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withahappyrefrain · 2 years ago

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Every Rose Has Its Thorn

Pairing: Mob!Peter and Mob!Reader

Summary: For @liz-allyn's 900th celebration! "What are we going to do about this?" You're caught red-handed and Peter's next move could destroy your life. Unless...you can convince him otherwise."

Warnings: Literal murder, swearing, oral (f receiving), smut,

Words: 5.8K because I can't help myself

He grumbled as he took the plate of food from you. Something about it taking too long.

Normally you'd roll your eyes.

Instead you smiled and began counting in your head.

101, 102, 103, 104

"How much garlic did you roast the other day?" Your father asked.

"Just three heads for dinner."

He sneered, "You added too much. The whole house stinks of it."

He had been complaining of the smell for the past week. You claimed it was good for the heart.

It also fooled him into thinking that the odor was coming from another source, not himself.

206, 207, 208.

You handed him another glass of water- the third one in a row. You watched as he chugged the water- colorless and odorless.

The almond taste was a myth. Lucky you, as your father didn't have a huge sweet tooth.

He continued to demand water, claiming you added too much salt to his food. You simply apologized. You didn't mind.

It would be the last time you would have to apologize to that piece of shit.

362, 363, 364.

"Why don't you try going to the bathroom?" You suggested as he doubled over, bemoaning about his stomach pain.

"It was that food of yours. Don't know why you insist on cooking when you always fuck it up."

You walked him to the bathroom, shutting the door. He was in such pain, he didn't even noticed that the doorknob to the bathroom was different.

It now locked from the outside.

520, 521, 522, 523.

The dumbass finally figured out that the door was locked. He was calling out your name.

But you couldn't hear. Unfortunately, you had on your headphones as you cleaned up the kitchen. It had to be clean, otherwise he'd be angry at you.

Such a shame.

616, 617. 618.

You pulled an earbud out. Daddy dearest was still yelling, but not about the door being locked.

Something about being in pain.

It was hard to hear with the music.

766, 767, 768.

With your earbuds still on, you grabbed your water bottle. Peering out of the window, you saw your neighbor, Ms. Boocock-Lee, step outside her door.

Not thinking much of it (according to Dad, you never thought), you stepped outside, stopping after a few steps to look for your keys.

A loud voice was heard over the music. You ripped a headphone out, looking up to find your neighbor, smiling from her lawn.

You waved and gave a cheery hello.

"Where are you headed to honey?" She asked with that sweet saccharin smile that made you want to gag.

"Oh, just heading off to the pharmacy and bank. Gotta make a few deposits and pick up some medication for my dad!"

"Have they figured out the cause of that constant sore throat?" She asked.

The corner of your mouth turned downward as you shook your head, "Not yet. Hope these new meds will do something!"

After more idle chit chat, you two went your own separate ways.

You made a mental note to thank her later, for when she volunteers to be your alibi.

Once you go to the pharmacy, you aren't as good as counting consistently. Had to stay focused on fulfilling your role as the loving daughter.

Such a shame your father left his phone in the kitchen. Had he actually had it, maybe he could have called you to come home or call 911.

Not that you would have answered.

It's once you get to the bank that you begin counting.

756, 757, 758.

"Usually deposit?" The Teller asked. You nodded your head, bringing up a hand to rub something out of your eye, the plastic pharmacy bag now visible.

These deposits were nothing unusual. You had been doing them for your father for years. He'd move money around, you'd picked it up, he'd give it to pay somebody off.

It was just such a shame his memory had gone downhill over the past year. He'd forget if he had sent you to the bank or not that week.

He'd always insist on you going. And lately, he started sending you to drop off the money.

The nicest thing he's ever done for you was making this so easy.

875, 876, 877, 879.

When you got back to your father's house, you were greeted with silence.

He did say he had a meeting later that night. And keeping his car parked in the garage made it impossible to tell whether he was home or not.

So you dropped off his prescriptions on the kitchen counter. His keys were still there, signaling he hadn't left yet.

Curious. Quite curious.

Carefully turning the lock, you heard a click. It was now unlocked.

888, 889, 890.

You called out your father's name, which was met with silence.

Two knocks on the door. The second one was more forceful, opening the door ever so slightly.

The smell was horrendous, making you gag. After pulling your shirt over your nose, gasping in the fresh air desperately, you opened the door all the way.

895, 896, 897.

Finally gathering the strength, you fully opened the door.

898, 899.

The sight was horrific. No amount of research could have prepared you for it.

900.

