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artyandink · 28 days

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𝙾𝙻𝙳 𝙵𝙰𝚂𝙷𝙸𝙾𝙽𝙴𝙳 | bartender!dean winchester

Summary: Dean Winchester needs a job after his little brother left for Stanford, and he’s good at mixing drinks. You happen to work at Harvelle’s Roadhouse, which is the place he chose to work at. He finds a family. He finds a new life. But he also finds you. But you have problems of your own.

A/N - My first reader series, do make sure to comment and/or reblog feedback. Set with S1/2 Dean cause I love our baby boy 😁 and pretend group chats exist on old phones lol

A/N 2 - All the chapters are named after drinks. The intensity of the chapter depends on the drink I chose for the title :) and banners are by @cafekitsune

TW: Alcohol (duh), mentions of drugs, roofies, abuse, mentions of abuse/r@pe, smoking, Ruby (she’s a warning in itself), unhinged group chat (also a warning in itself)

two - daiquiri

Megolodon: Cassieeee

Casanova: What?

Megolodon: You’re late

You: Yeahhhh, we’ve been waiting for weeks

Ben Dover: Sabbatical’s over, brother

Casanova: I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.

Ruby-gina George: To hell with fifteen minutes, get your ass over here

Megolodon: Listen to the nice lady

Ruby-gina George: Shut up

Megolodon: Bite me

Ruby-gina George: Keep it up and I just might

Megolodon: I bet you’d like to

bDe: didn’t know you two swung that way

You: Neither did I

Ruby-gina George: WAIT NO

ScarJo: That’s news to me

Ben Dover: News to all of us, darling

Queen B: I leave for FIVE MINUTES and we’re already out of the closet

Ruby-gina George: NO CLOSETS

Ruby-gina George: HELL NO

Ruby-gina George: NO CLOSETS

Megolodon: THAT WASN’T THE MEANING-

ScarJo: We accept you, dw

Ruby-gina George: die in a hole

bDe: sounds like overcompensating

Ruby-gina George: ALL OF YOU DIE IN A HOLE

The clink of glasses filled the atmosphere, along with merry shouts, whistles and cheers as glass after glass slammed down onto the counter. But it wasn’t patrons, no. Afternoons were always chilled out, since not many patrons stopped by. The evenings always got the raunchiest. So here you all were, egging on Castiel and Benny in a shot contest. There were five shots of the Roadhouse’s strongest bottle of hard liquor, and you were all seeing who could down them the fastest. None of the people in the room were lightweights. There were lightweights, heavyweights, and then there were the bartenders at the Roadhouse, who Meg liked to call ‘jumbo-weights’.

“DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!” You were yelling, your voice mixed with those of Dean, Meg, Bela, Ruby and Jo. Benny finished first, slamming down the shot glass and whooping loudly, not even that buzzed while Cas dejectedly sipped his last shot, having missed by the fraction of a second.

“Cassie, sweetie, don’t beat yourself up about it.” Meg purred, gripping Cas’ shoulders tightly from behind. “You’re out of practice.”

“Or maybe I’m just good at throwing ‘em back.” Benny smirked, but then his smile dropped. “That sounded better in my head.”

“Glad we can agree.” You snickered, then cleared up the shot glasses. “C’mon, what next?”

“Meg.” Ruby shot up from her seat, beckoning her over. “You. Me. Shot challenge. Now.”

“So polite.” Meg drawled, but got up anyway, a familiar sultry smile on her lips as she lined up for the competition. “Bring it on, darling, I can do this in my sleep.” Benny racked the shots, a giggle coming from your mouth as Dean awkwardly looked to Castiel.

“I don’t think we’ve met.” Dean smiled, putting his hand out. “Dean. Winchester.”

“Castiel Novak, but everyone calls me Cas.” Cas shook Dean’s hand, finding himself warming up to this stranger.

“Cas.” Dean repeated under his breath, then nodded. “Alright, Cas. Let’s get you some water to wash down that hard liquor.”

“That would be ideal.” Cas nodded, instantly following Dean. In the meantime, Ruby and Meg were slamming back shots, and Ruby was just tagging behind Meg. You were egging them on, but you noticed something. Ruby usually downed shots easy as breathing. Now she wasn’t, which confused you. However, you brushed it off. It couldn’t be something bad. Your resident Regina George always was tough as hell.

Ruby-gina George: Been there, done that messed around

Megolodon: I'm having fun, don't put me down

Ruby-gina George: I'll never let you sweep me off my feet

Megolodon: THIS TIME BABY, I’LL BE BULLETPROOFFFFFF

You: WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOUUUUUUU

bDe: *dies of laughter*

ScarJo: I’ve been on a beer run for FIVE MINUTES and y’all go mad

Queen B: Tsk tsk, eyes on the road, hon

ScarJo: Joke’s on you, I’m in the store

Ben Dover: Damn, how’d you get there so fast

ScarJo: I stole the keys to Val

Queen B: explosion incoming-

You: You did WHAT?!

ScarJo: I’M SORRY SHE’S A FAST CAR

You: YOU’RE GONNA PAY

Megolodon: Girlie, it’s just a car

Ruby-gina George: how dare you, Val’s a masterpiece

Megolodon: I mean, she shouldn’t take it that heavily

bDe: no she absolutely should, go to town sweetheart

You: THANK YOU

Ben Dover: Dean, brother, don’t encourage that behaviour

bDe: i will

Ben Dover: What if someone stole your car, then

bDe: murder

ScarJo: oh wow

You: SOMEONE GETS IT

bDe: lots of murder

Ben Dover: Brother-

bDe: torture first

bDe: lots of torture, then a whole lotta murder

ScarJo: Benny, you chose the wrong role models

You: shut up, YOU TOOK VAL

bDe: then more murder, and i’m gonna throw the bodies in a lake, no one will ever know

Ruby-gina George: Hold up, I’m coming with you

You: Jo, I’ve got your gravestone prepped

ScarJo: And you say we’re unhinged

You: Get your ass back to the roadhouse

bDe: i’ll get away with it, I swear

Megolodon: Why am I actually enjoying this

bDe: if I can’t have my baby, no one can

Evenings were always the more raunchy of times at the Roadhouse. The bar was now full of chatting passers-by, girls dressed in skimpy clothes and biker boys with tattoos winding around their necks. The shift today was yours, Ruby’s, Dean’s and Meg’s. There were an overwhelming amount of females working at the Roadhouse, if you were incredibly honest. As for the employees not working behind the bar, they were roughing it up at a booth, hollering and hooting like owls at a baseball game.

