wrapped her arms around herself. Her face suggested she was deep in thought. He wondered if she was just as tightly wound as he was. Wondered if she could break his heart with just a look.

He was flailing. Pathetic.

Peter’s fist clenched his keycard tight. He had to be careful not to snap the card in half between his fingers. Was it from excitement or terror? Desire or rage?

He had to focus, to make this work. He had nothing if he didn’t have her.

Rigidly, Peter pushed the door open and stood to the side of the frame to let her enter.

She paused briefly, lips tight, as she gazed into the rotunda entryway of the lavish suite. They hadn’t spoken in the car, and he hadn’t had the chance to explain the location.

Letting out a steady breath, she strode through the threshold and stopped. Her body blocked the doorway. She turned to look up at Peter, defiant eyes flashing.

“This is as far as you go.”

Peter blinked, looking at her in confusion.

Her tone was curt. Icy. He recognized that sound. It was the tone of voice she used when she wanted to draw blood, and it never failed to inflict pain. Her voice. Her eyes. Even her tongue was razor-sharp.

Peter curled a brow upwards. “Sorry?”

Honey narrowed her eyes. “Not yet, you’re not.”

He took a step back, blinking owlishly.

“What did you think was going to happen tonight, Peter?” The ire of Honey’s question sliced through him. “Did you think you were gonna shave your face, take me to a fancy dinner, and then I’d just... open my legs for you?”

A literal ellipsis formed in his mind.

Peter swallowed hard. “Uhhh—?”

“‘I’ll wait for forever, Honey,’ she parroted his earlier admission mockingly. “Is that all you have to say to me? You left me! For four months!”

Peter nodded his head, not sure exactly why or when he began. “I know, I know...”

“You know!?”

The walls of etiquette and politeness between them began to crack.

“How many times I gotta tell ya? I was tryin’ to protect ya, Honey—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

It stung like a snake bite. Rage filled her eyes, disdain bubbling out of her mouth. She had only just begun.

“You buy me all this expensive bullshit!” she scolded. “And you dress up in your ridiculous designer suits and parade me to all these fucking pretentious places! Like I’m some kind of accessory! Like you own the whole fucking city and everyone in it!”

He replied with a string of noises. Or, at least, he thought so.

“Big bad mob boss—all that power—and yet, you couldn’t just talk to me? You had me wait around for you like a stray dog! You can just come and go as you please, but you—you expect me to follow you around on a leash?”

“Honey, please. Let me explain—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Peter!” her voice echoed through the rotunda and down the hall of the hotel. “I don’t want to hear a single one of your lame excuses! I don’t want a fancy dinner, or a new Porsche, or a mansion, or whatever else makes your dick hard!”

Peter blinked rapidly, stunned. His body responded as if she had just kicked him in the place she referenced, “Jus’lemme—”

“And I sure as hell don’t want another apology!” she asserted definitively. “I don’t want you anywhere near me!”

Peter’s jaw hung open, tongue dead in his mouth. The woman who barely stood at his collarbone stared down at him, making him feel inches tall.

“Now, I’m going to bed. Exactly as I have been for the last four months.” Her voice thundered, “Alone!”

With that, the door slammed in his face, rattling inches from his nose. The echo reverberated through the empty hallway and inside his chest, emphasizing the deep crack that formed.

Peter let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. The shock subsided slowly, and his heart sank. The ache soon sizzled into a burn, boiling his blood. At the same time, the sting of her rejection was raw. Unbearable.

Unbelievable.

Absolutely unacceptable.

He should break down the fucking door. Throw her over his shoulder and tie her up. Gag her—Anything to get her to listen.

Haplessly, Peter’s eyes fell on his expensive shoes—his Valentinos. Or maybe these were the Tom Ford’s? He had no clue. Just more bullshit.

Fuck—He was going to cry. Maybe he should let himself just do it. Lean into it. Drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness. Shoulders slumped, he squeezed his eyes closed.

He was a little bitch.

Peter pictured a door closing on a rocket or an airplane. Whatever it was, it was leaving him behind. He was falling back to Earth, having placed too much faith in miracles. This was his punishment for flying that close to the sun—

The door swung open.

Two hands grabbed Peter’s jacket, pulling him forward off his heels. It was a surprisingly fluid motion; his heartbreak had reduced the mass of his bones to nothing.

Honey’s nails practically pierced his lapels. She yanked him through the doorway into the suite, slamming the door behind him, and slamming him into the door right after.

Before Peter could open his mouth to speak, she was on him like a viper.

A sharp, biting kiss swallowed him whole, stealing the oxygen from his lungs. The heat was as intense as he had remembered. This time, they didn’t melt into one another. Honey was like a wildfire, her touch scalding him.

His skin flushed from the sudden unbearable heat. Before he could react, her lithe fingers started tugging the edges of his jacket. Clumsily, she tried pushing it back over his broad shoulders. As soon as he knew of her intent, he eagerly obliged, shrugging the garment off and to the floor.

Her hands went to his throat, ebony-painted nails leaving trails on his skin. Buttons popped as she yanked on his clothes. Her goal could have been to draw blood with her kiss.

Every time her teeth tore at his lips, he responded with a groan into her mouth.

Clumsy, he fumbled with his fingers—reaching up to grip her by the hair. Finally, he wrenched her head back, detaching her bite from his face.

Immediately, he was met with an open-palmed slap on the cheek.

Sharp gasps cut through them, and they jumped backward a few feet. Tension and shock reverberated in the chasm they created. Like the barometric pressure plunging before a storm, an eerie calm settled over them.

Honey blinked at him, jaw agape and her palm throbbing.

Peter glared at her in silence. He looked a mess—hair unkempt, the top buttons of his shirt torn open to reveal jagged crimson scratch marks across his milky skin.

His heartbeat steadily increased as he gently dabbed his fingertips at the ache in his jaw. The exquisite lines of his face were stained pastel pink, flushed by arousal or anger. His eyes were black as night, so it could have been either one.

She looked just as wrecked. Dress askew, her hairstyle half-unraveled. Goosebumps dotted her skin. She looked shocked at the violence she was capable of, surprised and possibly guilty at her own strength. As the seconds passed, the feelings faded.

Peter watched her, pupils dilating, blood pressure rising. The shadow of a smile curved his mouth. His features darkened into something primal. Something familiar.

There’s my girl.

Slowly, he lowered his hand, studying her threatening look until his own expression began to match.

Physically, his senses were haywire. Danger, excitement, and a sick sort of pleasure rattled his bones and labored his breathing. The hairs on his skin stood on end. Alarms blared in his head. The sound of his own blood was almost deafening to him, thumping like a kick drum.

Peter could hear her heart, too. Fast. Like a rabbit. He was a wolf in pursuit.

Maybe the pain of her slap triggered him, a preemptive action against further attack.

She got one in, Peter mused mockingly. He knew she was no match. Not as Peter’s night vision sharpened. Not while he could taste the salt from her perspiration on his tongue. Most intoxicating of all, Peter could smell her desire. Like a rose bursting open.

In another blink, they switched positions. Peter snatched her by her shoulders and slammed her back into the wall, pinning her there. She went feral—hissing and raging at her entrapment.

Not a rabbit. A honey badger, then.

“Get off of me!” Honey spat.

“Shut up,” he ordered. Quiet and fierce.

Fingers gripping her forearms tight, he attacked her lips, teeth colliding. The ferocity stunned her. For a moment, it seemed like she finally submitted to him before she wriggled her mouth free.

“Mmffucker—Let me go!”

His body might as well have been a brick wall. His face was stonelike, eyes just as cold.

“No.”

Honey’s brow scrunched up like a petulant child throwing a tantrum. “I’ll scream!” she countered.

Peter smirked, the hickory in his eyes igniting. “Baby. You have no idea.”

Peter’s guarantee sent a shiver down Honey’s spine. He saw the gears turning in her mind as she carefully considered pushing him further.

He hoped she would.

His fingers tightened around her forearms. He crucified her under his gaze. And yet, despite the danger anyone else would have felt... A glimmer of curiosity flickered in her eyes.

It set his mind reeling. A tiny sign of weakness to temptation made Peter’s stomach trapeze. He zeroed in on it, licking his chops.

Not to make it easy, Honey brought her knee up, attempting to make contact with his groin. There was nearly a foot of difference between their heights, and she paid it no mind.

Brave girl.

Peter admired her tenacity. She had balls. Smart, too, he pleasantly recognized. Honey went for the weak spot first. Good call.

Pointless, though.

Nothing below Peter’s belt was weak when she was around.

Unfairly, Peter picked up on her attack before her leg was even bent. He snatched her above the knee, lifting her toes off the ground and prying her thighs open.

He pictured the bruises on her skin that his fingertips would leave behind. Just the thought made him rock hard.

A year ago, Peter would have been ashamed. He would have shied away from her, for fear of repulsing her, and took out his frustration by himself in the shower.

Grinding his teeth at those memories, he pressed Honey’s hips into his waist, forcing her legs around him, and—Fuck—her heat.

Peter’s brain nearly short-circuited. She was like a bonfire against his belly. His cock pushed against his trousers, straining for her warmth. He secured her hips to his with a tight grip, which only pissed her off more. She thrashed, enraged.

She really needed to stop doing that. It only made the burn worse.

A few months ago, Peter would have been ashamed of the rush he felt from manhandling her. Ashamed of how his cock ached and twitched at her fruitless tantrums.

“Fucking asshole!” Honey sneered.

“Yeah?” he said with a bitter laugh. “You're a spoiled little brat!”

“Fuck you!”

“See what I mean?” Peter scoffed, holding her tighter. He breathed hotly into the shell of her ear. “Not even a ‘please.’”

His pride was short-lived. Inexplicably, Honey arched her neck and buried her teeth into his shoulder. He roared—“Fuck! What the fuck!!??” —surprised she didn’t bite through the silk of his collared shirt.

Apparently, he wasn’t the only beast in the room.

They tumbled down ungracefully. Peter landed hard on his back, with Honey crashing on top of him. She collapsed on his lungs, knocking the wind from his chest. Sputtering, he reached out to grab her, his fingertips barely missing the hem of her dress. The small woman scrambled to her hands and knees, then to her feet.

Honey dashed into the suite while Peter’s voice echoed—“Goddamnitareyacrazy!?”—after her.