Though you still got pleasure from seeing your father's dead body.

The next two hours were a blur. You could hear the sounds of an ambulance, Mrs. Boocock Lee wrapping a blanket around you as she asked your questions.

You were in shock.

He was finally gone.

After giving a statement to the police (not that they were really looking for the cause of death, moreso connections to your father's business), you went home to your little apartment.

It was all you could afford, with your father's refusal to give his only child any money, along with the odd jobs and hours you had to work since you were his unofficial caretaker.

But you wouldn't be there for much longer.

Now that you would get the inheritance your father hadn't blown away on shitty business deals and gambling.

While it wasn't much compared to what he started with, it was enough for you.

You switched the lights on, illuminating your apartment.

Which was why you jumped upon seeing a man on your couch. A choked gasp escaped your lips, your feet beginning to step backwards as a hand of yours extended behind you, reaching for the-

"Got the news Scheifele" Peter Parker's voice was smooth and rich. There was an air of amusement laced through his words as looked at you with a twinkle in those whiskey eyes.

You ignored his nickname for you, the one he bestowed the first time he met you. He was amused with how you looked the opposite of your father's towering, greasy demeanor.

"She's like a little lamb. A beautiful sheifale."

"If you're here to send your condolences Mr. Parker, I'm afraid this is not the best time." You gripped your car keys as you took a step into the kitchen, a step closer to the living room.

Peter Parker was elusive. He kept his heart hidden behind those tailor made suits. Those honey dripping smiles he'd give you were an act, you could see right through him.

"I'm not here for condolences. I'm here to congratulate you," He said, his mouth forming into a smirk.

"Mr. Parker, I don't know what you're talking about but please-"

"After knowing me for over a year, you still can't call me Peter?" His lips formed into a pout.

He made it sound like you two had something beyond a professional relationship.

Your dad had done business with him for years. Once his health started going downhill, you had begun dropping off checks (or dead bodies) at Parker's.

"Well, Peter, like I said now is not a good time-"

This time he stood up, hands still in the pockets of his well tailored pants. You couldn't help but grip the keys in your hand as he walked over to you.

"Drop the act Scheifele." His words made your blood run cold.

"I-I don't know what-"

Your eyes widened as Peter pulled out an empty bottle.

"Word from the wise: throw the trash out before you kill somebody."

He was too fast. One of the many skills he had that made him stand out as a hitman. Your back was now pressed against the wall as he had one hand pinning your waist to the wall, another wrapped around your wrists, which were now over your head.

Your feet dangled off the floor.

You always wondered how he was so strong. He wasn't built like a brick shithouse, and yet he could toss you with great ease.

Another skill that helped him rise up quickly in the ranks, made him sought after by your father and countless others.

Peter simply chuckled at your attempts to push back. You cursed at him as he laughed.

It was baffling. You knew he hated working with your dad, he would tell you all the time. Granted, it usually followed with a comment about how you were much prettier than your father.

"How long?" He asked, studying you like you were some kind of bug under a microscope.

"For a year now. I've been putting it in his food and the water for a year now," you admitted. You were trapped, no use in denying it.

"Must have made some pretty good connections to get a hold of fucking arsenic." The scent of cinnamon was filling your nostrils.

He always smelled good.

The hand he had on your waist moved up to cup your jaw. As if he could sense that you were about to lurch forward, he pressed his body against yours, pinning you to the wall.

You couldn't remember the last time you were this close to someone. It almost left you breathless.

Almost.

"You're the one who keeps saying I'm much better to work with," You spat.

"You did this for a whole year?"

You nodded, "Gave him a steady decline. Created a paper trail for doctor visits."

"That's why you always carry that big water bottle around, isn't it? So you never had to drink the water in the house." Peter always paid attention to the details.

It's how he knew you weren't as oblivious as you let on.

You nodded, "They'll send in some water samples. It'll show as being contaminated."

"Which will give you the perfect case against the company. The death of your father is sure to give you a nice payout," Peter cocked his head to the side, "Granted, if they found out about what you did, that's a pretty big case for them."

The possibility always dangled in the back of your mind. It's why you began planning this almost two years ago, working out every detail, making sure things happened when they were supposed to, ensuring your tracks were covered.

And there was Peter Parker, holding that bottle. The one that had your fingerprints all over it.

Once they found the bottle, your plan would unravel. Why did you have to be impatient? Why increase the dosage, when you could have waited for it take over naturally?

"What are we going to do about this?" Peter hummed, his nose grazing your cheek.