“So, darlin’, what do you do in your free time?” Dean asked you, cleaning out a glass with a rag and shooting a wink to a couple of giggling girls nearby. You poured a whiskey for a patron, sliding it across the table.

“Well, I’m a big fan of joyrides.” You answered with a goofy grin. “My Mustang’s always fun to take a spin in.” The mention of your Mustang got Dean’s eyebrows up to his hairline as he pointed out of the window.

“That beaut’s yours?” He exclaimed in disbelief, laughing. “Damn. That’s a serious muscle car.”

“Yeah, my Valkyrie. Val’s my sweetheart, always will be.” You looked up wistfully at the mention of your beloved car. “And your Chevy Impala, she’s absolutely gorgeous. I could listen to her purr all day.”

“That’s my Baby.” He bore the same wistful look you did, then nudged you. “We should take ‘em out for spins. Y’know, joyrides.”

“You sure?” You chuckled, looking up at him. “I don’t drive easy.”

“Even better.” He gave you a little wink paired with a click of his tongue. He flipped a bottle in his hand, pouring a whiskey shot expertly and handing it to you. “Ma’am.”

“Sir.” You took the shot with a chuckle, sending the glass over to the sink. “Thanks, I needed that.”

“You’re very welcome.” He poured himself a shot and downed it, and you couldn’t help but focus slightly on his pouty, pink lips, almost hyper-fixating on them. But you tore your eyes away to serve a customer at the bar, a rather shady-looking guy who had a snake tattoo on his neck. He was also wearing sunglasses inside, which had Dean raising an eyebrow.

“You know who wears sunglasses inside?” He muttered into your ear as the man ordered a glass of Jack Daniel’s with his eyes on Meg. “Blind people… and douchebags.”

“I can’t fault you for that logic.” You laughed, pouring the man a glass and passing it to him as you turned back to Dean. “About that joyride, I’m down.”

His eyes lit up, a puppy-like grin now on his face as he fully faced you, elbow leaning on the counter. You couldn’t help but stare deep into those mossy eyes, mirroring the infectious smile on his face just as Meg stumbled up to you both with a groggy smile on your face, whiskey glass clutched tightly in her hand.

“You t-two look so… cute.” She giggled, leaning heavily on you. You saw the glass cup in her hand, and you caught a whiff of… Jack Daniel’s? “Smilin’ at each other, lovin’ each other, so adorable!” You raised an eyebrow, holding her steady as she continued to ramble. “You should marry each other. Ugh, I feel so… weird.”

“Does Meg usually get this slammed?” Dean whispered, and you shook your head, confused. That’s when Ruby sprang out from behind the bar, grabbing the guy by the scruff of his neck and slamming his head roughly down on the counter. “Woah, damn!”

“Ruby!” You gasped, but she snatched the glass from your hands and showed you the contents. There was a powdery white substance in it that you instantly recognised. “Damn it- she’s been roofied.”

“Bastard thought he was smooth with it.” She growled, holding the guy down. “It takes Meg a lot of strong tequila and a Long Island to make her that slammed.”

“I’m surprised you know that, but I’ll take your word for it.”

“I’m callin’ the police. Get this jackass locked up.” Dean glared daggers at who could’ve been Meg’s potential assaulter as he dialled the emergency number and explained the situation. Meg clung onto you, and you felt bad for her as you went to haul her off to bed, entertaining her every mindless babble about something or the other.

“You’re pretty.” Meg slurred as she hobbled with you. “You look like Rubes. She’s pretty too. Very pretty.”

“Yeah, she’s gorgeous.” You replied dryly, not out of disdain for Ruby but rather out of extreme concern for your friend. “Absolutely stunning.” Though there was part truth in that. You’d always wanted to be like Ruby- not give much of a damn. Able to speak every weird and/or rude comment that came to her mind and everyone would worship her for it. She could talk openly about where she came from, confidently, with a flick of her blonde hair and my-give-a-hoots-are-on-vacation attitude, but you weren’t inclined to open your mouth about it. “Let’s get you in here.”

You opened the door to your bedroom, limping to the bed and just letting Meg flop- “Wheeeeee!” She squealed as she went, but then was out cold the moment her face hit the mattress. You smiled at her antics despite the seriousness of the situation, drawing up your blanket and tucking her in, staying with her for a bit until you were sure she was ok. Then, as you descended the stairs, you’d found that the gang had cleared out the bar, which was helpful in the current climate. Especially now that the dude had been carted off to the nearest station.

You made eye contact with Ruby, who looked livid, but softened slightly when she saw you. “Is she ok?” She asked expectantly, and the tension seemed to lift a fraction when you nodded.

“We’re gonna have to tell my mom about this.” Jo sighed, drumming her fingers on the table. “She’s gonna be pissed.”

“The dude who tried his luck on Meg?” Dean shrugged, his brow furrowed a tad in concern. “His luck’s gonna say adiós once Ellen gets her hands on him.”

A few days later, you were up early, sat talking to Dean in one of the booths before you went on your joyride. The sun filtered in through rickety blinds, illuminating Dean’s emerald eyes as they gazed at you in a way that would bore through your soul. You hadn’t known Dean for more than a week, but he was such an easy person to be around. He was witty, but sometimes had trouble coming up with comebacks when flustered, had an easy demeanour while also seemingly being kind of lost himself. He was like a walking contradiction, and it intrigued you to no end. He could look like a sharp-jawed, drop dead gorgeous heartbreaker, but in his grey Henley, he just looked soft and innocent. Handsome and sweet.

Though, you knew he was too good for you. What with his smooth words, caring personality and overall just being Dean. You were, if anyone find out where you came from, a personified chessboard. Your entire being was checkered with black and white.

“C’mon.” He stood up, looking to the jukebox on the other side of the room. “Let’s dance.”

“Let’s what, sorry?” Your eyebrows raised slightly as he jogged over to the jukebox, playing Tiny Dancer by Elton John and outstretching his hand for you. “Oh, no, I’m not a dancer.”

