#tasm oc

[blooming-violets]

Pinky Promise Rewrite || Ch. 3

Summary: The fate of the one she loves most is put into the hands of a masked stranger, forever entwining their lives.

Major Overall Series Warnings: 18+ smut, mental health triggers (ptsd/depression/panic attacks/a suicide attempt from a child/trauma), a retelling of forced sexual assault and manipulation, kidnapping of a minor

Chapter Three Warnings: symptoms of anxiety/panic disorder and ptsd, vague references to a past trauma of sexual assault in the work place

[Chapter Index] 

Chapter Three || The Job

Peter.

Peter.

Peter.

Spider-Man’s name was Peter.

Lucy repeated his name in her head as she laid on her bed and stared up at the cracks in the ceiling. 

“Peter,” she whispered into the dark, smiling to herself. His name sounded nice on her lips. 

-

He had taken the bus back to her apartment with her. Just her and Spider-Man, sitting side by side, on an empty bus, while the driver gave her confused looks in the rearview mirror. Peter gave her the window seat and she stared at his masked face in the darkened reflection as the rumble of the bus lulled her into a trance. She studied the way his gloved fingers would fidget against his thigh like he never stopped moving. His leg bounced anxiously against hers. She wanted to reach out and steady it for him but resisted the urge to touch him any further. They sat in an awkward silence the entire ride home until it was her stop. He followed a step behind her the rest of the way, never speaking a word, as she lingered at the building door. 

“This is it. You don’t have to come inside. I’ve got it from here,” she had said to him. She was embarrassed about the state of her apartment. On a good day, the place was run down and falling apart. On a day like today, she had no idea what they’d be walking into. She hadn’t cleaned in a while. Her job was to clean people’s houses. She didn’t want to come home and do the same thing. 

But he hadn’t accepted her answer, “The deal was I saw you curled up in a blanket by a heater, remember? You pinky promised me. You can’t break those.” 

She guessed that he was afraid if he left too early she would run back to the hospital. He didn’t have to worry. She had no intentions of going back out in the cold. Not tonight, anyway.

He followed her up the steps, kindly refraining from commenting on the permanent smell of urine in the stairwell, and waited patiently while she unlocked the door. When it swung open, Lucy strode inside and turned to watch him hovering the doorway.  The sight of Spider-Man with one foot in her home and one foot in the hallway was a unique picture. She wanted to care more than she did but found herself unable to muster many emotions. Her body ached and her brain felt fuzzy. 

“Happy now?” She asked, her tone anything but friendly. “I’m home.” 

He shook his head, “I don’t see a blanket and heater. Is it always this cold in here?” 

She shrugged, “Yeah. The heating is terrible. Liv and I usually pull out the space heater if it gets too bad. It’s in the bedroom. Do you actually need to see me turn it on or can we agree on a compromise?” She wasn’t sure why she was being so snippy with him. He had done nothing but save her entire life. She should be worshiping at his feet for what he accomplished today. Instead her gratitude came out as a tired annoyance. 

“I guess it’s fine,” he mumbled, picking up on her impertinent tone. His masked eyes looked around the tiny room until they landed on the bucket of her cleaning supplies she had tossed down right before she got the call. “Are you a maid?” 

Lucy narrowed her eyes, she hated not being able to read his expression to know if he was judging her or not, “Personally, I prefer the term house cleaner but yes.” She stared at him, refusing to invite him inside any further, as she slowly took off her jacket to reveal her uniform and pointed to the embroidered logo. “Meticulous Maids, at your service. It’s no superhero job but it pays the bills…kind of…”

“Superhero-ing doesn’t actually pay the bills either.” He shuffled his foot awkwardly against the floor, avoiding her gaze by looking around the little room. 

Their conversation was stalling. She didn’t want him to see any more of her apartment then was necessary so she kept him hanging by the door. He seemed reluctant to leave, almost like he didn’t want their meeting to end, but refused to step in any further without verbal permission. Lucy was not going to be the one to give it. 

She cleared her throat, “Well it was nice meeting you, Peter.” 

He perked up at the sound of his name like he had forgotten she knew it, “Is that my cue to get outta ‘ere?” 

She gave him a tight, forced smile and shrugged, “I guess so? You did what you came here to do, didn’t you? I’m no longer in the cold. I’m home safe. When you leave, I’ll get into some sweats and climb into bed. I promise I’m not going anywhere else tonight. Your job is done. You did it. You played the part of the hero perfectly today. Good job. I’d give you a gold star sticker if I had one lying around.” 

He had laughed then. It was a pleasant sound. She found herself wishing she could hear it again some time but refused to verbalize her desires. 

“It was nice meeting you, Lucy Miller. Olivia will be okay. Give her some time. She’s not lost to you forever.” He gave her a quick wave, not waiting around for her reply, before stepping out into the hallway and shutting the door softly behind him. 

-

Peter. 

Her smile lingered as she curled into her pillows and closed her eyes. Her body was exhausted, her limbs heavy, and her brain foggy. 

She wondered what he was doing right now, if he was replaying back his day just as she was. Her emotions were in turmoil. The guilt kept desperately trying to make itself known but it was repressed by the sense of peace that he had given her. 

Olivia would be okay. Tomorrow, Lucy would call out of work. She would get the apartment in perfect order. She would visit her sister. Then she would call back the woman from social services to give her a proper interview. 

No one was going to be taking her sister away. They would get through this. Together. 

Her heavy yawn filled the quiet room and she closed her eyes. 

Sleep called out to her and she graciously answered.

Five thirty in the morning was not kind to her. 

The sun wasn’t even awake at this hour. Lucy rolled over in bed to flick on her bedside lamp. Her eyes felt like they were glued shut. She estimated she only got about three hours of sleep last night. Her body ached and shivered with chills. Despite her claims to Peter, she had opted not to turn on the space heater. Electricity costs money. Running it all night was a waste, especially if Olivia wasn’t here to benefit from the warmth. 

Her heart dropped. 

Olivia. She was too tired to fight off the sudden invasion of tears clawing at her tired eyes. Any hope she had the night before was lost in the new day. Lucy threw the blankets over her head and curled up in the dark, letting the tears flow. It was her first night in a long time that she had slept in this bed without her sister. There was only one bedroom. They didn’t have the funds for another bed. Sometimes she would sleep on the couch if Olivia kicked too much but, even then, she was still only a room away. 

Lucy took a shuddered breath to calm her silent sobs. Tears were a waste of precious energy. She didn’t have time for crying. There were things that needed to be done today. Important things. And they started with a shower. 

After every terrible day, a shower was needed to wash away the events. A fresh start. Clean and hopeful. That’s what she was going to aim for. She could regain some of that hope Peter had left her with last night. Repress, repress, repress and move on. 

Her knees stung as she stretched out her legs and kicked them over the side of the bed. They were crusted with dark, dried blood from when she had fallen to the icy roof. She let out a low, grumbling, groan as she pushed herself from the tangle of warm blankets. 

“My life sucks,” she mumbled, her bare feet dancing up and down on the chilly hardwood floor. 

Lucy made her way quickly to the bathroom, practically jumping onto the bathmat to keep from touching the floor longer than she had to. With a flick of the switch, a tiny, yellowed light bulb struggled to life in a pathetic attempt to illuminate the small room. She avoided the mirror while bending down to turn on the shower. The hot water in this building was always unpredictable. Someday’s it would start off icy and suddenly spike to inhuman levels of heat, other days it struggled to even warm up. She hoped this morning it would reach scorching levels. She needed her body to thaw out. 

