#tasm!peter x oc

[nexusnyx]

Lost The Game

SUMMARY: The explanation your mind settled for was that whoever lived under that mask, also lived somewhere close by. It explained the first time you found him limping and bleeding on an alley, and it explains how you evolved into his personal caretaker for the wounds and afflictions of Spider-Man’s after battle consequences.

The only thing it doesn’t explain, however, is why through the thick and convoluted webs of your strange situationship, a certain tension has built between you two. Palpable. Physical. As electric as some of his tales, and as dangerous as he is.

The tension between you and Spidey grows, and it grows, and it grows. One day, it snaps.

⚠️ Minors DNI. Smut.  Explicit depictions of sex. | 🏷️ 8.3K , fluff, established relationship, part three of three, reposting this ‘cause some people missed this one and asked for it.

• PART TWO •

In his world, there was no Avengers.

The bad thing about his inter-dimensional trip he had was this—Peter got an idea of what other worlds looked like and parts of him wished for a supernatural helping hand, sometimes, or maybe just someone who understood him. He had allies, but very few friends on this side of his life. This is why when Peter is almost killed by Kingpin, a decision that he's been dreading for months becomes easy in the snap of a finger.

Do I drop the last vail or do I not?

All of his excuses as to why not fly out of the window when Peter's bleeding to death and realizes that none of it matters. All of life is dangerous, on this or any other planet, and if he's always putting his own damn life — personal or not — at risk for the sake of saving a city, he might as well do that and let the woman he loves kiss him with the lights on while he's at it.

He swallows the metallic and thick taste of red in his mouth, reaches his trembling hand up, and knocks.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap.

"Peter?"

The fright in your voice is what startles his eyes open.

"Peter!"

God, he loves your voice so much.

A lot less when it drips in worry like this, but the love is there nonetheless.

"Peter, open your eyes. What—oh my god," you choke on your words, and he feels you pulling his body inside your room.

Guiding himself by memory, Peter helps the way he can, letting his body slide down your bed.

"Gonna get your sheets dirty," he mumbles.

"Oh, for the love of god." There's the feeling of his suit being unzipped at the back, and even through the fogginess, Peter notices how your hands are cold. Shaking. "Peter, what happened?" It's a breathless whisper, and it makes his chest ache more than the bruises did because it sounds so small, and nothing about you is diminutive.

"Kin—ow—Kingpin." The ruthless man's minions might still be stuck in webs hung meters above the ground, but Wilson, Kingpin, that man needs no henchmen to do any damage. It was the point he had to prove today—more to Matt than to Peter, but because Peter had decided to help, he got mingled in the mess.

After a heartbeat, he hears. "Who's Matt?" you ask.

Wait—was Peter talking out loud?

"Oh, god," this time, it's a choked-up sob. "Peter, I think you have a concussion."

Y/n is going to be a doctor, so the probabilities of her being right are very high. He probably does have something on his head—Kingpin grabbed Peter's head in his hand, that enormous, gigantic hand that engulfed all of Peter's skull and smashed it against the nearest thing, which happened to be iron polls.

He's still unsure of what the tension and underlying secret were between that man and Matt, but there was so much anger in there tonight.

"Peter..."

He feels weak, but he still has some strength left and Peter had made up his mind before he arrived at the staircases of your apartment.

If he went to the hospital, Aunt May would have a heart attack.

If he came to you, Peter would have to let you see him.

With the taste of blood polluting every inch of his mouth, it was a surprisingly easy decision to make.

He ignores the strain and the pull on the sides of his body as he reaches up for the mask, and he hears you gasp when he pulls it off in a clean sweep.

"Peter."

"Hey. That's me." He can't laugh right now — or open his right eye that much — but he can smile at you. A weak, bloody thing. At least it's an honest one. "Hi. I think I might blackout."

"Peter," are you crying? Good gods, Peter would clock himself on the face if someone else hadn't beaten him to the punch. "I don't—I don't know if I can take care of all of this."

"It's just—the one on the back. I think I'm losin' lots of blood 'cause of it..."

"What's on your back?"

"Open gunshot wound closed with webs?"

"Peter!"

"I didn't sh... shoot it, baby." He knew she'd be mad the second he threw the webs at himself. "The rest will... it'll fade. Soon."

There's a moment of silence where Peter hears rapid, short breaths. He opens his left eye as much as he can as sees you breathing in through your nose and out of your mouth quickly, then feels the bed dipping when you leave it with purpose. He knows you're going for the first-aid kit, so he already does the job of turning around.

When he hears your footsteps coming back, the last thing he hears is what makes him smile against your duvet.

"I'll take care of you. It's okay. It's gonna be fine, Peter."

While he's aware you're hyping yourself up to believe it more than talking to him, the words are like anesthetic all over his body.

Peter inhales the scent that is acutely yours, and blacks out.

If he were anyone else, Peter would remember close to nothing of his hours alternating between consciousness and not.

Lucky for him, he's part spider.

At first, all he feels, sees, and hears, are small tidbits of you moving things in and around him.

There's the distinct — and nasty — feeling of a needle threading with nylon through his lower upper back.

During that moment, nothing else passes through.

He's distantly aware of your mumbling and whispering, the soft and comforting words not reaching his ears, but the sense they bring drape over his skin almost like a blanket.

Then, when he has a silver of consciousness again, he recognizes through the stinging pain and the dull, throbbing aches all over his body, that the heat he registers is not of his own blood anymore, but of your warm hands along with a warm towel washing him.

That's when he allows sleep to come for the first time.

He wakes up somewhere in the middle of the day judging by the light streaming through your window, and he's happy to access that his body's doing most of the healing by now.

The feeling of a gaping hole is gone, and so is the smell of blood.

Peter wants to look around a bit, but while the throbbing has passed, it's left a dull, sore ache in its place.

You're not there, either.

He knows that because Peter's spidey senses have almost a direct link to you, and you're not in the room.

It takes him a couple of minutes with the taste of sand at the back of his throat and that pounding on the back of his head for him to realize he can open his eyes.

There's a glass of water right next to him, and he smiles.

Of course you'd do that.

Even after he's ruined your nice duvets — after promising he'd never spill blood on your blankets again, shit — Peter still gets the kindest side of you.

And then he remembers—you saw his face.

The lights were on, he was a mess, and fuck—you saw him.

You saw him and saved his life, one more time.

How many times would you have to do it?

Why was his life so dangerous?

Peter's stomach starts to resemble something alive, something with tentacles and it's reaching up, so he swallows it back down.

After gulping the glass of water, he hears it.

Distant sounds of conversation.

Felicity's voice is what registers first. It's not as familiar to him as yours is right now, but it is the reason it brought him to you in the first place, even if Peter hates thinking about that. He ignores your roommate and the things he keeps hidden from you like most people would ignore a spider in the upper corner of their bathroom.

It hurts to try to hear the conversation.

The gun blasted too close to his ear, and Peter's not the biggest at eavesdropping, so he just lets his upper body lay down again and allows the darkness on the corners of his mind to take over the rest.

Next, there are the hours in-between.

As the sun goes down, Peter drifts between the land of dreams and this one, enjoying both of them very much.

In here, there's you with a warm, wet cloth cleaning his wounds that need tending, and in his dreams, there's you sitting next to a blond girl, smiling at him.

At some point, Peter opens his eyes and sees you sitting on your chair in front of your computer desk.

Your eyes widen and you slide the chair closer, looking at every inch of his face with furrowed eyebrows.

"Peter," it's the softest you've ever said his name. "Is there anyone you'd like me to text? About your whereabouts?"

Aunt May.

"You can go back to sleep right after, but you came without your backpack, and it's been almost a day—do you want some pain medicine? I can get it for you."

He nods.

You nod back, then get up and exit the room. Peter takes the opportunity to grab the notepad you have on your nightstand, write down Aunt May's phone number and name and a message underneath it.

I'm at Y/n's. Be back soon, aunt May. Love you <3

It's an ugly scribble, but your handwriting is far worse than anything he could dream of producing, so he sits back against your headboard and waits for you and the pills.

When you come back with them, Peter almost swallows it down without the water, but he's still so damn thirsty that another glass goes in a gulp.

He feels your eyes on him the whole time, and while he wants to talk, he prefers to wait for his body to finish using all his strength in stitching his insides up before he tries any conversation.

You grab the glass from his hand, place it on the nightstand and sit on the bed right next to him.

"Are you cold?" You ask, pressing your palm and the back of your hand to his forehead, neck, cheeks.

He's shirtless. Well—it's not anything you haven't seen before.

He shakes his head and clears his throat. The desert has left the back of his mouth, but the aftertaste of rust is still there.

"I'm sorry." He can say that, at least. "I am really sorry, Y/n. For coming to you like th—"

A hand tapes his mouth shut—your hand, and looking at your face in the bedroom light knowing you're looking back at his is not as terrifying as he made it out to be in the countless scenarios where he thought about this before.

"What's the alternative?" You ask him with a shrug. "You bleed out on the street because some drug lord had some beef with a Matt dude and you tried to help your friend?" He misses the heat of your hand as soon as it's gone. "I prefer you bleed on my death start duvets than on the streets, buddy. These ones I can wash."

Buddy.

'Don't call me buddy—I'm not your buddy. Fuck, I swear you say these things just to get a rise out of me. Do your buddies do this, huh? Touch you like this? Make you this wet? You get so wet for me, baby—'

'Peter.'

'Yeah, exactly. I taught you my name for a reason. Don't forget that.'

After a heartbeat, Peter licks his dry lips and looks away from yours. Those memories make his blood rate rise, and he's sure that's not good in the state he's still in. "I'm still not your buddy," he says. His voice comes out raspy, and he watches your gaze dropping from his eyes to his lips.

Peter's in love.

The way you look at him.

The way you look at his tall and graceless body already drove him insane, but the way you look at his face?

Parted lips and that distance gaze of someone who's getting lost in memories and the present?

Peter loves it. He's been in love with you, but seeing the softness and adoration mixing with desire on your face has put the cherry on the cake.

"Good to know that," you whisper back.

I'm happy to know this doesn't change things, he hears.

He scoffs. "I would suck at being your buddy."

"Yeah? Why's that?" You're smiling now, and as a reflex, so is he.

Peter frowns. Isn't it obvious? "I've bled on your bed more times than I can count, you've put your fingers inside me in more ways than you can count, and I'm pretty sure that if I tried to stay away from you, your lips, or that pretty brain of yours for longer than two weeks, I'd have withdrawal symptoms." He's sure of it, actually. He tried staying away from you, and it sucked. "I can't be your buddy, baby." He chuckles. "We're not meant to be buddies. I already explained that to you."

Your lips quiver, moving upwards in a smile, slowly.

"Right." The way you bite on the bottom lower one tells Peter all you need to know about where your mind went.

His body leans forward as if there's a magnetic poll right on the center of you pulling you towards him.

Unfortunately for him, he's still healing from a very big pound.

He makes it only a few centimeters away from the headboard before the muscles inside him sting like a sharp hook and he stops—"Ah."

"Don't move." You're on in an instant. A comforting — and silently demanding — hand on his bicep, scooching closer to him in the bed. "You still need... I don't know how much longer you need, actually." A chuckle. "I still haven't got a clue how your healing works, Spidey. Just... lay down. Stand still until you're not moving won't rip apart the stitches I so beautifully made, 'kay?"

That brings Peter's hand and eyes to the work at hand.

He inspects the stitch-up work and—you're right. It's beautiful, neat, and professional work.

He can almost hear the praises of your teachers during class, as well as the envious looks of your colleagues who have three times less practice than you in the matter.

(Truth be told, Peter's aware you'd have gotten to this point with or without him as a guinea pig because while you may feel or say like everything around you is collapsing, studying is a ball you've yet to let it drop. You do it and do it well. 'If I'm gonna do this, I might as well do it well, huh? you had told him. Peter believed a lot of it was innate talent, but he might be biased to speak of you.)

"Grade A work, Y/l/n."

"Thanks, Spidey."

When he looks up, Peter takes a punch to the chest.

There you are, looking at him again.

Damn.

He's frozen.

Have you lied to him all this time? He's pretty sure this is the effect of actual superpowers and not just the way your eyes glint under the light of the day.

It must have something to do with the frizz in your hair that gives you almost an angelic aura—there's gold, orange, a touch of pink and lilac touching your cheeks and the soft, dopey smile you have on your face, and Peter stands there with his hand hanging halfway to his lap, as frozen in the air as he is looking at you looking at him.

You can see him, and Peter has never felt more comfortable feeling this exposed.

This vulnerable.

"Hi," he whispers.

Instead of answering, your blinks seem to slow down in time.

One of your hands reaches up to his cheek, and Peter finds himself leaning towards the hand.

Magnets.

When the soft, velvety touch of your palm meets his dry skin, Peter takes in a deep breath.

Closes his eyes.

Your hand cups his cheek, and caresses his face, as slowly as you are breathing.

Then, Peter's spidey senses feel the vibrations and electricity on your skin inching closer, and he thinks the slow-motion of your delicate, almost afraid, and calculated moves are making the energy and waves that travel between your body and his twice as real.

He might get shocked.

Peter feels when your lips are mere inches away from his. He wants to dive in, but he lets you dip your fingers in the water and go as you want.

He can feel how much you're feeling right now.

Seeing him is not only affecting him, and that's perhaps why his body is rendered at your mercy.

When your lips press against his, they're as plump and tender as always.

He exhales, at last, enjoying the sensation of warmth that spreads through his body when yours connects to his in any intimate way. Usually, it takes a little bit more for the tingle to travel from head to toe like this, but something about the kiss and the way you're keeping still and yet he knows you feel it, just as he does, it makes it even better that he's all buzzing.

Peter's underwater, and it's almost a reflex when he exhales and presses harder.

Closer.

With abandon, Peter lets his body relax on yours, not wanting to push it any further than it can go, but wanting to melt against the welcoming and familiar heat of your body.

His right hand goes up to your hair, and he gets a few more soft, tender presses of your lips on his, as well as the sensual and slow drags of your mouth against his in between them before you move your head back a few inches, still keeping your hand on his face.

Peter swallows the knot in his throat.

"I... should get you food," you whisper.

He's too busy staring at how pink your lips are for a few seconds.

Eventually, he hums. "That'd be nice."

"I got soup." You lick your lips. There's a color on your cheeks, and Peter is definitely in trouble. He hasn't gotten the instinct to draw in a long time, yet here he is, trying to figure out what's the correct shade of your cheeks. "From the deli shop you like."

"Oh." He loves that place. "I love that place!" He whispers excitedly.

Your smile widens. "I know." With a quick, delicious peck of goodbye, you get up from the bed in one quick motion. "I'll be back. I'm gonna text," you pick up the paper from the nightstand and read it. "Aunt May. Wait—you want me to text her this? Will she know who I am? Aunt May knows me?"

Peter laughs. "Of course Aunt May knows you."

In your few blinks Peter sees the surprise. "Right." You turn around sharply, cheeks pulled up from the smiling. "Text. Soup. Then sleep. I gotta go run a few errands, so I'll shut the windows for you." More seriously, you add. "You should really get some rest. You look a bit... pale."

"It's the caucasian in me."

You snort. "God, it's horrible when you try to be funny."

"Yet, you're smiling."

"At you." You get up and regardless of what you say, the nose scrunch proves that Peter amused you, to say the least. "I'm gonna get your food. Stay put, Spidey boy."

"Man, Spider-Man."

He's arguing now more for the sake of your smile than because your 'boy' has gotten a rise out of him.

It used to.

The first time you said it, Peter recalled the tingling on his body and that desire to correct—not a boy, I'm a man, you'll see, I'll show you.

Did he feel silly two seconds afterward correcting you when he saw in your face that you'd be pulling his metaphorical pigtails? Maybe. Luckily for him, the mask hid it back then.

Now, it's just a skit between you two.

The teasing back and forth is almost like the sea tide.

You come back with the soup and sit back down on your desktop chair, returning to your books and papers while he eats. Peter recalls the day when he asked why you never eat when he's there and, on the occasion when you gave him food, why didn't you stay close to him while he ate.

'You're distracting when you're eating.' You had said.

'What? I'm distracting? How?'

'You make all these little noises when you're enjoying it. And your lips get super pink 'cause you keep licking them. It's distracting.'

'From what? You're not even doing anything.'

'I don't need to be doing something. It just... is.'

Later, he realized it was distracting because it made you want to kiss him. To take away the plate in his hands and replace it with your body instead.

He's content to share looks with you over the bowl of warm food and watch your profile as you read and type. The concentrated crease in your brows and your lips set in a firm line are distracting too, he thinks, but he enjoys it.

Peter finishes the food and the result of some protein, carbs and nutrients making their way inside him is instant—his eyes get heavier, and blinking is a bit harder, and all he wanted was to cuddle you. Slide under the blanket, say goodbye to the world.

It's when he lowers the bottom half of his body that Peter feels he's still wearing his suit.

"How come you haven't kicked me out of your bed yet? I'm gross," he says.

Even though his voice is softer and lower than before, you turn to him.

Smiling, you shrug. "I've been gross before. You're forgiven because of circumstances." Then, something happens—you blush. You were looking at his body before but when you look up, Peter recognizes the flash of 'oh, it's him' that passes fast as lightning in your eyes. "Also, you're pretty," you add in a whisper. Your peachy cheeks darken, looking good enough to eat. "Pretty privileges."

Peter feels it—the heat on his face. He laughs, ducking his head down. He's not used to people complimenting him like that, but coming from you it makes it three times worse. "So it is a real thing."

"Oh, it definitely is."

"Good to know." He hates to know he's making your small piece of safe haven dirty, but he'll make up for it. "As much as I'd love to stay awake and watch you study and be gorgeous for the next couple of hours, I think my brain's about to shut down in the next few minutes."

"Sleep, Spidey." If there's such thing as magic through the voice or words, Peter believes you have it. The gentle softness with which you say those two words are better than any of your blankets. "I'll be there soon."

That's even better. God, I love sleeping with you.

He hears a giggle.

"It's mutual, Peter."

He loves the sound of that, too.

If Peter believed in something, he'd have beautiful religious metaphors to use about the way you look in the mornings.

He'd maybe talk about how waking up with you next to him is the only sanctuary he needs, and for a Jewish boy who's missed so much of what one looks or sounds like, he's sure it felt something like this.

If Peter believed, he'd have more words to say about the way your tenderness makes him feel like he's holy.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better."

"Good. I'm glad... d'you wanna take a shower? I can separate some clothes for you."

"Are you coming with me?"

Peter would have words for what it feels like to sit in your loft's bathroom in his bloodied, mended superhero suit, his feet touching the freezing cold floor and his body still running as hot as ever because he can hear you walking around the place in your fuzzy socks while you wait for the water to warm.

How can he be so at peace like this?

He's beaten himself up for much less, but the seriousness in your tone when you told him to stay put while you changed the sheets only made him warm.

It made him feel cared for and nothing more.

Peter removes the rest of his suit. It comes off with difficulty—the sweat's stuck the material to his skin, and it still hurts to move, but he manages.

He feels the fresh tissues inside of him.

His heightened senses tell him the main wound is still healing, but everything else is almost okay. Peter needs maybe a good meal and a couple more days to be brand new, which is more than he'd expected when he left the bay area with webs sticking his skin together.

When you come back and see him already naked, Peter's happy that his eyes' swelling has done down.

He'd hate to miss the lust in your gaze.

To miss the obvious way your eyes travel up and down his body.

"You could've gone inside already," you whisper.

It's barely nine in the morning, there are only you two in the place and Peter has no idea why you'd think he wants to go anywhere without you.

"Was waiting for you." He's more at ease sitting naked on your toilet than he's been in three, maybe four years. That means something, right?

You start taking off your pajamas, and Peter gets up to help.

Not that you need it. He just loves removing clothes from your body.

The steam takes over the bathroom and by the time you two are immersed underneath the water, wet as rain, Peter already feels new.

Not even the best prayers could do that.

He loves the showerhead here because the water pressure is great and it's big enough to almost give space to the two of you. Almost.

That's why he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you closer to his body.

He wants your warmth much more than the water's.

That's when he feels it—the shaky, interrupted way you breathe. Your arms come up around his middle so fast that he almost has to take a step back to keep himself in place, but he's rooted there.

And you're crying.

"Y/n?" Peter looks down.

You shake your head in three quick motions. Not yet.

Peter's not an idiot, and while he may be a little slow to the mysteries of his own heart, the loud and physical thumping of your heart against his ribcage is right there and doesn't lie.

He can feel every beat of it, and maybe there was something in that container that Kingpin had dropped on his head and all that mysterious blue sand inside of it, but Peter's sure he can see the black clouds exiting your head.

He sees the darkness of worry and fear leaving you.

Peter clings on tighter, letting you cry silent tears into his chest. He hopes the kisses he presses on your temple and your face make any worries left to be gone easier. Quicker.

He kisses the parts he can reach of you, and refuses to let go.

Eventually, you pull back against the hold of his arms and when you look up with those swollen, red eyes, Peter realizes what it all means.

What being so comfortable around you, laughing so easily, coming to you many more times even though he knew he shouldn't, watching you sleep, and all those minors or big things that made him stop and go—it means something, right?

It means Aunt May was right.

She was right when she said the world goes on regardless of how much we want it to stop sometimes, and right now, Peter's world is you.

When your lips, trembling just like your chin is, open and say, "I was terrified," in a whispered confession, Peter knows.

He'd give up anything for you. He'd conquer anything for you, as well, which he imagines lives on the other side of that coin.

"I am so sorry, baby," he tells you, blinking through the sting in his own eyes.

You shake your head and his heart almost falls to the ground before you pick it up. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Pete. I know—" you swallow a visible knot, sniffle, and then try again. "You have a responsibility. With your power, and... with what you believe."

With great power, comes great responsibility.

He nods.

"And please don't take this wrongly—don't shut down, or stop coming. God—if you stop coming I swear I'll die of worry—"

"Y/n." He interrupts because he knows when you're about to spiral as much as you know when he's about to go on a ramble. "I'd never. I—you're allowed to be scared. I'm not gonna go into martyr mode and make that decision for you. If you want me gone, I'll be gone. I know I'm a lot. I know my life, and how scary it is to be around it, but I think I also know you and if I take away your choice of being around me and all my mess—" he shakes his head. "I don't fancy that ass-whooping."

You laugh.

It untangles all the messy knots and webs inside his chest that formed when he saw your eyes puffy, and Peter breathes in what feels like clean, fresh air.

"I'm happy you're smart," you say.

He shrugs his shoulders. "It's what my teachers say."

"Is it?"

With your head tilt, he notices—he's nearing territory he used to avoid before.

Peter breathes in again, reaches behind him in the shower, and grabs your shampoo.

"Can I do your hair?" he asks.

Your face remains the same as you nod, but he sees you breathing out. Accepting his silence. The change in subjects, as it usually is.

When he's got enough bubbles forming, he massages your scalp and starts. "I got a scholarship for Biophysics, so I guess I am pretty smart, but it wasn't 'till one of my teachers at ESU told me my paper was 'informative even through the minors detours it took, which funnily enough, were informative as well' that I knew I had a good head for more than just web-developing and stuff like that."

Should he tell you about the time when he traveled between Universes and met the other versions of him?

He'd love for you to know how clever Peter 1 is.

Peter knows if it weren't for that experience, exactly four years after what happened at the clock, he'd be in a much worse place now.

I wouldn't have met you, he thinks.

"What d'you wanna do with the degree?" you ask him.

"Mmm. I don't know yet. Working with genetic mutation is not too on the nose, is it?" he chuckles.

You turn around, smiling wider than ever before.

"Are you for real?" you laugh.

"I am!" He laughs too.

"Gimme that," you take the shampoo from his hand, pour some on your hand, and look up expectantly at him. Peter ducks his head in silent permission, and you start doing the same to him. "I think that while it's a bit on the nose, it also makes a lot of sense, and given your personal experience, you could make breakthroughs no one else would. Your circumstances give you a lot of room."