“C’mon, don’t leave me hangin’ here.” Dean’s outstretched hand beckoned you over almost like a siren’s call, and what with his boyish grin, the charming sparkle in his eyes and the overall feeling of being wanted got you up with him and taking his calloused hand in your own, skin tingling with the feel of the ring on his finger, his own feeling sparks upon the silver band on your hand pressing against his warm skin. He drew you close, his arm around your waist in a sort of non-pervy way, like he wasn’t trying to force himself on you.

“Warning. I might step on your toes.” You gave him a look which was playfully serious, but Dean just gave you a cocky grin. Damn that smile.

“Just follow me, sweetheart, and you’ll be fine.” He raised the other hand that was already interlocked with his, the low rumble of his voice putting you at ease as he swayed you both from side to side, moving in a circle with a look in his eyes that he couldn’t explain as he gazed down at you. “See? You’re a goddamn natural.”

“Maybe I have a good teacher.” You replied smoothly, which seemed to stroke his ego, as he shot you a wink and a click of his tongue.

“Damn right, you do.” Dean gave you a bashful chuckle, then bit his lip as he smiled, both of you continuing the slow spin in a circle while Elton’s mellow voice hazed the atmosphere. “I’m gonna spin you, ok?”

“Don’t drop me.” You quipped, and he shook his head with a laugh.

“Don’t tempt me, darlin’.” He spun you out and then in, his arms crossed over your front.

“Did you have special dance lessons?” You asked with a giggle, holding his hands, his fingers gently rubbing and playing with yours. “You’re really good at this.”

“Well, my friend Bobby taught me.” Dean sighed into your ear, a low chuckle falling past his lips. “He’s a grouchy ol’ bastard, but I had a prom date that I needed to impress. Sadly, I never got to go with her. I was… sick… on the night of prom.” You brushed off the brief hesitancy, instead enjoying this brief moment of calm. Dean could tell that your nerves were frazzled from the events of Wednesday night. That’s the great thing about Dean. He reads people easily, all for his insistence on having no emotional intelligence whatsoever. You assumed that this was a distraction method.

“Ellen’s always been one for dancing.” You mentioned, shrugging as you rocked from side to side. You saw Ellen as practically a second mom. She took you in, and Benny, when you needed it. But she was lonely, and you were pained to see her like that. “But she hasn’t in a while. Not since she lost her husband.”

“Huh.” Dean’s voice had an intrigued tone to it. Like he had an idea. “We should set ‘em up.”

“Ellen… and this Bobby of yours?”

“Yeah, they’re the same age, both lonely old souls - with all due respect - and they would get along.” He tilted your head with his index so you’d look at him and his charismatic smirk, just begging you to say yes. “Whaddya say we play matchmaker, sweetheart?”

You found yourself conceding quickly to this man’s goddamn charms. “Ok, fine. But if this goes south, you’re to blame.”

“Duly noted.” He laughed, nodding proudly and squeezing your hand. “That deserves another spin.” He spun you again, so then you were facing him. “Y’know, I’m kinda honoured. Pretty lady such as you, dancin’ with a grunt like me… gives a man all sorts of ideas.”

“Are you flirting with me, Dean?” You raised a playful eyebrow, again involuntarily finding yourself giggling like a lovesick schoolgirl at his smooth words.

“Maybe.”

“That’s rather bold.”

“I don’t see you complaining.” You both locked eyes for a moment, then burst out into laughter, his lower register mixing well with yours in the dim, naturally lit room.

You were happy with this man. Really happy, that you’d found a good friend. You found a good friend in Dean Winchester.

And he’d found a new home in you.

The purr of Baby’s engine.

The windows rolled down and blowing through your hair.

Guns ‘n’ Roses’ ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’ playing on a cassette tape.

All of it had you hooked on an impossibly addictive high, hopped up on the euphoria of singing the lyrics at the top of your lungs with Dean in the driver’s seat, a grin that could only connote inner nostalgia on his face as you both belted out the words off by heart. The feeling of the wind on your face, the thrill of how fast Baby was speeding down the highway and the sensation of being unchained… it all got you above the altitude of a kite.

Far above.

Dean’s eyes were on you when he wasn’t looking at the road, admiring the way the light hit the curve of your face and illuminated your eyes. He took in your sweet voice, filling him like a warm hug. He’d not known you for long, but to him, you were home. Someone he could turn to.

He found himself hooked on that pretty smile. Your smooth words that contrasted your otherwise humble nature. How one second you could be the calming force and next you’re busting out your wild side like nobody’s business. You seemed so… sure… of who you were. So easy on a misguided soul like him.

After his baby brother went to Stanford, his father didn’t see much point of keeping him there. John was a drunk, and a notoriously violent one at that, and he’d prevented Dean from going to college so he could take care of Sam. But his Sammy was all grown up, and he didn’t need Dean anymore. That broke him in pieces, and made him desperate to find someone to pick them up because he’d lost them.

He turned to you with a wide grin, meeting your eyes as the final chorus blared on the radio. There was no place you two would rather have been right now than here, just letting loose and having fun. Neither of you were allowed to be kids. Sammy was Dean’s reminder, and the ring on your finger was yours.

Painful reminders, but they were both ones you couldn’t let go.

Then Dean switched the cassette tape once the final notes rolled out, Eye of the Tiger playing loud and proud on the speakers.

This was like trying to get Sammy to eat his proteins when he was a kid. Only harder.

“C’mon, Bobby, it’s just a date.” Dean reasoned, chuckling slightly at his surrogate father sat in Baby’s passenger seat and looking rather like a pug with the grumpy face he had on. “You’re gonna sit down, be yourself and everything’ll go smooth like butter.”

Bobby bristled, glaring daggers at Dean, lips pursed. “See, that’s easy to say when you’re not the one on this date, boy. She’s gonna be some classy broad who orders a pinot noir, or a Chateau Margaux or whatever-the-hell, and I’m gonna be stuck wonderin’ what the hell all these fancy names mean.”

“See, you don’t know until you try.”

“Don’t give me that chick flick crap, you idjit.”

“Look, all I’m saying is don’t get too hopped up on the idea of being perfect for Ellen.” Dean shrugged. “Be cool, yeah, and flatter her, give her some compliments and make her feel at home, but don’t go saying things like-”

“This sucks balls.” Bobby grumbled, not at all to Dean’s surprise.