The fate of your life was in Peter Parker's hands. He had the ability to keep this a secret or send you to jail.

"What do you want?" You whispered.

He moved a hand down to your waist, gently guiding your feet back on the ground as he let go of your wrists. His broad shoulders were still against yours, keeping you in place.

A ringed hand trailed down to your face, his thumb running across your bottom lip.

It was almost sweet.

Almost.

"Name it Parker and I'll give it to you. You want the name of the guy I got it from? A percentage of my settlement money? You wanna fuc-"

Two fingers entered your mouth, cutting you off. The cool metal of the rings rested against your lips. As he leaned in, his thigh that he had slotted between your legs hitched up, brushing against your clothed core.

You never wore a dress around Peter for this very reason. You hoped he hadn't heard the way your breath hitched, how you almost gasped around his fingers.

But somehow he had such good hearing. The smirk on his face said it all.

"I want a partner," His lips were against your neck. The bastard knew that made you weak, the way his beard would brush against your skin.

Why did you ever tell him he looked good with facial hair? Maybe your father did have a point about you not knowing when to shut up.

"The kind that's made known by a pair of gold rings?" You asked, desperate to give off the image that his actions left you unbothered.

Peter chuckled, "That's a little soon, Scheifale. Let's have dinner first."

His body was off of yours, only briefly. Only long enough for you to step away from the wall. Only long enough for you to think you had a chance of running away, for him to dash that hope by wrapping an arm around your waist.

"You've had a long day and we have a lot to discuss. We need to get back to my place."

He led you out of your apartment, where you were greeted by his right hand man and woman.

Felicia and Miles just smiled at you.

Assholes.

—-------------------

You had been to Peter Parker's house before. You were familiar with the grand staircase that greeted you when you walked through the door. The marble floors in the bathroom.

The dining room table, where you two would go over payments and plans as you drank wine. As of recently, the conversation would stray from business and focused on other things.

Childhood. Interests. Funny stories.

How he could help you get away from your father. That you would be safe with him, he'd make sure of that.

Everytime it was brought up, you would just shake your head. He didn't need to get involved. You could hold your own.

Was that why he was doing this? You had actually succeeded without his help. Without his knowledge. Did that make him angry? Feel betrayed?

"Are you angry at me?" You asked as he drove.

Peter's brows furrowed in confusion as his eyes stayed focused on the road ahead, "Why would I be angry?"

"Because I got rid of him without your help."

Peter rolled his eyes, "I never said you couldn't do it without me. I just offered assistance in case you needed it."

You almost felt bad at your accusation.

Almost.

"So then why are you doing this?"

"Because as smart as you are, you still have a lot to learn," He pressed a button, opening the gates to his house, "As much as everyone hated your father, he was still a prominent figure in all this. When you get rid of someone, you gotta make sure you have some alliances first to protect your ass."

You huffed, "Why would I need protection, no one is gonna think I-"

"In this business, you treat every death with suspicion. No matter how many alibis, witnesses, and reports."

Peter now had a hand on your thigh, his fingers gently gripping the soft flesh. After parking, he leaned in, the smell of cinnamon greeting you once again.

"And maybe I am a little sad you didn't contact me after he died." You hated that smirk. Hated how charming it was. Hated how it made your thighs clench the first time you saw it.

"Peter Parker gets sad? This is good information for me to know as your new partner," You leaned in, his face now inches away from yours.

"Oh Scheifele, you're gonna learn a lot about me." His thumb came up and ran along your bottom lip.

You wished he'd stopped doing that. You could say so and Peter would listen.

Yet, the words didn't come out.

Which is how you found yourself in Peter's office, planning out the details of your father's funeral.

You were honestly surprised. As soon as you walked into his house, you expected him to shove you against a wall, take you right then and there.

Instead, he was actually helping.

It was a lot more work than you realized. Knowing who to invite, where to seat them, who to keep away from who.

"Why the fuck are you inviting the Osborne's?" Peter asked, running a hand through his hair. He was sitting in his leather chair while you lounged on the couch.

"The family used to work with my dad, they were on friendly terms," you explained.

"They're trouble and you know it."

"The son is always sweet to me."

Peter's brows furrowed as he chewed the inside of his cheek. He wanted to say something, it was clear as day.

So, you being curious, kept pushing it, "He texted me when he got the news that my dad kicked the bucket. Said if I needed anything, to let him know."

His jaw tensed, his nostrils flaring.

"Y'know, you could have sent a text-"

He lunged forward, his hands pinning yours against the soft leather pillows on the couch.