Padding on her toes, she ran into a darkened living room with vaulted ceilings that might have been large enough to fit her entire apartment. Outside glass walls, the Midtown skyline surrounded her. The Metlife and Empire State Buildings glittered proudly in a breathtaking view.

The room was situated in the corner of the building. Velvet curtains framed the floor-to-ceiling windows, providing an unobstructed view of the city. The Dark Academia-Meets-Glam aesthetic seating area featured a sleek, modern leather sectional and mod velvet chaise lounge chat set.

Without time to admire any of it, she scrambled to the first piece of furniture she could reach. She grabbed the first thing her fingers could find—a designer fruit bowl centerpiece made of polished stainless steel and brass pomegranates.

It was exquisite and expensive.

Honey spun on her heel and flung the heavy metal at Peter.

He dipped deftly, his spine bowing back, narrowly missing the bowl as it whipped past him. The object barreled through a crystal chandelier, glass shattering like raindrops as they came down.

“Hey—!” he scowled, facing her with an indignant glare.

A moment later, he quickly shielded his face from another flying object: an asymmetrical crystal-and-Riverstone candelabra that crumbled against his forearm. It might as well have been a brick, with ceramic shards tumbling off of his shoulder.

Peter bristled in aggravation, brushing the pieces off. Now, she was really pissing him off.

He glanced up just in time to see a glass vase containing two dozen roses—meant to be her gift—hurtling towards his head. Reflexively, he snatched it from the air with one hand, water and all. He palmed the crystal vase like catching a baseball. Didn’t spill a drop.

His quick reflexes stunned the both of them. Peter’s jaw went slack—partially at his ability to save the flowers, but mostly with indignation that Honey had somehow destroyed $1,000 worth of the hotel’s tchotchkes in a few seconds.

“Enough!” Peter barked, carefully setting the vase down. Ignoring him, the woman darted toward another side table, already reaching for another expensive object to throw at him.

Suddenly, Honey’s ankle was caught in a sticky grip. Both legs pulled out from beneath her. She flattened immediately with an ooof—her belly dropping to the wool carpet.

Dazed, she glanced back at her legs with a crease in her brow. With a jolt, she was pulled along by a stringy, spongy substance on her ankle. It felt the way canned compressed air feels when shooting skin at close range.

Her nails dug into the carpet fibers as she was dragged back. “Agghhh! What the—Getitoff!”

As soon as the pulling stopped, Honey was on her back again, gazing up at the sharp lines of Peter’s cold gaze. He towered over her, even on his knees, as he mounted her hips. Protesting, she pelted him tirelessly with her fists.

The smell of sweat loomed in the air as he finally restrained her. He caged her in, pinning her wrists to the floor. Nerves buzzing and tempers flaring, she continued to writhe and wrestle with him to no avail. Peter quickly overpowered the more petite woman, fomenting her anger.

“You’re hurting me!” she sneered breathlessly, teeth gritted.

Peter was unimpressed. “Liar.”

“M’not lying—!”

He glared back, barely breaking a sweat. “You’re so full of shit—!”

“Fuck you! What do you know—?”

“I know you, Honey!” he charged, silencing her.

She went still, subdued beneath his dark gaze. Peter loomed over her like a stormcloud. “I know the games you like to play,” he said—both teasing and sinister, toying with his prey. He lowered his lips until they breathed the same air.

Honey’s focus was split between Peter’s intense stare and glistening, kiss-ravaged mouth. She tried not to notice the sensation of her nipples brushing against the fabric with each labored breath. He could easily reach down and touch her. Tried not to focus on how solid his chest felt against hers, like carved marble. Tried not to focus on the dark chocolate of his eyes melting in the heat of their gaze.

Just as intensely, Peter watched her watch him—zeroing in on the idle way her tongue darted to wet her lips. The tiny action shot electricity down his spine, straight to his groin.

Honey felt that, too. A tiny gasp escaped her, her lashes fluttering. The fight suddenly left her arms as she noticed the heavy bulge against her hip.

He was hot. Not just figuratively. Feverishly hot. He was so hard, too—and just for her. The lewd image of him splitting her open on his cock made her insides clench.

Peter eyed her dangerously, his voice a dark abyss. “Think you can hide it from me, eh?” The teasing smile on his lips bordered on a snarl. “Gonna sit here an’tell me... that if I were to reach down between your legs right now...” Her heart hammered in her chest, hanging on every word. In her mind, she was begging him to follow through with the threat. “...Those panties won’t be soaked?”

Honey failed to swallow back a little mewl as he leaned down closer.

“Ya think I can’t feel ya, huh?” he mumbled, lips ghosting the curve of her throat. “Think I can’t smell how wet you are right now?” Another wanton exhale left her belly as she leaned into the heat of his breath on her skin. “Y’know I can already taste you on my tongue, babygirl.”

Honey’s mouth and legs seemed to part further at his vulgar words. She shivered at the sensation of his slick tongue traversing her pulse point.

“You’re... an asshole...” she murmured breathlessly. She sounded half-asleep.

Peter hissed, “And you’re a needy little slut, aren't’cha?”

The sudden ferocity made her eyes unintentionally roll back. A second later, Peter’s fingers collared her, choking off the small mewl in her throat. He turned her by the chin, wrenching her attention to him.

“Hey—Eyes on me,” he commanded.

Mesmerized, Honey blinked up at him like a fawn.

“How ‘bout that little stunt you pulled with the waiter?” he prodded. There was an icy edge on the last word. Her throat bobbed while she kept her face neutral. The bright amber of his glare penetrated her. Peter continued accusatorily, “Those flirty little giggles while he gave ya fuck-me eyes? Y’think I didn’t see that?”

Honey sniffed, stiffening her upper lip. This was a power move; she knew better than to back down. “Look who's jealous,” she scoffed.

With a jolt, she again attempted to wrench her wrists free. He simply held on tighter, closing his talons as she twisted like a snake.

“Jealous?” Peter repeated calmly, narrowing his eyes into slits. “Me? Nah.” His hands suddenly seized her hips as he forcibly jerked her up off the floor. A slew of profanities spilled from her mouth, bucking against him as he carried her.

In a few strides, he was at the edge of a dining table. With little regard for his barbarity, he plopped Honey on the surface, shoving her flat on her back. Peter arched over her as if to dominate her, spine bowing until he filled her periphery with his fierce gaze.

Honey’s eyes sparkled, cheeks colored from the rush. “Threatened, then!”

Peter’s face softened inexplicably. Blinked at her for a moment, head tilting. Then, he landed an open-palmed smack against her ass.

It was a surprisingly heavy blow, as close as he’d ever come to intentionally inflicting pain on her. Honey yelped, hissing from the sting on her upper thigh. Right after the strike, Peter’s fingers began kneading her flesh, soothing the welt that was bound to form.

“See, if I were a jealous man,” he noted with an evil sneer, “I woulda gouged his eyes out with a salad fork.”

Peter swallowed up her gasp with a forceful kiss. A few moments later, he broke away.

“If I felt threatened?” he added breathlessly, “I woulda bent you over the table and fucked you dumb. Let everyone in the Five Boroughs hear you beg for my cock.”

Once the filth rolled off his tongue, Peter went back to using it to lash against hers. Honey was overwhelmed by the soft, wet muscle invading her mouth. Not only that, the violent edge to his words felt like standing in a river and grabbing a livewire. A shiver racked through her body, a current of pent-up anger and desire sending blood rushing to her core.

As if on cue, Peter’s fingertips made contact with the lace fabric between her thighs. She tremored at his touch, heart skipping. He toyed with the soft, stretchy material. Snapped it lazily against her flesh.

His voice was hypnotizing. “I woulda shoved these dirty panties down his throat just to never hear his stupid fuckin’ accent again.”

Honey felt drunk off of the vitriol he poured into her ear. It was violent and possessive... and it shouldn’t have made her so horny, and yet—

Honey trembled with anticipation, panting like a bitch in heat. “I-I... can’t... ugh, fu—”

The pads of his fingers ran firmly along her seam. She let out an embarrassing whine. Peter's prediction was spot-on. A shameful amount of wetness coated the inside of her thighs. He played with the soaked fabric and smeared her mess across her skin with a smug smirk.

“Think I don’t know what you like?” he muttered darkly, echoing her earlier jab.

RIP!

The lace bunched at her waist. Honey’s wet skin felt particularly chilled being exposed to the air. She quivered with anticipation. Her head was spinning, pussy throbbing. She felt worshiped and simultaneously defiled.

Peter pressed his forehead into hers, skin-to-skin. She stared into the black of his eyes in suspended silence, like the pornographic thoughts in his head were being projected into her mind.

Her own pupils were blown black. “Fuckin’ hate you so much—”

“I don’t care.”

“—re’such an asshole—”

“I don’t care,” he repeated more firmly. Then, “You belong with me.”

“You left me!” she fired back.

The sharpness of her tone sobered him a little. He blinked and sighed. “I couldn’t leave you. I didn’t leave you.”

She attempted to sit up, trying to lift her shoulders unsuccessfully. She writhed with spite, “Fuckin’ selfish prick, I outta cut off—”

“What was my drink order?”

He blurted the last sentence out with a mind-blowing level of calm. At once, their bodies went still. Still pinned to the table with a hummingbird beneath her breast, Honey stared up at him in confusion.

Her brows pinched together. “Huh—?”

“My drink order,” Peter repeated, his expression void of the aggression he had the previous moment.

It was like a mask had fallen away, and the man on top of her transformed into a different person. Maliciousness evaporated, replaced by eagerness. Desperation.

Peter stared at her, intently searching her gaze. “At the shop,” he whispered, eyes soft. “What you used to make for me every time I came t’see you..?” The words fell away as he stared at her expectantly.

She arched a brow.

It had been black coffee, bitter and dark. Just like Peter’s entire world. How it had always been. Until—

“You said I should try something new,” he added, with urgency like reminding her of a forgotten dream. “So you made something for me—something... special.”

Peter’s heart swelled through his eyes at the last word. Honey stared up at him, perplexed. He was looking for the answer on the tip of her tongue:

Honey and Lavender.

Confusion ceded to aggravation. A line formed between Honey’s brows.

“You remember, right?” he asked, hopeful.

She did. He knew she did. He could see it at the corners of her eyes, pooling behind her eyelids. Sobering memories flooded her, cooling the heat between them. A different sort of ache settled in.

Reluctantly, she nodded.