"My dad was a Biochemist." The information slips out, and Peter opens his eyes. When had I closed them? He gives you a sheepish smile, and closes his eyes again. "I lot of what I know came from his research."

"Did it have anything to do with spiders?" you ask with a giggle, thinking you're being funny.

Here's to hoping. "It did," he answers.

Your movements halt for a second, then start again. "Oh." You stay silent for a moment. "Big brain runs in the family, so I imagine you'll make breakthroughs he's only dreamt of. Just... make sure you pick an area 'cause it's what you want to make yourself happy, you know?"

Peter wonders how many people have the luxury of having someone care for them this way.

"I will." He smiles when you pull him under the water stream. When the shampoo is rinsed, he opens his eyes. "And you? D'you have an area you wanna work at?"

Hearing you talk about your hopes for the future while showering makes Peter notice it's the first he's been thinking about the future and what paths he could take for it.

You two laugh a lot in there, and the only moment when somberness takes over the steamy bathroom is when your fingertips graze over the black nylon that still peaks out of his lower stomach.

Peter ignores the tingle your touch brings, and kisses you instead.

He distracts you by asking you more about residency, school, tests, and anything that comes to mind.

Your voice is one of his favorite things.

In your bedroom, Peter gets dressed in the sweats that now are basically his—one of his designated clothes from when he's around.

Now though, he can wear the sweater and shake his wet hair all over you.

He can pull you to his lap on the bed and kiss you filthy with the sun shining on both of you.

Lights on, face out in the open, nothing to hide because there never was.

When he starts grinding his hips upwards, seeking the friction of your heat—and god, you're already burning on his lap, and he doesn't need to touch your panties to know that you barely put them on and he's already ruined them—but you stop him with a hand around his neck.

"You're gonna bust your stitches," you say, mouth still close to his.

He groans. "Baby, c'mon..."

You shake your head, laughing under your breath. "As much as I want to, you'll have to wait a day more, buddy. I'm not gonna hurt you."

"You're hurting me right now," he whines, grinding on you. He hisses, not because of how hard he is from just a few minutes of making out with you and having his mind spin with how good you smell, how dizzying it makes him have you like this, no barriers whatsoever, but because he feels his insides protesting with the sharper thrust.

You give him a look that says I know what you're hiding. "Peter." While you ask him to stop, Peter's yet to feel you stop enjoying the ministrations of his hips. "Hey," you lean in closer and whisper in his ear. "You can enjoy fucking me like you've never fucked me before now... and you're gonna waste that first time of ours by not being able to do all that you wanna do?"

You are evil.

Peter moans. Hides his face in the space between your boobs, and kisses them since he's there already.

"So what you're telling me is that I should take you for a coffee and some breakfast and a few days and then we can come back here?" he asks.

"Yeah," you smile.

"And then I can take my time with you?" he confirms, his kisses going up. He loves the column of your throat. Loves the way you bear your neck for him, breathless and surrendered every time.

"Yeah..." this one comes out breathier, and Peter smiles before sucking on the skin of the space that's really sensitive.

"I can make you cum in all the ways I like?" Peter knows it's just torture at this point, but he keeps doing it. Keeps moving his hips in small little circles, and groans when he feels you meeting his movements. "On my tongue first... then on my fingers..."

"Only if you let me suck you off 'till you cum in my mouth."

Sneaky. "No." Peter hears your brain gears halting at it.

"Peter!"

"No!" He laughs. "Listen, I don't know what my—"

"—if you call your cum something weird again I'm leaving your lap right now."

"...my semen."

"Ugh. That's somehow worse," you laugh.

"I don't know what's in it! It's mutated, okay? What if you get pregnant from it? I am very fast. My sperm can be too."

Holding yourself with your arms around his neck, you stare at him with the blankest look.

The smile obviously hidden in the corners of your lips is where the truth lies, though.

"You know I'm right," he shrugs his shoulders.

You sigh. Heavily. "Ugh. I hate that I'm paranoid enough to buy your bullshit," you push him backward hard, and he falls into the bed in surprise, laughing. Leaning forward, you cage your arms around his head. "I wanna do so much to you," you whisper.

Just like that, the temperature's closer to the Sun again.

You have powers.

The power to make him religious. To make a conversation shift between the Sun and the Moon, just by laughing or speaking in a different tone.

Peter feels the tip of his cock dripping in his boxer, and he closes his eyes, exhaling from his nose. He grabs you by the neck and pulls you to a kiss, which turns messy and needy the second you moan in that pretty way he loves. Like a kitty, or like someone's squeezing you hard, just the way you like it.

He's grabbing you by the neck, squeezing and letting go, trying to gather his damn thoughts into coherent sentences and not the mess of I want you so bad I love you so much, so all that he can do is rub his forehead on yours.

Bring your body as close to his as possible.

That's what happened.

All these months culminated in this—Peter being unable to stay away, to him smiling in the corridors of his college, to the unfathomable infatuation with your legs, or the way you snort when you laugh really hard.

Into him loving you.

He's suddenly overwhelmed by the truth of it:

Peter is in love with you. He loves you.

Loves you for your brain, your skilled hands, the way you hate the Giants and love music he's never heard of. Loves you for all the ways you're you and the ways you remind him of his very first love too, but more than anything, because he knows he'd love you even if nothing was similar.

He swallows the knot in his throat and pulls you to a kiss.

You feel the difference in it—he knows you do because you hold his face with gentle hands, but answer the kiss with the same devotion.

You let him take over the kiss, let him taste his tongue on yours until he's got no oxygen left in his lungs and has to pull back.

He sees it in your face that something's taken over you, too.

"You can do anything you want. Anytime," he says. He feels your legs clenching around his waist as a response, and thinks to the hell with it. "What if you did all the work, hm? I promise I'll stay still. I'll web my own wrists to the bed if you want, just—please?" he begs.

"Peter..."

"I wanna feel you, baby." It's not even about the sex, or about cumming. It's about being as close to you as possible. He needs to be as close to you as possible. "I just wanna feel you. Wanna be inside you." Peter grabs your face again, smashing his lips on yours. "D'you have any idea how fucked I'd be without you? It just—" he's barely breathing, and he knows you feel why. "I realized just how much I adore every goddamn inch of you and I wanna feel you." He kisses you again, and again. "I owe you my life, baby."

You shake your head at his words and Peter moves his hand down to your chin, holding it still.

"Yes, I do. And I love that," he smiles. "I fell in the best hands of this city... and your hands are just one of the reasons why I'm in love with you."

"Peter." This time, it's you who smashes your mouth on his.

The first time he heard his name coming out from your lips, he thought he'd cum on the spot. He remembers feeling his dick twitching inside of you just at the mention of it—his name, and you.

He loved it.

He lets you kiss him to your desire and when you pull back with those puffy lips, he smiles.

You're looking at him like one looks at something they barely believe it's true. He's seen looks like this a few weeks ago when he went to the museum with May and he saw people staring at what he assumes is their favorite art pieces—nothing but attention to detail and a shine in their eyes.

He feels naked, even though he's not.

"I've been in love with you since the day you told me you had glass shrapnel all over your body because Mrs. Levinson was gonna take the fall for Castle's collateral damage, Y/n, I couldn't have that." You shrug like it's easy, like you haven't just given him the present of a lifetime and stolen every last bit of anxiety and sadness he had hidden in the corners of his mind, then kisses him.

Softly press your lips on his, once, then twice.

When he feels your hands sliding down his body, Peter warms up.

Powerful. From Moon to Sun, there he goes again.

There his body goes.

Peter knows standing still will be a bit of torture, and everything will be heightened from how little he can move, but he's okay with that.

Whining under the ministrations of your hands might be one of his top three activities ever. Peter watches you get off from on top of him so you can take off your sweatpants, and he groans under his breath when you slide your leg over his waist again with the panties still on.

"Just slide it to the side—fuck. Yeah, like that, baby. I love it like this."

Your attention to detail is unmatched.

When you learn something he likes, you never let it go. As soon as Peter feels your hand slipping inside his boxer and getting his cock out there, he's already moaning.

"Stand still," you tell him.

He nods, eagerly. Peter watches you pull your panties to the side, guide the head of his dick to your entrance and when the tip slides in, he feels you coming back, caging him between your arms.

You slide down painfully slow, taking your time with it.

To have something to hold on to, he grabs your ass with one hand and your face with the other. Having his hands on you is a must if he's gonna be good for you.

He might've said he could web his hands to the bed, but if he did that, he'd have to web his hips as well.

"Ahhh." Peter feels the walls of your pussy clenching around him, and he closes his eyes at the feeling.

You move back up, then down again until you're fully seated on his lap and he's fully buried inside of you.

"Use me, baby," he tells you. He might be out of his mind already—has it always been this hot to be inside you? "Fuck—you're always so wet for me. How are you this wet—oh."

You slam your hips down, pulling a grunt from him.

"You make me this way and you know it," you whine to him.

Peter admires you for keeping up with a gym routine, but he admires more the benefits it reaps: the way your legs can hold the weight of bouncing up and down as slow or as fast as you like.

He pulls your head closer until he can kiss you.

"You're gonna use me, hm?" Peter asks between kisses, grunting at how tight you are. "Use those thunder thighs to drive me insane?"

"Peter you feel so fucking good," you breathe out.

The praise warms him up even further. Peter's eyes close in response, and he whines at how hard it is to keep his hips on the bed and not pistoning up to meet your delicious thrusts. "You feel better," he mutters, a bit drunk on the wetness pouring out of you. It's so damn hot in and all around him. "So tight for me, baby."

"Oh, god."

"Hhnh—fuck. Fuck, do that again," he whines.

You do it—you move all the way up until he almost slips out, then slams those hips down again. And again, and again, and again, until the room is nothing but the sound of your skins slapping on one another and your mouths breathing on each other, grunting and moaning.

Peter loves swallowing your moans almost as much as he loves swallowing the slick from your pussy.

"Fuck, if I had a little bit more strength in me I'd ask you to sit on my face after this," he says.

You moan even louder now.

Peter smiles.

He loves it when you two are alone. Loves when you let go, especially if it's to use him to your pleasure.

Peter holds your hip instead of your ass now and tries to help you. While you don't need it, the strength of even just one of his arms is appreciated, and he watches as you let go of all pretenses and just fuck yourself on his cock.

It's when you grab him by the chin and look him in the eye that Peter feels you're fucking him too.

You clench around him. Purposely.

Peter moans as loud as you, and plants his feet on the bed.

The change in angle makes you scream, and as a response, you smash your lips on his again.

He knows you're close by the way you start whining into the kiss.

Peter lets go, too. He kisses you back, all tongue, teeth, bites and moans of your name. Uncoherent sentences and babbles about your pussy and how fucking good you make him feel, and he feels the tension building up in his groins before he'd imagine.

He hates coming before you. Peter makes it a habit to make you cum before he does, but he's in heaven, he's in you, and you're staring at him.

It's that which does it.

"Baby I can't hold it—oh fuck, Y/n, don't do that," if you keep clenching around him just to get a rise of him you'll get more than just that, and he whines because of it. "I'm close. I'm so so close, you feel too good."

He moves his hand from your head in direction of your clit, but you grab him by the wrist and pin his arm above his head, holding tight onto his wrist. While he could break free easier than breathing, feeling how tightly you're gripping him makes his head spin.

He's at your mercy, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

"Y/n, please." Please stop bouncing so fast, please slow down, baby, please don't clench again.

Your hips slow down just a fraction, and you move until your lips are almost touching his.

Then you ask. "Who has your heart, baby?"

Peter blinks, opening his eyes. His mouth hangs open, jaw wide for a second before he answers. "You."

You move your hips in the way a dancer would, circling like you're trying to spell his damn name or something, and then slam all the way down. "You're mine, baby?"

Peter's head is somewhere too far for him to reach, but he still manages to nod. "All yours."

"I love you so fucking much," you cry on his lips, and then you start again—the merciless speed of your hips against his while your hand holds his arm up and your other is on his neck.

"I love you more," Peter cries back, reaching for a kiss that you give with all the desire in the world. He kind of wants his hand free to hold your face, and kind of wants to see how much you'd fight him to stand still, but neither one happens because you start to speed up and Peter's moans grow louder and louder.

Being as attracted as you are by his sounds, your legs start shaking and squeezing around him.

"Cum for me, Y/n, please, please, please," before I lose it and cum inside you, please.

"Cum inside me first."

"What?"

"Cum in me." You sound as out of it as he is, and Peter's only human at the end of the day. "Please. Do it. Do it, Peter. I wanna feel you. Please, Spidey, c'mon."

Peter cums with a yell, and his hips can't take it, bucking up to meet your thrusts in the last seconds, and it must be the strength with which he fucks into you, the angle, the way he's crying out your name or just everything together, but you cum right with him.

Both of your bodies shake and tremble together, in a peculiar and hard-to-achieve glorious moment.

He'll need many minutes to recover, and you'll need even more to gather the strength and will to let him come out from inside of you, but none of that matters for the time being.

Peter's content to stay inside you for now, just as you are to lay on his chest.

He lets the sound of your hearts beating like hummingbirds bring him back to Earth.

There's a smile on his face, and with minimum inspection, he feels there's a smile resting on his shoulder, too. Your lips press kisses on the exposed skin there, and he feels your grin when the kisses stop.

Peter's not a very religious man, but he might have just found his heaven on Earth.

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[weird-is-life]

Golden hour

Pairing: Tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader

Summary: Peter is so in love with you, that he has to ask you that one question

Warnings: like one swear word, so so much fluff

Words: 0.7k Masterlist

A/N: English is not my first language, so please excuse any grammar/spelling mistakes

You and Peter were sprawled on the sofa. He was snuggling you close, a movie playing on the tv. You had your favorite novel in your hand, your entire focus on the book.

Peter loved moments like this. He loved, that you enjoyed each others presence even if you didn't talk. He wouldn't change this quiet, peaceful time with you for anything.

His attention was on the movie, sometimes stealing a glance at you, until the streaks of the sunlight peeked through the window. It started bothering him as it was making his eyes burn.

He was about to walk to the window and close the curtains, but his attention shifted to you.

The sun shined bright on your face, making you look like an angel. He couldn't help but to stare. You were clearly enjoying the warm on your skin, not at all bothered by it.

His head was tilted as he admired your pretty features. Honestly, Peter thought you were always beautiful, the most beautiful. But right now, you looked like from a whole other world.

He didn't know if it was the sun kissing your face or of it was the expressions, you were making, while reading the book, that pulled at the strings on his heart. He didn't want for this moment to ever end.

He tenderly brushed the hair, that was falling to your eyes, behind your ear and that made you look up at him.

He had the most love-sick look on his face and you confusedly frowned at him.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" you questioned his dissociated expression.

"Pete?" you called out his name.

"Marry me."

"What?"

"Marry me..." he breathed out.

"Peter, are you feeling okay?" you ignored the fast beat of your heart from his surprising question.

"Perfect. I'm perfect" he oh so softly smiled at you. You were getting concerned, he was looking at you like some puppy and you didn't know what to make of it.

"But i could be better if you would marry me" he curled a strand of your hair around his finger.

"Baby, did you hit your head last night during the patrol?"

"No, why would you think that?"

"Well, you did just ask me to marry you" you sheepishly admited.

"And will you?"

"Will i what?" your heart was really going like a thousand miles an hour.

"Marry me?" he affectionally brushed your cheek.

"Pete, are you being serious?"

"Of course, i am" he responded, " i have my best girl in my arms, looking ridiculously pretty may i add. How could i not be asking that? Jesus, sweetheart, you don't even know how much i love you. It's driving me crazy, i feel like my heart is gonna burst out of my chest whenever i see you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. So what do you say, will you marry me? Please?"

You sniffled and giggled when he added the please. You weren't expecting Peter to ask you to marry him this afternoon.

But you weren't complaining, you loved Peter with every fiber of your body. You've been together for a while now and you loved everything about him and your relationship. It was always felt so real with him, so you didn't hesitate about the answer.

You threw yourself on him with glossy eyes," Yes, yes, yes."

You locked your hands behind his head, squeeling in happiness. Peter squeezed your body so tight, that you almost couldn't breath.

"I love you so so so much " he whispered against your neck, warm breath tickling your skin and his eyes were full of tears, aswell.

"I love you more."

"Not possible" he argued and you had to giggle.

"Can't believe, that i'm gonna marry you" he slightly pulled back to look at your damp face and brushed the fallen tears away.

"Me too" you rubbed your nose against his in fondness.

"You know, as your fiancée now, i think you should kiss me" you grinned at him.

"You're right, i definitely should kiss the love of my life" and he did.

He kissed you like he had for the first time. So soft and slow, like he wanted to imprint it to his mind, so he could remember it forever. It was a kiss, full of raw emotions.

"Fuck, i can't wait to marry you" Peter sighed against your lips.

He fidgeted with your fingers and said, "i don't have the ring yet, but i'll go and buy you the most perfect one for you tomorrow."

"I'm sure, i'll love it" you shyly beamed and Peter kissed you again.

...

...

...

Hey guys, thank you for reading. I had to post this for the second time, it wouldn't show up in the tags....

Let me know what you think. Feedback is always appreciated.

Have a great day and stay safe everybody. Peace out ☀️

[mortwig]

Flowers In Your Hair

Entry for the amazing’s @wicked-remarks​ ‘ “Kink or Treat”! 

18+ EXPLICIT [minors DNI] - Peter Parker/Spider-man fanfic

Words: 4,8k

Pairing: fem!OC* x Peter Parker (based on TASM!Peter but flexible)

Summary: Flower Shop + Sex Pollen + (kind of) Professional Rivals

Tags: 18+ explicit, mostly strangers to lovers, smut, nudity, vaginal sex, mild praise kink, oral sex (both F and M receiving), no bed in sight, some fluff, all characters are 18+.

Song inspo: Flowers in Your Hair by The Lumineers

Moodboard: here

*[I say OC because it’s written in the third person, but can be read as reader because she uses a codename the whole time and her physical appearance is barely described]

The bell over the door rang for the third time that day, and Peter barely had the energy to look up. It was probably someone “just looking” or a tourist hoping to take some aesthetic shots for their travel log. Slow days like this made him want to close the shop and swing himself far far away from here. 

He had been trying for a good hour to focus on the physics problem due for tomorrow evening’s class. Frustrated from the lack of inspiration, he finally looked up to see a young woman admiring the carnations displayed near the door. 

“Good morning!” Peter said in his best customer service voice, stifling a yawn. “If you need anything let me know.”

“I will, thank you.” The woman shot him a smile that barely reached her eyes. She seemed focused... Too focused for a simple visit to the flower shop, Peter noticed. 

Peter’s tingle rang loudly at the back of his mind, pulling him off his stool. He cleared his throat and casually made his way to the woman. 

“They are just beautiful, aren’t they? Those yellow ones arrived only this morning.”

She hummed an approval and took a step away from him, now seemingly inspecting the coloured roses. 

“Disappointment.” Peter intended for his tone to be playfully stern, but it turned out harsher than expected. This caused the woman to turn, a mixture of surprise and mild panic taking over her features for a split second, before settling into a controlled expression of confusion. 

“Excuse me?”

“Disappointment, rejection. That’s what yellow carnations mean.” Peter smirked, leaning forward as if confiding. “But don’t tell anyone, I don’t think many people buy flowers to express disdain anymore.”

She laughed and took another step away, her hand now on the door handle. The sound of her laugh warmed Peter’s chest, and for a second he forgot he was suspecting her of… of what exactly? Of acting shady in a flower shop?

Come on Peter, get a grip, you’re just sleep deprived from the night patrols. He thought to himself.

“Let’s not give them any ideas.” And with another ring of the bell, she was gone. 

Peter stood there for a few moments, taking one last look at the yellow carnations before closing the shop for the day. 

-

It was around 1 am when Peter woke up in a cold sweat. Another nightmare. He got up to get some water. He tried to remember what the dream had been about. It was about work. Conventional work. Flower shop. But also, Spider-man? Carnations. Yellow carnations. The woman looking at the yellow carnations. What was she wearing? Wide-brimmed hat. Red wide-brimmed hat. Like that night about a year ago at the docks. Red wide-brimmed hat amongst diamond smugglers… 

Peter’s hand let go of the glass of water he was holding as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place in his brain. 

By the time the glass shattered on the floor, he already had half his suit on and was headed towards the window. 

-

It wasn’t often that criminals walked in through the door of the local superhero’s side job, Peter thought to himself. He hoped he wasn’t too late as he dropped down to the ground a few buildings away. Approaching by foot, he didn’t see anyone inside, nor anywhere around him. 

In the shop, everything seemed to be in order. He approached the carnations. He thought about the new provider who had brought them. Mrs Hernandez had said they had shown a lot of interest in getting the flowers in the shop as soon as possible. This was nothing new, one would think, in the flower industry. But even Mrs Hernandez, with 50 years in the business, thought their approach was odd. “Muy raros, Peter. But the claveles are beautiful, ¿no?” she’d said.

He was lost in thought when he heard a voice behind him. 

“Well well well. If it isn’t our friendly neighbourhood killjoy.”

Peter turned to see the now familiar red hat. The rest of the outfit was now black though, including a black cloth covering her mouth and nose. 

“Who would have known the one and only Spider-man had a side gig as a florist.” She gave the keys on the door a jingle. She chuckled as she circled the room to leave Peter between her and the door. A bold move, Peter thought. She really wanted those flowers. Why not just buy them during the day?

“I don’t work here. I just… I keep spare keys for the forgetful neighbours.” Even his tone was unconvinced.

“Yeah, sure. And you just happen to be inspecting the one flower I’m here for because your sixth sense told you to.” She rolled her eyes.

“Maybe…? Who even are you?”

“You can call me Scarlet. Logistics agent. Pleasure to meet you, Spidey.” She held out her hand but he didn’t take it.

“Black market contrabandist, you mean.”

“Depends who’s setting the terms for black and white. I only want to help people have a good time.”

“Right. Well. You seem nice enough, Scarlet, but I’m finding it hard to trust you and I think I’m going to take these flowers to the police and let them work out what could have you so interested in them.”

“I really don’t think you want to do that.”

“And why is that?”

She looked at him intently for a few seconds before responding, she seemed to be weighing her options.

“Listen. I don’t deal drugs, or arms, or blood diamonds, or anything that might hurt people. I just like bringing people pleasure in ways that may be… unconventional… but not harmful. I know we might not always deal on the same side of the law, but we don’t have to be enemies. I’ve been seeing you all over the news, and I know you hold your morals above the law. So if I told you these flowers could be a big problem if handled incorrectly, will you please let me go my own way so I can take them where they won’t be a problem?” 

Peter didn’t answer, so Scarlet went on. “Or are we going to have to fight? You’re really too cute to fight.” She was bluffing. She had a fair amount of martial arts training, but she was certainly not skilled enough to take on Spider-man. 

“Tell me more about them.” Peter said, and Scarlet wondered if he was just curious.

“That’s a terrible idea.”

“The police it is then.”

“Okay, okay. These are “carnations of life”, they look like common carnations but they hold some very… interesting properties. They grow only on a small island off the coast of Croatia and people all over the world pay exorbitant prices to enjoy the side effects of their pollen. The thing is, they must be transported at night, or else they wither immediately. But it is also during the night that the pollen works its magic. So what I’m going to do is put them in this container that I have in my bag, neither of us is going to breathe for about two minutes while I do it, and then I’ll disappear and we won’t meet again for a while, okay?” She was already opening the lid to the big glass jar and reaching for them. 

But Peter moved to intercept, now standing in the narrow space between her and the flowers, almost touching them. “Wait a second. You said you didn’t deal drugs. This sounds a lot like drugs to me.”

“Be careful, Spidey! If you even brush them the pollen will go everywhere and we’ll be in big trouble.”

But Peter didn’t move, Scarlet sighed but didn’t take her eyes off the yellow blooms. 