“See? Don’t say that.” He saw Ellen in the rear view mirror, and clapped Bobby’s shoulder. “Ok, Bobby, you’re up. Knock her socks off for me, yeah?”

Bobby had no choice but to get out of the car, hoping that he didn’t look like a fool, or maybe his gelled back hair was neat and didn’t have a dreaded flyaway. That his collar wasn’t popped. That his jeans didn’t have some unexplained stain on them. He stepped to Ellen, who gave him a warm smile. “Balls.” He muttered under his breath. She really did look like a classy lady, which sent his embarrassment into overdrive.

“Hi, I’m Ellen.” She introduced, her voice smooth as honey and making Bobby even more nervous that yes, this woman was definitely far above his league.

“Bobby.” He replied stiffly, but then held out his arm. “Shall we?”

“Guess so.” They linked arms, striding towards the restaurant, where you and Dean had made a reservation. When the two were guided to their table, they were provided with a drinks menu. Ellen didn’t even take one minute scanning it, flicking through at the speed of light and announcing that she knew what she wanted. Bobby, however, was stumped. Wine? Pinot grigio? Champagne? But there were so many options for one champagne. Why couldn’t the damn drink options be more simple? Beer was definitely out of the question, though his mouth watered and taste buds craved for the Heineken embossed in gold on the menu.

But he knew that he wanted the medium rare steak, announcing that to Ellen, who replied that she’d be having sea bass fillets with specialised dressing and garnish which sounded rather fancy. It did nothing to soothe Bobby’s poor nerves. Ellen, meanwhile, was torn between remaining soft spoken with this man or being, y’know, herself. He seemed decent, and considerate, with the way he carefully looked over the drinks and food menus.

“Madam, sir, can I take your order?” A waiter with a flip notebook arrived beside them, and Bobby gestured for Ellen to speak, not wanting to seem overbearing.

“The sea bass fillet with the special dressing and garnish,” Ellen answered smoothly, her eyes flicking to Bobby to gauge his reaction to the next words, “and one Heineken.”

The choice of drink lifted Bobby’s spirits instantly, and that gave him the green light to not strive to impress the beautiful lady across from him. “And I’ll have the steak, medium rare. And as for the drink, I’ll have what the lady’s having.”

“Of course.” The waiter took the menus and left the table, inciting a moment for the two to laugh at their own anxiety.

“You thought I’d be one of those high-horse, classy women, didn’t you?” Ellen guessed, and Bobby nodded bashfully.

“Guilty. I haven’t done this in a long while.” He chuckled, warming up to Ellen quickly. “You’re a woman after my own heart. Always loved a good Heineken.”

“You and me both.”

After they’d had dinner, they exited the restaurant, but instead of parting ways, Bobby offered his arm once more to Ellen. “Mind walking for a while with this ol’ fool?”

“Not at all.”

NEXT UP:

“Jo.” Ruby sat down in front of Jo, who was in animated conversation with Charlie. They both turned to her in surprise and identical raised eyebrows. “And you, Charlie. I need advice.”

Maybe Charlie could help. After all, she was an expert in the field Ruby needed advice on. This was an extremely unfamiliar topic, even though she’d grown up in a family full of suspiciously close women.

Oh, god, this was nerve wracking.

Jo looked concerned, but nodded, and Charlie did the same. “Sure, go ahead.” Jo gestured for Ruby to continue, while Charlie sat eagerly forward in her seat, waiting for Ruby to speak.

“Ok.” She took a deep breath, her eyes briefly flicking to Meg. “What if… what if I…”

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liz-allyn · 2 years

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sugar and vice, pt 2 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]

summary: Peter makes a daring rescue to save Honey. Or is this a rescue at all? more shameless trope pining.

words: 5.5k

warnings: mob-typical violence. whump. hurt/comfort. bandaging wounds. ouchy hurt boo boo. lots of crying. references to assault. someone gets tortured. shameless forced proximity trope. imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions.

you're responsible for your own content consumption. but that being said, if you're too young to remember the ipod nano, this aint for you, chief.

Back to Part 1

Part 2

How many state capitals can you name?

Montgomery. Juneau. Phoenix. Little Rock.

She was running out of questions to distract herself. She’d already gone through listing all of Stephen King’s novels. All of the Presidents. All of the elements of the Periodic Table. She was running out of distractions.

Sacramento. Denver. Hartford. Dover.

She’d been to Delaware once for a funeral. The whole state was a graveyard. She was going to be killed and who would be at her funeral? Would her dark-eyed friend be the one to murder her?

Tampa. Atlanta. Honolulu. Fuck! Tallahassee, not Tampa… Montgomery. Juneau. Phoenix. Little Rock. Sacramento—

Would he make it quick? Would it be him or would it be one of the people from the car? Did he know the two men that took her from the train? Did he order them to take her? Then what was that gunfire? Why did it seem like they were running?

She didn’t know how much time had passed since she had been brought to a room, sat down, and left alone under the dark of the hood obscuring her vision. Heated but hushed voices echoed from the other side of a wall. They were too muffled to comprehend, but the frantic frustration was unmistakable.

She could barely make out the words.

“She’s a liability now, Parker! Where’s she gonna go?”

Her heart felt like it would burst from her chest. The conversation got quieter.

Montgomery. Juneau. Phoenix. Little Rock. Sacramento. Denver.

The sound of a door lock startled her. Her body went rigid as a door opened wide. She swallowed hard, unable to get the image of the gun in Peter’s grip out of her mind. Heavy footsteps approached her. Her lip quivered beneath the hood. If the shot was coming, maybe it was better for it to come now. Maybe it was better if she didn’t see it coming.

The hood came off of her head, revealing a dark room only illuminated by a window. The night lights of the city skyline sparkled in the distance. She was on a sofa—a loveseat facing a desk. As far as she could tell, she was in some sort of office or study. And crouched down in front of her, was her dangerous friend.

Peter held his hands up in a placating manner, letting the hood drop to the floor. “Don’t cry, Honey. It’s just me.”

The sweetness of his voice made her heart beat faster. She cursed the treacherous bitch for allowing that to happen, after everything.

Just him. As if that was supposed to mean anything. Is he Peter, or is he Ben? Does it matter which one he’d tell her? And what other option did she have to respond, other than crying? Her mouth was still taped shut.