He took a breath, relieved but still anxious. “Say those words,” he said, “if you really want me to stop.”

Her damp lashes fluttered as Honey blinked up at him in surprise. Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, he swallowed dryly. His stomach lurched at the thought of being sent away like this.

Still, it was a risk he had to take.

“I can let go, walk away,” he offered tenderly. “Right now. No questions asked.” Each word felt like sticking needles through his tongue. He gave her an out, needing confirmation that her reciprocated lust wasn’t imagined.

“Say the words,” Peter whispered in lament, “and I’ll leave you alone.”

That word settled like a boulder crushing his chest.

Despite Peter’s heart telling him her rejection would be unbearable, the thought of truly harming her was more so.

Honey studied him with thoughtful eyes, contemplative and curious. He had won. He subdued her. Restrained her. She remembered when he threw a piano like a toddler throwing a toy truck.

She could do little to stop him if he wanted to force her. And yet—

There he is.

This was the man she remembered. The one that was ready to die for her. To die by her hand, if that’s what she wanted.

“Two words,” Peter sighed, his nose brushing against hers. It was a sweetly affectionate gesture. “Say the words, and this can end right n—”

Honey captured his lips, stealing his breath like it was her only source of oxygen. Static filled Peter’s ears, his body tensing and relaxing simultaneously. He was soaring and plummeting. Rising and falling.

Her tongue slipped past his lips, dragging along the pad of his mouth. Soon enough, the sweetness melted off in their flames.

Honey pulled her mouth away, barely able to get out her plea. “Touch me, Peter. Make me feel it.”

And she dove right back in. This time, Peter plunged with her, deep beneath the waves of lust. He sank into her current, dragging her with the tide of desire.

Peter’s hands were frantic travelers. Flitting from her wrists to her shoulders. To gently cup her face. To smooth over the mounds of her breasts. To dig his fingers into the linen fabric of the sweetheart neckline.

“Love this dress,” he idly mumbled between kisses, abusing the neckline. “Mmm—where’d ya say ya got it?”

“Oh…uhm—?”

The question caught her off guard. She blushed, brain foggy with lust. Her instinct was to say something like ‘thank you,’ but her tongue fumbled the words. “Uh... it was, I think, Old Navy—?”

A ripping sound shocked her. She squeaked as a flurry of cotton fibers burst from the top of the dress.

Peter yanked the linen bodice apart like tissue paper, his tongue chasing away any protest from her lips. Gooseflesh broke out as her skin was exposed to the air. Driven by lust, he shoved the ruined material down to her waist.

“Fuck, Peter...” she gasped, scandalized.

“Sorry,” he muttered, not sorry.

It was his turn to be greedy. Peter dug his hands beneath the cups of her bra, toying with the peaks of her breasts.

With a snap, the bra was torn in half. The strength in Peter’s long fingers stunned her. Puzzling her as much as it turned her on.

He laved at her left breast with his tongue, drawing an obscene moan from her. His hand pinched sadistically at her right nipple. The delectable sting traveled from her chest to her cunt. She arched—”ughhh, god”—her spine bowing beautifully.

He held the cleft of her left breast delicately in his hand while lapping at the ridges of her peaked flesh. Warm tongue caressed the tip, drawing shapes and discovering pathways to her pleasure. Every little flick inspired something new. She cooed and twitched beneath him. He was desperate to memorize her taste.

Languidly, he massaged each of her tits inside his mouth, his cock aching as he imagined licking her pussy with the same fervor. It was almost unbearable. A strangled moan vibrated through his chest at the picture in his mind.

Her reaction to the sound came out as an agonized mewl.

Oh.

He needed more of that sound.

Peter felt her push on his shoulders. Trying to wriggle away from his mouth.

This time, he had no tolerance for misbehavior. He grabbed both wrists and forced them above her head. Honey yanked back, stunned at being glued down to the table surface by his palms.

The peach of his pouty lips curved upward as his eyes took a turn ravishing her. She was a sight of wicked debauchery. Her hair was a mess, and her nearly-naked body lay across the table like a feast. Her thighs locked around his hips.

He used one hand to rub circles into the delicate skin of her restrained forearms. The other hand mischievously dipped lower and lower, sliding through her wet heat. Calloused, dexterous fingers spread her lips open, playing in her slick and prodding her tight hole.

Honey was finished. Ruined. Past the point of no return. Unconditionally surrendered. Helpless and eager to subjugate herself to her conqueror. Filthy sounds filled the room, punctuated by weak cries from his new loyal subject.

“So pretty,” he sighed breathlessly as he coated his fingers in her cream. “All this for me, princess?” He cooed at her, edging on cruel.

A broken gasp fell from her lips, her chest pulsing involuntarily.

“Aww, what’s the matter? Does this little pretty pussy ache, baby?”

A vortex formed deep in her belly, dragging her in. He licked his dry lips, salivating at the image.

“I know it hurts, baby, I know. I know,” he teased. “It’s been hard playin’ all by yourself, huh?” The sunniness of his voice was eclipsed. “All alone. Screamin’ out my name into your pillow. Fingers buried deep in your wet cunt.”

Honey’s eyes snapped open. Before she could respond, the breadth of his middle fingertip penetrated her. She gasped as his finger speared her open. All the while, he wore a devil’s smile.

“Ain’t that right? Only for me.” Entranced, he watched her every twitch and shudder. “This pussy belongs to me, doesn’t it?”

It was a question feigning the need for her confirmation. She couldn't answer. Couldn't breathe.

No, that can’t be right—had he been watching her masturbate in her apartment? Was he watching her the entire time he was gone?

The possibility enraged her. Ten orgasms from the King of New York’s Underworld couldn’t even quell that fire.

Peter smiled wickedly, playing with her pussy. Taking his time toying with her flesh. He was a tyrant-king, dominating her pleasure. With a calloused hand, he held onto her cunt like it belonged there.

But she was his wild colt. Difficult to break.

“Oh-n—ohh god,” she gasped. Unbeknownst to him, an evil plot bloomed in her brain. Her lips curled into a smile.

“Fuck—gah—ohhhhh…”

He licked up each broken syllable.

“Yes! Oh, god, yes! Oh—”

Sweat beaded on her chest, sin oozing through her pores.

“...Pedro.”

Halt.

Brakes squealing. Full stop. Not only in the physical world between them but also in Peter’s living fantasy.

Mischievously, Honey’s grin widened.

She got him, alright.

Flawless victory.

Dark eyes flashing, Peter withdrew his fingers from her. “Fuckin’ brat…”

In one fluid motion, Peter flipped her over to her belly, stunning her. He followed with another forceful slap to her ass cheek. This one was more punishing than the last, drawing a puppy-like yelp. His voice was ice. Eyes black.

Now, she was in trouble.

“Think that’s funny?” he said through gritted teeth.

Peter manipulated her limbs like a rag doll. He maneuvered her forward until her cheekbone pressed against the table. She panicked for a moment at being in such a compromising position.

The chill of the air across her wet pussy made her shiver. At the same time, she clenched at his roughness.

Peter kneaded her sides, pressing fingerprint bruises on her waist. He yanked her hips towards him until her knees were on the table’s edge. Honey’s face burned, stricken with modesty and flustered by how he hoisted her ass in the air.

Her hips were propped up like a rack of lamb, and he licked his lips at the sight. It was too vulnerable, being bared to him like this. Obscene, on display, inches from his face.

For a half second, she considered using the safe words.

She squirmed uncomfortably while her mess dripped down the inside of her thighs. Peter denied any attempt to escape, eventually gathering her limbs and pulling her hands behind her back.

Short puffs of breath fogged the glass surface of the table. Her heart pounded beneath her. Honey had only witnessed this side of him a few times—and never directed toward her.

She was in trouble. But was she in danger?

The buckle of his belt clinked as it came free. Honey quivered at the sound, pussy aching in anticipation.

And if she was in danger, why did that make her wet?

“Pete—” Honey muttered, a scream bubbling at the back of her throat. Leather nipped at her forearms as he used his belt to tie her hands behind her back.

“Ple-please—“

He fisted her hair, rearing her head back. Her neck arched beautifully, her chin dangling above the table surface.

“Listen to me, princess,” Peter snarled, hot in her ear. Spite peppered his tone. “If you ever call out another man’s name when I’m inside ya again— I’ll make ya wear nothin’ but my cum for the next week.”

The savage tone contrasted with the glow of his eyes.

It was always opposites with him.

This was the same man who coddled and worshiped her. The same one who kidnapped her, drugged her, blindfolded her, and gagged her.

He forced her, a willing participant, into his bed—by asking her permission.

Peter was more than capable of keeping her chained to his bedpost if he wanted it.

Or… if she wanted it.

Peter snickered at her expression. “Ooh, yeah… Betchu’d like that, huh?” He taunted her like she was broadcasting her dirty thoughts. “Such a needy little slut for me, ain't that right?”

Honey felt his warmth leave her back, like being plunged into the Hudson in winter. His hands reappeared at the back of her thighs, and her first instinct was to try to close her legs.

That was a mistake and an impossible endeavor.

He split her thighs like opening a book. Grinned at the sight as if he stumbled across gold.

“Fuck, babygirl, you’re soaked. Just talkin’ about it and look at the mess you made…”

Embarrassment and want ravaged her. The conflicting experiences had her ovaries twisted into knots. Honey bit her tongue, unsure if she was going to scream or moan.

Instead, it came out like a pathetic mewl. “Pe-Peter, please—”

Then he open-palm-smacked her cunt, fingers landing directly on her labia.

The wet sound it made was humiliating, and the sensation triggered all of the reactions above. She squealed at the sting on her folds. This was a delectable torture. For Peter, it was an appetizing sight.

“Ya like that?” he grinned over the sound of her whimpers. He already knew the answer.

Another slap to her cunt made her whole body shake.

“Like bein’ my kept girl? Tryin’ so hard to get my attention. Drivin’ me nuts. Well, you got it now, Honey.”

Slap.

A third strike had her pussy clenching. Honey had never experienced such an erotic rush before. She shuddered with embarrassment, afraid she’d cum from this—

Slap! Slap! Slap!

Honey gasped for air, a scream breaking through her voice. She was drowning in sick pleasure, tears in her eyes.

The mob boss gripped her thighs again, pulling her knees off the table and lifting up the weight of her lower half. The action was as easy as lifting a sheet of paper.