“These give you a temporary high of sorts but are not considered a drug because they are not addictive and they have no side effects past the initial reaction. Because there is a very small production of these flowers worldwide, the people who do know about them are very secretive. I doubt even the NYPD has ever heard of them.” 

“Why should I trust anything of what you’re saying?” 

“Oh, you shouldn’t… But wouldn’t it be fun if you did?” Peter could see the smirk in her eyes, as she leaned forward to whisper in his ear: “Oh I do wish we could try this pollen together, but I’m afraid the money I’m getting from this transaction is worth way more than a night of fun with Spider-man…”

The words and sensual tone sent a wave of arousal through Peter’s veins, and his eyes went blurry for an instant. Just enough for Scarlet to reach behind him and grab the flowers. They were already in the glass jar when Peter’s tingle kicked in and reflexively swatted the jar out of Scarlet’s hands. He saw everything in slow motion: Scarlet’s panicked eyes, the jar hitting the floor and cracking into four pieces, the carnations flying off into five different directions, the pollen turning glittery with the sudden movement and spreading all around them…

Scarlet knew better, and Peter should have as well, but the sight of the sudden million sparkling specks of dust flying around them made them both gasp in awe. Neither of them had ever seen something so beautiful, so mesmerising. And that one gasp was enough.

“Fuck.” That was all Scarlet managed to say before she felt the rush through her veins.

Peter was already stumbling backwards, gasping further for air as he felt his lungs heat up like embers. He pulled his mask off, asphyxiated. He saw Scarlet taking off her hat, mask and coat, seemingly feeling ablaze as well.

“What’s… what’s going to happen to us…?” Peter managed between heavy breaths. 

Scarlet managed to lift one eyebrow and attempted to smirk, but it turned into a pained grimace.

It took about three minutes for the pain to pass. Both of them panted heavily, catching their breaths. But Scarlet got moving quickly, drawing the blinds on the big window shop, making sure they were completely shielded from the outside. She locked the door with Peter’s key, which was still in the lock. Then, she picked up the shards of glass from the floor and put them in the bin behind the counter. With some brown paper, she expertly wrapped the flowers so they were sealed off as well as she could.

Peter felt so rattled he could do nothing but stare, confused. “Was that it?” 

Scarlet looked up: “No. I’m just making sure we don’t get hurt, or arrested, or in further trouble really. It’ll kick in any minute now.”

Peter could barely process her words. He could just look at her red-tinted lips moving, the way her hair was all out of place, some locks falling on her face. Her hands moving swiftly, red nails softly scratching the counter’s surface as she put away everything that was in her way. Dazed, he looked down in horror to realise he wasn’t just aroused, he was completely hard under his suit, which was oppressing him in a way he’d never experienced before. 

“Oh.” The pollen clearly had an effect on his reflexes as well because it took him a good minute to process what was going on. By then, Scarlet was in front of him, reaching for his neck and pulling him down into a deep kiss.

What had been confusion and delayed reactions instantly snapped into a desperate need to have her there and then. 

Peter quickly undid his suit and peeled it off, leaving him in nothing but his boxers.

Scarlet did the same with her clothes, now standing in front of Peter in a lacey red underwear set. She couldn’t help but stare at his toned figure, and Peter’s breath hitched at her beautiful form.

“This is very wrong.” He said, his hands already running up and down her sides, his dick pressing against her hip as he pulled her in close. “Is there another way of stopping it?” His words were coming out on autopilot, some better part of him subconsciously trying to do what was right. But his body was betraying him with every passing second, and his brain felt foggy with an overarching desire that engulfed every thought he had and tinted it deep red with passion. And he could not stop it even if he was really trying to. At least he was pretty sure he was trying.

Scarlet, on the other hand, was surprised, to say the least. This was her first time exposed to love carnations, but from what she’d heard, and from her own impulses at that very moment, it was basically impossible to question your actions under its effect. The superhero’s morals really were strong as steel. 

“Not that I know of.” She managed, between gasps as he sucked and bit and kissed a trail down from her chin to her collarbone. Her hands were firmly anchored to his hair in a desperate attempt to keep the balance her legs were refusing to offer.

“And you’re okay with this?” He pulled away briefly to seek assurance in her eyes as much as her words.

“Yes, please, Peter, I need this.” 

Peter stilled, confused as to how she knew his real name. Panic caused a new burn of adrenaline through his veins. His face must have shown it clearly, because Scarlet lifted an eyebrow, a cocky grin across her face, and simply said: “You had a very cute nametag on this morning”.

Some kind of relative relief allowed Peter to relax slightly. “Attentive to detail. Check.” He pointed out. 

“It’s part of the job, what can I say.” She shrugged and tossed her hair back dramatically. 

“Yeah? Well, part of my job is helping people in need. So let’s get to it.”

And with that, his arms circled her waist and he lifted her up. With her legs wrapped around his torso, and her hips grinding against his hardness, Peter’s vision blurred for a few seconds, consumed by desire now that he had the green light he needed to enjoy this. 

Coming to his senses, as much as he was able to under the influence of that damn flower, he unclipped Scarlet’s bra with one hand, while the other tentatively kneaded her ass. 

The moan she stifled against his neck spurred him on. He moved towards the back corner of the shop. Hidden under an intricate display of dried flowers, was a sofa. Once a luscious shade of green velvet, it was now faded and worn out, but it would have to do. With one arm, Peter pushed away the dried flowers, leaving behind a trail of petals and leaves which gave the sofa a new colourful covering.

He gently put Scarlet down on it, then quickly removed his boxers. Scarlet’s mouth opened slightly at the sight of Peter’s dick. But he didn’t notice because he was already pushing aside her panties, and diving his tongue into her wet core. After a few circles around her clit, Scarlet was a moaning mess, sprawled on the flower-covered sofa, one hand on the armrest and one intertwined in Peter’s hair. She didn’t even notice the roughness of the dried leaves still covering the sofa, lightly scratching her skin, or the colourful petals finding their way into the locks of her hair.

Peter’s index finger gently teased her entrance while his tongue continued to work at his clit. 

“Peter, please…” 

“Please what, pretty girl?” 

“Please don’t stop.”

And he didn’t. His finger went into her smoothly, her arousal providing enough lubricant for Peter’s middle finger to follow shortly after.

Peter’s mouth suddenly covered her whole clit and sucked, tongue still teasing her. At the same time, his fingers curled, hitting her G-spot just at the right time to send her spiralling.

Whether it was Peter’s skill or the pollen’s effects, or both, the orgasm that hit her was nothing like she’d ever experienced before. Peter’s hand carried her through it all, until she was panting and pulling at his hair. He kissed her gently, his breath heavy.

“Tired already, Spidey?” 

“No, just extremely turned on right now. So if you don’t mind…?” He held his dick in his hand, his tip stroking her sensitive clit.

“I do not.” She smirked through her hazed expression. He entered her with one smooth slow stroke, stretching her and filling her up deliciously. She moaned at the feeling.

“You make such lovely sounds for me.” He started with slow strokes, letting her adjust to his size and slowly prepping her up for her second orgasm. When she started lifting her hips to meet his thrusts, he caught the hint and started picking up the pace. Her hands travelled up and down his chest, up to stroke his hair, and down his arms, tense from hovering above her on the sofa. His grunts were getting louder by the minute, and she could feel him getting close. 

But he had other ideas in mind, so he picked her up swiftly and bent her over the armrest, her hands clutching at the old velvet while her legs opened for him. He pushed a hand between her hips and the sofa, his fingers expertly applying the right amount of pressure to her throbbing clit. He entered her once more, the new angle letting him hit her sweet spot every stroke without fail.

She gasped as she felt the wave of pleasure about to hit her.

“That’s it, come for me, sweet thing. You’re doing so good for me.” The praise was enough to send her over the edge, and her muscles spasmed around his dick. A few more strokes and he was pulling out, his cum spurting onto her back. 

He pinned his hands at either side of her on the sofa, panting into her ear. They stayed there for a few minutes, catching their breath.  

“Don’t move, I’ll be right back.” he whispered softly, before kissing the back of her neck.

About a minute later, she felt him gently wipe her back with soft tissue. 

“Thank you.” She said quietly. 

“Is that it, then?” Although he tried hard to hide it, Peter sounded almost disappointed. 

She turned around, plopping down on the sofa and making herself comfortable. 

“From what I hear, it comes and goes in waves. The effects can last anywhere between 2 and 6 hours.”

His face remained serious, but Scarlet thought she saw a glint of mischief in his eyes. 

“Better rest up before it hits again then.” He said, lying down beside her, his arm lifted up above his head tentatively. She raised her head and he put down his arm for her to rest on. He stroked her hair softly, admiring the contrast of the dried flowers against her now messy hair.

He smiled to himself. This was all so wrong, but it felt so good.

-

Scarlet didn’t know how long she’d slept for. But it was still dark outside and Peter was not cuddling her anymore. She felt odd. When she moved, she worked out why. She was soaking wet between her legs. She blinked a few times, trying to come to terms with her sudden arousal. She looked up to see Peter leaning against the counter. He must have not noticed her sit up, because he didn’t react. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw why. He was slowly stroking his dick in his hand, eyes closed and head thrown back.

She slowly approached him. He was so entranced he only opened his eyes when she was standing in front of him and whispered: “Do you need some help with that?”

She dropped to her knees in front of him, replacing his hand with hers. He said nothing, just looked at her with pure adoration and nodded. 

“Fuck.” Was all he could muster when she teased his tip with her tongue, her right hand moving up and down his length.

Slowly, she took him in his mouth, her hands moving to hold his thighs for balance and leverage. She started bobbing her head, hesitantly at first, but with more confidence when Peter started moaning and gripping hard at the counter’s edge. She couldn’t quite get his whole length in her mouth, though she tried to, so she focused on using her tongue to find his sensitive spots instead. It must have worked, because shortly after, Peter roughly grabbed her hair and pulled her away. “Careful, sweet thing, or you’re going to end up with a salty tongue…” 

“But what if I want to?” She pouted at him playfully.

He gulped, clearly having to restrain himself from shoving his dick back in her mouth. His hand pulled her hair back a bit more so her neck was exposed to him. “Maybe another time. But I’m stretching this out as much as possible.”

He tugged at her hair so she stood up. He picked her up and sat her on the counter. One stroke of his fingers over her entrance revealed her wetness to him. So this time, he didn’t even wait for confirmation. He went in immediately and his fast, shallow strokes caught her breath. She held on to the nape of his neck, panting heavily straight into his ear.

“Peter, you feel so good. Don’t stop. Yeah, right there. Shit.”

Sucking him off must have turned her on more than she realised, because before she knew it she was biting into his shoulder to stifle her moans, and her body went limp against his firm chest while he fucked her through her orgasm. 

He slowed down, pumping long and deep into her while she caught her breath.

“Can you do that thing again?” she whispered, hazily, avoiding eye contact. 

“Do what again?” he was clearly distracted, his eyes focused on the point where their bodies met, soft wet noises mixed with their heavy breaths. 

“Bend me over and fuck me from behind?” this brought back his attention, finally noticing the embarrassment on her face. This was the first time she’d looked insecure. He thought about teasing her, but being honest to himself, it turned him on even more (if that was even possible) and he loved that she was making suggestions.

“With pleasure, sweet thing.”

Scarlet was once again impressed by Peter’s ability to move her around effortlessly and with extreme care. She realised, if he wanted to, he could really hurt her. An odd warm feeling rose from her stomach up to her chest. She tried to shut it off, but she knew exactly what it was. How rare was it to find a guy who wouldn’t go straight for his own pleasure, even despite a feeble attempt at foreplay? Maybe losing tonight’s deal was not so bad… Maybe a night with Spiderman really was worth it...

The thought vaporised into thin air when Peter entered her, hitting that critical spot again. Her recent orgasm had everything feeling extra sensitive, so it almost felt like she was thrown straight into the rollercoaster of pleasure again. She moaned louder than she intended to, her nails digging into the edge of the counter, her toes barely touching the floor. Peter’s hands had been traveling up and down her back, stroking the sensitive skin on her sides: from the side of her breasts down to her waist and her hips. But now, he was holding her ass cheeks apart, and from the low moan that escaped his lips, Scarlet could just assume he was enjoying the view. His thrusts were getting sloppy, so she gently squeezed her walls around him. He huffed loudly, his hands landing roughly at either side of her on the counter. 

“You certainly know what you’re doing.” He breathed into her ear.

“Whatever could you mean by that?” She tried batting her eyelashes, but all she managed was a hint of an innocent smile. At the same time, she squeezed again, and pushed her ass back into him, catching him off-guard.

“You fucking tease.” He tried to laugh but it came out as a breathy moan instead. A few more thrusts and he was collapsing on her again.

-

Scarlet woke up suddenly, gasping for air. She felt disoriented, but faint sunrise light came through the shut blinds which helped her get her bearings quickly. Peter was behind the counter, holding a mug. The smell of fresh coffee, mixed with the scent of the flowers that surrounded her both on the sofa and all over the floor, was positively intoxicating… Albeit in a more subtle way than the yellow carnations still sitting on top of the register, neatly packed away.

“Hey, you okay?” He was walking towards her, looking concerned. His Spiderman suit was on up to his waist, the top half hanging loosely over his hips.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Scarlet rubbed her eyes and yawned. When he sat next to her, he offered her her clothes, which he must have picked up from around the shop. 

“Are you feeling better?” There was something in his eyes as he said so that she could not decipher. 

“Better… I think so, yes.” Her tone was unconvinced, but she didn’t know why. She did feel better. Although the sight of Peter’s bare chest was still sending a tingling to her core, and looking into his chocolate-brown eyes felt like shaking a jar of butterflies in her stomach. Although, for the latter, she doubted it even had anything to do with the carnations. 

“I’m just… very tired.” She stifled another yawn, trying to think of a good excuse to call in sick to work. 

She started putting on her underwear. She giggled softly when she noticed Peter was entranced looking at her, now clad in red lace. Peter’s eyes widened and then looked away when he realised what he was doing. He cleared his throat awkwardly while making his way to the counter quickly. Scarlet caught a glimpse of what must have been quite an uncomfortable erection, but Peter said nothing. 

“Coffee?” he asked casually, but he was still not looking in her general direction.

“No, thank you, I think I’ll go straight to bed.” 

“That sounds very sensible. I’m jealous, Mrs Hernandez expects the shop open at 9 am sharp and the only good enough excuse for her is death.”  

Scarlet was honestly surprised. She really thought Peter would try again, to get it out of his system. He was obviously still under the influence of the carnations. Even if it hadn’t been visually evident, she could feel it still running through her own veins. And she’d given him the green light last night already. However, ever the perfect gentleman, he was doing his best to act normal.

“I need to go home, have a shower, get some clothes appropriate for shop keeping, you know… Do you want me to drop you off somewhere?”

“Drop me off…?” 

“I can swing you home if you want.”

“Wow, Spidey… Are you trying to find out my address?” she smiled teasingly, adjusting her hat in place.

“What? No, no. Not at all. I could call you a cab?” He was fiddling with his mug anxiously. Against her will, she thought it was terribly endearing.

“I can make my way home. Thank you anyway. You can ask for my number though, if you want to.” She batted her eyelashes playfully. 

Peter still hesitated.

“It feels wrong, what with you being a criminal and all.”

“Depends what your definition of “criminal” is, Mr Vigilante.”

“Please tell me you don’t read that Daily Bugle crap. It’s all lies, you know?”

Scarlet laughed at Peter’s disgusted face. The sound filled the flower shop, sweetening the already scent-charged room. Peter couldn’t help but smile, and the sight warmed Scarlet’s chest. She slipped a card from her pocket and placed it on the counter. 

“I can give you intel that will help you take down real criminals if you give me leeway to continue my harmless operations.” She leaned over the counter to kiss his cheek, and before Peter could react, she was already by the door, carnations under her arm, smiling back at him. “And you can also take me out to dinner.” 

Peter’s hand lightly touched his cheek, where her lips had been, lost in thought for a few moments. He was brought back to the present by his phone alarm, reminding him he had to get home quickly if he didn’t want to face his boss’ wrath. 

He was swinging just a few streets away when he saw her, walking with purpose towards a subway station. He swung low, taking advantage of the still fairly empty streets and passed mere centimetres away from her. 

“You still have flowers in your hair!” He shouted, tossing a lock of her hair back. Her startled jump almost sent her into orbit, and Peter couldn’t help but laugh. What a shame he couldn’t hear her most-likely angry response. Here was to hoping she’d forgive him once she read his text:

7 pm Friday - Moondance Diner? Strictly (un)professional.

[bisexualbumblebee-writes]

Multiverses Part 2- TASM! Peter Parker x OC

TASM! Peter Parker x Maeve Nadine

Description: Things only get weirder after Maeve, Rosemary, Ned and MJ find the other two Peters, but their Peter is their top priority. That doesn’t stop Maeve from staying beside Peter 3. 

Word Count: 2.3k

Once Maeve and the new Peter entered Ned’s grandmother’s house, a relieved sigh left Rosemary’s lips and she surged forward to pull Maeve into a hug. While they embraced, both Ned and MJ stared at the new Peter in shock, sizing him up. 

“Who’s this?” Upon pulling away, Maeve glanced at Peter. 

“This is Peter Parker, he’s from another universe” she explained. “Peter, these are our Peter’s friends, MJ, Ned and Rosemary.” The boy offered them an awkward wave which made her hold back a smile as she faced the others. 

“He’s from the same universe as Electro and the Lizard, but from what I understand, not the same one as Doc Ock, Green Goblin and Sandman. Which means there’s probably a third Peter Parker in New York-” 

“Maeve, have you been crying?” Rosemary asked worriedly, cutting off her rant. “What happened?” The girl stared at her for a moment, then promptly remembered that they didn’t know yet. 

“Uh, yeah…” she trailed off, voice much softer. “May… I don’t know what happened, but Happy’s apartment was practically in pieces. May’s dead, and now I don’t know where those villains or our Peter are.” The room became deathly silent once she explained. Peter’s friends could only stare at her in shock, and she had to take a deep breath in order not to cry again before clearing her throat. 

“We need to find him, I don’t know what he’s gonna do now that she’s dead,” she continued. “Who opened Strange’s portal?” 

“Uh, I did,” Ned answered softly. 

“Any way you can do it again?” She asked hopefully. 

“I can definitely try,” the younger boy responded before turning away. He held up his hands as MJ and Rosemary moved to either side of him, offering him reassurances. Maeve watched intently as Ned began moving his hand in wide circles. 

“Find Peter Parker,” he instructed. The new Peter tapped Maeve’s shoulder. 

“What’s that thing on his hand?” He whispered. 

“Long story,” the girl answered before shushing him as Ned continued his instruction several times before another portal appeared. On the other side was a silhouette covered by shadows, and the group watched as it stepped through the portal. It was a man, a little older than Maeve and Peter, who wore civilian clothes. 

“Great,” Ned huffed. “It’s just some random guy.” 

“Hello,” the new person waved. “Um, I hope it’s okay I just came through this-” he paused upon glancing back at the portal, only to see it close. 

“Oh, it just closed.” 

“You’re Peter Parker?” Maeve questioned, silently happy that her theory had been correct. The older Peter nodded, then waved at Ned’s Lola, who blushed and waved at him, before his eyes finally landed on the other Peter. Both Peters eyed each other, sizing the other up silently. The rest of the group had no time to say anything before the two began shooting webs at each other, dodging every attack from the other. Then, they flipped into the air simultaneously before the older Peter shot a web at the other’s web slinger, which made him nod at the man, impressed. 

“Uh, guys, as awesome as that was, we don’t really have a lot of time here,” Maeve mentioned awkwardly. It was then that Lola pointed around the room, giving a long speech entirely in Tagalog that Ned translated afterwards. 

“My Lola is asking if you could clean up the webs you just shot?” The Peters nodded and apologized, then began cleaning up while she went to bed. Once they were done, the older Peter walked up to Maeve, Ned, MJ and Rosemary. Uh, this might seem kinda weird, but... I’ve been trying to find your friend ever since I got here. I just have this sense that... that he needs my help,” he explained as gently as he could. 

“Our help,” the other Peter corrected, earning a nod from the others.

“He does,” Rosemary answered.

“We don’t know where he is,” Ned added. 

“And um... honestly, right now, we’re all he really has left,” Maeve concluded somewhat distantly, images of May’s lifeless body flashing through her mind. She only snapped back to her senses when she felt the other Peter’s hand on her arm. They shared a weak smile as the older Peter spoke. 

“Well, uh, is there some place that he might go that has meaning to him? Like a place where he would go to just-”

“Get away from everything?” The other Peter concluded, followed by a glance of acknowledgment between the two. 

“For me, it was the top of the Chrysler building,” older Peter explained further. 

“Empire State. It’s just... it’s a better view,” added the other Peter. 

“That is a sweet view,” the older Peter agreed.

“Yes,” Rosemary answered for the others. “Yeah. I... I think I know exactly where that would be. The high school.” 

“What are we waiting for?” Maeve asked before looking at Ned. “Think you can manage one more portal?”

“Sure,” the boy shrugged before lifting his hands again. It didn’t take him as long to conjure another portal, and everyone was quick to step through it. On the other side was the roof of the high school, just as they’d expected. Before the Peters could take another step forward, Maeve stopped them. She glanced back at the others. 

“You guys go ahead,” she instructed, waiting until they’d done so before facing the other Peters. “I think they should see him first because his comfort comes first and foremost, he needs to see his friends first.” The boys nodded at her explanation, then the other Peter rested a hand on her shoulder and spoke. 

“You go ahead then. We’ll give you a minute,” he said. The girl nodded and offered him a small smile, removing her hand from her shoulder and giving it a quick squeeze before jogging over to her Peter. As soon as the younger boy noticed her, he all but fell into her arms as sobs wracked his body. 

“I’m so sorry, Peter,” she whispered into his ear, rubbing his back soothingly. She let him cry into her shoulder for a minute before pulling back. 

“Peter, there’s... there’s some people here,” she started softly. Peter was confused by her words, but then he suddenly jumped up. As if on cue, the other two Peters appeared on the school’s tower, staring down at him. He took a protective stance, as if he were readying to guard his friends, then the other two swung down. Naturally the younger boy was both surprised and confused, but he calmed down after one look at Maeve. 

“Yes, we’re... you,” the older Peter said before shooting him a sympathetic look. “Sorry... about May.” 

“Yeah, sorry,” the other Peter added. “I’ve got some understanding of what it-” 

“No, no, no... please don’t tell me that you know what I’m going through,” young Peter interrupted as he shook his head with a sniffle, which made the boy nod. “She’s gone. And it’s all my fault. She died for nothing. So I’m gonna do what I should have done in the first place.” He reached for the box that MJ held, but was stopped by the other Peters. 

“Peter-”

“Please, don’t!”

“You don’t belong here, either of you,” the boy retorted emotionally. “So I’m sending you home. Those other guys are from your worlds, right? So you deal with it. And if they die, if you kill them... that’s on you. It’s not my problem. I don’t care anymore. I’m done.” He paused with a sincere expression, then sighed. 

“I’m really sorry that I dragged you into this. But you have to go home now. Good luck,” he concluded, once again reaching for the box. MJ pulled it back, shaking her head. 

“Just hear them out,” Rosemary begged softly. “Please.” Young Peter didn’t look happy about it, but he faced the other two. 

“My uncle Ben was killed,” the older Peter admitted softly. “It was my fault.”

“I lost…” the other Peter’s voice caught in his throat, as if he was holding back tears. “I lost Gwen. My, um...she was my MJ, or my Rosemary. I couldn’t save her. I’m never gonna be able to forgive myself for that. But I carried on, tried to, um... try to keep going, try to keep being the uh... that ‘Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man,’ ‘cause I knew that’s what she would have wanted. But at some point, I just-- I stopped pulling my punches. I got rageful. I got bitter. I just don’t want you to end up like... like me.” Maeve’s heart broke at his confession. All she wanted to do was comfort him, but she restrained herself for the time being while older Peter spoke. 