He studied her features in a way that made her squirm. His face was solemn as he considered her. He huffed a sigh. “I know you don’t have any reason to trust me,” he declared in an apologetic tone. His cocoa eyes glistened with regret. “You’re probably feelin’ angry with me right now. I get that. You’ve been nothin’ but sweet to me and I... I—”

He stopped short of finishing the sentence as if his jaw locked up. A wrinkle creased his brow. He glanced down at the floor, then looked back up at her. “I’m gonna ask you to do somethin’ for me,” he began. “You don’t have any reason to owe me anything, I see that, I do. I don’t have the right to ask. But I’m still gonna ask.”

A hand came up to rub the back of his neck. The gesture made him seem more anxious, more boyish. Not the same man that marched into the garage holding a gun. Not the same man that ordered his man to blindfold her.

“You’ve always been patient with me,” he continued, dancing around a topic he didn’t want to address. “Even when I’m not my best. I need you to be patient with me now. Take a chance on me, Honey.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She really wished it wouldn’t do that.

He gazed at her, lowering his voice to an even more soothing tone. He emanated calm and control. “I’m gonna help you off the sofa, then we’re gonna leave this room,” he said. “We’re goin’ to the last door at the end of the hallway, okay? Nod if you understand.”

She stared at him like a deer in the crosshairs. After a moment, she nodded.

“Okay, good,” he replied. He reached for her. “Easy now.”

He put his hands around her upper arms and attempted to lift her weight from beneath her shoulders. A flash of pain erupted like her deltoids were on fire, and she winced and whimpered behind the tape.

Immediately, he pulled back his hands with a sour look. An edge of irritation returned to his eyes, in a way she’d remembered from the coffee shop when those goons showed up, except now they were alone and that look was rendered at her. Or so she thought.

Tears welling up again, she avoided his gaze. She sank further into the couch, as if that was even possible, and shook like a leaf. He stood before her wordlessly. She could only hear a heavy exhale through flared nostrils.

Seconds passed, then Peter bent at the waist, placing his hands on her hips. She shuddered at the pressure, the warmth and width of his hands on the crest of her hips. He held her in a steady grip, bringing her to her feet, this time with less pain.

Upon standing, she looked up and locked eyes with him. It stilled his motion, and he stood with her pressed up against his chest, looking down at her with darkening eyes. His body was solid mass through his white dress shirt. It occurred to her that she’d never seen him without a coat before. Her heart was fluttering, and she wondered if he could feel it. She felt suddenly pliant, legs turning into rubber.

Dizzy, she wavered a bit, blinking her eyes rapidly. It could’ve been the adrenaline spiking again, building pressure rising up beneath her skin. Perhaps it was her lack of real food since her distant lunch. Perhaps it was heat stroke, the way his gaze burned into hers.

He gripped her tighter. Swallowed hard.

Reluctantly, he released his hold, moving a hand to her lower back. “C’mon.”

She gulped. Hesitantly, she let him lead her to the door. Once they went through the doorway, he escorted her down the hall just as he had said. It was dark, but she could see light from beneath the closed door at the end of the hall.

Her boots felt heavy again. Her mind was screaming at her to run, but where would she go?

“S’okay,” he stated softly, reading the slowing of her steps for what it was. “Almost there.”

He brought her to the solid door, twisting the handle and opening it. The only thing her brain could register was a massive king-sized bed in the middle of the room. She pushed back on his palm, attempting to wrench away from him. He grabbed her from behind, his arms holding her in place.

“Easy, easy, s’okay,” he tutted.

But she was short-circuiting. Her mind was filled with violent images, clouding her sense of reason. A shriek crawled up her throat, desperately clawing at the adhesive of the duct tape over her mouth.

“Hey, s’okay, it’s okay!” He was holding her against the brick wall of his chest again. She shook her head desperately, struggling to break free to no avail. She could feel his heartbeat against her back.

He pressed his cheek against her temple, his arms pulling her in with crushing strength that lifted her feet from the floor. “Enough!” he snapped, with a shockingly harsh tone.

The simple admonishment made her go limp. She sobbed desperately.

His head fell backward and he let out a long sigh, frustration evident within him. He softened his grip, and instead of pinning her, it felt much more like an embrace. He bent his neck and his lips went to her temple again, his breath hot on her skin.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he breathed into her hair. She felt the slow rise and fall from his chest. The kindness had returned to his voice. He took another deep breath, and she felt it reverberate in her. “No one is gonna hurt you,” he declared, more authoritative this time. She matched her next breath to his.

They stood in silence for another few seconds. Her gaze traveled from the bed to the expanse of the room. The dark colors and modern accents. The yellow source of tungsten light spilled from an open doorway.

“Now we’re gonna walk forward. Into the bathroom.”

He began to walk forward, and her feet moved in accordance. After the first few concordant steps, he loosened his grip on her. She felt the absence of his body heat as they stepped onto a tiled floor, turning a corner to a grand bathroom bigger than her meager apartment bedroom.

It was stunning; a mix of classic beauty and masculinity. Adorned with black marble, gold fixtures, and subway tile. Her eyes soaked up the details with an unintentional gasp. Inappropriately, she wished for her phone to save the image to the Pinterest board of her bathroom dreams.

“It’s okay,” he gently reminded her. Hearing his voice pulled her back to her reality. Her eyes snapped over her shoulder, up to him, then back forward as they approached a freestanding clawfoot tub filled with steaming water.

Her feet got heavy again and he turned her to face him. She looked up at him with a face full of confusion and betrayal. It only seemed to sour him further.

“I need you to trust me, remember?” Peter said to her. “I’m gonna take off the tape, but I need you to get in the water first.”

She felt her head shaking. Tears streaming.

“It’s the tape,” he explained. “Your skin is already reacting to it. If I try to pull it off now, it’ll take your skin with it.” She quirked a brow up at him. “We’re gonna use the soapy water to soak the tape on your wrists. The stuff on your mouth, I have a solvent for.”

She blinked, looked at the water, and back up to him.

“You don’t have to undress or anything,” he answered, again reading her mind with stunning accuracy. “We can take off your boots and you can step right in if you don’t mind getting your clothes wet.” She watched the Adam’s apple bob in his throat. “I’m not gonna try anything,” he whispered quietly, “I swear.”