Her hand danced in and out the weak stream. Once it was lukewarm, she stripped off her clothes and eased herself inside. It wasn’t the scalding heat she wished for but it would serve its purpose. The sting of her knees as the water washed away the dried blood helped rip the lingering sleep from her mind. She felt like she was floating, her thoughts were foggy, and her skin tingled like she was still on high alert. Even as she lathered shampoo into her hair, she took notice of how badly her hands were shaking. The anxiety from yesterday had yet to disappear. There was still so much left to do. The constant threat of the social worker hung over her head. This apartment would need to be spotless for her. Olivia was out of her control, at least while she’s in the hospital. She would have to trust the doctors to be the ones to help her. The best Lucy could do for her sister would be make sure everything behind the scenes was in perfect order. 

She quickly finished her shower once she felt the water start to get cold again. It hardly heated up at all this morning. The stream was weaker than usual too. This entire place was a dump. Lucy grabbed a fluffy pink towel and dried herself off before wrapping it around her slim body. She wiped what little condensation had formed on the mirror and took a deep breath, looking up to meet her wary reflection. The dark bags under her bloodshot eyes were deeper than usual. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were blotched crimson from windburn. Her face looked hollow and pale. She looked older than she remembered. Seeing Olivia fall had probably taken years off her life. At least the way she felt matched her outward appearance. A walking corpse. Lucy huffed, diverting her eyes from her bleak image, and grabbed her toothbrush instead. She sat on the closed toilet lid, slouching against the wall to help her hold her up, while she brushed her teeth. Today was going to suck but she would get through it. She always did. 

As she spit out her mouthful of minty toothpaste, she turned on the faucet to wash it away. The water sputtered out in quick, jerky bursts before dying out completely. She turned the handle again. Then the other one. Nothing. She tried the shower. Nothing. Lucy chewed on her chapped bottom lip, wondering if she forgot to pay the water bill. That’s all she needed. Having no water was not going to go over well with a social worker home visit. At least she managed to get in her shower before they cut it. She’d have to add dealing with her landlord to her growing list of responsibilities. 

By the time 6:30 hit, she was dressed in a thick cozy sweater, slathered on a layer of makeup to mask her true appearance, and had dried her long, wet hair. She sat cross legged on the floor in her bedroom in front of her full length mirror while she parted her hair to start two french braids. She tapped on her phone to call her boss, Patty, putting her on speaker. It only took two rings before the older woman picked up. 

“What’d’ya want?” Her annoyed, sleepy voice cut through the silence of the bedroom. 

Lucy took a deep breath to ground herself back to reality and away from her tumbling train of terrible thoughts, “Hi, Patty. This is Lucy.” 

“Yeah, I know, we have caller id at the office,” she huffed, her response snippy and unfriendly. “The question still stands. What do you want?”

“I-” She hesitated, Patty always made her nervous. “Could I have the day off? It’s a family emergency. My little sister is in the hospital. She had an accident. I need to get a million things done to make sure everything is okay for her.” 

Patty laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh. “Absolutely not. I already had two girls call out this morning and you have no more time off. You used up your limit. Besides, we got a new client. They stopped by at the crack of dawn this morning to drop off the spare key. I hadn’t even managed to get in my first cup of coffee before they were bangin’ on the damn door. A young man. Kinda scruffy lookin’, one of those disheveled types, but they live off in the nice part of the city. Probably have a big house. One of those rich folk, I bet. I bet his parents were doctors or something. A trust fund kid or one of those young prodigies who make an app and suddenly their swimming in money. Imagine the life I could have had if I was a trust fund kid. I could of been payin’ some poor sap to clean my mansion instead of trying to round up a bunch of lazy bitches who never want to do any actual work.” 

Lucy flinched, “It’s not that I don’t want to work. You don’t understand. Olivia, she had an accident. She fell off a roof. She-”

She was cut off with Patty’s loud, bored sigh.

“I know! I watched the news last night. If I recall, she was saved by that Spider-Freak. She’s not injured. You can visit her after you finish your duties. Or not. I don’t care what you do on your off hours as long as you get my jobs done. The answer is no, Lucy. You’re already on thin ice with your previous track record from working here. You should be lucky that you still have a job at all after what I caught you doing a few months ago. This client asked for you specifically. No idea why they wanted you. My guess is they probably heard about all your extra services. I swear to god, little girl, if I catch you getting on your knees or giving more than you should to another client, you will be so screwed. If you do not show up on time this morning to get the key to this house then you are fired. No exceptions.”

“But!” The line went dead.

Tears welled up in her eyes but refused to fall. A piercing, fiery rod felt like it was stabbing through her skull. Her hands trembled as she finished off her final braid. Lucy did her best to pull herself together. She tried to pretend like Patty’s words didn’t cut straight into her soul and rip her to shreds. It wasn’t that she hadn’t been allowed to take the day off. She knew, deep down, that she would be denied. It was the events of her past that Patty brought up which ripped through her. She loved to throw them back in Lucy’s face whenever she could. She held them over her head, taunting her, using them like strings attached to her fingertips to puppet her around into doing what she wanted. 

And it worked every time because she needed this job and Patty knew it. 

Lucy grabbed a tissue off the bedside table and blotted any wetness from her eyes. No more crying. She had to get moving. She couldn’t be late. Being fired would be the final nail in the coffin for Olivia to be taken away.

Luckily, her bucket of supplies was still next to her front door. She tossed on her apron over her cozy outfit, grabbed appropriate attire for surviving the cold weather, and left her apartment. As she locked the door behind her, a red envelope taped under the peephole caught her attention. Olivia’s name was scrawled on the front. 

She frowned and pulled it off the door, immediately opening it. She was smart enough to know not to deliver strange mail to her little sister without vetting the contents first. A lot of creeps lived in this building. 

The letter was written on a graph notebook page and haphazardly torn out, the frayed edges still clinging on. Scratchy, penned doodles of the Spider-Man logo dotted around the margins of the page. For the first time this morning, a tiny smile tugged at the corners of her lips. 

“Dear Olivia,

Hi, this is Spider-Man writing to you. Don’t forget the hyphen. A lot of people forget the hyphen between the Spider and the Man. It’s very important. 

I wanted to check in and see how you were doing. You really scared me the other day. I don’t want to see you get hurt. You would be doing me a big favor if you could keep your feet firmly planted on the ground from now on. I’d never want to see anything bad happen to you. You’re too special to get hurt.

I talked to your sister a little bit. She told me all about you. I heard that you won every science fair you ever entered. I used to win at my science fairs too. Maybe when you’re older, you can be my trusty sidekick. I need someone smart and strong to help out. Until then, stay safe, keep learning, and stop climbing onto roofs!! 

From, 

Your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man

P.S. I hope you know how much your sister loves you. I think she would do anything for you. Remember to tell her you love her from time to time. 

P.P.S. When you get back home, I hope I’m still invited to dinner.”

Tucked into the letter was a polaroid picture of Spider-Man squatting in front of the hospital she was at, giving a peace sign to the camera. The sun was just barely starting to peak over the horizon. It couldn’t have been taken that long ago. Peter must have just dropped this off. She glanced down each end of the hallway in the fleeting hopes of catching him and gave a mournful sigh. He would probably be long gone by now. Spidey could move fast when he wanted. 

Lucy studied the picture, the fondness for their new friend growing. Even if she never saw him again, she’d always remember him with love for everything he did to save her family. She gave another heavy sigh, stuffing the items back into the red envelope, and tucking into her bag.

The fresh snow that had fallen in the night was already turning to dirty slush on the sidewalks as the sun rose higher over the tops of the buildings. Snow in the city never stayed beautiful for long. Lucy poked the toe of her old boot at a clump of heavy slush as she waited for the cross light to signal her to cross. When the crowd of people began stepping forward in unison, she followed in a blind daze, her mind elsewhere. She called to leave a message with the woman who answered the phone at Olivia’s unit. She was told that a doctor would call her back later to give her an update and that visiting hours ended at five tonight. If she wanted to see her sister, she’d have to get there before five or else she could schedule a call to speak to her on the phone. As long as Lucy could finish cleaning this new house early, she thought she’d be able to make it. 