“The night Ben died, I hunted down the man who I thought did it. I wanted him dead. I got what I wanted. It didn’t make it better. It took me a long time to learn to get through that darkness.” Young Peter looked surprised by their words, and a sense of recognition flashed in his eyes. 

“I want to kill him,” he admitted quietly. “I want to tear him apart. I can still hear her voice in my head. Even after she was hurt, she said to me that we did the right thing. She told me that with great power-” 

“Comes great responsibility,” older Peter concluded. The three of them looked between each other. Younger Peter was even more shocked that he seemed to know what he was talking about. 

“Wait, what? How do you know that?” 

“Uncle Ben said it,” other Peter answered, followed by the older one. 

“The day he died.” The three of them stared at each other once again, all looking considerably overwhelmed by this uncanny connection. 

“Maybe she didn’t die for nothing, Peter,” older Peter said softly. 

Before Maeve knew it, she was following the others into one of the chemistry labs of the high school. Once inside she, along with Rosemary, MJ and Ned moved off to the side as the Peters looked over the broken cures. 

“Okay so, uh... Connors, Marko, Dillon, and um…” young Peter hesitated, then set aside the cure for the Green Goblin. “Uh, look, I think that I can repair the devices for Dillon and Marko, but the others-” 

“Oh, I got Connors. I’ve already cured him once, so no big deal,” other Peter explained before noticing the other Peters’ incredulous looks. “What? It’s no big deal.”

“Great,” the older Peter ultimately said. “I think I can make an anti-serum for Dr. Osborn. Been thinking about it a long time. We gotta cure all of ‘em, right?” He added, noticing younger Peter’s conflicted look. 

“Right,” the boy answered slowly. 

Later that night Maeve was watching the other Peter as he worked on mixing the chemicals that would eventually go into a metal water bottle. There were several times that he would look over and their eyes met, which made her blush and avert her gaze. She tried to tell herself that she was just interested in the chemical reaction. Her gaze was suddenly broken when Ned suddenly rolled over to older Peter, who stood at the desk right beside the other Peter’s desk. She listened to them interact, then giggled at Ned’s apprehension when he learned that older Peter’s best friend died in his arms after he tried to kill him. The laugh broke other Peter’s concentration and he looked at her with a small smile. 

“You have a nice laugh,” he mentioned softly. The randomness made another blush coat her cheeks and she looked down coyly. 

“Oh, thank you,” she responded in a shy tone. After a few minutes she gathered the courage to look at him again, only to see his gaze fixed on something else. She followed his line of sight and he realized that he was watching young Peter and Rosemary. The young couple were sitting facing each other, the boy’s face cradled in her hands while their foreheads rested against each other’s silently. At that moment Maeve remembered other Peter mentioning Gwen, and how he couldn’t save her. A wave of sympathy coursed through her, and she faced the boy once again. 

“You have someone?” She asked softly. Other Peter snapped out of his stupor and he looked at her. 

“No. I got no time for uh, Peter Parker stuff, you know?” He answered, earning a nod from the girl. “Do you?” 

“Oh, no,” Maeve responded while shaking her head. “Surprisingly, not a lot of people are eager to date a superhero whose life always seems to be in danger. Besides, I don’t think they’d be able to keep up with me. She was half joking in her last sentence, and she was happy that it got a laugh out of him. 

“I wouldn’t give up, though,” she continued. “I think that there’s always someone willing to make it work. Just look at them.” She nodded to young Peter and Rosemary. “Both of their lives became a living hell but they’ve found comfort in each other. If that doesn’t give you hope then I have no idea what to tell you.” When she faced him once again, he was already looking at her with a look that she couldn’t quite place. 

“I think I’m starting to get it,” he said softly. His tone was what made her blush for the third time in an hour. It was soft yet there was passion behind it, and it had a sort of fond undertone to it. She merely offered him a small smile in response, then watched as he went back to work with a renewed interest so she could pretend not to notice the light blush that dusted Peter’s cheeks.

[liz-allyn]

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

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

words: 5.5k

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

Part 1

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

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

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

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

“Ya wanna sweeten it up for me?”

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

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

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

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

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

She glowed.

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

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

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

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

“Thanks for stopping by, Ben!”

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

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

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

“Wait!” 

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

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

He blinked, brow creased.

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

He stared. “No?”

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

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

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

“Thank you. I think I will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The coffee really was awful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How do you feel about lavender and honey?”

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

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

For him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He needed to leave. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except for that one time. 

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

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

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

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

Peter was no longer there.

He didn’t come back that day. 

Neither did Tod.

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

She was happy, and that made him happy. 

And that should be enough. 

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

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

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

“Peter Parker!”

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

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

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

His jaw locked in place.

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

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

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

His spine went rigid, shoulders into stone. 

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

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

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

Don’t look at the thing you want—

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

Peter stared straight ahead. Glaring. Fuming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’d be back. He’d be there first.

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

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

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

Who’s Peter?

Peter Parker.

Peter Parker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ow!” he roared. “Bitch!”

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

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

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

Loud pops. Gunfire.

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

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

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

The gunfire was getting closer.

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

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

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

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

Her breath hitched. Eyes popped open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She smirked at her, eyes sinister.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sure?” Miles questioned.

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

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

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

Continue to Part 2

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[lanadelreyscokewhor3]

Can you make a story where dark Peter uses a vibrator on the fem!reader till she squirts and shakes and fucks her till she's cock dumb

yaaa ya ya

THE TEASE- P.B PARKER

Pairing: Darkish! Peter x Fem! Reader

Word Count: 750

Warnings: SMUT, squirting, over stimulation, use of vibrator on reader, biting, degradation kink, darkish stalker content, choking, pet names, peter finishing inside causes he has a breeding kink

“This is your fault.” he whispered, hand tightening around your neck the vibrator buzzed against your swollen bud.

A gasp torn between a moan escaped your lips as his hot breath tickled the shell of your ear, before he gave it a little bite.

“You just had to be such a little tease, with that slutty little skirt of yours.” he growled gaze slipping down to where he held the toy, watching as your ankles dug into the sheets as you attempted to get away from the overwhelming sensations.

It was getting harder and harder to think, and you could barely focus on his words as he coaxed them in your ear.

“I was watching you today, you know. But you didn't see me- did you? No, no too focused on that little lecture hm?” he pressed, rubbing the vibrator in little circular sensations against your clit as you moaned and panted.

It was a mix between pleasure and pain- what he was giving you, and the lines seemed to be blurring over one another the longer you felt your body uncontrollably shake.

“Peter I’m sorry-” you gasped, clawing at his hand down by your cunt, but it wouldn't budge. Peter had you pinned down and spread open- just the way he wanted you.

Vulnerable and alone, for him. He deserved you. You just weren't focused enough on him to notice that.

“You are eh? Cute.”

“I am!” you protested, the whiney tone in your voice rewarded with his hand tightening around your airway. He knew just how to choke you properly, just squeezing the sides of your neck gently.

He had done his research after all, he didn’t want you passing out on him yet. He had so much to tell you.

Still, whether it was from the pressure of the stimulation, your vision began to go fuzzy around the edges. He tsked, shaking his head mockingly as he heard your breaths quicken, knowing you were getting close.

“Listen to how wet you are angel. Your cunnie gettin all messy sweets?” Peter asked gently, making your squeeze your eyes shut, as if you were bracing yourself for what was coming.

His smile turned evil, mocking, and you hated him for it. You hated how well he knew your body and how to tease you, making the rubber band in your core snap past its breaking point.

Every single time he pushed you, and every single time you broke harder than before.

“No, no please.” you begged, yet your words were useless. With a little twist of his wrist, the toy hit just the right spot, the eye contact he gave you the final push to send you over the edge.

You screamed, begging him as the orgasm washed over you. “Shh, shh just let it happen, princess. You need to stop fighting it.” he cooed, hand releasing from your neck to stroke your cheek, a stray tear lingering on the heated skin.

Wetness squirted from you, spraying over the sheets and Peter's hand as you mindlessly babbled to him, your words slurring together as your legs shook harder.

“Atta girl. Attaa girl.” he smiled, removing the toy from its place, setting it down before he pressed a hand down on your lower abdomen to steady you.

“Peter I can't– anymore-” you panted, words coming out between gasps as you attempted to catch your breath.

“You don't have to, but m’gonna use you for a bit okay? Just rest, let me use your princess parts.” he whispered, positioning himself despite your sleepy protests, hands coming up to claw around his biceps.

“Sensitive.” you moaned, body jerking as he wasting no time slipping inside of you, stretching you out around him as he threw his head back and moaned in pleasure- ignoring you.

“You're getting what you deserve. You're supposed to be used angel. But only from me.” he smiled sweetly, grip tightening on your thighs as he spread your legs further apart, watching as your own hands slipped down to palm your tits.

“You like this, don’t you, angel? Just a lil dumb baby, can't think for herself eh?” You nodded, moaning as he sank deeper, brushing up against your g-spot.

“Just not- not inside mkay?” you requested softly, head falling slack against the sheets as sleep spread through your bones. “Whatever you say angel.” he smirked smugly, knowing your request go un funfilled.

Oh well, he thought, beginning to piston into you for his own pleasure. Oh well.

[meganslife]

Pen pals - p. parker (part two)

read part one here !!

pairing; TASM! Peter Parker x Fem!reader

summary: after peter and you exchange phone numbers, he finds himself yearning for you. it only gets worse after a long night of you partying. but drunk words are sober thoughts, right?

warnings: none!:3

a/n: i love love love writing this series so the second part has come very quickly. anyway, make sure to read the first part if you haven’t already!! happy reading!!<3

Peter doesn’t know when or how, but he became addicted to listening to you talk. You had so many things to say- so many beautiful words coming out of your equally beautiful mouth. He couldn’t believe you had such a soothing voice, not that he expected anything less.

God, he was down horrendously.

You both were on Facetime. Peter listens to you talk about your friends as you get ready for a long night of partying. He never thought you’d like parties, but he doesn’t care that he was wrong. He likes that calling you every day gives him more to know about you. He figures that you get outside more once it gets warmer. Spring was blooming. You and Peter had been talking every day on the phone for three months.

“Yeah, and like, Anna is great and all, but she’s so mean!” You rant, finishing up your makeup. Peter nods, watching in awe. Do you even know how pretty you are? “Peter, are you listening?”

“What?” Peter snaps out of his thoughts, “Yeah, sorry. I’m just tired.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I can let you go. It’s like, 11 pm over there,” You pick up your phone, almost saying goodbye before Peter interjects.

“No, don’t hang up,” He says quickly, “I like watching you get ready. It makes me feel closer to you.”

Peter can see your cheeks turn pink. You’re embarrassed, and he could cry in your lap with how much his heart is fluttering.

“Okay,” You smile, positioning your phone so Peter could see your outfit. “What do you think?”

Peter wants to fly to Seattle and worship the ground you walk on like right now.

“You look lovely,” He grins from ear to ear. “Is that a new top? It’s fun.”

It was a basic tube top. Nothing special to you, but very special to Peter. He knew that you got insecure, so the fact that you were willing to wear this while going out made his heart feel full.

“Yeah,” You nod, giddy. “Maria got it for me.”

Peter and you talk for a little while longer. He wants it to last forever. But, eventually, you say you have to go.

“Text me when you get home?” Peter asks.

“Sure, but you’ll be sleeping,” You tease.

He scoffs, “And you’ll be drunk. I’m staying up for you.”

“Whatever,” You laugh. “Bye, Pete!”

“Bye, Y/N.”

Peter holds his phone to his chest once you hang up.

One day, he’ll tell you.

~

Peter wakes up at three in the morning to his phone blowing up. He groans, putting on his glasses and squinting at his phone in a poor attempt to adjust to the brightness.

He sees that you’ve been texting him and calling him. To this, he smiles. He forgot to stay up for you. Oops.

Your texts are furious and poorly written. You’ve definitely been drinking.

‘PETER BENJAMIN PARKER’

‘PETEY’

‘Oh my god pleas ansswr.’

*3 missed calls*

‘Pls pete i’m drunk and desperate’

‘Go to bed and drink some water, babe.’

‘Hehehe babe. You’re so cute.’

‘Call me? Ppleas? I miss uou.’

Peter sighs, face red and burning hot.

When he calls, you answer not even one ring after he calls.

“Did you get home safe?” Peter immediately asks.

“Jeez. Not even a hello?”

“I have priorities.”

“I got home fine, cutie,” You giggle.

Peter thinks you’ll be the death of him.

“How much did you drink, bug?” He sighs, “You should go to bed. Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

You groan over the line, and Peter laughs. He wishes he was with you in person to see this.

“You’re so boring, Pete! I have priorities too, you know.” You insist. Peter is imagining your dramatic pout.

“Oh yeah? What are they?”

“Go to Queens and hug you.”

Peter wants to cry. He knows you’re very drunk, but he read somewhere that drunk words are sober thoughts. He really hopes that you’re being genuine. Maybe you think about him as much as he thinks about you.

“We… We can talk about this another time,” Peter suggests. “Sometime when you’re sober.”

“Okay,” You say, accepting defeat. “My head hurts. I’m gonna go.”

“Alright,” Peter manages a smile, even though you can’t see it. “Goodnight, honey. Sleep well.”

“Bye! See you soon!”

See you soon.

See you soon.

See you soon.

In his dreams.

— read about me and find my masterlist here <3

[reidslovely]

In a Corner I Haunt: Everybody Moved On (Chapter Two)

ch. 1 (currently being edited)

I did not intend on this little angst piece becoming a bigger idea, but here we are. Currently there is no graphic content, bur this series will eventually contain smut so I’m asking for solely an 18+ audience. 

Pairing: Peter Parker x Fem!OC

Word Count: 3k

Series Warnings: Cheating, Thoughts of cheating, Smut, Angst with semi happy ending, Divorce, Discussion of parental depth, Mentions of past domestic abuse, Neglecting spouse, Cursing, Peter on the verge of a nervous breakdown. More to add. 

Chapter Warnings: Description of love interest, Love interest is given nickname, Implied thoughts of cheating, chapter is pretty diff Peter heavy. 

please reblog and/or comment

There was a girl who sat in the west courtyard of ESU on Saturday, Sunday, Wednesday, Thursday and occasionally Friday his sophomore year. She sat under the same tree since the start of the spring semester, the old cherry blossom tree that was right off the path Peter skated everyday towards Dr. Octavius’ lab. On the weekdays she had her laptop snug in her lap with whatever it seemed she could get from the campus cafe, her favorite seemed to be a Matcha Latte with some type of croissant sandwich. On weekends she sat there enjoying the warmer days with a book, or sitting in a cardigan working on her laptop.

On some days Peter found himself walking past, and walking slower to really capture her and her beauty. On occasion he thought about stopping and talking to her. Asking her about what book she was reading this time, or what it was she was typing away on. However, according to his friends that would be stalkerish, giving away that he had been watching her quite a bit over the last few weeks. That girls liked to be met organically, without being watched beforehand. So here he was camera in hand, swallowing his words in his throat as he approached her.

“Photo for the ESU Daily?” He whispered nervously, his words slewing out in one big word.

“Do we take random photos for the Daily now?”

“Oh well, it’s this piece I’m working on about students who take their..their work outside.” The lie seemed perfect to him, no flaws, the best and most calm lie he’s ever told.

“I’ve never seen you in the writing room.”

What.

“Mhm, what?”

“I’m a writer at the daily.”

“Oh..” Peter’s eyes shifted around uncomfortably, clearing his throat and opening his mouth to defend himself.

“But I have seen you in the darkroom. You’re Parker.”

“Peter..Parker. Peter Parker.” He thrusted his hand into her face smiling. She smiled, choking on a laugh, taking his hand and shaking it.

She looked up at him, giving him her name with a sweet smile. Her eyes setting a part of his soul on fire, he was sure of it. There was a softness that grew in the pit of his stomach as he looked down at her.

“Not to make this awkward but do you stare at all the people you’re interested in from a distance or just a select few.”

“Oh you noticed that.” He laughed, his hand coming up to tuck his hair back and scratch his neck out of embarrassment. “Select few. You should feel really flattered.”

“Good, I do.” Her laugh echoed in his ears, settling into a part of his brain and making a home in his memory already. “Do you want to..I don’t know have a seat.”

Peter physically restricted himself from sitting next to the girl, he knew he’d be so late and Otto would maybe actually kill him this time.

“I would really love to, but I’m about to be late and if we are gonna have a..seat together I’d like to be alive for it.” Quickly, Peter scribbled his phone number down onto a gum wrapper he found in his pocket. Handing it to her. “Here is my number, you can call me and we can like, meet tonight or whenever at that uh- italian place up the block.”

“Leo’s?”

“Yeah that one is perfect.” He smiled as he ran backwards away from her. His cheeks burning red, he wondered if his smile was still noticeable to her. Peter turned around taking off towards Otto’s lab, jumping up out of excitement. His other commitments would have to wait till after this date.

Tears hung in Peter's eyes today, his stomach had crawled its way up his throat. He looked at that same tree today, hands dug deep in his pockets. He had decided to take a small detour on his way to pick up his daughter from the English department. He approached the tree that still stood in the west courtyard; tall and barren from the cold season. It felt like a laugh in his face. An evil metaphor crawling out of the shadows at him, showing him what he had thrown away. He reached out letting his finger draw over the initials carved poorly into the tree. It was a silly thing he did for her on their two month anniversary, forever commemorating their meeting spot, thinking that one day he’d bring her back here and purpose. Coward.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzzzz..

Peter dug his hands around in his pockets grasping at his phone, finally getting it in his palm. He cleared his throat before speaking.

“Alice, sorry I’m on my way now I just got stuck on the subway. Camilia  excited?” He asked as he cut through the west courtyard heading towards the Lee English Hall.

“Well she’d be a little bit more excited if her daddy were on time.”

“I know I just ran into a old friend, and then I got caught-”

“I do not care Pete,” Her brief scoff was heard on the other side. He knew it was not directed at him. She was really stressed with her first year teaching. “I just need you to get here so I can teach my one o’clock lecture baby, please.”  

“Gotcha, headin’ your way now.” Peter hummed slowly, pushing through students on the sidewalk mouthing apologies. “I love..” the dial tone rang loudly in his ear. “You.” He sighed, pocketing his phone and continuing his walk.

Had this been a couple years ago he would be skateboarding through these people not worried about what they thought of him, he missed being young and non caring. Peter looked at the couples eating outside on the benches and suddenly he remembers being that boyfriend bringing his girlfriend lunch between classes. Rushing kisses, and rushing through lunch, skipping out on the last bit of Otto’s lecture and lab work to get to the journalism building as fast as possible. He remembers her surprising him during lab hours with dinner, they would sit and enjoy one another's company till early morning hours. Then they’d pick whose place to go back to, then she’d fall asleep on her shoulder the subway ride back.

He has a beautiful life now, but now he can’t even begin to think about what his life with her could have been like. He could have had Camilia  with his girl, they could have gotten engaged that night had he just not gotten cold feet. Peter shook his head pulling himself out of his selfish and insane thoughts, and suddenly he was in front of Lee Hall where the English department was. He sighed walking around the back entrance where the offices were located, and muscle memory carried him the rest of the way down the hall.

“Daddy!”

The voice piped up as Peter pushed open the office door, Alice smiled at her daughter and it slowly disappeared off her face as she looked at Peter. He took his daughter into his arms as she climbed up his side.

“Got everything ready?” Peter asks, kissing his little girl's head. “We gotta go see grandma May. Then we are gonna go get ice cream, and then we are..off to the science museum” Peter spoke in a theatrical voice, making his daughter smile. He grabbed her, lifting her up, moving her around like a rocket shooting off. Alice stares at the two, a smile on her face directed only at their daughter.

“Peter, can you take that outside please. I’d like for my office to not be destroyed. You two get too rowdy, and it always ends up with something broken.” She sighed, blowing her daughter a kiss goodbye.

“Momma ‘s not our fault.” Camilia says, her annunciation falling short due to her missing teeth.

“No baby it’s not. It's daddy’s for passing on all those awesome spider powers to you.”

Though she says it like a compliment, Peter can hear the passive aggressiveness lacing his wife's voice. It would be a lie to say it isn’t pushing a knife deeper into his stomach, his sweet girl would never have referred to him this way. So dismissive, inciting that he was a problem to her life. He shook his head and put on a smile, kissing his daughter's head. “Bye Allie, say bye momma.”

“Bye momma.” Cami waved as Peter carried her out of the office, her spider-man backpack thrown over his left shoulder.

“Okay daddy?” Camilia asked, looking up at him, her big doe eyes reflecting himself in them. Peter smiled down at his daughter, the metaphorical knife leaving his gut.

“I am perfect, Cami. How about you, are you good- wanna walk?”

“No, wanna stay here.”

She says watching the people pass by them, Peter smiles as he approaches the subway station heading down the steps. He looks down at his daughter and back ahead of the hoards of people ahead of them. He thinks that he could do this on his own, he thinks about the life he and his daughter would have had he just held out for a bit longer, and he thinks about her again. Then the doors of the subway open, and he steps on bringing himself back down to reality as his daughter talks to him about all the animals she saw on her way to ESU this morning and for the next couple hours he’s content living in this bubble. Once his daughter dozes off on his shoulder he thinks about his sweet girl once more, wondering if her number is still the same. He contemplates calling her, begging her for one last touch. Begging to have her one more time, begging her to be the mother to his child. Promising to change, to not pull back at the last second this time. Then the cart jolts, and he catches his daughter in his arms remembering the man he is.

…

May’s house is just the same as it has been for decades, except now for the first time in about 20 years there are toys scattered on the floor once again and he walks into the house surrounded by the scent of cookies.

“Nana!” Camilia yells running to the kitchen as soon as Peter put her down. Peter heard May’s gasp followed by a groan as she reached down to pick the little girl up.

“Hi May!” Peter smiled walking to the kitchen putting his keys and Camilia’s bag down on the counter.

“Hi babies.” May says kissing Camilia’s head and reaching up to kiss Peter’s cheek. Peter smiled letting his hand rest on her back. “Oh Cami let those cool.” Peter says, reaching his hand out to catch his daughter before she could grab the hot cookies.

“Okay..” She sighs, wiggling out of May’s arms, landing on her feet as she hits the ground.

“Oh she stresses me out when she does that. She gets that from you.” May laughs, wagging a finger at Peter, watching Camilia grab her bag running to the living room.

“I know I apparently gave her all her negative traits.”

“Oh who says that?” May questions, pulling the cookies off the sheet and putting them on the plate.

“Alice.”

“Well..” May points the spatula at him like she’s about to say something profound. “Oh well, maybe I shouldn’t say that.”

“No, no, let's hear it.” Peter laughs his hand on his cheek.

“Alice has more negative traits coming out her tuchus than you have in your whole body. Which one of you started fighting crime at eighteen years old, and which one of you got your daddy to pay your way through college mhm?”

May was never a fan of Alice. May was a very big fan of his sweet girl, she adored her and he knows the two still frequently talk during holidays and other times just when they feel like it. May was more devastated about their break up than he was at the time. Which couldn’t prepare him for what her reaction was about to be.

“I saw her today.”

May’s jaw dropped, as did the spatula landing on the linoleum floor. “Oh my gosh how was it, how was she? How do you feel?”

“She looked..beautiful as ever, the same as the day I left her. Older now obviously but, it was like looking at a ghost.” Peter laughed. “I got so overwhelmed..now I can’t get her out of my head, May. I just, I’m so wrapped up in what could have been. I made a mistake. I think I made a big mistake.”

“I told you that five years ago..you’re just like your uncle. Goes in one ear and right out the other until you’re ready. I swear..” May shook her head laughing, putting a cookie in Peter’s hand and several on a plate for Camilia. Peter’s lips pushed into a bittersweet smile and he nodded, his aunt was right.