God, his strength was impossible. She struggled to comprehend it while picturing herself being broken apart by it. A slew of tiny pleas fell from her lips. She didn’t even know what she was begging for—his mercy or punishment.

“Shh, shh, babygirl,” he purred with a candy voice. Brought his lips to where she was split, equal parts seductive and sinister. “Be still for me. I gotcha.” He wore a Cheshire grin. “Lemme kiss it better.”

Slowly, he licked a line from her clit to the entrance of her cunt. She shuddered, followed by a lewd wail. She bucked her hips as he let the tip of his tongue toy with her.

“Mmmf—so fuckin’ sweet,” Peter mumbled between languid strokes around her vaginal gate. His grip was inescapable. “Can’t help myself, s-sooo hungry…”

Honey felt an evil smile against her skin before his mouth went back to work on her. Tiny, stinging nips and kitten licks tormented her flesh. With her hips locked in place, he lashed her clit with his tongue.

Honey squirmed against the leather belt, her nails digging into the grain. She wanted to be bound like this forever.

Peter had no intention of letting her go any time soon.

With her thighs spread open, he dragged her toward the edge of her ecstasy. As soon as he felt her body begin to shake, he pulled away. The punishment ended with another smack to her swollen clit.

Honey cried out in frustration at having her release snatched away.

Oh, yes—He was weak for that sound.

“What’s’a matter, baby?” he smirked with a dark chuckle. This was becoming his favorite pastime. “You mad now that you’re not the only one who can play games?”

“Gahh—Peter… fuck, plea—don’t tease—!”

Peter’s fingers slipped inside with a squelch, shutting her up. Simultaneously, he lapped at her juices while massaging her walls. Soon, he settled into an unbreakable focus.

Each kiss to her nether lips sizzled with passion. Fueled by devotion usually only reserved for a wedding day.

“—mmmm, tastes so pretty,” he murmured into her flesh, “my pretty girls...”

In her dazed state, Honey wondered with a pang of jealousy who the ‘she’ he was referring to was.

“—sooo sensitive; she likes it when I kiss her like that, yeah?—” He said, in between languid, open-mouth kisses to her slit.

Jesus Fucking Christ, he’s talking about my pussy? In the third person?

Honey gasped, scandalized at the preposterous thought. It was the most deliciously erotic moment of her life. Enraptured tears budded her eyes, the coil in her belly nearly suffocating her.

“—Fuck, oh god, Peter, don’t stop, don’stop, donstop, donstah—”

Preoccupied with his own intoxicating thoughts, Peter was eager with his tongue and steady with his hands. The room filled with the filthy, wet sounds of his carressing and French kissing of her cunt. He pleasured her with his fingers and mouth, passionately— reverently— as if making love to two different brides.

Soon, Honey’s pleas were barely more than breathless whining. He smiled like the devil, lips coated with her slick.

“Patience, Honey,” he admonished, sing-song and patronizing. “If you’re a good girl, maybe I might let you get to taste Her, too.”

Fuck—she was going to come from this.

The more perverse his words were, the closer she was. So, so close—

Then, another sharp slap.

Honey wailed, fingers digging into the leather of her restraints. Her whole body protested. The cycle repeated so many times she lost count—until her flesh was puffy from his torture.

“Please, don’t—please, Peter, don’t tease,” she frantically begged, tears streaming. “No more— Please, I wanna come so bad—”

He sucked on her clit. “Yeah?”

“God, yes, please—Nyahhh-need you—Need you... inside—“

Peter hissed behind his teeth, struggling to keep his pace even as his cock jerked at her pleas. He flashed an evil smile. “S’at right?”

“Pl-please, f-feels so good, ple—gah-I need it—!”

He was in no hurry. It was almost greedy, the way he ravaged her. His fingers pressed Merlot bruises into her hips and waist while his mouth left raspberry welts on her thighs.

Honey cried out around a moan as she felt his fingers deepen. His loving touches to her sensitive spots turned wicked, reminding her this was also a penalty for her bratty transgressions. She wept and squirmed, practically drooling on the table.

He simply grinned.

“—Mmmhm, that’s it—scream for me, princess—”

Honey’s tiny little hip thrusts fit easily in his palm as he groped her. He found it adorable, really.

“Mmm...m’sorr—ow—agh!”

“Sorry’s not gonna cut it,” he panted, eyes blown black. Shadow returned to his voice. “You’re mine now, ya hear?” His eyes traveled to where his fingers were buried to the knuckles. “Gonna fuck you every way I want—”

“Pleasepleasepleaseyes—it’syoursit’syoursallyours—”

His eyes swam over her body, drunk with lust.

All mine.

The sinfulness of his thoughts tugged his insides into a vortex. This was wrong, he reasoned. Not how he wanted this to go. Poor girl sounded brainless, begging to be fucked. He wasn’t much better off. This wasn’t how he planned this to go.

But he was willing to pivot.

Hands shaking, he fumbled with his fly. It wasn’t until his cock bobbed free, glistening with precum, that he felt any sort of relief. Peter grabbed her hips and lifted them off of the table, repositioning her so he was lined up with her slit.

“Fuckin’ need you so much, Honey—” he muttered mindlessly, focused on pushing the swollen, leaking crown of his cock against the silk of her pussy.

Her hips’ weight rested easily in his hands, and she keened at the sensation of his head pressing against her entrance.

And god, she'd forgotten he was thick.

Honey tensed up, even as her pussy throbbed with want. It was as if all her muscles were reaching for him, heart included.

It was too much. Mascara trailed faintly down her cheeks. Her heart soared. And ached. She felt spoiled with pleasure, delighting in this penance.

More. She wanted more.

“Fuck—wanted ya so bad,” Peter mumbled, watching his cock slip through her lips. He sounded airy, hypnotized by the view. “Wanted t’crawl through your window like the goddamn—ahh— boogeyman... fuck ya in your own bed. Wanted t’take’ya home with me and keep ya there— Never let you leave.”

Honey swallowed back a sob. Then why did you send me away?

He paused.

Uh-oh. Did she say that out lo—?

“Because I’m an idiot,” Peter huffed, his voice fragile.

He leaned forward and lovingly kissed up her spine, each tender press of his lips an apology.

“I’m a stupid fuckin’ fool.” The heat of his breath ghosted across her back. “So stupid—Thought I could protect ya if I kept you away. Thought I could somehow live like that—without you.” He shook his head. “Goddamn fool.”

Peter felt the sting of tears flooding his vision. Instinctively, he squeezed his eyes shut to keep them out. “I can’t live without ya,” he nearly whimpered. “There is no life for me if you’re not in it.”

“Peter,” she said, feeling her heart lurch. Her spirit was a ship being tossed in a hurricane. One more wave, and she would break. Honey’s voice trembled, “St-stop t-talking—”

“Not until I’ve said what I shoulda said—!”

“If you don’t shut up and fuck me in the next five seconds—”

Peter cut her off by pulling her up by the shoulders and standing her upright. Honey fought it—because, of course, she did—desperately clutching the steel armor around her heart.

Overpowering her again, he tugged the naked woman closer until her back lined up to his chest. It was an awkward position with her bound arms crushed behind her against his abs. He towered over her, eyeing her face from the side, seeking her gaze. Hooked a finger beneath her chin, forcing her to look him in the eye.

Always the fighter, Honey tried to wrench herself from his hold. Peter’s body was like a Greek god’s, with pillar-like arms and marble fingers keeping her from wriggling away. But his soft, soulful eyes are what pinned her in place.

As soon as she peered into their oaken color, she was trapped again.

“No,” she sneered, shaking her head. The tears weren’t from pleasure anymore. “Don’t—”

“‘Honey and Lavender,’” he whispered, featherlike. “Those are the words. All you gotta do is say ‘em, and I’ll stop.”

She gritted her teeth, bucking against his sweetness. His arms wrapped around her torso, pulling her in.

“I thought you wanted to fuck me!” she revolted, voice getting weaker by the second. “What the hell do you want from me, Peter?!”

His features softened. Serenity pressed between his lips. “I want all of you, Honey,” he answered with resolve. “Body and soul. Wanna spend the rest of my life with ya. If you don’t kill me first.”

He said the ‘if’ part with a teasing lilt in his tone and a half-smile. The same smirk that she loathed—and fell in love with.

Honey squeezed her eyes shut. Peter’s thumb came up gently, wiping a messy tear from her cheek. That loving and pure act was worse than any torture he could inflict.

Walls tumbling down, her body loosened. She went slack against his arms, instead fighting to keep more tears from flowing.

“I love you,” he whispered, pouring his soul into each word. “Forever. Remember? No matter what.”

Peter waited for her eyelids to peel back, revealing glossy eyes and a weary expression. They stayed still for eons. Nothing but their breaths and heartbeats between them, eyes locked on each other.

“Even if you’re mad as hell at me,” he added. “Even if you hate me—I want it all.”

Her lower lip wobbled. “And what then, Peter? What now?”

A moment passed. He leaned around her shoulder, bringing her chin close, and answered her with a kiss. Gentle at first, his tongue explored hers as she relaxed against him. She felt her toes leave the ground before she realized what was happening.

Peter broke the kiss. “Now?” he breathed into her hairline. “I’m gonna show you what it means to be mine.”

One of his hands left her torso—borrowed to push the head of his cock into her gate. An overwhelming burn erupted between her legs. She arched her back away from his abs as best she could while being split open.

Honey wailed brokenly, voice shattered, as he bottomed out. Peter’s hand instinctively came up to cover her mouth. She let the scream out into his palm, just as he’d promised.

Peter hissed, letting his head fall back in agonized ecstasy. His eyes drifted shut, feeling both relief and torment buried to the hilt in her warmth.

He barely ground out, “Shh-shhh, s’alright... that’s it, s-so good, so good for me...”

His Honey was already writhing on his cock, and he hadn’t even begun to move. She was so goddamn tight he wasn’t sure he wanted to move at all.

Still, he couldn’t help indulging himself. Never could, around her.

The arm bracing Honey’s torso snaked back across her body. His hand, burning hotter than a branding iron, stretched out and smoothed over the curvature of her belly. Her pussy clenched tighter as his palm found the trophy he was looking for—an obscene bulge in her lower stomach.

A slow, sinful curve played upon his lips. “Fuck, babygirl. Look at you.” When he uncovered her mouth, her roars had quieted down to a wanton purr. He gently tilted her head downwards so she could witness the depravity herself. “Just look at how you take my dick, Honey.”