The subway was crowded with the morning workload of city dwellers trying to get to their respective buildings. All the seats were taken and Lucy ended up standing, squished, in front of a man who had far too large of a leg spread, failing to be considerate of his neighbors. The older woman stuffed beside him was forced to shrink into herself and angle her body away from his to avoid his leg invading her space. Lucy rolled her eyes at his ignorance and clutched tightly onto her large bucket of supplies. With her hands full, she had no choice but to brace herself with only her legs as the train car lurched forward. The last thing she wanted to do was accidentally tumble into that man’s lap. 

As they tumbled through the underground, the man’s phone loudly rang, causing him to get a few glares from those nearby. She tried to drone out his one sided conversation but something in his words peaked her interest. It wasn’t the crude tone in which he was speaking but how his story seemed oddly familiar to her own morning. 

“I got a call from my secretary at work an hour ago,” he boasted into the phone. “She told me the water in our office has been shut off. The entire building. No water. Meanwhile, my wife was bitching at me all morning-” He hesitated to listen to whatever the person on the other end said and followed it with a spiteful, booming laugh. “I know! It might be time for wife number three. This one is losing her touch. Anyway, she was nagging me all morning because our water broke in our house. She blamed me for not paying the bills. You know me, Carlos. When have I ever not paid a bill on time? She’s out of her damn mind. That’s when my secretary calls to tell me about the water at the office. That’s weird, right? It can’t be a coincidence that both my home and my work are being targeted. So I gave my cousin Jim a call. You remember Jim? You met him at the Christmas party. Yeah, yeah, the fat one with the mole on his cheek. He works down at the police station. I give him a call because I’m startin’ to worry that this is a direct attack on me and my business. One of our rivals pullin’ some kind of shit to mess with me. But Jim tells me that it’s not just me. It’s half the freakin’ city! They don’t know why! Half the city has no water and these dumb fucks at the station are running around trying to figure out what’s going on. He told me he’d give a call back when they find out the issue. I’ll tell ya right now, Carlos, if I get home tonight and I still don’t have water, you better believe I’m going to start suing people!”

His voice faded into the back of her mind as she mulled over his conversation. Half the city, without water. She wondered what would cause that. They’d had electricity blackouts before but never everyone losing water all at once. Lucy hoped it wouldn’t affect her work and that the house she was going to was one of the lucky ones. It would be hard to clean without a sink. At least she felt comforted in the fact that it wasn’t her fault. In instances like this, that rich asshole and herself were all in the same waterless boat.

“Excuse me! Pardon me!” Lucy shouted as she pushed her way through the crowds of Hell's Kitchen. 

The Meticulous Maid’s headquarters ran out of the back section of an old building. The floor above them was dedicated to an up and coming law office and Patty often had to redirect lost citizens looking for their lawyer to the proper staircase. She never missed the opportunity to hand them each a business card as they were ushered in the correct direction. 

“You’ll need someone to clean your home while you’re on trial. Don’t want to return to a messy house!” She’d often be heard yelling after them. “We’ll even clean crime scenes for the right price!” 

This morning was no different as Lucy heard her boss’ usual spiel following a confused man walking out the front door. She gave him a sympathetic smile, knowing what it was like to be bombarded by Patty, and shuffled past him. She had made it just in the nick of time. 

The office was small. It had enough room for a desk which Patty sat behind most days, operating the phones, and orchestrating where each girl needed to be every day. There was a small closet in the back that held a bunch of vacuums and mops. It was the only supplies the employees didn’t have to purchase on their own. All the rest of the cleaning supplies came out of Lucy’s own pocket. She tucked her bucket, rattling with her things, under her arms and flashed a forced smile at her boss. 

Patty looked up from behind her desk with an unimpressed stare and slid a single key on top of a sticky note over to her, “You’re almost late.” 

Lucy gasped for breath, the cold air stinging her lungs, “But I’m not. I’m here.” She reached for the key and paper, an address scribbled onto it with a purple pen. “Did you hear half the city doesn’t have water? That’s crazy, right?” 

Patty responded with a grunt, “Don’t see what that has to do with you.” 

“Well…it’d just be difficult to mop someone’s floors without a bucket of water, I guess…” 

“Figure it out,” she turned towards her computer, angling her back away from her least favorite employee. 

Lucy shuffled the toe of her foot against the stained carpet, taking that as her sign the conversation was over before it even began. She awkwardly turned to the closest to pull out an old vacuum and mop. 

“It was nice seein’ ya, Patty. Hope you have a good morning,” she mumbled before hauling the heavy equipment out the door. 

It was always a struggle to maneuver her way through the city and subway system with her arms full. The weight of all her equipment combined was probably just as heavy as herself. The addition of the snow only made it more difficult but she managed to shuffle her way into the neighborhood of Forest Hills an hour later. Her back already hurt and she hadn’t even begun to start any actual labor. 

Anxiety twisted her stomach into knots the closer she got to her destination. Patty’s words rang in her ear. This client asked for you specifically. She wasn’t sure why anyone would specifically ask for her. She had no idea who would even know who she was. The majority of houses she cleaned were always empty. The ones that weren’t…

My guess is they probably heard about all your extra services.

Her heart lurched, feeling heavy in her chest. She didn’t do that stuff. That wasn’t her. The lump in her throat was making it hard to breathe. She tried to take deep breaths, letting the cold air fill her desperate lungs, as she trudged down the street. These people requested her. It wasn’t like she was a cleaning god. She didn’t do a better job than any of the other girls. She was average, at best. It was preposterous to think that someone would look at her cleaning job after she left and recommend her highly to their friend. Someone must have known her. 

My guess is they probably heard about all your extra services. 

“Stop,” she whispered to herself. Her heart was starting to race. She didn’t do extra services. That wasn’t her. It wasn’t. Not anymore. There was only one group of people who would have requested her. They’d done it before. They’d passed her around between their friend’s houses like their personal cleaning girl. Their eyes would follow her around as she made her way through each room. Leering. Undressing her with their minds. 

Until it wasn’t just their minds. 

“That’s wasn’t me,” she swallowed, speaking the words out loud so she could hear them. “You don’t have to do this. If it’s them, you leave. If it’s them, you walk out. If it’s them, you lose your job…” 

If she walked out, she would lose her job. Patty made that clear. If she lost her job, that would be another strike against her from the social service perspective. Olivia needed her here. They needed this job. No matter who was on the other side of that door, she would have to stay. For Liv. 

Lucy blinked the film of water tears from her eyes and fished the yellow sticky note out of her jacket pocket to double check she had the right address. It was a cute brick townhouse with a white front porch. A garden flag stuck out the snow in what little yard they had. It waved at her in the wind. Two striking red cardinals sat on a white birch tree against a deep blue background. Red pom poms lined the bottom of the flag. Something about its presence helped quite her nerves. The kind of people who had cute, seasonal flags were not the same kind of people who she was dreading. If she had to guess, the quaint home would belong to someone older. Patty mentioned a young man requesting her services but it was possible he worked for the older couple. Or maybe they were a nice, young family? A husband wanting to do something nice for his pregnant wife. It was their first child and she was struggling to clean being as pregnant as she was. Her mind made up fantasy clients but, whoever they were, they couldn’t be the same people who frightened her. 

Lucy climbed up the stairs and gave three loud raps against the sturdy door. When no one answered, her nerves continued to shrink. Maybe someone really was impressed with her cleaning skills and recommended her to a friend? She stuck the key in the lock and opened the front door. 