“Cami, come get your snack.” Peter says. Camilia runs in and leaves so fast it’s like she never even entered the room. Peter watched her sit on the couch TV blaring to where she couldn't hear.

“You calling that little girl a mistake?”

“No, just my marriage.” It was a loaded statement. Peter had asked Alice to marry him after only six months and impulsive night after attending a friend's wedding. There was no ring, just this intense pressure to settle down and do it soon. “Camilia made it better, for a while. We both love her, we just..haven’t loved each other in quite a while.”

“You don’t have to tell me. I know.” May says. “I tried to warn you several times leading up to the wedding. Even on your wedding day. This is not love Peter. This is infatuation, infatuation wears off.”

“I thought you were just saying that because you wanted me to marry your girl.”

“My girl” was what May used to call her. Peter thought it was cute, May always wanted a daughter and she became that by extension of Peter. But he always called her angel. He couldn’t place why or how that nickname came around. Maybe because she was, to him, some type of divine entity that came to him to pull him out of that dark place. Whenever speaking to her or about her it was always angel this, angel that.

“Well..it was partially that too but I never liked Alice. She never liked me. She wouldn’t let me give you a way at your wedding because I wasn’t your biological mother and that only women are given away. Oh that made me so mad I coulda hit her, but I reframed, I kept my mouth shut.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen t’ya May.”

Peter says, reaching his hand across, holding her hand. “You are my mother. Biological or not you raised me, you know this. I wish you had told me before today, I don’t think I would have gone through with the wedding.”

“Sweet to say but you would have.”

Peter tilted his head holding his aunt's hand reassuringly. “Are you gonna see her again?” May asks.

“I’m not sure. I’d like to. I dunno if she…would want to see me again.”

“Well you didn’t hear this from me, but I don’t think she’d be too disappointed in hearing from you again.”

“Thanks May. You always know what to say.”

Peter smiled hugging his aunt kissing her head. His heart settling into his chest again felt right, and knew what to do but his brain was still screaming at him. “Come on, living room. Let’s see what Paw Patrol is up to today.”

Peter grabbed their drinks and the plate following into the living room, both of them sitting on either side of Camilia. Angel still lingering in the back of his mind.

…

May almost kept them the whole day, if Peter hadn’t caught his watch when he did he would have missed general admissions to the museum. Peter practically had to drag Camilia away from May, her begging to stay the night. Peter promised that he would message Alice about it to make sure it was okay after they got out of the museum.

“Are we gonna see the big t-rex?”

“Of course we will Cami, I’d be a terrible daddy to not let you see the dino.”

“You really would be.”

Peter laughed and rubbed his daughter's head ruffling her brown curls as they walked the steps to the science museum. “Up!” She demands whispering a please at the end, Peter caved lifting her up carrying her on his shoulders.

Showing the woman at the door their tickets, Peter smiled gratefully at her. As they walked in Camilia’s gasp could be heard, Peter smiled his eye catching what she was looking at. In the center of the room stood a banner for the new dinosaur exhibit and a small skeleton of a velociraptor next to a statue of one.

“He was about as big as you are honey.” Peter laughs.

“Cool.” Camilia smiles, her hands drumming on top of her fathers head in excitement. Peter laughed, reaching a hand up to stop her patting her small hands reassuringly. A voice rang out behind him that made him stop in his tracks.

“Picture for the Bugle?” His angel's voice rang out behind him, Peter turned around hugging his daughter's leg.

“Peter.” She smiles, she was dressed differently than what she had been earlier at the restaurant. Her brown hair clipped back out of her face, eyes looking up at him like they never lost him.

“Angel.” He whispers.

Her head tilted to the side like a dog hearing its owner's voice. She laughed, dropping her shoulders. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. I was starting to think you forgot about that name.”

“Never.”

She looked at the little girl on his shoulders. “This must be the sweet Camilia you were telling me about earlier.”

“This is yes. Camilia this is-”

“Angel.” Camilia states.

“Sure yeah, we were old friends in college.”

She was almost your mother.

He refrains from speaking.

Angel smiles lifting her camera snapping a photo of the pair, Peter smiles looking past the camera and to her.

“Perfect, that's gonna go on the front page.” She hums, Peter looks confused. “Jameson put me in charge of the opening of the dinosaur exhibit and I’m writing a piece about it.”

“Since when did Jameson stop caring about hard hitting news?”

‘Since I begged him to let me make the dinosaur exhibit front page this week, and the museum is paying him to do it.”

“Now that sounds like him.”

It’s silent for a moment and Peter feels all his emotions building up like vomit in his throat, no way to stop it.

“Do you like dinos, Angel?”

Camilia asks looking down at the lady, Peter smiles, pulling his daughter off shoulders holding her to be eye level.

“I do.”

Before Peter could stop himself, the words fell out of his mouth. “You should walk it with us. Cami could easily be our tour guide.”

“You know what I’d love too.”

“Great.”

Peter nodded at her, as soon as the words left him Camilia’s feet hit the ground. her hand grabbing Peter and Angel’s, smiling up at them as she begins to drag them into the start.  Angel’s smile lit his insides on fire just like at the restaurant, just like all those years under the tree on the west courtyard at ESU.

This could only end in one big glass shattering way, as it did all those years ago.

Taglist- Let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!!

@helloheyhihowdyheya​ @sincericida​ @moonyslove78​ @a-lumos-in-the-nox​ @messymissy​ @adhdhufflepuff​ @toomanyfictionalboyfriends​ @ateliefloresdaprimavera​ @eevylynn​

[witchywcmans]

peter parker & sloane bernstein. 🕸

except on midnights like this . . .

JAWBREAKER ━━ an older!peter parker au. READ HERE: ao3 | wattpad

[nexusnyx]

Lost The Game

SUMMARY:The explanation your mind settled for was that whoever lived under that mask, also lived somewhere close by. It explained the first time you found him limping and bleeding on an alley, and it explains how you evolved into his personal caretaker for the wounds and afflictions of Spider-Man’s after battle consequences.

The only thing it doesn’t explain, however, is why through the thick and convoluted webs of your strange situationship, a certain tension has built between you two. Palpable. Physical. As electric as some of his tales, and as dangerous as he is.

The tension between you and Spidey grows, and it grows, and it grows. One day, it snaps.

⚠️ Minors DNI. Smut. | 🏷️ 3.2K , fluff, part two of three, reposting this ‘cause some people missed this one and asked for it.

• PART ONE •

“I really want you,” you confess.

Spider lets out a shaky breath. “Good.” He nods. The hand on your waist holds on tighter, and he pulls you closer. “I haven’t wanted anything this bad in a long, long time.”

When he kisses you again, you can feel that.

The words, the feelings behind them, the truth in it.

His lips start softly pressing against yours, and you're thankful for the late-night hour, the blanket of darkness washing over your room. Spidey kisses you like he wants you back just as much as you want him.

It's been so long since you've just kissed someone for the sake of kissing, and the realization dawns on you as his tongue meets yours in a delicious, filthy drag.

Spidey pulls your waist to him and slides both your bodies down so you're lying flat against the bed; through the fog that his kisses create on your mind, you realize how easily he moves you.

As if you weigh nothing. Then, it dawns on you—to him, you don't.

That pulls a groan from the pits of your gut.

Spidey's mouth on your swallows it down, and your fingers start grasping and holding on to whatever bits of hair it can reach underneath his mask.

Slowly, his body descents on yours and he lets you feel some of his on weight too. His tall, slender figure covers yours in the best way possible, and you lose yourself to the feeling of kissing him.

How long had it been since you wanted someone so bad to the point of just kissing, and feeling?

He seems to be in the same predicament if your judgment is not too cloudy. Spidey pulls back for air eventually and you whine, chasing the feeling of his lips.

His smile makes your heart do stupid, crazy things inside your chest.

"I've wanted to do this for a while," he breathes close to your mouth. Then, he kisses your jaw. "Didn't know if I could—if I deserved it," he mutters, trailing his mouth from your jawline to your neck. "You always smell so fucking good—why the hell d'you have to smell good?"

That makes you giggle. When pull back to answer him, though, the wide, white bug eyes make your words falter for a moment.

He senses it—Spidey's sense is something out of this world, and with you this close to him, you're sure there's nothing he would miss. "It's weird, right? Is it weird? We can stop—I don't want to, kissing you is the best thing that's happened to me in a while, but we—"

"Spidey," you interrupt. He shuts his mouth and adjusts himself on top of you with either one of his elbows resting on each side of your face. "Do you trust me?"

Without hesitation, he nods. "Yeah."

"Okay," you nod. With determination, you push his body away and he gets the hint, getting off from you. You crawl across the bed towards your double windows and thank the skies that you're the kind of person who's a night owl.

The black-out curtains were one of the first purchases you made when renting this loft and now, you feel blessed by them for more reasons than allowing you to sleep after long shifts and studying all night long.

When the two of them are closed, your room is blanketed with the darkness of the night-sky, and your vision goes blind.

It's crazy how much your other senses come forward when one of them is deprived.

You can hear perfectly your own breathing and the soft ruffling of your sheets. "Spidey?" You whisper.

"I'm here," he says on the opposite end of your bed.

"Can you see anything?" you ask, crawling back towards the direction of his voice, slowly.

"A little more than you, probably," there's soft laughter very close to you, then you feel a hand wrapping around your wrist. He pulls you to him and now Spidey's sitting with his back to the headboard of your bed, fitted between your pillows.

You crawl on top of him, straddling his lap, feeling your heart beating on your throat.

Your hands feel all the way up to his neck.

When they're there, you cup his neck in your hands and caress the soft skin it finds there. "Hi," you mutter.

All you can feel is the heat of his body underneath you. "Hi," he whispers back. His head leans forward and your foreheads touch. "How the hell did I fall on your hands of all the hands in this hell-hole of a city?"

It comes out as a breathless whisper, but it makes your insides curl.

He speaks it in such a reverent way that it's impossible for you to not feel it. "I'm glad you did." You lean forward, giving him enough time to back away and when he doesn't, you press a soft, chaste kiss on his lips. "Can we—can we kiss more? The curtains—I just closed so you'd feel more comfortable," you confess. "You don't have to take the mask off, but I can't see you now."

"I know. I know," Spidey nods, and you feel another kiss pressed on your lips. "It's just—," he swallows thickly, and his hands on your waist pull you flushed against his chest. "Gimme a second."

You sit there, waiting.

Every movement of his body is now felt by you—every inch of his body is pressed against yours, and because you can, you wrap your legs around his waist, locking your heels together.

That's when you feel it—you're adjusting yourself on his lap when Spidey's left arm comes up to the back of his neck, and he grips the back of his mask.

The sound of the material being pulled off makes your heart beat faster.

He trusts me. Oh, god, he really, actually trusts me.

"This is better, right?" His voice sounds lower.

Raspier—more serious. His arm around your waist and underneath your ass secures its grip, and you nod. "I... thank you. For trusting me, Spidey-boy," you chuckle, feigning nonchalance to try and mask how much your heart is trying to beat out of your chest.

He laughs too, the same nervous undertone as yours in his mirth, and then kisses you. "I wish I could do this in the light of the day," his voice carries so much that you wonder if this is what you were both chasing when the hug turned into a kiss. Spidey almost sounds on the verge of tears underneath you, and you can tell these are words he's been holding back for a while now. "I wish—D'you get why I don't? I'm—It terrifies me. If I'm me and I meet you, and then someone who's Spider's enemy discovers my identity—it's you they'll go after, Y/n. I've been there before. They can't go after you. D'you get that?"

"I do," you kiss him quiet, and you both lose yourselves in it.

He worries. All those times thinking he didn't want to spend time with me—he just worries.

The thought multiples, and grows like a tree in your mind. It spills over in the kiss.

He wants you, and thought about it, too. He's been protecting you, guarding you against the fact that his double life comes with consequences.

When he pulls back again, you whine in protest. "No—get back here," now that you can, you grab a fistful of his hair.

Spidey groans against your lips, laughing. "Hold on."

"No," you protest, and smash your smiling lips on his again.

Spidey lets you, and the kiss is nothing but two smiles pressed together for the first moment. It takes a couple of pecks and the sweet drag of his bottom lip over your mouth to open you up.

The way he kisses is intoxicating.

It makes you feel like someone new—it sparks something inside of you. It takes so much to make you comfortable and willing, needy and receptive, but his touches all land in the right places.

The kiss builds up. More than touching, it senses like a delivery. All of his wounds are forgotten, and all of your worries dissipate. Nothing but the drag of his tongue against yours and his hands gripping your body tight resonate on your mind, and Spidey uses his hands to guide your arms up—he holds you by the elbow and guides your hands until they reach up, touching his face.

You gasp in his mouth.

"It's ok," he whispers. You feel his smile, and swallow the knot on your throat.

"You sure?"

"Uhum."

Tentatively, you let your hands explore over his face.

It's so real and terrifying to trace the outline of his jawline, the shape of his lips, and his full eyebrows that everything else becomes silent. Spidey lets you do it, allows your hands to draw his features in your mind, caresses over his closed eyelids.

The thought slips out of you in a breathless whisper,

"You're so pretty."

He chuckles, and his legs slide up higher, trapping you inside his hold. "Ah—thanks."

You bite your lip, feeling your mind go hazy.

Underneath you, he's not exactly soft anymore. Both of you must be highly aware of that fact, or at least, you are. It makes you burn, and the core between your legs feels twice hotter since the moment you sat down.

You don't know how far he wants to take this, but stopping kissing him is out of the question. "Hey, Spidey—"

"Peter."

It's a whisper.

It catches you, like a trap in the woods.

Peter.

"I imagine there are enough around there for me to let you have at least this," he whispers, and when his lips are on yours again, they tremble.

Peter.

You kiss him, and melt in his arms in the process. When he pulls apart for air again, you whisper. "Hey, Peter."

"Yeah?"

"Please, don't stop."

Peter takes a deep breath underneath you.

"You don't want me to stop?" He asks, his arms squeezing around you.

Not to stop what, you're unsure. Whatever it is, you're sure of the answer. Shaking your head, you whisper. "No."

Don't stop kissing me.

Don't stop touching me.

Don't leave. Don't go anywhere. Don't leave. Please, don't leave.

Whatever part of your thoughts he hears, he takes it to heart, and pushes all the answers from his lips to yours.

His name is Peter.

That's the first thing you catalog now, and they start webbing one into the other.

Number one, Peter's an excellent kisser.

He knows when to grab you by the hair and guide you where he wants you to be, and knows when to let you take control. He allows you to play with his hair, to grab his face, scratch his nape—all that you have to offer, he's willing to take. Peter lets you bite and nibble on his bottom lip, and in return, he sucks your tongue inside his mouth. It's like a push and pull, a game of wits that one of you is winning, and so is the other one.

Number two, Peter's got a mouth on him.

You discover it the first time he pulls back for much needed air and takes his breaths hiding in the cusp of your neck, with his hands getting bolder and learning the outlines of other parts of your body now—like your stomach, your ribs and your breats. He holds the new parts he finds, and grips the one he likes the most. It pulls mewls and whines out of you, and that's when he first chuckles against your skin, all malice and desire.

"You're sensitive here?" He asks, grabbing your sides. "Or here?" His hands run up to your boobs, cupping them in his hands. "Fuck. D'you know how many times I had to think about the vilest things I've ever seen to distract myself from these right on my face? My line of sight? Fuck, Y/n, they're so soft."

His mouth goes from its trail on your shoulders to your collarbones, pulling on your sleeping shirt to get more access to the space between your tits.

"Wanna kiss them so bad—can I kiss them, pretty?"

"Peter."

"God—teaching you my name's the best idea I've ever fucking had," Peter laughs, with more genuinity and happiness than you've ever heard. "Was that a yes? Can I? Say 'yeah, Peter'."

"Peter."

"Alright, I can take a hint." Peter's hands were quick.

That was Number Three: Peter was quick.

It was an easy fact to forget or overlook, but impossible to let it go once you felt it. Peter had agile fingers and a lot more dexterity in his pinky than most men would ever dream to accomplish with their whole bodies, their entire goddamn lives.

"Peter."

It's your winning word of the night, and the one that rings in your ears when the realization of how hard he already is underneath you hits.

Number four: Peter's not little anywhere.

It's the last fact you're able to register before your notion to count, think, or do anything other than whine and beg come to play.

"Y/n," his hands get a grip on your waist.

The waist that's grinding on him, chasing the outline of his cock and how good it feels fitted between your folds. There's only your your baby doll between you and his sweatpants, and the state his kisses left you is already leaving a spot of wetness on his clothes.

"It's too hot," you whine, and Peter nods on your neck.

"Can I take it off? Our clothes?"

"Yeah."

Your mind swims as he relocates you to his side to undress you. The darkness and Peter start to mingle as one, and this all might as well be a dream.

It feels like one, and tastes like one, too.

He takes off your clothes slowly, and you lay with your back on the bed as your ears pick up him removing his own clothes. Yours, technically, but with his smell. Images of you with the sweater he's wearing tonight over the course of the week flash on your mind—sniffing the material to get a sense of him when he's away. Pathetic, and yet true.

When he lays his body over yours this time, it's only your skin against his.

You swallow thickly, embracing the heat. Your lower back's starting to sweat, as is your temple, but you gladly take it, because the heat Peter brings warms you from the inside out.

He kisses you again, and your legs come up to wrap around his thighs. "Peter."

"Yeah, pretty?"

"Want more."

"You want more?" His waist grinds down. Peter's tall enough to cover your body with his, and his pelvis fits right on yours. The outline of his cock brushing with your folds makes you ever wetter, even needier. "D'you have condoms? I can't carry diseases, but I think you don't want the mess."

OH, god. Your mind blanks, resets, then restarts.

"Get inside me. Right. Now."

Your assertiveness is met with laughter, but is dies on his throat when he lines himself up with you.

The thrust is mutual, and with only a few movements of his waist, there he is.

It's more than just fucking.

There's no rush. No despair.

Peter's vocal with how good you feel—so tight, so good around me, so good, pretty. He's patient, and too damn attentive to every twitch of your body on his.

Peter's strong, and the difference between any previous hook-ups to him is made obvious when he stays there, holding himself with his forearms over you, his hips thrusting inside with no struggle. He eventually moves you on top of him again to let you take control, and holds your whole weight when it gets too much.

He wants you to feel good, and wants you to know that he's feeling good, too.

It may be the continuous, rhythmic movement of your bodies together, grinding on one another and holding tight on your arms and whatever part your hands can reach, or the way he alternates between kissing you and whispering the filthiest compliments to you and how good it feels, your pussy feels so fucking good, pretty.

It may be all that or the fact that it's intimate, it's needed.

Peter builds your orgasm up from the inside—knits the whole thing with his hands and his patience, because all he wants is to feel you all around him.

When it comes, it's a waves washing over a shore.

"Peter—feels too good, too good." Reasoning and stringing sentences together was an ability lost when he sat you on his lap and bounced you up and down for the first time, hitting every single spot inside of you.

He understands you just fine. His sweaty locks between your fingers feel almost as good as his grunts and whines pressed right on the middle of your chest. "I know, baby, I know." God, his whines are fucking music. "Oh my god, you're a sap," he laughs.

And oh—, "I said it?"

"You did," he groans. "You're gonna make me cum like this, pretty." Peter grabs your nape and crashes your mouths together, changing the angle of his legs.

With his feet planted on the bed and the headboard as leverage, he can thrust upwards and hit right on your G spot. By your scream, he figures that out pretty quickly.

"Oh my god."

"Oh, you're clenching on me—you gonna cum, pretty?" Peter smacks your ass, and his hand on your nape glides down through the sweat, lower and lower. It wraps on your neck lightly, as if testing the waters, and when you bend your neck backward, Peter's thrusts become erratic.

His hand grips your neck just right.

"Do it. Lemme see, c'mon. Cum on me, baby. Can I cum in you? You want that?" Peter's words are met with incoherent babbles, and you're officially cock drunk now—the bouncing gets louder, the sounds filling up the walls of your room and the heat emanating from your bodies could power up the whole block, probably.

"Please."

"Please what?" He growls.

"Please cum in me," you cry, feeling your legs starting to weaken.

It's okay because he's got you—Peter holds your waist and pounds into you. "Who d'you want to cum in you, pretty? Say it. Say my name, please—"

"PETER, please! Please cum in me. Please, please—"

"Oh my fucking god," Peter cries, and his thumb comes up to rub on your clit at the same time as you feel the heat and the twitching inside of you.

When Peter cums, a part of you blacks out.

Your orgasm is pulled from you in a crashing wave, and he rides it with his mouth on your ear, whispering words that flow in the background.

"You did so good. ... Oh, god. So perfect—you're fucking perfect, baby."

It takes you a while to come back from it.

Everything is still, and his breathing underneath yours connects your chests.

"Peter?"

He shifts his head, resting his chin on your shoulder. "Hm? You okay?"

"... You'll stay, right?"

Peter takes one heartbeat, and then presses a kiss on the juncture of your neck and your shoulder. "'Course." He kisses your cheek. "I've got morning lectures, but—I'll stay. You want me to stay, right?"

"Yes. Please."

"Then I'll stay."

Peter keeps his promise, and you wonder how something you've dreamt of before is the reality that you fall asleep in.

You wonder which will be the reality you wake up to.

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• PART THREE •

[weird-is-life]

Can i walk with you?

Pairing: Tasm!Peter Parker x fem!Reader

Summary: You get dared to ask Peter out, but that doesn't work out. Maybe meeting him at a cafe will bring you more luck

Warnings: language, mentions of drinking, game of truth or dare, mentions of tea

Words: 1.5k Masterlist

A/N: English is not my first language, so please excuse any grammar/spelling mistakes

Taking a dare seemed like a good idea. I mean playing truth or dare with your roommates was fun, so you thought why the hell not.

Well that was, until you remembered, that your friends were crazy and that you were all drinking.

"I dare you to finally ask Peter out" one of your friends said.

You froze at the spot and your mouth was wide open.

There was just no way, you would go and ask the insanely hot boy out, only to be rejected, no way. You were ready to chicken out.

You've had the biggest crush on Peter Parker, ever since he'd stumbled into your chemistry class 20 minutes late, apologising shyly to the profesor.

He sat down a few seats down from you, hair all ruffled, glasses almost falling from his nose, but relieved to make it there.

Ever since then you've been falling for him. But you didn't try to make a move and you wouldn't do that now either.

Your friend saw your mortified face and tried to convince you, "c'mon y/n, it's for fun and besides we all know he is gonna say yes."

"Yeah, he likes you!"

"It's not funny and he does not. Just give me something else" you begged her.

"Nope, you chose dare, there's no backing out now. Sorry, babe" she nudged you with her elbow.

"But.. It's too late, i'm sure he is asleep by now" you proteste, even tho it was only something past 10 p.m. .

"On friday night?" one of your other friends raised her eyebrows.

"Quit with the excuses and get up. We are going with you" you reluctantly got up and scowled at them.

"I'm not moving, sorry not sorry" you crossed the arms on your chest.

They all exchanged looks and smirked at you. They started dragging you from the room, despite your loud protests.

They dragged you in front of Peter's dorm and before you could protest some more, they knocked on the door and ran away with giggles.

You were too stunned to leave, before the door had opened.

"Hey?" a boy, who you only knew as Peter's roommate opened the door.

You glanced at your friends, that were hiding behind the corner and grinning at you like some idiots.

"Uhh.. Is-is Peter here?" you uttered.

"No sorry, he's not here now. Would you like for me to mention you were here...." you knew, he was asking for your name, but you just shook your head.

"No, it's okay. Thanks, bye" you quickly left, practically running to your dorm.

The girls were expecting you to say something, so you did "he wasn't there."

"Ughh, that sucks. Maybe next time" they expressed their dissapointment.

You didn't know what to feel. You were glad, that he wasn't there and kind of sad, too?