She shuddered at the sight, nodding rapidly, unable to speak. She wondered if this was just more teasing, but she couldn’t think beyond the penetration.

“God, you look so beautiful like that,” he muttered breathlessly. His amber eyes were fixated on the sinful spectacle beneath her waist, unable to avert his gaze. “So pretty with my cock stuffed up inside your tummy...”

Peter sounded unhinged, even to himself. His abs twisted into knots. Vile, perverse images eclipsed his sense of decency—her body naked and wrecked, with his seed spilling from her holes. Then, her belly round with his children. Just the thought devolved him like his civilized nature was sucked back into a black hole.

Wordless whimpers poured from her lips as her taut muscles succumbed to his girth. Calloused fingertips reached further down, brushing against the hood of her clit. She jolted in his arms with the slightest touch.

At that moment, Honey’s world disappeared. Nothing existed but the exquisite ache between her legs.

The conquerer inside him preened. “Is that the spot? Is that where it hurts, baby?” he purred into her ear with a filthy, predatory voice. Her body answered him, rewarding him with a delicious squeeze around his shaft. “That’s it,” Peter groaned, insatiable. “Good girl. So good for me.”

His praise, even if it was teasing, was too much. Peter’s affirmations, paired with his ministrations, tightened the coil in her stomach. Exhaustion crept up on her body even as the bubble of desire swelled.

Ever so slowly, his hips pitched back and then forward. He bottomed out again at the end of the languid stroke. A shattered mewl burst from her lips, pussy pulsating around his dick.

She was magnificent.

”Fuck, baby. Feels s-so fuckin’ good—ahh, I missed this tight pussy so much. Wanted to play with her so bad…”

Peter’s hips moved of their own accord. They were a pornographic masterpiece in the decorative mirrors situated around the room. He stole a greedy glance at the couple’s reflection. Smiling wickedly, he turned her head, making her see what he was seeing.

Honey’s stomach fluttered at the sight of her body—glistening and restrained—slotted against him. Her head bobbed as Peter gripped her hips and fucked into her like a sex doll.

Perverse. Debauched. Divine. It made her lightheaded.

Slowly, he increased the pace of his thrusts, panting into her ear. At some point, she started muttering. Broken and embarrassingly desperate pleas and pet names tumbled unwittingly out of her mouth.

One of them must have caught his attention. But she honestly couldn’t remember what she had said.

“Ugh—I lose my fuckin’ mind when you call me that name,” he growled, throwing his head back. “Ya know that, precious? Such a good girl for me. Good girls get spoiled.”

Honey’s body thrummed at his baby talk. In all its depravity, she started to suspect what she must have said in all its depravity. Slowly, she was losing the ability to be ashamed.

The slick-coated pad of Peter’s thumb circled her clit, before traveling down further. He curiously prodded where they were joined—“Fuck, look at how good ya open up for me.” — His fingers trailed the outline of her stretched hymen wrapped around his cock.

Honey closed her eyes and turned away, blushing from his praise. Timid about how she relished in the filth. Peter brought his lips to her ear as if there was a secret the two of them shared.

“Don’t worry, baby. I gotcha—Daddy’s gonna make the ache go away.”

The spring snapped. She was nearly knocked over by the wave of pleasure that followed. Her pussy fluttered around his cock with no warning, body trembling and toes curling. Her cream gushed down his shaft.

He snickered as if he’d won a prize.

Honey could vaguely recognize her pathetic voice through the bells in her ears. She squealed and cried out over his repetitive, patronizing chants — “Awwgoodgirl, fuckin’ so-so perfect— squeezin’ me so tight” — while he fucked her through her orgasm.

It felt like several moments of pure pink haze, herself a willing victim to his delicious, relentless pull.

“Shit, sweetie, did you just come all over my cock?” he asked, exasperated.

Embarrassment flooded her despite her persistent mewling.

“Don’t cry, baby. Don’chu worry,” he murmured affectionately, himself obsessed with the cavern of her divine flesh. “When I said I was gonna make you my toy, I meant it.” She whimpered, nodding her head as it rested back against his shoulder. “M’not finished with you,” he said, dropping an octave. “Not by a long shot.”

Time ceased to have true meaning. Peter rammed into her steadily.

“Please don’stop, please use me, please, wan’more—” She yelped like a puppy.

He smiled against her sweaty skin. “Yeah? Ya like bein’ a good girl? My good girl?”

“I’llbegoodI’llbegoodm’yours—fuck—yoursyoursyours—”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he groaned, with another curse beneath his breath. Eyes drifted shut. “Good, good girl.”

All he could think of was more.

More of that sound. More of her juices. More of her staccato breaths as he fucked her tits into a steady bounce on her chest. More of her whining, whimpering like a bitch in heat.

“All mine, all mine…”

Peter needed more of her. He needed to watch her fall apart on his cock again. Honey was so close already; he could feel it. He’d give her another orgasm, one that leaves her in tears. Then another. He was going to fuck her into submission atop the throne he built for her. She was already his queen.

Then—He’d make her his whore.

Flip her on her back against the table—or couch— countertop—fuck, maybe the bed if he could remember where it was. Whatever he could reach first.

Then he’d split her open again on his cock. That way, he could see the enraptured awe on her face. The neediness. Big, round, wet eyes pleading for his touch, calling him filthy names, as his cock bulges below her pubic bone. Begging him to rearrange her guts.

It was heavenly to witness. Peter loved watching her come. And he would, over and over. Once he relocated her to his bed—as soon as he remembered where it was— he could tie her to it.

Not that Honey was fighting at the present. There was no fight in her body, except maybe the will to keep conscious. With every strike against her cervix, she spread herself wider for him.

But Peter knew she would like it. Honey wanted his unforgiving ecstasy. To take out the mounting frustration of the last few months on her wet pussy.

“M’gonna fuck you so good, babygirl, m’gonna use your body like my fucktoy—make me feel s-sogood, don’worry—“

Honey full-body shuddered with a sob, her head thrown back against his shoulder.

“S’okay, baby, you can scream if y’want, makes it feel better, doesn’t it, huh—”

Cock-drunk, she nodded, her words coming out as puffs of air.

“Don’stop—don’stop—please, fuck— fuckmehardDaddyIneedit—“

Oh.

More. Of. That.

“M’not lettin’ you get away again…” he muttered, voice emerging from beneath his twitching abdominal muscles. With possessed eyes, he was glued to where they joined. “Never—never gonna let you go again… All mine now, Honey—you’re all mine…”

Her arms came up to circle the back of his neck as she panted into his throat. “My-my pussy is yours…”

“Everything,” he corrected.

“Everythi—god—I’m yours, Pete—ahh!”

Peter was getting close. No matter. He’d let himself come inside her soon. There was plenty more to follow.

He barely recognized his own wrecked voice. “’m not leavin,’ baby. I’m not leavin’ ever.”

A gust of wind followed him as the front door to the suite slammed shut. Peter stood alone in the hotel hallway wearing a sheen of sweat... and nothing else.

He flushed pink, fumbling to cover himself behind his hands. The cool air made the task easier.

Peter sighed. He’d need to talk to maintenance about better insulation up here.

But not right now. Not while Peter Parker stood ass-naked outside of his door, having been kicked out like a cheap fuck.

Which might have been Honey’s point, he recognized.

The evidence of their past hour together made his skin sticky. She’d tousled his hair and etched into his back with her nails. He felt sore in places he hadn’t felt in years.

Peter also looked thoroughly fucked. A mixture of pain and relief surged through his muscles. His brain was branded with erotic images of her. He wanted them there.

The door opened again, lifting his hopes. He only caught a fleeting glimpse of Honey, wrapped sloppily in a bathrobe. The rest of her didn’t look much better than Peter. She wore a sour yet adorable scowl on her face.

With a huff, Honey hurled a tight wad of fabric at his nuts, unintentionally intentional in her aim.

Peter oofed, doubling over to catch the ball of his clothes. At the same time, an Italian leather shoe smacked him in the head. Probably his Tom Ford’s. He heard the door slam closed again, rattling against the frame.

Perplexed, Peter gazed at the molding of the door and the gleaming golden script marking the room number.

He wondered.

Would she open the door again to throw him the other shoe?

Or perhaps the slacks that went along with the dress shirt covering his balls?

Unlikely.

He marveled.

The nerve of this woman. This goddess-barista who served him his soul in a paper cup. Who held the keys to his heart, his home, and presently, his hotel room. Who somehow managed to kick him out of the penthouse suite of his own hotel.

Within the confines of his ruined dress shirt, Peter felt another buzz. He fumbled with the shirt, reaching the smartphone concealed inside.

>>> have you moved onto the main course? >>> or are you still tossing the salad? >>> pouring ranch on her hidden valley

Felicia. Peter’s eyes nearly rolled out of his head. With a sigh, he tapped out a reply.

<<< Kitchen’s closed. <<< Need clothes. And a new room.

He saw the ellipsis bubbling up on his screen.

<<< Not another word.

As soon as the message was sent, Peter took another glance at his empty surroundings. Haplessly, he looked toward the closed door. A river of memories flooded him. It surged, swelled, and finally, came to a low simmer.

This was never going to be easy. Nothing ever was with her.

Nothing worth waiting for ever is.

“See you at breakfast,” he whispered aloud lips curled into a smile. “Sleep tight.”

Holding her breath and her ear to the door, Honey waited until Peter’s footsteps faded. When she could no longer hear them, she sighed with exasperation, overcome with exhaustion. Eyes falling closed, Honey leaned back against the door, body aching in places she would feel for days.

After taking a moment, she heard a buzzing sound further in the suite. Honey jumped with alarm, then stumbled on Fawn’s feet to reach the source.

Quickly, Honey waddled to the remains of her yellow dress, fishing out the buzzing object: a 10-year-old smartphone with a black glittery hard case. A holographic cat sticker was fixed to the back, shimmering in the dim light.

Not just any cat.

She unlocked the phone to see the latest message.

>>> how’d it go? u give him hell?

The heaviest exhale left Honey’s chest, shame creeping up her chest. With her thumb, she scrolled up to review the text messages sent to her. The oldest of which dated back almost four months.

Weeks of correspondence and reassurance from Felicia, not to mention very clear instructions about Peter Parker and how to play his game.

There was the one from last month:

>>> don’t let him think for one second that you’re gonna let him get off easy!