“Hello!” She called out, just to be sure. “Meticulous Maid cleaning service! I’m coming in to work!” 

When no one answered, she let out a deep sigh of relief. This house was safe. She was safe. Everything was okay. 

The first thing she did was remove her snow crusted boots and hang her jacket up on an empty hook by the entrance. Then she wandered deeper into the home. This was always her favorite part. There was something voyeuristic about walking through someone else’s house when they weren’t home. She liked to see the way different people lived. Even if she never met the person, she could gather a decent picture of who they are. It was a peek behind the curtain. A sneaky look at a stranger’s life. Over the years, she’d gotten very good at picking up on different details. 

This was a real home. It wasn’t perfectly tidy or showcase worthy. Sometimes she would get to walk through the elite millionaire’s lives. Their houses always felt like a museum. Cold and untouched. The people who lived there reminded her of ghosts floating through a space without ever interacting with their own belongings. Not here though. A family lived here. Small and quiet. There was a couch in the living room with the pillows stacked up on one end by someone who would lay across the entire thing. Next to the couch was a single, overstuffed, soft pink chair. It had a warm, knitted blanket draped over the back and footrest propped up in front. If Lucy had to guess, she’d say two people lived here. Maybe an older couple judging from the dated decor. She pictured a gray haired man laying across the couch after a long day and his wife curled up on the armchair beside him as they watched tv. There were stacked magazines and various clutter around the room. The living room looked well lived in and cozy. This was not the house of anyone bad. 

Lucy walked into the kitchen, taking note of a singular mug and plate left in the sink. The mug was white and decorated with colorful flowers. Light red lipstick was pressed against the rim. A staining of brown coffee ringed around the bottom. Two people might live in this house but only one of them ate breakfast this morning. She tried the handle on the faucet and was pleased to see the water come shooting out. At least this street still had access to water. It would make her cleaning job much easier. She got to work washing the dishes. It was usually where she liked to start. A sink void of dirty dishes was always a pleasant sight to behold. 

As she washed, she heard a creak coming from the ceiling above her. Lucy turned off the faucet to silence the water. She closed her eyes to focus on enhancing her hearing. Another creak. It didn’t quite sound like footsteps walking overhead, more like someone rolling over on an old, springy bed. She wasn’t as alone as she initially thought. The anxiety started to claw its back up to her throat, blocking the air from finding its way down to her lungs. She felt the sudden urge to turn and run. Panic surged through her body.

Lucy tried to focus on her breathing to quell the rising hysteria. Slowly. Deeply. Gently. In and out. This was not that house. These people were not a part of her past. She was safe. They were nothing but an elderly couple. She conjured up the image of the supposed homeowners. She focused her sights on the soapy mug clutched tightly in her hand. The red lipstick. The coffee stains. The flower patterns. She imagined the wife sitting at the breakfast nook, staring out the window, while drinking her morning coffee. Her retired husband slept soundly above her. She’d spend the day out shopping with friends. They’d go out to eat, maybe purchase something for their grandchildren, and then she’d return home this afternoon to a beautifully clean house. Her husband would be dozing on the couch and the tv volume would be up too high. She’d smile to herself as she shuffles inside to place her purchases from the day on the kitchen island to sort through later. They were nothing but a sweet, old couple. That was all. They meant Lucy no harm.

She finished cleaning the two items with a new found sense of peace. The nagging, anxiety fear still lay crouched in wait in the shadows of her brain but she could hold it off for now. Whoever was home was sleeping. They didn’t hear her call out when she entered. They were either dead asleep or hard of hearing. Either way, she would be safe. No one here was going to harm her. 

This client asked for you specifically.

“Get your shit together, Luce. You’re becoming unhinged,” she mumbled under her breath.

A new plan of action formed in front of her eyes. She would clean the upstairs first. This client asked for no bedrooms to be cleaned, only the upstairs bathroom and entire downstairs. If she cleaned that bathroom quickly and quietly, hopefully whoever was up there…the sweet, gentle old man with kind eyes…probably…would stay asleep or stay in his room and not bother her. 

She grabbed her bucket and mop before silently ascending up the steps. She’d mastered the art of stealth as a child. Tiptoeing around parents with severe anger issues and crappy foster homes became a means of survival for her young self. It helped her now as she climbed the creaky wooden steps making as minimal noise as possible. The longer the stranger slept, the easier her life would be. She could be in and out of the bathroom in twenty minutes tops. Then the entire upstairs would be left for her stranger and she could work on the downstairs in peace. 

The second floor of the house was simple. There were three doors along the hallway. The only open one was the bathroom. She plopped her bucket on the closed toilet lid and started removing her things. Usually she’d be throwing on her headphones by now but she wanted to have all her senses on high alert. If the stranger came out of their room, she would hear it. Lucy closed the bathroom mostly shut, leaving an inch crack so she could hear better, and started to fill her bucket under the bathtub faucet. While it was filling, she started wiping down the sink surface with some bleach wipes. When she finished, she tossed them her trash bag and turned to check on the bucket. 

“Oh!” She gasped when she noticed the change.

The water coming out had turned brown and thick, almost resembling mud. She quickly turned it off. Inside her bucket was a mess of watered down earth. Bits of brown, dead grass floated on the surface next to chunks of dissolving soil. It looked like something she’d make on a hot summer’s day as a child. She’d call it Special Mud Soup and try to serve it to her friends while they sat around in their bathing suits and sprayed each other with the hose. She had no idea how something like this would come out of the pipes. Her best bet would be that there was a major leak underground somewhere. She was no plumber but even that felt like a stretch. 

Lucy leaned over to poke at the bucket. Perhaps this house wasn’t as lucky as she originally thought. Something was messing with the water in this city and the results weren’t pretty. She thought about dumping the bucket out into the tub but decided against it. It wasn’t like she’d be able to wash the dirt back down the drain with water. She’d be left scooping it out with her hands. 

She gave an annoyed sigh, grumbling to herself, “Guess I’ll dump it outside.” 

Lucy hoisted the heavy bucket into her arms. She kicked her foot through the door gap to pull it open. As she shuffled out into the hallway, desperately trying not to spill the sloshing liquid, the door beside her flung open. Before she could even turn her head to catch sight of the culprit, a heavy force sent her flying. The bucket launched from her protective arms. She heard it smash to the ground as she fell with it, sending the contents splattering across the floor and walls. Freezing cold, dirty water doused her leggings as she caught herself from hitting her face against the ground with her hands at the last second. A surprised yelp fell from her lips from the shock. 

Her survival instinct kicked in, not allowing her any time to process the spilled bucket or the fall, and she spun around onto her bottom, crawling quickly backwards away from the assailant and onto her feet. Lucy pressed herself against the dripping wall, her eyes wide with fear, as she locked onto the man who pushed her. Through her panic, her eyes focused on the face of a disheveled, half asleep man. His chestnut hair stuck out at all angles. His eyes matched her own wild gaze. His hands were stuck out in front of him, still locked in the position he had shoved her with. 

She knew this man. 

“Peter?” Her voice raised an octave in surprise.

He blinked, realization flickering across his face as his brows tugged together in confusion, “Lucy?” 

She responded with a slow nod, continuing to take him in. The lower half of his face was darkened with a thick stubble. He was wearing an old shirt, the print on the front so faded it was no longer legible, and covered in more holes than fabric. His legs were bare apart from his black boxer briefs clinging to his thick, muscular thighs. He looked like he had rolled out of bed and decided to choose violence this morning. 

“What the fuck?” Her voice was breathless and barely more than a whisper. 

She looked around at the mess he had created. Dirty water stained the white walls, leaving streaks of brown dripping down to the baseboards, and pools of it puddled along the hardwood. Her pants and socks were soaked through. 