Maybe just maybe, you hoped you would ask him out and he would say yes and then you would go on a date. Yeah, it was stupid.

You stopped yourself from thinking about it any more and tried to have fun again.

-

It was a few weeks, since you'd tried to ask Peter out. You haven't really seen him ever since, you weren't sure if it was because his roommate had told him about it or if it was that you somehow unconsciously avoided him.

It wasn't until you walked in the small coffee shop near the university, that you saw him.

He was sitting alone at the back of the cafe, his head burried behind his notebook and the books.

He looked like he had, when you had first seen him. Hair everywhere, glasses at the tip of his nose and confused expression on.

And it wasn't until you'd ordered your tea and a biscuit, that you noticed, that the only seat left was in front of him.

You thought about your options. You could go to your dorm and be stuck with your obnoxiously loud friends. Or you could ask him if you could sit at his table and study in the quiet of the coffee shop.

After a lot of thinking, you decided for the latter.

"Umm hi, could i sit here? Every other seat is already occupied..."

Your sudden sweet voice startled Peter. He looked up at you and his glasses fell on the table. He looked so cute, you thought.

He knew who you were. Of course he knew. You were one of the smartest people in the class and definitely the most beautiful one.

He most ceirtainly had a crush on you. Like how could he not, when you've always looked so pretty and gave him the most lovely, shy smiles from across the room.

"S-sorry?" he blurted, completely forgetting what you'd asked.

"Could i sit here, everything else is full" you repeated, embarrassed.

"Of-of course" he nodded, "let me just move this away, sorry for the mess" he clumsily moved away the books and notepads from the table. A few of them fell from his hands and you helped him pick them up.

"Thank you, Y/N" he sheepishly smiled and you smiled back, taking the seat.

"Wait, you know my name?" you questioned.

"We have chemistry together?"

"Yeah you're right, we do. You're Peter, right?"

"I am Peter" he agreed bashfully and you stayed quiet after that.

You studied in silence, glancing at Peter more than you thought was appropriate. But honestly, Peter was the same, he couldn't keep his eyes off of you. Only looking away, when you picked up your gaze, eyes almost catching his.

You were done with your tea and with your studying. It was time to leave, altough you felt yourself not wanting to. But you had no other choice, it was already getting late and if you sat there any longer, you would have to walk in a complete dark.

You packed all your stuff and got up from the chair, "thank you for letting me sit with you, goodbye Peter."

And again you gave him the shy but pretty smile and it had him weak in his knees.

"N-no problem, bye " he stuttured and you saw he wanted to say more, but stayed quiet, so you left.

You didn't notice the pen falling from your notes as you hurried away from the coffee shop.

"Wait, please! You lost your pen" a voice called after you. You turned around and saw Peter running to you. His bag was half closed, his things almost spilling from it.

He extended his hand out and handed you the pen, "you lost your pen."

"You ran after me, because of a pen?"

"Um yeah" his ears grew red. You didn't mean for the question to come across as mocking.

"Thank you, really. I appreciate it, it is my favorite pen" you lied to make him feel better and gave him a soft smile.

"Glad, i could help..."

"Would you-"

"Yeah?" he wanted to ask you out, but he got cold feet and stopped.

"Nothing, sorry" your beam went down and you were about to leave, but changed your mind. If he weren't gonna ask you out, you would.

"Would you like to go out with me sometimes?" you rambled.

"Yes! Yeah, i'd like that" he admited.

"Really?" you beamed and Peter couldn't help but to smile, too.

"Yeah really, i've wanted to ask you out for a long time" he said.

"Why haven't you?" you had no idea where the sudden confidence came from, maybe from him saying yes, but you went with it.

"Thought, that maybe you already had someone" he scratched the back of his neck .

"And how do you know, that I do not?" you teased him.

"Do you?"

"No" you chuckled.

"I'm glad" he chuckled aswell.

"Are you going to the campus?" he questioned.

"Yup, that's the plan. The walk from here is not long" you confirmed.

"You are going to walk there?" his eyes widened. You were slightly confused by his reaction.

"Yes?"

He looked even more alarmed then before, " you are gonna walk there. Alone. In the dark?"

Oh. That's why he looked so worried.

"It's just a few minutes long walk" you stated, you've walked from the coffee shop many many times.

"That doesn't matter, what if something happens to you?"

"It's fin-"

"No it's not" he frowned at you, "Can i walk with you?"

"S-sure" you softly responded. You guys weren't even dating yet and he was already worried about you. It made you want to melt at the spot.

"Great, let's go."

"You really shouldn't walk alone, when's dark..." he started as you walked side by side.

You had a big smile on your face as he listed all of the reasons of why you shouldn't do it and even alternatives how to get home safer.

One of the alternatives, that he'd proposed was that he would walk with you. That made you smile even more, the affection for the boy was already sky high and you feared it would only get worse after the date.

...

...

...

Hey guys, thank you for reading. Posted this for the second time, it wasn't showing up in the tags...

Let me know what you think. Feedback is always appreciated.

Have a great day and stay safe everybody. Peace out ☀️

[bisexualbumblebee-writes]

Multiverses Part 1-TASM! Peter Parker x OC

Peter Parker x Maeve Nadine

Description: While out and about Maeve meets an unexpected character, which is saying something considering she’s been dealing with villains from different universes since yesterday. 

Word Count: 2.2k

It had been a long two days. In the span of just a few hours both Peter and Spider-Man’s reputations had been ruined by the bastard Quentin Beck a.k.a. Mysterio. Before his fortunate death, he’d made a video with words taken out of context that made Peter out to be the bad guy that murdered him. In the process Rosemary, MJ, Ned, Happy, Aunt May and Maeve had been dragged into it and they all were interrogated by the Department of Damage Control. 

The charges were thankfully dropped, but their negative media representation caused Peter, MJ and Ned's MIT applications to get rejected as well as Rosemary’s NYU application. In an attempt to reverse things in order to make sure his friends weren’t caught in the crossfire anymore, Peter and Maeve went to the New York Sanctum to ask Stephen Strange for help. The doctor casted the spell that would make everyone forget that Peter was Spider-Man, but it was corrupted when the younger boy kept requesting alterations to let his loved ones retain their memories. Thankfully Strange was able to contain it, and in a fit of annoyance, he forced Peter and Maeve to leave. 

Later on Maeve continued to follow Peter while he tried to track down an MIT administrator to reconsider MJ and Ned’s applications, only to be attacked by… a man with mechanical octopus arms? He claimed to know Peter, but neither the boy nor Maeve had ever seen or heard of him before. That didn’t stop the man from attacking Peter, ripping the nanotechnology from his Iron Spider suit. Thankfully, because of the bond it formed with the mechanical tentacles, it allowed Peter to disable them while Maeve held the unknown man down. He wasn’t the only new character in that situation either, another man with some sort of metal halloween mask appeared on the bridge riding some sort of hoverboard and throwing down what seemed to be bombs. 

Before Maeve and Peter prepared to fight back, Dr. Strange teleported them back to the Sanctum along with the first unknown man, who he promptly locked into a cell next to a terrifying looking lizard creature. It was there that the doctor explained that before he could contain the corrupted spell, it summoned people from other universes within the multiverse who knew Spider-Man’s identity. He then ordered Peter, Maeve, MJ, Ned and Rosemary to find and capture any other ones from the multiverses. They did so, and in the process caught Max Dillon, who shared a power with Rosemary, and Flint Marko, a real life sandman. The next morning they met Norman Osborn, who seemed to be in the same situation as the other multiverse guys. 

Once they were back at the Sanctum, the rather unusual group got to talking and discovered that Norman, Otto (who was the one with robot tentacles) and Max (electro guy) realized they were pulled from their universes right before their deaths while battling Spider-Man. Strange prepared to reverse the contained spell and send everyone back to their respective universes, but was stopped when Peter argued that they should cure the villains’ powers and insanity that ultimately led to their deaths so their fates could change. The doctor quickly denied the request as, realistically, it probably wouldn’t change anything. The two got into a fight, then finished it in what Peter called a mirror dimension. No one knew what happened until only Peter returned and Strange didn’t. 

Peter explained that he was just trapped until further notice while they figured out a cure, then they all went to Happy’s apartment since he had Stark industries technology that they could use. Maeve only stayed long enough to watch the younger boy cure Otto, then decided that she needed to clear her head. It had been a confusing day and it was beginning to give her a migraine. She bid everyone goodbye then wished them good lunch before heading out. 

Maeve had ultimately decided to go for a long walk, much longer than she expected it to be. She hadn’t even realized she’d been walking that long until she noticed the sun beginning to go down. Her eyebrows shot up, and she side stepped into a nearby alley to check the time without bumping into anyone. It was 7:30, which meant it’d be dark in another half hour. She decided it was time to head back to Happy’s apartment. 

Just as she turned to do so, she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. Well, rather, someone. It was Spider-Man? That couldn’t be right. Peter shouldn’t be out and about with everything that’s happened. Besides, he shouldn’t leave the villains alone, even if it’s with Aunt May. 

“Peter? Hey, Peter!” She called, beginning to jog over to him. Spider-Man whipped around to face her. 

“Huh?” He questioned just before she reached him. 

“Hey, what are you doing out here Parker?” Maeve questioned confusedly. “I thought you’d still be with those villain guys or whatever?” She didn’t have to look at the boy’s face to know that he was confused, his body language portrayed that louder than any words. He seemed to be looking around them and rubbing his neck awkwardly before finally facing her again. 

“I- What?” It was at that point that Maeve realized that he sounded different than the Peter she knew. He sounded older than a high schooler at least, maybe even around her age. She became defensive immediately, eyes narrowing at the masked person in front of her. 

“You’re not Peter. Who the hell are you?” Her question seemed to confuse him even more than before. 

“Uh, I’m Spider-Man,” he answered, but she just shook her head as rage washed over her like a tidal wave. 

“Oh, very funny,” she retorted sarcastically. “You think that just because Spider-Man’s in the news that you can get your fifteen minutes by posing as him? Well, guess what? No one’s gonna believe this cheaply made, stupid-” 

Her rant was cut off when she reached up and ripped the mask off his head and was met with a boy who looked to be her age, maybe a little older. It wasn’t the fact that he was attractive, but the fact that his costume didn’t feel as cheap as it looked that stunned her to silence (at least, that’s what she told herself). They stared at each other for a moment before Maeve snapped out of her senses and huffed. 

“Who the hell are you?” She questioned firmly. 

“Well, it seems like you already know the answer to that considering you apparently know my full name,” the man retorted. “I’m Peter Parker.” 

“Seriously dude, stop messing around,” Maeve retorted, already beginning to lose her patience with him. 

“I’m not messing around,” the boy answered quickly. “I really am Peter Parker.” He seemed to realize that she didn’t believe him and was about to go on another rant, so he continued. 

“I am Spider-Man... in my world. But then yesterday, I was- I was just here,” he explained slowly, though it looked like he was having a hard time understanding the situation himself. It was at that point that Maeve was hit with a realization. 

“Okay, uh, do you happen to know a guy who can produce electricity, or one that’s basically like… a giant lizard?” She felt silly even asking the question. 

“Uh, yeah,” Peter answered, looking confused. “How did you know that? Are they here  too?” 

“Because they’re here too,” she sighed out, running a hand through her hair. “I’m willing to bet that you must’ve come from one of the multiverses with the villains. Which, by that logic, means that there should be a third Peter Parker somewhere in New York.” 

“Hold up,” the boy stopped her. “A third Peter Parker?” Maeve nodded then proceeded to catch him up on everything that’s happened to her Peter in this universe starting from Quentin Beck exposing Peter Parker as Spider-Man and making him out to be a villain so now he’s hated until the moment that she found this Peter. Once she finished, she perked up. 

“Oh, you really need to meet Peter,” she said quickly. 

“But I’m Peter,” the boy pointed out, making her roll her eyes. 

“I mean my Peter. The one from this universe.” With that, she grabbed his hand and teleported them to the lobby of Happy’s apartment building. 

One could imagine both their surprise when they appeared in the wreckage of what used to be the lobby of Happy’s apartment. The sight took Maeve aback. For a moment all she could do was stare at the wreckage surrounding them in shock. What the hell happened here> A deep sense of dread filled her as her mind immediately went to the villains. Then, her eyes landed on someone who laid amongst the rubble. 

“May,” she exclaimed softly, running over pieces of rubble and landing on her knees beside the older woman. “Oh my god.” 

May laid unmoving, eyes closed as if she were asleep. The girl reached a shaky hand out to move some hair away from her face before carefully cradling the back of her head as tears welled up in her eyes. A part of Maeve knew that it was too late, and that May was dead. That didn’t stop her from leaning her head down to press against the woman’s chest, a small sob leaving her lips when she couldn’t hear a heartbeat. 

“No no no, you can’t do this. Peter won’t have anyone left, you can’t leave,” she whimpered, lifting her head urgently as tears finally fell freely, coating May’s shirt. She attempted to shake May awake, though yet again her logical side knew that it was in vain. Her occupied hand carefully laid the woman’s head back down, and it was only when she moved her hand away that it was coated in blood. May’s blood. Maeve continued to shake her though, her cries getting louder and louder before she finally collapsed in a fit of sobs. 

This couldn’t be happening, May couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t be, because that meant that Peter had no more family left. Wait, Peter. Oh god, where was he? Had he been here when May died? Maeve couldn’t tell which was worse, Peter watching his aunt die, or Peter not being here and not knowing that May was dead. Her racing thoughts were suddenly cut off by the new Peter resting a hand on her shoulder. 

“Uh, sorry to bother you, but-” His awkward interruption was cut off by someone distantly yelling. 

“Hey, there are still two people in there!” Both their heads snapped in the direction of the voice and realized that there were a bunch of cop cars, ambulances and firetrucks outside of the building. How had neither of them noticed that until now? Maeve’s eyes widened as she examined the scene, then she noticed something in one of the police cars. It was Happy! He was already staring at her, eyes wide. It took her a moment to realize that he was mouthing something to her. Get out of there.

“Uh, we should probably get out of here,” Peter said quickly. Maeve nodded, leaning down and quickly pressing a kiss to her friend’s forehead before standing up. She offered May one last glance before taking Peter’s hand and teleporting them back to the alley they were in before, her mind racing and her heart broken. 

Once they’d returned to the alley, Maeve instantly let go of Peter’s hand and turned away, trying to compose herself. That didn’t work out at all because almost immediately she’d begun sobbing her heart out once again. Over the course of Maeve knowing Peter, she’d become good friends with May despite the fact that she was thirty years older. They talked at least twice a day and Maeve had even given her advice on how to break things off with Happy. In short, Maeve was devastated by the loss. 

“Sorry, just give me a minute,” she muttered, finally remembering that she was in the presence of a stranger. Peter shook his head immediately and offered her a sympathetic look once she faced him again. 

“Take your time,” he responded gently. “She was your friend, right?” The girl nodded with a sniffle. 

“That was this universe Peter’s Aunt May,” she explained quietly, as she wiped her eyes in an attempt to at least slow the tears. “She was the last family he had left.” She could practically hear the boy’s heart break at her explanation. 

“Yeah, I have an Aunt May back home. She’s all I got left too, I can’t imagine what Peter must be going through.” 

“I need to find him,” Maeve said, taking a deep breath afterwards. “I need to know that he’s okay.” 

“I can help you,” the boy offered, which earned him a weak smile in response. Before they could say anything else, a static-y sound was heard. Maeve instantly recognized it; it was one of Strange’s portals. She whipped around, and her eyes widened as she saw MJ, Ned and Rosemary standing on the other side. 

“Peter! Maeve!” They began calling, which also caught the boy’s attention. 

“Uh, do you know them?” 

“Yeah, they’re my friends,” she said quickly, beginning to jog towards the portal. “Come on!” She could hear Peter’s footsteps behind her as she stepped through the portal, ending up in Ned’s grandmother’s house.

[liz-allyn]

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.

[illuminationofstars]

peter parker x female reader

summary : peter knocks on your window hurt and bleeding. the only responsible thing to do is comfort him.

warning : injuries, mentions of blood, small amounts of sexual desire which isn’t acted upon.

a/n : this is kinda a recreation of tasm with gwen helping peter but you can imagine this scenario with tom hollands spider-man too if you prefer.

The light from your laptop illuminated the shadows of your face as you turned up the brightness, eyes squinting ever so slightly as you begun to adjust to your darkening room. The inked words which were on the screen merged together, hazy lines lined in dark bold font taunting your tired brain as you tried to write the biology paper which was due in for tomorrow.  Typical.

Your hair was tied up haphazardly in a loose bun, stray strands of fine hair framing your face with delicacy. Your favourite pyjamas clung to your body as you adjusted yourself further into your chair distracting you from the pending dots on your computer.

You leant back in your seat, eyes following the cracks in the walls and ceiling, a frown pulling at your face as a groan escaped your lips. A faint noise disturbed your peaceful evening, the knocking of a window causing you to swivel around in your chair.

Peter Parker, your boyfriend of two years, was knelt against the glass of your window, his breaths coming out in short quick pants - the window fogging up with condensation.

You scrambled over to the window, hands nervously fumbling with the lock - eyes scanning over your boyfriends pale complexion. His hands grabbed onto yours as you began to lift up the window, a smile dawning his face as he watched you struggle.

Lifting it with ease, Peter stumbled inside, his hands landing on your waist as his balance gave way. "Hi," he mumbled softly, a wince displayed on his face - a permanent reminder of his pain.

"What the fuck did you do? Are you okay?" You said, hands guiding him to sit on the chair you were sat on moments before, "Oh Pete, you're bleeding."

Peter suddenly inhaled a sharp breath as your hands began to unzip his Spider-Man costume.

"What are you doing?" he asked nervously, a hand running down his face.

"I'm helping you," you replied, hands running over the jagged skin across his chest. Blood was caked in between the crevices of his chest, the wound deep enough to scar. On his face, lay a cut along his eyebrow, and a lump on his forehead, which would most likely bruise by tomorrow morning.

Grabbing a wet cloth, you gently dabbed at his wound, ignoring the way Peters heart rapidly sped up. "Will this heal okay?" you asked skeptically, your hands smoothing out the skin of his face.

"I hope so," he replied, hands resting over yours, stilling your movement. His eyes flicked up to meet yours and you smiled at him adoringly.

His neck craned forward as he caught your lips in his own, one hand cupping your face with care. You dropped the bloodied cloth, placing a hand on the uninjured part of Peters chest. A sigh left your mouth as you pulled away, "You're hurt Pete, and I have an assignment due tomorrow."

Your boyfriend only hummed, his mouth moving down towards your neck. Your hands ran through his sandy hair, a gasp escaping your throat as Peter gently sucked on a sensitive area of your neck before soothing the sting with his tongue.

You gently banged his shoulder against your own, pulling away from the kiss before things became too heated. "No Peter," you laughed, as you watched his eyes plead with yours, "I'm tired and you need rest, change into your other clothes in the bathroom and then join me to sleep."

Peter nodded as he laughed, hands spinning you around and landing on your ass.

"To just sleep you idiot!!" you called from the bedroom.

-

When Peter joined you in bed, your head found itself on top of his chest,  his arms wrapped around you in pure bliss and contentment. His chest moved in a rhythmic pattern, his breathing consistent and in control.

You snuggled closer to him and closed your eyes, making the most out of the moment. A sigh left your lips as your eyes closed as you drifted off to sleep, feeling safe and loved in Peters arms.

[tablefourtwo]

if you’re too shy (let me know) (pp)

inspired by this euphoria scene. peter helps his longtime crush take nudes that are meant for someone else. angst, tension, thirdwheel!peter. [0.9k]

from fighting back against his long term bully, eugene ‘flash’ thompson, to taking down giant lizards, this was probably the most life threatening, hazardous situation peter has ever gotten himself into. he should honestly be dead by now considering how long he’s been holding his breath in for.

if you’re too shy (let me know) by the 1975 plays in the background while he makes this assumption, soothingly and absently, as if it’s mocking peter. he almost forgets his current position. almost. peter’s on his knees in front of your bed, watching, eyes glazed over, as you reposition yourself above him.

“i feel like that’s good.” you mumble, wrapping your hand around his own that was currently holding your phone at an upward angle. “does it look real? does it look like i’m taking it?” you smiled, eyes wide and still directed at the phone camera.

peter smiles back for a moment before realising that your smile, tight, with your pearly whites exposed, wasn’t for him. no, these were for someone peter didn’t even know the name of, he tries to remember if he even bothered asking.

“maybe try to loosen up a bit, but straighten up your posture, still.” peter tries to smirk, right corner of his lip forcibly pulled up into a desperate attempt at hiding what he truly felt. what he didn’t even know he felt.

there’s something about your stare that makes peter nervous and makes him say things that he doesn’t mean. like just now— you looked perfect and the mystery man on your phone would be lucky enough to even receive one of these photos in the first place.

peter tenses at the thought, god i sound like a simp. serves you right for agreeing to do this, he thinks.

“are you okay? your hand is like— really warm.” your eyes meet his. “no- yeah, yeah, yeah. that’s good. um, maybe tilt your head down a bit.” peter suggested, his other hand that wasn’t under yours motioning at his own chin.

you hummed, muttering a “good call, that angle probably wasn’t doing it for me.” while leaning your head down a bit, eyes meeting the phone lense once again.

peter wanted to say something along the lines of ‘no angle could possibly do that.’ or ‘every angle does it for you.’ but decided against it, considering the fact that you were probably already uncomfortable.

“make me look good.” you mumbled, biting your lips subtlety for the camera. “always.” peter scoffs jokingly, desperately trying to loosen up in his awkward position.

you were in your nicest bra, a baby pink victoria secret one that you contemplated buying for a while. the dainty undergarment had a small heart shaped golden charm tied into it that produced a soft and dreamy glare in front of the camera.

meeting your own eyes in your vanity mirror, the unease finally caught up to you. “this is a really bad angle for me.” “no it isn’t, shut up.” peter murmurs back but his eyes betray his unbothered façade, quickly lifting up to yours, ready to stop the second you get uncomfortable. “how do i turn on grids on this?” peter jokes, hoping to get to see your pretty smile again.

he gets what he wants because a second later you bark out a laugh. “grids? peter this isn’t vogue.” you grin, and the nerdy joke, peter decides, was 100% worth it when he looks up and realises that your gaze is on him.

it takes a moment for him to snakily retort back.

“okay, excuse me for not making this another one of your blurry, horizontal snapchats where you can barley see anything. i’m an artist, you know. i have to hold myself up to a standard. even if they are your nudes.” peter hopes that the lighthearted joke will throw you off on how rigid he was being, and if you hadn’t been throwing your head back laughing at his sarcasm, you would’ve noticed the deep flush in his cheeks.

“you’re such a dork.” you jabbed, lifting the corners of your lips while doing so. “the baby my neighbour paid me to shoot was a better model than you.” he retorts back. and for a while, it’s intimate, the situation. it’s almost something romantic, and peter thinks it’s worth being the third wheel to you and the mystery man on your phone if it means you’re going to smile and laugh at every one of his jokes and looks.

“do you want a couple with portrait mode on?” he jokes, for what he presumes is the forth time. god, parker, give it a rest, he thinks. finally lowering your phone and exiting the camera app. his repetition doesn’t stop you from giggling. “fuck off.”

he hands your phone to you and you move to lay on your stomach, while you scroll through the photos. “wait this one actually looks like i took it.” you look up at peter, grinning. “right?” he’s still on the floor, gaze dreamy, when he replies; “yeah.”

“these are amazing. thanks, pete.” you pick out your favourite one and send it to the mystery man before getting up to put your shirt back on, feeling peter’s eyes on you the whole time.

“are you checking me out?” you laugh, pulling your shirt over your head. the tension between you two materialising as heat in your cheeks.

peter scoffs, “you wish.” thanking god that your shirt was over your head to miss the fact that his eyes were momentarily bulging out of his head.

peter could get used to this, to you, and the sense of intimacy that was involved in being around you.

ding!