Then one from last week:

>>> make him suffer. make him grovel. make him lay down in a puddle so you can cross

And these:

>>> go to dinner, but don’t eat anything. order wine, the most expensive one, take one sip and refuse the rest. you pick the restaurant. if he picks the restaurant, hate everything about it >>> play hard to get— but don’t be too cold >>> be flirty. but not slutty. >>> give him bedroom eyes, but don’t let him stare at you too long.

Finally, there was a clear instruction sent earlier today.

>>> under no circumstances >>> no matter what >>> you need to remember this >>> DO NOT FUCK HIM!!1

Honey frowned as she gazed at Felicia’s text message bubble, sent with so much hope and good intention. A notion soundly defeated. A truly hopeless endeavor, if there ever was one.

Biting her lip, Honey tapped out a reply to her confidant:

<<< Sure did.

Thank you for everything you do. Please keep fanfic healthy and support my writing with a reblog.

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basicjetsetter · 2 years

Text

The Trial of Deus; How Peter and the Reader Meet

“Seek not greatness, but seek truth and you will find both.” - Horace Mann

⚖ Pairing: Mob!Peter Parker x BlackFemale!Reader

⚖ Setting: Mid-summer in Manhattan, NYC, New York

⚖ Warnings: Language, Adult Themes, Violence, Mentions of Murder

☆ A/N: Would you guys believe me if I told you I’ve been slow-roasting this idea for over a year? Yep, ever since I finished The Fall and Rise of Deus back in February 2021, my mind stayed fixated on where, how, and why the Reader and Peter met. It’s safe to say my writing process wishes it could match a sloth’s pace. But I made it, at long last! I love it, and I hope you all love it too.

♬ Song Inspo: Sinner & Saint by Beacon Light + Moiba Mustapha (produced by Tommee Profitt)

Preface:

All eyes in the state of New York are glued to any and all screens broadcasting the mid-morning news. Every single person, regardless of age, class, ethnicity, and gender, watches with bated breath as the wearied news anchor takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes, heaves a sigh, then puts his glasses back on.

No one reads the bright red headline at the bottom of the screen. They won’t believe what they see, anyway. Not until they hear it.

The news anchor gathers up a second lungful of air and then exhales it in a crestfallen gust before lifting his solemn eyes to address the audience.

“I don’t know what to say, folks. Truly, I don’t. This is me going off the script here, because none of those words on the teleprompter will capture the magnitude... the gravity... the just, jarring sense of sorrow we are all feeling right now. Yes. Of that, I am utterly certain.”

Breaths choke up. Heads shake in disbelief. Sweaty palms chafe, pierced with fingernails. Mouths screw up, teeth clench, throats constrict, chins wobble. Unblinking eyes burn with the reddening brim of unshed tears.

“I regret to confirm, with the heaviest of hearts, that Manhattan’s most beloved humanitarian, Adrian Toomes, has been shot and killed in his home at around midnight last night. The uhm... suspect... is in custody.”

A dark look clouds over the news anchor’s face but he shakes his head, clears his throat and trundles on. “We’ve lost a hallmark in our community. One of the biggest advocates for workers’ rights. The biggest charity donor to our impoverished neighbors. Right before his untimely death, he even set up a 20 million dollar grant funding orphanages across the entire state of New York. What kind of monster would want to—”

He halts the accusatory words in their tracks, holds them back grudgingly. Collects himself and clears his throat once more. “Look, we don’t have all the facts yet but we don’t need them. We know Adrian Toomes, and we know he did not deserve to be the victim of such a despicable crime. He was a caring man, a doting husband to his wife Doris, and a loving father to his daughter Liz. Our thoughts and prayers go out to them during this terrible time.

Just like his family, we all will be feeling this loss for a very, very, very long time.”

The hearts of all New Yorkers flush with outrage, anger, grief. Clogged with the burgeoning, bludgeoning, blistering desire for one thing and one thing only.

Justice.

♡ The Trial: Part I → TBA

♡ The Trial: Part II → TBA

♡ The Trial: Part III → TBA

✖ please do not copy, repost, or plagiarize my work ✖

#peter parker x black!reader #peter parker x reader #peter parker #peter parker au #peter parker mob!au #mob!au #mob!peter parker #black!reader #tom holland #slow burn #peter parker fanfic #peter parker fic #peter parker x black reader #the fall and rise of deus #the trial of deus #black lawyer reader

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withahappyrefrain · 2 years

Text

Every Rose Has Its Thorn

Pairing: Mob!Peter and Mob!Reader

Summary: For @liz-allyn's 900th celebration! "What are we going to do about this?" You're caught red-handed and Peter's next move could destroy your life. Unless...you can convince him otherwise."

Warnings: Literal murder, swearing, oral (f receiving), smut,

Words: 5.8K because I can't help myself

He grumbled as he took the plate of food from you. Something about it taking too long.

Normally you'd roll your eyes.

Instead you smiled and began counting in your head.

101, 102, 103, 104

"How much garlic did you roast the other day?" Your father asked.

"Just three heads for dinner."

He sneered, "You added too much. The whole house stinks of it."

He had been complaining of the smell for the past week. You claimed it was good for the heart.

It also fooled him into thinking that the odor was coming from another source, not himself.

206, 207, 208.

You handed him another glass of water- the third one in a row. You watched as he chugged the water- colorless and odorless.

The almond taste was a myth. Lucky you, as your father didn't have a huge sweet tooth.

He continued to demand water, claiming you added too much salt to his food. You simply apologized. You didn't mind.

It would be the last time you would have to apologize to that piece of shit.

362, 363, 364.

"Why don't you try going to the bathroom?" You suggested as he doubled over, bemoaning about his stomach pain.

"It was that food of yours. Don't know why you insist on cooking when you always fuck it up."

You walked him to the bathroom, shutting the door. He was in such pain, he didn't even noticed that the doorknob to the bathroom was different.

It now locked from the outside.

520, 521, 522, 523.

The dumbass finally figured out that the door was locked. He was calling out your name.

But you couldn't hear. Unfortunately, you had on your headphones as you cleaned up the kitchen. It had to be clean, otherwise he'd be angry at you.

Such a shame.

616, 617. 618.

You pulled an earbud out. Daddy dearest was still yelling, but not about the door being locked.

Something about being in pain.

It was hard to hear with the music.

766, 767, 768.

With your earbuds still on, you grabbed your water bottle. Peering out of the window, you saw your neighbor, Ms. Boocock-Lee, step outside her door.

Not thinking much of it (according to Dad, you never thought), you stepped outside, stopping after a few steps to look for your keys.

A loud voice was heard over the music. You ripped a headphone out, looking up to find your neighbor, smiling from her lawn.

You waved and gave a cheery hello.

"Where are you headed to honey?" She asked with that sweet saccharin smile that made you want to gag.

"Oh, just heading off to the pharmacy and bank. Gotta make a few deposits and pick up some medication for my dad!"

"Have they figured out the cause of that constant sore throat?" She asked.

The corner of your mouth turned downward as you shook your head, "Not yet. Hope these new meds will do something!"

After more idle chit chat, you two went your own separate ways.

You made a mental note to thank her later, for when she volunteers to be your alibi.

Once you go to the pharmacy, you aren't as good as counting consistently. Had to stay focused on fulfilling your role as the loving daughter.

Such a shame your father left his phone in the kitchen. Had he actually had it, maybe he could have called you to come home or call 911.

Not that you would have answered.

It's once you get to the bank that you begin counting.

756, 757, 758.

"Usually deposit?" The Teller asked. You nodded your head, bringing up a hand to rub something out of your eye, the plastic pharmacy bag now visible.

These deposits were nothing unusual. You had been doing them for your father for years. He'd move money around, you'd picked it up, he'd give it to pay somebody off.

It was just such a shame his memory had gone downhill over the past year. He'd forget if he had sent you to the bank or not that week.

He'd always insist on you going. And lately, he started sending you to drop off the money.

The nicest thing he's ever done for you was making this so easy.

875, 876, 877, 879.

When you got back to your father's house, you were greeted with silence.

He did say he had a meeting later that night. And keeping his car parked in the garage made it impossible to tell whether he was home or not.

So you dropped off his prescriptions on the kitchen counter. His keys were still there, signaling he hadn't left yet.

Curious. Quite curious.

Carefully turning the lock, you heard a click. It was now unlocked.

888, 889, 890.

You called out your father's name, which was met with silence.

Two knocks on the door. The second one was more forceful, opening the door ever so slightly.

The smell was horrendous, making you gag. After pulling your shirt over your nose, gasping in the fresh air desperately, you opened the door all the way.

895, 896, 897.

Finally gathering the strength, you fully opened the door.

898, 899.

The sight was horrific. No amount of research could have prepared you for it.

900.

Though you still got pleasure from seeing your father's dead body.

The next two hours were a blur. You could hear the sounds of an ambulance, Mrs. Boocock Lee wrapping a blanket around you as she asked your questions.

You were in shock.

He was finally gone.

After giving a statement to the police (not that they were really looking for the cause of death, moreso connections to your father's business), you went home to your little apartment.

It was all you could afford, with your father's refusal to give his only child any money, along with the odd jobs and hours you had to work since you were his unofficial caretaker.

But you wouldn't be there for much longer.

Now that you would get the inheritance your father hadn't blown away on shitty business deals and gambling.

While it wasn't much compared to what he started with, it was enough for you.

You switched the lights on, illuminating your apartment.

Which was why you jumped upon seeing a man on your couch. A choked gasp escaped your lips, your feet beginning to step backwards as a hand of yours extended behind you, reaching for the-

"Got the news Scheifele" Peter Parker's voice was smooth and rich. There was an air of amusement laced through his words as looked at you with a twinkle in those whiskey eyes.

You ignored his nickname for you, the one he bestowed the first time he met you. He was amused with how you looked the opposite of your father's towering, greasy demeanor.

"She's like a little lamb. A beautiful sheifale."

"If you're here to send your condolences Mr. Parker, I'm afraid this is not the best time." You gripped your car keys as you took a step into the kitchen, a step closer to the living room.

Peter Parker was elusive. He kept his heart hidden behind those tailor made suits. Those honey dripping smiles he'd give you were an act, you could see right through him.

"I'm not here for condolences. I'm here to congratulate you," He said, his mouth forming into a smirk.