Peter looked out of it. His eyes darted around the room like he was struggling to focus on just one thing. He resembled her father when he was searching for his next fix. The sight didn’t sit well with her. At least her racing heart was beginning to settle. While he looked slightly psychotic, she didn’t think Spider-Man posed any actual threat to her safety. 

“Why are you in my house? I thought you were…I don’t know…someone bad…” His voice trailed off, along with his attention span. He ran to the hallway window, completely ignoring the puddles he ran through on his way, and peered outside. Peter spun back around to zero in on her face after not finding whatever he was searching for, “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to shove you. I-” He hesitated, finally taking note of the mess around him, his shoulder’s sagging. “Well, shit.”

“Yeah. Well, shit.” Lucy crossed her arms. “Are you okay? You look…not all there. You’re making my job harder than it has to be.” 

“Is that why you’re here?” He asked, ignoring her inquiries about his mental state. The realization dawned on him and his lips parted into a silent ‘O’. “When I requested you to come clean our house this morning, I didn’t think it would happen today! I thought they would send you in, like, I don’t know, a week or something…” 

“Uh, nope. They sent me in today.”

A bashful look reddened his cheeks, “I wasn’t stalking you, if that’s what you think. But you showed me your name tag where you worked on your apron last night and I just figured that, uhm, it might be the only way to see you again. So I thought I would, I dunno, request you? No, that doesn’t sound right. I’m, uhm, I don’t know what I’m saying. I’ll stop talking now.” 

Lucy blinked, trying to process what he was saying, still reeling from her fall and the new mess, “What? You hired me to clean your house so you could see me again? The morning after my sister fell off a roof and was placed in psychiatric care?” She could feel the anger replacing her initial fear and confusion.

Peter shuffled his big toe into the floor and shrugged, looking ashamed, “I didn’t know it would be today! I was on my way back from walking my aunt to work. I don’t like it when she has to go in early and the suns not even out yet. I don’t like her walking around in the dark by herself. I went with her. And on the way home, I thought, ya know, I could stop by your work and request you. Then I go home, go back to bed, and next week you would come over and…clean…my house….it sounds terrible when I say it out loud!”

“You know where I live! You were literally at my apartment this morning! You left a note! Why not just ask me then?”

His shoulders were up at his ears in shame, “I don’t know! I’m bad at this stuff! Stop yelling at me!”

“No! Look at what you’ve done!” She waved her hand wildly in front of her to gesture at the mess. “Look at this. Your water is broken. I have no way to mop this. How do you expect me to clean this? I’m going to have to be on my hands and knees with paper towels and bleach wipes. I have no water to mop, Peter! You just added another hour onto my shift! I wanted to get done early so I could go visit Liv!” 

“I’m sorry!” He whined, sounding more and more like a scolded child the longer she berated him. “I didn’t mean to. I fucked up, alright? I’ll clean it. And what do you mean our water is brok-'' He stopped mid sentence, his face paling and eyes flashing to alert. His head snapped around as he turned in a full circle like he was searching for something again. 

Before she could ask, he shoved past here and ran down the stairs. Lucy looked around in confusion. There was nothing out of the ordinary that she could see. Whatever he could sense was beyond her plane of reality. 

“What’s going on?” She yelled down, following after him. 

Peter stood in the living room, remote control clutched in his hand. Despite whatever impending danger he seemed to sense, her eyes couldn’t help but travel down his tight boxer clad ass. His calf muscles stood pronounced against his toned legs. He looked like he couldn’t care less to be running around with no pants on and she had to admire the confidence. She gave her head a quick shake and focused her attention on the television screen to divert it away from her wandering, debaucherous thoughts. He had turned it onto the local news station. A woman was frantically reporting down by the East River but it looked like a disaster had hit. There were floods of pooling water and debris scattered everywhere. It resembled the aftermath of a hurricane. She was in the midst of yelling something as Peter turned up the volume. 

“-completely draining the river! He was last seen making his way towards the center of the borough! The mayor has urged Queen’s residents to stay inside their houses! It is unknown what kind of damage this creature is capable of causing. Be on high alert and stay inside!” 

While she spoke her last sentence, recent video footage from a few moments prior began to play. Lucy took a step closer to get a better look. A giant man-like creature was rising out of the water. He seemed to be made entirely of water but was in the vague shape of a man. As he grew, he sucked up all the water around him, making him bigger by the second. He towered over the river. People ran screaming as a tidal wave of dirty water crashed down on them, sweeping them off their feet, and out the frame. 

“Holy shit,” Lucy breathed in quiet horror. “What is that thing?”

Peter didn’t answer. He turned and dashed back up the stairs. She could hear him dart into his bedroom, banging around up there, as she turned back to the tv. The creature’s attention was now aimed at the camera. He knew it was there and he was deliberately putting on a show, about to send out a direct message to the one man he wanted to find. 

“Get! Me! Spider-Man!” He boomed, flecks of water splattered over the camera lens before the footage went black.

The woman returned onto the screen, continuing to urge residents that the creature they dubbed as Hydro-Man was heading this way and to stay inside. 

“Lucy!” Peter called from upstairs. 

She pulled her attention away from television and towards the windows. Peter’s street looked normal. Quiet. There was nothing going on outside to indicate potential doom or inevitable destruction. It looked like a beautiful, peaceful winter morning. 

“Lucy!” He yelled again, more demanding this time. 

She tore her eyes from the windows and jogged up the stairs towards him. Her foot slipped out from under as her wet sock skidded through a puddle. 

“Shit,” she cried, grabbing herself on the wall before she could fall. “What!?”

When she rounded the corner, she came face to face with a maskless Spider-Man. Peter gripped his arms on either side of her shoulders. His face held a look of determination but she could sense the fear being pushed down under the surface. 

“Stay here,” he ordered. “Don’t worry about cleaning up. It’s fine. My aunt doesn’t even know I hired a house cleaning service. I’ll tell her I spilled the water. I need you to stay here. Lock yourself in my bedroom. Sit on the bed. Read a book. Twiddle your thumbs. I don’t care what you do but do not move. Got it?” 

The urgency in his voice was enough for her to know not to argue with him. She had no intentions of leaving his house with that creature on the loose. 

Lucy nodded in response, her eyes wide with alarm, “What are you going to do?”

Peter shrugged, releasing his grip on her, and tugging his mask over his face, “I’m going to go fight him until he’s no longer a threat.” 

She swallowed, the uncertainty clear in her voice, “How are you supposed to fight water? Won’t you go right through him?” 

He didn’t answer. 

Instead he turned around, threw open his window, and jumped out. A single web shot out to attach to the glass and slammed the window shut behind him. 

Silence filled the room. 

Lucy’s chest heaved with short, panicked breaths. She hadn’t even realized how close to hyperventilating she was becoming. Her panic wasn’t even because of the threat of a monster. Stuff like that was freakishly common in the city. Her panic stemmed from being attacked from behind earlier. Her fingers shook as she raised them to her face, rubbing her eyes. This was not the morning she had prepared for when she woke up. 

“You’re safe,” she muttered to herself. Talking out loud often helped. It was like there was another person whispering comforts in her ear. “It was just Spider-Man. He won’t hurt you. Peter is not them. He is not a part of that. He fights against people like that. You are safe.”

While she struggled to calm her racing heart, Lucy tried not to think of Spider-Man going up against a giant water monster. What had the news woman called it? Hydro-Man? Spider-Man and Hydro-Man. A man with spider abilities fighting a man with water abilities. She hopes their fighting skills were better than their naming skills. The thought made her give a breathless, nervous chuckle. If he was going out to risk his life for the city first thing in the morning, the least she could do was clean up the spill in the hallway for him. Lucy turned out of Peter’s bedroom, disregarding his plea to stay put, to walk across the hall into the bathroom. She pulled open the free standing linen closet tucked into the corner and started piling some towels into her arms.