Now he looked angry.

"Harry Osborne is a piece of shit, just like your father. Is that what you want? To repeat the awful, shitty cycle that led you to fucking poison a man?"

You shrugged, secretly gleaming that you had the upper hand, "I got rid of one shitty man, I can do it again."

"Or you can be with someone who doesn't make you want to commit murder," Peter spat. His whiskey eyes were hardened and narrowed in on you. For a moment, the only sound in the room was yours and Peter's heaving breathing.

"Or specifically, I could be with the person who fucking blackmailed me to be their partner. Is that what you want?" Your tone was nearly mocking as you threw his words back in his face.

"You wouldn't have come with me otherwise, which would have meant you would be home alone when Craven came to your apartment, looking for you."

"Bullshit-"

"Miles and Felicia are there right now, taking care of him. Did you know your father owed him money? No, you didn't. I'm trying to help you," He gritted through his teeth.

The idea of receiving help always made your stomach lurch. Thanks to Daddy dearest, you were raised on the concept of looking out for yourself.

Which, looking back, is probably what made it so easy to kill the man. No one else was keeping tabs or track of him.

So Peter had a point. So what?

"Right, and you get absolutely no satisfaction that I can't leave you. That now you can have me whenever you want, to-"

"You know I wouldn't do that." His voice was firm, but not angry. In fact, he looked hurt by your accusation.

"Oh please, all that flirting-"

"It takes two to tango. I wouldn't have kept flirting if you hadn't flirted back."

He was right, but you couldn't let him see that. Peter Parker couldn't know.

"You're just angry that I won't let you be my savior," your voice was but a whisper, though that didn't stop the venom dripping all over your words.

"I'm angry because that piece of shit you called a father got into your brain and made you believe you're not worthy of someone who likes you, who actually cares about you."

His voice was soft. The grip he had on your wrists was gone, his hands now intertwining with yours.

"And you think you're worthy of me?" Your voice was gentle, barely above a whisper.

It wasn't meant to mock Peter, it wasn't meant to hurt him.

It was a genuine question.

His forehead brushed against yours, his soft hair tickling your skin, "I'd like to try."

Peter Parker was vulnerable, underneath the rings and designer suits and devilish smirks. That's what drew you to him, what made you stay with him, long after your meetings had ended.

"Show me then," you demanded.

Peter's lips were soft against yours, despite how he was kissing you with such fervor. His hands cupped your neck, his long fingers reaching to the back of your head. Despite literally trapping you, you felt safe. Something you hadn't felt since god knows when.

His body shifted towards you, deepening the kiss. His tongue ran along your bottom lip, as if it was asking for entrance. You parted your lips, granting him access. He followed your lead, your tongue slipping against his as your fingers weaved into that soft, thick hair of his.

It was intoxicating-his smell, his touch, his lips. You couldn't help but arch into him, trying to mold your body against yours.

He broke away first, which surprised you. His lips trailed up to your ear, pressing small kisses into your face along the way.

"You've had a long day. Should go shower and change." His breath was hot on your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

"I don't….I don't have any c-clothes," you could feel the heat in your face as the sensation spread through your body.

"Felicia is picking up some of your clothes after she takes care of Craven. But until then…..I got something for you," you didn't need to see his mouth to know that smirk was there.

“You got me clothes? For this meeting?” You leaned back so he could see the glare you were giving him.

“If you must know, I got them after your last visit with me,” He admitted, his voice soft.

Ah yes. The last visit. The one where he said you didn’t have to go back to your father, that you could stay with him.

And in an attempt to get out of there, to avoid what he really meant, what he was saying through those big whiskey eyes, you mentioned something about not having any clothes and ran out the door.

“Trying to make it difficult for me to escape?” Your fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Also thought you deserved something nice, “ Peter’s voice was sweet, like honey. It was such a contrast to his hands that were now kneading the soft flesh of your thighs.

"Look, you can just give me an old Tshirt and-"

"Listen, Scheifale. You're going to take a shower, put on what I give you, and I'm going to show you how good I can make you feel. Got it?"

The order sent heat directly to your core. All you could do was nod as Peter helped you off the couch.

—--------------------------

"That bastard," you muttered as you stared at the 'clothes' laid out for you.

You knew they wouldn’t really be clothes. Like Peter Parker would pass up a chance to see more of you.

Your fingers traced over the lacey, sheer fabric of the ‘romper’ that was hanging on the hook of the bathroom door. Could you call it a romper when it would barely conceal your tits and ass?