"Mr. Parker, I don't know what you're talking about but please-"

"After knowing me for over a year, you still can't call me Peter?" His lips formed into a pout.

He made it sound like you two had something beyond a professional relationship.

Your dad had done business with him for years. Once his health started going downhill, you had begun dropping off checks (or dead bodies) at Parker's.

"Well, Peter, like I said now is not a good time-"

This time he stood up, hands still in the pockets of his well tailored pants. You couldn't help but grip the keys in your hand as he walked over to you.

"Drop the act Scheifele." His words made your blood run cold.

"I-I don't know what-"

Your eyes widened as Peter pulled out an empty bottle.

"Word from the wise: throw the trash out before you kill somebody."

He was too fast. One of the many skills he had that made him stand out as a hitman. Your back was now pressed against the wall as he had one hand pinning your waist to the wall, another wrapped around your wrists, which were now over your head.

Your feet dangled off the floor.

You always wondered how he was so strong. He wasn't built like a brick shithouse, and yet he could toss you with great ease.

Another skill that helped him rise up quickly in the ranks, made him sought after by your father and countless others.

Peter simply chuckled at your attempts to push back. You cursed at him as he laughed.

It was baffling. You knew he hated working with your dad, he would tell you all the time. Granted, it usually followed with a comment about how you were much prettier than your father.

"How long?" He asked, studying you like you were some kind of bug under a microscope.

"For a year now. I've been putting it in his food and the water for a year now," you admitted. You were trapped, no use in denying it.

"Must have made some pretty good connections to get a hold of fucking arsenic." The scent of cinnamon was filling your nostrils.

He always smelled good.

The hand he had on your waist moved up to cup your jaw. As if he could sense that you were about to lurch forward, he pressed his body against yours, pinning you to the wall.

You couldn't remember the last time you were this close to someone. It almost left you breathless.

Almost.

"You're the one who keeps saying I'm much better to work with," You spat.

"You did this for a whole year?"

You nodded, "Gave him a steady decline. Created a paper trail for doctor visits."

"That's why you always carry that big water bottle around, isn't it? So you never had to drink the water in the house." Peter always paid attention to the details.

It's how he knew you weren't as oblivious as you let on.

You nodded, "They'll send in some water samples. It'll show as being contaminated."

"Which will give you the perfect case against the company. The death of your father is sure to give you a nice payout," Peter cocked his head to the side, "Granted, if they found out about what you did, that's a pretty big case for them."

The possibility always dangled in the back of your mind. It's why you began planning this almost two years ago, working out every detail, making sure things happened when they were supposed to, ensuring your tracks were covered.

And there was Peter Parker, holding that bottle. The one that had your fingerprints all over it.

Once they found the bottle, your plan would unravel. Why did you have to be impatient? Why increase the dosage, when you could have waited for it take over naturally?

"What are we going to do about this?" Peter hummed, his nose grazing your cheek.

The fate of your life was in Peter Parker's hands. He had the ability to keep this a secret or send you to jail.

"What do you want?" You whispered.

He moved a hand down to your waist, gently guiding your feet back on the ground as he let go of your wrists. His broad shoulders were still against yours, keeping you in place.

A ringed hand trailed down to your face, his thumb running across your bottom lip.

It was almost sweet.

Almost.

"Name it Parker and I'll give it to you. You want the name of the guy I got it from? A percentage of my settlement money? You wanna fuc-"

Two fingers entered your mouth, cutting you off. The cool metal of the rings rested against your lips. As he leaned in, his thigh that he had slotted between your legs hitched up, brushing against your clothed core.

You never wore a dress around Peter for this very reason. You hoped he hadn't heard the way your breath hitched, how you almost gasped around his fingers.

But somehow he had such good hearing. The smirk on his face said it all.

"I want a partner," His lips were against your neck. The bastard knew that made you weak, the way his beard would brush against your skin.

Why did you ever tell him he looked good with facial hair? Maybe your father did have a point about you not knowing when to shut up.

"The kind that's made known by a pair of gold rings?" You asked, desperate to give off the image that his actions left you unbothered.

Peter chuckled, "That's a little soon, Scheifale. Let's have dinner first."

His body was off of yours, only briefly. Only long enough for you to step away from the wall. Only long enough for you to think you had a chance of running away, for him to dash that hope by wrapping an arm around your waist.

"You've had a long day and we have a lot to discuss. We need to get back to my place."

He led you out of your apartment, where you were greeted by his right hand man and woman.

Felicia and Miles just smiled at you.

Assholes.

—-------------------

You had been to Peter Parker's house before. You were familiar with the grand staircase that greeted you when you walked through the door. The marble floors in the bathroom.

The dining room table, where you two would go over payments and plans as you drank wine. As of recently, the conversation would stray from business and focused on other things.

Childhood. Interests. Funny stories.

How he could help you get away from your father. That you would be safe with him, he'd make sure of that.

Everytime it was brought up, you would just shake your head. He didn't need to get involved. You could hold your own.

Was that why he was doing this? You had actually succeeded without his help. Without his knowledge. Did that make him angry? Feel betrayed?

"Are you angry at me?" You asked as he drove.

Peter's brows furrowed in confusion as his eyes stayed focused on the road ahead, "Why would I be angry?"

"Because I got rid of him without your help."

Peter rolled his eyes, "I never said you couldn't do it without me. I just offered assistance in case you needed it."

You almost felt bad at your accusation.

Almost.

"So then why are you doing this?"

"Because as smart as you are, you still have a lot to learn," He pressed a button, opening the gates to his house, "As much as everyone hated your father, he was still a prominent figure in all this. When you get rid of someone, you gotta make sure you have some alliances first to protect your ass."

You huffed, "Why would I need protection, no one is gonna think I-"

"In this business, you treat every death with suspicion. No matter how many alibis, witnesses, and reports."

Peter now had a hand on your thigh, his fingers gently gripping the soft flesh. After parking, he leaned in, the smell of cinnamon greeting you once again.

"And maybe I am a little sad you didn't contact me after he died." You hated that smirk. Hated how charming it was. Hated how it made your thighs clench the first time you saw it.

"Peter Parker gets sad? This is good information for me to know as your new partner," You leaned in, his face now inches away from yours.

"Oh Scheifele, you're gonna learn a lot about me." His thumb came up and ran along your bottom lip.

You wished he'd stopped doing that. You could say so and Peter would listen.

Yet, the words didn't come out.

Which is how you found yourself in Peter's office, planning out the details of your father's funeral.

You were honestly surprised. As soon as you walked into his house, you expected him to shove you against a wall, take you right then and there.

Instead, he was actually helping.

It was a lot more work than you realized. Knowing who to invite, where to seat them, who to keep away from who.

"Why the fuck are you inviting the Osborne's?" Peter asked, running a hand through his hair. He was sitting in his leather chair while you lounged on the couch.

"The family used to work with my dad, they were on friendly terms," you explained.

"They're trouble and you know it."

"The son is always sweet to me."

Peter's brows furrowed as he chewed the inside of his cheek. He wanted to say something, it was clear as day.

So, you being curious, kept pushing it, "He texted me when he got the news that my dad kicked the bucket. Said if I needed anything, to let him know."

His jaw tensed, his nostrils flaring.

"Y'know, you could have sent a text-"

He lunged forward, his hands pinning yours against the soft leather pillows on the couch.

Now he looked angry.

"Harry Osborne is a piece of shit, just like your father. Is that what you want? To repeat the awful, shitty cycle that led you to fucking poison a man?"

You shrugged, secretly gleaming that you had the upper hand, "I got rid of one shitty man, I can do it again."

"Or you can be with someone who doesn't make you want to commit murder," Peter spat. His whiskey eyes were hardened and narrowed in on you. For a moment, the only sound in the room was yours and Peter's heaving breathing.

"Or specifically, I could be with the person who fucking blackmailed me to be their partner. Is that what you want?" Your tone was nearly mocking as you threw his words back in his face.

"You wouldn't have come with me otherwise, which would have meant you would be home alone when Craven came to your apartment, looking for you."

"Bullshit-"

"Miles and Felicia are there right now, taking care of him. Did you know your father owed him money? No, you didn't. I'm trying to help you," He gritted through his teeth.

The idea of receiving help always made your stomach lurch. Thanks to Daddy dearest, you were raised on the concept of looking out for yourself.

Which, looking back, is probably what made it so easy to kill the man. No one else was keeping tabs or track of him.

So Peter had a point. So what?

"Right, and you get absolutely no satisfaction that I can't leave you. That now you can have me whenever you want, to-"

"You know I wouldn't do that." His voice was firm, but not angry. In fact, he looked hurt by your accusation.

"Oh please, all that flirting-"

"It takes two to tango. I wouldn't have kept flirting if you hadn't flirted back."

He was right, but you couldn't let him see that. Peter Parker couldn't know.

"You're just angry that I won't let you be my savior," your voice was but a whisper, though that didn't stop the venom dripping all over your words.

"I'm angry because that piece of shit you called a father got into your brain and made you believe you're not worthy of someone who likes you, who actually cares about you."

His voice was soft. The grip he had on your wrists was gone, his hands now intertwining with yours.

"And you think you're worthy of me?" Your voice was gentle, barely above a whisper.

It wasn't meant to mock Peter, it wasn't meant to hurt him.

It was a genuine question.

His forehead brushed against yours, his soft hair tickling your skin, "I'd like to try."

Peter Parker was vulnerable, underneath the rings and designer suits and devilish smirks. That's what drew you to him, what made you stay with him, long after your meetings had ended.

"Show me then," you demanded.

Peter's lips were soft against yours, despite how he was kissing you with such fervor. His hands cupped your neck, his long fingers reaching to the back of your head. Despite literally trapping you, you felt safe. Something you hadn't felt since god knows when.

His body shifted towards you, deepening the kiss. His tongue ran along your bottom lip, as if it was asking for entrance. You parted your lips, granting him access. He followed your lead, your tongue slipping against his as your fingers weaved into that soft, thick hair of his.

It was intoxicating-his smell, his touch, his lips. You couldn't help but arch into him, trying to mold your body against yours.

He broke away first, which surprised you. His lips trailed up to your ear, pressing small kisses into your face along the way.

"You've had a long day. Should go shower and change." His breath was hot on your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

"I don't….I don't have any c-clothes," you could feel the heat in your face as the sensation spread through your body.