A loud rattling sound coming from behind her grabbed her attention away. 

Lucy spun around to come face to face with the bathtub, the towels falling from her grasp to her feet. The shower head was violently shaking. The pipes tucked inside the walls began wailing as they shook back and forth. It was like an earthquake was happening inside the plumbing while the rest of the house sat perfectly untouched. A weighty feeling of dread sunk into her stomach.

“Peter?” His name fell from her lips as if she could summon him with merely her voice. 

In a perfect response to her cry for help, the shower head forcibly shot off the attached pipe and landed with a deafening crack against the bottom of the tub. A rift split through the porcelain in a spiderweb of tiny fissures from the force at which it landed. Water rushed out of the exposed pipe. Heavy pressure like a firehose coming to life before her eyes. Her face was pelted with the icy shards of sharp water drops as they bounced off every surface. 

Lucy let out an involuntary scream. The shriek was immediately drowned out by the sounds of rushing water. A wave washed over the side of the tub in a cascade of dirty, brown water filled with bits of earth. She tried to push her way towards the safety of the open door but the water was faster. The force of it slammed the door shut, locking her in. The frigid water started to pool over her feet, numbing her already cold toes, and clawing up her ankles. Two large hands formed around her calves as the water took shape. They jerked her feet out from under her. Her balance was lost. Lucy came crashing down hard onto the solid bathroom tiles as the water continued to rise. Her head momentarily went under, her scream silenced as water flooded into her lungs, before she broke through the surface once more. 

She sputtered and gagged. Her brain went numb. Her lungs constricted from the polar shock of being suddenly submerged under the frigid water. Uncontrollable, gasping breaths took over any rational thought she could have. Lucy pulled herself up onto the toilet in a desperate attempt to get out of the rising water. Her blueing lips chattered and her wild eyes caught sight of the creature taking shape amongst the sloshing. 

A man started to form in the middle of the room. His body sucked in the water as he grew. The creature was featureless in appearance but it was clear that this was man. A dark, open watery hole widened where his mouth should be and twisted into a deranged smile. His face towered over Lucy as he leaned in closer like he was curiously inspecting the person in front of him. 

“And what do we have here?” His gargling voice sent the hairs on her arms to stand on end. 

Whether from the cold or fear, she couldn’t control her body’s violent shaking. 

“Peter…” She cried in desperation once more.

Chapter Four

[Chapter Index]

A/N: Oh look, I come out of hiatus to give you all something literally no one wants or asked for! But I enjoy rewriting a director’s cut of this story and that’s what matters. You gotta write what makes you happy even if it doesn’t spark interest for others. Write for you and no one else...I tell myself daily to keep from sticking my head in an oven. (jokes) 

[randomestfandoms-ocs]

Nicole Rogers ✤ Prodigal Daughter

So show me where my armour ends,

Nicole Rogers would love to say that she’d always known she was special, but that wasn’t quite true.  She’d always known she was weird.  Different.  It wasn’t until she was sixteen and her parents told her the truth about her parentage that she understood why she was the way that she was.  She had been made in a lab, from the only preserved DNA of Captain America himself.  But Captain America was long gone, deceased in 1945, and Nicole felt that it was her duty to carry on his legacy.  It just so happened that at the same time that Wonder Girl was making her first appearance, so too was another new hero: Spider-Man.

Show me where my skin begins.

[cotton-candy-haze]

AJ, Abigail, Abby ~ Soldier, Poet, King

There will come a soldier Who carries a mighty sword He will tear your city down Oh lei, oh lai, oh, Lord

There will come a poet Whose weapon is His word He will slay you with His tongue Oh lei, oh lai, oh, Lord

There will come a ruler Whose brow is laid in thorn Smeared with oil like David's boy Oh lei, oh lai, oh, Lord

[goest-and-fuckest-thyself]

I can’t help thinking about TASM!Peter Parker trying to be super gentle with human!reader when he fucks them. His superhuman strength makes it hard to gauge how much force he’s using while he’s thrusting. I love the idea of Peter being all soft and caring like,

“Are you sure I’m not hurting you?”

Reader rolls their eyes and kisses him, “We have a safe word for a reason, Petey.”

[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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[mjmikaelson]

POLIN MODERN AU — SPIDERMAN🕷️

— Colin Parker and Penelope Watson

[tsundere-snow-white]

Please don't skip my message 🍉🇵🇸 to our honorable people in the world My name is Abdul Rahman from Gaza.. I lost everything in life.. My wife was martyred and my child and I were injured by a missile that fell on us.. My life was completely destroyed and I was severely injured all over my body especially my legs.. The missile tore my wife apart while she was carrying our child.. I ask for your support to start my life anew and overcome the tragedy I am going through.. Please help me with any amount no matter how small to treat my injury and my child's injury and get out of the Gaza Strip and start a better life.. And spread my campaign and my story so that everyone can see it 🍉🍉🇵🇸🇵🇸

https://gofund.me/c810ba27

PLEASE SHARE!!!!

I really wish I was rich enough to get to everyone and to give as much as I could—

But I can only try my best to push and get your story seen, so I urge anyone with the money to donate! Even if you can't, please share!!!! 🫶

It CAN and WILL make a difference if just one more pair of eyes see their stories!

I beg of you to put yourself in the shoes of people like Abdul Rahman and show empathy. If it were you, wouldn't you want the world to help?

(Random tags for better reach)

[akairawrites]

THE AMAZING SPIDER MAN READER INSERT| pt3

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As you entered the house, you called out, "Mom! I'm home!" you closed the door using your foot and set your bag down on the floor. Walking into the kitchen, you filled a pot with water and placed it on the stove, patiently waiting for it to come to a boil. Once the water was ready, you carefully poured it into a cup and gently placed a tea bag inside. Balancing the cup, you carried it into the bedroom where your mother was resting. Placing the steaming cup on the bedside table, you switched on the lamp to bring a warm glow to the room.

"Hey, Mom," you said softly, leaning over the bed to gently wake the woman in front of you. Her eyelids fluttered open, and a small smile graced her face as her eyes met yours. You carefully helped her sit up in bed and handed her the steaming cup of tea. "Be careful, it's hot," you cautioned, picking up the TV remote and switching on her favorite channel.

You sat at the edge of the bed and observed her every move as she gingerly lifted the teacup to her lips, taking small, hesitant sips. The smile that had graced your face vanished as you noticed the pain and exhaustion etched on her features. You shifted your gaze downward, absently fidgeting with the textured fabric of the bedsheets, feeling a pang of concern for her well-being.

You observed her discreetly positioning the cup in her lap as she sat down before addressing you. "So, how was school?" Her voice was gentle, yet fragile. You lifted your gaze at the sound of her question. "Everything's fine," you replied with a nonchalant shrug, not feeling particularly compelled to share. "And your internship?" she inquired further.

“Uh everything's great, I like working with Dr.Conners more than I thought I would, actually.”

There was a moment of silence that hung heavily in the air., filled with unspoken words and shared understanding. Your mother glanced at you, her eyes searching for something beyond your words. "I'm glad to hear that, sweetie," she said softly, reaching out to squeeze your hand.

You squeezed back, feeling the frailty in her grip, not wanting to let go. "How are you feeling today?" you asked, your concern evident in your voice.

She smiled weakly. "Better, now that you're here. You always bring such light into the room." Her words were tender, and you felt a lump form in your throat.

"Mom, you know I'm always here for you," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I just wish I could do more."