“peter, he replied!”

[blooming-violets]

CREATURE LIKE ME || CHAPTER SIX: KRAVEN THE HUNTER

[TASM Peter Parker!Werewolf AU]

Story Summary: Kraven and his guild of hunters have been tracking and quelling the werewolf population for centuries. The time has come for Aylin to complete her first solo hunt to prove herself to the guild. It was supposed to be simple. One wolf, one death, one victory. She never expected to end up with a secret hostage on her hands.

Chapter Six Warnings (spoilers but important to read anyway for this chapter!!): childhood grooming, abuse of power with sexual intent, nonconsensual touching, major age gap, talk of forced pregnancy through grooming behaviors, being forced by circumstances to act in a sexual that they otherwise would not chose to do, descriptions of heavy dissociation, mild descriptions of torture wounds from chapter 5, heavy descriptions of branding with a hot iron, death talk/murder of father and brother, this chapter is full of dark creepy sexual predator undertones meant to make you feel uncomfortable - this is your warning

[link to chapter index]

“Give ‘em hell.”

The wolf girl’s words rang in her ears as the gears to the bookcase alerted them to Calypso’s impending return. 

She watched the girl sink back to the bottom of her cage and curl into a ball to not draw any further attention to herself. Talking as much as she had clearly worn her out. Whether or not Aylin took her life, she probably wouldn’t make it until morning in her condition. 

Give them hell. 

Aylin couldn’t move. She couldn’t hold her own head up. If there weren’t chains attached to her wrists, she’d be laid out flat on the floor. She was too weak. Too broken. Too tired. There was no hell to give when she couldn’t ignite the fire in her chest. It had burned out to nothing but simmering coals. She couldn’t even stop the silent tears openly flowing down her cheeks. 

She didn’t want to kill the wolf girl. 

She didn’t want to kill anyone. 

That’s all everyone ever wanted from her. Her life was spent training to be the best. The fastest, the stealthiest, the deadliest. Train, fight, kill. Three things she was supposed to do better than anyone else. She’d never once stopped to question if there were any other options for her until she stole Peter from his captors. Going against everything she was ever taught, her every instinct, allowed her to grab a tiny morsel of what free will tasted like.

Now that she had it, she didn’t want to let it go.  

Aylin closed her eyes, listening to Calypso’s slow descent down the creaking wooden stairs, and imagined that she was standing at the edge of the forest pond. She tried to imagine the sound of croaking bullfrogs as the morning mist was pushed across the still waters by the rising sun. The light breeze rustled through her hair and tickled her nose. She felt no pain here. Her body was healed and she was happy. Peter was behind her, splayed out on the old hammock, rocking lazily back and forth as he tried to befriend a curious chipmunk with a scraps of bread. Mourning doves cooed in the trees above them. Peace. True peace. She let the warmth of the daydream envelop her. 

When she had first found Peter, he had been tortured for months. He had been beaten, broken, and abused. He had endured so much and there he was, tucked into her memories, beside her at the pond. It wasn’t a fantasy or a far-fetched dream. It had been real. It had happened. Peter survived through his torment to make it to the pond with her. He’d survived long enough to find a new moment of serenity. He made it out of his chains and got to taste freedom once more. 

Aylin focused on the warm coals in her chest. They weren’t completely doused cold. Not yet. She could still grow this fire. If Peter could break free after all that time then she could survive a few hours. His strength could give her strength. She would find her way back to him. 

Give them hell. 

A tiny spark of hope ignited. 

She opened her eyes with a new found sense of determination. There would be no more tears. She would feel no more pity. She would do what she had to get herself out of this basement. She was the daughter of Samuel and Nesrin. She was the sister of Emir. She was a fierce warrior with the soul of a raging sun. 

She was Aylin the Hunter and she would not be broken by her people. 

She would not let her own guild take her down. 

“Give ‘em hell,” she whispered under her breath. 

“What was that, dear?” Calypso quipped as she stepped into the light with a tote bag draped over her shoulder. She had finally tied her robe back together to cover herself. Not that Aylin cared anymore what the woman looked like. She stunk of evil regardless of what she was wearing. 

Aylin stared her down, putting her emotionless mask onto her face, ready to play along with the sick games. She would say and do anything she had to make them trust her. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the wolf girl smirk before she quickly hid her face in the crook of her arm. She knew her words had hit home with Aylin. 

“Nothing,” Aylin gave her a tight, closed lip smile.  

Calypso crooked her brow but shook it off, “Sergei will be down soon. He has some words to have with you. Let’s get you cleaned up before he arrives.” She dropped her bag to the ground and, with one sweeping motion, pushed the scattering of tools off the table onto the floor. A bone saw slid towards Aylin’s feet and she was thankful it was one tool that hadn’t been used on her. 

“I’m going to let you down and lay you on your stomach on top of the table to tend to your back first,” Calypso said. “I’ll stop the bleeding and wrap you up.” 

She pulled a little brass key from her robe pocket and stepped over the saw to reach up towards the chain cuffs. With a quiet click, Aylin’s wrists were sprung free. Her legs immediately gave out and she tumbled backwards. Calypso caught her in her strong grasp, slinging Aylin’s arm over her shoulder, and dragged her towards the table. 

Everything hurt. 

Her head was dizzy from the fog of the pain. Pins and needles spread throughout her arms as the blood rushed down to her fingers after being denied it for so long. The torn up skin on her back cried in agony with every flex of her muscles. She forced herself to think about her and Peter’s pond. She desperately tried to remember the sound of the doves in the trees and the smell of the crisp morning breeze after a night of rain. She willed her brain to focus on the memory of Peter in the hammock instead of on the torment of her body. His shaggy, wet hair from laying under dripping leaves…the white scars across his pale, sun deprived chest…the way he nuzzled his cheek against the strong swell of his shoulder muscle as his long lashes fluttered closed… 

She couldn’t recall the exact moment Peter had grown into her source of comfort down here but he was becoming all she could think about. Maybe it was her lack of sleep and waning sanity? Maybe it was because being with him at the pond was her last brief moment of happiness before she ended up in this basement? Maybe it was the fact that she actually was starting to appreciate everything he had given her in that short amount of time since knowing him? Her entire world view shifted the moment they met. Her path switched its course. Her life changed. Was it worse? Better? She didn’t know. All she knew was that the longer she was away from him, the greater her heart began to ache to have him back.

Her body felt like a floating feather as Calypso hoisted her with ease onto the table.

The wood was warm under her shivering skin. The burning fire against the back wall had done well to heat the surface. She let her eyes close and allowed the warmth to absorb straight into her aching bones. Between the memories of the pond and finally being horizontal, she was certain she could fall asleep within seconds. She could already feel herself drifting. 

A glass cup being placed against her lips jarred her from the clutches of her inevitable sleep. Aylin’s eyes shot open and she instinctively jerked away from it, sending shooting pain down her back, as she shoved it away. The last time something was unexpectedly pressed against her mouth, she had lost a tooth. Her body was on high alert, ready to fight with whatever little it had left to give. 

The smell of fresh herbs filled her nostrils. The amber liquid was hot and steaming. Despite the enticing smell, she had fallen for this trap before. Drinks from this woman could not be trusted.

Calypso grabbed the back of Aylin’s head and shoved the cup towards her again, “Don’t be so dramatic. I only drugged you to get you down here and, since you’re already here, I have no more use for that tea. This is a different concoction. It will take the edge off the pain. Not a lot but enough so that you won’t keep passing out whenever you move. Sergei needs you awake and able to stand.” 

She tipped the contents down Aylin’s throat to little resistance. Whatever fight she thought she had moments ago, disappeared faster than it arrived. She was too tired. It had been a few hours since she last had anything to drink. Her throat was dry and her tongue felt like rough sandpaper. She gave in and greedily gulped down the entire cup. It felt instantly numbing as it slid over her sore gums. She welcomed the feeling.

“Good, good. I’m glad to see you’re finally starting to cooperate,” Calypso remarked as she gathered up Aylin’s sticky, blood soaked hair off her back and draped it off to the side. “Maybe there’s hope for you after all.” 

A mason jar with filled honey colored salve was placed next to her head. The jar popped open and Calypso dug some out onto her long, slim fingers. She gently smeared it across Aylin’s back with precise, soft strokes. She had been expecting it to sting or cause pain like everything else Calypso did, instead, she felt a cooling sensation spread throughout the wounds. Her pain was beginning to fade the more salve covered. She closed her eyes and let herself enjoy the brief moment of peace. She imagined herself back in the hammock with Peter as their gentle rocking lulled her into a state of bliss. 

A Silver Colt and a Lycan, squished together in a single hammock. What a strange pair they made. 

The ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. 

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Calypso stated. The sound of her grating voice put a damper on Aylin’s daydreams. “I use this on Sergei whenever he returns from a nasty fight. It clots the blood and soothes out the pain for a bit. Now, if you had just behaved in the first place, we wouldn’t need to be using this. You could be home with your mother, enjoying the benefits of being a proper hunter. Instead, you’re covered in blood, and in need of repair. You made a real mess of yourself down here, kid. I’ve seen men torn apart by wolves look better than you.” 

Like Aylin had a choice in what happened to her. At least she hadn’t given up Peter. He was still safe. That’s what mattered. 

If he was even still at their camp. He could have been long gone by now for all she knew. If he had any wits about him, he would have fled the moment she left him alone. That’s what she would have done if the roles were reversed. 

Except that wasn’t true. 

She was lying to herself. 

She would have stayed. She would have waited for him in the hopes that he returned. Because, despite their heated arguments, she would want to see him again. To make sure that he was okay. To look him in the eyes and know that he was safe. 

She prayed he was doing just that. She wanted to see him again. She needed to. She needed this torture to be worth something. 

He had to be the light at the end of her tunnel for any of this to make sense. 

Calypso wiped her hands off and reached back into her bag for some clean dressing just as heavy footsteps descended down the stairs. Aylin turned her head to watch Kraven’s hulking form emerge from the shadows. Every time she saw him, he looked bigger. 

Or maybe it was her confidence shrinking. 

Calypso sighed, “She's not ready yet. I’ve barely started.” 

Kraven’s eyes widened as he stepped closer, taking in the sight of his captive, “What in the Helios have you done to her, Cal? I told you to shake her up and scare her. Not mutilate her. She’s a Colt, not a wolf.” 

Calypso gave a satisfied smile, admiring her work, “She was a tough one to break. Strong willed. It needed to be done. I think she got the message, though.” 

He placed a hand over the top of Aylin’s head, patting her hair like his favorite dog, as he looked around the room, “I’ll hose down the blood while you get her wrapped up. And reset her broken fingers. They’ve turned blue.” 

Aylin’s shredded bra had been discarded but the bandages tending to her back had been wrapped around her chest to keep her somewhat decent. Kraven had insisted to his wife that she give Aylin back some of her dignity by covering her breasts with the wrap. As if she wasn’t still laid out on a table in nothing but her blood soaked underwear. She knew it was another play to present himself as a kind hearted gentleman. The good cop, bad cop routine was blatantly obvious.

When Calypso had finished caring for Aylin’s back, she set her broken bones and bound them together in a tight splint. Kraven had placed a heavy hand over Aylin’s mouth, as his wife snapped the bones back into place, to stifle her shriek of pain. His murmurs of attempted comfort in her ear did little to soften the blow. 

She was now resting with her cheek pressed against the table, eyes closed, and dozing in and out of consciousness while the other two spoke softly in the corner. Their low voices were lulling her into a trance and beckoning her towards sleep. With the worst of the pain being dulled by the medicine, Aylin decided to let herself drift off until they called on her. Her body was exhausted. 

She allowed the sleep to take her.

“Have a nice rest?” 

Kraven’s voice jared through her hazy dreams. She struggled to open her eyes and saw him lounging in a wooden chair at her side. Calypso was no longer in the room. Alyin felt a breath of relief to be rid of her dominating presence. Kraven scared her but she still felt more familiar with him than his wife. He was more predictable and easier for her to get a read on. He was less likely to strike without baring his teeth first. She tried to push herself up, feeling stiff and achy. Some of the drugs must be starting to wear off because there was pain radiating across her wounded back whenever she moved. 

He quickly stood up, putting a hand under her armpit, to hoist her into a sitting position, “There you go. Nice and slow. Cal really did a number on you. I had a talk with her about it. I didn’t realize she would go that hard.” 

A statement. Not an apology. She kept her face placid with a hint of affection towards him. She needed to play this game to perfection. He was the weaker of the two when it came to her. If she was going to win anyone over with her feigned charm, it would be him. He was going to become her well loved, revered leader once again. She would worship at his feet if it got him to trust her. All she had to do was play along enough to get out of here. 

Whatever it takes. 

Kraven grabbed a jug of ice cold water by his feet and lifted it to her lips, “Drink. Get hydrated. You’ve been asleep for a couple hours. It’s about two in the morning now. I’d let you sleep through the night but I don’t think the bitch will make it that long.” He jerked his head back to the wolf girl who’s shallow breaths were slow and few between. Her time on this Earth was almost complete. “How are you feeling?”

She shrugged, flinching at the pain following that movement, “Been better.” 

He nodded as if he truly understood the depravity she’d been through. His dark eyes studied her face. She could feel dried blood caked to her cheeks and she shivered a bit under his watchful gaze, wishing she had a blanket wrapped around her to shrink into. She wondered where they were keeping her clothes and if they’d ever return them back to her. 

“Are you cold?” He asked. “Would you like to sit closer to the fire?” 

Without waiting for her answer, Kraven stood up and helped her to her feet. He kept her steady with one arm and grabbed the chair with the other. He walked them closer to the open, wood burning stove. The orange glow danced over her bare skin and encircled her legs with warmth. It felt nice. Not as nice as being clothed would feel but it was better than nothing. Kraven placed the chair on the ground and sunk into it. He wrapped a restraining arm around her waist and pulled her onto his lap. Aylin stifled a yelp of shock and quickly forced her widening eyes to relax. Her thumping heart did nothing to help her growing panic. She had not expected that move. 

She felt his chest rumbling with amusement as he chuckled to himself under her. 

“Something the matter?” He asked with an air of innocence. He was purposely pushing her past her comfort zone. He knew exactly what he was doing. 

But so did she. 

Whatever it takes. 

Aylin shook her head, “No. It’s warm over here. Thank you.”

“Good.” He relaxed into the back of the chair and draped both her legs over his so her side was cradled against his chest. “Is that comfortable? I don’t want to disturb your back too much. She really ripped you up back there.” 

She swallowed, willing her heart to steady, “Yes. It’s fine.” 

It was not fine. 

Kraven’s hands wandered over her muscular thighs, his nails picking at the dried blood crusting there, “You could use a long shower. Cal might have dealt with your injuries but she sure as shit didn’t do much to clean you. You’re a dirty, little mess.” 

Showers and Kraven in the same sentence made her body want to physically revolt. Her jaw tightened at the thought. She tried to force herself to relax. She wasn’t a physically affectionate person before she was brutally tortured and she definitely never wanted to be sitting on this man’s lap while practically nude. 

But, if this was what he wanted, then it was what she would give him. She only begged that it go no further than this. 

At least the fire felt nice. She tried to imagine what it would be like to sit in Peter’s lap, instead. She replaced Kraven’s face with her Lycan. She’d been dissociating for hours. This would be no different. 

She just simply…wasn’t here. 

The real Aylin was gone. Lost inside the winding labyrinth of her mind. Snuggled in a warm hammock with her friend. Her body could do the acting for her. Her true self was locked up somewhere safe. 

Far away. 

Someplace where freedom and fear of the unknown walked hand in hand. Someplace kind and soft. 

She wasn’t here. Everything would be okay as long as she wasn’t here. 

Whatever it takes.   

Aylin placed a soft smile on her face and leaned into him like he was her long time lover, “I’m hoping this can all be over soon. I’d like to get back to how things used to be as soon as possible.” 

Kraven patted her leg, “I don’t think we can go back to before. I don’t want to. I’d like things to be different. They need to keep moving forwards. To keep evolving. I had plans for you, you know? Important plans. Plans that involve the delicate future of this guild with you at that center. You see, Aylin, you're more important than you even know. I chose you. The moment you were born, I chose you. I knew you would be the one to save us from extinction.” 

She had no idea what he was talking about but she played along by softly nodding as he spoke.

He paused, lifting his hand to gently grasp her chin between his fingers, and brushed his thumb across her cheek,  “Would you like to know why?” 

It was too soft of a gesture. Too loving. Everything felt wrong. 

Her stomach ached and she felt nauseous. 

Aylin put a soft, confused look over her features to make herself look more innocent and forgivable than she felt, “Of course, Sergei. You know I’d do anything to help our people.” 

He gave her a warm smile and leaned down to kiss the tip of her nose. 

Her breath caught in her throat. 

Her father used to kiss her like that when she was a child.  

The grief filled memory crashed through the fragile walls of her labyrinth. She had forgotten that memory. Once it was lost to time but now it was back with vengeance, ready to plague through her delicately crafted daydreams. It flooded her vulnerable mind like a broken dam unable to hold back the building pressure.  

She had to fight back the lump in her throat in an attempt to survive as the memory came crashing down around her until it was all she could feel. She was no longer exposed, broken, and forced to be affectionate with a man she despised. Instead, she was small and tucked away safely into the warmth of her childhood bed. 

She was five years old again. Her father was climbing the steep stairs up to her bedroom loft. He had to hunch over to stop from hitting his head on the slanted, wooden ceiling. The smell of sweat, cigars, and the fresh, night air clinging to his thick flannel appeared before he did. He had missed bedtime but he never went to sleep without kissing his children goodnight. 

Kraven was speaking behind the wall of memory. He was stroking her blood hardened hair. His arm was wrapped tightly around her waist and the calloused pad of his thumb was rubbing circles into her thigh. He was too close. Too touchy. His hands roamed freely over her body like he owned every inch of her flesh.

Maybe he did. 

Maybe she was nothing but his property down in this basement. She had no right to her own body. 

His words sounded far away like he was speaking through the opposite end of a long tunnel, “I knew before I married Calypso that she could not bear children. We both knew it but I married her anyway because I loved her. She was my soulmate. The woman of my dreams. The only trait she lacked was the one thing that would keep the Kravinoff line going. Despite my elderly father’s warnings, I didn’t care at the time, because I was young and reckless. I didn’t realize the weight of what it meant to be a leader. This guild has been passed down for generations to the eldest son or daughter. We are raised to take charge. We have much pride in becoming the leader the Silver Colt’s deserve. It is our destiny from being born a Kravinoff but I didn’t realize exactly what that meant until years later.” 

Could not bear children. 

Bear. 

Bears. She was reading about bears. 

She wasn’t listening. She wasn’t here.

She was still awake, hidden under her covers with a flashlight, and flipping through her Zoobooks magazine about bears. When she heard her father coming, she quickly tossed the magazine out from under the covers and shoved the flashlight under her pillow, plopping down on top of it and fake snoring. 

Samuel had chuckled as he peeled back the covers to expose her face. She remembered trying so hard not to smile but the reign of tickles that he attacked her with caused her sleeping facade to drop in a fit of giggles. 

“There came a time when I started to realize that I truly would not have an heir. I began to panic. I knew I had not made a mistake in marrying Calypso. She was everything I could have ever wanted and more. But there would always be one thing missing from my destiny. Something that was integral to the guild’s survival. I needed a child of my own. It was Cal’s idea for what I had to do next. I needed to find someone who would give themselves over to us and let us create the future together.” 

Kraven’s sour words blended in behind the smooth words of her dead father. 

“You’re supposed to be asleep, Linny. Your mother is not going to be happy with you,” he whispered with a teasing smile. “Don’t worry. Your secret's safe with me.”

Safe with me. 

She wasn’t safe. Not here. 

“We searched through the women of the guild. Most were married off already. No one satisfied the needs we had when choosing a mother to bear the future leader. She had to be of good stock. Someone strong. Someone capable. Someone who could pass on their strength to our child. When we couldn’t find that woman, Cal suggested we wait. We train up someone from scratch. We could make someone perfect.” 

Perfect like her father. 

He perched on the edge of her bed and glanced down at the crumpled magazine on the floor, “What were you reading?” 

Alyin rolled onto her back and smiled up at Sam, “It’s about bears. Emir was reading it to me earlier. He said he’s a better reader than me and that I take too slow and only know a couple of words and that I keep making up all the rest.” 

Samuel rolled onto his side beside her, propping his head in his hand as he scratched at the stubble dotting his chin, “I don’t think Em is wrong. You only know how to read about ten words so far.”

She gasped in indignant shock, “That’s lies! I know thirteen words! I counted them.” 

He chuckled, “My deepest apologies. How could I ever have been so far from the truth?” He cupped his daughter’s chubby cheek in his large, warm palm and leaned down to plant a kiss on the tip of her nose. “Do you forgive me?” 

Far from the truth. 

Through the pull of her memories, she tried to piece together what Kraven was implying. Everything was jumbled. His words and the words of her father blended together into one weaving web of confusion. She was struggling to separate the two scenes playing simultaneously. There was a dull ringing in her ears. Her vision couldn’t focus. 

Her heart was crying but her eyes remained dry. 

“I looked for the strongest, most dedicated member of our guild. I knew exactly who it would be. My oldest and dearest friend. At the time he only had a son. I remember him telling me once that he only wanted one child. But I took him out hunting. I talked to him all about his love for Emir. That man raved about this little toddler like the sun shown straight out of his ass. It didn’t take much convincing on my part. All it took was a little nudge to push him in the right direction. ‘Have another kid, Sammy. Look how happy you are with the one. Add one more to the mix. Grow that happiness to one more.’” Kraven huffed with amusement. “It was easy. He had no idea what I was after. Cal and I both waited, hoping that he would give us a daughter. And, sure enough, there you were. A perfect little ball of feisty energy. Cal and I worked it out. I would train you to become the best of the best. You would grow to outrank your father in skill. You would be the best hunter the guild had to offer. And, when you turned 21, I would claim you as my protégé and lay down my offer for you to take. In return for my years of hard work making you who you are today, you would repay the debt by bearing my children for the guild. I would require, at the very least, two. It’s always best to have backup options should one heir not make it to adulthood. Although, if you’re enjoying yourself too much, we could have as many as you’d like. I could give you an entire brood if you wished. Cal and I would treat you like royalty during that time. You would never want for anything again. After two children, the deal would be up, if you’d desire it. You could be free to marry whoever you please and continue on with your life. The deal would be complete. You would have completed your duty to the Silver Colt’s and to the Kravinoff lineage.” 

The fire in her soul flared with a burning heat of anger. She willed her mind to focus on what he was saying. She needed to take it in. She had to understand to unravel the mess of lies that was her entire existence. How could she have ever been so far from the truth?

He wanted her to…to…

But with every heightened jolt of emotion, she was tugged straight back into her childhood bedroom with her beloved father, like a knight swooping in to protect the vulnerable princess. 

Aylin gave in, grinning at her father with a gap toothed smile,“Yes, I do forgive you, but only for right now. Tomorrow I might not because tomorrow I might know fifteen hundred words and then you’ll look silly for thinking I only knew ten.”

“That’s a lot of words,” he nodded in admiration at her willful determination. “If you suddenly know how to read fifteen hundred words by tomorrow then I will buy you an entire library full of books about bears. Promise.” 

She held out a tiny pinky finger to lock with his, “Deal.”

Deal. Deal. Deal. 

That word meant nothing to her anymore. 

Her mind was reeling. It couldn’t stay focused. It was drifting. She was both lost in her labyrinth and stuck in the present. One foot clinging to the miserable reality of her life and the other in the grave beside her dismembered father. 

Nothing was real. 

Her body was betraying her with the sting of tears pressing at her eyes. She had to lean her head against Kraven’s chest, the fur of his Lycan pelt shall obscuring her from view, as she willed the tears not to fall. They weren’t tears of sadness but of unadulterated rage.