She lost herself in his eyes again. She studied the honey of his irises, a golden glow enhanced by the vanity lamps. She thought of caramel and chocolate and bourbon. And the tang of oranges, the smokey smell and flavor of an Old Fashioned she had three years ago at The Flatiron Room on an otherwise disappointing date—

“You with me?” he spoke so softly it could be a croon. Brought his hands up and she felt the rough pads of his thumbs brushing away her tears.

Her eyelashes fluttered closed at the sensation. That dizzy feeling hit her again, and she tried to swallow it down. When her eyes opened, she saw her friend staring back at her, the shadow of a smile adorning his face.

She spent too long gazing up at him like he was some sort of Prince Charming. Composing herself, she straightened and gave him a nod.

Having gathered her meaning, he responded with a subtle smirk, before putting it away. Slowly, he lowered himself to his knees in front of her, never breaking eye contact. The action made her stomach weak. Made her avert her eyes. He deftly began untying the laces of her boots and braced her lower back to pull off her shoes.

Though he didn’t request it, she peeled her wool socks off next. She could have wet jeans and a wet shirt, but wet socks made her skin crawl. Once her bare feet were on the tiled floor, he came to a stand. He placed his hands on her shoulders to steady her as she stepped into the deep tub.

The warm water felt instantly soothing as she lowered herself into it. Her hands prickled with the sensation of the hot water reheating her abused limbs. He was right about her skin—she hissed at an immediate sting where the tape was. The thought of ripping off the duct tape over her mouth as fast as possible seemed more unpleasant.

She sat down with arms bound behind her, looking up at him as he sat beside the tub.

“The soap’s gonna help dissolve the adhesive,” he explained, pulling up a tray within his reach. A mass of dry cotton balls, cotton swabs, and gauze was neatly organized on it, next to several bottles of solution. It was bizarrely efficient. It made her wonder how many times he’d done this before.

He went to work, rolling up the arms of his sleeves up to his elbows. She pulled her eyes away from the sight of his toned forearms.

His fingers went to her face and she couldn’t help but flinch. He made note of it, lips pursed into a straight line, but said nothing. Slower, he reached for her hairline and a razor-sharp sting of her flesh reminded her that she had taken at least one good hit to the face.

His burnt-auburn eyes were now focused, a line forming in his brow as he studied a blood-crusted cut she couldn’t see.

“This one’s deep,” he said with a frown. “It’ll need liquid stitches. I’mma take care of this first before it gets worse.” His hands left her sensitive flesh as he came to a stand, moving across the bathroom into a medicine cabinet where more first-aid supplies were located.

While his back was turned, she rolled her eyes in frustration. The tape on her mouth was clearly the more pressing issue.

“Can you bear with me a couple of minutes before I take the tape off?” he asked perceptively. It was starting to get creepy. He sat down beside her again. “Just relax. It’ll be easier to do it now.” He dabbed a cotton ball with alcohol. “And it’ll be harder for you to bite me.”

Her eyes darted to his face, her body tensing. She had bitten one of her captors hard enough to draw blood. He busied himself with cleaning and dressing the wound while she pondered the possibility that Peter had been behind her kidnapping earlier in the evening.

That neck-less, ginger bastard – Katz? – dragged her off the train without any regard for whether or not she felt safe. Particularly right before he knocked her out. Did he work for Peter? She hadn’t seen his face since.

“Your heart’s racing,” he informed her, breaking her chain of thought. He swallowed hard, a solemn look plastered firmly on his face. “I wasn’t lying when I said no one was going to hurt you.” His eyes rested on the wound as he delicately pinched her flesh together. “Not again,” he sighed, disappointed.

A few seconds passed as he carefully coated the cut in the liquid stitch solution. He looked pained, increasingly irritated. “I’m sorry about all this,” he blurted out. “I-I never shoulda come back to see you. I... I-I’m sorry about everything. Never meant for any of this to happen.” His sad eyes found hers. “‘Sorry’ doesn’t mean much, I know. But I hope you believe me.”

She stared. Considering. Decided that she did. She had to. Tied up, sitting waist-deep in this strange man’s bathtub, she had nothing else but her hope.

He took a cotton swab and dipped it in a jar of pristine petroleum jelly. One hand delicately lifted her chin, angling her face upward toward him, as he took a corner of the tape at her mouth and began to work the petroleum beneath the strip. He meticulously followed that action with a warm, wet compress, and then a cotton ball of isopropyl alcohol. The tape hurt as it slowly gave way, but less than it could’ve.

The peaceful silence gave her time for her brain to slow down. Time to think. Time to plan. Time to question those plans. Question her judgment.

“Alright, almost done,” he said, then gave a small tug on the tape. The moment her lips were unsealed she took a deep breath. She hadn’t realized how much her breathing had been restricted.

Peter reached back for her with a square of medical-grade adhesive remover.

“Don’t touch me,” she spat, jerking her head out of his reach. He froze immediately, lifting his hands away where she could see them. Behind her, she pulled and tugged on the duct tape, the glue now having partially dissolved. She winced as she pulled her wrists apart.

“I was gonna get to that—”

She bit down on a yelp at the burn of the tape ripping off, taking bits of hair and drops of blood with it. She pulled her arms in front of her, revealing angry red welts on her wrists. Her shoulders felt like a stretched-out rubber band, tender to each movement.

“Okay,” he nodded bitterly, frustration poking through. “Tape’s off. You’re bleeding. Well done—”

“Stay away from me!” she barked. She scooted back as far as she could away from him in the bathtub. Her eyes were wide and wild, like she really could bite him at any moment. He sat back on his ankles, staring at her. Displeased.

“Take it easy,” he softly ordered, cool as ever.

“I-I don’t know who you are or-or what you’re into,” she babbled frantically. “But you—you better lemme go!” She panted heavily, words flowing out of her mouth, “My-my boyfriend is a cop! He tracks my phone. He’ll know I didn’t come home and-and when he turns on the tracker, he’ll see that I’m here... and he’ll bring fifty cops with him!”

Peter stared at her flatly, raising a brow. It was clear by his reaction that he wasn’t impressed. “Fifty?” he repeated, deadpan. “That’s a lot. Where’re they gonna park?”

“I’m serious!” she growled.

“Oh, yea-yeah, I know,” Peter nodded, pulling himself into a crouch at the tub. “This boyfriend of yours,” he added, swallowing grit as he said it, “he got a name?”