"You are doing more than enough' she reassured you. "just being here, being you, is more than I could ever ask for."

You sat there for a while, holding her hand, letting the warmth of your presence speak volumes. The TV played softly in the background, but neither of you paid much attention to it. the bond between you and your mother transcended for each other no matter what.

After a while, you stood up, gently placing her hand back on the bed. "I should let you rest," you said, smoothing the covers around her. "Call me if you need anything, okay?"

She nodded, her eyes already growing heavy with sleep. "I will. Thank you, sweetheart."

As you left the room, you felt a mixture of relief and sadness. Relief that she seemed a bit better, and sadness at the fragility of her condition. You returned to the kitchen to grab your bag and headed straight for your room. You pulled your homework from your backpack and opened your bedroom window. The cool night air hit you in your face, and the sounds of honking horns and people yelling filled the New York night. The air wasn't blowing too hard, so it was a perfect roof night you grabbed your homework and placed it down on the metal railing of the fire escape.

You placed your hands flat on the wall and let the tip of your toes stick to the wall as well. Slowly, you began scaling the wall just like a spider. Not long after, you reached the roof, where you sat down on the shingles and looked down to see your paperwork. Quickly, you flicked your wrist and spider-like weds shot from your arm and gripped onto the paper swiftly catching it as it came to you.

With your homework secured, you spread the papers out in front of you and began working; the rooftop offering a surprisingly serene environment. The occasional gust of wind ruffled the pages, but you used your webs to anchor them down.

As you worked, your mind drifted to Peter Parker and the uneasy feeling in your gut. You knew exactly what it meant; you just didn't want to believe it. Four months ago, you discovered your newfound abilities but hadn't told anyone, not even Dr. Conners. The thought that someone like Peter could have abilities like yours scared you.

No offense.

The next day at school, you spotted Peter in the hallway at his locker. Your heart rate quickened as you approached, a strange mix of curiosity and anxiety bubbling up inside you. You tried not to make eye contact, determined to keep your head down and walk past without acknowledging him, but that same unsettling feeling you had at the Oscorp lab tugged at you, urging you to look his way.

Despite your efforts to avoid him, Peter suddenly turned, his eyes locking onto yours as if he could sense your presence. For a moment, time seemed to slow, and the noise of the bustling hallway faded into the background. The air between you was thick with unspoken tension.

Neither of you spoke, but the intensity of the moment spoke volumes. In his eyes, you saw the same confusion and uncertainty that had plagued you for months. It was as if he knew what you were hiding, and somehow, you knew he was hiding something too. The silence between you was heavy, filled with the weight of secrets.

You walked away, your heart pounding in your chest. As you walked away one thing was clear: whatever was happening to you, Peter was somehow a part of it.

Later on that same day, word about what happened with Peter and Flash spread around quickly. You thought it was about time to confront him about what you knew. Luckily enough for you, you didn't have to search the whole school. He was standing at the end of the hall with an older gentleman.

He seemed to notice you first, saying something to Peter before nodding in your direction, causing Peter to turn and look at you. You offered them both a tight-lipped smile. Peter’s uncle said something to him again before walking away, leaving Peter to slowly turn back toward you with a breathless laugh.

"Uh, that was my uncle... he told me to tell you how pretty you are."

"Really?" you replied, caught off guard and unsure of how to respond.

"Yeah..." he said quietly, his eyes dropping to the floor.

You nodded, eager to shift the conversation. "So, did you get expelled?" you asked, referencing the basketball incident.

“No, not expelled,” he said, shaking his head with a faint smile. “But I did get a few hours of community service.”

For a moment, an awkward silence hung between you, both but you cleared your heart pounded in your chest, from the weight of what you were about to say. You knew you couldn’t keep dancing around it any longer.

Taking a deep breath, you decided to just rip off the band-aid. “Peter,” you began, your voice slightly shaky, “I know about the spider.”

Peter’s eyes shot up, wide with surprise and a hint of fear. “What… what are you talking about?” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid someone might overhear.

You glanced around to make sure no one was listening, then leaned in slightly closer. “The spider from Oscorp. The one that bit you,” you said softly, watching his face closely for any sign of denial.

Peter’s face paled, and he instinctively took a step back, his mind clearly racing. “How do you—?”

You interrupted gently, trying to keep your voice steady. “It happened to me too.”

For a moment, Peter just stared at you, his expression hard to read. It was as if the weight of his secret was suddenly shared, and he didn’t know whether to be scared or relieved.

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” he finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You shrugged, trying to hide your own nervousness. “I didn’t know how. I mean, this isn’t exactly something you bring up in casual conversation, right? But I’ve noticed things, Peter. It's like something told me. And when I heard what had happened in the gym…I just knew.”

Peter didn’t say anything else; he just looked at you, his expression unreadable. You furrowed your brows, wondering what was going through his head, but he remained silent.

"Look," you finally said, breaking the silence, "I’m going to be at Oscorp later. If you want to talk more about this, meet me there." You turned on your heels, not waiting for a response, and started making your way down the hall.

"I gotta go," you added over your shoulder before disappearing around the corner, leaving Peter standing there, watching you until you were out of sight.

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[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

[bunbunbl0gs]

harry osborn

masterlist

other masterlist

[reidslovely]

Loves Never Lost (If Your Love is in Trouble Rewrite)

The Prologue

Chapter Warning: Death. Literally everywhere.

Glass crunched around his feet as he landed, the web that brought him down snapping and dissipating into thin air almost how the oxygen left in his lungs. His breath was rigid and tight as he watched her dangling there. Head back, her back arched as the web held her up, there was something pale and ghostly about her. He reached his hand out to touch her, taking the fallen girl into his arms as Peter cradled her as tenderly as he could. Gentle as if she was fine china he’s placed behind glass for a special occasion. He dropped to his knees the woman he loved laying across his lap as he pushed hair from her face. Blood trickled from her nose, slowly over her cheek and onto his suit.

There was no movement as he shook her, whimpering out a soft “No..no. Hey..hey.” 

His gloved hand patted at her cheek waiting for her to stir. 

A loud, hyena type laugh could be heard from above him. It was followed by a loud intake of air and a whimper of pain. 

“Oh Peter.” The voice taunted, tired and worn out. “What have you done?” 

Months earlier…

Peter’s back pressed against the siding of the house, a tough and worn brick scratching into the freshly abused skin on his back. He hissed to himself, out of both boredom and pain, tossing the biochem book he’d picked up from campus earlier to the side. Sitting up on the old brownstone gave him a whole view of the Queens’ neighborhood, and an even better view of a certain window on the left side of the house across the street. Peter would have noticed those sheer blue curtains anywhere. A scent of salted caramel and vanilla that was nothing but a memory danced around him as he watched her pad across the floor of her childhood room. A room he knew like the back of his hand and every freckle on her body, a room he’d found himself in far too many times. 

It was like watching a ghost wonder around a haunted house. Though when thinking about a ghost you think of soft movements, quiet and quick. Not hers. She was clumsy and in a rush. Her hair, seemingly freshly dyed a bright red, clipped up as she dug through her clothes. Her soft white robe slipped from her shoulder as she dug. Peter stared for far too long, watching her with his head perched on his knees. 

He was the ghost. 

That fact was evident when he saw the way her face contorted into all the stages of grief as she caught his eye. He’d felt like a kid who’d been caught in the middle of stealing sweets before dinner. His hand turned up in a nervous wave as he watched her. His first acknowledgement of her in almost two years. The simple motion set off the drill in the center of his brain, however, she waved back. Drawing her curtains shut after a few seconds. He wondered if that was it. That was the start of the stranger phase. 

“Peter!” The sudden appearance of May’s voice drew his eyes downward. His aunt stood on the sidewalk, grocery bags in her arms, the trunk of the car open. “A little help please.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Be right down.” 