"Felicia is picking up some of your clothes after she takes care of Craven. But until then…..I got something for you," you didn't need to see his mouth to know that smirk was there.

“You got me clothes? For this meeting?” You leaned back so he could see the glare you were giving him.

“If you must know, I got them after your last visit with me,” He admitted, his voice soft.

Ah yes. The last visit. The one where he said you didn’t have to go back to your father, that you could stay with him.

And in an attempt to get out of there, to avoid what he really meant, what he was saying through those big whiskey eyes, you mentioned something about not having any clothes and ran out the door.

“Trying to make it difficult for me to escape?” Your fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Also thought you deserved something nice, “ Peter’s voice was sweet, like honey. It was such a contrast to his hands that were now kneading the soft flesh of your thighs.

"Look, you can just give me an old Tshirt and-"

"Listen, Scheifale. You're going to take a shower, put on what I give you, and I'm going to show you how good I can make you feel. Got it?"

The order sent heat directly to your core. All you could do was nod as Peter helped you off the couch.

—--------------------------

"That bastard," you muttered as you stared at the 'clothes' laid out for you.

You knew they wouldn’t really be clothes. Like Peter Parker would pass up a chance to see more of you.

Your fingers traced over the lacey, sheer fabric of the ‘romper’ that was hanging on the hook of the bathroom door. Could you call it a romper when it would barely conceal your tits and ass?

The color was nice. Soft pink.

Your favorite.

While showering, a maid had taken your other clothes, leaving you no choice. As you put on the sheer, flimsy fabric, you couldn’t help but look at yourself in the mirror.

It was nice. Something you didn’t buy for yourself, usually because you either didn’t have enough money or just didn’t think you deserved it.

Pulling on the robe, you couldn't help but press the soft material to your nose.

It smelled like Peter.

Taking a deep sigh, you opened the door. The walk from the bedroom to the office felt long, daunting.

You found Peter sitting in his chair, looking over some papers.

"So what made you decide on lingerie? Usually I just sleep in an old Tshirt and shorts," you commented.

"I wanted to get you something nice." He walked over to you, his hands in his pockets.

"Do you not like it?" He asked, motioning to the robe.

You rolled your eyes, "I didn't think your staff wanted to see my half naked with zero warning."

"I sent them home," Peter's lips were now pressed against your forehead, his fingers trailing down to the tie that was holding the rope together.

You stepped back, "Why am I the only one in less clothing? This doesn't seem like a very fair partnership."

All he did was grin as he took off his jacket and began loosening his tie.

"More," you demanded.

"And you say I'm the horndog," Peter muttered, taking off his shirt to reveal a white undershirt beneath it.

"Why do you wear so many layers? Don't you get hot?"

He ignored your question, walking over to the couch. He sat down, kicking off his shoes before he slowly pulled the white Tshirt over his head.

Peter Parker was attractive. You knew that. Everyone knew that. And yet there was something about seeing him like this, shirtless, long legs spread out.

"I….I didn't know you had tattoos."

"You can look at them if you want, Scheifele." He curled a finger, motioning for you to come to him.

Wanting to maintain the upper hand (or some semblance of it), you walked over slowly, untying the knot.

You stood there, in between his legs as the robe fell to the floor. Peter's eyes widened briefly, then relaxed as he took you in.

"Look at you," He cooed as a hand traced over the lace on your hips. His other hand trailed up your stomach, resting right below one of your breasts.

"Spin around." Your eyes widened at the demand.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Peter was unphased, "You heard me. Wanna see how it looks from the back. If it's good, I can get you more in different colors."

You were ready to tell him to fuck off, until you remembered he had that little bottle of yours. The one that would destroy your life if someone else's hands ever got ahold of it.

So you slowly spinner, allowing his eyes to burn into your skin.

"You don't need to be shy. You look pretty. You can look too, if you want." It was difficult to hold onto your anger when his voice was so soothing.

You straddled his waist, taking in the sight of his bare chest and shoulders. Your fingers traced along the sections of inked skin.

On the top of his left shoulder was an intricate spider web, cascading down to his back and the very top of his bicep. You leaned over, trying to ignore his lips that were now pressed in the valley between your breasts, instead focusing on the small spider that dangled from the web, going down part of his back.

"Were you one of those kids obsessed with spiders?" Peter let out a low chuckle against your chest, sending vibrations that made your stomach flutter.

"It's several things. My parents were scientists and studied animal and other species' DNA to see if they could find missing links for medical treatments. Mainly they studied spiders. Did that until the day they died."

Your fingers traced over his skin as the story played in your mind, your brain memorizing the details he had given you. You had learned details of Peter here and there. He always wanted to focus on you, to listen to what you had to say.

It was nice to hear him talk about himself.

Your eyes noticed another section of ink, your fingers tracing over the symbols inscribed on his right bicep.

"Is that Hebrew?" You asked. He nodded his head.

"Gam Ze Ya'avor," Peter told you. You looked at him, your confused expression alerting him that you had no idea what it meant.

"This too shall pass. Got it after my Uncle Ben died. Figured it would be a good reminder," He explained, his voice soft.

"It is a good reminder. What about this one?" You picked up his hand, motioning to his forearm. A band of old film was wrapped around it.

"I did photography in high school. Still do it from time to time," He shrugged, "My Aunt May says I could have worked for The Daily Bugle."

"You ever thought of getting them filled in with something?"

Peter shrugged, the tips of his ears turning red, "Yeah…..thought it would be neat to fill them with important dates."

"Such as……" your voice trailed off.

Peter looked up at you, a sheepish smile taking over his face, "Wedding dates….birth dates of my children."

"Is that what you want?" So often you met men in this field who did those things to prove something, like that they could have anyone they wanted. Or to continue their name, to have a successor so their legacy could leave on.

Selfish reasons. Your father was one of those men.

But when Peter looked at you with those soft amber eyes, it didn't feel selfish.

"Yeah, I do. What about you?"

Your fingers traced the inked skin on his arm before guiding your fingers back to his shoulder, back to the spider web. You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss against it.

"Yeah, I want that too," You whispered into his skin, "Partly why I got rid of my old man. Couldn't have that with him around."

Peter nodded, bringing your fingers up to his lips. It was a stark difference compared to when he found you in your apartment earlier today.

Perhaps that's why you liked him. He could have killed you, could have ratted you out.

Instead, he just brought you home, even when you didn't realize that's what you wanted, what you needed.

"If I remember correctly, you said you were going to show me how good you can make me feel," Your voice was light, a smirk slowly spreading to your face.

"I still intend to, just didn't plan on telling you my life story," He teased.

"Sorry, I like to get to know my potential partners before I work with them," You teased back.

"Potential? I still have that bottle of yours," his voice had become more gruff, his fingers cupping the lower half of your face, forcing you to look at him.

There was that smirk.

"And I still know how to poison people and make it look like an accident," you responded, grinding your hips down onto his. You grinned at the sight of him wincing as he felt your core brush against his emerging erection.

"Does that make you hard Peter? That I know how to kill someone?"

"What makes me hard is you're smart as hell, extremely stubborn, and look like an angel," He hissed as you rocked your hips forward again.

"Show me. Show me how much you like that." You wanted control, wanted to know this was real and not some stupid ploy to make you weak.

Because despite everything he had done, part of you still didn't trust it, didn't believe it.

Thanks Dad.

Peter's lips were all over your body, his hands pinning your waist to his bed. You were still processing the fact he was able to pick you up and carry you with great ease, like you weighed nothing.

He was hiding something.

But it was hard to sleuth when his lips were pressed against the thin, flimsy fabric that barely covered your core.

"You know, if you move the fabric to the side, you could actually lick my cunt," you huffed.

A gasp fell from your lips as you felt him slap your thigh, the sting making you throb in pleasure rather than pain.

"That smartass mouth of yours doesn't stop, does it?" He asked before sinking his teeth into the soft flesh.

"If you lied down, I can show you what else this smartass mouth can do." He groaned at your words and you noticed his hips grinding down into the mattress..

"Don't you know it's bad practice to switch up demands on someone?" He said, moving his body up as his hands reached for the straps holding your garment up.

"Isn't that what you're here for? To teach me?" Peter pulled the straps down, tugging the slip off your body as he grinned at your words.

"I'm here for a lot of things, Scheifele. Like to show you how good I can make you feel." God you hated that nickname and how it made you flustered.

"You're doing an awful lot of talking, not so much showing," you tssked.

"My apologies. Let me make it up to you."

His mouth was hot on your cunt, his tongue wasting no time to find your clit.

He wasn't your first, far from it. But you couldn't remember the last time you got to lie down and just feel. Feel pleasure, feel wanted, feel needed.

"Taste fucking amazing," you heard Peter groan, "you're so good."

You whined at the praise, your hands clawing at the tops of his shoulders. His tongue continued to circle around your bundle of nerves, his fingers running along your entrance to gather slick.

The coil in your lower stomach was building. Your hips thrusted upwards in a desperate attempt to meet his mouth.

His name fell from your lips, like a prayer. Not that there was anything holy about what his mouth was doing to you.

He just felt so good.

Which is why you whined when he broke away. Your cunt clenched around nothing, instantly missing the feel of his large fingers curling up against your walls.

"I know, you were close," He cooed in your ear, "But I want the first time I make you

come to be on my cock."

"Isn't that something you should decided with your partner beforehand?" You gritted through your teeth.

Peter chuckled as his teeth grazed your chest, "Sorry, it's been a while since I had one."

His admission surprised you. Granted, you could recall how he never seemed to have any other women around the house (who didn't work for him) or at parties.

"So I have to teach you shit too? Doesn't sound like a fair partnership," you crossed your arms over your chest.

"So sorry Scheifale. Let me make it up to you," He whispered into your ear as he pressed his cock into your entrance.

A curse fell from your lips as he bottomed out, your walls stretching to accommodate him.

Fuck, he felt amazing.

Your back arched as he began thrusting in and out of you, building up a steady pace.

In the back of your mind, you couldn't help but think about where you would be right now if things hadn't changed. Either alone in your old, dingy apartment or getting yelled at by your father.

Thank God for arsenic.

#my writing #lizzy's fic prompts #lizzy's 900 #Peter Parker AU #mob!peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #tasm peter x you #tasm peter x reader #tasm!peter x you #tasm!peter imagine #tasm!spiderman x reader #spiderman x you #Spiderman AU #tasm!peter x reader #tasm!peter parker x reader

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