She blinked. “Jefferson.”

“Jefferson?”

“Scott.”

“Is it Scott or is it Jefferson? Is it Jefferson Scott?”

His mocking tone filled her with a flash of anger. She seethed, swearing at herself not to cry again. “Let me go!” she demanded with a glare. “And I promise, he won’t kill you when he finds me!”

The humor evaporated from his eyes like a droplet of water in a frying pan. “A promise?” Peter repeated, his cocky smile fading. He went motionless. Eyes dark. A chill shot down her spine. “Where was ‘Jefferson’ when Fisk’s men grabbed you tonight?” She swallowed hard. Refused to blink. “Really coulda used his help,” he bit off.

Her heart was beating faster than before. Pounding like a kickdrum beneath her ribs. His blackened eyes narrowed on her. “Do you have any idea,” he questioned bitterly, “what they would’ve done t’ya? If I hadn’t gotten there first?”

The calm tone of his overt implications made her queasy again. He cocked his head to the side, waiting for a reply.

She gulped. Steadied her voice. “Who's to say they don’t work for you?”

“They don’t work for me,” Peter declared, ice in his eyes.

“You expect me to believe—”

“They don’t work for me,” he repeated, as serious as a heart attack, “because I don’t employ assholes who beat on women.” He leaned forward, his chest puffing up, his words coming out in a low hiss. “Because if I want something done, I do it myself. Especially when it comes to protecting what’s mine.” His eyes narrowed, “And we both know you don’t have a boyfriend.”

She blinked at him, dumbstruck. Peter declared through gritted teeth, “You could send fifty cops or fifty-thousand. If someone took my girl, I’d get there first. And there’s not a damn thing you could say to keep me from rippin’ him apart.”

She shifted backward, arms wrapped tightly around her body, stunned by the switch in demeanor. He sat across from her, quietly glaring, chest heaving with pent-up rage. Her throat felt tight. Her pulse pounded in her neck.

Seconds passed as they gazed at each other in a stalemate. He was the first to look away, his breathing conscientiously slowing down. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, keeping his head turned away from her sight.

“Don’t lie to me,” Peter said, finally. “Ever.” He looked up at her, eyes a bit softer. “It’s very important that you never lie to me. When people lie to me, it puts me at a disadvantage. Makes it harder for me to protect the people I care about.” He sniffed, stowing his emotional baggage from earlier. “So please,” he gently requested, “don’t lie.”

He kept his eyes downward as if he was more interested in the state of the grout. She had witnessed him rear up like a cobra and now he was slinking away, sheepishly hiding from her gaze.

There was that word again — protection. His focus is protecting the people he cares about. Protecting what’s his. She eyed him carefully, her muscles relaxing a bit. This was happening because she was a threat to him. Did that mean in some way, she had power over him?

He wiped his nose with his forearm, still avoiding her eyes. “You hurt anywhere else?” She blinked up at him, confused. Her silence made him meet her gaze again, and this time the sympathy and remorse had returned. “Anywhere I can’t see?”

She stiffened once she caught his meaning. Breaking eye contact, she gazed down at the tiny bubbles coating the surface of the water. “Um... no.” She answered as honestly as she could. “I don’t... I don’t think so.” The statement felt like a lump in her throat. She felt her eyes burn again, and she angrily dared her body to defy her again. She couldn’t handle it.

“Okay,” he nodded. After a moment, he came to a quick stand. His orders flowed more formally. “There are towels over here. There’s a robe on the door. Cat’s gettin’ you some clothes. Should be here soon. Leave the wet stuff on the edge of the tub. When you’re done in here, come outside of the bedroom. I’ve got one more thing I need from you tonight, Honey.”

He turned on the leather sole of his heel and disappeared from her sight, as fast as ever. She sat in the rapidly cooling water of the tub, tenderly rubbing the swollen flesh of her wrists. She listened to his footsteps diminish. The door slammed, a bit too forcefully.

Alone, finally, she allowed herself to cry again.

About fifteen minutes after being left alone, she emerged from the main bedroom with a thick white terry robe blanketing her. With nothing but her thoughts and growing exhaustion, she decided not to keep Peter waiting too long. She’d completed each task on his list, as a good houseguest should. Or whatever she was.

She found him leaning back against the wall in the darkened hallway, hands in his pockets, musing quietly. He turned to look at her with a much calmer mood. Both of them cooled off from their earlier spat, but an awkwardness remained. An elephant in the room neither of them wanted to address.

“C’mere,” Peter beckoned, jerking his head down the hall. “I wanna show you something.” He turned and approached a flight of stairs, descending it. She had no other option but to follow.

They reached the main level of the residence where she took in the sight of an open-floor living room and kitchen surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows. Though it was night, this was the most well-lit area she had seen. It was spotless, and carried the same modern, refined-industrial aesthetic that she saw in the bathroom.

She recognized the lanky teenager on the couch, sitting with arms crossed, head bobbing to music blaring out of over-the-ear headphones. Miles sat quietly in his own world, brow furrowed, as he focused on the beat of the music.

Tapping away at her smartphone, the silver-haired woman from the car ride paced idly. She was even more gorgeous in person. Peter approached her, hands in his pockets, and nodded in Miles’ direction.

“What, is it time for a siesta?” Peter muttered disapprovingly.

The woman gave him a go-to-hell look. “Lay off, will ya? You know how he gets.”

“We need to keep our eyes open,” Peter responded grimly. “That means on alert, Felicia.”

“Jesus Christ, Parker,” she groaned with a petulant sigh. “Seriously?” The woman, Felicia, looked up incredulously at their houseguest, then back to her boss. “What happened to discretion? You wanna give her my social security number, too?”

“Where’s O’Hara?” Peter replied.

She rolled her eyes, dropping her arms. “Fuck it, then. In the basement with Brock. That’s Eddie Brock, if anyone here is taking notes for the FBI.” She turned, minding her phone again. “If you need me, I’ll be keepin’ my eyes open, with your credit card, waiting for the Postmates guy to deliver your lady friend a new wardrobe.”

Peter rolled his eyes with a light scoff.

“And just for that, I’m buying myself my Christmas present from Fendi,” she called back, a deadpan tone. “Thanks, Boss. You really shouldn’t have.”