Peter crawled back into his window, taking a quick look across the street seeing her glancing between the curtains, eyes searching for something she might have lost. Peter drew in a soft breath and in return drew his black out curtain closed. 

Writing has been hard the last couple months. I have wanted to have an ongoing fic, and I wanted to continue the plot for my 'If You Love is in Trouble" fic I stopped writing a few months back. I have had a lot of mental health problems pop up within the last few months and it has been very hard for me to write and feel like I have a space. So I'm back with a rewrite of a fic I was originally very excited to write.

Let's hope I can finish this one out- please have patience as I am finding my footing again. Thank you, love y'all.

Taglist: @someblessedmonster @juhdoche @nososhortbee @moonyslove78 @helloheyhihowdyheya @sincericida @tarzinnia @a-lumos-in-the-nox @adhdhufflepuff @messymissy @hollandweather @toomanyfictionalboyfriends @eevylynn @ateliefloredeprimavera @liz-allyn @ainsley-official

[imagines--galore]

Hi hi ^^

For the writers questions, here are my numbers :

7, 15 & 31

If you're not comfortable answering, feel free to not do it 🙏

I wish you a wonderful day sweetie 🌸

Thank you so much for the questions!

Share a snippet from one of your favorite pieces of prose you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

Oh gosh! I have so many pieces which I ADORE and am so proud of! I'm gonna list a couple of them here! They are all placed at random and I dunno, I'm just really proud of what I wrote in them :D The Thread of Fate - Avatar The Last Airbender - Zuko x OC Theatrics - Avatar The Last Airbender - Zuko x Reader I Will Always Choose You - Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood - Roy x Reader Convince Me & I'm Convinced - Justice League - Superman aka Clark Kent x Reader Empowering - Marvel - Captain America aka Steve Rogers x Reader Bleeding Love - Marvel - Dr. Strange x Reader My Heart Calls Your Name - Pirates of the Caribbean - Will Turner x Reader The Consulting Detective and The Serial Killer - Sherlock - Sherlock x Reader Chasing Away The Darkness - Star Trek - Spock x Reader A Nonverbal Confession - Amazing Spiderman - Peter x Reader My Prayer, My Light, My Fëa - The Lord of the Rings - Legolas x Reader Written In The Stars - The Lord of the Rings - Legolas x Reader

If you could choose one of your fics to be filmed, which would you choose?

Definitely The Thread of Fate! All because I would LOVE to see Orora, my oc, in action and see the lore I've created for the thread of fate merge with the ATLA Universe. Also because I would love to have some art of Orora! I can't draw AT ALL. So having a visual for her would be amazing!

Do you take liberties with canon or are you very strict about your fic being canon compliant?

Well......I do take some liberties, I mean it IS FANFICTION. But I do tend to stick to the canon events especially when those events might be important to any of the canon characters. I mean I want my OC or Reader Inserts to be fun but I also don't want then to steal another character's thunder! So yeah!

[blooming-violets]

Yo, listen up, you all need to go read this fic right now. If you're like me and you like dark things that make you rage and scream into a pillow and want to bash your head into the wall and then have a panic attack, then this is the fic for you.

I fucking loved it.

[cotton-candy-haze]

Abigail “AJ” Hayden

“I hate this house. I hate these people.”

“Being raised by cold eyes taught me not to cry.”

“I exist too much, I feel too much, I think too much. Reality is crushing the life out of me.”

✵ Pinterest Board ✵

✵ World: The Amazing Spider-Man ✵

✵ Faceclaim: Alexandra Breckenridge ✵

✵ Full Name: Abigail Joy Hayden ✵

✵ Nickname: AJ ✵

✵ Birthday: January 10th, 1995 ✵

✵ Abilities: ✵ She is extremely talented when it comes to anything computer-related, whether that be physically taking them apart and putting them back together or dealing with software and coding issues. She is also very good at hacking and has used it to get into (and out of) trouble on more than one occasion.

✵ Relationships: ✵ Damien Hayden (Father, Estranged) Adelaide Kelley (Mother, Estranged) Nisay Khim (Ex-Step-Father, Estranged) Eve Khim (Older Half-Sister, Estranged) Peter Parker (Friend/Love Interest, Alive)

ﾟ･:†┏┛ Backstory ┗┓†:･ﾟ

AJ was born as a result of an ongoing affair that her mother had behind her husband’s back. When AJ was born and her mother’s husband found out, he immediately divorced her and left his family behind. For the first few years of AJ’s life, she was raised by her mother who split her time between her apartment where she took care of her older daughter Eve and AJ’s father’s apartment where she took care of AJ. She was technically also raised by her father, since she lived in his apartment, but he was barely around. It wasn’t until she was around four years old, and her mother just stopped showing up, that her father even tried to put any effort into raising her. Even then, he did a pretty terrible job of it. He was an addict and he worked odd jobs to put food on the table or get money to feed his addiction, but he never could hold down an actual career. And, to make matters worse, he never even wanted a kid, so AJ’s presence in his apartment never did anything but annoy him. As she started to grow up, his resentment for her to grew and he became emotionally and verbally abusive to her. For a while, that was as far as things got and AJ could usually escape by locking herself in her room until his anger died down.

But things changed one day when AJ was nine years old. Usually her father would leave her money if he was going to be gone for a while, but he forgot to on this particular day. By the time evening came around, AJ had already eaten the few bits of food she could find in the fridge and she was starting to get hungry, so she stole some money out of her father’s nightstand. She snuck down to the corner store, bought herself some food, and returned the change all before her dad came back home. But when he came back the next morning, he immediately noticed that some money was missing. He had been drinking and he was already having a terrible day, so this was the last straw for him. He stormed into AJ’s room and started to throw her around and before he realized what he was doing he had thrown her through the window. The glass broke and cut up her face, but she was lucky they lived on the first floor. She landed on the sidewalk, managed to stand up, and just started running. She didn’t stop until a cop approached her and took her to the hospital. She told them everything that happened, they sent someone to arrest her father, and someone from CPS came to talk to her. They tried contacting her mother, but she said she wanted nothing to do with AJ and willingly terminated her parental rights. With her father going to prison and with her having no other living family, AJ was placed in a group home until they could find her a better placement.

AJ stayed in that group home for several months, during which she ran away on more than one occasion, before she was finally moved into an actual foster home. After a year in this foster home, her father was released from prison and a CPS worker came to talk to her. She claimed that her father’s rights technically hadn’t been terminated and that he still had a chance to get her back if he proved he was clean and he wouldn’t pose a threat to her again. AJ ran away from her foster home that night. They found her and brought her back and this began the cycle of AJ being bounced between half a dozen foster homes. Sometimes her father would try to visit her and she would run to get away, and sometimes she ran away just because she could. Then, the summer before AJ started high school, she was placed with a new family. They were the first family not to force her to visit with her father, so she decided to stay. No longer busy with the constant bouncing between foster homes, AJ could finally just do things she enjoyed. She tried a dozen different hobbies until she realized she liked skateboarding and that she really enjoyed hacking. She got really good with computers and, one day during her sophomore year, she hacked into the school’s system to play a prank. They realized it was her and she got sent to detention where she met Peter Parker for the first time. They became good friends after that first meeting and, little by little, AJ realized she was falling for him.

[goest-and-fuckest-thyself]

I’ve had a continuing dream for the last three nights in a row, and I need to figure out WHO the man is that keeps popping up and rescuing me!!! Like, excuse me, dream guy, where are you in the real world so I can thank you and buy you a cup of coffee?!

*whispers* and maybe you can kiss me the way you do in my dreams😅👉🏻👈🏻

[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.

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