He could claim her? He made her who she was? Repaying her debt?

Her eyes landed on the fire poker sticking out the flames of the open oven. A potential weapon. She needed to locate all the weapons close at hand. He would stop her before she was able to lunge forward to reach it but, if she could somehow break free from his hold, it could be a viable option. Kraven always had his signature curved dagger holstered to his thigh, too. That one was much closer but she would need to distract him before she could snake it out of its sheath without him noticing. 

She could be that distraction. She just had to shed herself of the fear clutching at her throat. He scared her. He was stronger than she was. She was so weak compared to him. The realization of what she would have to do to distract him was becoming clearer and she hated her options. 

Whatever it takes. 

Whatever it takes. 

Whatever it fucking takes. 

Get out of this basement, no matter the cost. That was the goal. She’d sell her soul if it meant getting to taste her freedom once more. She could lose one part of herself in order to gain another. 

She knew exactly what she had to do. 

Samuel gave her another quick kiss on the forehead and pushed himself off the bed, “Alright. I have to get to sleep myself. No more reading for tonight, little lady. I don’t want you being a cranky kid for your mom tomorrow.” He ducked back out towards the stairs. 

“Baba,” Aylin whispered back to him before his head could disappear down the steps. “Did you know that black bears are omy-whores? That means they can eat everything. Even trash.” 

Samuel gave a booming belly laugh that filled the quiet house with his joy, “Omnivores, Linny. Omnivores. And that’s why we have to be really careful where we keep our trash. We don’t want any bears wandering into camp.”

She didn’t know what was so funny but she always liked the feeling of making her father laugh. She beamed at him, pleased with herself, “Sergei will kill them if they get too close. He’ll keep us safe.” 

Samuel winked, “Not if I get to them first. Don’t forget, I beat him in every contest we’ve ever been in. Don’t doubt your old pops. You and I, baby girl, we’re stronger than anyone can ever imagine. Don’t count us out.” 

“Then why is he in charge instead of you?” She questioned, too young to grasp the weight of his response. 

“Because,” Samuel stated with simplicity. “His father was the leader and his father before that and so on and so forth. Sometimes a leader is born instead of earned. Being named a leader doesn’t make you worthy. He’s no better than you or I. He’s just a man.” 

He’s just a man. 

Sergei Kravinoff was just a man. 

And men can be manipulated. 

A wicked smile grew across Aylin’s lips. Her fire had consumed her. She was nothing but blinding light and passion ready to burn down anything in her path. 

Don’t count her out. 

She would not dissociate anymore. She would not let herself disappear. She was getting out. She was getting back to Peter. 

Aylin softened her brows to appear with a mild curiosity as she sat up straighter and angled her body to face Kraven the Hunter head on. She would not fear him. 

Whatever it takes. 

“Did you really choose me for that kind of honor? I would have thought you’d want someone more inviting like your wife. I’m nowhere near as attractive as her,” her voice remained soft and sweet like a young girl vying for her teacher's approval. 

A smile tugged at Kraven’s lips, “You’re more alike than you think. And I told you. You were born for this role, Aylin.” 

No.

She was born to be his downfall. She was born to destroy his dynasty. She was born to be the last face he ever saw before his life was cut short. This was her story. Not his. She was no one’s puppet. Not anymore. Her strings were cut free and there was no one that could stop her now. 

Her fire would never be snuffed out again. She may stumble but she refused to fall. 

“And my father never knew?” She quipped. “You never told him? I would think he’d be thrilled to allow me to have such a high ranking place in our guild.” 

Bullshit. 

He would have murdered Kraven without hesitation if he knew. He would have never allowed this to happen. Anyone who dared to prey on Samuel’s children would be slaughtered. He was stronger than his friend. He would have won the fight had he found out what Kraven was planning. He never would have stood for such an ominous scheme involving anyone in the guild, nevermind, his own daughter. There was no way he could have ever known. 

If Sam knew, he would have attacked Kraven. He would have won the fight.

Unless…

Kraven’s silence was damning.

Aylin faltered, “Wait…did my father find out?” 

Kraven shrugged as if it was nothing but a mild annoyance. He was watching her expression carefully. She wouldn’t let her mask slip no matter what he told her. She had to be strong.  

This was not the story she was told. 

Samuel and Emir were killed by Lycan not by Kraven. 

They were killed by wolves. They were ripped apart so badly that her and her mother weren’t allowed to see the bodies. It was Lycan. It was always Lycan that caused their death. 

“He may have found out, yes, but he wasn’t, as you put it, thrilled. It doesn’t matter, though. It wasn’t up to him. He had no power over my ruling.” 

Samuel knew. 

He had found out what Kraven was planning to do to her. 

And then he was dead. 

He had gone on hundreds of hunts and came back without so much as a scratch. Yet, the one hunt he goes on with no one else but her brother and Kraven, they both end up slaughtered with Kraven as the only survivor. 

Something wasn’t adding up.

Kraven’s hand wandered up and down her side, hesitating just under the swell of her breast, before traveling back towards her ass. He was becoming more bold with his movements. He was testing the limits to see how far she would let him willingly go.  

She couldn’t even feel what he was doing to her body anymore as the puzzle pieces began to fall together. She didn’t give a shit where his hands went. They could claw up inside of her and she wouldn’t budge. Her mind was too busy reeling with all this new, damning information. 

“Why would he be upset? I’m shocked. Why wouldn’t he want such a bright future for me?” The words felt acidic in her mouth as she forced herself to say them. She teased her unbroken hand up to tangle into Kraven’s beard and trace a sly finger along his jaw. She had to gain control or else she’d spiral into the oppressive fear crouching just below the surface of her mind. She needed that dagger at his hip. “I would think he would feel nothing but pride by getting to see his child be given over to such a strong and affluent man.” 

Aylin leaned in closer, flashing her best attempt at bedroom eyes at him. He raised his scruffy brows with an enticing curiosity in her pursuit to seduce him. She carefully pulled her leg back to stand up, wrapping it around his thighs instead, to straddle his lap and face him. Her arms snaked around his neck to pull him closer. 

Distract and steal. That was the new goal. She had to push her family's death to the back of her mind so she could focus on what was currently important. Her father and brother would still be dead. She couldn’t allow herself to follow them, yet. 

Get out of the basement.

Whatever it takes. 

“I wish you had told me about your plans for me sooner,” she purred in his ear. “I wish we had skipped over this bullshit and gotten straight to the truth. I kept no secrets about this Peter Parker wolf from you, Sergei. Calypso saw to that. I had nothing but the truth to feed her. I’d never heard of him before you mentioned his name. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help to you there in that regard. It is true that I lied about why I ran from my ceremony, though.” Her lips grazed over his hairy cheek and hovered over his parted mouth. “I was scared to kill the girl because I had never seen a wolf presented like that before. It startled me. I panicked and I ran when I should have stuck to my training. I should have trusted you and the Colts. I had a lapse of judgment where I saw her as a young girl instead of a mutt. I know that she wouldn’t hesitate to slaughter everyone in our camp if she had the chance and I hesitated in ending her. It’s my biggest regret. I was embarrassed and so afraid to tell you because I knew I had let you down. I failed you and I’m so sorry. I never meant for that to happen. Let me make it up to you. You’re the most important man in my life.” She brushed her lips softly against his, cutting off a part of her soul in the hopes that something new could grow from the bleeding wound. She would give up little parts of herself until she could shed herself free. She would burst from this basement half the woman she once was but she would live. Remove the infected limb to stop the infection from spreading. Do what she had to in order to stay alive. “I worship you as my leader, Sergei. Let me prove it to you.” 

A low growl rumbled in the back of Kraven’s throat to let her know that her plan was on the right track. His eyes slipped closed at her erotic touch. She could feel a thick tightness twitch in his pants below her and she subtly ground her hips against it to keep it growing. 

It was working. 

She was gaining the upper hand. Horny men were weak men. 

Her eyes dared to glance down at the curved dagger sheathed against his right hip. It was held snugly in place by a brown, leather strap wrapped around the hilt. She’d have to be stealthy and precise with her every move to not alert him to her deceit. 

She trailed her fingertips down his chest, inching closer to her prize. His eyes opened with heavy lids to gaze down at her and she halted her descent. He needed more. 

Aylin released a soft whimper to imitate someone who was in need of being ravished, “Please, Sergei. Let me serve my guild. Let me serve you. I accept your deal.” 

A devilish smile spread across his lips. He grabbed at her hips to roll her against his bulge.

“Do you feel that?” He murmured. “That’s what a real man feels like. I can do things to your body that you never even thought possible.” 

She forced back a gag of disgust. 

Whatever it takes.

“If you accept my offer,” he continued, “then you have to be a full member of the Silver Colts. Your ritual isn’t complete just yet.” 

Aylin’s eyes flashed over to the wolf girl. She was half expecting to find her staring back but the girl was practically gone. Kraven followed her line of sight then tilted her head back to face him, not wanting to share her looks with anyone else. 

“Yes, she’ll need to be dealt with, but there is one more matter to settle first.” The moment he finished speaking, he crashed his lips on top of hers, hungrily grasping at her hips to push her tighter against his cock. 

Her entire body physically revolted. Vomit burned up her throat. She could feel her nerves desperately attempting to claw away from his grasp. Her brain was screaming at her to fight back. It went against every nature in her being but Aylin leaned into the kiss with a ferocity. She pried her tongue into his mouth despite the repugnant taste. She tangled her broken hand into his hair. She angled her body to perfectly grind against his bulge to give him exactly what he wanted.

All so her left hand could sneak down to his hip unnoticed. 

With a blind silence, she slipped open the leather strap. Her fingers curled around the hilt of the dagger. She felt the cool weight of it in her palm. 

Whip it out. Lunge back. Slice it across his neck. 

Three simple steps was all it would take. 

Her heart was racing. Her mind was nothing but static. Her body was playing the part she had casted for it to perfection. He was distracted. He was vulnerable. All she had to do was follow through. 

One…two…thr-

Kraven’s eyes snapped open before she could even attempt to move. They burned into her with a predatory lust. She genuinely couldn’t tell if he wanted to fuck her or murder her. The sight frightened her, making her feel like a tiny rabbit backed into a corner by a hungry wolf. Her hand instinctively slipped from the dagger as he suddenly stood without warning. 

Aylin tumbled off his lap. She was being slammed back down onto the wooden seat. Her back howled in pain as the slats of the chair rubbed against her bandages. Her breath was knocked from her lungs as confusion clouded her thoughts. 

Had he felt what she was doing? 

Kraven gave a nasty smirk. He sank down in front of her and forced her knees wide apart, grinning as he gained a shocked gasp from his captive. His imposing body pushed between her thighs to keep her spread open. 

No. He hadn’t felt her stealing his possession, he was just switching to new positions before she had a chance to remove the dagger. 

The panic flooding her body was becoming too much. Her arms felt numb as tingles of lightheadedness spread across her skin. She wasn’t getting enough oxygen. Her brain was suffocating itself. She didn’t have the upper hand from this position. She wasn’t in control. The dagger was too far away.

She was too late. He was going further than she was comfortable with. Her shifting reality was becoming undeniable. She didn’t want this. 

“Wait,” she breathed through shaky gasps. 

“Hush, little one. Don’t fret.” His breath trailed over her inner thighs as his beard tickled her skin, leaving trails of kisses down her leg. “This isn’t what you think. Not yet, at least. We’ll have time to discover each other later. We don’t want to rush things. Don’t worry. No, no. You have something else in store for you.” 

Aylin watched his every move with a careful intensity, doing her best to keep her rapid breathing steady, as he leaned back towards the fire. Her brows knitted together in confusion when he grabbed the long metal poker sticking out from the depths of the flames. 

For a brief moment she felt an overwhelming relief at being spared the horror of having him eat her out. She could handle kissing and grinding as long as she felt like she commanded the situation. As long as she was able to focus her mind on her ulterior motives then she was able to keep calm. The second he flipped the script, her resolve failed her. She would have had zero control in the position he had placed her in. She would have had to endure his desecration of her body without anything to show for it. The thought was enough to break her. It had become too real. She was flying too close to the sun and her wings were bound to get singed. 

But she would not break down. Not yet. Not here. 

Aylin forced that ‘what ifs’ from her mind and instead geared her attention to what he was holding.

What she originally assumed was fire poker was something else. The end that had been sitting in the flames all this time was formed into a shape she couldn't quite make out at this angle. Though she didn’t need to make out the shape to understand the implications of what Kraven was planning on doing with it.

He was holding a branding iron. 

She vaguely remembered seeing a scarred sun against Kraven’s forearm once but she never thought much of how he acquired it.

Kraven looked towards the iron with admiration, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” He turned the front towards her so she could get a full picture of the design. 

Through the bright yellow halo and sizzling white smoke, a semi circle stared back at her. Along the circular arch were about ten straight lines sticking outwards to signify the rays of the sun. The ends of the rays were already starting to turn into a deep, glowing orange. The entire design was roughly four inches wide and modeled after the Silver Colt’s sun emblem. She could feel the intense heat radiating off the iron and melting her forehead into beads of sweat.  

Kraven tugged up his shirt sleeve with his teeth and showed her his forearm where a fully healed, white, scarred sun was etched into his skin, “Got this when I turned 18. Every one of the Kravinoff’s get branded to prove our loyalty to this family. The night we got married, I branded Calypso before we made love. She claims it was the most erotic and sensual experience of her life. She has hers right about here.” He held the iron away from Aylin’s face as he leaned forward, still pushed between her thighs, and slipped a finger into the top hem of her underwear next to the dip in her pelvis. “She wanted it tucked away where only my eyes could find it.” 

He smiled and flicked his finger back out, letting the elastic waist snap against her skin, “If you’re serious about our offer like you claim to be then you need to prove it. You join our familia ranks and then finish out your ceremony by cutting the heart of the wolf and tossing it into the fire. Two easy steps to prove to me that you can be reformed. This is your test of loyalty. Cal warmed you up but these are the end steps. By branding you with this sun, you are becoming a part of the Kravinoff family. You will give me children. You will become a full fledged hunter. You will be one of us. Forever. So, I ask you now…do you fully accept?” 

Aylin swallowed. Whatever relief she had felt about not being sexually assaulted had only been replaced by a heavy feeling of dread. This was going to have to happen. In order for her to keep playing along, she would have to say yes. More pain would only push her closer to her end goal of escaping. She would do it.

She just had to know one thing first. 

“Did you kill my father?” Aylin asked, her voice unwavering, as she held perfect eye contact.

A lopsided, proud smile tugged at the corner of his lips, “Not…directly.” 

She could feel the blood draining from her face, “But it was your fault? He found out about your plan and then what? How did they really die?” 

“I told you the day it happened,” he stated. “A wolf ripped him and Emir apart limb by limb.” 

Aylin shook her head in disbelief. A single Lycan wouldn’t have been able to overtake both her brother and father without there being more to the story. 

“The whole story, Sergei,” she demanded. “I want the whole story. Tell me and then I will say yes. I will take your deal. I will let you brand my flesh. I will kill the girl. I will give you children. Whatever you want. But not until I know the truth.” 

Kraven sighed, rolling his eyes. He scooted out from between her legs and tossed the sun end of the iron back into the flames to reheat as he stood.

“Like I said before, you and Cal are more similar than you think. Both stubborn as they come and refuse to do what I ask of them before I give you something in return,” he chuckled quietly to himself. “I clearly have a type for admiring strong willed women. You’re not going to like what I tell you, Aylin. You cared for your family. Their deaths are not as noble as you were led to believe.” 

“I don’t care,” she replied, telling him everything she knew he wanted to hear. “I want the truth. No matter what you tell me, I’ll still comply with whatever you want. I’m still a Silver Colt. This guild is my home. It’s in my blood. You’re my family. I belong here. Now tell me what happened to my father and brother.” 

She held her breath in anticipation for the truth. 

“Emir must have overheard me speaking to Cal about you. It was around the time I saw you with Leah Rivera. Every part of our plan was going perfectly until that moment. While you could still give me children if you were gay, it wouldn’t be the same. I wanted you to enjoy the process, not be forced into it. You were meant to be a willing participant. We had to make some fast changes to get you back on the right track.”

Aylin bit down on the inside of her cheek to refrain from showing any emotion. Had he killed Leah, too? Is that what really happened to people who “left” the guild? Did everyone’s death fall back on her shoulders?

She didn’t want to be herself anymore. She wanted to be anyone else but Aylin. 

“Emir had stopped by to pick up extra crossbow bolts and must have overheard the conversation. I’m sure he ran straight back to daddy to tell him all about his newly found gossip. Anyway, that night we had a small, planned hunt. A few months prior, we had wiped out a pack.” Kraven stopped to give a scowl in her direction. “Peter Parker’s pack. He was the only one who managed to escape and I needed him dead. I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I had let one get away. I had received some intel that Parker had been spotted with a woman and young boy about thirty miles out. They were not a part of his original pack. We didn't know if they were already wolves he joined up with or if he was turning new people to grow his ranks. Either way, they were compromised and would be taken care of, as well. Women and children don’t matter when it comes to werewolves. A wolf is a wolf and they all need to be wiped out. 

“I had previously planned to take just Sam and Emir to eliminate the wolves. We wouldn’t need any more than three hunters to deal with them. Too many of us would have been too obvious. Sam had said nothing to me the night we left but I could tell Emir had already told him what he heard. They were both simmering with a silent hatred the entire ride out. Everything had changed so quickly between us. I knew it wouldn’t just be a fight between Parker and I that night.”

Aylin watched as he leaned back against the stone wall and crossed his arms, waiting for the ball to drop, and the truth to be revealed. 

“We tracked them to a small cabin in the woods. The woman and her kid tried to flee. I remember seeing Emir chase after them but they weren’t my target. I knew exactly who I was there for. I managed to single out Peter. Our fight was long and difficult. At one point, I lost my balance and tumbled down a hill with him bounding after me,” Kraven gave a long, low sigh. “Then he was on top of me. He was stronger than I anticipated. I don’t like admitting that. He was the strongest wolf I’d ever encountered, the first time we met, and now he was driven with his need for revenge. Apparently, me slaughtering his minions was his driving force behind killing me. I may have started to lose my upper hand. Parker was winning the fight. I was pinned under him. I was going to lose my life. And then I saw him. Samuel was standing at the crest of the hill looking down at us. He could see that I was losing and he wasn’t doing a damn thing to stop it. He was directly betraying his leader and his oldest friend all because of something his stupid kid overheard. I let the rage consume me. In one last attempt to get out from under Parker, I grabbed at the dagger by my side. I stabbed it into his neck. As I laid under him, his wolf blood poured from the wound. It got in my mouth. I could taste him on my tongue. And then…” 

Kraven paused to relish in the memory, “And then I felt amazing. I felt a power like I had never felt before. It was new. Beautiful. Addicting. Parker’s blood coursed through mine and suddenly I could wield a strength I never knew possible. I was a God with that kind of power. Parker was wounded. I was able to kick him off me. I was able to walk away from a fight that was meant to claim my life thanks to this glorious new drug coursing through my veins. 

“I walked straight towards Sam. That bastard had left me to die. I shoved passed him as Emir stood by his father’s side. They looked between Parker bleeding out and myself. I had waited so long to kill the mutt but something changed when his blood entered me. I couldn’t finish the job. Like having his blood in my system was a mental block. Like it wouldn’t allow me to hurt him any further. So, I walked away. 

“But Sam wasn’t done. He didn’t care about Parker. He cared about me. He shouted after me. He asked if it was true. I could see that hatred in his eyes. Nothing I could have said would have mattered. He’d already made up his mind. He was ready to fight to the death for your honor. He started after me. He managed to get me to the ground but I was too strong with my newly found power and easily got a hold of him. I could feel his neck starting to snap under my grip. I was so fucking strong. When Emir tried to step in to help, I shot him in the stomach with my colt. That was all it took for Samuel to cease the fight to run to his side. I could hear everything in that moment. I could hear the quick heartbeat of a wolf rapidly approaching us. I may have stabbed Parker in the neck but never underestimate a wolf. What would kill a human, would only slow a mutt down. I’m sure he was clawing his way over to extract revenge but, by then, I was already on my way back to the truck. I could hear Samuel sobbing over Emir as he gargled on his own blood. I could hear both their final screams as the wolf reached them. I don’t even think Sam fought back.

“And I never once looked behind me to check. Not once. I got in my truck and drove to the nearest gas station. I waited until morning before driving back to collect their bodies. I was very careful about who I let see them. Those who did, never dared to question the obvious bullet hole in your brother’s stomach. The silver bullet hiding there mysteriously disappeared.” He gave a quick wink in her direction. “Their bodies were so mutilated by Parker that it was easy to have them covered when it was time to burn them. I wouldn’t want your poor, grieving mother to have to witness such horrors.” He took a long, drawn out breath to finish his tale. “So, to answer your question, no, I did not kill your father. The bullet wound would have killed your brother eventually but, I think, Parker finished them both off before that played out.”

Aylin stared at him in silence. Her eyes were dry and cold. Her limbs were numb. The ringing in her ears was getting louder. 

The truth was finally out. 

But it didn’t match with what Peter had told her in the camper. 

I killed your brother and father just as much as you killed the people I love. Don’t blame me for your family’s death when I had nothing to do with it. 

He told her he never touched her family. Not that he knew what they looked like or who they were but he still made it sound like was innocent. According to Kraven, Peter was the one who stole their lives. They were two conflicting statements of the supposed truth. 

Her trust in Peter was stronger than that of Kraven. There had to be more to this story. 

He may have taken the final bite but Kraven had been the one to pull the trigger. 

Kraven the Hunter was the one to blame. 

“Brand me,” she stated through her impassive tone. 

Aylin held her legs apart to give him easy access to her inner thigh where he was clearly aiming to mark her. 

Kraven raised his brows, impressed with her response, and silently reached for the iron. He knelt down at her knees and aimed the glowing sun towards her inner thigh. She didn’t stop to think about how unsanitary the entire process was going to be or how much it was going to hurt. She didn’t care what the outcome would be. She only wanted to welcome the pain with open arms to push away the growing numbness threatening to steal what was left of her severed soul. 

Aylin closed her eyes as the metal touched her skin. The faces of her father and brother flashed across her vision. They were followed by the haunting face of Peter. For a blinding moment, the metal almost felt frozen against her until her brain registered it as heat. Lava seared into her flesh. Kraven clamped down on her leg to keep her from instinctively jerking it away from the source of pain. A scream got caught in the back of her tightening throat but she choked it down. She would not scream for this man. She would not scream for the one who murdered her family. He didn’t deserve the honor of hearing her cries. 

The horrid stench of burned flesh filled her nose and made her gag. It was a putrid, sickly sweet and sour, nauseating smell. Leather tanning over an open flame mixed with a burning metallic and corrugating blood. She could see through her half open lids that Kraven had already removed the iron but the fire still felt like it was engulfing her leg. Her nails dug into the palms of her hand deep enough to draw crescents of blood. She felt faint. Dizzy. She tried to gasp for air. She could taste the smell of burned flesh in her mouth. It was all consuming. 

Kraven was pouring the jug of cold water she drank out of earlier over her burned skin. A tiny waterfall of coolness helped soothe the angry mark. She bit down on her bottom lip and leaned her head back against the chair as she focused on her breathing. Her entire left leg was trembling uncontrollably from the pain. 

At least her numbness was being replaced with the familiar feeling of blinding hatred.

“You did good,” he said. The sound of his voice pushed away the pain and fueled her fiery rage even more. “I’ll put some of the special salve Cal brought down on it. I probably should have properly cleaned the area first. I just got a bit turned on with how you demanded it. You sounded just like Cal.” 

She wasn’t listening to his words. Her jaw was clenched together in determination.

Step one of what he wanted was done. Step two…kill the wolf girl. 

The taste of her inevitable freedom was nearly as sweet as the sickly smell of her burning flesh. 

[CHAPTER SEVEN]

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