The color was nice. Soft pink.

Your favorite.

While showering, a maid had taken your other clothes, leaving you no choice. As you put on the sheer, flimsy fabric, you couldn’t help but look at yourself in the mirror.

It was nice. Something you didn’t buy for yourself, usually because you either didn’t have enough money or just didn’t think you deserved it.

Pulling on the robe, you couldn't help but press the soft material to your nose.

It smelled like Peter.

Taking a deep sigh, you opened the door. The walk from the bedroom to the office felt long, daunting.

You found Peter sitting in his chair, looking over some papers.

"So what made you decide on lingerie? Usually I just sleep in an old Tshirt and shorts," you commented.

"I wanted to get you something nice." He walked over to you, his hands in his pockets.

"Do you not like it?" He asked, motioning to the robe.

You rolled your eyes, "I didn't think your staff wanted to see my half naked with zero warning."

"I sent them home," Peter's lips were now pressed against your forehead, his fingers trailing down to the tie that was holding the rope together.

You stepped back, "Why am I the only one in less clothing? This doesn't seem like a very fair partnership."

All he did was grin as he took off his jacket and began loosening his tie.

"More," you demanded.

"And you say I'm the horndog," Peter muttered, taking off his shirt to reveal a white undershirt beneath it.

"Why do you wear so many layers? Don't you get hot?"

He ignored your question, walking over to the couch. He sat down, kicking off his shoes before he slowly pulled the white Tshirt over his head.

Peter Parker was attractive. You knew that. Everyone knew that. And yet there was something about seeing him like this, shirtless, long legs spread out.

"I….I didn't know you had tattoos."

"You can look at them if you want, Scheifele." He curled a finger, motioning for you to come to him.

Wanting to maintain the upper hand (or some semblance of it), you walked over slowly, untying the knot.

You stood there, in between his legs as the robe fell to the floor. Peter's eyes widened briefly, then relaxed as he took you in.

"Look at you," He cooed as a hand traced over the lace on your hips. His other hand trailed up your stomach, resting right below one of your breasts.

"Spin around." Your eyes widened at the demand.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Peter was unphased, "You heard me. Wanna see how it looks from the back. If it's good, I can get you more in different colors."

You were ready to tell him to fuck off, until you remembered he had that little bottle of yours. The one that would destroy your life if someone else's hands ever got ahold of it.

So you slowly spinner, allowing his eyes to burn into your skin.

"You don't need to be shy. You look pretty. You can look too, if you want." It was difficult to hold onto your anger when his voice was so soothing.

You straddled his waist, taking in the sight of his bare chest and shoulders. Your fingers traced along the sections of inked skin.

On the top of his left shoulder was an intricate spider web, cascading down to his back and the very top of his bicep. You leaned over, trying to ignore his lips that were now pressed in the valley between your breasts, instead focusing on the small spider that dangled from the web, going down part of his back.

"Were you one of those kids obsessed with spiders?" Peter let out a low chuckle against your chest, sending vibrations that made your stomach flutter.

"It's several things. My parents were scientists and studied animal and other species' DNA to see if they could find missing links for medical treatments. Mainly they studied spiders. Did that until the day they died."

Your fingers traced over his skin as the story played in your mind, your brain memorizing the details he had given you. You had learned details of Peter here and there. He always wanted to focus on you, to listen to what you had to say.

It was nice to hear him talk about himself.

Your eyes noticed another section of ink, your fingers tracing over the symbols inscribed on his right bicep.

"Is that Hebrew?" You asked. He nodded his head.

"Gam Ze Ya'avor," Peter told you. You looked at him, your confused expression alerting him that you had no idea what it meant.

"This too shall pass. Got it after my Uncle Ben died. Figured it would be a good reminder," He explained, his voice soft.

"It is a good reminder. What about this one?" You picked up his hand, motioning to his forearm. A band of old film was wrapped around it.

"I did photography in high school. Still do it from time to time," He shrugged, "My Aunt May says I could have worked for The Daily Bugle."

"You ever thought of getting them filled in with something?"

Peter shrugged, the tips of his ears turning red, "Yeah…..thought it would be neat to fill them with important dates."

"Such as……" your voice trailed off.

Peter looked up at you, a sheepish smile taking over his face, "Wedding dates….birth dates of my children."

"Is that what you want?" So often you met men in this field who did those things to prove something, like that they could have anyone they wanted. Or to continue their name, to have a successor so their legacy could leave on.