Peter glanced over at his Honey, who was curiously watching the familial interaction in silence. He jerked his chin again, approaching a metal door frame near the foyer. “This way.”

He tapped a button on the wall, calling up an elevator. She shuffled uncomfortably on her bare feet, but then followed him into the tiny space. They stood together in silence as the elevator descended.

Once it opened, they were in a dark, dingy, brick-laid fortress, a stark contrast from the exquisite rooms above. He stepped out of the elevator, and hesitantly, she followed, wishing she’d put on her boots.

The space felt claustrophobic, littered with dust-covered junk. Mostly paper boxes. There was a table with an old computer that looked at least 30 years old, surrounded by glass beakers and antiquated lab equipment. She spotted a retro green chalkboard on castors, half-shrouded in a tarp.

As much distance as she wanted to put between herself and Peter, she also crowded at his back. She felt cobwebs brushing her ankles, and the sensation made her want to fold herself up like origami.

They turned a corner and she froze. Mouth agape with horror.

Bound and gagged in the middle of the basement was Katz. The man looked rough. Barely conscious. His face was bruised, bloodied, and jagged, the bones having been broken and rearranged. On either side, Miguel and another thick mass of man—Eddie Brock for anyone taking notes for the FBI—stood by. She watched Eddie anxiously as he wiped his hands with a blood-stained shop rag.

The sight of tortured man made her gag. Tears sprang to her eyes as she glanced away in terror.

“S’Okay,” Peter tutted, taking her by the shoulders and keeping her back to their tortured captive. She was grateful for that kindness, as it spared her the sight of the half-dead man.

“Remember I told you that you could trust me?” Peter asked, tilting his head towards her. She was gasping. Sucked in air, like a fish out of water. “Honey, look at me.”

Her stomach quaked and she worried that she’d vomit. Despite this, she looked up at him. Once he had her attention, he went on.

“This man works for somebody very dangerous,” he explained slowly. “He had direct orders to kidnap you and take you to one of his places. A mechanic’s shop near the docks on the Lower East Side that he uses for business. Once they had you there, he and a bunch of his friends were supposed to hurt you.”

Her chest heaved violently, tears flooding her vision. She shook her head and tried looking away. Felt faint. Like she was going to pass out. Gently, Peter hooked his fingertips beneath her chin, bringing her gaze to his.

“They were ordered to take pictures,” he softly added, more gentle with his choice of words, “and send them to me.” A heartbroken sob escaped her lips and he winced, as if the sound alone caused him physical pain. “Listen, listen, listen,” he cooed, shushing her.

He dipped his head, leaning his forehead against hers. It was intimate. Too close for the relationship that they had, but at the same time, she was starving for it. The sensation of his warm skin against hers, the heat of his lungs ghosting on her face—they worked to ground her. She focused on what was happening and not what could have happened.

“I never got any pictures,” Peter explained tenderly. “He says they never got that far.” She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, her chin quivering. She leaned into the touch of his thumb gently stroking her jaw. When she could open her eyes again, she found his. His cocoa orbs gazing down at her compassionately.

“Remember what I said about lies?” he asked with a kind voice. “Remember I asked you never to lie to me?”

Another quiet sob whimpered out. She nodded her head.

“Tell me the truth now, Honey,” he said. He lifted his forehead, gazing into her soul. “Is that the man that hit you?”

She shuddered at the memory. Terror gripping her. Heart pounding.

“Words, Honey,” he tutted gently. “I need you to say it. Tell me the truth.”

“Yes,” she whimpered in reply. She brought her hands up to cover her face, but he wouldn’t allow it.

“Good girl,” he answered. “You don’t need to hide.”

The tears kept coming. “I can’t.... I can’t—”

“S’okay, we’re almost done,” he cooed, bringing a hand up to stroke her hair. “Now this part’s really important. I want you to think. I don’t want you to be afraid. Just think.”

She cried even harder. Her body swayed. She felt like a lone tree being pummeled by a hurricane. As much as she wanted to collapse, he held her upright. “Please,” she begged, but she wasn’t sure what for. “I don’t want... I can’t...”

He wrapped his hands around her cheeks, his fingers reaching around her head. “Just look at me, Honey,” he replied.

Sniffing hard, she complied. He looked at her with an expression she couldn’t decode. It was a blend of anger, sadness, and pain all at once. He swallowed hard, as if he was trying to steady himself.

“Tell me the truth,” he said with a voice void of its own breath. “Did this man, or any of the other men, hurt you?” She shook her head rapidly. “Did they touch you?”

“No,” she sobbed.

“Don’t lie—”

“No!” she shouted desperately.

He exhaled slowly, letting out a breath he’d been holding. “Good,” he nodded, seeming to relax. His hands rubbed her arms, taking extra care around her shoulders. “That’s good.”

“Boss,” a voice called from behind them. She looked beyond Peter to see Miles standing anxiously near the elevator entrance. He wore a hollow expression. Breathed through his mouth only. “You think she could use some sleep?”

Peter gazed at the younger man, a mixture of grief and gratitude. “Yeah,” he nodded, blinking away tears that had begun to form at his lashes. “That’s a good idea. Take her upstairs, wouldya?”

Miles nodded once, and stepped forward. Hesitantly, Peter let go. Honey shot out of his arms like a spooked cat, clinging to Miles’ chest and burying her face there. Vicious sobs racked through her body. Miles placed a hand on her back and led her back out of the basement.

Peter watched her go sadly. Didn’t turn away until he heard the elevator doors close.

“So,” Eddie’s deep voice chimed in, fixing his grim blue-green eyes on Peter. “What now?”

Both Miguel and Eddie watched the tense curve of Peter’s shoulders. The balling of his fists.

“Hammer,” he replied, voice as dark as night. Peter turned and stalked toward the captive. He snatched a bloodied hammer off a workbench nearby. Eyes widening with fear, Katz began to jerk in his seat, pulling desperately on his restraints.

“You should be grateful, Nicky,” Peter sneered, acid in his voice. “This coulda gone another way.” He loomed over the captive, eyes blacker than oil, nostrils flaring. He gripped the handle so hard, it’s a wonder it didn’t snap in his hand.

“If I found out you were lyin’ to me,” Peter said, vengeance coating his voice, “I woulda gone for the pruning shears.”

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