Selfish reasons. Your father was one of those men.

But when Peter looked at you with those soft amber eyes, it didn't feel selfish.

"Yeah, I do. What about you?"

Your fingers traced the inked skin on his arm before guiding your fingers back to his shoulder, back to the spider web. You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss against it.

"Yeah, I want that too," You whispered into his skin, "Partly why I got rid of my old man. Couldn't have that with him around."

Peter nodded, bringing your fingers up to his lips. It was a stark difference compared to when he found you in your apartment earlier today.

Perhaps that's why you liked him. He could have killed you, could have ratted you out.

Instead, he just brought you home, even when you didn't realize that's what you wanted, what you needed.

"If I remember correctly, you said you were going to show me how good you can make me feel," Your voice was light, a smirk slowly spreading to your face.

"I still intend to, just didn't plan on telling you my life story," He teased.

"Sorry, I like to get to know my potential partners before I work with them," You teased back.

"Potential? I still have that bottle of yours," his voice had become more gruff, his fingers cupping the lower half of your face, forcing you to look at him.

There was that smirk.

"And I still know how to poison people and make it look like an accident," you responded, grinding your hips down onto his. You grinned at the sight of him wincing as he felt your core brush against his emerging erection.

"Does that make you hard Peter? That I know how to kill someone?"

"What makes me hard is you're smart as hell, extremely stubborn, and look like an angel," He hissed as you rocked your hips forward again.

"Show me. Show me how much you like that." You wanted control, wanted to know this was real and not some stupid ploy to make you weak.

Because despite everything he had done, part of you still didn't trust it, didn't believe it.

Thanks Dad.

Peter's lips were all over your body, his hands pinning your waist to his bed. You were still processing the fact he was able to pick you up and carry you with great ease, like you weighed nothing.

He was hiding something.

But it was hard to sleuth when his lips were pressed against the thin, flimsy fabric that barely covered your core.

"You know, if you move the fabric to the side, you could actually lick my cunt," you huffed.

A gasp fell from your lips as you felt him slap your thigh, the sting making you throb in pleasure rather than pain.

"That smartass mouth of yours doesn't stop, does it?" He asked before sinking his teeth into the soft flesh.

"If you lied down, I can show you what else this smartass mouth can do." He groaned at your words and you noticed his hips grinding down into the mattress..

"Don't you know it's bad practice to switch up demands on someone?" He said, moving his body up as his hands reached for the straps holding your garment up.

"Isn't that what you're here for? To teach me?" Peter pulled the straps down, tugging the slip off your body as he grinned at your words.

"I'm here for a lot of things, Scheifele. Like to show you how good I can make you feel." God you hated that nickname and how it made you flustered.

"You're doing an awful lot of talking, not so much showing," you tssked.

"My apologies. Let me make it up to you."

His mouth was hot on your cunt, his tongue wasting no time to find your clit.

He wasn't your first, far from it. But you couldn't remember the last time you got to lie down and just feel. Feel pleasure, feel wanted, feel needed.

"Taste fucking amazing," you heard Peter groan, "you're so good."

You whined at the praise, your hands clawing at the tops of his shoulders. His tongue continued to circle around your bundle of nerves, his fingers running along your entrance to gather slick.

The coil in your lower stomach was building. Your hips thrusted upwards in a desperate attempt to meet his mouth.

His name fell from your lips, like a prayer. Not that there was anything holy about what his mouth was doing to you.

He just felt so good.

Which is why you whined when he broke away. Your cunt clenched around nothing, instantly missing the feel of his large fingers curling up against your walls.

"I know, you were close," He cooed in your ear, "But I want the first time I make you

come to be on my cock."

"Isn't that something you should decided with your partner beforehand?" You gritted through your teeth.

Peter chuckled as his teeth grazed your chest, "Sorry, it's been a while since I had one."

His admission surprised you. Granted, you could recall how he never seemed to have any other women around the house (who didn't work for him) or at parties.

"So I have to teach you shit too? Doesn't sound like a fair partnership," you crossed your arms over your chest.

"So sorry Scheifale. Let me make it up to you," He whispered into your ear as he pressed his cock into your entrance.

A curse fell from your lips as he bottomed out, your walls stretching to accommodate him.

Fuck, he felt amazing.

Your back arched as he began thrusting in and out of you, building up a steady pace.

In the back of your mind, you couldn't help but think about where you would be right now if things hadn't changed. Either alone in your old, dingy apartment or getting yelled at by your father.

Thank God for arsenic.

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